Some nights, despite the exhaustion of the day's march, sleep eluded Jamie, as it did for many of his companions at various times. And like them, he would toss and turn, feeling the passage of time, longing for oblivious slumber but unable to achieve it. He usually spent an hour or so that way, until he recalled that on such previous nights, setting aside the irritation that his body would not obey his wishes, and just laying there and breathing slowly and deeply, could at least put him in a state between complete awareness and actual sleep. Morning would come, and though he couldn't be certain if he had actually slept, he felt vaguely rested anyway.
Such nights, as the breathing finally relaxed him (and he asked himself again, why it had take him even that hour to settle on this approach), he found himself in Fannie's company once more. This night, he was back at The Savoy, in the midst of their first dinner together.
Fannie had proven to be a bright, engaging conversationalist, effortlessly setting Jamie at ease, and drawing from him many details of his life. His family history, education, interests-even his military training and hopes for advancement-seemed topics of genuine fascination to her, though in turn she revealed relatively little about her own past. She accepted his compliments graciously, and freely answered his curiousity about the about the theatrical life, wryly calling herself a vagabond who had finally found her true home upon the stage.
Although Jamie had found himself wishing to know more, wanting to learn how she had ended up in London, and desiring to discover where she came from and who her people were (beyond her brief disclosure that she was the only daughter of an Iowan corn farmer and a new England born school marm), he did not press her too hard for more. Beneath the glamour she projected, and the smooth way she made the conversation all about him, he sensed quiet secrets held close and a soft heart protected by well-practiced insouciance. The soulfulness of her song the night before had captured his attention-and now he had an inkling it had been truthfully sourced in some heartbreak of her own.
Soon enough, the prettiest blush colored her cheeks as the wine warmed her, and as she flattered his attempts to be witty with sincere, easy laughter, leaning nearer to him across the table-all the while appearing to be unaware of her striking effect upon him. The drink had not, could not, dull her glamour in the least; instead, it had transmuted it somehow, to something that felt more approachable to a fallible, mortal man. He could barely take his eyes off of Fannie, her slightest movements holding him fascinated. Lifting his goblet to his lips, he paused-his desire to drink forgotten as he watched, silent and mesmerized, when she shrugged free of her velvet stole, revealing the smooth, creamy flesh of her shoulders and decolletage, featuring a small, strawberry colored mole upon the swell of her left breast. Gentleman he had been raised, but in that moment all he could think was what it would be like to blaze a trail of kisses from her shoulder down, so to taste that small mark for himself. No woman of his own class, no pert or friendly lass encountered in a raucous tavern anywhere, had so immediately set his blood to burn for just the smallest taste.
Fannie showed a dainty appetite-but then, Jamie had mused, most women did upon initial acquaintance, wishing to enhance their femininity-though she did not refrain, as they lingered over their meal, from having him refill her glass a time or two. When the waiter cleared away their dinner plates, Jamie felt as they had only just begun, even as the clock advanced to midnight. While she visited the ladies toilet, he ordered dessert-an airy white cake with summer berries and clotted cream, generous enough for two-and settled the bill. She returned to the table refreshed, and was genuinely appreciative of his thoughtfulness, though she only allowed herself a few bites of the sweet confection, explaining confidentially that her costumes could not bear the strain of even an extra pound. "Come now, Miss Moore," he had advised her, "If I may be so bold to say, such a small indulgence could surely not affect so svelte a figure as yours."
She had smiled coyly, and reached across the table to pat her hand, "You are too kind, Major Stewart...but in this case I assure you that past experience has taught me otherwise."
Fannie had left her fingers resting on his own, drawing his eyes to that first contact of flesh on flesh, and he followed by laying his other hand atop hers, "I defer to your wisdom, then...for now." He traced one fingertip sinuously against her skin, "And may I dare ask you to address me by my given name?"
He had looked to her again at her quick intake of breath, reading a mix of surprise and satisfaction in her deep blue eyes. "James, is it?"
"Yes, please...or if you prefer, Jamie." She raised one brow, so that he rushed to add, "It's, uh...it's what my friends call me..."
She hummed softly, perhaps understanding the power she held over him, if only for that moment. Fannie's voice went low and intimate, and though she must have known the answer, she asked anyway, "Are we to be friends, then...Jamie?"
