Chapter Twenty-One
“Do they always do that?” Jack asked his companions as he watched the French line through his telescope. They were arrayed in plain view, unlike the British, whose positions Wellington had largely concealed by sunken roads, hedges, or simply by being on the reverse slope of the low ridge where Jack sat aboard Menelaus. Where the British were quiet, the French were chanting and cheering, acclaiming their emperor as Bonaparte galloped before them on a white charger.
“Do what, exactly? Hold a grand parade and review?” Picton asked, snapping his own telescope shut. “They never did so in Spain, but then, Boney wasn’t with them there.”
There was something awe-inspiring about the sight, the grand army in full array, but Jack liked their own way better. Picton’s division held a relative weak point near the center of the ridge where Wellington had chosen to make his stand, but still Jack’s brigade was concealed from sight, lying down, the better to be safe from Boney’s formidable artillery and rested when the time came to fight. Wellington had been riding back and forth along his lines, too, but to adjust his deployments and make certain everything was in readiness, not to hear himself cheered. “Vain bugger, isn’t he?” Jack commented with a nod toward the French lines.
“Ha!” Picton said. “I think we’ll deal well together, Armstrong. Vain he is, but I believe he means to terrify us, as if British soldiers could be frightened by a little shouting.”
The handful of soldiers within earshot expressed their derision with a few suitable oaths. Nudging his horse closer to Menelaus, Picton added, “It won’t frighten your fellows, but who knows about our greener battalions, or these Belgians who were fighting for the man just a year ago?”
“We’ll see soon enough.” Jack looked to the east, though he knew he wouldn’t see what he was hoping for yet. “I hope the Prussians make haste.”
“So do we all.”
“At least every minute the Frogs spend in display buys them more time,” Jack said. Their Prussian allies couldn’t possibly arrive before early afternoon even with every circumstance in their favor, and after yesterday’s rain, Jack pictured gun carriages lodged in mud and soldiers losing their shoes to the muck. He had a feeling this would prove to be a long day.
* * *
“Here they come.”
“I see them, Beckett,” Jack replied.
It was early afternoon, and battle had been joined for over an hour, but thus far Jack and his brigade had had nothing to do except withstand an artillery bombardment without breaking. His battle-tested battalions had found that no great challenge, especially as their protected position had kept them shielded. But now a great mass of French infantry marched through the valley, straight at Jack’s position, not in a column like the ones they had met two days ago but in a looser order, almost a column of lines. Jack nodded. Whoever commanded this attack knew his business, for already they had a broader firing front than an ordinary column, and the rear files should be able to deploy quickly to join the attack.
Well, his men would simply have to meet it. Of Jack’s brigade, the riflemen were posted forward as skirmishers, already engaged with the enemy, but his other battalions still lay prone behind their sheltering ridge. When to have them stand and fire, that was the question. Too early, and the French would be able to adjust, too late and they wouldn’t have time to fire before they were overrun. Jack performed rapid mental calculations—and shot covert glances at his immediate commander Picton and his fellow brigade commander Pack, the better to act in concert.
Picton raised a hand, as if about to give the order, but then he started and slumped in the saddle. His aides rushed to support him, but Jack saw where the shot had hit, square in the older general’s temple. If he wasn’t dead already, he would be within minutes.
Jack tore his gaze from his dying commander back to the French advance. Fifty yards now. They couldn’t wait much longer. With sudden decision, he bellowed, “Stand up! Make ready! Fire!”
It worked. The French stood momentarily arrested, then recoiled from the massive volley. Jack knew they must press the advantage while it lasted. He drew his sword and called, “Charge! Hurrah!”
The brigade, and Jack with them, swept forward down the slope. Picton’s death was a great blow. Jack had already grown fond of the prickly older commander, and considered him second best to Wellington of all the British commanders on the field. But he didn’t have time to mourn, for now the brigade, and this attack, were all his.
