Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

by Baird Wells

  Huxley, one of General Maitland's aides, was galloping the ridge at break neck speed. “Major! Major Burrell!” He yelled the pair of words at the top of his lungs with the engineered repetition of a cuckoo clock.

  Ty yanked a wad of cotton wool from his ear. “God man, I'm here. I know we're artillery, but I'm not bloody deaf yet.”

  Slumping in the saddle, Huxley panted, scrubbing a sleeve at the sweat trickling down his full, ruddy cheeks. “Webb's given the order for an artillery retreat. You're to take cover in the squares.”

  “Sod Webb!” Matthew should know better, expecting him to give up the ridge and cower. If they hunkered now and waited for later, ‘later’ would likely never come.

  Huxley's red cheeks deepened to scarlet. “Order came down from Wellington, sir.”

  “Sod Wellington. Sod the king, even. I won't abandon my guns.” Ty crossed his arms.

  “You're disobeying orders.” The aide stared, disbelieving. His lips worked, but for a moment no words came out from between them. “Shall I... Shall I communicate that to him, major?”

  “Not verbatim. You may say that Major Burrell politely declines his request.”

  “You mean 'respectfully'?”

  “No. I am not being the slightest bit respectful. But I am using please and thank you, and that qualifies as politeness.”

  Glancing around, wide-eyed, as if he were the butt of an elaborate prank, Huxley claimed his reins in a firm grip. “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.” Turning his back on the man, Ty studied what remained of his line. He had six nine-pound guns, four howitzers, and enough ammunition to keep them barking for a while, yet. If Webb, the duke or anyone else thought he was abandoning that to hide within abused, overworked infantry, they had lost their minds. Watching crews from other gun units spill over the ridge's lip and mingle within the squares, Ty realized that he was the only officer who felt that way.

  Midafternoon, and G Troop stood alone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  One pistol shot rang out, then two more. Olivia, wrapped for all she was worth against the back of the coach, was surprised to see a company of soldiers filing into the square behind her. Napoleon's occupation army had been nothing but tolerant of the fevered crowd for three days now, too approving or too intimidated to interfere. At the close of today's battle, though, they expected their victorious emperor to strike out for home. There would be no unruly mob and no civil unrest upon his return.

  It was a bizarre world, when she was relieved to see Napoleon’s soldiers. Whatever their motivations, Olivia was grateful when more shots and long batons began working some sense into the crowd. The moment a slight break appeared ahead, the driver stomped, cracked his reins, and sent the coach rumbling forward. Screams punctuated feral cries, and she tried to ignore a telltale thump beneath the wheels, refusing to look back as they dashed north along the road.

  From there, they'd gained enough momentum that less hostile congregations leaped out of the way. It seemed to take just minutes to reach the city gates, though she knew the route was much longer. A soldier waved them down, first mechanically, and when the vehicle didn't slow, urgently.

  “Yah! Yah!” Hooves thundered, the horses foaming under their master's order. Two soldiers ran out into the lane, knelt down and struck bayonets at the ready. Olivia held her breath. Should she jump for it now? Hold on, or just brace for the impact?

  Her worry was for nothing. The soldiers, losing their nerve under the coach's impending collision, fled for the curb still yelling for it to stop. One took aim with his rifle, but they passed too quickly for him to get off a shot.

  The driver and horses tore like hell hounds through the wide iron gates, and Olivia knew that they couldn’t continue like this long. As if by fate, as soon as she had the thought, she felt the coach’s wheel catch on an upturned cobblestone. The cab swayed left, right, then left again. Olivia held her breath, knuckles white until they steadied.

  That was close. She wondered where they were headed until the coach veered left at an intersection with the Rue Raspail.

  Searching her memory of the layout of the streets and trying to guess where they were headed, she decided that they were bound for a small quay that bordered the river at the top of Rue Ardoin, a sort of unofficial docklands.

  Her guess was proved right moments later when they passed from the rough open road onto dirt alleyways webbed between towering brick warehouses. Late afternoon sun came in at a low angle, unable to reach down into shadows. Sweat chilled on her skin. Their momentum slowed, and she hunched lower, but there was a way left to go. They didn't slow again until they reached Ardoin's rough cul de sac, sweeping in an arc along the Seine.

