Saving Time

Chapter 33

“Dumbarton’s Drum”

18th century Scottish Ballad

How happie am I When my soldier is by.

While he kisses and blesses his Annie, O!

‘Tis a soldier alone can delight me,

For his graceful looks do invite me,

While guarded in his arms, I’ll fear no war’s alarms,

Neither danger nor death shall e’er friglit me,

My love is a handsome laddie,

Genteel, but ne’er foppish nor gaudy . . .

A soldier has honour and bravery,

Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery.

Mel ran down the brick boulevard, finding Rig standing on a street corner, apparently contemplating the city and harbor visible in the distance. From their hilltop vantage point, Mel could see thousands of lamplights blinking and wavering across the city.

“Rig?”

He turned to face her but said nothing. Now that she was able to talk to him, she didn’t know what to say. Apologize again for his failure to return to his own time, or chastise him for his pigheaded rebuke of her uncle, or ask about his calling her remarkable, and finally, discover what he planned to do now.

“What are you—?”

“Yes, it was a stupid thing to do, going Alpha-Charlie on your uncle.”

“Going what?”

“Alpha-Charlie?” Rig grumbled, as though he just realized what he’d said. “Don’t worry. It’s something you won’t ever hear again.”

She gave him a patient look and planted her hands on her hips.

He smiled. “It’s military. It means chewing someone out.”

Melissa squinted at him. He nodded sadly. “It means being a judgmental shithead, bitter about the world in general.”

“Are you? Are you bitter?” When he just frowned at her, she said, “I’m so sorry, Rig. I could only guess how this, this . . .” She pulled the medallion out by the chain. “How this thing performs.” The metal was unexpectedly hot. She dropped the disk, the chain bringing it to rest on her chest. She gingerly tucked the medallion back down the front of her coat.

“Something wrong?”

“No, the medallion was warmer than expected.”

“Probably the result of where you keep it.” He gave her a wink and wiggled his eyebrows, waiting for the shy grin she returned with a scoffing shake of her head. She had never managed the subtle art of flirting and had no repost to his saucy remark. She was hopelessly unsubtle in her words and deeds, failing at every attempt. One reason her Season had been such a stellar failure.

Mel stepped close to him. “My uncle has invited you to go with us to the parade grounds.”

“Why?” He squinted at her. “Is that code for where we can be alone, or do I face military discipline?” He gave her a teasing smile.

Her face began to prickle. “No! The Scots are holding a cèilidh.”

“And what is a Caylee?”

“A dance party.”

“Ah. That sounds like fun. Unfortunately, I won’t be dancing tonight.”

“Yes, but there will be music too.”

With a shrug, he said, “Lead on then. I have nowhere else to be.”

As they walked uphill, Mel couldn’t leave the subject alone. “Are you much embittered, Rig?”

“I like you calling me Rig.”

Mel felt a blush coming on again but repeated her question.

“It wasn’t bitterness that led me to dump on your uncle. It was anger at your treatment, endangering you, requiring my appearance.” He continued to limp on for a spell without speaking. “I didn’t sleep much the night before last— After I didn’t disappear. I kicked rocks and screamed at the sea for a few hours early yesterday morning, mad as hell.”

He didn’t say anything, then stopped to face her. “I’m over it.” He dropped his head before looking at her again. “Well, mostly. I’m a Ranger. One thing I’ve learned in the Rangers is that bitterness and resentment are generally useless emotions.” He shrugged. “Well, sometimes they’re helpful if channeled. We all feel them, but it’s a weakness to indulge in them, dangerous when I’m in such a dicey situation.” There was a pause and a shake of his head. “I am facing a one-of-kind challenge.”

He frowned pensively. “I certainly have indulged far too much in anger.” He looked up and gave her a sad smile. “Now, now all I have is the present. I don’t have a past, and I don’t even know enough to plan my future.” He grunted. “Two hundred years in the past.”

Mel pursed her lips at his calm acceptance and resolve. It was continually as surprising as the rest of the man and his capabilities. “What are you going to do now?” She saw that her uncle was watching them from the doorway as they walked up the street.

