The Year's Best SF 11 # 1993

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  George turned. There was a smile on his face. Mary watched him closely—the pulse was beating like d’Erlon’s drums in his throat, and his color was high. He was loving every second of this.

  He went on, describing the action, and against her will Mary found herself seeing it, Picton’s division lying in wait, prone on the reverse slope, George bringing the heavy cavalry up, the cannons banging away. Picton’s men rising, firing their volleys, following with the bayonet. The Highlanders screaming in Gaelic, their plumes nodding as they drew their long broadswords and plunged into the fight, the pipers playing “Johnnie Cope” amid all the screams and clatter. George leading the Household and Union Brigades against the enemy cavalry, the huge grain-fed English hunters driving back the chargers from Normandy. And then George falling on d’Erlon’s flanks, driving the French in a frightened mob all the way back across the valley while the British horsemen slashed at their backs. The French gunners of the grand battery unable to fire for fear of hitting their own men, and then dying themselves under the British sabres.

  Mary could sense as well the things George left out. The sound of steel grating on bone. Wails and moans of the wounded, the horrid challenging roars of the horses. And in the end, a valley filled with stillness, a carpet of bodies and pierced flesh …

  George gave a long sigh. “Our cavalry are brave, you know, far too brave for their own good. And the officers get their early training in steeplechases and the hunt, and their instinct is to ride straight at the objective at full gallop, which is absolutely the worst thing cavalry can ever do. After Slade led his command to disaster back in the Year Twelve, the Duke realized he could only commit cavalry at his peril. In Spain we finally trained the horse to maneuver and to make careful charges, but the Union and Household troops hadn’t been in the Peninsula, and didn’t know the drill.… I drove myself mad in the weeks before the battle, trying to beat the recall orders into them.” He laughed self-consciously. “My heart was in my mouth during the whole charge, I confess, less with fear of the enemy than with terror my own men would run mad. But they answered the trumpets, all but the Inniskillings, who wouldnae listen—the Irish blood was up—and while they ran off into the valley, the rest of us stayed in the grand battery. Sabred the gunners, drove off the limbers with the ready ammunition—and where we could we took the wheels off the guns, and rolled ’em back to our lines like boys with hoops. And the Inniskillings—” He shook his head. “They ran wild into the enemy lines, and Boney loosed his lancers at ’em, and they died almost to a man. I had to watch from the middle of the battery, with my officers begging to be let slip again and rescue their comrades, and I had to forbid it.”

  There were absolute tears in George’s eyes. Mary watched in fascination and wondered if this was a part of the performance, or whether he was genuinely affected—but then she saw that Bysshe’s eyes had misted over and Somerset was wiping his eyes with his one good sleeve. So, she thought, she could believe Byron, at least a little.

  “Well.” George cleared his throat, trying to control himself. “Well. We came back across the valley herding thousands of prisoners—and that charge proved the winning stroke. Boney attacked later, of course—all his heavy cavalry came knee-to-knee up the middle, between La Haie Sainte and Hougoumont,” gesturing to the left with one arm, “we had great guns and squares of infantry to hold them, and my heavies to counterattack. The Prussians were pressing the French at Plancenoit and Papelotte. Boney’s last throw of the dice sent the Old Guard across the valley after sunset, but our Guards under Maitland held them, and Colborne’s 52nd and the Belgian Chasseurs got round their flanks, and after they broke I let the Household and Union troopers have their head—we swept ’em away. Sabred and trampled Boney’s finest troops right in front of his eyes, all in revenge for the brave, mad Inniskillings—the only time his Guard ever failed in attack, and it marked the end of his reign. We were blown by the end of it, but Boney had nothing left to counterattack with. I knew he would flee. So I had a fresh horse brought up and went after him.”

  “So you won the battle of Waterloo!” said Claire.

  George gave her a modest look that, to Mary, seemed false as the very devil. “I was privileged to have a decisive part. But ’twas the Duke that won the battle. We all fought at his direction.”

  “But you captured Napoleon and ended the Empire!”