It was working, but they mustn’t get carried away and push too far beyond the lines. Jack watched and calculated even as he slashed out with his sword to deflect the upward thrust of a bayonet wielded by a tall French soldier.
There! French cavalry coming up on his left. But even as he was about to order a withdrawal to form square, a thunder of hooves arose from behind him, and their own heavy cavalry charged into the mass of unprepared French infantry. Jack hurrahed with the rest even as he ordered them back to their original position.
* * *
The day wore on until Jack wondered if it was possible for all of them to die where they stood. He shifted his battalions to fill gaps, sometimes through his own observation, sometimes at Wellington’s orders. Just as at Quatre Bras, the duke was everywhere at once, moving his forces to defend against the continual onslaught.
Where were the Prussians? What could be keeping them? In such lulls as occurred over the afternoon, Jack kept training his telescope to the east, searching for their allies, but he saw nothing.
Then, at last, as afternoon drifted toward evening, he heard a shift in the noise, a new roar just to the southeast. It could only mean one thing. The Prussians had come and were taking the French in their right flank. It was just what was needed, but were they in time? Jack gazed out across the field of dead and dying before them, looked at his own depleted, exhausted ranks, and wondered. If the French could mount one last attack, they might yet crush the British and escape the Prussians’ onslaught.
When the last attack came, Jack could only watch as a massive, broad column—the Imperial Guard—marched across the valley toward the center of the British lines, to Jack’s right. It looked as though there was nothing and no one to stop them, but Wellington wouldn’t have left his center unguarded. There had to be someone there, Jack trusted, though every instinct wanted him to take his own men to meet it, even though the distance was too far and he dare not leave his own post unguarded.
At last, just as hope failed, a redcoat battalion rose up from the ground and fired as one into the column. The French wavered, they halted—and the British charged, pushing them back and back. As Jack and his men watched and cheered, another British battalion wheeled into position and opened their own withering fire on the remaining echelon of the Guard.
Good God, they were doing it. They were winning. Jack stood in his stirrups, filled with a strange exultation. He looked toward the center, where the French columns were breaking, running back, and saw Wellington, hat in hand, sweep his arm forward, signaling a general advance.
Jack repeated the gesture for his own men, and they surged forward with hoarse hurrahs. It wasn’t a charge—they were too exhausted, and no one could have truly charged over that muddy ground, strewn with the fallen—but the French fell back and back again before them. The Guards’ retreat had broken the rest of the army’s spirit.
He didn’t want to think of how many lay dead and dying. Too many, far too many, but they had prevailed at last. They must, he supposed, continue the fight for some time. Bonaparte was not one to surrender easily, but how many defeats could a man in his position take, and still remain in power? Once this business was done—Jack allowed himself to think of the future again—he was ready for a long peace. There was more than one kind of glory, more than one kind of courage, and he was ready to see what could be gained away from the battlefield, with Elizabeth.
And if Elizabeth did not forgive him? That did not bear thinking of, but still, he would have h
is duty. For both their sakes, a distant posting would be better. If he could perhaps get sent back to Canada—
He was driven from his reverie by the sight of a little knot of French still standing and fighting, just ahead. “Forward!” he called, though his men hardly needed the encouragement. They fired and pushed forward with bayonets ready.
But these French didn’t retreat, instead firing their own muskets. Menelaus screamed and lurched. Jack kicked his feet free of the stirrups as the horse fell—he didn’t want his leg crushed again—and he managed to fall clear, but he landed awkwardly on his weaker right leg. A jolt of pain shot down his left arm as he stumbled and fell.
* * *
Compared to the low, thundering rumble of two days before, the new battle was loud and unmistakable. But the same horrid uncertainty marked the day. Elizabeth kept herself from going mad by working away in her impromptu hospital. Many of the more lightly wounded men no longer needed care—those, she sent away or designated to bring in wounded from today’s battle.