He had smiled and nodded, leaning in as close as the lit candles would allow, unable to keep a hungry growl from tinging his voice, "That is my most fervent wish, Miss Moore-if you would have it so."
Her eyes had lingered on his, seeking his measure, mayhap his truth. "Indeed, I would, Jamie...dear," she had sighed, "Then it would be best you call me Fannie...don't you think?"
Jamie could only nod again, moved enough by that small advance to bring her hand to his lips and give her the barest kiss upon her fingertips.
After that, she had quite naturally slipped her hand into the crook of his arm as he escorted her to the hansom cab that waited for them curbside. Jamie had dared to think she was perhaps thinking what could not be spoken...what he was wishing himself...that their evening needn't end so soon. In keeping with that wish, he directed the driver to take them along the perimeter of Hyde Park, turning to the lady and giving explanation, "If you don't mind, of course, Fannie." He bit his lip as he waited on her reply.
"Well then," she had practically purred, "As it is the loveliest evening I've seen since last summer...and as I did promise my friends the satisfaction of a full report, I think a trip around the green must be in order." With that, Jamie had rested his free hand on her own, where it lay just past the crook of his elbow. They had both settled back against the leather seat, content in each others company, quietly conversing and enjoying the fresh night air-though he remained quite conscious of the press of her thigh against his, knowing it was too soon to ask for any greater liberty.
He was a bit shocked to discover that Fannie resided in one of the poorer sections of East London, though it would have been rude to say so. It certainly did not fit with her glamour, and surely the dress and jewels she wore cost well more than a month's rent for even an above average flat; this would be a puzzle whose answer came further along in their relationship. For now, he made no mention, debarking from the cab first, to hand her gently down to the pavement. He quietly asked the driver to wait, indicating as best he could that at best it might be longer than a few minutes. That was his hope, anyway.
They stood before the door to the modest, four-story brick building, and Jamie was more than ready to see Fannie inside, even asking permission to do so. She had lowered her gaze at that, squeezing his hands lightly between them, then answering him with a clear note of regret in her voice. "Alas, Major Stewart," she said as she raised her eyes back to his, "I am afraid that might present an unintended, but irresistible invitation to misbehavior." How soft she had looked, the light of the stars no where near as lovely as that in her eyes, bright with an unspoken longing that matched his own.
Jamie covered his heart with her hand, a little wounded at her return to his formal name, and breathless as she deferred to him; as she relied upon him to make the best choice for the both of them. "It's Jaime, my dear...always Jamie now, don't you agree?" Fannie had smiled and nodded softly, and he felt he should offer her further assurance of his strong regard. "Fannie...sweet Fan...I swear to you my motives are pure-even if my thoughts are not quite so."
She whispered, nearly to herself, "Are you such a good man?" asking as though that quality was rare in other men she had known. She raised her chin gamely, "For tonight at least, Jamie, we should observe some decorum..."
"Tonight alone?," he'd chuckled, aching already from his impending departure, "Then tell me please, sweet Fan, that I may see you again."
"Name the time and the place, Jamie dear, and I..." she lowered her lashes, becoming breathtakingly demure, "...I am yours..." And though she could not yet allow him the familiarity of a goodnight kiss, Jamie had kissed both of her hands before she slipped inside her building, leaving him on the curb to count the hours until another late dinner came around for them once more.
Days bled into nights bled into days again as the Germans marched their prisoners across the Flemish farmland, their goal to deliver them to permanent camps once they crossed the German border. The sturdy footwear of the British soldiers protected them well from the elements—for the time being—but most of the captured men suffered severely blistered feet after the first several days of the relentless trek; eventually, those blisters calloused over, and aching leg muscles hardened and acclimated to the daily physical demands of that routine.
Jamie had tightened his belt—as had his brethren—reduced as they were to paltry rations; their ranks had grown steadily, even as blustery October lurked around the corner, and there remained far less to go around. He felt himself grow leaner by the day, but there was no use in lamenting it, so that he bore his burdens in a sort of grim comradery with his fellow officers. They all did their best to keep each other's spirits from flagging. Sharing talk of home, of schooldays long past and the high jinks of youth, of family and sweethearts left behind, helped the men while away the miserable hours—though Jamie kept his most precious memories—kept his dear Fan, and all that she meant to him—quietly close at heart.
