Page 6 of Twelve Drummers Drumming

“Sweetmeats!” A man cried beside her, plying his own wares from a stall he pushed on wheels. “Hot, warm, juicy, get your sweetmeats!”

Children were playing up and down the street, and Jemima immediately picked out those only pretending to play whilst they ruthlessly and mercilessly pickpocketed the respectable gentlemen walking up and down the street.

Hidden by the presence of children genuinely playing, only a true Londoner like Jemima would have been able to spot them. She saw one boy make off with what looked from a distance like a large gold pocket watch.

There were gaggles of women laughing, and a line of children led by a schoolmistress.

“Keep in line!” was the phrase she kept uttering without a backward glance. “Keep in line!”

Jemima was not entirely sure where, but somewhere close by was a choir.

“Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of Stephen…”

The cacophony was almost overwhelming, but for Jemima it was welcome, shouting down her angry thoughts and restoring her calm.

There was nowhere like London to lose yourself. With all of the noise in the street, it was almost possible for her to forget how cold she was, how irritated she was with everything.

Yet above the shouts and screams, laughter and mockery, sales, arguments, singing, and chatter, Jemima could hear something else. Perhaps on the next street over, perhaps on the street on the other side of that, there was a noise throbbing in the base of her skull. When she concentrated, she could make out drums. The sound of marching feet. Cheers and shouting.

Her curiosity piqued, Jemima left the spot where she had been standing and moved towards where the noise was coming from.

It wasn’t hard to find; with every step that she took toward the kerfuffle, the noise became clearer, until she stumbled out of an alleyway into what felt like a wall of sound.

A military parade was striding down the street, men in their uniforms led by a set of musicians. Drummers led at the front, four in each of the three rows, drumming out a march. The crowds lining the street on either side cheered and shouted support for the men who had been, only a few days before, defending Britain’s honor against the rebellious Napoleon.

Jemima could not help but stare in anger and disgust.

She had heard much about the war in France, as everyone had. Had borrowed her father’s newspapers each day, had followed the movement of troops, the list of the lost, and the cries of victory in the black ink.

How did the country stand it? Watching their men return to pain and illness, with no support and no help to acclimatize them back to their country?

It was not the soldiers’ fault, of course. Jemima looked into the exhausted faces of the men who passed her. They had served their country and done so admirably. She could find no fault with them.

But these wars in France—when would they end?

She had signed petitions and attempted to talk much with her family about her passion for supporting soldiers after the war—yet she had never before seen any of the actual men from the battlefield.

Many men had scars across their faces, and one man seemed to have burns on his forehead. They had healed well, however, and he beamed up at the world, seemingly uncaring that his visage had been altered.

The soldiers were all staring up the street as if they could barely believe they were there, accepting the cheers and celebration their attendance seemed to warrant from the crowds—except one.

Jemima noticed him immediately. He was not near the front of the parade and wore more medals than the others. His uniform was neat and tidy, though not spotless, and a mop of jet-black hair was untamed. His dark sideburns swept down past his ears, and a sharp jawline jutted out in a determined fashion. He was the only man amongst them not striding out in time with the beat of the twelve drummers.

Under his left arm was a crutch. He limped forward, eyes never darting to the adoring crowd. It was as if he was alone, marching home after a long day.

Jemima could not take her eyes from him.

How had this man found himself in the army? What battles had he seen? What struggles had he known; what suffering had brought him to the point of leaning on a wooden crutch to walk?

Her curiosity, once enflamed, was difficult to quench, and her eyes ate up the sight of him greedily, battling with her instant dislike of his uniform.

Her stomach lurched as the man approached her slowly but surely. He was tall, she could see that now. Taller than she. Taller even than Papa.

Jemima knew she needed to take a step backward to ensure his crutch would have enough berth to support him—but her feet did not seem able to move. She could not step away from him.

Unable to completely ignore the woman standing in his way, the soldier turned his head ever so slightly to the left, and their eyes met.

Jemima’s breath caught in her throat. She had been determined to ignore him, but as soon as their eyes met, she knew she would never forget him.

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