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Back Plough the Furrow
Chapters (53)
  1. Cover
  2. Title page
  3. Dedication page
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-one
  25. Twenty-two
  26. Twenty-three
  27. Twenty-four
  28. Twenty-five
  29. Twenty-six
  30. Twenty-seven
  31. Twenty-eight
  32. Twenty-nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-one
  35. Thirty-two
  36. Thirty-three
  37. Thirty-four
  38. Thirty-five
  39. Thirty-six
  40. Thirty-seven
  41. Thirty-eight
  42. Thirty-nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-one
  45. Forty-two
  46. Forty-three
  47. Forty-four
  48. Sow the Seed
  49. Reap the Harvest
  50. About the Author
  51. ALSO BY MARGARET DICKINSON
  52. Acknowledgements
  53. Copyright page

The trenches ran everywhere, twisting and turning, deep ravines gouged out of the ground, like a gigantic warren where men had lived for months and years. Here they had eaten, slept, laughed and cried with only each other – and the rats – as companions. Here they had died.

A low mist hung a few feet above the ground like a shroud. The smell of death was all around them.

It was as if the reaper of death had laid waste the fields of young corn, destroying not only that harvest, but ravaging the land so completely that there could be no future growth. A generation of young men had been wiped out and with them generations of unborn sons.

She turned and with eyes that were suddenly opened to the world that lay beyond the safety of Fleethaven Point, she looked towards the two men. ‘Oh, Squire, oh, Squire!’ She shook her head. ‘I never thought – never in a million years – did I imagine anything like this.’

The squire blinked his eyes rapidly and pulled a large kerchief from his pocket. He blew his nose noisily. ‘Nor I, my dear. Foolish old man that I am . . .’ He glanced at his son, standing speechless with shock beside him, and then back to Esther. ‘I should have known better than to bring you two young people . . .’

Esther ran to him and grasped his arm. ‘Don’t say that, Squire. It’s – dreadful – awful, but I’m glad I’ve seen it. Now I understand.’

He looked at her questioningly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I was so naïve, so innocent,’ she said. ‘I thought when that Major Langley was whipping up the young men to follow the call of arms, it was just a game to him, to all of them. I was angry, irritated, that they were going off in a blaze of glory, leaving us to cope as best we might. All that talk of honour and duty and – oh, you know what I mean. But this – this is real. This is what they came for – to stop this happening in our land – in England. All this destruction . . .’ she waved her hand to encompass the ravaged land as far as they could see. ‘It’s just sheer wickedness. And they – our men – came to try and stop it. This land won’t be fit to grow anything for years, will it? I mean, what are these poor folk who live here going to do?’