Firebird (3 page)

CHAPTER TWO

It was morning and the dawn light was diffuse. It pierced holes through the greyness of the sky with skeletal fingers, shafting light onto the backs of the sleeping men. It was raining and the dying fires eddied smoke that mingled with the lowering clouds.

‘By all the spirits of my ancestors, I hate this country of France.' Joe pushed aside his steaming blanket and bent over the fire, breathing life into it.

‘How do you do that?' Lloyd Savage opened his eyes reluctantly and peered into the gloom at the flames leaping upwards. ‘How do you get a fire to light in weather like this?'

‘You forget, Captain, I grew up with the Mandan, I know many things.'

‘And yet your skin is as white as mine, Joe.'

The captain was making a statement, not asking a question. He was a man who respected the privacy of others.

‘You know as well as I do that I'm half American Indian. Wah-he-joe-tass-e-neen means half white man.' Joe thrust some twigs into the flames, seeing in the glowing fire pictures of his childhood.

He had known from an early age that his father was a white man come from England. He knew too that his mother was disgraced when the white man lay with her, gave her a son and then left her.

But Mint-leaf had honoured the memory of her lover and had taught his son the language of his father's land. When Joe had been sent for by his English father Mint-leaf had handed him a bundle of letters – love letters. She hoped that by reading of his father's love for her, the son might find it in his heart to be forgiving. She knew little of men.

In England, Joe had been educated, cared for but never accepting or accepted. He had joined the British army at the age of sixteen and had found himself on the battlefields of Europe.

‘You have that far-away look in your eyes,' Savage said. ‘What are you thinking, Joe?'

Joe looked at the older man and his face softened.

‘My thoughts are worth nothing.' He rarely smiled but he did so now. He shared an affinity with the captain that comes to men who have faced death together.

At the battle of Leipzig they had been holed up in a farmhouse for weeks, the captain and his batman given up as lost. Thanks to Joe's resilience and hunting powers, they had survived to fight another day.

All over the camp, soldiers were stirring, eyes bleary, faces grey. The relentless rain shrouded the land with a sheen of mist and as Joe looked up at the leaden sky, he knew the rain would continue for several more days.

The aroma of pipe tobacco drifted towards Joe as he crouched over the fire, shielding the flames with his hands. They grew to a warm blaze and Joe watched the steam rise from his canteen of water.

He made breakfast as efficiently as he did everything. Good hot beans and sizzling slices of pork would set him and his captain up for the long march that was ahead.

‘Smells fit for a king.' Savage edged closer to the fire. ‘I'm a lucky bastard, do you know that, my friend?'

Joe would never get used to the way the British soldiers used their language. Bastard was an ugly word, it described men like him, born without honour.

He looked quizzically at Savage. ‘I know you are lucky and I know you are not a bastard.'

‘You take things too literally.' Savage crouched beside Joe and together they began to eat the hot food.

‘You either are a bastard or you are not a bastard,' Joe said reasonably.

‘All right, all right, I am not a bastard. Am I permitted to say I'm a lucky hog, then? Will that do?'

Joe shrugged. ‘Same thing. You are a man, not a pig.' His eyes gleamed. We are eating hog, Captain. What do you say to that?'

‘I give up.' The captain held up his hands in defeat. ‘You are too clever for me.' Savage brushed grease from his moustache. ‘In any case, I'm too happy enjoying your delicious cooking to argue the toss.'

The camp had come alive, men urinated openly and cursed the rain and Napoleon Bonaparte all in one breath. Joe took little notice. The meal finished, he scrubbed his cooking utensils with earth and then with grass. Later, he would find a stream and then he would wash the battered tins and the tarnished knives before storing them away in his back pack.

Joe realized that his position in the scheme of things regarding the British army was insignificant. He was batman to Captain Savage. But sometimes, his extra powers would be uneasily acknowledged and his ability to track the enemy would come in useful.

