Once a Spy

by Putney, Mary Jo

  The regiment also suffered a number of casualties during that fight, particularly among the officers. Captain De Jong, the senior surviving officer of the Sixth, had been grateful when Simon had shown up to take command the day before.

  He was even more impressed by the fact that Simon and Jackson both had a working knowledge of Dutch as well as French. Simon and his batman had spent much of the previous day ambling around the regiment, creating bonds with soldiers and noncoms. The regiment was now settled into position, but waiting for the battle to begin was hard, damnably hard.

  De Jong had also been talking to his men, and he met Simon in the center of the infantry square by the company colors. The colors were a pair of banners that carried the flags of the Kingdom of the Netherlands and the Sixth regiment, and they were the visible signs of the regiment’s pride and honor. A regiment that lost its colors never recovered from the shame of it, so the banners were well guarded.

  Simon glanced along the Allied line of battle, saying to De Jong, “It’s an impressive sight, isn’t it? Flags and uniforms from half a dozen nations, not just the United Kingdom contingents from England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, but Dutch and Belgian units from the Netherlands. Hanover, Nassau, Brunswick. And we can hope that ten or twelve miles away, the Prussian army is marching to join us.”

  De Jong, an open-faced young blond man, followed Simon’s gaze and nodded thoughtfully. “I hadn’t really thought about it that way, but we’re part of a great enterprise, aren’t we?”

  “Shakespeare’s play Henry V has a line where the king is addressing his outnumbered troops just before the Battle of Agincourt,” Simon said softly. “He says something like ‘Gentlemen in England now abed/Shall think themselves accursed they were not here.’ On a day like today, it’s not just England, but all the Allied lands.”

  “It’s a noble sentiment,” De Jong said, his brow furrowed. “The words move me. But more of my mind is saying that I’d rather be at home abed with my wife!”

  Simon laughed. “So would I. But this is where I need to be.”

  “And I’m very glad of it, Colonel,” De Jong said more seriously. “After Quatre Bras, I can no longer say my men are raw troops, but one battle does not a seasoned soldier make.”

  “It’s a good start, though.” Simon nodded at the four rows of dark blue uniformed men that formed the sides of the square. “The Sixth and the other Dutch-Belgian troops fought bravely at Quatre Bras and saved the Allied army from disaster. Good men. You have a right to be proud of them.”

  “I am.” De Jong made a face. “But we’re militia. Most of the time I captain a fishing boat.”

  Simon smiled. “The world needs fishermen more than soldiers.”

  “I look forward to returning to fish herding rather than commanding men!” De Jong said fervently.

  KA-KA-KA-BOOOOOM!!!!!

  Their idle conversation shattered as the French cannon began blasting with thunderous power that shook the ground and numbed the ears. The soldiers of the Sixth flinched and some turned pale, but most looked glad that the battle was finally joined.

  A French cannonball landed menacingly a dozen yards in front of the square, bounced, then continued rolling toward the regiment. As one of Simon’s men moved curiously toward it, Simon ran forward, bellowing. “Out of the way! That cannonball can kill! Out of the way!”

  Startled, the troops in the path of the rolling ball scattered to the sides. His voice pitched to carry as far as possible despite the cannonade, Simon barked, “French gunners like to ‘graze’ cannonballs like this, firing low so they skip along the ground. They roll farther and do more damage than if they were launched higher. Pass the word on! Stay clear of any rolling cannonballs!”

  Impressed and unnerved, his soldiers did pass the warning on and they became adept at dodging the occasional cannonball. Despite their care, though, a couple of cannonballs struck the square, wounding and killing a dozen men. Simon had arranged with the regimental surgeon to set up a treatment area and in each platoon there were men designated to carry the wounded there for treatment. As the day continued, the treatment area grew larger and the square became smaller as men were wounded and pulled from formation.

  The attacks became progressively more lethal. A series of cavalry charges roared up the slope at the Allied lines. Heavy horses carrying cavalrymen were a terrifying sight to an infantryman on the ground, and once again Simon’s experience helped.

  “Don’t fall back!” he shouted. “Horses won’t charge into an infantry square. Hold your fire until the order comes, then aim for the horses!”

  Terrified but determined, the soldiers of the Sixth held their fire until the order came. Ready! Level! Fire!

  Muskets blasted, the air filled with the burning stench of black powder, horses screamed and crashed to the ground. The cavalry charge broke and the horses swerved around the square. The soldiers of the Sixth gave a whoop of triumph.

  That was the first charge. There were many more to come.

  As the most experienced soldiers, Simon and Jackson headed wherever the fighting was fiercest, wherever the men of the Sixth needed help or encouragement. Jackson’s weak hand was of no importance here. What mattered was his calm, his advice, the dark humor that made beleaguered soldiers laugh.

