by Diane Gaston
Marian looked around her. Several wounded men leaned against the walls of the hall. The marble floor was smeared with their blood.
Her stomach rebelled at the sight.
She held her breath for a moment, determined not to be sick. ‘I must do something,’ she cried.
One of the men, blood oozing through the fingers he held against his arm, answered her. ‘Find us some bandages, lad.’
Bandages. Where would she find bandages?
She ran back to the drawing room where the captain had found the chair for her. Pulling the covers off the furniture, she gathered as much of the white cloth as she could carry in her arms. She returned to the hall and dumped the cloth in a pile next to the man clutching his bleeding arm.
‘I need a knife,’ she said to him.
He shook his head, wincing in pain.
Another man whose face was covered in blood fumbled through his coat. ‘Here you go, lad.’ He held out a small penknife.
Marian took the knife, still sticky with his blood, and used it to start a rent in the cloth so she could rip it into strips. She worked as quickly as she could, well aware that the man the soldiers had carried in was still moaning and coughing. Most of the other men suffered silently.
She knew nothing about tending to the injured. It stood to reason, though, that bleeding wounds needed to be bandaged, as the wounded soldier had suggested.
Marian grabbed a fistful of the strips of cloth and turned to him. ‘I’ll tend that other man first, then you, sir.’ She gestured to the moaning man who’d been so swiftly left to die. ‘And you,’ she told the man who’d given her the knife.
‘Do that, lad. I’m not so bad off.’ His voice was taut with pain.
Marian touched his arm in sympathy and started for the gravely wounded soldier.
Her courage flagged as she reached him. Never had she seen such grievous injuries. Steeling herself, she gripped the bandages and forced herself to kneel at his side.
He was so young! Not much older than Domina’s brother. Blood gurgled from a hole in his abdomen. Her hand trembling, she used some of the cloth to sponge it away. The dark pink of his innards became visible, and Marian recoiled, thinking she would surely be sick.
He seized her arm, gripping her hard. ‘My mum,’ he rasped. ‘My mum.’ His glassy eyes regarded her with alarm, and his breathing rattled like a rusty gate. ‘My mum.’
She clasped his other hand, tears stinging her eyes. ‘Your mum will be so proud of you.’ It was not enough to say, not when this young man would die without ever seeing his mother again.
The young man’s eyes widened and he rose up, still gripping her. With one deep breath he collapsed and air slowly left his lungs as his eyes turned blank.
‘No,’ she cried. The faces of her mother and father when death had taken them flashed before her. ‘No.’
The room turned black and sound echoed. She was going to faint and the dead young man’s hand was still in hers.
The door opened and two more men staggered in. She forced her eyes open and took several deep breaths.
More wounds. More blood. More men in need.
She released the young soldier’s hand and gingerly closed his eyes. ‘God keep you,’ she whispered.
Marian grabbed her clean cloth and returned to the man who had told her to get bandages. ‘You are next,’ she said with a bravado she didn’t feel inside.
He gestured to the soldier who had given her the knife. ‘Tend him first.’
She nodded and kneeled on the floor, wiping away the blood on the soldier’s head so she could see the wound. His skin was split right above his hairline. Swallowing hard, Marian pressed the wound closed with her fingers and wrapped a bandage tightly around his head.
‘Thank you, lad,’ the man said.
She moved to the first man and wrapped his wounded arm. Not taking time to think, she scuttled over to the next man, discovering yet another horrifying sight. She took a deep breath and tended that man’s wound as well. One by one she dressed all the soldiers’ wounds.
When she’d finished, one of the soldiers caught her arm. ‘Can y’ fetch us some water, lad?’
Water. Of course. They must be very thirsty. She was thirsty, as a matter of fact. She went in search of the kitchen, but found its pump dry. There was a well in the middle of the courtyard, near the stables, she remembered. She found a fairly clean bucket and ladle on the kitchen shelf and hurried back to the hall.
