‘What the hell are you looking at, Gisborne?’ he growled. ‘Fancy a nobblin’, you little blighter? I’ll bloody do ye down, I will!’
William knew exactly how a brawl with Watson was likely to go, so, swallowing his ire, he simply shook his head and resumed writing. In response, Private Watson spat on the ground in disgust.
‘That’s right, turn away! A right meater, this one is! As frightened as a little lamb, ‘e is, look at ‘im! Go back to the blooming streets an’ resume your trade as a mumper, Gisborne! You’re a bloody disgrace to this squadron, you are!’
Private Smythe flung a boot across the barracks room at Watson. He was also a drunk, and was of a similar age to the brawler, but he was a far kinder and more compassionate person than his peer, and had a much more serene temperament.
‘Lay off the lad, Watty,’ he said calmly. ‘Not all of us troopers is like you. This lad ‘ere ain’t spent no time in lumber like you ‘ave, ye bleedin’ tea leaf!’
‘Bah! I only wore the broad arrow for two years, then I changed my ways and joined the Death or Glory boys! Hurrah for the 17th!’
All of the men stopped what they were doing to cheer for the 17th, even William, although his ‘hurrah’ was a lot more subdued than the throaty bellows of his fellow troopers. Private Smythe heaved himself up out of his bunk and ambled over to William.
‘Who are you writin’ to there, lad?’
‘Some dollymop he found in a nethersken,’ Watson rasped, ‘who he dabbed once or twice when he scrounged together a penny or two!’
Smythe tossed the bottle of rum over to him.
‘Shove some o’ this in yer pie-hole an’ then keep it shut, will ye Watty?’
Watson caught the bottle, scowling while he opened it, and then taking a heavy swig of the almost caustic-tasting liquid within.
‘Come on then Gisborne, don’t mind ‘im, he’s always like that wiff the new fish,’ Smythe said in a sympathetic tone. ‘Tell me, who are you writing to?’
‘My … my fiancée,’ William ventured cautiously, cringing as he braced himself for the inevitable barrage of mockery from Watson.
Watson, however, seemed content for the moment with slugging on the bottle of rum, so he made no comment. This gave William a glimmer of hope that, for the time being at least, he would not be subjected another barrage of the cantankerous trooper’s taunts and insults.
‘Oh, engaged to be married, are ye?’ Smythe commented. ‘That’s nice, lad. I’m sure she’s lovely, is she not?’
William shot a furtive glance across at Watson before replying.
‘She’s the most beautiful, kind, wonderful an’ intelligent lass I’ve e’er seen,’ William answered, feeling a bit more emboldened. ‘She’s like … like an auld master’s painting come tae life, she is!’
Smythe chuckled, and a tint of something warm shone in his eyes; nostalgia, sympathy or perhaps, simply, a sense of shared joy.
‘I can tell that you’re quite taken wiff ‘er. Yes, as it should be, as it should be. Don’t listen to what that ignorant idiot is saying about love now; not everyone is as cynical as ‘im. I was married once, you know. Back before I joined the 17th.’
‘And now?’
A look of deep sadness clouded Smythe’s haggard face.
‘No, I don’t ‘ave nobody now. It didn’t end well, see. My wife an’ I were married when I was but fifteen, an’ she was a year older than me, she was. We both worked in a cotton mill, blooming ‘ard times those were.’
‘Aye, I can imagine,’ William said. ‘I was a flue faker as a wee lad, that was a bloody tough life as well.’
‘A chimney sweep, were you? Quite a miracle you survived, innit? I’ve ‘eard that most don’t.’
‘I was one ay the lucky ones.’
‘Lucky indeed, lad. Although perhaps you should wait until you’ve survived your stint as a cavalryman before using the word “lucky”, eh?’ Smythe said with a wink and a swift grin.
William chuckled dryly.
‘Aye, aye. Now what about your wife Smythe, you were tellin’ me about her?’
‘Oh, right. Ah Gisborne, a sad story it was, a well sad story. See, we were both working in the cotton mill, we were. Absolutely ‘orrendous work, blooming awful, it was. Nonetheless, after a few years we managed to save enough pennies to leave that behind. We still struggled though, we did. Our first chavy was stillborn, and the Good Lord saw fit to take the second when the wee boy was but six months old. The last one, she survived until the age o’ three … but that’s when bleedin’ cholera took both her mum and her.’
William didn’t quite know how to respond to this, so for a few uncomfortable moments he sat in silence.
‘I’m really sorry tae hear that,’ he murmured after a while.
Grief was heavy in Smythe’s eyes, and it sounded as if his voice was beginning to crack. He turned away from William and stared at the floor in silence before replying.
‘Never you mind lad, it’s the way o’ the world, it is,’ he murmured. ‘After they passed on, why, I was left ‘eartbroken, and penniless too. Not a roof over me ‘ead, not a morsel to eat, and not two coins to scrape together, nuffin’. I became a moocher on the streets, moving from hughy to hughy, drinkin’ me’self into stupors and slowly starvin’ to death … until I ran into a recruiting officer for the 17th, that is. ‘E said I looked strong enough to soldier, and so, with nowt much else I could ‘ave done, I took the Queen’s shilling and ended up ‘ere, I did. Say lad, why don’t you have a sip o’ rum wiff me? We’ll leave that blustery bastard Watson t’ drown his sorrows on his lonesome wiff the rest o’ that bottle. I’ve got a fresh one ‘ere, see. My second cousin who works in a tavern knaps these bottles for me, ‘e does! Ha!
