Twenty Years Ago
The sun baked the Indian landscape and the British soldiers were baking in their uniforms. Sweat was pouring off of several men. Even the officers looked uncomfortable, but it wasn't just the heat, it was the grim duty to be done.
The men had formed a circle to witness the punishment to be enforced on one of their own. The private in the middle of the men was tied to a convenient cart, stripped to the waist with a strap of leather between his teeth.
The sentence was one thousand lashes or more accurately, though unspoken, death by one thousand lashes. It was very doubtful he'd survive.
The drummer boy who was to employ the whip was ready for the exercise, and glanced over at the sergeant who was trying to catch his eye. The sergeant's look was reminding him that he would be well paid for making the lashes as painful as possible.
Many were looking on in anticipation, some with trepidation, and one man with regret.
Colonel Willioughby had thought that Private Wright had shown promise, but the consequences for striking an officer were clear. He wished he could think of a reason to stop the proceedings, but Sergeant Fretwell's testimony had cinched the boy's fate. Lieutenant Weller had been felled and Fretwell had seen it all. Now Willioughby would lose a promising young private.
He didn't want to watch as the leather began to fall, but he couldn't appear to be weak in front of his men. Wright comported himself well, not making so much as a squeak as the lash fell. The blood had been flying for some time and the glint of bone began to be visible, when the message arrived.
"Stop!" Willioughby was happy to have an excuse. "That's enough!"
Wright was taken away by the doctor and he might die yet, but he'd only taken about a third of his lashes.
The message was only a briefing from the general, but the men didn't need to know he hadn't been directed to save the private's life.
Ward Wright had always thought he'd never know pain like he'd felt the day twenty years ago when he'd been given the scars he still bore on his back. Later a swipe of a sword meant for his neck, but instead slicing through his thigh had come close. He'd almost lost his leg, but for Fitz he would have. And then of course there had been Badajoz…
The flogging was still the most painful physical ordeal he'd yet to experience, but walking away from Lilly made him prefer to be flogged. He knew he had to, but the pain of it was nigh unbearable. She would be fine. She'd marry a duke or prince and live to perhaps laugh about the foolishness that had been their interlude, but his scars would be as real as the ones on his back.
Pensively, he headed into the dark pub and headed to a table to wait. Lofton would be here soon. Prompt as usual, George Lofton walked through the door not long after.
He walked with a bit of a limp, but still refused the use of a cane. Wright was relieved to see his old friend's smiling face and rose to greet him.
"Well if it isn't old sour faced Major Wright," Lofton's smile was contagious.
"It's good to see you friend, but I've something serious to discuss," he gestured toward the chair opposite him.
"So your message said, something about the siege at Badajoz," Lofton sat down with a thunk and sigh, happy to be sitting down. "I remember that's where you almost died. It took three men to pull you out of the rubble."
"Yes, and counted among the dead were…well, could they have survived?"
Pip's mother had always been bound and determined to get her daughters each a title, and as Pip aged the woman only became more desperate. At twenty she was dangerously close to being on the shelf. Conversely, on the shelf was somewhere Pip was anxious to be.
She didn't like the pomp and pretend of society. Just look at what it had done to Lillian Montgomery. Pip had watched her with wonder during Pip's first season three years ago. She was beautiful and emulated by every young miss in London. Then Lillian had met Major Wright. She had obviously been deeply in love with the Major. She had flaunted convention with him on more than one occasion. Pip remembered the gossip around on ball specifically where the two had danced three dances and two of those waltzes. And now?
Now, it seemed society's pressures had weighed upon the couple and the marquess's granddaughter would now marry the legitimate, proper and titled, John Rossendale, Marquess of Stallford. This was the kind of marriage Pip's mother wanted for her, but Pip wanted nothing at all to do with that sort of marriage.
She would much rather sit quietly on the shelf, let Grace marry a title. Grace was ready able and willing to marry the first lord who asked her. For perhaps the umpteeth time Pip wondered at nature creating two such opposite sisters with such similar looks.
"Pip," it was Grace herself. "Aren't you ready yet?"
Pip sighed, it was time to go out and smile at society again. Maybe she'd get lucky and get sick from the soup and have to head home. She'd much rather go to the theater with Charlie and his friend.
