I like to take inspiration from the people and places that I know, so once again, I have written a historical fiction piece about a local place that I love - the 'Soldier's Pool', near Crawick.
(photo by S. Hastie)
The
Soldier’s Pool
The winter sun shone through my window. This morning was most definitely the time for a winter walk in the beautiful Crawick landscape. I pulled my hat firmly down over my head and stepped outside. Miraculously overnight, the once apple green ground had turned to pearl white. Still moving tentatively over the snowy ground, I began to descend Miller’s Brae towards the river. Beautiful icicles hung from the cliff that overlooked the Crawick water, ready to impale anyone who may get in their way.
Snowdrops bloomed everywhere I looked, like little angels in a bed of white feathers.
Before me was the copse where I would usually turn back home. Not today. Taking a deep breath, I willed myself through the small thicket of trees to find out what was on the other side. I stopped. Before me was a frozen pool covered by a perfect sheet of ice. Like a glass ballroom floor, it was willing me to dance.
Lights, cameras, action! I was the star of Dancing on Ice, pirouetting from one side to the other, finishing off my routine to emanating applause crackling from the trees on my left and right. Beneath my feet…
Suddenly I was plummeting into the freezing water. The cold spread through my body seizing up muscles I never knew I had. And in an instant, strong hands gripped my sides hauling me back up into the fresh morning air.
I was gently placed upon the frozen ground immobilized by fear. A dishevelled man loomed into sight and with a heavy French accent said, “Bravo! Your dancing es manifique!” “Thanks.” I replied hoarsely. He was wearing jodhpurs and buckled shoes with only a scruffy shirt to cover his top. “You saved my life! Thank you.” “Oui, no problem, I’m here to serve!” he cried heartily as he turned his back. “I must go.” he said softly. He was on the verge of leaving when I shouted, “Wait! I don’t even know your name. Where do you live?” “Jean Baptiste, mademoiselle. I rest at the stables.” was the faint reply, as he continued walking away. I trudged home, soaked to the skin.
The next day I set out once again, this time avoiding the deadly pool, and headed for the old stables. As I knocked the door an old man came stumbling from the back of the house. “Excuse me, I’m looking for the Frenchman who lives here? He’s about 30.” I enquired. “No Frenchman here lassie. Not since the prisoners of war back in the days of the French Revolution. You’re a couple centuries late!”
As I walked away, I caught sight of a jagged stone erected in the ground. I moved closer. Words were engraved. It read, ‘In memory of Navy Lieutenant J.B Arnaud, age 27 years. Prisoner Of War on parole at Sanquhar. Erected by his companions in arms and fellow prisoners. He expired in the arms of friendship, 9th November 1812.’ Scooping up a bundle of snowdrops, I laid them carefully at the base. “Thank you Jean Baptiste”, I whispered.
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| Me laying snowdrops at the real grave of POW J.B. Arnaud, Sanquhar |
Enjoy!
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