  The driver drew up the horses halfway around the curve. Grasping both of the carriages rear brass handles tightly, she hunkered low, centering herself on the back of the cab. It rocked, groaning under a change in weight.

  “What are you staring at?” This from John.

  “Shite! Lost the boy somewhere. Hope he's fared all right,” muttered the driver.

  “Your boy is your own concern.” A smack, and a jingle of coins. “Our business is concluded.”

  The coach was still. Footsteps thumped off across the packed ground, but she could hear the driver rattling money, muttering to himself. “...Three, four, five...”

  At last there was a rustle and the seat board creaked. The reins jingled, and he was off. She waited until the last possible moment, when both John and the driver had their backs to her, before jumping down. When she was certain of the coach being out of range, Olivia reached into her pouch and found her wire. Wrapping its tails around each hand, she rushed John without a moment's hesitation.

  A small hop. The wire slipped over his head. She dug one knee into the small of his back. A hacking, gurgling sound wracked John's shoulders, and she pulled downward. He hit the dirt in a cloud of dust, a felled oak.

  Olivia didn't waste a moment. Pinning a knee to his breastbone, she jerked John's pistol free of its holster. Still coughing, he bent up and bit her thigh. Cracking him in the temple with the pistol butt, Olivia stood up.

  “DuFresne, I will shoot you in the back and finish him with the wire, if I must!” Her shout stopped DuFresne's short legged dash for a nearby wall. He froze, arms half outstretched and turned around slowly.

  John was sitting now, gasping. He raised a finger and pointed at his gun. “It isn't loaded.”

  “Don't heap your shite on me.” Olivia raised the pistol, cranking back on the hammer with her thumb. “You are not carrying an unloaded pistol with no shot bag.”

  Both his hands raised in supplication. “It's not. I wouldn't lie to you.”

  She laughed in earnest. “You wouldn't lie to me? Just this one time? Not like all the other times.”

  “We're on the same side, Olivia. I swear it,” John pleaded. His hands up in supplication, he went on. “I'm not betraying you, or even England. The information DuFresne has, Austria stands to make the most of it. They can protect France, keep men like Napoleon and Fouche from rising again.”

  “This isn’t Austria’s fight, John. Or England, or Belgium or Prussia. They are allies! It is no one person's fight.” She massaged a throbbing temple. “Now get up.”

  “Or you'll do what?”

  “I'll shoot you with the goddamn ball I know is in this pistol. Get up.” John had made himself an enemy. He had gone outside their borders, betrayed Whitehall and their assignments, whatever his motivations. She would shoot him for that alone, if he didn't cooperate, and sort out her feelings about it later.

  He made a show of getting up, rubbing at his throat. Something occurred to her. “My knife. I know it's in your pocket. Hand it over.”

  He sighed, looking caught, and reached inside his coat. She hadn't suspected that he would do anything but hand it over, not until she saw a muscle in his neck twitch, observed the tense angle of his thigh. He was going to lunge.

  Olivia jumped back a breath ahead
of the blade's arc. John was on his feet, thrusting, forcing her back two steps at a time.

  Tucking, rolling, she flowed under his next swing, coming up behind him. Her kick landed soundly above his kidney. He was already turning on her, and the blow hardly staggered him.

  “Fire, Olivia. Put me down.” He slashed at her face, catching her chin before she blocked with her elbow. “You're so confident that it's loaded. Let fly.”

  Daring a single glance to behind her, she judged the distance to the quay's stone ledge. Ty could have calculated it to the inch; she would have to do her best.

  “Now is your only chance, Olivia. Otherwise, I'll dump you in the drink.”

  She waited until her heels scraped wider slabs, signaling she was just a foot or two from the river. Balanced on the balls of her feet, she waited for John to lunge. He was quick, and strong, but his movements were predictable.

  True to her hunch, he darted in, slashing her backward. He floundered when she didn’t roll behind him again, instead keeping prone. Striking with her fist, she mashed tendons at the back of John's knee. His leg bent and twisted. He cried out, tumbling over the wall.

