Chapter Text
Darcy hunched his shoulders against the biting cold. He turned back and did a quick count of his men. It was one of the first things he picked up when he became an officer. That was what, four years ago? He was green and did not know what to expect from war. I thought I knew having read accounts, but they hardly capture the reality. As if this is a normal reality anyway.
When he first started, he constantly found himself counting the small group he was in charge of, looking at their faces, and seeing their exhaustion. Honestly, as the years passed into each other, this tic got worse. Darcy had joined mainly because his closest friend, and cousin, was already a part of the army. He could not stand thinking of Richard on his own in France. Not that it had mattered or saved poor Richard.
At that time, he set up his affairs and entrusted Georgiana with the day to day running of the estate and their finances, even if his uncles thought her too young at sixteen. Now twenty. She had come into her own the year before he left, after she was manipulated and betrayed by Wickham. Of course, she had not wanted him to come. And how right she was. This bloody stupid war. But he felt like he had to, especially when most of the men working for Pemberley got pulled into fighting. It felt deeply wrong to stay hidden behind his power and wealth while the men Boys of the estate went to die.
His willingness to fight had afforded him with special considerations. He could, at his own expense, get extra supplies sent to his group of men. He could request for certain transfers, as the mothers on his estate often asked him to watch their boys. And he could have escaped the fighting altogether. In fact, he could at any time escape the fighting. He had been offered a promotion several times, but he continued turning it down, knowing that he would be leaving his men. To die. This, in the dark, when he was trying to calm his heart, was the thing he felt most tempted by. The alluring offer to accept the promotion and be sent to London for strategy making. After years of the wary, he was weary, so weary, of fighting and of soldiering. He hated seeing the men The boys die. It tore at him, but neither did he want to be part of the problem. Join the group of disgusting men at the top who used everyone as mere pawns.
“Here men!” Darcy called. It was about mid-day, and just as good as any place to sit and eat.
They all stopped and formed a quick semi-circle around Darcy. “We will have our break now. Let us take about thirty minutes or so. We need to be back to the trench by sunset.”
The men nodded. “Sure thing, Capt’n.” George cheerfully called. He was the first to settle down, sitting on the cold, hard dirt.
“Come on then, young lad.” Old Albert, so named because he was the oldest of the men at age twenty-five. “Sam, sit with me. I’ll show you how we feast when we are on a march.”
Darcy shook his head smiling. “Hardly what I would call a feast, Albert.”
“No Sir. Not to you I don’t think.” Old Albert smiled wryly.
“Not really to me either.” Mumbled John. He kicked at a rock numbly.
“Eh, at least we got it better than them poor daft sods in Germany. You hear about them eating the leather of their shoes?”
“Bah” growled Casey. “That don’t seem right. Who would rather a fine pair of shoes or a bad meal? Me I starve to death before I wreck my boots.”
“Would you then?” queried Bill. “We all know that is only because we have us the finest boots here in Darcy’s Deftly Dressed set.” He struck a pose, showing off his own fine pair of boots, soft leather, warm colored.
Darcy could not smother his own grin at that comment. “That dreadful name is what we are known as? No one likes that much alliteration.” He huffed.
Bill easily read Darcy’s pleasure at the name. “No Sir. It is just the right amount. We got to celebrate what we have. We are far better off with you, Sir than most anyone.”
“Etch, quite true.” Casey mumbled. “Not a good sign for the state of the world, mind you, but we count our blessings.”
Several of them men tittered at gruff Casey’s dear love of their leader.
“Ok men, settle in and get to eating. We will be off in another fifteen minutes or so.” Darcy called. Over the next quarter of an hour, he managed to check in on each one of his men, seeing that they all had enough to eat.
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Darcy noticed that a strong wind had picked up in the last half hour of their march. It howled after the men as they trudged through the muck and sticky mud. How does it get worse? What are we even marching to? Blast! Those idiotic instructions . . . Darcy tried to regulate his breathing and let his frustration at the ridiculous orders they received this morning out. Here we are, marching through a deserted farm. Why are we even worried about this? How are my men going to make it through another blasted winter? It is only the fall, yet the cold is getting bad. I sent for new boots over two months ago, and still they do not come. Sam’s feet will be bleeding by the end of this march, and who knows what the others are suffering. Gritting his teeth Darcy stifled a sigh. He reached up and almost rubbed at his hair unconsciously, a gesture that belied his anxiousness. He stopped himself just before his hair, hoping to hide his anxiety from his men. However, two of them noted the aborted movement and shared a meaningful look.