“Be Reginald Sparhawk and have the army dictate my next moves, at least until I find your grandmother.” He offered her a playfully stern look but continued. “Sparhawk’s identity is what I have going for me now thanks to you and him.” He stopped and leaned close. “However, don’t ever, ever call me Reginald, or worse, Reggie. It would spoil an otherwise beautiful relationship.”

They reached the house, where Colonel Graham came down the steps, and together they trudged up the hill. There were streetlamps burning, lighting their way. A glow could be seen above the roofs of houses to the south. Pointing to it, Graham said, “It’s the cèilidh. There is usually a bonfire when it is held outside.” After walking in silence for a time, Graham marched ahead, leaving Mel and the captain behind several meters.

Mel bit her lip, brushing hair out of her face, speaking quietly with a glance at her uncle’s back. “Are we still friends?”

“Of course. Born of fire and blood as they say.” He limped on for a time, then turning to her, said, “And lovers. Shared intimacies, right? Our adventure, and now it seems our current situation, doesn’t provide any opportunities to just enjoy each other’s company. I’d like to do that as much as possible here and now.”

Mel glanced at him sideways, unable to ignore the tingles his words ignited. She had to ask. “And you believe me ‘remarkable’?”

He chuckled. “What, you missed my saying similar things several times before?”

“Nae, but I do love hearing you say it, all the same.”

He quirked his mouth at her confession. “Yes. You are remarkable, and you have proven it many times over.”

She couldn’t stop herself. “And do you still think me attractive after meeting Miss Haverlock?”

“What? Is she the British ideal of beauty?”

Frowning at his disbelief, she nodded.

Rig stopped and laughed. “Miss Haverlock? If that girl is the measure of beauty in this day and age, I pity all Englishmen.”

Relieved, gratified, and intrigued, Mel started walking again when Rig did, but had to ask because he didn’t say more. “What did you find in Miss Haverlock so unappealing?”

With an indulgent expression, he gave her a shoulder-bump. “Really? The irritating Miss H. is far too pale, almost sickly with a small, pouty mouth, eyes that are too large, almost childlike, and a Romanesque nose that wouldn’t look out of place on a bust of Julius Caesar. All of which I could overlook if she wasn’t so vapid.”

Melissa grinned. “She, like any number of young women, puckers her lips to form a Cupid’s bow mouth, the height of current beauty.”

“It looks silly.” He considered Mel as they walked, his expression intimate. “You are far more attractive, beautiful right down to your Irish nose and un-Cupid-like mouth.” His words reached down to her core, warming her on such a chilly night.

He paused and grinned at her. “If faced with what you have braved, Miss Penelope Haverlock would have died the first day, or maybe just curled up into a tiny little ball to be hauled away with the other wounded.” He made a snicking sound with his teeth. “And I certainly wouldn’t have survived.”

“Oh.”

Fiddle music reached them, faint on the sea breeze. Mel continued to marvel that such a man, a warrior from the future, admired her. She was confused by his seeming acceptance of his situation. Did he still resent her sex, considering his low opinion of all women? Did she dare ask? To avoid the issue was not her manner.

She broke the amiable silence. “Have you forgiven me, being as you were plucked from the future, because of my need, into such a primitive time?”

Rig raised an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth drawn back as he glanced at the back of Colonel Graham, who still walked several meters ahead of them. He pulled her in for a quick one-armed hug, shooting glanced at her uncle. She relished being hugged by such a large and warm body. “You, lady, were worth saving and I am glad I was there. However, I will find your grandmother. She better have a solution to my predicament.”

Mel wrinkled her nose at his pronouncement. He had no intention of staying in her time if he could find the means to return to his future. “I will help, considering that your bark is worse than your bite. I am confident my nana will be as surprised and amazed by you as I have been.”

He bumped her with his shoulder. “We’ll see when I meet her.”

She wanted to put her arm around his waist, but couldn’t, not in public, not with her uncle so near. “We must not be physically demonstrative in public. It will lead everyone to believe we shared an intimacy during our travels.” She glanced up at him, biting her lip. “It will ruin my reputation, such as it is.”