  Eyes on DuFresne, who was still frozen but looking set to run, she waited for a splash. A few stray drops landed on her cheek a moment later.

  “God dammit, Olivia! When I get up there...” John's arms were already stoking, propelling him back towards land.

  When you get up here, you'll be bloody well alone. Leaping to her feet, she ran at DuFresne for all she was worth. As she passed by, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and dragged. “You can keep up or I can rake you along the gravel, but we are leaving together.”

  He swallowed and didn’t resist. To his credit, DuFresne was spry for such a short-legged hostage. A bloody lower lip hinted he might be more willing to take his chances with her than with John.

  She pushed him along in the direction John had been walking, wondering what he'd planned to do with his captive. A boat, perhaps?

  They came out of the alley into a narrow dock yard littered with broken crates and lumber scraps. An old post chaise stationed inside the wall answered her question. Shoving against DuFresne's heaving shoulder, she thrust him forward. “Go. Get in.”

  The coachman frowned at their appearance, looking from her to the alley again and again. “Where is the gentleman?”

  Panting, she shook her head and grabbed for the door. “The mob got him. We have to go.”

  She wasn’t sure if it was her words, or DuFresne’s bloody face, but the driver was convinced. Not eager to meet the same fate, he cracked the reins. They rocked forward before she had even closed the door and she nearly tumbled out of the coach.

  She settled across from a pale, sweating, gasping DuFresne. He eyed her with as much contempt as his sickly frame could muster. Grasping John's pistol tighter, she laid it meaningfully across her lap. When she'd caught her breath and glanced out to be sure John was nowhere in sight, she turned her full attention to her prisoner. “Now,” she said, resting a hand on the pistol's stock, “tell me what you know. If what I hear between now and Antwerp is of value, I might not shoot you and throw your corpse to the gulls.”

  * * *

  He was too stubborn to retreat. That was what kept him fixed at the center. They weren't winning, weren't even gaining ground, but every time his guns exploded a French caisson into an inferno, he felt satisfaction. To be irritating was sufficient.

  He was his own commander now. Webb was still standing but was too occupied by a folding center to give him orders. Wellington, forced to take cover in one of the infantry squares, was entirely cut off. The rest of the command staff was nowhere to be seen. Not, he guessed, that it would matter much longer. Men picking up slack on both sides of the hole were physically tired and flagging mentally. If God would afford him just one small miracle, anything to push the French cavalry into his line of fire, he’d be eternally thankful. Everything hung on a knife’s edge.

  Ty hung his head, rubbing temples and forehead, trying to formulate a plan.

  It was a noise that broke his contemplation: hooves. More cavalry. He didn't bother looking up. Seeing them wouldn't make his plan any easier or their approach less ominous.

  A sound that followed changed his mind. A faint but strong, thoroughly British 'Hoorah!'

  He snapped up, startling Alvanley. The cheer flowed back through their lines. Ty grabbed out his scope and squinted through the haze to see a distant ridge. A tidal wave of men broke over the low hills. Heart thundering, he watched them come a moment longer. Jamming the glass closed, he whooped and turned Alvanley in a circle. His men stared as though he'd lost his mind.

  “Prussians! The sodding Prussians are coming!” Excitement got the better of him, and he rode behind his line shouting the news to charred, bewildered men. It didn't take long to catch on. A murmur grew in strength until it became a wild, joyful cheer.

  Gasping, Ty rubbed his face and shook his head. He had to get hold of himself. Given the very miracle he'd asked for, now he had to make the most of it. In his mind, he aligned the Prussian advance with the current melee, adding in Napoleon's Imperial Guard waiting in reserve nearby. He squinted out at the field. The guard was moving now, gaining momentum. They would try to break the allied lines before the Prussians could arrive in full. That meant a straight line of targets, right up the field's center. French cavalry arranged in a pleasing row inside the trench, waiting for his guns.

  He reached for his hat and realized it was gone, then shrugged off his coat and circled it instead. “Move up, gunners! To the ridge!” He pointed out a level spot only a few hundred yards away. “Give them three, four hundred yards and then have at them!”

