NOT FOR HONOUR ALONE
by Clio

Part 5

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Two days later Edrington awoke. He felt exhausted, as if he had marched fifty miles in one day. His legs were leaden and his lungs labored with each breath. His head felt oddly heavy, as if extra weight had been added to his brain while he slept; yet thought was a difficult thing. The bright sunlight streaming through the tent flap made his eyes ache, so he gratefully shut them.

One good thing about all these new aches, he told himself. The pain in my shoulder is all but gone. He remembered the agony of that wound when he had removed his uniform jacket... Had it just been last night? He couldn't clearly remember. He had barked at Andrews; that he could vividly recall. I'll have to apologize to the boy, he told himself. He's only doing his job in caring for me.

He moved to push the blanket down, and it was then that he noticed it was not one blanket, but four. The acrid odor of sweat rose from the wool when it was moved, and he became aware that the same odor permeated the entire tent. Puzzled, he raised one hand to scrub at his face and flinched away from the roughness of a half grown beard.

Now truly unnerved by the odd circumstances as well as the gaps in his memory Edrington tried to sit up on his cot. His muscles immediately began to quiver, and his head began to swim. His stomach lurched and he lay back down and closed his eyes until the feeling passed. A soft groan escaped his lips, and was quickly suppressed.

Not quickly enough. Sergeant Owen heard the small sound and was instantly awake. He sprang up from the ground where he had been lying and turned toward the cot.

At the sound of someone else in his tent Edrington's eyes flew open. He turned his head slowly and met the concerned gaze of Sergeant Owen.

For his part Owen was pleased to see the intelligence back in his commander's eyes. After nearly a week of listening to the man raving with fever and staring out at the world through dull, glazed eyes, he could have wept with relief. But he contented himself with a smile.

"Good morning, sir." he said. "How are you feeling?"

Edrington paused a moment to consider the question and take stock of himself. He started to respond, but his mouth was so dry he couldn't speak. Owen brought a cup of water and he raised himself to take a drink.

"Thank you, Owen." His voice creaked. "I feel better now." He laid his head back on the pillow, exhausted after his brief exertion. He thought a moment before asking "Where is Andrews?".

Owen blushed slightly and looked away from his commander's face.

"Owen?" Edrington asked, almost warily. He slowly sat up and found to his relief that he could maintain the position. "Owen?" he repeated more firmly.

The sergeant mumbled a brief reply.

Edrington cocked his head slightly to one side and gave Owen a quizzical look. "I beg your pardon, sergeant. I didn't quite get that."

Owen's face flushed a darker red, but he raised his head and met Edrington's eyes squarely. "He's under arrest." he said, clearly and concisely.

A stunned silence followed this announcement. At first Edrington was inclined to laugh, sure that his men were just playing some sort of joke on him. But the serious look on Owen's face and his unflinching gaze told the truth.

He slowly got to his feet and stood, unsteady on his legs. "Say that again." he ordered.

Owen swallowed hard and seemed to shrink away from his colonel. But his voice was steady when he spoke. "Private Andrews was placed under arrest two days ago, m'lord. His court martial will convene tomorrow."

"On what charge?" Edrington asked before something else caught his attention. "Two days ago? Two days ago?" he repeated, his voice rising in consternation. He took one wobbly step closer to Owen. "Just how long have I been out" - his voice hit maximum volume - "And what exactly was the matter with me?!" he shouted.

"Six days, sir. Nearly seven."

Edrington's legs gave out at that moment, whether from the shock of the announcement or his general weakness he couldn't tell. He collapsed into Owen's outstretched arms, and the sergeant guided him back to sit on the cot again.

"Six days?" he asked, disbelief making his voice weak. "What...? How...? Why?" he concluded.

"A fever, sir. Your wound went bad. Andrews didn't tell anybody right away. And when he did finally say something, it was Captain Edrington that he told. The captain told me." Owen smiled ruefully. "It was touch and go there for a bit, sir. You were awfully sick, begging your pardon for saying so."