  Simon was grateful that Jackson had insisted on coming because on a day like this, the regiment needed all the strength and experience it could get. He’d been in enough battles to recognize how perilous the situation was. Outnumbered and outgunned, the Allied armies were close to the breaking point.

  But that didn’t mean they’d break. His teeth bared in what wasn’t a smile, Simon gave the order to fire and another cavalry charge broke on their infantry square.

  Nightfall was coming, unless eternal night came first.

  * * *

  Suzanne was growing adept at basic nursing, and she’d taken to carrying a notebook and pencil so she could record messages and addresses from wounded soldiers who feared they would never make it home.

  Most messages boiled down to “I love you.” Tears stung her eyes as she wrote the words down and swore the messages would be delivered.

  Lucas was amazing, ever-calm as he practiced his bonesetter art along with treating open wounds. Bones that were broken were set, and twice Maurice was sent to find more laths for splints and more lengths of bandage to hold the splints in place. Soldiers Lucas treated wouldn’t have to worry about bones healing crookedly. If they lived, they would heal straight and true.

  And the wounded kept coming. Their street infirmary was receiving men wounded earlier in the day, and they brought news of the fighting at the same time. As Suzanne patched a battered sergeant in a dark green Riflemen uniform, she asked, “How is it going, Sergeant?”

  “Bloody awful.” He flinched as she treated his wounded arm with gin. “Sorry, missus, but there ain’t any nice words strong enough. ‘Tis a nightmare, with more French than Allied troops. And they’re more experienced, and they’ve got more and better guns.”

  Trying not to show her fear, Suzanne started work on a bayonet slice across the sergeant’s cheek. “Are our troops retreating?”

  “Nay, we’re holding. Bloodied, battered, but holding.” The Rifleman sucked his breath in at the vicious sting of gin on his lacerated cheek. “If you’re sending up prayers for your man, pray that the bloody Prussians reach the field in time to help. Otherwise . . .”

  Suzanne drew in a slow, shaky breath. Pray for Simon, pray for the Prussians to arrive. She could do that.

  She would do that.

  * * *

  “The Prussians have arrived, the Prussians have arrived, the Prussians have arrived!” Word moved across the Allied lines, reinvigorating the battered troops. The balance of the battle changed as Prussian troops poured in from the east.

  The emperor played his last card by sending his Imperial Guards, the finest troops in Europe, who had never been defeated. Until this evening, when the tidal wave of the empire
broke on the steel of the British Guards regiments.

  The summer days were long, but even so, nightfall was only a couple of hours away when Wellington ordered a general advance, sweeping his dark cockade hat forward in a fierce command. Shouting with battle fever, the Allied armies advanced down the slope to meet the French head on. The battered Sixth rushed forward, raging to defeat the enemy once and for all.

  Simon and De Jong led the way, but the regiment scattered into smaller groups as it rushed forward. Some of the men became involved in hand-to-hand combat with clusters of stubbornly resisting French fighters. Other members of the regiment swooped deeper into the valley of death. Simon was in a high, wild state dictated by warrior’s instinct.

  That instinct drove him when a French heavy cavalryman thundered forward to ride De Jong down. The blond fisherman was doomed, until Simon lunged forward and drove his sword into the cavalryman. The rider fell off, mortally wounded, but Simon couldn’t avoid the steel-clad hooves of the great horse.

  He crashed to the ground, his vision dimming. Pain, numbness, falling. His last thought before tumbling into darkness was of Suzanne. Always in my heart . . .

  Chapter 43

  It was well into the evening when Suzanne wearily approached Lucas with a hunk of good local cheese. She broke it in half and offered him the larger chunk. “Eat, almost brother,” she said, her voice raw from so much talking. “We aren’t running out of patients and we need to keep up our strength.”

  He bit into the cheese as if it were an apple. She did the same, then swallowed hard as something vital twanged deep in her heart.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Simon! She stared at Lucas. “Simon. I’m sure something has happened to him. Dear God, Simon!”

  Lucas also froze for a long, agonized moment before he said, “I don’t think he’s dead. But he may be seriously wounded.”

  An injured soldier was limping toward Suzanne, but she waved him off. “Go to that woman over there—she’ll help you.” Suzanne wiped sweaty, bloodstained hands down her skirts. “I must find my husband!”

  This time the rescue party was Suzanne, Maurice, and Lucas, though they used the same cart as the day before. It was now stocked with medical supplies, blankets, and a basket of food and drink. Lucas drove the cart. Because they were armed, Maurice and Suzanne kept watch on all sides for any roving French soldiers or looters.

  The road was jammed and chaotic as wagonloads of the wounded lurched toward Brussels and desperate family members forced their way south. Lucas was an expert driver and the small cart could be maneuvered better than most through the teeming mass of vehicles.

