Through the Ranks #2
He gave a slight shrug. “You did well enough. No slips, no contradictions. Keep the details the same every time you speak of them.”
Her breath misted in the cold. “Major Darcy looked at me as if weighing each word.”
William’s mouth curved faintly. “Then you had better make sure each word stands up to the weighing.”
They reached their tent. Elizabeth ducked inside first, the canvas falling closed behind her. She set her cap on the cot and let her shoulders drop for the first time since morning. The pretending, she knew, had only just begun.
* * *
In the senior officers’ quarters, the lamp burned low. Darcy poured two measures from a bottle on the side table and handed one to Bingley.
“They are a mixed lot,” Bingley said, settling into a chair. “Lucas looks sound enough. Talbot and Bell—still green, but willing. And Bennet…” He hesitated briefly. “He will have to find his feet.”
Darcy took a slow sip. “They all will. We have no time for a long training period, and no surplus of men to choose from. Everyone of them must be ready to stand in the line when the orders come.”
Bingley gave a short laugh. “On such notice, they would call it folly in Hertfordshire.”
“In Hertfordshire,” Darcy said dryly, “the French are not crossing the Channel.” He set his glass down with quiet finality. “Better a man break here than falter under fire. If Bennet cannot bear the weight of training, he will not live to bear the weight of battle.”
Bingley sobered, lifting his glass in agreement. “To tomorrow, then.”
Darcy’s gaze was already distant, his mind on the parade ground. “To tomorrow.”
* * *
The camp was still half-shrouded in mist when the bell clanged for morning assembly. Elizabeth started awake, momentarily unsure where she was, until the smell of damp canvas and wool brought it back to her, Baldham Heath. Lieutenant Bennet.
William was already pulling on his coat, buttoning it briskly. “Best move quickly,” he said. “They will want us on the parade ground before the sun burns this fog away.”
Elizabeth rolled from her cot and dressed in silence, each layer of coarse uniform stiff from storage. The boots were heavier than anything she had worn before; they dragged at her stride as she followed William out into the chill.
All along the row, men were spilling from their tents, some muttering about the cold, others stamping their feet against the damp. Officers and enlisted alike moved toward the open square where Major Darcy stood with Captain Bingley, their red coats stark against the pale morning light.
Captain Bingley’s voice carried across the ground. “Fall in! Officers to the left, men to the right!”
Elizabeth moved to join Talbot and Bell, keeping her chin level and her cap low. Major Darcy’s gaze passed over them once, sharp and measuring, before he gave a short nod to Bingley.
“We will begin with drill,” Major Darcy announced. “Then musket work. I want each man and officer assessed before noon.”
Captain Bingley stepped forward with a list in hand, reading out names and pairing men with instructors. When he reached “Lucas” and “Bennet,” he looked up. “You will be with me first. Let us see how Hertfordshire fares on the field.”
Elizabeth felt her throat tighten, but she managed a brisk, “Yes, sir,” and her heart pounded in her chest as she stepped out of the line, trying to maintain the calm she had cultivated over the past days.
The other recruits had already begun to form into smaller groups, each under the watchful eye of an instructor.
Elizabeth and William, as officers, were expected to lead their respective squads.
“Here,” Captain Bingley gestured toward a small training area near the edge of the square. “You will begin with a basic drill. Musket handling, marching, and formation. Let us see how you handle yourselves.”
Elizabeth nodded, her voice steady despite the trepidation she felt. “Yes, sir.”
William moved to the front, leading the group into position.
As Elizabeth followed, she tried not to let the weight of her disguise pull her down.
The officers, too, would be scrutinised, and she would need to move with confidence.
She joined William at the front of their group, where the instructor, Sergeant Barrow, handed them each a musket.
“Proper grip,” he barked. “Shoulders square. Don’t fidget with your weapon. It will fidget with you.”
Elizabeth tightened her grip on the musket, trying to ignore how awkward the unfamiliar weapon felt in her hands. William shot her a glance, his lips curling slightly in encouragement, but Elizabeth could not help feeling the sting of comparison.
The drill began with marching. The sound of boots thumping in unison echoed across the camp, and Elizabeth tried to keep her steps in time.
But her boots felt too heavy, and the rhythm kept slipping from her, her feet stumbling slightly with each step.
She focused on trying to blend in, to become part of the movement, but she could feel the eyes of the instructor on her, weighing every misstep.
The musket work came next. Elizabeth fumbled slightly with the action of loading, her hands moving clumsily as she tried to remember the steps William had shown her the night before.
Sergeant Barrow’s impatient stare burned into her back as she fumbled with the musket, finally managing to load it just as the rest of the group had finished.
“Better,” Sergeant Barrow noted gruffly, moving on to the next task.
Elizabeth exhaled a breath she had not realised she was holding. It was not perfect, but it was enough for now.
She stole a glance at William, who had been moving with the precision of someone who had spent far more time than he had admitted at drills. He caught her eye and gave her a small nod.
“You are doing well,” he whispered as Sergeant Barrow barked orders to change positions.
She smiled, just a little, but it did not quite reach her eyes. She was doing this for her family, for them all. And she would do it well, no matter how many mistakes she made along the way.
The drill continued in silence, save for Sergeant Barrow’s occasional commands. By the end of the morning, Elizabeth’s shoulders ached, her fingers numb from gripping the musket too tightly. But she had made it through the first test.
As they shouldered their packs across the yard, a sergeant muttered to another, “More ships gathering at Boulogne, they say. If they cross, we march south at once.”
Elizabeth’s step faltered, though she kept her face turned ahead. The Channel no longer felt so wide.
She exhaled slowly as the drill concluded. The men were dismissed to their tents to rest before the next round of training. William walked beside her, his expression unreadable as they returned to their tent.
“Another day,” he said quietly. “We survived the first one.”
Elizabeth nodded, though her mind was already whirling. “We will see how much we survive by the end of the week.”
William sank down beside her, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Henry would have hated this,” he said, a half-laugh in his breath. “Still, better he curses me from his bed at home than from this mud.”
Elizabeth glanced sideways, seeing both the weariness and the relief that ran beneath his words.