He thought again about the battle of Leipzig. Some of the captain's regiment had become separated from the main thrust of the attack. A small group of soldiers were trapped in a gulley with the French ahead by only a few miles. The Prussians were attacking the French from one direction, the Russians from another and the Germans were taking the rearguard defensive. One wrong move by Captain Savage and the troop would be wiped out. It had been a matter of pride to Joe that Savage had chosen him to reconnoitre the area.

On a high ridge behind an outcrop of rocks, a small band of French soldiers had been camped. Joe had taken the scent of them, of strange food, of sweat. It was Joe who had seen the raised rifle and had flung himself down onto the soldier's back.

The skirmish had been brief and when it was over, three dead Frenchmen lay staring sightlessly at the sky. The captain had fought at Joe's side, the rest of the troop had fled.

‘Wonder if I'll get any news of home today.' The captain's voice jerked Joe out of his reverie. ‘I would like to know how my wife and daughter are faring. Still, they can't come to much harm with Jeremiah in charge of the pottery, good man, Jeremiah.'

Joe swung back his long hair and tied it in a knot, tucking the ends into the neck of his tunic. He tried to envisage the business of making pots in the civilized surroundings of a town and failed. Were the captain's family coping? Joe doubted it. He sometimes wished his dreams would tell him more.

‘If they have your resilience, they will do very well,' he said aloud.

‘Good Lord, a compliment.' Savage smiled as he finished rolling his damp blanket into a neat package. That was another thing about the captain, he did not expect his batman to wait on him hand and foot as some of the other officers did.

Savage rose to his feet. ‘You know what? My little girl will be almost a woman by the time I get home – it's her sixteenth birthday next month. She'll be forgetting what I look like and if this war goes on much longer, so will her mother.'

This girl, this Llinos, she was a fortunate daughter. She had a father who cared about her, who even now, caught up in war, worried about her welfare.

‘I know Jeremiah will take good care of the place in my absence and Ben, he might be old but he's a good worker. He'll keep the apprentices in order.' Savage began to walk to the edge of the camp where the horses were tethered. It was clear that in spite of his words he was worried.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. ‘We'll ride ahead, Joe, have a scout around before the army moves on.' Respectfully, Joe fell in behind him. Now the boundaries between them existed once more, they were on army business.

‘That's a fine glaze, how do you make that colour?'

The voice startled Llinos and she looked around to see Mr Cimla standing behind her. He spoke ingratiatingly, rubbing his hands along the sides of his breeches. It seemed he wished to make amends for his vile behaviour of a few nights ago.

‘Yellow oxide.' Llinos spoke abruptly. ‘Blow out the candles, would you?'

She put down the pot, unaware of the glaze running between her fingers, and made for the door. She had no intention of being left alone with Mr Cimla ever again.

In the house, her mother was sitting near the parlour window mending a tear in one of Llinos's petticoats. She looked up as her daughter entered the room and there was a coldness in her eyes.

‘For heaven's sake, Llinos, why don't you wipe your feet? We can't expect old Nora to clean up after you as well as everything else. You seem to forget, cuts have to be made, the pottery is not as successful as it once was.'

‘Sorry, Mother.'

‘I don't know why you go about the place like a slut, that apron is filthy.'

‘I've been working since daybreak, Mother.' Llinos sank into a chair. ‘I need more help.' Llinos rubbed at her hands but the glaze was sticky and clung to her fingers. ‘Now that Binnie's gone, I can't manage.'

‘You have old Ben and the apprentices. You are always complaining, Llinos.'

‘I can't help what you think, Mother. I can't go on like this.'

Her mother looked at her closely. ‘Very well, we shall look for someone respectable to help you in the pottery.' Gwen looked away, lowering her eyes.

‘You might as well listen now you are here. I have something to tell you.'

Llinos swallowed hard; she anticipated with a feeling of dread the words her mother would say. She attempted to rise but her mother held up her hand.

‘Listen to me! Mr Cimla and I are going to be married.'

‘But, Mother, you are married.' The words were forced from between her dry lips.

‘Don't be foolish, Llinos, I'm a widow as well, you know. Your father was killed in action at some place called Leipzig, you saw the letter.'