Edrington shut his eyes and cast his mind back to his last coherent memory. It was of Andrews running scared from the tent after being bawled out. Was it truly a weak ago that it had happened? It seemed impossible.

"...and the captain wouldn't leave you, sir. He stayed right here the whole time. He was that worried about you."

Edrington became aware that Owen had been speaking the entire time he had been lost in thought. He caught a brief glimpse of another memory; William kneeling beside his bed, green eyes clouded with worry and fatigue. But it was just as quickly gone, to be replaced by a cloudy darkness.

He gingerly moved his arm, and felt a residual pain and stiffness in the shoulder, but it was nothing like the last pain he could remember. He carefully raised his arm over his head, and when the agony didn't materialize he took advantage of the reprieve to pull his sweat-stained shirt over his head.

"What happened to Andrews?" he asked, his voice slightly muffled by the shirt.

Owen pretended not to hear the question. "I'll just get you some hot water, sir." he said. "A shave and a wash is just what you need."

"STOP!" Edrington shouted. "Don't move another step." He stood up, still a little unsteady on his legs, but secure and upright for the time being. "I do not want any hot water, I do not want a shave, and I do not want a wash. What I do want is to know exactly what happened, why Andrews is under arrest, and what the devil I have to do to get him out of this! Is that clear, Sergeant Owen?"

Owen stood stiffly at attention. "Perfectly clear, m'lord. But perhaps you'd like to sit down first? Its somewhat of a long story, beggin' your lordship's pardon."

Edrington had to laugh at that. Owen had a rather amazing ability to work his way around even the most direct order; fixing things so that whomever always did exactly what the sergeant wanted. Edrington did what the sergeant wanted; he sat.

"All right, Owen. I'm sitting. Can I hear the story now?"

Owen paused a moment for thought. It was difficult to know where to begin. He knew what the end result would be; Edrington angry and raging, and fighting to get Andrews out of the mess he had fallen into. But it was unlikely that he would succeed this time. It was too serious, and Owen wanted to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

"Well..." The words stalled. "I..."

"Spit it out, Owen."

"Yes sir. Major Harlan assigned Andrews to the squadron that was guarding the ammunition. There was some sort of accident and Andrews was in the wrong place at the wrong time. His musket went off, and hit one of the ammunition crates, and..."

Edrington held up one hand. "No. Don't say another word. I can imagine the rest. Was anyone hurt?"

Owen swallowed hard. "Andrews and the rest of our lads escaped with minor bruises and burns, sir. But..."

Edrington visibly tensed, steeling himself to hear the rest. "Go on, Owen."

"There was a man from the South Essex there, sir. He was hurt awfully bad, and he died from his injuries yesterday." He met his colonel's eyes. "I'm sorry, sir."

Edrington closed his eyes in an effort to block out the images running in his head. A sudden rush of weakness overcame him, and he felt his legs begin to shake. His breathing grew more labored and his head began to spin.

Owen saw the moment the weakness returned, and without a word he pushed Edrington until he was lying on the camp bed. The colonel's skin was cool; a good sign. But he wasn't strong enough to handle all of this. Not yet.

A few minutes passed before Edrington spoke again. His voice was calm and commanding, as always.

"What exactly has Andrews been charged with?"

"Negligence, sir. And since the man died I suppose its also..."

"Manslaughter." Edrington said, his heart sinking as he said the word. It was a hanging offense. "Who was he?" he asked suddenly.

"Who, sir?"

Edrington sighed and sat up. "The man from the South Essex. The dead one, remember?"

"Oh, right." Owen stammered, a blush rising in his cheeks. "Dobbs, sir. Of the Light Company."

"Captain Sharpe's company." Edrington mused to himself.

"Sir?"