‘I’ll bring you water,’ she told the wounded men as she crossed the room to the château’s entrance.
When she stepped outside, the courtyard was filled with soldiers. Men at the walls fired and reloaded their muskets, others repositioned themselves or moved the wounded away. The fighting was right outside the gate. She could hear it. French musket balls might find their way into the courtyard, she feared.
Gathering all her courage, Marian started for the well. Before she reached it, a man shouted, ‘They’re coming in the gate!’
To her horror a huge French soldier, wielding an ax, hewed his way into the courtyard followed by others. It was a frightening sight as they hacked their way toward the château. Several Guardsmen set upon them. The huge Frenchman was knocked to the ground, and one of the Guards plunged a bayonet into his back.
‘Close the gate! Close the gate!’
Men pushed against the wooden gate as more French soldiers strained to get in. Without thinking, Marian dropped her bucket and added her slight strength to the effort to force the gates closed. Finally they secured it, but the fighting was still fierce between the British soldiers and the few Frenchmen who had made it inside.
Marian picked her way through the fighting and returned to the well. She pumped water into the bucket, her heart pounding at the carnage around her. When the bucket was full, one of the Guardsmen shoved a boy towards her, a French drummer boy, his drum still strapped to his chest.
‘Take him,’ the Guardsman said. ‘Keep him out of harm’s way.’
She took the boy’s hand and pulled him back to the château with her.
‘Restez ici,’ she ordered. Remain here.
The drummer boy sat immediately, hugging his drum, his eyes as huge as saucers.
Marian passed the water to the men and told them about the gate closing and about the drummer boy. A moment later, more men entered the château, needing tending.
Eventually the musket fire became sporadic, and she heard a man shout, ‘They’re retreating.’
She paused for a moment in thankful relief.
‘It is not over yet, lad,’ one of the wounded men told her. ‘D’you hear the guns?’ The pounding of artillery had started an hour ago. ‘We’re not rid of Boney yet. I wager you could see what is happening on the battlefield from the upper floors.’
‘Do you think so?’ Marian responded.
‘Go. Take a look-see.’ The man gestured to the stairway. ‘I’ll watch the drummer.’
She could not resist. She climbed the stairs to the highest floor. In each of the rooms Guardsmen manned the windows. One soldier turned towards her when Marian peeked into the room.
‘Where did you come from, lad?’ the man asked.
She remembered to lower her voice this time. ‘Brussels, sir. I came to see the battle.’
He laughed and gestured for her to approach. ‘Well, come see, then.’
The sight was terrifying. On one side thousands of French soldiers marched twenty-four-men deep and one hundred and fifty wide. The rhythmic beating of the French pas de charge wafted up to the château’s top windows. On the Allied Army side a regiment of Belgian soldiers fled the field. In between a red-coated soldier galloped across the ridge in full view of the French columns. Was it Captain Landon? Her throat constricted in anxiety.
Please let him be safe, she prayed.
‘Where are the English?’ There were no other soldiers in sight. Just the lone rider she imagined to be the captain.
‘Wellington’s got ’em
hiding, I expect.’ The soldier pointed out of the window. ‘See those hedges?’ She nodded.
‘Our boys are behind there, I’d wager.’
As the columns moved by the hedge, the crack of firearms could be heard. ‘Rifles,’ the soldier explained.
The columns edged away from the rifle fire and lost their formation. Suddenly a line of English soldiers rose up and fired upon them. Countless French soldiers fell as if they were in a game of skittles, but still others advanced until meeting the British line. The two sides began fighting hand to hand.
Marian turned away from the sight. ‘Napoleon has too many men.’
‘The Cuirassiers are coming.’ Anxiety sounded in the soldier’s voice. Cuirassiers were the French cavalry.
Marian felt like weeping, but she turned to watch the Cuirassiers on their powerful horses charging toward the English soldiers while the French drums still beat, over and over.
A battle was not glorious to watch, she thought, closing her eyes again. It was all about men wounded and men dying, not at all what she and Domina had imagined.