“Understood.” He leaned over, eye on the colonel, and said in husky voice close to her ear, “However, I want to see you as much as possible for the few days we have left before the battle. I’ve been told when the fleet does arrive all the women and wounded will be put aboard first.” The fiddle music became louder as they neared the parade ground.

“The army will escape?”

Rig nodded. “Yes, the night of the sixteenth after a battle, if I remember my history accurately.”

“The sixteenth? That’s four days from now. Why would the French wait to attack until then?”

“Marshal Soult’s army has to be as worn out as the British. He’s having to rest them, bring up supplies, waiting for Ney’s French corps to catch up before attacking. He knows the fleet hasn’t arrived, so he is in no hurry, thinking the British are trapped in La Corunna.”

Mel digested this information, with the strange sensation of knowing the future. The music and many voices became much louder as they entered the parade ground. There, in the middle of the open field was a massive bonfire, with fiddlers and guitar players filling the air with fast-paced tunes, surrounded by hopping, dancing couples, their long firelight shadows prancing in time all around.

In the distance, other couples were approaching the bonfire. There had to be more than two hundred in attendance. She quickly stepped away from Rig, with an apologetic glance.

“Please understand. However useless the effort may seem to you, I must. I do not want to bring shame to my uncle and family and to do that, I must keep—”

“Neither do I.” Rig frowned at her. “You’ve explained. But that doesn’t mean I like it. In my time, it would be unnecessary.”

Mel blinked at that but nodded. Thinking of the pictures and half-naked Claire, she said, “This isn’t your time. In army society, here on campaign, the distance between the reputation of a lady and a bobtail is too easily spanned.”

He nodded and waved a hand toward the cèilidh. “Lead on, McDuff.”

Graham heard him, chuckled, stopping to wait for them to catch up.

~ ~ ~

The three of them circled the huge fire. A good distance from it, logs and crates had been placed around for seating. Dancers, many in ragtag clothing and bare feet whirled and whooped. Mel waved to women calling to her from one of the many groups of men and women clustered at the edge the dance area. With a glance back, she left Rig with Graham by the log and crate seating. She hugged several women, and they began talking, heads close to be heard above the music and happy hollering.

“Do you enjoy music, Captain?” Graham angled toward a group of officers.

“I do,” Rig answered as he followed the colonel.

“Well, I don’t want to take you away from that pleasure, but first, I’d like to introduce you to some of my fellow officers.”

These were higher-ranked officers, colonels, and majors. There were surprisingly typical pleasantries, questions about his and Mel’s trek east, the weather, questions about Canada, and of course, the fight at the bridge. After a while, several officers broke away to find their wives or a partner for a dance. Graham was caught by another general wanting to discuss the army’s defenses. Rig took the opportunity to step away, with a nod to Graham. He’d lost track of Mel.

Rig walked slowly around to where the musicians were playing. There were three fiddles and a guitar playing, but every fifth person had a fiddle or some such. He exchanged nods with two enlisted men in the crowds he recognized from his company. As he passed sitting partygoers, they stopped to watch him before returning to their conversation. By the time he reached the music-makers, he realized that most officers huddled in what looked like the officers’ section of the party. They did not lack female companionship.

He decided to sit by the musicians. They were playing fast-paced, complicated runs, over and over again. Then, without stopping, the fiddle players would transition into another piece, amid shouts of approval. Couples would leave or enter the dance area and form up what looked like square dancing, sometimes with a square, sometimes just a double line, sometimes in a circle, all facing in, men and women high stepping, moving in and out, yelling together in the center, then skipping away again.

Both men and women would grab someone on the sidelines and take them out to dance. He was still limping and wearing his sling, so it was no surprise he was ignored. In fact, so far from the officers’ group, no one approached him at all. He did seem to make a number of nearby enlisted soldiers uneasy. The language most others were speaking, he assumed was Braid Scots or Gaelic, but he couldn’t follow any of it. This was Mel’s world.

Rig found himself tapping the beat on the crate he sat on. Looking around, he found a couple of decent sticks, planks from the firewood and a short log. He positioned the log around the crate and with one stick began to thump out the time. Three of the musicians, two sergeants and a corporal from their stripes, looked over surprised, but when he began doing counterpoint on the log while stamping on the plank, they grinned and moved over to him as he pounded out the beat. It didn’t take long for others to notice and smile.

