Chapter 18 The Rising Smoke
The Rising Smoke
The pale light of dawn filtered through the canvas.
Elizabeth rose stiffly, her body unrefreshed after the sleepless night.
She dressed with care, drawing her shirt close and fastening her coat, her fingers lingering on each button as if neatness might steady her nerves.
The bindings beneath pressed cruelly, but she dared not loosen them now.
When she was satisfied that all was in order, she turned to William’s pallet. He lay curled beneath his blanket, his face slack with the peace of slumber. Gently she touched his shoulder.
“William,” she whispered.
He blinked awake, rubbing his eyes, and pushed himself up on one elbow. She inclined her head towards the tent’s opening.
“I would step out for a little. Will you walk with me?”
Still heavy with sleep, he nevertheless nodded, pulling on his coat and boots without question.
Together they ducked into the cool morning air.
Around them the camp was stirring, men stretching limbs, stamping cold feet, and reaching for bread.
None paid them heed as they walked a little way beyond the wagons.
The hedgerow beyond offered scant privacy.
William turned discreetly aside, keeping guard, while Elizabeth attended to her need as quickly as she could.
To the men it was nothing, an ordinary act in the roughness of the march.
To her it was peril itself, every movement shadowed by dread of discovery.
When at last she returned, she found William waiting without comment. They walked back to the tent in silence. She drew her coat more closely about her, and braced herself for another day.
The trumpet’s call roused the column to order, sharp against the chill of morning. Men stumbled from their bedrolls, tightened belts, and buckled straps. Horses stamped restlessly, breath steaming in the cold air, eager to be moving.
Elizabeth pulled herself into the saddle with care, every muscle stiff after two days astride.
The bindings beneath her shirt cut cruelly with each movement, but she set her teeth against the pain.
William was already mounted beside her, his face drawn with weariness but steady, as if his very posture declared that he would endure whatever lay ahead.
Geoffrey Talbot and Edward Bell drew near, the small knot of younger officers riding together as they often did.
Edward Bell broke the silence first. “Sergeant Barrow is confident we shall reach the meeting point today. He says the pace will be pressed hard until then.”
Geoffrey Talbot gave a dry laugh. “Trust a sergeant to speak with such assurance. I shall believe it when I see the standards halted. My cousin wrote last month that the French were ranging far inland, villages lost to fire. If that is true, the road may not be as open as we hope.”
William’s brows knit. “Rumour often outruns truth. Smoke on the horizon is easily magnified by fear.”
“Perhaps,” Edward Bell allowed, his gaze fixed on the pale ribbon of road ahead. “Still, I would rather any firm report, ill or otherwise, than this constant uncertainty. To ride blind wearies a man more than hardship itself.”
Elizabeth kept her silence, though her stomach tightened at their words.
She bent her head, resting a hand on her mount’s neck, and urged him forward with the rest. The crisp morning air carried with it not only the scent of frost but the weight of expectation, as if all awaited the moment when certainty, at last, would break upon them.
The halt was called at midday before a coaching inn, its signboard swinging above the yard.
The White Hart at Farnham, on the Portsmouth turn-pike road.
The company divided at once. The soldiers gathered in the yard, kettles of beef and onions ladled steaming into their bowls, fresh loaves broken and passed hand to hand, with casks of ale set upon trestles.
Laughter rose among them, a rough cheer born of food better than any they had known since leaving Baldham Heath.
The officers, by courtesy of the innkeeper, were shown within.
Elizabeth entered with William, Geoffrey Talbot, and Bell.
The warmth struck her immediately, filled with the scent of roasting meat, the sweetness of new bread, and the tang of strong beer.
Trenchers of cheese and steaming joints of beef were set upon the board, with loaves still warm from the oven.
It was simpler fare than she had known at Longbourn, more akin to what her father’s tenants might set before their families.
Yet after days of stale biscuit and salted scraps it seemed a banquet.
To her weary body and hungry stomach it might have been a feast of her own particular favourites.