‘But, Mother, it could be a mistake. You forget, the letter only said Father was missing.'

‘Yes, missing believed killed and not a word from him since. Of course he's dead. Do you think I want it to be that way? I loved your father.'

‘I know, but things happen in war. Remember one time when we didn't hear from Father for almost six months? The letters just didn't get through, that's all.'

‘For heaven's sake, Llinos! That time we didn't have an official communication from the army.'

She rose and touched her daughter's shoulder. ‘Am I to spend the rest of my life struggling on alone, is that what you want?'

Llinos looked down at her fingers and began to pick at the drying glaze. She could think of nothing to say.

‘We will not delay too long,' her mother continued, impatient again. ‘It will be a quiet affair, neither of us want a fuss.'

‘Where will he stay?' Llinos asked.

‘He – Mr Cimla – will stay here of course. Unless we sell up the place, that is.'

‘You can't sell the pottery.' Llinos spoke more sharply than she had intended.

Patches of angry colour appeared on Gwen's cheeks. ‘Don't be so insolent. You are little more than a child, how can you decide our future?'

‘You know what the pottery means to me.' Llinos met her mother's eyes. ‘In any case, Father willed it to me, didn't he?' Gwen looked away.

‘You were just complaining that you can't manage.' She stood in the window for a long moment before turning. Suddenly her eyes were pleading.

‘Don't spoil this for me, Llinos.' Her voice softened. ‘I'm getting old, this might be my last chance of happiness.'

Llinos shook her head. ‘Mr Cimla will not make you happy.'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake! It's no use even talking to you. Go away, get out of my sight.'

Llinos climbed the stairs slowly. She was tired, she could not think straight. In her bedroom, she sat near the window and stared out at the stars bright in the night sky. Over to the left, the heat from the kilns seemed to make the bricks shimmer and dance and Llinos smiled; old Ben was on night shift. He had stoked the fires well before settling down to sleep.

Watt would be with him. He loved old Ben like a father. She took a deep breath, the boy would be missing Binnie. She was missing Binnie. There was no-one to blame but Bert Cimla.

He was a common little man. Oh, he did his best to look the part of a gentleman. His boots were well polished, his shirts crisp and clean and yet Llinos could not help feeling Mr Cimla was putting on an act for the benefit of her mother.

He need not have bothered. Gwen was obsessed with him. Mr Cimla had a kind of good looks, Llinos acknowledged, and though he was a little overweight, he held himself well. His hair was dark and curling and if his chin was weak it was well hidden by his neat beard and the large moustache of which he was so proud.

Mr Cimla bragged constantly about his money but if ever he took Llinos and her mother on an outing it was invariably Gwen Savage who paid for the carriage and pair.

Llinos had heard the neighbours talking, especially Celia-end-house, who was more vociferous than most.

‘Nothing like an old fool,' Celia had said. She had been peering from under her bonnet as Gwen and Mr Cimla alighted from the carriage, unaware that Llinos was listening.

‘Bleed her dry as an orange, he will, and then leave her flat. I've met his sort before.'

Gwen Savage had sniffed and held her head high and Llinos, following her into the house, had despaired of her mother ever seeing sense. Well, now she had done what Llinos had feared all along, Gwen Savage had agreed to marry the man.

With a sigh, Llinos turned away from the window and began to wash in the cold water in the basin on the table. Her back ached and so did her arms. If she thought about it, every bone in her body ached. She climbed into bed, hugging the blankets around her shoulders, growing warm and comfortable as she relaxed.

She lay awake in the darkness, turning over the problem of Mr Cimla and his pursuit of her mother, looking desperately for a way to expose him for the sham he was. But it was hopeless, Gwen Savage was besotted.

Llinos turned on her side and closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

He was there again, in her dreams. He was beautiful, exotic, like no-one she had ever seen before. He had long hair that lifted in the breeze, golden skin and eyes that were as blue as the summer skies. He was smiling at her and behind him was a vast expanse of country with high tors and clear skies and rushing crystal rivers.