Mathew's Tale Read Free Page B

weakness. Another laird might have sent them off to school, in England maybe, but he won’t be parted from them, not since Lady Cleland died seven years ago. Instead he has tutors for them who teach them a’thing but manners.’
    He rose from the table, suddenly. ‘Excuse me,’ he said then strode from the room. Mathew waited, growing impatient. Now that his fear for his mother had been lifted he was anxious to see her, and not just her either. He could almost see her house, just round the bend beyond the tavern, with Lizzie Marshall’s family home a little further down the same street.
    Lizzie. How would she take to the man who was returning to her, much different from the impulsive boy who had left to serve King George, for money rather than patriotism? What would she think of the scar? Would it repel her, as it repelled him every time he had to look at himself in a glass?
    Barclay’s return broke into his thoughts. He held in his hand a letter, in its envelope, which he laid on the table before his guest. Mathew recognised the regimental crest on the outside, above the words, ‘Mrs Hannah Fleming, Carluke, Lanarkshire, Scotland’.
    ‘I’m going to christen the Fisher bairn,’ the minister told him, ‘and say an extra prayer for her. Who knows? Maybe your return’s a sign from God that a’ things are possible. While I’m gone, son, read that. We’ll talk when I get back and then I’ll take you to see your mother. We don’t want you turning a corner and her falling over wi’ shock.’
    ‘True enough,’ he conceded.
    He waited until the door had closed before drawing out the letter, and unfolding it.
    It, too, bore the regimental badge and was written in the same clear copperplate as the address, but it was smudged in a few places, as if its author had been careless with the blotting paper, or had been rushed. It was dated the twenty-second of June, eighteen fifteen, four days after the Battle of Waterloo.
Dear Mrs Fleming,
I am writing to you in great sorrow, to advise you of the sad news that your son, Corporal Mathew Fleming, was a casualty in the great and decisive battle that was fought against the French here in the United Kingdom of the Netherlands.
Corporal Fleming led his company of men bravely into the fiercest of the fighting, where he sustained a severe wound, while himself killing one of a group of French attackers who were attempting to break though the line. That they were unsuccessful was due to the heroism of Corporal Fleming and his company, who played an important part in a great victory. It is now clear that the power of the French is broken and that Napoleon can no longer continue as Emperor.
Sadly, I am advised by the regimental surgeon that Corporal Fleming’s wound has proved insurmountable. I knew your son personally, and admired him, so be assured that I grieve with you in your loss. It may be small consolation, but you should know that his sacrifice has not been in vain and that his nation will be forever in his debt, and of course in yours.
I am, madam,
Yours faithfully,
Victor Feather, Captain.
     
    Mathew stared at the paper, incredulous, as he took in its contents.
    ‘Captain Feather,’ he murmured. ‘What did you do, you amiable idiot?’
    Oh yes, he knew the captain, a young man, no older than himself but from a very different background, the fourth son of a baron and a pupil of some English school called Harrow, of which he was always scathing.
    Captain Feather had been popular with his troops, because he was a friendly fellow with no airs and very few graces, and also because he was one of those officers who listened to his sergeants and corporals, and who recognised that they knew at least as much as he did, nay, undoubtedly more, about the business of front-line fighting.
    Mathew thought back to the long and terrible day, the climax of the Waterloo campaign. Yes, he had seen Feather, brandishing his sword and urging his men to hold firm as Napoleon’s agile and