  He smiled. “That I did do, lassie, ay.”

  “Bravo!” Claire clapped her hands.

  Harry Smith glanced up with bright eyes. “D’ye know, George,” he said, “pleased as I am to hear this modest recitation of your accomplishments, I find precious little mention in your discourse of the infantry. I seem to remember fighting a few Frenchies myself, down Hougoumont way, with Reille’s whole corps marching down on us, and I believe I can recollect in my dim footsoldier’s mind that I stood all day under cannonshot and bursting mortar bombs, and that Kellerman’s heavy cavalry came wave after wave all afternoon, with the Old Guard afterward as a lagniappe…”

  “I am pleased that you had some little part,” George said, and bowed from his slim cavalry waist.

  “Your lordship’s condescension does you more credit than I can possibly express.” Returning the bow.

  George reached out and gave Smith’s ear an affectionate tweak. “May I continue my tale? And then we may travel to Captain Harry’s part of the battlefield, and he will remind us of whatever small role it was the footsoldiers played.”

  George went through the story of Napoleon’s capture again. It was the same, sentiment for sentiment, almost word for word. Mary wandered away, the fat moist grass turning the hem of her skirt green. Skylarks danced through the air, trilling as they went. She wandered by the old broken thorn hedge and saw wild roses blossoming in it, and she remembered the wild roses planted on her mother’s grave.

  She thought of George Gordon Noël with tears in his eyes, and the way the others had wanted to weep—even Bysshe, who hadn’t been there—and all for the loss of some Irishmen who, had they been crippled or out of uniform or begging for food or employment, these fine English officers would probably have turned into the street to starve …

  She looked up at the sound of footsteps. Harry Smith walked up and nodded pleasantly. “I believe I have heard George give this speech,” he said.

  “So have I. Does he give it often?”

  “Oh yes.” His voice dropped, imitated George’s limpid dramatics. “He’s finished. He’s done. There’s nothing left of him now.” Mary covered amusement with her hand. “Though the tale has improved somewhat since the first time,” Smith added. “In this poor infantryman’s opinion.”

  Mary gave him a careful look. “Is he all he seems to think he is?”

  Smith gave a thin smile. “Oh, ay. The greatest cavalryman of our time, to be sure. Without doubt a genius. Chevalier sans peur et—well, I won’t say sans reproche. Not quite.” His brow contracted as he gave careful thought to his next words. “He purchased his way up to colonel—that would be with Lady Newstead’s money—but since then he’s earned his spurs.”

  “He truly is talented, then.”

  “Truly. But of course he’s lucky, too. If Le Marchant hadn’t died at Salamanca, George wouldn’t have been able to get his heavy brigade, and if poor General Cotton hadn’t been shot by our own sentry George wouldn’t have got all the cavalry in time for Vitoria, and of course if Uxbridge hadn’t run off with Wellington’s sister-in-law then George might not have got command at Waterloo.… Young and without political influence as he is, he wouldn’t have kept all those commands for long if he hadn’t spent his every leave getting soused with that unspeakable hound the Prince of Wales. Ay, there’s been luck involved. But who won’t wish for luck in his life, eh?”

  “What if his runs out?”

  Smith gave this notion the same careful consideration. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “He’s fortune’s laddie, but that don’t mean he’s without character.”

 
“You surprise me, speaking of him so frankly.”

  “We’ve been friends since Spain. And nothing I say will matter in any case.” He smiled. “Besides, hardly anyone ever asks for my opinion.”

  The sound of Claire’s laughter and applause carried across the sward. Smith cocked an eye at the other party. “Boney’s at sword’s point, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Your turn for glory.”

  “Ay. If anyone will listen after George’s already won the battle.” He held out his arm and Mary took it. “You should meet my wife. Juanita—I met her in Spain at the storming of Badajoz. The troops were carrying away the loot, but I carried her away instead.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You have a certain spirit in common.”

  Mary felt flattered. “Thank you, Captain Smith. I’m honored by the comparison.”

