Autumn, 1811
He dragged himself out of the stream, cursing. Stream? It was a damned cascade, a torrent. In the half-light he’d taken it for a harmless gully, and, realising too late that he was mistaken, had grabbed at roots and rocks that had yielded under his hands. He had slithered and floundered in the almost liquid mud.
At last he had pulled himself clear of the raging waters and found a fallen tree to sit on, huddling his greatcoat about him, though it was so wet as to be a burden rather than a comfort. Why was one foot even colder than the other? He must have worn through the sole of his boot. But he had more miles to walk tonight. A smile approaching pleasure flitted across his face. If he folded the precious paper, it would fit inside the boot. There. All he had to do now was force his foot back in again.
He should never have taken it off. He was colder than ever, and ready to weep with the effort of cramming the frozen toes into the unyielding leather.
Darkness had fallen quite suddenly, a giant hand pinching out a candle. The day had been so cloudless he knew there must be stars, but the trees hid all but a few. If walking had been hard before, it would be cruel now.
A drop of brandy. That would help. There! The spirit burnt its way down his throat. One more swig – but a shake of his flask told him it was empty, and he slung it over his shoulder into the bushes.
Folly. He might have sold it, pawned it even, to raise a bit more of the ready. But the nobs would see him all right, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t tell him to come all this way and not give him meat and drink and a fire to sit by while he dried out.
He heaved himself upright and staggered, cursing aloud again as he started to shake. Almost as if they weren’t part of him, he watched his hands quiver and then dance as if at the rope’s end. He couldn’t have held them steady, no, not a guinea.
Best make a move. Move while he could still see. For the dark was more absolute than he’d ever known, since the Peninsula, that is, and he must get to the lights before he stumbled again. But where were the lights? Over here? Over there?
A voice moaned. It was his own!
There was someone coming towards him. Thank the Lord – it was the man he’d spoken to, wasn’t it? The man who – but he must be wrong. There was no one there after all.
Maybe if he lay down a while. Just till the world stopped turning. Maybe some leaves would give him shelter. Give him warmth. He scrabbled some together.
If only his mother would tuck him up, like she used to do. Here she was, leaning over him, smiling. She rolled him on to his side, as she always used to do, and then again so he lay on his face.
Smoothed his hair.
Pressed his head.
Smoothed and pressed and smoothed and pressed and he was falling deep and easy into sleep.