Harlequin Historical February 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  The man handed her a canteen. ‘Have some water.’

  She accepted it gratefully and drank her fill while he opened the chest and lifted out knives, scalpels and saws with plenty of spare blades. She finally understood. He was the surgeon.

  She handed the canteen back to him. ‘I should be going,’ she said.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked.

  ‘Back to Brussels.’ She’d been delayed long enough.

  ‘Brussels?’ His brows rose. ‘How will you get there? It’s easily twelve miles.’

  She shrugged. ‘Walk, I suppose.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Stay. Help me. My men are not here yet and I need help. If you stay, I’ll let you ride to Brussels with the first wagon of wounded.’

  She’d promised Rhys, though. The sun was high in the sky. Nearly noon, she guessed. She should be in Brussels.

  A loud boom sounded. Helene jumped.

  Cannon fire.

  ‘It’s started,’ the surgeon said. ‘Napoleon fired the first shot.’

  In no time the boom was repeated over and over as more cannon shot their balls towards the waiting Allies, and the Allied guns returned fire.

  Drums pounded. Trumpets blared. Shouts of ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ could be heard even from this distance. It was terrifying and Helene froze, not knowing what to do.

  The man’s helpers arrived, but so did wounded soldiers, carried in by men in their regiment’s band. One with his arm torn off. Another bleeding from his abdomen. Another dragging a shattered foot. The surgeon flew into action, barking orders to his helpers and to her.

  ‘Do what you can to stop the bleeding,’ he yelled. ‘Send me the worst ones first.’

  Helene shut off the part of her that wanted to weep for the men and did as he asked. As more wounded men poured in, she forgot about leaving for Brussels. She cut off trouser legs or removed coats so she could bind up bleeding wounds. She gave men sips of water or spirits while the worst of them screamed in pain. She watched the surgeon cut off limbs and throw them into a pile.

  The cannonade continued relentlessly for at least an hour then it suddenly stopped. In its place came a distinctive drumbeat.

  ‘What is happening now?’ she asked.

  ‘Infantry attack,’ replied one of the injured men. ‘That’s the pas de charge. Supposed to scare us. Takes more than that—’ He coughed up blood.

  Would this infantry attack Rhys’s regiment? Helene wondered. Where was Rhys now? What was happening to him?

  She swallowed a sob. She could not think about Rhys right now. The wounded men needed her.

  * * *

  Rhys’s regiment was held in reserve so he was free to ride through the battlefield, watching the attacks, learning what he could about the strengths and weaknesses of the French. He watched the French infantry march towards the Allied line in one massive column of men twenty-four ranks deep and one hundred and fifty wide. They were meant to frighten and they did indeed look like a formidable sight, but Rhys knew the formation’s vulnerability. Hit the front ranks with a cannonball and the ball was likely to cut through the rest, like a game of skittles. The Allied guns were pouring shot into the valley and the approaching column.

  It was all too much for a brigade of Belgian soldiers. They turned and ran, disappearing into the forest behind the ridge.

  While rifles shot at the column from the hedges, Picton’s Scottish infantry rose up at just the right moment, surprising the column with round after round of musket fire. A moment later a musket ball pierced Picton’s temple. Picton fell against his horse, dead instantly.

  But soon after the imposing French column had endured enough of cannon, musket and rifle fire. The French soldiers broke and ran. Rhys cheered when he saw the British cavalry chase them, a perfect rout.

  He raised himself in his saddle as he saw a rider charging with the cavalry.

  It was David.

  * * *

  David revelled in riding with the Duke of Wellington alongside the Duke of Richmond and William. After Wellington parted with them, David and William stayed with William’s father to explore the whole of the battlefield. This was ten times better than watching from some distant hill, which was the best David had hoped for. He was right in the thick of things.

  His heart soared when the cavalry began their charge. Two thousand horsemen. What a magnificent sight. The Guards regiments, the Royal dragoons, Scots Greys and Inniskilling dragoons charged towards the scattering French infantry. This was glory! This was not to be missed! David spurred his horse to join the charge.

