Darcy's Journey

by M. A. Sandiford

  She went to the officers’ tent, took a mug of tea from an urn, and sat on an empty barrel, chewing a biscuit. An officer’s wife, also helping, waved to her, and they talked. An uncomfortable realisation had surfaced. She had seen Lydia’s marriage to Wickham as an obstacle to her own hopes. But suppose Wickham were dead! Lydia would grieve; everyone would mourn Wickham and commend his bravery; but the barrier would be removed.

  Instantly this thought intruded, she rejected it, hating herself. No! There should be no silver lining to a man’s death. A marriage based on such a premise would turn sour, like a river poisoned at its source.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ She rose, dismissing these musings as Darcy approached with outstretched arms and took both her hands. ‘Taking a well-earned rest, I see.’

  ‘The nurse advised it.’ She peered through the gloom at his face. ‘Did you sleep long?’

  ‘A couple of hours.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I meant to look for you …’

  ‘You were busy. I saw you while I passed the stables, but decided not to disturb you.’

  ‘I must tell you something.’ She pointed to another barrel and they both sat. ‘I met a private from the First Yorkshires who was in Mr Wickham’s platoon …’ She repeated what she had heard, wondering what feelings lay behind Darcy’s grave countenance. ‘Tragic, is it not?’

  ‘Indeed.’ He studied her closely. ‘But is it certain?’

  ‘This man knew Mr Wickham well. He talked of him as a friend.’

  ‘For your sister’s sake, I hope the soldier is mistaken.’

  ‘I hope so too.’ She puzzled over the implication of his words. Did he mean that Wickham’s death would be a misfortune only for Lydia? Or was he merely expressing the truism that Lydia would be the person most affected?

  Not wishing to discuss the matter now, she asked: ‘Do you mean to work through the night again?’

  He looked down a moment, thinking. ‘Our intake will fall to a trickle soon since they are ready to open a hospital at Mont St Jean with superior facilities. We have already cared for the casualties from the 52nd, which were in any case relatively light. I understand from Captain Marshall that Burgess is waiting at the village, with a carriage.’

  ‘Yes. He was told to stay there, and send word if the colonel’s condition altered.’

  ‘Can you continue another two hours? Then, if you agree, we might walk back to Merbe Braine and find out whether my cousin can be moved to Brussels.’

  51

  The bells of the St Michael and Gudula cathedral chimed two in the morning as their carriage at last turned into Rue de la Violette. Darcy sat up front beside Burgess; on his left, Elizabeth clung to his arm, a blanket draped over her shoulders and her head resting on his shoulder. Inside, on the cushioned seats, Colonel Fitzwilliam lay next to another officer, more seriously wounded, to be transferred to the Minimes hospital if there was room.

  The forecourt was busy, even at this late hour. Burgess manoeuvred into a spot opposite the coach-house, which like the stables had been adapted as a hospital extension. A footman was still awake, and with his help they carried Colonel Fitzwilliam inside, while a maid was roused to attend Elizabeth.

  Their arrival also woke the Viscount, who joined Darcy in the lounge and offered a restorative brandy.

  ‘We have brought another officer from the 52nd,’ Darcy explained. ‘He has grape-shot wounds down his right leg, and the physician advised bringing him to a hospital in town where an amputation can be performed in greater safety. My plan was to take him to the Minimes.’

  The Viscount shook his head. ‘The Minimes is already overwhelmed; that is why my daughter has opened a new ward in the coach-house. Let the officer rest here tonight, and I’ll ask my personal physician to see him tomorrow. Perhaps after all the leg can be saved.’

  ‘But have you room?’

  The Viscount paced the carpet, thinking. ‘We had to accommodate a surgeon in the room which Miss Bennet used before. Your room is still free, but not large enough for two. We could move a mattress into the colonel’s bedroom.’

  ‘Why not put the injured officer in my room? I will move in with my cousin.’

  ‘Very well,’ The Viscount called a servant and issued rapid instructions. ‘If you can overlook the discomfort.’

  ‘I’m so tired that I would sleep soundly on the kitchen table. But what of Miss Bennet?’

