Elizabeth stepped forward. ‘And Mr Darcy?’
Captain Marshall frowned. ‘Pardon, ma’am …’
‘The colonel’s cousin,’ Elizabeth said, her heart thudding. ‘He was to help behind the lines.’
‘Now that you mention it, I was introduced to a cousin at the field hospital, doing useful work transporting the wounded. I have no news of what befell him.’
‘Have you details of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s injuries?’ the Viscount asked.
Captain Marshall consulted a pocket-book. ‘He was concussed, and took a bayonet slash in the leg, but with help was able to walk off the battlefield.’
Elizabeth moved to the captain’s side. ‘You are certain there is no mention of Mr Darcy? May I check?’
He showed her the page, which listed names of officers with shorthand codes representing outcomes ranging from death to minor injury. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’
Lorraine took her arm and whispered, ‘Elizabeth, we have no reason to think Mr Darcy has come to harm.’
Elizabeth grimaced. ‘I want to know where he is.’
By midday there was no further news, and Elizabeth had formed a resolution: she had to reach Brussels. The Viscount politely but firmly declined. There were reports of chaos as deserters and locals clashed with soldiers struggling to keep order. Elizabeth was reluctant to press her hosts, but had an ally in Lorraine, who was incensed at remaining offstage in Antwerp when there was work to be done at the Minimes hospital.
A compromise was reached. A servant would ride to their house in Brussels, seek news of Darcy and the colonel, and report back on the state of the roads. They waited, expecting this mission to take four hours at least, but in under an hour the footman returned, having been interrogated by a Prussian officer and refused passage.
Next morning at dawn, the servant rode out again, and found that the confusion had eased. By now the Viscount was weary of arguing, and on learning that Captain Marshall was riding back, and willing to accompany them, he agreed to make the attempt. Abandoning their personal effects, they loaded two trunks with food and medical supplies and set off, taking Lorraine’s maid as well as the driver and footman.
It was a slow and harrowing journey. The road was often blocked with wagons, guarded by short-tempered soldiers who refused to move out of the way. At one point, while they were overtaking an almost stationary wagon, a Prussian officer waved his sword in their driver’s face and ordered him back; fortunately, Captain Marshall managed to restore calm. As they neared Brussels the smell of gunpowder was overwhelming, and the heat oppressive. At this point Captain Marshall had to gallop ahead—he had promised to report in by midday—but at last they could deviate into familiar side-streets, and progress was easier.
Elizabeth’s heart hammered as they clattered up Rue de la Violette to the Viscount’s forecourt. As the gate opened she recognised a manservant, with Burgess following behind. But no Darcy.
‘You have heard nothing?’ Elizabeth pressed.
Burgess raised his broad frame to its full height. ‘Not a word, madam. My instructions were specific. Remain here until the master returned, or sent further orders. Or, if I heard he was, ah, …’
‘Indisposed?’
‘Exactly. Indisposed. Then join you in Antwerp and arrange transport to England.’
‘So two days have passed since you parted.’
‘I was told to remain here, madam.’
‘You did well.’ She tried to appear authoritative. ‘But now the situation has changed. We have the colonel’s address, where we can obtain news of Mr Darcy.’
Burgess faced her stubbornly. ‘What if Colonel Fitzwilliam is no longer at Merbe Braine?’
‘Then we will ask where he has been moved.’
Predictably the Viscount opposed her plan, this time with Lorraine’s support. But matters took a new twist when Captain Marshall returned, and offered to escort Elizabeth and Burgess to Waterloo. A small, manoeuvrable carriage was prepared, and they departed directly, first to the Minimes hospital where Lorraine and her maid got off, unloading most of the medical supplies, and then along the road south, with Burgess driving and Captain Marshall riding ahead.
Conditions were now far worse. Soldiers blocked their path; the captain had to wave his sword and shout their business before they were allowed to proceed. As they painstakingly approached Waterloo the air stank with rotting flesh, and their horses howled and strained as if impelled by an instinct to flee. They turned towards Merbe Braine, the village to the west where most wounded officers from the 52nd had been taken. Elizabeth could hardly bear to look. Mutilated bodies were abandoned in piles beside the road—men, mostly British and Dutch by the uniforms, and horses too. She drew the curtains, put her head in her hands, and wept.