  William shouted at him. ‘Come back! Come back!’

  David did not heed him.

  Nothing could be more exhilarating than galloping along with these flamboyantly uniformed cavalrymen. David relished the sight of the panicking Frenchmen—until he saw some beg for their lives only to be thrust through by a sabre. The dragoons at first looked dashing with their sabres shining under the bright sun, but those sabres drew blood and the French soldiers screamed in agony as they died.

  David rode so far with the cavalry that he reached the enemy’s guns, but by this time he wanted to go back. He did not wish to see the gunners being slaughtered. Or to see the grins on the faces of some of the cavalrymen caught up in blood lust. He wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

  At last the horses began to tire and the cavalry turned back. David turned back with them.

  Then came a terrifying sight. French cuirassiers and lancers, thousands of them, with their sparkling breastplates and brass helmets, galloping straight for them. In seconds they surrounded David and the British cavalry who were desperately trying to fight them off. Trembling with fear, David clung to his horse’s neck and wailed in fear.

  A cuirassier charged up to him, his eyes red and bugged, his yellow teeth bared. The Frenchman raised his sword. David screamed as the sword came down on him, knocking him from his horse. He landed on the ground and rolled as horse’s hooves trampled over him.

  Pain enveloped him. And then everything went black.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Rhys witnessed the horror of the French cavalry decimating the British Guards and dragoons who were too caught up in their moment of success to hear the call to retreat. He had to turn away and ride back to his regiment knowing David was among them. He ought to have impressed even stronger on that foolish boy that the battle was no place for him. His stomach clenched. Would he have to deliver the news to Helene that her brother lost his life? Odds were not great for him to have survived.

  By the time he reached his company, the artillery barrage resumed and his men all lay flat on the ground so they were not visible to the French observers on the opposite ridge. His men had not been involved in the first infantry attack, but more was coming. The air filled with smoke from the guns, the cries of the wounded and the scent of powder.

  His men looked at him with impatience, as occasional cannonballs rolled and bounced into their ranks killing or maiming at random and they were ordered to do nothing to retaliate.

  ‘Stay firm,’ Rhys told them. ‘Your time will come.’

  It came sooner than he thought and in a manner he could only describe as bizarre. Instead of an infantry attack, thousands of French cavalry appeared over the ridge. The Allied infantry immediately formed square, a formation largely impenetrable by cavalry. The front line of men crouched on to their knees and leaned their muskets, with bayonets attached, out. The second line and third lines fired volleys of musket balls. Cavalry horses would not charge the bayonets and the musket fire felled many a cavalry man. If any were able to fire into the square, the injured or dead were pulled inside and the ranks closed up the spot.

  The cavalry charged again and again. Rhys, in the middle of the square, yelled his orders, ‘Present! Fire! Close ranks!’ until his voice was hoarse. When he could spare a second, he gla
nced over at Grant’s company and was reassured to see his friend still mounted on his horse, barking the same orders.

  * * *

  The cavalry charges eventually ceased, and some of his men sank down into what had once been a field of rye to rest. Others carried the dead and wounded to the rear. Rhys figured it to be late afternoon, but time seemed to move differently in a battle. He took the chance to drink some water. Grant rode over and Rhys shared his canteen with him.

  ‘Do you know the time?’ Rhys asked.

  Grant took his timepiece from a pocket. ‘Five.’ He put it back. ‘How did you fare?’

  Rhys rubbed his sweating face with his sleeve. ‘Not too bad from the cavalry. The artillery weakened us, though.’

  Grant nodded. ‘Never took the French to be such fools. Using cavalry against squares.’

  The ground was littered with the French casualties.

  The French artillery resumed and Grant rode back to his company.

  Rhys’s men were hot and tired and the cavalry attack had shaken them.