  ‘She will share with Lorraine.’

  ‘A pity your daughter must be disturbed.’

  The Viscount spread his hands helplessly. ‘She is still at work in the coach-house. I tell her repeatedly to rest, but she will not hear of it.’

  Darcy sighed. ‘I wish I could report that the crisis will ease, but in truth it is only starting. The numbers of the wounded are staggering, and as they are transferred from field hospitals to Brussels, the city will bear most of the strain.’

  ‘It is a small price to pay.’ The Viscount refilled their glasses. ‘These fine men have ended Bonaparte’s regime for ever. King Louis will be restored, and with God’s help these perpetual wars will cease, and we can all return to normal co-existence.’

  Elizabeth stirred as the bed creaked and someone slid under the covers. Confused, she believed for a moment that she was back at the hotel in Oriago—a scene that had provoked strange dreams more than once.

  ‘Who …’

  ‘C’est moi,’ Lorraine de Crécy whispered. ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes, but it doesn’t matter.’ Lorraine had extinguished her candle, but Elizabeth could see her dimly in the moonlight. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Past three.’ Lorraine touched her arm. ‘I’m so relieved that you and your friends are safe.’

  ‘Have you been working all this time?’

  ‘It is hard to stop when men are arriving day and night. The nuns cannot cope. We have to recruit volunteers and train them by example.’ She stretched, and groaned. ‘My back is killing me. Father said you helped at the field hospital.’

  ‘Yes, washing and dressing wounds.’

  ‘Conditions must be appalling there. Worse than in the city hospitals …’ Lorraine paused. ‘What are your plans?’

  Elizabeth lay back, recalling a discussion with Darcy on the coach. ‘It will depend on Colonel Fitzwilliam. We hope to bring him to England. Until he is fit to travel, we must stay here.’

  ‘Will you return to the field hospital?’

  ‘No. Mr Darcy may pass by Merbe Braine to organise transport to the city, but they have less need for nurses.’

  Lorraine smiled. ‘So, my dear Elizabeth, we may find work for you here!’

  52

  Thursday 22nd June

  On a humid afternoon, Elizabeth toured a stables in Rue du Lombard which had been converted to a ward for men recovering from head wounds. Her role had shifted from direct nursing to supervision, as the improvised hospitals recruited servant girls capable of performing practical tasks more deftly than she could. Her value now lay partly in translating; she had acquired a vocabulary of French medical terms by late-night study with Lorraine. Additionally, she had examined such a wide range of injuries that she could judge when a physician had to be called urgently, and prescribe simple treatments on her own. Like Lorraine, she was wearing the uniform used at the Minimes for lay nurses.

  Darcy’s role was also changing. While Burgess plied the roads between Waterloo and Brussels, ferrying urgent cases to the city, Darcy took over Colonel Fitzwilliam’s duties in recording casualties and writing to families. This still required travel, not only to Merbe Braine but to Mont St Jean, where some men from the 52nd had ended up after chasing the Imperial Guard into the centre of the battlefield. But much of it could be done in the office, allowing Darcy to spend time with his cousin, and consult him when necessary.

  A new batch had arrived, and the ward at Rue du Lombard was filling up. Elizabeth had trained two maids from the owner’s household to perform the simple tasks she had learned from Soeur Gabr
ielle, and taught them English words for body parts, weapons, and symptoms such as pain, fever and thirst. What the maids could not manage was conversation: asking how the injury had been sustained, how it had been treated at the field hospital, and whether the patient had special requests. Elizabeth passed along the row, checking for cases that might be particularly urgent, then froze with shock.

  Could it be?

  The man was barely conscious, and much of his scalp was hidden by a rough bandage, but those features, that impudent smirk engrained at the corners of the mouth …

  She leaned over him and whispered: ‘Mr Wickham?’

  He opened an eye, and flinched. ‘You?’

  She knelt beside him. ‘I’m overjoyed to find you alive, sir. Can you talk?’

  He blinked, as if absorbing her words was a huge effort. ‘Darcy?’

  ‘Do you want to see him?’

  He shivered. ‘No. Drink?’