The carriage halted, Captain Marshall asked directions, and they turned into a row of cottages.
‘Here, madam.’
Burgess helped her down. A petite woman in her thirties approached and introduced herself as Madame Villeneuve.
‘Villagers have offered hospitality,’ the captain said.
Elizabeth followed the woman to a tiny room, where a board had been affixed to the wall and covered with a straw pallet to make a bed. For a moment she trembled, thinking it was Darcy, but a closer look revealed the similar features of his cousin.
He stared at her. ‘Miss Bennet? What …’
She pulled up a stool. ‘How are you?’
‘I’ll pull through.’ He pointed to the bandage on his head. ‘Ran into the butt of a French bayonet. Confounded silly of me. Not satisfied with giving me a headache, the blighter slashed my leg just above the knee. Luckily he was cut down himself before he could finish the job.’
‘And Mr Darcy?’
‘Haven’t seen him since he dropped by this morning.’
‘So he is well?’ She blinked, fighting tears. ‘Pardon me. I have been in such anxiety.’
‘As well as a man can be if he never sleeps.’
A shape appeared in the doorway and she span round, only to see Captain Marshall accompanied by a stranger in army medical uniform.
‘How is my patient?’ the physician asked.
‘Bored,’ Colonel Fitzwilliam said.
The man bowed to Elizabeth. ‘Good afternoon, madam. Mr Harrison.’ He felt the colonel’s brow. ‘The fever should abate soon. Sleep. I’ll bleed you again tomorrow if the wound festers.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam grunted. ‘The Frenchie has already bled me enough for one lifetime. Have you seen Darcy?’
‘He’s still at the field hospital.’
‘Tell him Miss Bennet is here.’
‘No.’ Elizabeth rose and addressed the captain. ‘Take me to him.’
‘Better remain here, ma’am. There are hundreds of injured men at the hospital. It’s a most distressing sight.’
‘If I ask Mr Darcy to come here, he will be distracted from his work. I would prefer to help.’ She appealed to the colonel. ‘I have brought provisions. Hard biscuit, oats and lint.’
‘It’s true that we’re overwhelmed,’ Colonel Fitzwilliam said. ‘If you really think you can face it, go ahead. But you must be prepared for the most horrible scenes.’
She swallowed, reminded of her impulsive decision to accompany Fraulein Edelmann at the recital in Verona. Was this hubris? Was she taking on a task that she was incapable of performing?
‘I will try.’
‘Captain, can you go with Miss Bennet to the camp?’
Marshall shook his head. ‘Impossible to get a carriage through. The track is jammed with carts in both directions. I will ride.’
Harrison, the physician, spoke up. ‘I am walking back across the fields. I can accompany Miss Bennet if she is determined to go.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at Elizabeth. ‘I’m not sure Darcy will forgive me for this, but you may leave with Mr Harrison. The captain will find men to go with you and carry the provisions. Take care to remember the path, in case you need to return.�
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50
Arrangements had been made. Burgess remained behind to watch the carriage, and send word if the colonel’s condition worsened. Three soldiers were tasked to carry boxes of provisions. The physician led the little party down a lane to the edge of a farm.
‘How far, Mr Harrison?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Fifteen minutes using the short-cut.’
They crossed a makeshift bridge into an open cornfield. ‘When did you last see Mr Darcy?’
‘This morning. He was organising a new convoy for the troops that defended La Haye Sainte.’ He pointed left. ‘It was our central fortification, so most of the fighting took place there.’
‘Was he well?’
‘Exhausted. He worked through the night Sunday and Monday, with scarcely a pause.’
She sighed: how like Darcy. ‘Important work?’
‘Very. He organised recovery of the wounded, made sure the roads were kept in good repair, and paid carters to bring mattresses and blankets. They are trying now to set up a large field hospital at Mont St Jean, but ours grew so quickly that we have accepted men from other regiments.’
