A procession of black walked past me; mourning women dressed in veils and tears, dutifully trailing behind a coffin that was quietly dragged on a small horse-drawn cart ahead of them. They were all dressed darkly, save for the small flags that were held by some of their children—the bright colors of our nation stood out amidst the grim image.
Another soul claimed by the machinery of war, and it likely wouldn’t be its last.
This was becoming an increasingly common sight across the city. The stench of death and lilies lingered in the air despite the papers constantly proclaiming that the Capital was safe from all harm. But the hope that most families held for their sons and husbands being spared had all been extinguished—with the King’s recent proclamation—every capable man and boy were to be enlisted.
It had been weeks since we last heard of any first-hand accounts from the frontlines; sooner was it for families to receive whatever remnant remained of their sons. John Milton was recently among them.
He was a childhood friend, a bit dim perhaps, but he ultimately had a good heart. He obsessed over the idea of serving both King and country; to claim the fabled honor offered only by battle. I thought it grotesque, how easily he was willing to give his life for a nation that saw him as nothing more than a statistic.
“It would be an honor,” he said when I voiced my opinion. He wasn’t even drafted, rather he willingly joined the force the very second the war broke out. “I’ll climb the ranks and make both my ma and pa proud, just you see Artie!”
That was half a year ago, and his unanswered letters were finally returned in the form of a casket. The blank stare his mother gave me when I offered my condolences will forever be etched into my mind; left alone to care for four children, after losing both her husband and eldest son to some senseless conflict. I’d imagine her prospects were rather grim.
I kept my promise to him. Even if the bakery wasn’t doing as well as I hoped, I still made my near daily trips down to the rowhouses to give his family whatever help I could offer; a few unsold loaves, some spare change and whatever clothes that both me and Gerri had outgrown. I’d like to think he would’ve done the same were it the other way around.
The sights and sounds of mourning disappeared along with the clatter of the procession’s footsteps; their anguished and bitter cries eventually melding into the periphery of the city’s daily chaos. Yet my breath ran shallow, even as I tried to diminish the growing abstract thought in my mind of what fate had in store for me—and for Gerri.
I tugged at the collars of my coat as my steps quickened to a brisk jog against the stone path; a hand pressed against the pocket that held the letter to secure my dear sister’s future.
I’ve written to a number of estranged relatives whose faces I barely remembered. Some lived in neighboring towns, others further out into the country, yet all were viable options for Gerri to seek asylum with while I’m off to war—assuming they’d even read my letter.
And one did, a Miss Shalley Caldswerth, a spinster-grandaunt on my mother’s side. She lived a little ways out of the county, in a small village called Duband. In her letter she reminisced about her ‘favorite’ niece, and how she was saddened to hear of her death; but I was more eager of the fact she was willing to take Gerri in.
‘For her sake,’ she wrote. ‘With all that’s been happening, a girl left alone in the Capital is not a very becoming thing. I can set her up in my little country house. It’s no manor, nor am I in abundance of any luxury, but I can promise a comfortable bed and warm meals in return for her help around the compound.’
I didn’t bother waiting for the postman to return for his afternoon round; I was out the door with a hastily written letter of my own the very second I finished reading hers.
By the time I reached the General Post Office—a large and ornate building that had carved its large presence firmly in the Capital’s main square—it was already crowded with the flurry of movement. Bodies pushed past each other with unrelenting haste; clerks and patrons alike shouting from both sides of the counter, most of whom were women hoping to send words of enveloped comfort to their loved ones out on the front lines. I managed to squeeze my way through, handing the female clerk the crumply envelope and a penny for the service.
“How long until it’s received?” I asked, hoping against reality that my letter arrives prior to my departure for the army. I only had a week left.
“I cannot say for sure sir,” the clerk answered, spoken as if it were mere words on a script. “Most routes have been disrupted due to the war.”
That wasn’t going to do. “Is there any way to expedite the delivery? I can pay extra.”
But by then the clerk had already moved on to the next person that pushed their way onto the counter; my words quickly swallowed up by the numerous voices that echoed the same sentiment. I could’ve pressed it, but even as close to desperate as I’m now—I was no fool to think they would give me any special notice.
A sense of dejected acceptance tainted the air as I walked back home, my limbs now heavy with the fact that I may not have enough to properly leave Gerri in someone’s capable hand.
The wide avenue that led down to the General Post Office and the main square had since been barricaded off in preparation for a siege, forcing me to stick with the already crowded sidestreets and alleyways that snaked in between the now mostly empty homes and businesses.
Farmers, provincials, and whole families crowded the already packed streets of the Capital—all likely forced into homelessness for the sake of safety. Most were unfamiliar, but some faces I recognized; those were the ones I actively avoided looking at.
I kept to myself even if a few approached me for spare change, with some even offering small trinkets in exchange for a few measly coins; and in darker corners, where the poorest and most desperate hid themselves in, they offered far more than just the items they carried.
A cold shiver ran down my spine as I tried my best to ignore their half-hearted attempts at survival, careful to not allow myself the spiraling of baseless thoughts. I didn't account for the fact that I only had two weeks—now less than one.
The looming dread of Gerri’s future, regardless if I survive through my own draft, hung heavy amidst the cacophonous sounds of the desperate and the needy. I was beginning to think I was finally among them, when a voice called out for me; light, airy, and filled with a certain enthusiasm that permeated whatever bleak setting the Capital now transformed into.
