“Will it be over tomorrow, sir?” the young private asked, wanting reassurance from his commander. “Can we stop Bonaparte this time?”
“I believe, as General Wellington does, that we shall deal a stunning blow to Napoleon. If the Prussians arrive, we shall most certainly be victorious,” Raile replied matter-of-factly.
He moved into his tent and nodded to his valet, Oliver Stewart.
There was a hint of reproof in Oliver’s greeting. “I expected you earlier, Colonel.”
“I would have been here by noon but for the pockets of resistance we encountered along the way,” Raile said wearily. He unbuttoned his red tunic. “The woods are crawling with the enemy.”
“Here,” Oliver said, rushing forward and removing Raile’s coat. “I’ll do that for you, sir. You’re soaked to the bone. You’ll surely catch your death.”
“You fuss too much,” Raile stated, dropping down on the edge of his cot while Oliver removed his muddy boots.
“Have you eaten, Colonel?”
“I don’t want anything,” he said, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. “I just need to rest.”
Oliver saw the tired lines under Raile’s eyes and nodded in agreement. “Your boots will be needing a shine, Colonel. You’ll want to look your best tomorrow.”
Raile struggled out of his tunic and fell back. “Get some sleep yourself, Oliver. Tomorrow will test the fortitude of us all.”
The devoted servant, with the muddy boots dangling from his fingers and the discarded clothing under his arm, extinguished the lantern and withdrew.
Raile closed his eyes, wishing sleep would come. If only he could turn his thoughts off, but for some reason, persistent memories from the past plodded through his mind, denying him rest. He drew in a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the impending battle. The French would throw all their forces at them tomorrow—they had to—this was their last hope.
He was weary of war, and ready to return to England. When the fighting was over, he would go home and face his past.
He had not thought of England in months—at least not consciously. Why had painful memories now come unbidden to him? He supposed it was because it finally mattered to him that he might die before he could vindicate himself with his uncle.
His lips twisted with rancor. There was much he had to settle when he got back to England. His honor had been questioned, and he swore to clear his name before he died.
He thought of how insignificant his life had been before he fought under Wellington and faced death at each battle. In London his nights had been spent in the arms of beautiful women, and his days had been spent gaming and drinking with the Prince of Wales and his favorites.
How unimportant that life seemed to him now—and how far away. With rain heavily pounding against the leather tent, Raile finally nodded off from exhaustion, his anguished mind soothed by a dreamless sleep.
Sunday, June 18
It was almost the noon hour when the first shots echoed through the valley.
Raile raised his spyglass to observe the enemy position across the open field. The plowed ground was muddy from the previous night’s storm, and the allies were having trouble moving the heavy equipment. Cannons were bogged down in mud up to their axles, making it difficult for the soldiers to turn them toward the oncoming enemy. After a long struggle, the heavy guns were aimed, spiked, and ready to fire.
Each time a cannon spoke, fire bellowed across the valley. The biting, acrid smell of gunpowder permeated the air. Spiraling smoke seemed suspended above the landscape and was slow to dissipate. As the battle heated up, clouds of sulfur mingled with the ever-present mist like a ghostly omen predicting hellish devastation. The countryside was quickly becoming littered with the dead and dying.
Raile’s eyes darkened with irony as he looked at the battlefield where crops of barley and potatoes flourished—a bit of reality in an otherwise illusory world that was being trampled beneath the boots of advancing armies.
He watched the French forces mass to charge across the open spaces. Did they actually believe they could win today? He had been in enough battles to know that death honored no allegiance, favored no nation, respecter! no cause. Surely the valiant fools realized that in the end it would be the strongest who would prevail. And only God knew who was the strongest. Had it all come down to Napoleon’s strategy against Wellington’s cunning?
For long hours fierce battles raged, with neither side giving ground. Napoleon was sending out massive columns that struck hammer blows at the British front positions.
