Page 38 of A Ghost of a Chance

“This village is not fancy enough for a doctor; that was the apothecary from the next town. Last night, I feared Jake Wilson had finally drunk himself to death. We’re caring for him here.”

Soberly, Rafe nodded. “I’ve seen that a great deal among those who returned from war. Did the apothecary have a solution?”

“He did, but unless Jake wishes to give up the bottle, anything we do will be temporary, at best.” As they entered the vicarage, Mr. Brown said, “Perhaps you can speak to him. As a military man yourself, you may be able to counsel him in ways I cannot.”

Rafe hesitated. How could he counsel a man who had, at best, lived through unspeakable atrocities in Spain, and at worst, committed said atrocities? Did compassion have a limit?

Mr. and Mrs. Brown looked at him with such hopeful expectation that Rafe could not refuse. “I’ll do what I can.”

They led him to the guest bedroom.

Jake sat on the bed, hunched over with his head in his hands. He looked up at their entrance. The bleakness in his eyes tugged at Rafe’s sympathy.

Mr. Brown made the introductions and then left, closing the door softly behind him and his wife.

Jake peered at Rafe. “You’re that bloke what comes a visiting every All Hallows’ Eve, ain’t ye?”

“I am.”

“You’re a bit early.”

Rafe smiled briefly. “I like it here. Since the war, I’ve done a fair share of wandering, but this year I thought I’d spend more time here.” He sat on the wooden chair. “I hear you served in the Army?”

Jake looked down at the floor. “I did. The 5th Division.”

If Rafe remembered correctly, the fifth division had suffered catastrophic losses and had been part of the war-inflamed soldiers who sacked Badajoz. It fit with what Rafe had suspected. It was all he could do to school his expression to conceal his disgust.

“You were in the army, too?” Jake asked.

“Cavalry. The 7th Light Dragoon regiment.”

“You were one of the Hussars?”

Rafe nodded and held out his feet to show his hussar boots, dusty and worn now, but Rafe couldn’t quite put them aside. They’d become something of a badge of survival.

They made small talk for a moment before falling silent. Outside, a bird sang and a breeze blew in through the open window.

Rafe took a breath, “Several of my troopers found it difficult to live with what they had experienced in the line of duty, and they turned to the bottle. I admit I also walked that path for a bit. It seems you’re struggling with that, as well.”

Jake put his head in his hands. “Can’t shut out the images. Every night they come. If you knew what I done....”

As gently as he could, Rafe said, “You were in Badajoz in ‘12?”

Jake slumped further.

“I read the official reports. What happened?”

Jake sighed heavily and shut his eyes. In halting tones, he related the bloody battle where a shocking number of British soldiers lost their lives, of burying so many of his brothers-at-arms, and the rage that ensued. Disciplined Englishmen had turned to violent savages. Jake’s voice choked as he divulged his role in that nightmarish scene. The official reports had not been exaggerated.

Cold all over, Rafe swallowed back his revulsion. Silence fell over the room.

What could Rafe say? Jake had acted abominably. Grief, anger, too much drink, and the contagious energy of a mob’s lust for retribution had dulled his moral standards and code of honor. Still, his conscience had clearly re-engaged; he tortured himself daily. Perhaps he was not, after all, the devil incarnate.

Jake snorted. “You probably never done nothing that bad.”

Quietly, Rafe said, “No, but I have regrets.”

Jake grimaced and shook his head. If Rafe hoped to reach this tortured soul, he must prove that they bore common inner wounds.