  She called in French to a maid, who brought a glass of wine diluted in water. Afraid of choking him, she scooped a small amount with a spoon, and held it between his lips.

  ‘You’ll like this. The owner keeps a good cellar.’

  He slurped it down, with the hint of a grin. ‘More.’

  Patiently she continued spooning the liquid. ‘Are you in bad pain?’

  ‘Just weak.’

  ‘May I examine your wound?’

  He flinched, and she pulled her hand back. ‘I’ll be very gentle.’

  He grunted. ‘Not a pretty sight.’

  ‘I’m used to that. Hold still.’

  Very carefully she unwound the dirty linen, so stained in blood that she suspected it had been re-used from another patient. The blood was coming from a deep groove on the right side of the head, where a musket ball or piece of grapeshot must have ploughed into the skull, perhaps lodging there.

  She wiped with a sponge to get a clearer look. ‘What caused this?’

  ‘Musket.’

  ‘Is the ball still inside?’

  He shook his head. ‘Surgeon took it out.’

  ‘Listen, I’m going to get a doctor. I should be back in twenty minutes.’

  He nodded, and she called a maid over to apply a clean bandage.

  An assistant surgeon named Lebrun was touring external wards. Elizabeth caught up with him at one of the largest venues, a count’s coach house, and he agreed to pass by as soon as he was finished there.

  She returned at leisure, enjoying the fresh air—a welcome change from the disgusting smells of the ward. Her first thought had been to send a servant, but she was glad now that she had come herself. The original motive had been practical: she believed her personal plea would yield a quicker response. Escaping the stables, even for a few minutes, was icing on the cake.

  By the time she had reviewed the other new cases, Monsieur Lebrun arrived, with an orderly. Elizabeth sat with Wickham, trying to divert him with gossip from Jane’s letters, while Lebrun examined another patient. Finally Lebrun came over and spoke to Wickham.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Dizzy. Sick.’

  ‘Can you recall where you fell?’

  ‘Only what I was told. Later.’

  Lebrun raised fingers. ‘How many?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘You recognised Miss Bennet straight away?’

  He nodded, eyes losing focus as he submitted to the surgeon’s examination.

  Lebrun drew Elizabeth aside and lowered his voice. ‘I think with good care he should pull through. He must lie still, and sleep as much as possible, to conserve energy. As you see, there is a hole and some cracking in the skull. This can be repaired later by fitting a silver plate.’

  She found Darcy in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s office, writing letters. In a trembling voice, fearing his reaction, she told him what had happened.

  He received the news in silence, a deep frown suggesting either that he was dismayed, or simply thinking: she could not tell which.

  Eventually he asked, ‘What level of care is he receiving at present?’

  ‘Rudimentary.’

  ‘Then we should intervene. Whatever we may think of Mr Wickham, he is your sister’s husband, and has by all accounts fought bravely. Can you take me to him?’

  She hesitated. ‘I think he fears you.’

  ‘That is one reason I would like to see him.’

  As they walked the short distance to Rue du Lombard, she asked Darcy about his desk work.

  ‘I’ve been writing letters for families of those who fell in the 52nd. So far we have the names of 38 officers and men.’

  She thought of the hundreds of men she had treated. ‘It sounds a large number, but perhaps it is not.’

  ‘That is correct. In a regiment of over a thousand men our casualties were relatively light, since the 52nd took the field later in the battle.’

  ‘What can you say to the families?’

  ‘We express regret, of course, but I have tried also to include details of what these men did, and how they died. I spent much of yesterday touring hospitals to talk with our wounded, to get their reports. Of course some editing is necessary. Then I take the letters to my cousin, who signs them.’

  Elizabeth observed as Darcy carried a stool to the bedside. Wickham, who had been dozing, opened an eye, and flinched.

  ‘So, George.’ Darcy spoke gently. ‘We meet again.’

  ‘It was just a dance,’ Wickham muttered.

  Darcy smiled. ‘I hardly expected you of all people to turn up in Brussels.’