Rig motioned over a private with his own sling, his red coat tattered, and soles of his shoes flapping. He frowned, saying, “Aye, Sir,” and warily approached.

Rig handed him another plank and stick. Between them, they were able to produce five different drum sounds. Once the soldier got the beat, he smiled and began vigorously stomping the plank and beating the log he sat on. As Rig kept time, adding complexity around the private’s steady rhythm, the sounds seemed to energize the dancers and they kicked, twirled, and yelled even more as they danced.

Rig saw an officer ask Mel for a dance. She nodded and off they went. She danced well and her flashing grin was mesmerizing. Other officers asked her to dance. He was concerned about her healing dislocation, but all she did was hold her skirt with her right arm, so there was little motion.

The musicians would start another song without a break. It was a marathon. After what Rig figured was better than a half hour, his arms and good leg needed a rest. Apparently, the musicians did too, and a break was signaled, though the word they called out to announce it was indecipherable.

The fiddlers, both sergeants, came over with a mug of something for him and the private. The one with the most stripes said, grinning, “Ye beat a fine drum, Captain.” They introduced themselves as McLeod and Taggart of the 92nd Foot, both with rosy cheeks and robust red-brown beards.

Rig identified himself and thanked them for what turned out to be ale and rum. The private seemed to know the sergeants and was introduced as Private Cairns.

“So, how long do these caylees last?”

Both sergeants chuckled. “Til the last dancer and singer ga home, mon, er, me pardon, Captain.”

By now other fiddlers and a flute player had started up.

Rig picked up the stick again, but Sergeant McLeod put out a hand to stop him. “No, sir. You and Cairns be part of ourcòmhlan tonight.”

“A what? Like a band?”

Both roared with laughter, McLoed laying an arm around Taggart. “That’a be us, Captain, a band of brigands, to be sure.” Still chuckling over that, they left to share the joke with the guitar player.

Rig stood, stiff in the night air and dodged dancers to warm himself by the huge bonfire. He limped over to the gathering of officers. Mel was still dancing, her laugh womanly and enticing, easy to recognize in the general uproar. Though he wanted to watch, he didn’t.

The other officers and women made room for him. Lieutenant Ambersen, whom he’d met when raiding the Commissary this morning, introduced him to the group. Most all the officers and women were Scots.

After the handshaking and bowing, Ambersen said the officers had been talking about when the fleet might arrive and were taking bets. Rig couldn’t help himself, he bet five silver doubloons that the fleet wouldn’t arrive until the night of the fourteenth. A captain named MacLeary of the 2nd Foot took down the bets, which ranged from tonight to a gloomy ‘never.’

They all knew the fleet had weighed anchor at Vigoto the south days ago, but the wind had been driving from the north. Idle chat about the city and the prospects of a battle dominated the conversations, which prompted another round of betting, and Rig put up another five doubloons that the battle would be on the sixteenth, which left everyone shaking their heads, scoffing at such an outlandish wager, a whole four days away. The French would attack, or the fleet arrive long before then.

Mel and her current dance partner returned to the group. Flushed and happy, she thanked Major Durning of the Fourth Foot for the dance with a curtsy and introduced him to Rig. Not two minutes later, his band was preparing to play and called him over. The officers gave him odd looks and one asked where he’d learned to play ‘drums.’ Said as a half-joke, there was more to the question than simple curiosity. Mel pursed her lips, warning Rig. He left, saying, “I have always enjoyed music.”

It was much later when two women and Mel approached the band and with nods all around, the women began to sing as the fiddlers played. They sang “Coming thro’ the Rye.” Rig had heard the song before, and the three women were singing in harmony. It was beautiful and it had the attendees crowding around to hear. Rig beat to lyrics he did not recognize. Something about “Gin a body, meet a body, Coming thro’ the Rye.”

Requests were called out, and those the women and fiddlers knew were sung, half in Gaelic. Someone called out “Auld Rob Morris” and there was laughter. Mel played the daughter and one of the other women played the mother, singing their parts back and forth about how the daughter didn’t want to wed the rich old Morris and the mother insisting. Mel and her partner acted out the parts as they sang.

