I don't wonder Edward has nightmares, if he has ten years' worth of scenes like today to carry in his head.
And with all of them I felt so completely clumsy and inept, with no idea how even to begin to treat wounds of such severity, when the worst I had seen before today was a pricked finger or skinned knee.
There were a good many other ladies out, besides Kitty and me, all of them looking as sick as I felt. And by some strange quirk of fate, we were all the wounded men had.
I blinked hard and said to Kitty, "Don't make me cry, or I really won't be able to go on."
And Kitty said, "No." And then we both drew shaky breaths, and Kitty said, with another attempt at a smile, "I'll let you pick--do you want the right side of the street or the left?"
It's strange. I don't think I ever in a hundred years would have imagined living through a day like today. But if I had, and if I'd had to pick a companion for wading through all the blood and death, Kitty Bennet would have been the last person I would have chosen. But I was so grateful she was the one with me today.
It was just a short while later that we found Sergeant Kelly. Not that we knew who he was at first. I had crouched down beside yet another wounded soldier--a big, burly bear of a man lying on his side with his cheek resting in the muck of the gutter. And I was trying to brace myself for finding that he was yet another of those already dead and beyond aid. But when I took hold of his shoulder and rolled him face up, blue eyes flickered open, cleared, and fixed on my face.
"Can I help you?" I asked--just as I had all the other men.
The man cleared his throat and coughed, trying to speak, and I dribbled a little water between his lips. The man swallowed and coughed again and let out a sigh. "That's better, thank ye kindly, miss. Me throat was as dry as sand in the summer."
I won't even try to write the dialect properly--but his voice had a thick Irish brogue. And then he frowned, staring at my face harder as though trying to call up a memory. "Sure an' I know you, don't I? You'll be Miss Georgiana Darcy o' the Devonshire Darcys, isn't that right?"
I had fallen into a kind of numbed daze: moving from soldier to soldier, offering water or other assistance, and then moving on. But hearing my own name startled me out of the stupor and I stared at the man lying on the ground before me. He was an older man, forty or forty-five at a guess, with a bushy black beard and fierce black eyebrows and a pair of very deep-set blue eyes. His nose looked like it had been broken at least once.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't think ... that is, have we met before?"
The man let out a wheezing chuckle that ended in a grunt of pain. "No, we've never met. I knew you from the miniature the colonel carries with him. Must have been painted some years ago, I'd be guessing--but you've still the same look about you. Your eyes are the same."
I felt my breath go out in a rush and my vision shimmered for a moment at the edges. My voice sounded tinny and far away when I managed to ask, "Do you know Edward--Colonel Fitzwilliam? Have you ... do you know where he is now?"
The wounded man had a bandage wrapped around his right arm that was completely saturated with bloodstains, some already dry, stiff and rusty, some sticky scarlet. But he raised himself up a little on his good elbow and looked at me, bushy brows creased in concern. "He's not killed, if that's what you be fearin', miss. He was right as rain last night--he's the one that dragged me off the battlefield before I could get trampled on."
I dug my fingernails hard into my palms and managed to drive the dizziness away. "Are you one of Colonel Fitzwilliam's regiment?" I asked him.
The man nodded. "Sergeant Patrick Kelly, at your service, miss. Been with him since he was a wet-behind-the-ears lad o' nineteen."
The last words cut off in another grunt as Sergeant Kelly gritted his teeth together against what must have been another jolt of pain. I recollected myself and said, "You've been wounded. Can I help you at all?"
Sergeant Kelly looked down at his bandaged right arm. "This? Nothing but a scratch, miss. Got it while we were trying to rally the bleedin' Belgians to stand and fight. Beggin' your pardon, miss. But the buggers took one look at those Frenchies, turned around and ran like their tails were on fire."
He had slumped back against the ground, though, and he didn't resist when I started to unwrap the bloodstained bandage from his arm.
I ought by that time to have got used to the sight of raw, bloodied wounds. And I suppose I had, at least to a degree, because I didn't faint or gasp or even turn dizzy again. But still, I had to clench my hands to keep from stumbling backwards at the sight, and if I had had anything to eat I think I would have been sick again.
