“ ’Ankerchiefs mostly. They’re not attached to belcher chains, like watches, see. Easy to sell, too. Unless they got letters on.”
“Letters? Oh, you mean an embroidered monogram,” Heloise said. “How exactly do you go about it?”
“First you got to pick the right place. Somewhere there’s lots of jostlin’, like a fair or a market. Public executions were always good. Then you make one big contact with your mark—bump into ’im hard on the shoulder, say, or trip and fall up against ’im. He’ll be so busy concentratin’ on that, he won’t notice your ’and in ’is pocket. It’s misdirection, see?”
“I see,” Heloise said, enthralled.
“I got a good face for it, too. I look much younger than I am. All innocent, like.” Canning shot her a cheeky grin. “No one never suspected me. If they grabbed me, I’d just furrow my brows and act like I was scared, or about to cry, and suddenlyIwas the victim. Most of the marks ended up apologizing for bumping into me!” He chuckled, utterly unrepentant.
“So why did you stop?”
He shrugged his thin shoulders. “A few of me mates got nabbed and sent to the Clink. I realized it was only a matter of time before I ended up there, too. After Waterloo the army was cryin’ out for new recruits—they’d lost so many men, you see, and they was offerin’ regular pay and decent meals, so I signed up.” He sniffed eloquently. “It’s not so bad, really.”
Sergeant Mullaney’s hearty laugh interrupted him. “Young Canning thinks it’s deadly dull here.”
Canning scowled. “I didn’t join the army to sit around doin’ nothin’. I still ’aint never seen no action. Never even fired my gun, ’cept in practice.” He glumly patted the long-barreled rifle slung over his shoulder.
Mullaney shrugged. “Better peace than war. Give me dull over exciting any day.”
“ ’S all right for you. You’ve been inhundredsof battles.”
Mullaney leaned across and gave Canning’s hair an affectionate ruffle then he turned to Heloise. “A slight exaggeration. But I’ve seen some action, right enough.”
“Mullaney was inthe division.” Canning whispered the words with reverence, his face worshipful.
Heloise frowned. “And, ah, what’s that?”
“The light division,” Canning explained with a touch of asperity.
Mullaney nodded. “Seven years in the 52nd Light Infantry, I was. Under Colonel Colborne.”
“Goodness. You must have seen a lot of fighting.”
“Yes, ma’am. Corunna was my first taste of it, back in ’09. Got nicked on my arm at Ciudad Rodrigo in 1812.” He rolled up his sleeve to show a long, jagged scar. “But I was good for Toulouse and Bayonne, and then of course Waterloo, this time last year.”
Heloise regarded him with new respect. “What was it like? Waterloo?”
Canning nodded, his face eager. “It must have felt pretty fine to give Boney ’is last good thrashing.”
Mullaney’s eyes took on a faraway look, as if he’d turned his gaze inward. Heloise recognized that expression. Raven had it sometimes, when he spoke about his imprisonment.
“I was at the farm at Quatre Bras.” Grim lines bracketed Mullaney’s mouth. “That first French cannonade lasted for two hours. Then came the cavalry. Lads were dropping like flies. The ground was churned up, all trampled crops and corpses of men and horses.”
He shook his head. “Three days we were at it. Back and forth, advance and retreat. The French had double the guns we had, but they got stuck in the mud. Old Boney would try with the cavalry and we’d push ’em back. We lost over half our men.” Mullaney’s face held the haunted look of a man recalling countless horrors. “Just when we thought it was all over, that we were done for, the Prussians under Blücher came round the right of the enemy’s line. That was when we knew we had ’em.”
Heloise found herself leaning forward in the saddle, straining to hear the story.
“The Imperial Guard came at us and we went in with our bayonets. It was a mud bath. You could hardly see for the smoke, hardly hear for the screams and the crack of the shot. A Frenchie came at me and made a thrust at my groin with his bayonet. I parried, and cut him down through the head with my sabre. Then a lancer had a go. I threw off the lance to my right and cut him up through the chin.” He demonstrated the move with an imaginary sword, so lost in his memories he seemed unaware of how unsuitable such gruesome detail was for a lady’s ears.
“When the Imperial Guard broke ranks the whole French army turned tail and ran.” Mullaney looked a little dazed. “There was such an odd silence when the firing suddenly stopped.”
He shook himself out of his reverie and turned to Heloise. “Didn’t realize I’d been wounded till it was all over.” He lifted his shirt to reveal a hideous slash to his side. The puckered skin ran in an angry welt from his hip to his ribs and Heloise winced in sympathy. It made her own scar look like the tiniest of scratches. She shuddered and glanced over at Private Canning. His eyes were wide in his pale face. He looked like he was about to vomit.
Mullaney turned to him. “They say it was a great victory.” He snorted. “But Wellington understood; he said there’s nothing worse than a victory, saving a defeat.” He patted Canning’s shoulder. “Don’t go wishing yourself into battle, son. There’s no glory in bloodshed.”
Heloise decided it was time to lighten the mood. “And what did you do before you joined the army, Sergeant Mullaney?”
“Me? I’m an emperor of the pugilistic arts. A lad of the fancy.”