She swallowed, imagining the horror and enormity of the task, and pointed back at the men carrying supplies. ‘This will be a drop in the ocean.’
‘It helps, believe me. We were so short of bandaging this morning that women were tearing strips from their petticoats.’
They passed through a copse, and suddenly there were soldiers everywhere. She glanced at a paddock where redcoats were wearily digging, and her stomach lurched when she saw a pile of bodies beyond. The physician hastened past stables into a courtyard, where women and children, lined up in a chain, were passing water from the well.
‘This way.’ Harrison guided her to a canvas-roofed enclosure and spoke to an officer. ‘Where is Mr Darcy?’
‘Who?’
‘Colonel Fitzwilliam’s cousin,’ Elizabeth said.
‘The Lieutenant-Colonel ordered him to sleep. Try the barn.’
He lay under a haystack on a red coat, his head supported by an empty sack folded double. She kept away, afraid of waking him, but he moaned and twisted his head, irritated by a stalk poking through the sackcloth. Carefully Elizabeth kneeled and pulled the stalk out, but he sniffed, as if catching her scent, and opened his eyes.
‘Elizabeth? What …’
She took his hand. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. Sleep now.’
He blinked and edged himself up a little. ‘Did you get my messages?’
‘Only the first. We had news of your cousin from Captain Marshall, so I came to the village.’
‘This is no place for you, Elizabeth.’
‘It is no place for anyone, but I have seen women and children doing their best to help, and so shall I.’
He clenched his fists, as if intending to contradict her, then exhaled, his expression changing from alarm to resignation. ‘As you wish.’
She guided him to the pillow and stroked his hair back, her hand brushing several days’ growth of stubble. ‘Sleep. I will come by in an hour and hope to find you still here.’
He looked up at her, and his eyes moistened. ‘I have seen terrible things.’
‘We will talk of them another time.’ She leaned over, kissed his brow, and left him.
The hospital centred on the cowsheds, the largest covered area, but overflowed into stables and tents. After leaving her bonnet, reticule and jacket in the officers’ tent, Elizabeth was introduced to Soeur Gabrielle, one of two local nuns who had taken charge of nursing. The sister spoke no English, but from gestures, and her smattering of French, Elizabeth understood that she was to follow the nun and help her apply bandages.
They began in the cowsheds, where only a curtain separated rows of makeshift beds from the tables where amputations were performed. Elizabeth saw straight away that she was not the only untrained helper. A surgeon toured, calling out instructions, but most of the work was done by women, including English wives and daughters from the camp followers. On the adjoining line a little girl of perhaps nine or ten was carefully tearing lint into strips and passing them to her mother.
They kneeled beside a man lying on an improvised straw mattress; Soeur Gabrielle lifted a blanket to reveal white woollen breeches shredded up one side and stained with mud and gore. Elizabeth winced as the impassive sister cut away the tatters around the wound. The man screamed, and Soeur Gabrielle thrust the scissors to Elizabeth, gesturing that she should cut from the cuff.
Elizabeth took a deep breath. Adapting dresses had given her experience of tailoring; surely she could do this. She managed to cut through a hard ridge at the bottom, after which the material parted easily to reveal a sickening mess of mangled flesh and dried blood. Soeur Gabrielle peeled the edges back, and cleaned the leg with a wet sponge. She waved to an assistant surgeon who peered into the wound, muttered ‘Grape shot’, and told them to keep the patient still while he probed with forceps. Kneeling at the head of the mattress, Elizabeth took the man’s arm and felt him tremble as metal balls were removed from his leg. Through gritted teeth he grinned and muttered something that might have been ‘You’re a pretty’un’. His face ran with sweat. She touched his brow, and spoke to the surgeon.
‘He’s feverish.’
The surgeon nodded. ‘Apply a light camphor dressing for now. Don’t think leeches will help. Probably have to come off later in any case.’
Elizabeth looked at the sister, who pointed to a bucket and said, ‘Camphre.’