  * * *

  They moved to another part of the battlefield. There was a picnic overlooking the château of Hougoumont that lay red-roofed in its valley next to a well-tended orchard. Part of the chateau had been destroyed in the battle, Smith reported, but it had been rebuilt since.

  Rebuilt, Mary thought, by owners enriched by battlefield loot.

  George called for his pistols and moved the cuirass a distance away, propping it up on a small slope with the helmet sitting on top. A servant brought the Mantons and loaded them, and while the others stood and watched, George aimed and fired. Claire clapped her hands and laughed, though there was no discernible effect. White gunsmoke drifted on the morning breeze. George presented his second pistol, paused to aim, fired again. There was a whining sound and a scar appeared on the shoulder of the cuirass. The other men laughed.

  “That cuirassier’s got you for sure!” Harry Smith said.

  “May I venture a shot?” Bysshe asked. George assented.

  One of George’s servants reloaded the pistols while George gave Bysshe instruction in shooting. “Hold the arm out straight and use the bead to aim.”

  “I like keeping the elbow bent a little,” Bysshe said. “Not tucked in like a duellist, but not locked, either.”

  Bysshe took effortless aim—Mary’s heart leaped at the grace of his movement—then Bysshe paused an instant and fired. There was a thunking sound and a hole appeared in the French breastplate, directly over the heart.

  “Luck!” George said.

  “Yes!” Claire said. “Purest luck!”

  “Not so,” Bysshe said easily. “Observe the plume holder.” He presented the other pistol, took briefest aim, fired. With a little whine the helmet’s metal plume holder took flight and whipped spinning through the air. Claire applauded and gave a cheer.

  Mary smelled powder on the gentle morning wind.

  Bysshe returned the pistols to George. “Fine weapons,” he said, “though I prefer an octagonal barrel, as you can sight along the top.”

  George smiled thinly and said nothing.

  “Mr. Shelley,” said Somerset, “you have the makings of a soldier.”

  “I’ve always enjoyed a good shoot,” Bysshe said, “though of course I won’t fire at an animal. And as for soldiering, who knows what I might have been were I not exposed to Mr. Godwin’s political thought?”

  There was silence at this. Bysshe smiled at George. “You shouldn’t lock the elbow out,” he said. “That fashion, every little motion of the body transmits itself to the weapon. If you keep the elbow bent a bit, it forms a sort of a spring to absorb involuntary muscle tremors and you’ll have better control.” He looked at the others gaily. “It’s not for nothing I was an engineer!”

  George handed the pistols to his servant for loading. “We’ll fire another volley,” he said. His voice was curt.

  Mary watched George as the Mantons were loaded, as he presented each pistol—straight-armed—and fired again. One knocked the helmet off its perch, the other struck the breastplate at an angle and bounced off. The others laughed, and Mary could see a little muscle twitching in George’s cheek.

  “My turn, George,” said Harry Smith, and the pistols were recharged. His first shot threw up turf, but the second punched a hole in the cuirass. “There,” Smith said, “that should satisfy the Horse Guards that armor ain’t worth the weight.”

  Somerset took his turn, firing awkwardly with his one hand, and missed both shots.

  “Another volley,” George said.

  There was something unpleasant in his tone, and the others took hushed notice. The pistols were reloaded. George presented the first pistol at the target, and Mary could see how he was vibrating with passion, so taut his knuckles were white on the pistol-grip. His shots missed clean.

  “Bad luck, George,” Somerset said. His voice was calming. “Probably the bullets were deformed and didn’t fly right.”

  “Another volley,” said George.

  “We have an appointment in Brussels, George.”

  “It can wait.”

  The others drew aside and clustered together while George insisted on firing several more times. “What a troublesome fellow he is,” Smith muttered. Eventually George put some holes in the cuirass, collected it, and stalked to the coach, where he had the servants strap it to the rear so that he could have it sent to the Prince of Wales.

  Mary sat as far away from George as possible. George’s air of defiant petulance hung over the company as they started north on the Brussels road. But then Bysshe asked Claire to sing, and Claire’s high, sweet voice rose above the green countryside of Brabant, and by the end of the song everyone was smiling. Mary flashed Bysshe a look of gratitude.

