Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [31]
As twilight falls, the two women spread a sheet on the grassy bank beside the fire, and open their last bottle of French wine. The cavalryman has not tasted such drink in years; his tongue seems to quiver in his mouth. He looks between Bessy's pale head of hair and Mary's black one; between the soft mouth and the scarlet. They talk of a fiddler they all heard once; of the varieties of apples that keep best for the winter; of some thistles in the field beyond, that grow as high as a man. The darkening world shrinks to a fire and its wavering circle of light. Beyond this fragrant, smoky riverbank, nothing is real, thinks the cavalryman: no pest, no war, no troubles of any kind. Perhaps this is a game, but it is better than growing up.
Young Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,
Ye unco' sair oppress us,
Our fancies jee between ye twa,
Ye are sic bonnie lasses.
The cavalryman could sit here forever, between the dark head and the blonde, the three of them fixed and fire-lit like some new constellation in the black night. He has no wish to disrupt this scene by leaping to his feet, taking one woman or another away on his tired horse. All he asks is to stay here by the river, hidden away from the loud and reeking world. All he asks is to be part of this.
And then Mary Gray looks at Bessy Bell, and both of them look at him, and he thinks they are about to tell him to leave them for the night, but what Mary asks is what he hoped she was never going to ask: "What news of the war?"
He cannot speak. He shrugs.
"Is our Covenant winning? Or is the King?"
This time he cannot even shrug. "I see no end to it," he says at last.
"When must you go back to your regiment?" asks Bessy Bell, and in the firelight her eyes shine and he cannot tell why he ever turned from her to her friend; cannot remember when or how that choice was made in his heart, as arbitrary as a leaf's turning yellow or red, as random as a battlefield.
His eyes swim; he is weeping in spite of himself. "I will not go back."
They stare at him.
"At Philiphaugh..."
"We heard about the victory," says Mary, smiling at him. "Were you there, at Philiphaugh?"
He stretches out his fingers, stained red in the glow of the dying embers. "What it was," he whispers, "was not a victory, but a massacre."
Not a sound from the women.
"Montrose's army had escaped us, but we caught the Irish regiments in a loop. They surrendered in the end, on General Leslie's promise of safe passage to Edinburgh." He takes a long breath. "As soon as we had their muskets in a pile, and their officers had ridden ahead under guard, we despatched the men and boys."
"You mean he lied, the General?"
He can't tell which of the women has spoken. He nods briefly. "That's war. I've done that much before. But what I must tell you is, what I must say—we were in such a frenzy to avenge our losses at Kilsyth and finish these papist savages for good, we turned on the women."
A whisper, from one or both. "What women?"
"There are always women, in the baggage train; they follow the camp. How else could the soldiers eat, or wash the lice off their shirts?" He speaks harshly. "The Irish had their wives with them; three hundred, I'd say, not counting the children. A few dozen were big with child." His eyes are shut, but he can see it still, in bright colours. "Our pike-men cut them down, then we troopers moved in with swords. There was one woman—when I sliced her open, the infant inside her fell out on the grass."
Bessy's arms around him, with no warning. "Hush," says Mary beside him, stroking his head like a child's. "Don't say any more."
"But-"
"Shhhh," whispers Bessy and they embrace him between them. They hold