  Twelve pairs of eager hands grabbed the number one gun. Exhausted arms and trembling legs earned groans from every man as they strained and moved it. Slipping down from Alvanley's back, Ty threw himself into the mix, heaving, tugging until its wheels spun free. His men moved slowly, almost beyond exhaustion, but their faces wore eager grins, renewed by hope at the Prussian's arrival. Two gun limbers rumbled past, and he swore even the horses stepped a bit higher.

  Back in the saddle, he rode the line, barking out adjustments or encouragement. “Three hundred yards,” he reminded. “Save your shot and let them in close.”

  The Old Guard flooded in, hoof beats shaking the ground with violence. Focused on breaking the infantry, confident that each battery had been abandoned, Ty guessed the guard never saw his assault coming.

  “Prepare to commence!”

  Cries of 'Ready!' echoed back.

  “Make ready. Hold...hold...” Ty threw up his saber. “Fire!”

  The result of their labor was both brilliant and terrible. Lines of cuirassiers fell into a dark heap, crushed by the dead and screaming horses. Some of them simply exploded, showering their fellows in a grotesque rain of blood and viscera. Their lines shuddered.

  “Make ready! Fire!”

  Their next volley had a strange effect. The cavalry moved like water nearing a boil, stirring in a circle. Then, impossibly, a voice cried “Recule! Le Guard, recule!”

  Guard, retreat!

  Napoleon's most loyal veterans folded on themselves, turned and fled. Prussians swept in from the left flank, right at their heels. French soldiers stumbled over one another and were trampled by their own shouting horsemen.

  Wellington had reappeared behind his infantry, waving his hat now to signal an advance. Ty caught sight of Matthew disappearing ahead of his men into the fray.

  His own men threw down their swabs and charges, jumping up.

  “It's the advance, sir!” cried one. “Are we to go?”

  He didn't have the heart to tell his men that they were too far from the main body, with too few remaining horses, to reach the field in time. Instead, he swept a hand in front of them. “Go on, then! No sense keeping you from all the fun.” Fists grabbed furiously for muskets and shot bags. They were off at a dead run, shouting and flailing their limbs li
ke children kept inside for too long.

  Alone now atop the ridge, he patted Alvanley's neck, resting his face in the animal's pungent mane. For a moment he was overwhelmed, unable to think or find words. They’d done it. Again. When his horse whickered, he sat up. “You did a sound job, helping me keep my promise. You will be the most rewarded horse in France.”

  Alvanley whinnied and shuffled impatiently. Ty laughed. “Jealous of all the other horses running about down there? Very well. Let's go see what all the fuss is about.” Tapping his heels, Ty moved Alvanley over the slope and off of the ridge they had occupied from sunrise to sunset.

  From uncertainty to victory.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Antwerp, Belgium - June 19th, 1815

  She had been up for three days, and at this point, even ten more minutes felt impossible. Olivia hadn’t slept the whole journey to Antwerp. Fear of being set upon by soldiers and deserters, worry that DuFresne might grow bold despite his cowardice, and worry for Ty robbed her of sleep. The moment she'd promised to let him live and get him anonymous passage on a ship, he had given up volumes of information.

  She’d committed every word to memory, but all the while her thoughts were on Ty. There was no way of getting news on the road. They had passed few other coaches, and when they stopped to change horses, word was conflicted. An innkeep assured her of an allied victory. A driver heading south described a Hussar's retreat, insisting allied forces were subsequently decimated. A tramp peddling cigarettes near the Brussels border swore fighting had yet to conclude. Each story drove her mad with fear and hope.

  Keeping her promise to DuFresne, Olivia had bribed a captain to smuggle the man aboard his ship with a slightly embellished tale about his problems with a certain woman’s husband.

  That was the only part of their bargain she intended to keep. A letter to Uncle Edward, posted the first time they’d stopped for fresh horses, warned him to prepare Whitehall for DuFresne’s arrival in London. That left a single loose end to tie off, and then she could wash her hands of Emil DuFresne.