‘First wet the bandage,’ the surgeon said. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
Elizabeth turned to thank him, but he was already on his way. The sister dipped a strip of lint into the camphor water and wrung it out.
‘Élever!’ She motioned Elizabeth to lift the injured leg so that she could wind the bandage around it.
Gently Elizabeth replaced the leg. Probably have to come off later. Which meant amputation, presumably. She shivered as they passed to the next bed.
Hours must have passed, and the horrific had become routine. Now working alone, Elizabeth had been sent to an open tent where a new consignment was laid in the dirt, cushioned only by a layer of straw. She had evolved a formula, repeated for each case. Try talking to the patient to classify the injury. Expose the affected parts, sponge them down, and unless the wounds were superficial, call a physician. Follow instructions, and pass to the next.
She was treating a man who had been struck by a cannon ball. Normally such an impact would be fatal, but since he had suffered a glancing blow on an area well layered in muscle, he had escaped with severe bruising and a hip fracture. The assistant surgeon suggested rubbing on eau de vie, a liquor which smelled of pears. The soldier had banged his head on a rock while falling; he observed her with a friendly smile as she sponged and bandaged the graze.
‘Bless you, ma’am. What’s the stuff you rubbed on?’
‘A spirit similar to brandy.’
‘Any left over? I could fancy a drink.’
‘I can bring water later. Mixed with wine if the pain is unbearable.’
‘I can wait. There’s men worse than me.’
‘Where are you from, sir?’
‘First Yorkshires.’
She gasped. ‘Do you know an Ensign Wickham?’
He nodded immediately. ‘He took over as our platoon leader after the Lieutenant bought it. Good fellow. Liked a drink and a game of cards.’
She flinched at the past tense. ‘What happened?’
‘We was lying behind the crest, see, when the Frenchies was climbing up from La Haye farm. We jumped up and fired straight into ’em. George was near me in the second line, and got four or five of the blighters before falling. Never saw him after that. They turned and ran, we chased ’em down the hill, and I was on me way back when the ball hit me.’
Elizabeth tried to control tears. ‘He died bravely, then.’
‘Sorry ma’am. Relative, was he?’
‘A distant on
e.’ She frowned. ‘Why have you only just arrived here?’
‘Spent a night on the battlefield, didn’t I, followed by another night waiting at La Haye.’
‘You were left alone? No food? No medical care?’
‘Couple of local lasses passed with bread and ale. Angels.’ He held up a finger with blood near the knuckle. ‘Unlike the hag what done this.’
‘You should have told me!’ She sponged the injury, but it was merely a graze. ‘She scratched you?’
‘Dug her nails in, didn’t she, trying to rip off the ring while I was asleep. Probably thought I’d bought it.’
‘How disgraceful!’
‘They do worse than that. Pull teeth, even cut off fingers if they can’t get the ring off …’
Elizabeth winced, sickened by the thought that Wickham might have suffered this fate. ‘I must move on now. Good luck to you, sir, and thanks for your information.’
Dusk was falling; inside the tents, lamps flickered. More and more carts arrived, and with fewer women now available to help, Elizabeth forced herself to keep going. At the back of her mind, thoughts of Wickham intruded. Was he really dead, or only injured? Was it even possible that he had fallen deliberately, playing dead to escape enemy fire? She dismissed the unkind thought. If Wickham had intended such a trick, he would surely have fallen immediately rather than firing several rounds first. No, people were a mixture of good and bad: a scoundrel could show heroism in war. She wondered what Darcy would say …
Darcy! She had promised to look for him during the afternoon—was he now fretting over her safety? She finished bandaging a sabre cut and made her way past the cowsheds towards the barn. A nun approached, and she recognised Soeur Gabrielle, still hard at work. The sister regarded her impassively.
‘Tout va bien?’
‘Oui.’
‘Reposez-vous!’
Without smiling, Soeur Gabrielle embraced her before walking on. Moved, Elizabeth paused, watching the nun’s weary tread, before hastening to the barn. There were still men resting, but Darcy had gone.
Darcy's Journey Page 22