It was late afternoon when Raile’s attention was drawn to the advancing French infantrymen who marched in double-time toward Wellington’s right.
A fierce battle ensued, and Wellington was being driven back.
Raile and his men met the French Lancers with sabers ready. The clash of swords rang out even as the cannons echoed across the valley. Raile heard someone shout that the Prussians had arrived. God let it be true, he prayed as an enemy lance hit him in the shoulder and propelled him from his horse.
Searing pain stunned him for the moment. Shaking his head to clear it, he jumped to his feet, noticing that several hundred Prussians had dug in on his right. But something was wrong. Apparently their commander had been killed and chaos had broken out among the ranks. The Prussians were abandoning their positions and scurrying toward the safety of the woods.
Raile quickly assessed the situation and realized that if the panic-stricken Prussians didn’t hold their ground, the enemy would penetrate the lines and come up on Wellington’s right, his weakest point. Pushing his booted foot into the stirrups, he bounded back into the saddle. Amid a punishing cannonade, he turned his horse in the direction where the enemy was advancing on the fleeing Prussians.
Raile’s maneuver had been observed by his own men, who, inspired by his heroic action rallied behind him, their horses thundering across the field.
The sun reflected off drawn sabers as a daring charge ensued.
With his mount running full out, Raile reached down and scooped up the fallen Prussian flag attached to a lance. Without breaking his horse’s stride, he met a wall of French cavalry. One Frenchman, whose sword was already bloodstained, charged toward Raile. Without thinking, Raile plunged the lance into the enemy, driving it into his heart.
There was a surprised look on the Frenchman’s face as he fell forward and slid from his horse, the bloodstained Prussian flag waving above his prone body like a banner of victory.
The spectacle of seeing their flag flying atop a slain enemy caused pride to surge through the fleeing Prussians. They turned back, rushing down the hill to meet the French with renewed fervor.
It soon became a struggle for supremacy, a hand-to-hand combat with Raile in the middle, spurring loyalty in the breasts of Englishmen and Prussians alike.
At one point, Raile’s horse was shot out from under him, so he continued his fight on foot. Sweat and blood stung his eyes, and he didn’t know if he was tasting his own blood or that of the enemy, not that it mattered. Raile swung his sword, connecting with flesh and bone. He felt a sting of pain and glanced down to see blood spurting from an open gash on his leg. Ignoring the pain, he wielded his blade and met the enemy with a clash of steel.
Time had no meaning—the only thing that mattered was to kill or be killed.
Suddenly a cannonball exploded nearby, and Raile reeled from a stunning blow to his head. He staggered and fell to his knees, only to rise again. All at once, the ground tilted, and he felt himself falling into a black void.
He was unaware that his men circled him like a protective shield, fighting to keep the enemy at bay. He did not hear the ghostly bugles that sounded the French retreat. He was unaware of the bedlam that broke out among the enemy ranks, or that the battle had turned and the French forces were being pursued by Wellington.
Raile regained consciousness just as several men lifted and carried him toward the hospital tent behind the lines. Through a haze of
pain he observed a land that had been turned into an inferno that would bear the scars of this war for many years to come. He thought for a moment that he was in hell.
For the French, hope had turned to despair, and with despair came the knowledge that their mighty emperor had been thoroughly defeated. Raile watched as abandoned French flags were trampled beneath retreating boots.
Oliver appeared beside Raile and spoke encouragingly, trying to hide his distress.
“You’ll be all right, sir. Just a little nick, I suspect.”
In truth, Raile’s face was a bloody mass, and the wounds on his leg and shoulder were bleeding profusely.
Raile tried to rise, but the pain was so great he fell back weakly. “My command?”
“Seven dead and twenty wounded. They did you proud today, sir,” Oliver assured him. “You mustn’t talk. The surgeons will expect you to lie quietly until they can tend your wounds—you’ll be up and about in no time, sir.”
Raile drew in a ragged breath. Both he and Oliver knew he was gravely wounded.