One returned with a wild report that a regiment of German cavalry had just galloped through claiming the French were at their heels, and Louisa had clutched Elizabeth’s arm. “Perhaps we should think about leaving.”
“No. Listen—I can still hear the battle, can’t you? If the French were upon us, wouldn’t it sound differently? And, besides, even if they do come, we can’t leave these men.”
Louisa bit her lip. “I know. But I’m afraid.”
“So am I. But if we keep busy, it will be over sooner.”
As the house filled with wounded, the day did speed by, though she still had no real notion of what was going on so very few miles to the south. Some of the new wounded were from Jack’s brigade—she had given special instructions that any such men her messengers found be brought to the house—and as she gave them water and brandy and dressed their wounds, they told her Sir John had been well when last they saw him, but that the fighting had been very fierce, worse even than the battle at Quatre Bras.
When darkness fell, the sounds of the fighting ebbed and ceased, but still Elizabeth knew nothing of the outcome. Word must come soon, but what would it be?
A little after midnight, the housekeeper all but pushed her and Louisa into beds, muttering darkly about ladies in delicate conditions who wouldn’t take proper care, or at least Elizabeth with her poor French thought that was what she had said. “How did she know about me?” she asked, but Louisa was already asleep.
Three almost sleepless nights caught up with her, and she slept for a few hours, but woke just after the early June dawn. She had lain down still in her clothes, so all she had to do was slip on a cloak and step out into the quiet streets. Reckless it may have been to go out alone, and she vowed not to stray far from her doorstep, but it was unbearable to continue in ignorance. As she drew near the Namur gate she saw a line of wagons and carts headed southward out of the city and told herself surely that was a good sign.
But it wasn’t enough for reassurance, and she looked wildly about for any acquaintance, or indeed anyone in British uniform. At last she spotted Mr. Creevey, a gossipy MP she had met at a few parties. “Lady Armstrong!” he called from across the street.
She rushed to meet him. “Have you heard anything, sir? Anything at all?”
He caught her by the hands and laughed. “Victory!”
“Truly?”
“Truly. I had it from Juarenais, who had it from the messenger who brought the word to Sir Charles Alten.”
It was still hearsay, but it was heartening hearsay, and shortly thereafter she saw a filthy but unwounded officer riding toward the park. “Is it true? Is it victory?” she called.
“It is,” he cried out joyfully. He took a closer look at her and pulled his horse up short. “Wait a moment—you’re Lady Armstrong, are you not?”
“I am,” she said, though a sudden chill seemed almost to halt her heart.
“Then I’m very sorry to say I saw your husband fall, at the very end of the battle.”
Oh, no. Oh, no. “He—he’s dead?”
“That I cannot say. He may be only wounded. But I saw him tumble from his horse with my own eyes.”
“Oh, dear God.” She turned and ran back toward the house.
“Wait, ma’am! Have a care! You must not do yourself an injury!”
She did not, could not, stop to listen. She flew back to the house as fast as her legs would carry her.
Louisa met her just inside the door. “Where have you been? How could you go out without telling us? We were about to send out a search party.”
Elizabeth shook her head impatiently. “The battle is won, but Jack is—the officer I spoke to saw him fall, and I don’t know if he’s killed or only hurt, but I must go at once.” The words tumbled out, and she made to rush for the stairs.
But Louisa caught her by the arms. “You cannot fly off. Someone will send word, when they know, and don’t think I’m any less afraid for George, and—”
Elizabeth couldn’t hear her. “No, I must go. If he is injured, he may need me.”
“Elizabeth, your husband is a general,” Louisa snapped. “If Sir John yet lives, he’ll have the best possible care. If he is fallen, then there is nothing you can do beyond seeing to yourself and your child. His child.”
There was sense in that, and Elizabeth stopped straining against her friend’s grip. “But I cannot bear to simply wait here, not knowing, for one moment longer.”
