“I pray our fortunes turn quickly.” She shivered at the thought. They arrived at the house her father had leased and the servants came out to help her and the sergeant move the men inside. Beds had been made up ready in the drawing room. Thankfully, the servants were amenable to helping her.
Each patient was given a sponge bath and made as comfortable as possible with water to drink and medicine for the pain when necessary. There was little else she could do for them until the fevers began. She very much doubted infection could be avoided, given the condition of the men, for it would take more than a good soaking to remove all of the mud, blood and smoke from them.
Lady Amelia arrived not much later with another cart full of patients and a couple of assistants who were also military wives.
“I brought some more help with me. I hope you do not mind.”
“Not at all. I hope you are taking care of yourself,” Bridget remembered to remind her. They were both dirty and bloody. Bridget knew she had scarcely stopped to think of herself, and Lady Amelia was not used to this.
“Have you received any word?” Bridget asked, purposely keeping the question vague.
“I saw Lieutenant O’Neill not long after you left the gate and he said it is unbelievably horrid. He said it is not a sure thing at all. If the reinforcements do not arrive, he does not know what will happen.”
Bridget felt a tightness in her throat which she could not afford to give into. She knew that it could well be a couple of days before she saw her father and brother again. She could not fret. At least Lieutenant O’Neill had been whole not long ago.
The battle still raged on as she could hear the guns booming in the distance. Lifting her chin, she determined to continue to fight for these poor souls as if they were her own father or brother… or heart.
Chapter 5
Tobin had never seen anything like this. He had thought nothing could be worse than Badajoz, but the carnage was unfathomable. When there was an occasional break in the fog and smoke, all that could be seen were thousands upon thousands of human bodies and horses, lying mangled atop each other in mud and blood. It was hard not to be out there fighting, to watch his brethren struggle while he rode in and out with messages from general to general.
Then, when it appeared there was nowhere left to fight, another charge would come over what looked to be impossible terrain. Late in the afternoon there was a break in the fighting and it seemed impossible to go on. It was sweltering in the heat and humidity, and almost unmanageable to breathe with the thick smoke from the cannon and the fires scorching his throat. The sun was already far into the west, and no one wanted to retreat and fight another day.
Tobin did not know how much longer their forces could last. They were decimated. They were hindered by the soft, wet ground, and the passage over the sunken roads littered with dead and wounded was becoming impassable. The cavalry was used up and most of the artillery was in bad shape, but they could not quit now. He rode on towards the east, hoping to receive news that reinforcements had come. A Prussian officer met him beyond the eastern front of the battle and passed over a dispatch, expressing urgency.
Finally, Tobin had a dispatch to run to Wellington that the Prussians were arriving. “Thank God,” he whispered, knowing that without the reinforcements, they would not win. He passed the 1st battalion and saw Miss Murphy’s father. The general hailed Tobin and asked for a report.
“I hope you have good news, Lieutenant,” he said.
“The Prussians have arrived at last,” Tobin replied, knowing he had been singled out by the general, but also conscious he was unable to stop for long.
“Thank God. We are about to make a charge to recapture La Haye Sainte,” he said to Tobin. “Please give Bridget my love.”
Tobin gave a nod and tipped his hat to the general. He must have known his fate, for moments after Tobin rode away, the battalion appeared to be ambushed by cannon fire. Later, it was said they fought dead in a square, but they had held their ground. Only one officer survived, and he was not General Murphy.
Tobin rode on to find Wellington in the thick of the fight, as usual, encouraging his troops to rally for a final stand.
Tobin delivered the long-awaited news, and Wellington sent him on to spread the word to the other commanders so they could rouse the troops for one more push. The cavalry was making a charge to recapture the farm in support of the battalion General Murphy was leading. Tobin saw his former brethren James and Colin and spoke to them quickly before they received the signal to go.
“Thackeray took a bullet in the leg. He was taken to the sawbones,” James said.
“I will see if I can find him. The Prussians are here now, so, Lord willing, this will be over soon,” Tobin told them.
“Thank God. I do not know how much more we can take,” Colin said as they spurred their horses forward.
Tobin watched them go, wishing he were with them, and then rode west towards Château Hougoumont. On the way, he met up with Captain Murphy, who was passing in the opposite direction with his own reports to the commander.
He was about to return to Wellington when cannon shot exploded a few feet away. The blast threw him from his horse, its shrill neigh of fear ringing in his ears. He hit the ground hard, flat on his back, and in the same instant, Captain Murphy landed on top of him. The shock of the pain and weight winded him. Stunned, he lay there, dragging in stertorous breaths until his lungs eased. He wiggled his fingers and toes, and despite a searing pain in his head, realized he was alive and intact.
Murphy was a dead weight on top of him. “Murphy?”
No response.
“Murphy!” Tobin shouted.
There was still no response. Tobin felt Murphy’s head and neck, trying to find some sign of life. A sticky substance oozed out of the base of his neck onto Tobin’s glove.
“Oh, please, God, no. No!” Tobin shouted, rolling his comrade off him. He could not tell if he was done for yet, but he would be soon without help.