Mel was good. Rig couldn’t help but smile at her talent. She was damn cute. Whatever the ending was, Rig could tell that the audience knew it was coming, but they all roared with laughter as though they’d heard it for the first time.

There were love songs like “Annie,” odes to the beauty of Scotland, “Afton Waters,” and comic songs like “The Drunken Wife O’ Galloway.” At least he thought it was drunken because the singers were not pronouncing the ‘N.’

The crowd sang the chorus at the top of their lungs:

“Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly, and fairly. Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly.” It made no sense to him.

Many continued to dance to the songs, others crowded around to listen. One man called for “The Scottish Soldier,” and jumped up on a crate and began singing in a bright tenor. The fiddlers played and the women swished in time but didn’t sing. The gathering grew quiet:

“There was a soldier, a Scottish soldier

Who wandered far away, and soldiered far away

There was none bolder, with good broad shoulders

He fought in many a fray, and fought, and won.

He’d seen the glory, and told the story

Of battles glorious and deeds victorious

Now he’s sighing, her heart is crying

To leave these gray hills of Spain.”

At that there was a sardonic cheer. Rig figured Spain must have been added on the spot. Everyone sang, ending with a wild chorus, the men stomping and banging cups, the last verse repeated several times, roared louder each time, with hats thrown in the air at the end.

“The trumpets sound, the banners fly,

The glittering spears are ranked ready;

The shouts o’ war are heard afar,

The battle closes deep and bloody.

It’s not the roar o’ sea or shore.”

At that, Rig could believe these men would be bloodthirsty in battle. The ruckus quieted and there was a request for “Dumbarton’s Drums.” Mel sang it alone. Her voice soared over the crowd, washing over the night with clear and soulful tones.

Watching her stand there on a crate, arms expressing every emotion, singing to the heavens, Rig’s heart stopped a beat, and he closed his eyes. He felt a swelling in his chest ready to burst, pride in her, admiration. He bared his teeth against the subsequent chagrin over his blindness. He was in love with her and had been for some time. Damn.

It was at least three in the morning when the cay-lee began winding down. Couples, and small groups of soldiers and women, all began to leave. One more song was requested, the “23rd Psalm” of all things. Singing to a tune he didn’t recognize, Mel, her companions, and other women around them sang:

“The Lord is my Shepherd in nocht am I wantin’

In the haugh’s green girse does He makes me lie doon

While mony puir straiglers are bleatin’ and pantin’

By saft-flowin’ burnies He leads me at noon.

When aince I had strayed far awa in the bracken,

And daidled till gloamin’ cam ower a’ the hills,

Nae dribble o’ water my sair drooth to slacken,

And dark grow’d the nicht wi’ its haars and its chills.”

It was the damnedest thing he’d ever heard, but amazingly lyrical all the same. It ended with:

“Surely guidness an’ mercy, despite a’ my roamin’

Wull gang wi’ me doon tae the brink o’ the river.

Ayont it nae mair o’ the eerie an’ gloamin’

I wull bide in the Hame o’ my Faither forever.”

Without a signal, all the musicians present began to play “Auld Lang Syne.” As people left, couples and groups in every direction, they all took up the chorus:

“For auld lang syne, my jo,

For auld lang syne,

We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet

For auld lang syne.”

A short while later, Mel introduced her singing partners, the others in the party, all officers, and their women. The company walked together down the hill into the city. Smiling, weary movements while adjusting her shawl, Mel shone more brightly than he’d ever seen her. What was left of the bonfire cast shadows on her joy-filled expression. She leaned over to him, whispering that she feared she might swarf with elation.He didn’t comment, thinking he knew what it meant.

Walking downhill into the city, she outshone all the women in the group, and they and the officers knew it. Everyone made an effort to talk to her, complementing her singing. Upon reaching the city streets, their knot of people slowly untied as each went their different directions to rest.

Finally, he and Mel were alone in front of Colonel Graham’s house, the colonel nowhere to be seen. She gazed up at the house for a moment and then stepped in front of him. He couldn’t think of anything but kissing such smiling lips, tasting the bright life she embodied. So, he did.