‘They’re breaking!’ the soldier said.
Marian could not bear to see her countrymen running away like the French had run from Hougoumont. Her chin trembled and her throat constricted with unspent tears.
‘I’ll be damned.’ The soldier whistled. ‘If that is not a sight.’
Marian opened her eyes.
The French, not the British, had broken from their lines and were running away. ‘I don’t understand. Why did they run?’
‘Who can tell?’ The soldier laughed. ‘Let’s be grateful they did.’
She was indeed grateful, but by now she knew not to ask if the battle was over. The French would try again and Napoleon was known to pull victory from the jaws of defeat.
Marian took a breath and mentally braced herself for whatever came next.
Allan rode the ridge. After taking MacDonnell’s message to Wellington, he searched for Picton, who seemed nowhere to be found. He’d settle for Tranville, then, for new orders. From the distance he’d seen the second siege of Hougoumont and gave a cheer when the French had again been repelled.
He reached his regiment, the Royal Scots, just as the French attacked. Artillery pummelled the French columns, but still men in the front ranks fought hard in hand-to-hand combat. Allan unsheathed his sword and rode into the thick of it.
The fighting was fierce and bloody. Fists flew and bayonets jabbed and the air filled with the thud of bodies slamming into each other, of grunts and growls and cries of pain. Allan slashed at the French soldiers, more than once slicing into their flesh as they were about to kill. They came at him, trying to pull him from his horse. He managed to keep both his horse and himself in one piece, but blood and mud splattered on to his clothing. By the time the French retreated his arm was leaden with fatigue, and he breathed hard from the effort of the battle.
For a mere moment he indulged in the relief of still being alive, but only for a moment. He quickly resumed his search for Picton and Tranville, but spied Gabriel Deane instead. He headed towards his friend. Gabe, too, would have fought without heed to his own survival and Allan said a silent prayer of thanks that he appeared unscathed. General Tranville had been always been unfair to Gabe, denying him promotion because Gabe’s father was in trade.
‘Gabe!’ he called. ‘Have you seen Picton?’
Gabe rode up to him. ‘Picton is dead. Shot right after he gave the order to attack.’
Allan bowed his head. ‘I am sorry to hear of it.’ The eccentric old soldier might have retired after this. ‘Where is Tranville, then?’
‘Struck down as well,’ Gabe answered.
‘Dead?’ Allan would not so strongly grieve if Tranville was lost.
Gabe shook his head. ‘I do not know. I saw him fall and I’ve not seen him since.’
Orders came for the cavalry to advance upon the retreating French. Allan and Gabe grew silent as they watched the Scots Greys ride out, like magnificent waves of the ocean on their great grey horses.
‘Perhaps we will win this after all,’ Gabe said.
They must win, Allan thought as they watched the cavalry pursue the French all the way to the line of their artillery. The Allies were on the side of all that was right. Napoleon had broken the peace, and too many men had already died to feed his vanity.
Gabe struck Allan on the arm and pointed to where French lancers approached from the side. ‘This cannot be good.’
‘Sound the retreat!’ Wellington’s order carried all the way to Allan and Gabe’s ears.
The bugler played the staccato rhythm that signalled an order to retreat, but it was too late. The cavalry were too far away to hear and too caught up in the excitement of routing the French infantry.
Allan and Gabe watched in horror as those gallant men were cut down by the lancers, whose fresh steeds outmatched the British cavalry’s blown ones.
‘Perhaps I spoke too soon of victory.’ Gabe’s voice turned low. He rode off to prepare his men for whatever came next.
Allan asked several other soldiers if they had seen Tranville. No one could confirm his death or his survival. He found the officer who had assumed Picton’s command.
‘I have messengers aplenty, Landon,’ the man said. ‘Make yourself useful wherever you see fit.’