  ‘You got more of them than they got of us,’ Rhys told the men. ‘Stay firm. We’ll get through this.’

  But the cannon fire kept picking them off, weakening their numbers.

  A second attack from the French infantry, though completely repulsed, weakened them further. The day was advancing and it looked to Rhys as though the Prussians were not going to come to their aid.

  But finally word came that the Prussians were spotted. The tide of the battle turned and the men rallied. When Napoleon released his Imperial Guards, his best, most seasoned soldiers, the British regiments were more than ready for them. They cheered when these elite troops broke ranks and ran.

  It was the end, Rhys realised. The Allies had won.

  * * *

  For Helene time passed not with minutes or hours, but with the numbers of wounded. As more men appeared needing help, more help also arrived. Other women came to render assistance and soldiers with relatively minor wounds. Helene’s day was a blur of bandaging wounds, providing drink, holding the hands of the dying.

  The surgeon—she still did not know his name—sawed off limb after limb, dug out countless musket balls, sewed up many wounds. The limbs piled up as did the number of dead. Blood pooled at their feet and Helene’s boots were soaked through. She did what needed to be done, though, not allowing herself to think about it, or, God knew, not allowing herself any emotions. Especially picturing Rhys as one of the countless wounded. Or piled up dead. It was like being caught in a nightmare.

  She’d long ago lost track of her brother’s caped coat, and she could not remember when her hat had fallen to the ground and rolled away. She had not bothered to chase after it. Eventually her hair came loose of its pins. She tried to pin it back up, but only succeeded in lacing it with blood. She tried not to let her exhaustion stop her from tending to the endless numbers of wounded men. She simply did what was necessary.

  The sun dipped lower in the sky, providing some relief from the heat, but the sounds of the battle continued, mingling with the cries and moans of the wounded. All of a sudden, a new sound reached her ears. She and everyone else looked up from what they were doing.

  Cheers. Loud cheers. Too close to be the enemy. The cheers came from the Allies.

  One of the wounded men tried to sit up. ‘That’s the end of it!’ he cried. ‘He’s done it. Wellington’s beat Napoleon!’

  That did not stop the wounded from appearing, so Helene continued to work, until she thought she could not stay on her feet another minute. She took a small break to lean her weary muscles against the barn wall. The surgeon walked past her and turned back to give her a puzzled look.

  He walked over to her. ‘So, you are not a boy.’

  She waved a hand. ‘It is too much to explain.’

  He put his blood-caked hand on her shoulder. ‘You’ve done enough. Find the next wagon to Brussels and be on it. And know that you saved lives today.’

  He walked briskly away. To lob off more arms and legs, she supposed.

  She looked down on the ground and would have laughed if she’d been able. There was David’s caped coat lying against the barn wall. She picked it up and carried it over to a wounded man whose uniform had been torn to pieces. She laid the coat over him.

  Nearby men were being lifted into a wagon, but she had no energy to climb on it. She was not certain she could bear to see another bleeding wound, another shattered bone. Instead she decided to return to the farm building where she, Rhys, Grant and their batmen had spent the night. She did not suppose Rhys and the others would return there. She did not know what happened after a battle, but she knew it was shelter and all she wished was to lie down and sleep.

  The sky was still light enough that she easily found the farm building, after walking past soldiers here and there, just sitting in the grass, too weary to pay her any mind. When she neared the building, she was as grateful as if she’d been on the threshold of Carlton House, the Prince Regent’s London palace.

  The door opened and Rhys stepped outside. He was in shirtsleeves and shook out his uniform coat. He turned as she approached and watched her as if witnessing an apparition.

  ‘Rhys.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper. When she came close enough, she reached out to touch him. ‘Are you alive? Are you really alive?’

  Her whole body began to shake and the day’s worth of unshed tears burst from her. He took her in his arms and held her while she sobbed. She cried in relief and gratitude. He was alive! She cried for all the men who died and all who were wounded and maimed whose lives would never be the same again. She cried for herself, for all that she’d seen and heard that day that she would never be able to forget.