The wound was a cut--a sabre cut, Sergeant Kelly said--running up his forearm and laying it open nearly to the bone. He had tied a rag very tightly around his upper arm to slow the bleeding. But even still the cut oozed blood. "I think--" I took a breath and was surprised to find that my voice sounded almost normal. "I think that ought to be stitched?"
Sergeant Kelly glanced with apparent unconcern down at his own wound and shrugged. "So it ought. Don't have me sewing kit, though. I had to drop me pack somewhere on the road back to Brussels. Couldn't carry it and haul me own carcass at the same time."
I nodded. "Can you stand, do you think? Walk, with my help? Here, take my hand," I added quickly, as the effort of rising made the sergeant sway unsteadily on his feet. Harriet had already agreed to take as many of the wounded as we could manage into the house. Most of the men on the streets were too weak to be moved--at least by us. But a few of the most gravely injured had already been carried back to the Forsters' by those of their fellow soldiers who could still stand. "If you can come with me," I told Sergeant Kelly, "We can get that wound seen to. It's not far."
I called across the street for Kitty to come and help us, and between the two of us we managed to get him back to the Forsters' house. Harriet was sitting in a corner of the drawing room, still looking pale as she ripped up sheets and towels for bandages. And Mrs. Metcalfe--looking completely recovered--was sitting in a big wing-backed brocade chair in the centre of the room. The scene looked like a cross between a hospital and a queen holding court; she had the wounded men who could still walk--I suppose there were eight or nine of them there, and more that she'd already treated going out the front door--form a line and then step up to her chair in turn.
Mrs. Metcalfe gave each man brandy and bandaged his wounds. And stitched some of them, too, when it was required. Part of me wanted to simply leave Sergeant Kelly to her. But she had her hands full. And besides, I was the one who had brought Sergeant Kelly there. It seemed like cowardice not to take care of him myself.
Kitty had taken fresh supplies of bandages and water and gone back out into the streets. So I told Sergeant Kelly to lie down on the carpet--all the space on the sofas and chairs was already taken--while I went to fetch a needle and thread.
Sergeant Kelly looked at me dubiously when I'd fetched the sewing supplies and sat down next to him. "Beggin' your pardon, miss," he said, "but I don't suppose you'll have ever done anything of this kind before?"
"Well, no," I said. "But I can do very good embroidery work. I promise you--the headmistress at my school gave me an absolutely glowing report."
"Embroidery, is it?" Sergeant Kelly tipped back his head and gave a shout of laughter at that, blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
I let out my breath and said, "Honestly, I have no idea how to stitch a wound. So it's up to you. I think that looks as though it ought to be attended to as soon as possible. But if you'd rather, I can try to fetch a surgeon. I'm not sure how quickly I can get one to come, that's all."
"A surgeon?" Sergeant Kelly shook his head. "No, they'll have enough to cope with just now, I'm thinkin'. No sense troubling them over the likes o' me. If you're game to try it, miss, you go ahead." And then he closed one eye in a wink. "Just don't be tryin' to add any fancy bits o' roses or such to your stitch-work, mind."
I probably hurt him terribly in stit
ching the wound closed--though he gave no sign of it and made no sound beyond a few quickly indrawn breaths. I felt my stomach lurch every time I had to pass the needle through his skin, and I was afraid the whole time that I'd make a mistake and somehow do more harm than good. But in the end I did manage to finish. The stitches looked slightly uneven and staggering--but the wound was closed.
I wrapped a clean bandage around his arm--and then went to fetch Sergeant Kelly something to eat and drink, because save for the few mouthfuls of water I had given him it appeared he'd had nothing at all since the previous day. He still looked tired when he'd finished the bread and cheese and apple I found for him. But he did seem restored, and he managed to sit up on his own. "Well, thank you kindly, miss. I suppose I'd best be taking myself off now."
"Wait." I put a hand on his arm. "Where will you go."
Sergeant Kelly shrugged. "Back to my billet, I suppose. Why do you ask, miss?"