Allan glanced towards Hougoumont, now being pounded by cannon fire. Dare he go there? See to the safety of one foolish woman over the needs of the many? He frowned. Cannon fire made Hougoumont even more dangerous, but perhaps if she stayed put as he’d asked she’d stay safe.
The cannon were also firing upon the infantry, and Wellington ordered them to move back behind the ridge and to lie down. Allan spied a whole regiment of Belgian troops deserting the field.
The cowards. Could they not see? The battle was far from over. Victory was still possible. The British had already captured thousands of French soldiers and were marching them toward Brussels.
Allan turned back again to Hougoumont, still being battered relentlessly.
Heading to the château became instantly impossible. A shout passed quickly through the ranks. ‘Form square! Form square!’
A battalion of men stood two to four ranks deep, forming the shape of a square and presenting bayonets. Cavalry horses would not charge into bayonets, so, as long as the square did not break in panic, cavalry were powerless against them.
Allan rode to the crest of the ridge to see what prompted the order. Masses of French soldiers rode towards him, their horses shoulder to shoulder, advancing at a steadily increasing pace.
What was Napoleon thinking? There was no infantry marching in support of the cavalry. This was insanity.
But it was very real. The French advance was so massive, it shook the ground like thunder. The vision of a thousand horses and men was as awe inspiring as it was foolish. Allan stood rapt at the sight. He almost waited too late to gallop to the nearest square.
The square opened like a hinged door to allow him inside.
Another officer rode up to him. ‘Captain Landon, good to see you in one piece.’
It was Lieutenant Vernon, whom he’d first met that ill-fated day at Badajoz. Vernon had been a mere ensign then. He had also been in the fighting at Quatre Bras two days ago. Gabe and Allan had run into him afterwards.
‘Same to you, Vernon,’ Allan said.
The roar of the French cavalry grew louder and shouts of ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ reached their ears. A moment later the plumes of the Cuirassier helmets became visible at the crest of the ridge.
‘Prepare to receive cavalry,’ the British officers shouted.
Horses and riders poured over the crest, some slipping in the mud or falling into the ditch below, but countless numbers of them galloped straight for the squares. The men in the front line crouched with bayonets thrust forwards; the back line stood ready to fire a volley.
All depended upon the men remaining steady in the face of the massed charge.
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br /> Allan rode to one side of the square. ‘Steady, men,’ he told them. ‘They cannot break you. Steady.’
The riders might have been willing to ride into the square, but the horses balked at the sight of the bayonets pointed towards them. They turned and galloped past, the men on their backs only able to fire a single pistol shot each.
The British infantry raked them with a barrage of musket fire, and the British cannon fire was unceasing. Smoke was everywhere, and through it the cries of wounded men.
Finally the cavalry retreated, but it was a short respite. They reformed and attacked again.
The squares held.
After the second attack, Allan left the square to ride to the ridge to reconnoitre. His attention riveted not on the French cavalry regrouping, but on Hougoumont.
The château at Hougoumont was on fire, the château he’d forbidden Miss Pallant to leave.
He immediately urged his horse into full gallop, risking interception from the French. He was hell-bent on reaching Hougoumont, praying he had not forced Miss Pallant into a nightmare from which she could not escape.
The gate did not open to him, even though there were only a few Frenchmen firing at the men on the walls.
‘How can I get in?’ he called as soon as he was close enough.
One of the soldiers pointed to another entrance, well protected by muskets.
He rode into heat and smoke. The barn was afire as well as the château and some soldiers had run in to pull the horses to safety. One of the animals broke free and ran back into the fire.
Allan tied his horse to a post and went to the door of the château, sure that during the rigours of battle the boy he’d brought there would have been forgotten. He prayed the fire had not yet consumed the hallway.
As he reached the door, he almost collided with someone dragging a man out. Someone dressed in boy’s clothes.
‘Miss Pallant!’ he cried, forgetting her disguise.
She glanced at him as she struggled to get the man, too injured and weak to walk, out of the door, away from the fire. ‘Help me, Captain.’