“Did we win today?” he insisted on knowing.
“That we did, Colonel. Even though I’m told there are yet pockets of Napoleon’s crack regiment, the Old Guard, who stayed at their posts, determined to remain until the end to protect their emperor’s withdrawal. But they can’t hold out for long.”
“Praiseworthy in battle, praiseworthy in defeat,” Raile murmured, still gripping the handle of his saber. His eyes moved to Oliver, and he said with considerable effort: “Today we are witnessing the Corsican’s demise, Oliver. He will not recover from this last folly.”
Raile glanced at the battlefield that was littered with dead bodies of men and horses—comrades and enemies alike. “So many dead—it all seems so senseless—“
He was placed in a cart with other wounded to be transported to the nearby field hospital. Oliver sat beside him and cushioned his head as the rig jostled over rutted roads. The pain became too great and Raile was again enveloped in darkness.
In the early hours of the morning, the surgeon’s knife removed the musket fragment from Raile’s leg, but the head wound was another matter. The surgeon cleansed it and bandaged it before turning to a worried Oliver.
“I’ve done all I can for him,” he said, wiping his bloody hands on his apron. “The rest is up to God.”
“He’s strong, he’ll make it,” Oliver said with conviction.
“If I were a betting man, and I’m not, I’d say he won’t. His head wound is deep, and there was a fragment I dared not remove, fearing it pressed too close to the brain. Even if by some miracle he does live, he may be mindless or even blind.”
Oliver grasped the doctor by the arm. “You have to save him. He is a man like no other—brave and courageous—a hero.”
The doctor flexed his aching muscles and glanced at the rows of cots filled with the wounded and dying. “Every man you see here is a hero, but most of them will die, as I’m sure will this man.”
Throughout the long hours of the day and into the night, Oliver kept his vigil, while outside the hospital tent the victorious soldiers of the 34th Regiment of the Light Dragoons waited in the rain to hear if their commanding officer would live or die.
At sunrise the next day it was still dark as dense clouds covered the sun. By midmorning a feeling of gloom hung over the men of the 34th Regiment when they were ordered to move out with the other troops, leaving their commanding officer behind without knowing his fate.
Oliver sat beside Raile, watching the rain pound against the window as his comrades departed.
It was late afternoon when a British officer appeared at Raile’s bedside. The valet quickly came to attention, buttoning his tunic and trying to smooth down his disheveled hair.
“Stand easy, soldier,” the man said, staring down at Raile. At last he turned his attention to the valet. “I am General Greenleigh of General Wellington’s staff. He has sent me to inquire about Colonel DeWinter’s condition.”
“The doctor holds out little hope that he will survive, sir.”
“Your colonel covered himself with glory in the battle yesterday.”
“Yes, sir, that he did,” Oliver agreed with pride. “He was an inspiration to us all.”
“General Wellington knows of his heroism and will see that he is duly commended.”
Oliver met the general’s sympathetic gaze. “Little good the glory will do him if he’s dead, sir.”
General Greenleigh stared at the tip of his own shiny boots. “I was ordered by Wellington himself to see that Colonel DeWinter is transferred to Brussels, where he will receive the best medical care.”
“I’m not certain he could survive such a journey, sir.”
“General Wellington has placed at your disposal one of his own coaches, which you will find well sprung. The fact that Colonel DeWinter is unconscious could prove a blessing. He will not feel the discomfort of the journey.”
Oliver nodded grimly, wondering if the colonel would live long enough to reach the hospital.
The doctor appeared beside General Greenleigh and sadly shook his head. “He’ll be gone within the hour, General.”
“Oh, well,” the officer said absently, his thoughts already on other matters. “I shall write the necessary letters to his family. Damned shame. He was a good man.”
Oliver glanced down at Raile, who was pale and pain-racked, his breathing deep and labored.
