Fallen

Chapter 1 Major Oliver Thornley pulled up the collar of his greatcoat against the foul London rain and almost fell over a bundle of rags on the ground when it moved unexpectedly. He danced around it, splashing himself in a freezing puddle as he did so and narrowly missing a passing hackney carriage. He stumbled and grabbed the bundle to steady himself and in doing so revealed a man hidden beneath. He righted himself, and dusted his coat. “My apologies,” he said. A filthy face peered out at him. Blood and mud daubed over part of one cheek. The man was struggling to open his eyes. Oliver went to tip his hat and foraged in his pocket for a coin when he noticed the man wore filthy regimentals. Old soldiers littered the streets as they were returned from the battlefields in Europe, and more recently from the victory at Waterloo, and as winter approached, it didn’t feel like much of a victory when the men who gave their all were reduced to penury and starvation on their return. “Here you go,” Oliver said, gathering what coins he had, and then he stopped. The man was staring at him. Intense, shocked blue eyes locked with his and Oliver could no longer breathe. His heart pounded in his chest. “Simpson?” The man struggled to sit up and executed a shaky salute. “Sir,” he croaked. Oliver dropped the coins back in his pocket and grabbed the man by both arms and held him fast. “Simpson, dear God, is that you?” “Yes, sir.” “Oh, my dear boy…” he began and had to stop as the pressure behind his eyes threatened to undo him. Corporal Daniel Simpson had served with him in Belgium, fought by his side at the battle of Waterloo, and had searched the battlefield at the end to find his half-dead carcass and drag him to safety. Without Daniel Simpson’s bravery and loyalty Oliver would have died on the field. Oliver had lost track of the man when they returned and had often wondered what had become of him. He had tried to find him, but to no avail. He wanted to thank him, but most of all wanted his company again. Never in all his life had he imagined that the fierce, quietly proud young man would be reduced to this. He wanted to take the man in his arms and hold him tight, but he had to content himself with a brisk squeeze to the shoulders beneath his hands. “Major,” Simpson began, but his head lolled to the side and his eyes rolled a little. Oliver shook him gently. “Stay with me, old chap,” he whispered and then shouted for a hackney. The carriage pulled up as Oliver dragged Simpson to his feet. The man was skin and bone, and the stench that rose from him made him want to gag. He dragged him into the carriage, and gave his direction to the driver. Inside, Oliver put his arms around his charge and held him. “Is it really you, sir?” “It’s me. You’re coming home with me. I’m here,” Oliver murmured, rocking the man. “I’m here.”