In the inevitable silences, Jamie continued to send his mind elsewhere, whenever he was able—not only to escape the discomfort and drudgery of his new life, nor only because he missed his woman with an ache that made his hunger and thirst pale in comparison—but to suppress the guilt that festered deep inside, for his cockiness, short-sightedness, and utter hubris as he'd led his regiment to disaster and death. Even his bones could recount how hard his cavalry had ridden down the enemy that morning, furiously plowing through their camp, slashing through the hapless Germans without hesitation, confident that their swift and remorseless charge was necessary to help insure a speedy, victorious resolution to the war. Along with most of the British forces, Jamie had been certain that the invading army would soon be sent in retreat across the Rhine, and he would be home in time to celebrate Christmas with his family. When the fire of the Gatling guns had suddenly erupted, time had seemed to stop as he sat his saddle in disbelief; the cold hand of terror—not for his own sake, but for his men and their mounts—raked down his spine, as he realized that their unchecked momentum had become their doom. There could be no reeling about and retreating—not for the majority of riders, anyway—and halting their advance so close to the tree line concealing the deadly surprise, was impossible.
Jamie had been painfully aware of the fall of the riders around him, waiting for the bullets to find him and cut short his life as well—astonished as Topthorn had carried him forward into the wood, leaping for their lives over the entrenched gunners. Noble Topthorn, who—despite the fright surely coursing through him—had obeyed his master's directions unerringly, as Jamie navigated them through a wood as thick with enemy soldiers as with trees. Topthorn, whom Jamie's gut insisted was the chiefest reason he had survived the battle at all—and who had been seized from him at his capture, likely pressed into service to some German officer, if not put down as useless to the Germans needs. That very personal loss was only an echo of the pain he felt when he reckoned his culpability for the deaths of his men.
Guilt was his constant, silent companion on the road, as much as were the men who marched alongside him. The silences in the night, as Jamie waited for sleep to take him, often left the guilt to bloom mercilessly, at times even following him into his dreams, turning dreams to bitter nightmares. A good part of him believed he deserved such punishment—but his surest escape was allowing his memories of Fannie to overcome him. And fashioning sweet fantasies of what their life together would be like, if he was ever able to return home.
The first dark clouds appeared on the horizon around 10am, roiling in the distance, and moving steadily east across their path, as the column moved north. No doubt, they were marching straight for it—but as it was the only road they could travel, storm buffeted they would have to be. By noon, the clouds were directly overhead, splattering the Brits and the Huns alike with cold, fat raindrops, as the wind began to whip about them with a fury that did not portend well for the afternoon and evening ahead. Yet still they walked on. Within the hour, it was clear that the storm was far too much for any reasonable chance of progress to hold true, the wind and rain driving the men so fiercely that even the hardiest among the Germans conceded that they must find shelter for the duration of the deluge. The lieutenant colonel in command ordered that they seek refuge in the next Flemish village they came upon.
Those prisoners without rain gear were thoroughly soaked to the skin by the time they found shelter in a deserted hamlet. At least half of the little cottages bore severe damage, some become just charred shells of the homes they had once been. If anyone remained behind the doors and shuttered windows of those few unscathed cottages, they dared not show themselves for fear of the invaders.
The German officers set themselves up nicely in the scorched building that appeared to serve as a boarding house and tavern, the only two-story edifice in town that remained mostly intact. A small portion of the roof had caved in, but both chimneys had survived the bombing, and Jamie imagined they'd be smoking soon with fires stoked against the cold and damp. Those soldiers not assigned guard duty were allowed to find their own shelter throughout the village, with strict orders to do no harm to any civilians they encountered, unless in self-defense.
The prisoners were housed in a bombed out church with a toppled steeple, several shattered windows, and a collapsed section of roof above the nave. Still, it was refuge enough from the storm, and the opening in the roof allowed the guards and prisoners to work together in keeping a few small fires goings just outside the perimeter of exposed space, feeding them with the driest sections of pews that they could find.
Jamie found himself a quiet corner, draped his wet clothes across a broken bench, and wrapped himself up in his damp blankets. The storm's onslaught had coincided with a darkening of his spirits, and he wanted to escape into dull sleep. Though he tried to focus his thoughts on his warmest memories of Fan, it was his darker memories that colored his sleep.
