THE DAY BEGAN PERFECTLY. THERE had been a sharp frost overnight, giving a satisfying crunch underfoot and a beauty to the landscape. The cloudless blue sky created a magnificent backdrop to the frozen foliage. Edward, dressed in his tweed shooting outfit, mingled with his guests on the driveway. Each man, dressed in almost identical garb and with a double-barrelled twelve-bore gun on their arm, greeted Edward, helped himself to the sherry and fruitcake that maids were handing around, then mingled with fellow-shooters. The sound of boots on gravel and male voices filled the air with excitement and anticipation. Today it was the turn of the Biggenden pheasants to be shot at and decimated.
In the stable yard the gamekeeper was trying to organise his motley team of beaters. He had no great faith in their ability to operate in a professional manner, for they always failed to recognise the seriousness of their task. Relieved of farm work for the day, the Biggenden workforce was enlisted to flush out the pheasants and drive them toward the guns. Instead of listening to the gamekeeper’s meticulous directions and orders, the team, as excited as the shooters, were jovially bantering together as if on some sort of day trip. This was the most important day in the gamekeeper’s calendar, and no one was paying it the respect it deserved—except maybe Mr. Edward Thorpe, who frequently approached him to discuss wind direction and tactics. Frustrated and with a hoarse voice, the keeper marched off toward the woods with his dogs and was relieved to find that the men followed on after all.
Edward led his group of equally jovial men toward an open area beyond the woods, which had been designated as the shooting line. He too had misgivings about some of his party. Lord Wilson arriving late and stomped into the gathering like an angry bull. He huffed and puffed at the peg position he drew out of the hat and snapped at his servant, who attended him as a loader, for no apparent reason. Lord Wilson had clearly got out of the wrong side of the bed, but Edward also wondered if he was slightly tipsy already. As they neared their positions, the conversation ceased and an expectant silence descended on the shooters—or Guns, as the keeper insisted in calling them.
“A gun with a small g is the firing arm they use, but the Gun with a capital G is the person who fires the gun with a small g,” he explained to his bemused, then mocking team.
“’Ow can we tell whether ya talking with a capital or a small g?”
“It’s all about context.”
“I ’ope the ol’ pheasants understand all ya jargon.”
“Silence, please.” The gamekeeper held up his hands as if pressing back the noise. “We need to spread out and take positions quietly now, before raising the pheasants.”
“Keep quiet . . . so we don’t scare ’em before we scare ’em,” joked Joe.
“Wow, boy! You’ve really got the ’ang of this!” teased the gardener.
“I know,” whispered Joe. “I’m a natural.”
“But keep ya eye on Benny too,” cautioned the gardener. “I don’t want him near any gun, capital letter or otherwise.”
From his allotted position, Edward looked down the line at his participating guests. Each stood in alert silence surveying the woods with the intensity of a soldier on watch. The snapping of twigs and the rattling squawk of a few surprised pheasants were the only indication of the forthcoming excitement. The gamekeeper was flushing out the birds, but not alarming them enough to take to their wings before reaching the clearing. Edward’s pulse quickened as he watched the first pheasants appear. For a few seconds the view was magnificent as the beautiful birds fluttered their colourful wings and launched themselves into flight. Their guttural alarm calls were soon drowned by the noise of gun fire, and stricken birds fell from the sky. Edward was too busy shooting to notice his companions, but when he paused to reload, he glanced Lord Wilson’s way. He was alarmed to see Wilson’s erratic and dangerous shots. Sometimes he aimed too high, resulting in an injured but not dead bird, condemning it to a lingering and painful death. Sometimes he aimed too low, blasting the pheasants to pieces. This was not sportsmanship, this was massacre!
From his place in the woods, Benny saw an injured bird flapping helplessly among the bracken. Breaking rank, he ran toward it. At that moment, Lord Wilson fired low.
Benny’s scream and stumble indicated a direct hit. The noise of gunshot was immediately replaced by shouting. The beaters ran out of the woods to their bleeding friend. Edward was nearer, so arrived first and pulled out his handkerchief to stem the blood flow from Benny’s leg. It was soon saturated. Benny’s father ripped off his shirt and used it as a bandage, and Joe used his garter as a tourniquet. Mr. Brookes ordered a man to send for Dr. Ward. With the utmost care and gentleness, a few men eased Benny off the ground and carried him toward Biggenden.
When Edward saw that the situation was being well managed he turned toward Lord Wilson, who spluttered, “Whatever happened, Thorpe?”
“You shot him!”
Lord Wilson puffed out his chest. “Rubbish, utter rubbish.”
“You did. I saw it with my own eyes.” Other shooters gathered around and testified to having witnessed the shot too.
“Well, what is all the fuss? The boy isn’t dead. He shouldn’t have been near the guns. How ridiculous to bring the village idiot on a shoot!” Lord Wilson looked pointedly at Edward. “It is asking for trouble.”
It took every ounce of self-control Edward possessed not to punch Lord Wilson in his fat, arrogant, and ruddy face.
“Sir, please leave my land now!” he ordered through gritted teeth, and then, turning to the other shooters, “Sorry, gentlemen, the shoot is over, please be so kind as to return home.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed home to check on Benny, leaving the guests to pack up, divide the spoil, and chew over the day’s events at their leisure.
By following a trail of mud and leaves through the house, Edward found Benny and half his workforce in a spare bedroom. Sophia, smeared with blood and mud, was clearly in control. Dr. Ward soon arrived and examined the wound. Benny’s mother had been sent for, and the maids had been ordered to serve the lunch that had been prepared for the shooting party to the workmen instead. At the centre of all the activity lay Benny, pale and drifting into unconsciousness. Sophia stroked the patient’s hair, and the room was silent with all eyes on the physician as he painstakingly extracted leadshot from the wounds. The housemaid’s call that lunch was ready went unnoticed by the audience.
At last the doctor straightened up and flexed his back. “I believe all the gunshot is out. Now to clean the wounds and dress the leg.”
Hot water was sent for and bandages were extracted from the doctor’s bag. There was no lack of volunteers to hold up the wounded leg for bandaging, or to arrange Benny under the covers.
“The femur is peppered but not shattered, and I don’t think the nerve or any other bone or organ has been affected. But those leg wounds are nasty and could easily get infected.” Dr. Ward addressed Benny’s father. “If he had been a couple of yards nearer the gun, the story would have been very different. As it is, he has lost a considerable amount of blood. What he needs now is rest, analgesia, and—when he wakes—plenty of fluids.”
Satisfied that Benny’s life was not in immediate danger and that he was comfortable, the men left the room and headed to the laden lunch table.
“Dr. Ward, you have done a splendid job. Will you not join us for a bite to eat?” asked Sophia.
Edward had very little appetite, but his men did not seem to be similarly afflicted. He leaned back in his chair and watched them, the doctor, and his wife chatting and munching away. The dining room was at its best, with the daintiest china and hot-house flower arrangements, in stark contrast to the men wearing their rough, patched-up work clothes. What an incongruous scene it was! But what a decent and agreeable bunch they are. Vastly superior to the intended guests! Their love and concern for poor Benny had been deep and genuine. That is what unites us all, thought Edward. Dear Benny, whose ambitions in life were limited to giving flowers to Sophia, keeping his boots polished, and smiling broadly. How dare Lord Wilson call him the village idiot! There was only one man that day who looked like an idiot, and that was Lord Wilson himself.