She fell to with as much composure as she could manage while her companions talked.
They took their places at the long table.
Trenchers were set before them, the jug passed down, and talk soon rose: Sergeant Barrow’s assurance that they would reach the meeting point by nightfall, rumours of French raiding parties burning villages, and cousins’ letters describing smoke on the horizon.
Elizabeth listened only half-aware. Through the open passage she glimpsed the ladies of the train being shown into a parlour. Captain Bingley, all cheer and gallantry, handed in his sister first, then Jane. Her serene countenance was unchanged, though the journey had left her bonnet slightly awry.
Their eyes met. Jane lifted her hand in a small wave, warm and unhesitating.
“Your cousin has not forgotten you, Bennet,” Geoffrey Talbot said with a grin, leaning nearer. “See, she marks you out even amongst all this company.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, schooling her face to calm even as her chest ached with longing. “She is kindness itself,” she answered quietly.
William, beside her, gave a brief nod of approval, while Edward Bell smiled into his cup. The door to the parlour closed upon the ladies, and the moment was gone. Elizabeth lowered her gaze to the bread before her, but its sweetness could not disguise the sharpness of the ache within.
She forced a swallow of the bitter ale. When she raised her eyes again, the doorway was empty, and her sister was gone.
Captain Bingley re-entered the common room with a smile, just as Major Darcy and the other senior officers came in from outside.
Captain Bingley’s good humour seemed undiminished by his attentions to the ladies, and he greeted the room as if every man present were his particular friend.
Chairs were drawn out for the higher ranks, the air shifting with the weight of authority.
Major Darcy’s gaze moved across the tables as he took his place.
For an instant his eyes rested on Elizabeth.
The glance was brief, without expression, yet it struck her with disquieting force.
She lowered her gaze at once to the bread in her hand, though her heart beat heavily against the bindings beneath her coat.
William spoke lightly of the day’s pace, and Geoffrey Talbot offered a jest in reply. Elizabeth forced herself to answer with composure, but the presence of Major Darcy within these walls pressed upon her more keenly than the hunger that had first driven her to the table.
The meal did not linger long. Orders were given, cups drained, and soon the officers returned to the yard where the horses waited.
The men had fared no worse than their leaders; bowls were emptied, crusts wiped clean, and the last of the ale passed about with laughter that carried across the yard.
For a little while the hardships of the road seemed forgotten.
Elizabeth swung into the saddle with care, her body still sore but her spirit somewhat eased.
The bread sat warm in her stomach, the taste of it lingering like comfort.
Around her, Geoffrey Talbot and Edward Bell spoke more freely, their earlier gloom lifted by meat and beer.
William allowed himself the ghost of a smile, his posture less burdened than it had been at dawn.
When the trumpet sounded, the column moved forward once more.
Hooves struck the road in a steady rhythm, and the standards rose bright against the winter sky.
The air was sharp but bracing, and for a time even Elizabeth felt the stir of hope that perhaps the day’s end would bring not fire and ruin but certainty, and a place to rest at last.
The column rode out from the White Hart Inn in Farnham with renewed vigour.
Bread and meat had put strength in their limbs, and the rest had lent fresh colour to weary faces.
Voices lifted in talk and laughter, some even raising a snatch of song as the road stretched open before them.
The horses, too, seemed livelier, their breath clouding in the cold air, hooves striking a brisk rhythm upon the frozen ground.
Elizabeth felt the change about her as keenly as the chill wind.
The ache of her body remained, yet the meal had eased her weariness, and the sight of her companions in better cheer lightened her heart in spite of herself.
Geoffrey Talbot and Edward Bell jested together, their good humour infectious, and William’s silence was less grim than before.
For a little while, the hardships of the march seemed behind them.
So they pressed on in high spirits, the standards bright against the pale winter sky, as though the very air promised safe arrival.
None marked at first the faint haze upon the horizon, a blur that rose thin and grey against the light.
It was only when the road turned, and the breeze shifted, that the smell of smoke drifted toward them.