“We had been hoping for the cold not two weeks ago, eh, Cap’n. Look at us now.” George danced a bit, working to draw everyone’s attention to himself.
“Ech, yee maybe the heat wasn’t too bad,” replied John.
Darcy smiled easily at his men through the cold, even as the wind stung at his eyes, forcing him to blink. “Right as always John.”
John beamed to be noticed. He turned back, “Hear that, Sammy-boy?”
The youngest recruit, who had joined them not a month back, raised his head. “What you on about then, old man?”
“Cheeky lad! Who you calling old? Can’t be helped you a babe barely out of your sawdlin’ and me a man.”
“Oi, fuck right off with that. I’m old enough.”
The men continued teasing each other while Darcy rolled his eyes, pretending to find them tiring. Truth is I would rather they be teasing and laughing. Good for morale. He mused to himself. We have little enough to be happy about. What a stupid blasted war. How is it still going on –
All the sudden, the silence struck Darcy. Too quiet. He motioned with his hand and the laughter and teasing immediately died behind him. Cocking his head to the side, he willed himself to listen more keenly. There.
“Down men. Now! To the right.” He barked quickly.
As they all moved together shots broke out. Out of Darcy’s peripheral vision he could tell that most everyone had been able to find shelter. Yet, for some reason, John and Sam seemed stuck. They would not move. Darcy’s mind seemed to slowly process everything. What are they doing? John! Sam! “SAM!” he finally got his mouth to work.
The young kid looked up at him and shook his head mutely. Knowing without looking, Darcy anticipated the next spray of bullets. He pushed himself between them and the boy. His body jolted with the pain of a bullet striking the flesh of his side. He grabbed the boy as quickly as he could and pulled him behind his own body. One more bullet found its way into his leg. “John, move!” Darcy called, trusting the more seasoned man to keep himself safe.
“He . . . He can’t, Captain.” Sam said. “He was hit.”
Not John. No. Do not think of it now. Focus. Darcy tried to aim his gun and managed to shoot off in the direction the bullets had been coming from. His molasses mind registered in the distance of his thinking that his men had dropped into formation and were returning fire as well. “Must be three of them, maybe broken off from their unit, men!” He called as he calculated what had occurred.
From one moment to the next, time seemed to jump for Darcy. He felt obscured in pain. That will not do. Push the pain away.
The next thing he was aware of was George calling out, “I got one a ‘em, Cap’n. Maybe two. Think Bill got another.”
Darcy blinked. Why is the sky there? Am I now on my back? Good Lord, Darcy, get it together. Your men need you right now. Trying to figure out what was happening, he blinked faster, but it did not make anything clear up. He tried to speak but instead found himself coughing up what tasted of iron.
“Take it easy, Sir. We got enough trouble. Don’t need you adding to it none.” Someone said.
Is that Casey? Enough trouble? Darcy willed himself to speak. This is important. Get it together. “Tro…Trouble?” he managed to grit out.
“George, what is wrong with him?” Asked who Darcy thought was Sam.
George’s face appeared in Darcy’s swimming vision. He seemed to be glaring at someone. “Hush lad.” He turned his gaze onto Darcy. “Just a spot of bother, Sir. Doesn’t help us none to have you out of commission.” He was pushing Darcy down. “Rest, Sir. We are making sure they are gone. We will make sure you are safe.”
Darcy felt himself shaking his head. Not me, my men.
George smiled at him softly, “Course, Darcy Sir. We know well how to look after ourselves. Don’t you worry none. Rest.”
“Did . . .did you see? Did you see ‘im grabbing me? ‘E wouldn’t ‘ave gotten ‘urt none if ‘e ‘and’t. Why ‘e do that, Albert? Why?” Oh dear, Sam is sounding a bit hysterical poor boy.
“Calm down, lad. All might be well yet.”
Darcy could not seem to make sense of what they were saying and what he was hearing. He tried to shake his head, but nothing came of the movement. He felt helpless, worried and anxious for his men. He tried blinking again, but just ended up staring into the bleak sun. Aren’t you supposed to warm us? Why do you look so cold? Now, in the middle of this stupid farm. What are they going to do? What is going to become of my men? Are they going to know what to do? Darcy blinked a bit more, the sun warming in his vision for a second, maybe two. Of course, they are. I am being too controlling again. Too condescending. Right? Is not that my problem. I think that it is. That was the last thing she said, was it not? Important. Want to remember. Need to change. Do my men think of me that way? Did I not change at all?
As he continued to blink, shadows blocked out Darcy’s remaining view of the sky. He seemed to slowly drop into the darkness like the trickle and drop of treacle.