“Then go, but go sensibly. Have your horse saddled, and at least take one of these soldiers who’s well enough to attend you. And you must promise to ask after George as well.”
Elizabeth assented, and after what seemed like an eternity but was only a little over an hour, she found herself mounted on her little chestnut mare, with Major Matheson, who swore his shoulder wasn’t paining him badly enough to prevent him from riding, mounted beside her on one of the carriage horses. Both carried food, water, wine and bandages in their saddlebags.
As they rode south, they passed a continual stream of wounded—men on their feet with light wounds who were in good enough cheer to exult in their victory, and wagons and carts loaded with more severe cases who groaned aloud or, if lucky, had fainted to merciful unconsciousness.
Each time they passed a group of men in any state to communicate, Elizabeth or the major asked if they knew anything of Sir John Armstrong, but for the first hour none of their informants had been at the same part of the battlefield.
At last she met a soldier from Jack’s own Twenty-Eighth. “Fallen, ma’am?” the private said. “Why, only for a moment, and only because his horse was shot from under him. But I saw him stand up myself, cursing fit for anything—beg pardon, ma’am, but he was—and take up his sword.”
Elizabeth’s heart raced. “You’re certain?”
“As sure as I’m yet living myself. I took this from a Frog bayonet, not long after,” He waved his arm, which bore a bloody bandage but looked unbroken. “And I saw Sir John again while I was with the other wounded, after it was all done, with a surgeon prodding at his arm.”
Oh, dear God, was Jack to lose an arm? From what she could tell, surgeons were far too happy to wield their saws—but at least he was alive, and had been seen alive after the fighting was done. “Thank you, Private,” she said, fishing a guinea from her reticule and handing it to him.
They pushed on toward the battlefield. As they rode through the little village of Waterloo, she heard a voice shout her name. A dear, familiar voice.
“Jack!” she cried, ready to leap from the saddle.
But he met her before she could do anything so precipitate, scrambling toward her at a limping run. Her gaze flew to his arms. To her relief both were still whole, though the fingers of his left hand protruded from a makeshift splint. He smiled up at her, and she grinned back.
“I’d help you down,” he said, “but the surgeon said I’m not to use the hand until the swelling has entirely disappeared, and tied it up in t
his—” he waved the splinted arm, “—to make sure I’m not tempted to disobey.”
“It’s broken?”
“Only a sprain, he thinks, but a bad one. Poor Menelaus was killed, and I stumbled on—I stumbled as I was jumping clear, and came down on the wrist. It’s the silliest injury to have from a battle, but I daresay it’ll give me its share of aches, and when I’m an old man I can boast to my grandchildren of why my wrist aches when it’s damp.”
Elizabeth laughed, giddy and wild to see him safe. “Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispian’s day,’” she quoted.
He recognized the reference instantly. She had long suspected he was never as indifferent a student as he pretended. “‘Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day,’” he continued the quotation, in a far more sober voice. “I’ll never forget it,” he said, “but there was far more carnage than glory to be had. I’m a soldier, and if England needs me I’ll fight as long as I’m able, but I’ve seen too much to hunger for it now.”
She nodded. “I hope you’re done for good.”
“We’ll see. We march for France tomorrow.”
She couldn’t stay on the horse any longer, she needed to touch him. Jack couldn’t help her with his wrist in a splint, nor would she expect it of Major Matheson with a musket ball in his shoulder, but surely she’d become horsewoman enough to manage without help in a case of this necessity. She worked her right leg free of her sidesaddle’s pommel and horn and slid down to the ground. “Major Matheson, can you see to my mare for a moment?”
“Of course,” he said with a grin, sidling over to take the chestnut’s reins with his good hand. He nodded toward a group of soldiers. “I’ll be over there.”
She thanked him and fell into Jack’s arms—his one good arm, at any rate—and he kissed her, there in the street, to the accompaniment of cheers from the surrounding soldiers.
An Infamous Marriage Page 27