It was faint at first, a grey smear against the pale sky so easily mistaken for a farmer’s hearth. Yet as the column pressed on the haze thickened, darkening, spreading wide across the fields. The wind shifted and the smell carried toward them, acrid and heavy.
Conversation faltered. The light talk of the younger officers gave way to silence, each man craning to see further ahead.
At last the road crested a rise, and the sight lay revealed.
A haze of smoke drifted upward, blotting the horizon. Here and there flames still licked at the ruin below, but the distance veiled the details. The village of Haslemere was half obscured, the outlines of roofs and walls blurred in the shifting air.
Major Darcy raised his hand, halting the column. The creak of harnesses and the stamp of hooves died away. For a moment there was only the crackle of fire borne faint upon the wind.
“Ride forward,” he ordered curtly, selecting two of the mounted scouts. “Learn what lies ahead, and report without delay.”
The men saluted, wheeled their horses, and set off down the slope at a gallop, their figures soon half-swallowed in smoke. The rest waited in uneasy silence, the morning’s cheer stilled to nothing.
Elizabeth shifted in her saddle, her heart pounding against the bindings beneath her coat.
The stillness pressed upon her as keenly as the sight of the smoke.
Around her, Geoffrey Talbot’s jaw was tight, Edward Bell gripped his reins too firmly, and William sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
No man spoke.
All strained to hear what news would return.
The column waited.
The haze thickened, the scent acrid in her throat. Horses stamped and blew, their breath rising like mist, while the soldiers shifted on their feet, stamping stiffened boots against the frozen road. Low murmurs passed down the line, quickly hushed again.
Major Darcy gave a sharp order. At once sergeants moved among the wagons, checking wheels and harness, making certain nothing stood unready should the order come to move. The creak of leather and rattle of chains carried through the stillness.
At the rear, the ladies’ carriages stood with the rest of the train. Major Darcy turned in his saddle and addressed the nearest officer. “Escort the carriages back to the White Hart Inn. Take two files of men with you. They will be safer behind us until we have certainty of what lies ahead.”
Captain Bingley was down at once, offering his hand as Miss Bingley, Mrs Hensley and Jane were helped inside. Elizabeth caught a fleeting glimpse of Jane’s face as the door closed. For an instant her sister’s calm composure faltered, as though she, too, had felt the storm gathering in the air.
The two carriages turned, wheels crunching on the frozen earth, and began their slow retreat, guarded fore and aft by the small detachment. Elizabeth’s gaze lingered on it until it vanished beyond the bend. Then she faced forward once more.
The scouts had not yet returned. Smoke rolled thicker across the horizon.
The wagons were drawn aside, the ladies’ carriages sent back under guard. The column stood tense in the road, waiting.
Sergeant Barrow’s voice carried down the line. “Make yourselves ready. Powder dry, flints tight. Muskets shouldered, not dangling like farm tools. You there, fall out quick if you must ease yourselves, better now than under fire.”
A ripple of movement passed among the ranks as men obeyed.
Some ducked into the ditch or behind the hedgerow, others pulled at straps or checked the priming of their muskets.
Water bottles were uncorked, mouths rinsed, and bread hastily chewed to steady empty stomachs.
Horses stamped and snorted, as restless as the men who held them.
Elizabeth sat rigid in her saddle, forcing herself to calm each breath. The smell of smoke pressed closer, acrid in her throat. Around her the small knot of young officers fell silent, each one cloaked in the same uneasy awareness.
Still, the scouts did not return. The smoke gathered more heavily upon the horizon, blotting the pale sky, its acrid scent carried on every shifting breath of wind.
Horses tossed their heads, men stamped their feet, and Sergeant Barrow’s voice rang sharp among them, urging order where unease threatened to spill into panic.
Elizabeth tightened her grip upon the reins until her fingers ached. The morning’s cheer was gone, swallowed by the silence of waiting, and in its place lay only the knowledge that whatever lay ahead would change all.