"You could stay here," I said. " You ought to rest--and I'm sure we could find you room." I'm not sure what made me want so much for him to stay. Part of course was that he was a link, however small, to Edward--and I wanted to hear anything he could tell me of how Edward had been these last weeks, and how he had fared in the battle yesterday. But part I think was simply Sergeant Patrick Kelly himself. There was something reassuring about him: his broad, solid presence and humorous eyes. "We're on our own here," I went on. "Just four of us. Mrs. Forster"--I gestured towards Harriet--"and her husband have rented this house. But her husband is a colonel and has gone off to fight." I looked around the room at the other wounded men, lying on sofas and slumped in chairs. "Not that I imagine any of us cares for the proprieties at a time like this. But I think we'd feel safer, all of us, if you would agree to stay, at least for tonight."
I had been determined all day not to be a missish, fainting female--or give way to terror over all the what-ifs in our present situation. But on the other hand, it seemed to me that there was a definite line between bravery and stupidity. And four women, alone and undefended in a house in the wealthiest part of town, would make for an easy target for French soldiers. Or for the troops of our Prussian allies, for that matter; the Prussian soldiers are said to be even more rapacious than the French. Besides which, if any of the townsfolk tried to steal the Forsters' horses--I'd been watching such occurrences all day--I doubted any of us would be able to stop them.
Sergeant Kelly was frowning over what I had said. "Four of you on your own? No, that'll never do. Not but what I'm certain our lads will give old Boney's lot a grand beating tomorrow. But you ought to have someone here, just in case anything turns nasty." He nodded with sudden decision. "Right, I'll stay." His teeth flashed white in the midst of the dark beard. "Not but what I wouldn't stay for your own sake, Miss Darcy. But apart from that, I'm thinkin' the colonel would make me wish I'd had my arm cut off and both my legs as well if I let harm come to you."
Sunday 18 June 1815
They say the battle is to be fought at Waterloo, just as the Duke of Wellington said at the Duchess of Richmond's ball. Or maybe it has already begun. It is ten o'clock in the morning now. And I am sure it will be hours yet before we have any news.
Brussels this morning is quiet. So many have fled to Antwerp. Kitty and I went out earlier to the chemist's shop to buy more lint and bandages--only we didn't have to buy them, the shopkeepers are charging nothing.
We have been busy all morning with the wounded men who are staying here--the ones too gravely hurt to be moved. There are four of them: three younger soldiers who took shots to the body. And one--a dark-haired man a little older than the rest--in officer's uniform whose leg was crushed by a cannon shot. The field surgeons had to amputate before they sent him back here to Brussels in a wagon.
The first three are Captain Pringle, Sergeant Hawthorne, and Sergeant Smith. They're in terrible pain, I think. But they are so polite and grateful for any attention we give them. I don't know the fourth man's name--the officer who lost his leg. He has been delirious with fever ever since he arrived and has not been able to speak. Not coherently, at least. He mutters and tosses restlessly on the mattress we laid down for him on the dining room floor. I sat with him for a while early this morning, trying to get him to drink some broth that Madame Duvalle had made. I don't think he swallowed any. But I did bathe his face with water, which seemed to ease him a little. At least he stopped tossing and turning quite so much and seemed to fall into a more peaceful sleep.
If yesterday caring for the wounded men seemed a nightmare, I am grateful for it today. It helps to be kept busy--to feel as though I am doing something of use--instead of thinking of the battle that is to take place today. Barely ten miles south of here; I managed to find a map in Colonel Forster's study and looked up where Waterloo is.
Sergeant Kelly seems much better this morning. His arm is still bandaged, of course, but he says it scarcely pains him at all. And he has been helping with shifting the other wounded men so that we can bathe and tend them, so he must not be entirely lying.
Later ...
I feel as though this day is never going to end. It is barely seven o'clock in the evening now--but already I feel as though it has lasted an eternity.
There was an alarm just a short while ago. A group of the Cumberland Hussars galloped through town shouting that all was lost and the French were on their heels. Not that that signifies. If I have learned one thing in the last two days, it is not to put too much credence in those sorts of alarms.
