On January 18, 1814 ...
... Captain Justin Francis Sumners, the hero of my novel An Independent Heart, rejoins Wellington's army in Saint Jean de Luz. Behind him lie five years of service in the Peninsular War, several months in captivity, and a gruelling trek across the wintry Pyrenees; before him, the cares and duties of civilian life at home.
In the first edition of my novel, the action started with his arrival in Saint Jean de Luz. Many readers found this rather confusing, however, so in the second, revised edition (now available in bookstores near you!), the action of the book does not commence until he has reached Portsmouth and sets out for London.
Here's the discarded beginning. What do you think?
-----------------
Sleet lashed the slopes of the Pyrenees. The wind flattened the wet bracken and roared through the branches of the dripping forest. Up at the pass the ground had been frozen hard, but further down the valley, the mud came to the horses’ bellies. Then the dark loom of the mountains fell away and the furious noise lessened. Heavy rain shrouded the landscape. The sound of running water was everywhere.
Pepe reined in beside him. They exchanged a tense, silent glance and advanced slowly into the downpour. When the challenge came, Justin laughed with relief. It was English.
“Who goes there?” the sentry called. Not “Qui vive?”
An hour later they rode into Saint Jean de Luz. Turning in his saddle, Justin grinned back at Pepe. They had made it: they had caught up with Lord Wellington’s headquarters. Justin would rejoin his regiment, and Pepe would go home. God, he would miss the lad.
Finding someone to report to was not difficult. Justin was led into a room full of officers, including some familiar faces, but he was too tired to put names to them. The air was warm and stuffy and filled with educated English voices which gradually fell silent as he stood there, a muddy pool forming around his boots.
“Gentlemen.” He sketched a salute. “Captain Justin Francis Sumners, 95th Foot. With me is Pepe Reyes, Caçadores.“ With a grin he added, “Well, he’s outside, guarding our horses. He wants to return to Galicia, and I should like to join my regiment. Can you tell me where it is?“
Someone exclaimed, there was a welcoming murmur, then a flurry of hand-shaking and shoulder-clapping while the officers drained away. Only one remained. Also shaking him by the hand, Major-General Murray said, “Captain Sumners! I am happy to see you.”
If he was, he was hiding it well. Returning the other man’s kind, grave stare, Justin felt the chafing coldness of his sodden clothes penetrate to his bones. Murray gave him a chair, a glass of brandy, a sheaf of letters and a summary of news that turned all plans to dust and ashes.
Pepe no longer had a home, because his village had been destroyed; and Justin would have to go home, because Stephen was dead. He had been dead these seven months. All his time in captivity, all the time he lay ill in the guerrilla’s hiding place, his big brother had been dead and he never knew it. But Pepe – it was far worse for Pepe.
So when the storm abated and the packet-boat sailed, they took ship together. A rising gale chased them across the Biscaya into thick weather just before Ushant. Snow flecked the grey waves of the Channel and shrouded the Isle of Wight. Portsmouth was oddly quiet, muffled in snow.
 |
Antonio Muñoz Degrain, View taken in the Navarran Pyrenees, 1862, © Museo Nacional del Prado, www.museodelprado.es |
(Click here for a small selection of Pyrenean views I've put together for you at the Museo del Prado in Madrid. To find out more about landscape painting and why many paintings in this blog date from several decades after the action of the book, check out this exhibition at the National Gallery in Washington.)
Comments
Post a Comment