  * * *

  Rhys held her close while her body shook with sobs. ‘Helene. Helene.’

  He’d not entirely believed this was Helene in his arms. What had happened to her? She was covered in blood.

  He looked down on her. ‘Are you injured?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just. Tired.’

  He wanted to ask why she was covered in blood, why was she not safely in Brussels, but he’d wait. She was in no condition to explain anything now.

  He lifted her in his arms and carried her inside.

  Grant immediately stood. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Helene.’ Rhys called to the batmen, ‘Bring her something to drink.’

  Rossiter brought some water. Smith laid a blanket on the floor for her. Rhys lowered her to it. She sat and drank a whole tin cup of water.

  She looked up at Rhys. ‘S-sorry, Rhys. T-tried to leave. C-couldn’t find my horse. The—the surgeon needed help…’

  ‘Surgeon?’ The blood now made sense.

  Even her boots were stained with blood. He pulled them off her feet. Her stockings were red, too. Smith brought over a basin and rag. Rhys rinsed off her face and arms and hands. She let him minister to her as if she were a child’s doll. She needed clean clothes to wear. Grant brought a clean shirt. That would have to do. The other men gave them privacy as Rhys peeled off her bloody clothes and dressed her in the clean shirt, which reached her knees. He handed the bloody clothes to Smith.

  ‘I’ll clean them,’ Smith said.

  Helene, no longer racked with weeping, lay down on the blanket. ‘Just want to sleep now,’ she murmured, but she reached for Rhys’s hand. ‘You are alive. You all are alive.’ She closed her eyes.

  Rhys placed his cloak, all folded up and now dry, under her head as a pillow. The rain seemed so long ago. He covered her with another blanket. She fell asleep instantly.

  ‘Does she know about her brother?’ Grant asked.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Rhys looked down at her. ‘I’ll have to tell her tomorrow.’

  * * *

  The next morning Helene woke to the scent of ham frying in a pan and tea stee
ping. For a moment she thought she was back at Yarford House and that her maid had brought breakfast to her room. Then her aching muscles felt the cold hard ground beneath her. She sat up.

  It took another moment to realise she was in the farm building. She brushed a hand through her hair, but her fingers caught in its tangles and the memory of the day before came rushing back.

  She gasped and buried her head in her hands.

  Suddenly someone was next to her. She looked up.

  Rhys.

  He lowered himself to the floor and stroked her face. ‘You are awake. We have breakfast for you.’

  She reached for an embrace. ‘Rhys,’ she murmured. ‘You did not die. So many others…’

  He held her. ‘We are all alive and unhurt. Grant and Rossiter and Smith. We are all here.’

  ‘Morning, miss!’ Rossiter called.

  The three men came into her view, all smiling.

  ‘Good morning, Lady Helene,’ Grant said.

  She stood and hugged each of them. ‘I am so glad to see you. So glad to see you.’

  While tending the wounded, hearing their screams, holding hands of the dying, she’d not allowed herself to think of Rhys or these other dear men, but, now, seeing them, touching them, she knew the fear had been there all along. The fear of death.

  ‘Are you ready for some breakfast, miss?’ Smith grinned at her.

  She returned his smile. ‘I am famished!’

  ‘Stay right as you are.’ Smith gestured for her to sit. ‘Rossiter and I will bring it to you.’

  Rhys and Grant sat with her as the batmen readied their plates and brought tea.

  She gazed at the tin cup before she took a sip, remembering it from before the battle, as if it were some relic from a distant time. She also remembered she’d broken her promise to Rhys.

  She lifted her gaze to him. ‘I tried to keep my promise to you. I tried to leave, but my horse disappeared—’

  He lifted a hand. ‘You told us last night.’

  ‘Did I?’ She blinked. ‘I don’t remember. I don’t remember much after walking away from the…’ She did not know what to call it. The place of death and dying?