What is worse are the accounts from those who have seen the battle themselves. The first wounded are just beginning to trickle back. Sergeant Kelly went out into the town to see if he could gain any news. And when he came back he looked grave and said that by all accounts, the battle was the bloodiest any of the men he'd spoken to had ever seen. Impossible even to say who was alive and who had been killed in all the carnage and smoke.
He couldn't learn anything of Edward, nor yet of Captain Ayres or Colonel Forster.
I should get back to Kitty and Harriet. I don't think any of us wants to be alone tonight.
Monday 19 June 1815
The battle is won.
I can scarcely believe I am writing that. All the signs yesterday seemed to portent disaster and defeat. But it is true. Wellington and his armies have been victorious over Napoleon Bonaparte.
I should be relieved. I am relieved. Or I think I would be if I weren't tired enough to be in a kind of waking daze. We sat up nearly all through the night--Kitty, Mrs. Metcalfe, Harriet and I. All grouped together in Harriet's bedroom, so that we might not disturb the wounded men downstairs. We did finally persuade Mrs. Metcalfe and Harriet to lie down. And Kitty and I dozed a little, sitting in chairs beside the bed. And then this morning at around six o'clock we were woken with the news--our armies have defeated the French and put Napoleon's forces utterly to the rout.
It is good news--the best news we could have hoped for. And yet the cost of the victory already seems too much to bear.
Colonel Forster is dead.
Sergeant Kelly rode out at once to the field of battle to learn what he could. He came back this afternoon looking ten years older than when he had left here this morning. Older and in greater pain even than when I had found him lying in the street, every last trace of the usual humour in his face gone.
Kitty, Harriet, and I were all in the parlour, tending to the wounded. There is barely room to walk in the room now, the floor is so crowded with mattresses and feather beds that we stripped off the beds upstairs. We have taken in six more men, some wounded at Quatre Bras, some the first to return from the battle yesterday. And one of them--a red-haired man with a round, freckled face--has already died. Died before we could even learn his name.
When Sergeant Kelly came in, we all of us froze at the sight of his face. Harriet half rose, one hand going to her throat--as though she'd had some sort of premonition of what he was about to say.
Sergeant Kelly's blue eyes fixed on her, and his be
arded face contorted with pity. But he got the news out in a single blunt sentence. "I'm sorry to tell you, ma'am. Your husband the colonel was killed. Struck off his horse by a cannonball."
I'll never, ever forget the look on Harriet's face. It was as though some part of her had died, too. And then she just ... crumpled. Folded up and fell to the ground, crying in great, gulping, wrenching sobs.
Mrs. Metcalfe came out of the kitchen--she has been helping Madame Duvalle there, since the servants are all gone--and between us we managed to carry Harriet upstairs and settle her into bed. Mrs. Metcalfe gave her a dose of the laudanum we have been giving the wounded men downstairs, and Harriet took it without even seeming to notice what it was.
That was mid-afternoon. It is evening, now, and she is still asleep. Which I suppose is kindness, to give her a short respite from facing the reality of Colonel Forster's death. I can't help thinking of what her waking will be like, though.
I am so sorry for her. And yet--
And yet I feel horribly guilty, too--because I seem barely to have space to grieve for her loss. Every part of me feels filled up, choked, suffocated with the fear that Sergeant Kelly is next going to fix me with that same look of pity, and say that Edward is dead, as well.
Tuesday 20 June 1815
I cannot believe it. I seem to be writing that over and over again. But it is true--these past days have been nothing I could ever have imagined or believed.
There is a chance Colonel Forster may still be alive.
This morning, a soldier--a sandy-haired man who gave his name as Lieutenant Jenkins--came to the house. He asked at first for Mrs. Forster. But Harriet was upstairs in bed. She wouldn't take any more of the laudanum last night--she said the wounded men need it more than she does. But she was awake nearly all the night through, lying in her bed and crying. Mrs. Metcalfe, Kitty, and I took it in turns to sit with her. And finally towards morning she did drift off to sleep.
Pemberley to Waterloo: Georgiana Darcy's Diary, Volume 2 Page 16