Tobin scrambled to his feet, looking around for the horses. Murphy’s horse was lying not far from where they had landed, writhing and screaming. The gelding had taken more of the shell than Murphy and Tobin had. He walked over to see if there was any hope, but the animal’s entire side had been ripped open.
“Ye poor beast.” Tobin felt his throat swell, knowing he must put the charger out of his misery. It hurt as much to see a horse fall as it did a human. He lifted his pistol, hand shaking, but gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger. “Forgive me, sir.”
He had to attend to Murphy without delay. Such was war. A soldier must go on.
Trojan had shied in the way of his kind, but was well enough trained to the rigours of battle not to have fled and stood, trembling, not twenty feet away. Tobin called Trojan to him and, spying another soldier nearby, summoned the man to help him with Captain Murphy. Tobin did his best to put pressure on the wound and bandage Murphy’s head with the medicaments he carried in his saddle-bags. With the soldier’s help, Tobin half lifted, half pushed the captain across Trojan’s saddle and then clambered up behind, holding the reins in one hand and clutching his comrade with the other.
Once he was mounted, although vaguely aware of the pains in his own body, he ignored them. Nothing was about to prevent Tobin doing his damnedest to save Murphy.
He directed Trojan to the nearest medical tent, but the sawbones took one look at Murphy’s wound and shook his head.
“There is naught I can do to save him, Lieutenant. I must help the ones who have a chance.”
Tobin knew he could not leave his friend to die alone. He could never forgive himself. Bridget would never forgive him.
Tobin could not find a wagon to transport his friend, yet neither could he leave Murphy slung over the back of his horse. He again mounted behind the fallen man and began the arduous trek back to Brussels. It was the longest ten miles of his life. He might not be able to save Murphy, but at least he could save him from dying alone and being
buried in a mass grave. And, miracles could happen—not that Tobin had ever seen any, nor expected to after this day.
They passed hundreds of soldiers trying to make their way back to Brussels. Bodies littered the road all the way to the gate of the city. Murphy had not regained consciousness and Tobin himself was beginning to feel weak. He was aware of pain in places he had not realized before due to the rush of trying to save Murphy. When he pulled Trojan to a halt in front of the house on the Rue de Loi, Tobin nearly fainted with relief when Miss Murphy and Lady Amelia rushed out to help him.
“We made it here, then,” he said to her, even though he was not sure they had at all.
“Yes, Lieutenant O’Neill, you made it here. We have you now.”
Servants took over and carried Captain Murphy into one of the rooms in the house. He stood by as he watched sister tend to brother with amazing stoicism. Most ladies would have swooned on the street outside.
Apparently, Murphy had survived the ride back to town. Miss Murphy had re-bandaged his head and was watching him lying in the bed. She looked helpless and Tobin wanted to comfort her, but knew he must return to his duty. He walked forward and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I must return now.”
She turned to look at him, huge tears pooling in her eyes. “But you are wounded!” she said, as though she had just seen him.
“’Tis nothing that cannot be seen to later, lass.”
She looked him over, eyes wide. “What happened?”
“A cannon ball hit a few feet away from us and knocked us off our mounts. I probably have a few pieces in me you may dig out later,” he said, forcing a half smile.
“You must let me attend to some of those now. Wellington will understand.”
Tobin submitted to her ministrations, knowing she needed to do this for him.
Using her surgical tools, she pulled out three large pieces of shrapnel from his leg and one from his head he had not known he had been hit with. She then cleansed each area with strong spirits causing him to curse loudly in Gaelic, but of course, she knew what he was saying and only clicked her tongue at him. She stitched him up and re-bandaged his wounds.
“I cannot convince you to stay?” She stared up at him and his heart ached for her.
“I would if I could, mo álainn.”
“Thank you for bringing him to me.”
Tobin did not have the heart to tell her about her father yet. What a severe blow the loss of both her family members would be to her.
He bent his head and kissed her on the cheek. “I will return when I can.”
“I consider that a promise,” she whispered.
Tobin found Trojan and remounted as the sun was beginning to fall, ignoring the searing pain in his head. He rode through the forest to the battlefield, praying the surge of the Prussians would be enough. The alternative was unthinkable.
When Lieutenant O’Neill had not come back, Bridget fretted. Why? What could have kept him from fulfilling his promise? Please, God, let him not have been hurt again or be suffering from the injuries he had already sustained. She glanced at the bracket clock above the fireplace. It was after midnight; he probably would not come that night now.
She looked at her brother lying on the bed, still unconscious and barely alive. Bridget knew in her heart that the chances of Patrick’s recovery were almost nil but she would not give up on him. It was a miracle he was not already dead. If Lieutenant O’Neill had not been there when it happened, he would have died on the battlefield.
The house was already packed with wounded men, as was the one next door. Every bed, sofa, chair and available space on the floor was covered with ailing soldiers. Many of them would not see daylight again, but Bridget would not let them die alone. She would hold their hands and speak loving words to them as they passed on to the afterlife. The first day following a battle was always the hardest. Thankfully, she had a few people to help her so they could take turns to rest. She also needed the male servants’ brawn to help change the men who could not see to themselves.