“Mr. Bingsley!” I turned to see Harietta, one hand raised high above her golden-brown head, while the other lifted at her skirts as she closed the space between us with wide strides. “Mr. Bingsley!”
“Miss Havindish,” I greeted with a tip of my cap. “What are you doing here?”
My eyes looked around the area—half expecting her mother to make a sudden appearance—but the small chuckle that escaped her lips seemed to have dispersed such a notion.
“I was just heading over to your bakery,” she said, cheeks flush from her brisk walk.
I offered her my arm, which she easily accepted. “We’re closed, you know,” I corrected her. “I don’t know if you’ve heard but…”
My voice drifted off into the lively air of the streets. It was an unspoken truth, the King’s word was final—to go against it was open treason.
“I have,” she said sullenly. “I was there when the soldiers came, remember? And I didn’t plan on buying bread, I wanted to check on you and Gerri. How did she take the news?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed, a sigh punctuating the frustration I felt. “I didn’t tell her, but I think she knows, she always had a way of finding out things. We haven’t really spoken since the letter was delivered to me.”
Her brows knitted in response, the smile that often accompanied her graceful features, now pulled down into a grim line. “I don’t exactly blame her, I remember me and Jane crying for nearly a whole month when father joined the war.”
The memory was faint, but I recalled Mr. Havindish being some sort of commander in the army. He was among the first to be called to duty—I try to forget Harietta’s face when word of his death finally reached them. I try not to picture Gerri wearing the same expression once word of my death reaches her.
We walked in silence for the rest of the way, a dark cloud hanging over the small joys we once found peace in. A year ago we often imagined what our lives would be like a decade from now, what our hopes were and what we had planned—now it was mostly filled with the names of people we knew who died in the war.
It was Harietta that broke the spell once we were within sight of the bakery. “She’ll manage,” she said confidently. “Gerri reminds me often of myself when I was her age. Stubborn, proud, and a little too frivolous with—well—everything. But I pulled through, so did Jane, and mother too.”
“Well you’re not wrong,” I scoffed—then realizing what my words meant—very hastily offered an apology. “No offense of course, I meant it for Gerri…she has been quite the handful...not that I would ever insinuate that you yourself are…I meant that—”
Her sullen expression returned to its usual mirth, the light chuckle that followed, a crisp sound that echoed the remnants of our once youthful selves. “Sure Artie,” she patted my arm softly. “Still, I meant what I said, she may be young and looks as if she has no grip on her wits. But she’s more formidable than you give her credit for. You have me to look to as an example, I still remember the days I would sneak out of the house just to play with you, and look at how I turned out. I didn’t see you treating anyone as cautiously then as you do with Gerri now.”
Often I forget that it wasn’t just me that lost his parents to Cholera; but I have a harder time picturing Gerri doing well if it weren’t for my guidance. She is but a girl that was still innocent to the ways of the world—and there was nothing the world wanted to devour more.
I just hoped to spare her the life that was so cruelly thrust upon me.
“If it bears any weight,” Harietta spoke once more, likely noticing my prolonged silence. “I’ll make sure she is well taken care of. I’ll help in any way I can.”
I looked at her then, stopping short of the bakery’s entrance, eyes filled with the words I can’t seem to say.
I wanted to believe Harietta, believe that Gerri could make it through whatever challenge might get thrown her way. She may have shown me a degree of maturity over the past few months, but her recent actions and the persistent call of war colored my opinion of her independence negatively.
“I—”
Movement, sudden and quick, came into my periphery—followed by a loud crash.
Both our heads whipped to its source from within the bakery. I immediately disentangled my arms from Harietta’s, and swiftly unlocked the front door with her following closely behind.
“Who’s there?” I asked, voice firm and hands quick to grab the nearest item I could use as a weapon—it was a stale piece of baguette.
In the hazy afternoon light that filtered through the bakery’s windows, my eyes settled on the young man that awkwardly stood over an upturned piece of luggage; strewn across the floor with articles of clothing, small trinkets and items that didn't belong to him.
“Jericho?” I asked, eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He turned to face me, dark eyes widened in surprise and freckled face contorted into a pale look of horror.
“A-Arthur!” He yelped, raising his long arms awkwardly above his tousled head. “I thought—”
“Thought what?” I stepped closer, baguette pointed firmly at his lanky figure. “And that’s Mr. Bingsley to you young man. Now what exactly were you doing here? And why the hell do you have a bag full of Gerri’s things?”
Harrieta’s hand grasped my shoulder, a slight tug that was near imperceptible if it weren’t for my heightened senses at that moment. “Perhaps we should all calm down,” she glanced over towards me, then to Jericho. “Why don’t we start with you explaining to us exactly what you were doing here in Mr. Bingsley's shop.”
Jericho’s mouth opened, yet only an incomprehensible string of vowels escaped. His face twisted between a number of emotions; ranging from pure shock, to weary acceptance, then immense relief when the familiar footsteps of a certain red-headed girl came tumbling down the steps.
“Jericho I need—”Gerri’s words hitched in her throat once she was halfway down the small flight of stairs that bridged the bakery to our apartment; dressed in our mother’s thick traveling coat and a large hat gripped firmly between her gloved fingers. “Oh.”