"Nothing, Owen. Its not important." Except that it seemed like Fate was playing one continually cruel joke on him, Edrington thought to himself. He would like nothing better than to march through the rest of the war without another encounter with Captain Sharpe, but it seemed that Fortune had other ideas.

"And the court martial is scheduled for tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yes sir. The General will be there himself, sir."

If it were possible for his spirits to sink any lower they would have done so with those words. That's just wonderful, Edrington said to himself. Another occasion for Wellesley and I to butt heads.

The two men had known each other since childhood, and despite all the honours and titles lavished on Lord Wellington, Edrington still thought of him as Wellesley. They had never gotten along, and serving together as they had done for the last five years had done little to improve their acquaintance.

"Well, I suppose there's only one thing to do. I'll have to attend the court martial."

Owen was aghast. "Sir! You can't! You're not strong enough yet, and I don't think..."

"I'm strong enough to sit in a tent and listen to a bunch of windbag provost officers argue a case!" Edrington interrupted. "And that is exactly what I intend to do. I'll not let them have Andrews without a fight. You can depend on that!"

At that moment Private Treverton poked his head under the tent flap. "Sarge?" he asked before noticing that Edrington was awake and in a disheveled state. "I'm... I'm..." he stammered.

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Edrington growled. "What is it, Treverton?"

"M-m-mail, m'lord." the young private managed to say. "There's this letter for you." And he handed it to Sergeant Owen and dashed out of the tent.

Without even glancing at the letter Owen handed it to Edrington and left the tent. He didn't go far; he didn't trust the colonel not to go haring off on a crusade to free Private Andrews.

Edrington caught a glimpse of the handwriting on the letter. It was from Sarah. Written in haste and without her usual delicacy and precision. And it was sealed with a simple blob of wax, not the Edrington coat-of-arms that she habitually used. A small bubble of worry rose in his chest, and he quickly opened the letter and began to read.

September 16, 1812

My darling Henry,

It is with a heavy heart that I put pen to paper for this letter. I know of no other way to tell you what I must, so I will just lay it all out here.

I am sorry, my love, but your mother died just yesterday. She had been feeling poorly for some time, and we have had a number of physicians in and out of the house, all disagreeing on what was wrong with her and arguing incessantly. Finally, she got fed up and threw them all out. You would have been proud to see her in action then; she was so strong, like I remember her being when we were children.

Then the night before last she was complaining of pains in her chest and her arm. She retired to her bed early; not even the opportunity to spend time with her grandchildren could keep her. And she simply never woke up.

I am sorry to be so blunt, dearest, but I don't know how else to tell you. I wish you were here so I could be a comfort to you now. But I knew what sort of life I was signing on for when we married; long stretches of loneliness, and all too brief, yet joyous, reunions.

Rest assured I have made all the necessary arrangements. She will be buried alongside your father as she wished.

The children miss you. Young Willie wants to know when he can join the army and be a soldier like his brave Papa and uncle. Annie tells him he can't be a soldier because he's the heir, and what would happen to Edrington Manor if he died fighting Napoleon? Where that girl comes up with these things I don't know!

I miss you. Especially when the children and servants are asleep and the house is silent. I miss your arms around me as I sleep; your breath warm on the back of my neck. I miss the sight of you laughing and playing with our children. I miss the scent of new mown hay that clings to your hair when you've been out riding. But most of all I miss being able to reach out and touch your hand, or your face, whenever it strikes my fancy to do so. The days without you are long, the nights longer.

Take what comfort you can from my words. I know its not much.

Give my love to William.

Ever yours,
Sarah


Edrington sat for a moment, too stunned to even think. The words seemed to burn themselves into his brain; "...your mother died just yesterday." It was impossible to conceive of life without his mother. She had always been the strongest and most steadfast presence in his life. She had taken a scared and bewildered fourteen year old boy and made him into an earl. Without his mother he wouldn't have become the man he was.

The news finally sunk in. He crumpled the letter in one hand, rested his head in the other, and sobbed as he hadn't done since he was a child.

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