Morning mist still covered the green as Jamie waited upon Jim Nicholls and Charlie Lively. They had a friendly wager going—a full evening of drinks at The Duke of York, courtesy of the chap who came in last…though the bet was unnecessary, as far as Jamie was concerned, for it was a point of pride that he had come here to prove. Topthorn stood ready for the challenge; Jamie could feel his mount straining to be set loose, though the horse readily complied with every flick and twitch of the reins keeping him in place.
Jamie's friends slipped quietly to his side from the anonymity of the mist, the heavy breath of their mounts alerting him to their presence. Flanking him on either side, they all exchanged good mornings, waiting for their cue to begin. The sudden, violent popping of repeated gunfire broke around them, and with the fog dampening the sound, it was impossible to tell from which direction it came. But it was signal enough to set the horses running, running for their lives, desperate to reach safety, and unheedful of their riders struggling to keep them under control. The blue, satin-sheathed hoop-the object of their aborted race-and the quintain it sat upon, was obscured by the mist, and Jamie had lost all sense of direction. He finally managed to rein in Topthorn, halting somewhere in the middle of the field, and straining his ears for the slightest sound that might indicate where his mates had ended up.
"Captain Nicholls," he called out, "Lieutenant Lively…gentlemen, please—make yourselves known!" Jamie cursed in frustration, his apprehension at their silence growing keener by the second, "By God and your mothers' good names, answer me!" He pulled on the reins, urging Topthorn to dance a circle in place as he shouted, "Jim…Charlie…what the hell is going on?"
A barrage of gunfire answered him, and then a second sound followed hard upon it, chilling Jamie to the marrow. It was Jim Nicholls howling in mortal agony, and then crying out for Jamie's help, before his voice died out.
"Keep speaking, Jim, so I can find you," Jamie implored, though part of him already knew his friend had fallen forever silent.
More gunfire filled the air; a horse screamed somewhere to his left, and he heard an ominous thud, which could only mean that horse, rider, or possibly both, had fallen. Jamie's suspicion was confirmed when Charlie's pain-filled moan reached him from out of the thickening haze.
Jamie knew he should dismount, should search for his friends on foot, yet he felt frozen in his saddle. Topthorn was quivering beneath him, fighting his instinct to bolt by the force of Jamie's will alone. When a single shot, too close at hand, broke the silence, it proved too much for the horse; he reared, screaming out his fear, and spilled Jamie on the ground before galloping into the fog.
Shocked more than frightened, Jamie sat up. Topthorn had never thrown him before, not in nearly five years, and now he had disappeared into a cruel sea of mist. Jamie felt more alone than he had in his whole life, cut off from all warmth, friends, purpose. He was useless to help his friends who lay somewhere beyond his sight, beyond his reach, dying if not already dead. When another lone shot reverberated around him, he heard Topthorn screech and knew his treasured stead had fallen for good as well.
He lay back on the ground, unable to fear what came next, and filled with remorse for having brought his friends to this cruel field, and to such a bitter, futile end. Jamie knew he should rouse himself, but he could not muster the will to do so. "Let them take me," he thought, "It's no less than what I deserve." The damp of the fog was growing heavier around him, soaking through the wool of his uniform, and he began to shiver uncontrollably; the damp was thick in his mouth and in his nostrils, and his last thought as darkness overtook him was that he was drowning on dry land. And that he might as well go under, for that too, was no less than he deserved…
Jamie awoke, gasping for air, shaking nearly as violently in the flesh as he had been in his nightmare. But consciousness offered no relief from the anguish in his heart, for there was no escape from the brutal truth of his dream. Awake or asleep, it amounted to the same. He would find no absolution for his heedless mistakes—nor could he even begin to forgive himself. What salvation could be had for the man who cost the lives of so many who had trusted him? What sanctuary remained for a man who now despised himself, and with such good reason?
The answer came—as such answers often do—as a whisper in the back of his mind, quiet but insistent. The love of a good woman, of course. In her faith and her forgiveness, granted unconditionally from the depths of a kind and loving heart. If he could survive the physical travails, and keep himself healthy and sane, Jamie had to believe that he would find exactly what he needed most in Fannie's deep blue eyes, in her easy, generous smiles, and in her gentle, loving arms. She would be the light that saw him through whatever darkness lay ahead, and the salvation he desperately needed to make a life worth living, once he left the horrors of this war behind.