  The talk turned to war again, battles and sieges and the dead, a long line of uniformed shadows, young, brave men who fell to the French, to accident, to camp fever. Mary had little to say on the subject that she hadn’t already offered, but she listened carefully, felt the soldiers’ sadness at the death of comrades, the rejoicing at victory, the satisfaction of a deadly, intricate job done well. The feelings expressed seemed fine, passionate, even a little exalted. Bysshe listened and spoke little, but gradually Mary began to feel that he was somehow included in this circle of men and that she was not—perhaps his expert pistol shooting had made him a part of this company.

  A female, of course. War was a fraternity only, though the suffering it caused made no distinction as to sex.

  “May I offer an observation?” Mary said.

  “Of course,” said Captain Austen.

  “I am struck by the passion you show when speaking of your comrades and your—shall I call it your craft?”

  “Please, Miss Godwin,” George said. “The enlisted men may have a craft, if you like. We are gentlemen, and have a profession.”

  “I intended no offense. But still—I couldn’t help but observe the fine feelings you show towards your comrades, and the attention you give to the details of your … profession.”

  George seemed pleased. “Ay. Didn’t I speak last night of war being full of its own kind of greatness?”

  “Greatness perhaps the greater,” Bysshe said, “by existing in contrast to war’s wretchedness.”

  “Precisely,” said George.

  “Ay,” Mary said, “but what struck me most was that you gentlemen showed such elevated passion when discussing war, such sensibility, high feeling, and utter conviction—more than I am accustomed to seeing from any … respectable males.” Harry Smith gave an uncomfortable laugh at this characterization.

  “Perhaps you gentlemen practice war,” Mary went on, “because it allows free play to your passions. You are free to feel, to exist at the highest pitch of emotion. Society does not normally permit this to its members—perhaps it must in order to make war attractive.”

  Bysshe listened to her in admiration. “Brava!” he cried. “War as the sole refuge of the passions—I think you have struck the thing exactly.”

  Smith and Somerset frowned, working through the notion. It was impossible to read Austen’s weathered countenance. But George shook his head wearily.

  “Mere stuff, I’m afraid
,” he said. “Your analysis shows an admirable ingenuity, Miss Godwin, but I’m afraid there’s no more place for passion on the battlefield than anywhere else. The poor Inniskillings had passion, but look what became of them.” He paused, shook his head again. “No, it’s drill and cold logic and a good eye for ground that wins the battles. In my line it’s not only my own sensibility that must be mastered, but those of hundreds of men and horses.”

  “Drill is meant to master the passions,” said Captain Austen. “For in a battle, the impulse, the overwhelming passion, is to run away. This impulse must be subdued.”

  Mary was incredulous. “You claim not to experience these elevated passions which you display so plainly?”

  George gave her the insolent, under-eyed look again. “All passions have their place, Miss Godwin. I reserve mine for the appropriate time.”

  Resentment snarled up Mary’s spine. “Weren’t those tears I saw standing in your eyes when you described the death of the Inniskillings? Do you claim that’s part of your drill?”

  George’s color brightened. “I didn’t shed those tears during the battle. At the time I was too busy damning those cursed Irishmen for the wild fools they were, and wishing I’d flogged more of them when I’d the chance.”

  “But wasn’t Bonaparte’s great success on account of his ability to inspire his soldiers and his nation?” Bysshe asked. “To raise their passions to a great pitch and conquer the world?”

  “And it was the uninspired, roguey English with their drill and discipline who put him back in his place,” George said. “Bonaparte should have saved the speeches and put his faith in the drill-square.”

  Somerset gave an amused laugh. “This conversation begins to sound like one of Mrs. West’s novels of Sense and Sensibility that were so popular in the Nineties,” he said. “I suppose you’re too young to recall them. A Gossip’s Story, and The Advantages of Education. My governess made me read them both.”

  Harry Smith looked at Captain Austen with glittering eyes. “In fact—” he began.