If only she had some news! Perhaps she could slip next door, once she had made the rounds again and ensured everyone was comfortable or as comfortable as it was in her power to make them. Thank God the Duke of Waverley had helped gather supplies and medicaments, or she never would have had enough. Even in her worst nightmares, she could not have foreseen this carnage and she knew the patients she had were only a fraction of what must be innumerable loss. Every house from here to Waterloo was probably full of wounded.
She kissed Patrick on the forehead and went to check how everyone else did. Most of what could be done had been done and the patients were resting, if restlessly. Two of the helpers were nodding off in chairs, for which Bridget was grateful. There had been hours and hours of tireless work that day.
As she checked two of the more severe cases that had been brought to her by the field doctor, she found they had already passed away. Bridget closed their eyes and said a prayer for them. She would have their bodies laid out in the morning. There would probably be more.
Three soldiers were awake and groaning in pain, so Bridget dosed them with laudanum and made them as comfortable as possible.
When everyone was in as good an order as she could make them, she slipped out of the house to see how Amelia was faring.
The entrance door of the Waverley house was unlocked, and Bridget saw there were as many men quartered there as in her own house, the stench and groans of pain the same. She walked through the rooms, soothing them as she had just done next door. When she went upstairs, she found Amelia with Captain Elliot. Thank God he appeared to be unharmed.
“Forgive my intrusion,” Bridget said. “I wanted to see if you needed anything, or required any assistance.”
Captain Elliot looked at her with pain in his eyes, as though he had been to Hell and back. He probably had.
“Napoleon is defeated,” he replied, “though at a very high price.”
“Thank God it is over at least. Are you injured?” she asked him.
“Only a few scratches.”
“He feels guilty,” Amelia explained.
“So many men died. I have lost another one of my friends, too.” He choked on his evident grief and pressed his lips together.
Bridget’s heart skipped a beat and it must have shown on her face.
“Colin,” he said with difficulty. “He was shot right off his horse in front of me. Just like Peter was.” He shook his head. “And Thackeray took a bullet in the leg. He is in the room next door. I have not yet seen James.”
“Lieutenant O’Neill?” she ventured. “Have you seen him? My brother is next door but I doubt he will survive. I have heard nothing of my father, either.”
“Oh, Bridget,” Amelia said, wrapping her arms around her. Bridget had remained calm so far, but could not prevent a few sobs escaping. When she had composed herself somewhat, Captain Elliot spoke again.
“When last I saw Tobin, he was searching the battlefield. He could be there for days. There were already looters out there.” Captain Elliot shook his head. “I must go back, but I wanted to reassure Amelia. I will try to send more help. I know Dr. Wheeler was planning on coming when he could get away.”
Bridget let out a sigh of relief. If Lieutenant O’Neill had been searching after the battle was over, at least he must be well enough for now. He would doubtless begin to feel the effects of his wounds—and probable infection—soon though, so she hoped he would not stay out all night, stubborn man that he was.
“I will visit Lord Thackeray before I leave. I will let you say your goodbyes in private.” Bridget forced a smile as she spoke.
She went into the next chamber and found the patient awake and trembling. “Lord Thackeray? It is Bridget Murphy. I do not know if you remember me. May I check your leg?”
He was looking at her but not really seeing her. He was in shock. She felt his brow and he was already burning with fever. It seemed too soon, but perhaps he had sus
tained the injury early on. She pulled back the covers and removed the bandage from the wound. It looked as though the surgeon had dug the bullet out, but little else. She would need to clean the wound well if he was to have any chance of survival. She packed the bandages back into the hole, covered him up and went in search of supplies.
“How is he?” Captain Elliott asked, meeting her in the hall on his way out.
“He is already raging with fever and the wound is dirty. I am going to get my surgical tools from next door.
“I will stay and help you then. You might need me to hold him.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
When she came back, Amelia and Captain Elliot were with Lord Thackeray. Amelia was bathing his forehead with damp cloths. Thackeray still wore that blank stare, his gaze centred somewhere over Amelia’s shoulder.
“Ready?” Bridget asked.
Captain Elliott gave her a sceptical look. She handed him a bottle of fine brandy. “Give him a good dose of this.”
While he poured some of the contents down the patient’s throat, she removed the packing she had put into the hole and began cleaning it as best she could, shaking her head at the lack of cleanliness. It was full of debris and pieces of the bullet which had splintered when it hit the bone. This man would be lucky if he did not lose his entire leg, she reflected, but she would do her best to prevent it.
After rinsing the area thoroughly and picking out all the pieces of shot she could see, she spoke to Captain Elliot and Amelia.
“You had better hold his upper body, Captain, and if you can, hold his legs, Amelia. He will not like this no matter how dazed he is.”
Slowly, she poured half of the bottle of brandy into the wound.
He roused from the stupor he was in with a string of colourful, choice words and fought Bridget, Amelia and Captain Elliot as though he were back on the battlefield. Snatching one arm free of Captain Elliot’s grasp, he flailed wildly and almost pushed Amelia across the room.
An Officer, Not a Gentleman Page 5
