Whose Business Is to Die by Adrian Goldsworthy

certain there is no engagement.’
    Truscott agreed, as he had always done when they had discussed this before. ‘MacAndrews was not there, so at the very least he has no permission.’
    ‘It is to be hoped that there is not even an understanding. At least not on her part. Ned was always inclined to take anything but a direct and brutal refusal as full assent. I cannot see Miss MacAndrews as a sailor’s wife, left alone on shore for most of her life.’
    Truscott said nothing. Pringle had raised the subject so many times that there was nothing fresh to say. Yet it was not really of his friend and the major’s daughter that Pringle had wished to talk. In the last weeks he had been inching towards a decision, a truly important one, and oddly the distant sound of the guns had brought it to the front of his mind.
    ‘Do you believe it is right for a soldier to marry?’ he asked.
    ‘The wives help the men a good deal,’ Truscott said, his face relaxing since he obviously believed that the serious conversation was at an end. ‘It amazes me again and again how resolutely they follow the battalion through all weathers.’
    ‘What of officers?’
    ‘Oh, I misunderstood, and I would judge that the enquiry is not of a general nature, but specific.’ Truscott watched him closely. ‘Indeed, something of personal import?’
    Pringle nodded.
    ‘Dear me, and I feel that I have failed in the duties of a friend since I have taken insufficient interest in your affairs to know the identity of the lady. Would she be of the Roman faith?’
    Pringle wondered whether his friend had heard about Josepha, the lover he had taken when he was on detached service up on the border a year ago. The poor child was fleeing from an unwanted betrothal, and he had given her protection for a shortwhile, but not the permanent union she wanted. For a moment the guilt came back, marring the warm memories of having the girl in his bed. The last he heard she was living with a commissary, but heaven knew where she was now.
    ‘No,’ he said, for he had not spoken of the Spanish girl. ‘The lady is English, albeit a Methodist.’
    ‘The letters!’ Truscott roared loud enough to make faces turn towards them from the nearest cluster of soldiers. ‘Why, you cunning file,’ he added in a lower voice. ‘You mean Williams’ sister! But you have only met on a few occasions and then not for a year and a half.’
    ‘That is true.’ Anne, the oldest of the three Williams sisters, was a golden memory of his last visit home, and over time the place and the person had merged into a dream of peace and happiness.
    Truscott whistled softly through his teeth. ‘You do realise that Bills is the head of the household, and so you would have to seek his consent?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘He does know you very well,’ Truscott said, his tone hinting that this might not prove altogether to Pringle’s advantage.
    ‘I am touched by your high opinion of me, truly touched. But this is all to run ahead of ourselves. My concern is whether it is fair to ask a lady to bind herself to me when I do not know when I shall return to England. Or if I ever shall. Would you consider marriage, assuming you formed an attachment?’
    Truscott did not reply for a while. Pringle noticed that he was again touching his empty sleeve and hoped that he had not caused his friend distress. Did he worry that no lady would be eager to accept the proposal of a man who had lost his arm.
    The drums began to beat, and all around the road the men of the 106th stirred themselves. Fires were doused, and as much of the contents of the kettles saved as was possible.
    ‘We had better go,’ Billy said. ‘Though I notice that you have not answered my question. Is it fair for a soldier to marry when he might any day be killed?’
    ‘Or maimed …’ Truscott’s voice was sad. ‘Lately, with the boycome to join the battalion, I have come to know what it means to worry. The fear that he will fail, for I do not