William smiled and set down his ink and quill, eager for a friendly ear, for his friends had been quartered in different barracks rooms, and he had been stuck here with the older hands of the regiment for a few weeks. He stood up from the crude communal table where he was writing his letter and accepted the bottle from Smythe with a smile.
‘That’s right lad,’ Smythe said, ‘yeah, ‘ave a good ol’ nip o’ that.’
William took a ginger sip and began coughing and spluttering immediately as the cheap rum seared its way down his gullet like molten lead. Smythe chuckled and took a hefty swig from the bottle as soon as William handed it back to him.
‘It’s rather different from our Highland whiskey!’ William remarked hoarsely, trying to stifle a harsh cough.
‘Indeed,’ Smythe said with a chortle. ‘Not the choicest rum, but it does the job, it does!’
Both men laughed at this, and each had another swig.
‘You’re wiff them other Scotch lads who joined up recently, aren’t ye Gisborne?’
‘Aye. My best boyos in the whole world, Michael, Andrew an’ Paul.’
Smythe nodded, slugging again on the bottle.
‘That Michael, ‘e’s a strappin’ one, ‘e is. As big as ol’ Watson over there, but much faster. ‘E’s a natural fighter, ‘e is, no doubt about that. You’re all ‘Ighland born and bred, are ye?’
‘We spent most of our lives in the Highlands, aye, but we were no’ born Scotsmen. The lads an’ I were born in Whitechapel, although I dunnae remember much ay it.’
Smythe laughed heartily and imbibed another generous swig of rum.
‘You don’t sound much like an East Londoner, lad! ‘Ighland born an’ bred is what I’d ‘ave guessed from yer manner o’ speech. I was born in Manchester m’self. I left at an early age though, sent away to work in the cotton mill when I was but seven years of age, I was.’
William nodded sympathetically as he took the bottle from Smythe.
‘I was crawling up flues at the age of five. Had an awful bastard of a boss, named Mr Goode.’
Private Smythe laughed uproariously at this, slapping his thigh with mirth.
‘What a name for the worst boss in the world, eh! Mr Goode! Ha! ‘Ow did ye end up in Scotland, then?’
‘We were cleaning the flues in the house ay a well-tae-dae magistrate, when our youngest flue faker got stuck in a chimney an’ suffocated tae death. Poor wee Davy, he was only four. The lady ay the house took pity on us an’ arranged fir us tae be sent tae her cousin’s estate in Aberdeenshire, tae work as stable hands there.’
Smythe nodded, stroking the pointy tip of his stubble-rough chin.
‘So that’s where you learned to ride.’
‘Aye. I took tae horses from the moment I first swung my leg o’er a saddle.’
‘I can bloody see that, I can! I’ve seen you on a ‘orse, and the way you can ride, you’re leagues ahead o’ anyone in the regiment, even the old ‘ands who’ve been ‘ere for decades.’
William grinned, feeling a semblance of confidence – a feeling in which he had been extremely lacking in recent weeks – making a return to his state of being.
‘Thank you Private Smythe, I—’
‘Roger, lad. That’s me first name.’
‘Thank you, Roger. I appreciate tha’. An’ you can call me Will, that’s what me boyos call me.’
Smythe waved a nonchalant hand at him.
‘Think nuffin’ of it, Will; I’m just telling the truth o’ the matter. Besides, you lads ‘aven’t done no tent-peggin’ yet. I bet when you get around to that, Sergeant Fray will drop ‘is jaw, ‘e will. I can see you pickin’ that up in no time, what wiff your skill on ‘orseback.’
‘I’ve heard the term … but what exactly is tent-pegging?’
‘Oh, you’ll love it, Will. You push yer ‘orse to full gallop, and use your lance and sword to stab small targets on the ground, around the size o’ tent pegs, they are, ‘ence the name.’
‘I dunnae if I’d be any good a’ that.’
‘You can ‘andle a ‘orse wiff more skill than anyone I’ve seen yet, lad, and that’s most o’ the challenge already taken care of, it is. You’ve just got to up your skills wiff the lance and sword.’
William sighed and shook his head sadly.
‘Therein lies the problem, Roger. I’ve got not an ounce ay skill wi’ either.’
Smythe looked up at William and smiled cheerfully, the generosity in that pleasant curving of his lips mirrored in the crinkling of the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.
‘I’ll ‘elp you. I’ve learned a fing or two about ‘andling weapons in my years in this regiment, I ‘ave. Come, grab your sword, let’s step outside and I’ll give you a few pointers.’
William shot Smythe a warm, toothy grin; a flash of delighted white against the smoky gloom of the tent.
‘I’d be most thankful fir tha’, I would!’
‘Think nuffin’ of it. You’re a good lad, and I daresay better tipplin’ company than that sour git in the cot be’ind us.’
William retrieved his sword and scabbard while Private Smythe staggered to his feet, swaying with drunkenness, and with that William’s extracurricular training began.
***
29th March 1854. Brighton Beach, England
‘The glow around your hair brings tae mind an autumn bonfire in the Highlands, sweet Aurora,’ William said as he and Aurora strolled along the beach, arm in arm. Around his neck he wore the amulet she’d given him, tucked beneath his shirt, while she wore, on a dainty silver necklace, the simple bronze Celtic cross he had given her. ‘Wi’ the sun lighting it up from behind, it’s like a mane ay chestnut flames dancin’ around your face.’
Aurora leaned over and gave him a playful peck on his cheek, squeezing his hand as she did. As they were now in public, her hair was bound and tied up. William loved it when she wore her hair down, but he enjoyed seeing it tied up as well; even though a large portion of her