  ‘Like the proverbial bad penny …’

  Elizabeth stepped forward, encouraged by Wickham’s fluency—perhaps he was recovering from the pounding in the wagon. ‘I was glad to dance with Mr Wickham, and his behaviour was gentlemanlike.’

  ‘Hear that, Darcy?’ Wickham looked away, reddening, and muttered, ‘What’s the use? You’ll never give me a fair chance.’

  Darcy snorted. ‘Fair chance? Who paid compensation when you renounced the living? Who arranged your marriage and paid off your debts? Who did all this and more, despite your abuse of … my family?’ Darcy held up a palm, forestalling objections. ‘You know, in your heart, that all this is so. But one more thing needs to be said. What you do not know is that just before the battle was decided, I found myself on the hill above the chateau, and saw the French infantry climbing to the ridge where you and your comrades were hiding. Of course I could not identify individuals, but I spoke later to a man in your platoon who confirmed that you were there. I watched as you and your comrades rose, formed into lines, and poured round after round into the French ranks, keeping your discipline even as they returned fire. It was the bravest action I ever saw, and quite possibly turned the battle.’

  Wickham stared at him. After a long silence, he cleared his throat and said in a creaking voice, ‘I cannot remember any of it.’

  ‘You fell, but only after standing your ground for four or five rounds, and downing several of the enemy.’

  Elizabeth had expected Wickham to gloat at receiving such praise, from such a source, but instead he scowled, as if ashamed at his own heroism. ‘We had no choice.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘They shoot runaways.’

  Darcy touched his arm. ‘Come, George, accept that for once you acted honourably, and let us discuss what is to be done. Miss Bennet and I are lodged nearby with a family that has taken in a number of patients, including my cousin. I believe that you would be more comfortable there, and receive superior treatment. If you agree, I will ask for you to be moved.’

  Wickham looked anxiously at Elizabeth, as if seeking confirmation that this could be true.

  ‘It will be best,’ she said. ‘We can arrange it.’

  His face softened. ‘Then I am in your debt.’

  53

  Monday 26th June

  Darcy rode south, paying a final visit to the village of Merbe Braine. Burgess had left with the carriage earlier in the morning, with instructions to wait there. Bef
ore closing down the operation, Darcy wanted to ensure that all patients had been transferred to the city—excepting those who could not safely be moved.

  The huge task of clearing up after the battle was continuing. By comparing statistics with officers from other regiments, they estimated British losses as 3000 dead and 10000 wounded; another 2000 were unaccounted. These casualties added up to a quarter of Wellington’s army; the other three-quarters were now advancing on Paris. Bonaparte was still at large, but it was rumoured that he would shortly abdicate and go into hiding. All coalition armies, including the Prussians and Dutch, were now occupied with the invasion of France, leaving it to the Walloons to cope with the aftermath of the battle.

  Convoys of wounded still came from the field hospital at Mont St Jean, keeping Lorraine de Crécy and Elizabeth busy until late into the evening. However, the days of two or three hours sleep were over. More and more wards had been set up in private houses; servants had been trained in simple nursing; surgeons had come from Antwerp, Mons and Ghent. Elizabeth had recovered her strength, and performed the daunting work calmly. Late at night, sipping brandy with the de Crécys, she looked fulfilled, even radiant. Their conversation too had changed. There was no sarcasm, quarrelling, or teasing, and only sporadic flashes of wit or erudition. It was as if, now that they had genuinely important things to say, they had less need for these embellishments—just as wholesome food had less need for spice. Nobody needed to be clever, personalities retreated into the background, and they simply talked.

  The patients, too, were on the mend. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s concussion had passed, except for a slight headache, and his wound was clearing up after a course with maggots. Wickham had been moved to a small bed in the Vicomte’s box room, and examined by a specialist in head injuries. The treatment was simply to lie still, so that the skull could re-knit, then affix a plate. The physician removed a few fragments of bone with tweezers. Without a deep cut there was no call for leeches; a little honey was smeared on, to reduce festering, and a clean bandage applied. Of course with Wickham there would be problems. Often bored, he did his best to charm the maids, and pester the footmen into playing cards; luckily, he passed much of the day asleep.