“You’ll fool them all,” the valet said, feeling resentment toward the two men who had so readily abandoned Raile. “They don’t know about your fighting spirit. They have never seen you come through against impossible circumstances. You’re going to come out of this, Colonel. I know you will. You have faced harder.”
4
Kassidy was in the garden when she heard the church bells in the village begin pealing the joyous news. England was celebrating her victory. At last the war was over and Napoleon had been defeated!
She smiled as she remembered the officer she had met as a young girl at the park across from Aunt Mary’s house. She had once childishly called him her champion, but she had come to think of him as just that. Even though she had forgotten what he looked like, it had become her habit to say a prayer for his safety each night—she only hoped he had come through the war alive. It was a pity that she would never know for certain if her champion had survived.
She went into the bedroom she shared with Abigail, moved to the mirror, and stared at her image as she removed her bonnet. Without vanity, she could see that she was pretty. Gone were the freckles; her skin was now creamy and flawless. Her hair hung across her shoulders in spiraling curls and was a burnished blond in color. She was slender and delicate. Her fighting spirit was not gone, but was often tempered with reserve. A child no longer, she was a young lady.
She had become accustomed to seeing admiration in gentlemen’s eyes. At church, she could feel them watching her. But none of the men of the village was considered suitable by Henry. And none would dare approach her because they feared her brother.
Abigail and Kassidy had never been alone with a gentleman, and if Henry had his way, they never would. He ruled his house as if he were king, and his sisters were little better than unpaid servants. Even Aunt Mary’s pleas to allow the girls to have a London Season at her expense went unheeded.
Kassidy knew there would be dancing and merrymaking in the streets of the village, and the celebration would go on well into the night. She sighed regretfully. She would not be joining in the festivities. Henry would never allow it.
Kassidy threw open a window and listened to the sound of cheering. After lighting a candle, she moved back to the window, pulled aside the curtains, and looked at the dying rays of the sun. She anxiously searched for her sister. She was worried because Abigail had not yet returned. Perhaps she was among the merrymakers in the village.
Henry, God-fearing man that he was, was permitting Abigail to help tend the vicar’s children until his sickly wife gave birth t
o their fifth child. When Kassidy had seen the vicar at the market today, he had inquired about Abigail and had implied that he had not seen her since last Sunday. If Abigail wasn’t going to the vicarage when she left the house, then where was she spending her days?
Kassidy heard steps in the hallway, and she moved quickly to the door to find Abigail, face flushed as if she’d been running.
“Where have you been?” Kassidy asked in a whisper, dragging her sister into the room and closing the door behind them. “Henry wanted to know where you were. He was in a temper.”
“Little 1 care about Henry’s temper.”
Kassidy looked at Abigail closely. “You had better care. I saw the vicar today.”
Abigail avoided looking into Kassidy’s eyes. “Oh.” She untied her bonnet and allowed it to dangle from her fingers. “I suppose he told you I haven’t been to the vicarage all week.”
“Abigail, we’ve never kept secrets from each other. Why are you doing so now? Are you in trouble?”
“Oh, Kassidy, I can no longer keep it to myself. I’m in love!” Abigail laughed and hugged her sister. “He is more wonderful than you can imagine. I’m happy just being with him.”
Kassidy was astounded. “When did you have a chance to meet anyone? I know every gentleman of your acquaintance, and not one of them would I consider wonderful.”
Abigail’s blue eyes took on a glow. “I met him at Lady Broadwick’s Christmas party last December. Remember how you refused to go because you find her parties tedious? I went because it’s the only social gathering Henry will allow us to attend.”
“I remember.”
“He ... we were attracted to each other right away. All the ladies flirted with him outrageously, but he saw only me. Lady Broadwick’s nose was out of joint because he asked me to dance three times and didn’t dance once with her daughter, Emily.” She stopped to catch her breath. “It was that night that we made plans to meet the next day. I knew Henry would never allow him to call at the house, so I met him in the graveyard behind the church.”
Song Of The Nightingale (DeWinter's Song 1) Page 3