  They had almost reached Waterloo when Suzanne spotted a familiar figure on horseback heading toward them. “Jackson!” she shouted as she waved frantically. “Edgar Jackson!”

  Seeing them, he kicked his horse faster and met the cart as Lucas pulled over on the verge. She called, “Jackson, where is Simon?”

  Looking ill, he said, “He was alive when I left him in surgery, but he was hurt bad, ma’am. I was coming to get you.”

  Maurice called, “The battle. Is it over?”

  “Aye, and we won! Blücher’s Prussians arrived after a brutal cross-country march. That turned the tide. The French army broke and is fleeing south as fast as they can go.”

  Victory was a relief, but a distant one compared to the urgency of reaching her husband. “Take us to Simon!” Suzanne demanded. “How was he wounded? How badly?”

  “He got trampled by a French heavy cavalry horse after he saved one of the officers of the Sixth. He’s got some sword slices and broken bones, but it’s the skull injuries that are the worst.”

  After that, there was no talk. A grim-faced Lucas pushed the cart and horses as fast as possible in such a crush of traffic. In a few days it would be the longest day of the year, but it was still near dark when they reached the village of Waterloo.

  Jackson led the way to one of the homes that had been commandeered by the surgeons. Suzanne tumbled from the cart and headed for the front door, shuddering at the sight of a pile of amputated limbs that had been tossed out an open window.

  Inside, she grabbed the arm of a blood-splattered orderly. “My husband, Colonel Duval! Where is he?”

  The orderly thought a moment, then gestured toward the back of the house. “He’s not a candidate for the cutting ward so he was taken into the dining room. Should be there if he’s still alive.”

  Heart pounding, she thanked the orderly as she pushed past him, praying Simon still breathed. She was dimly aware that Lucas and Jackson were behind her and guessed that Maurice was guarding the precious cart and riding horse.

  The dining room was lit by a single lantern and the air was thick with the scents of blood and injury. There, on the dining room table. Simon was stretched out on it, probably in deference to his rank. He looked like a carved image of a warrior saint, so still, so still....

  Suzanne picked her way through half a dozen other injured men to reach Simon. His uniform was torn and stained with blood and mud. Dear God, a huge hoof print was clearly visible on his lower left leg!

  “Simon?” she whispered. Then louder, “Simon?”

  He didn’t react. She caught his right hand and checked for a pulse while holding it. There was a thready beat, but she had the sense that Simon was far, far off, and could easily slip away entirely.

  Lucas joined her and began a quick examination with experienced hands. “He has a broken leg, a broken arm, probably some broken ribs. But the most dangerous injury is to the head.” Lucas delicately touched the blood-saturated hair. “Head injuries are the devil to diagnose and treat.”

  Suzanne knew that it was possible for a man to survive severe head injuries, but no longer be himself. That would surely be a fate worse than death. “Can we take him back to Brussels?”

  “I don’t know if he could survive the journey,” Lucas said painfully.

  “I saw what you did with Marie,” Suzanne said in a low, intense voice. “You’re a healer. Can’t you heal Simon?”

  “It doesn’t work like that!” Lucas said, his expression agonized. “Such miracles are rare and I can’t predict when one might happen. I can’t bear the thought of failing with Simon.”

  “And I can’t bear the thought of your giving up without trying!” Suzanne retorted. “Do your best, almost brother. If you fail, well, Simon and I won’t blame you. But I will never forgive you if you don’t try!”

  Lucas collected himself, becoming wrapped in stillness as he drew inward. Then he placed a light hand on each side of Simon’s head. Lucas’s eyes closed and his lips began to move in a silent prayer.

  Suzanne felt as if heat was building inside Lucas. On impulse, she covered his nearer hand with hers. Heat, healing, a power that flowed from Lucas. Was some of it being drawn from her? She felt dizzy and had to concentrate on staying upright and connected to Lucas.

  Silently Jackson covered Lucas’s other hand. The heat increased, creating an invisible light that filled Simon and spilled over them all.

  Simon drew a deep breath, coughed, and his eyes opened. Dazed, he breathed, “Suzanne?”

  She wanted to weep. “I’m here with Lucas and Jackson. You’ve been injured and we’re going to take you back to Brussels.”

  “The battle?”

  “Won, sir,” Jackson said. “When Blücher arrived with his Prussians, the battle turned our way. The French are fleeing in disarray.”

  “Good . . .” Simon’s eyes closed, but his breathing was strong.

  Relieved beyond words, Suzanne said, “Jackson, can you get a couple of orderlies with a litter to carry Colonel Duval out to the cart?”

  Jackson nodded and went in search of orderlies. Suzanne wondered if Lucas would also need to be carried out since he seemed so weak. She didn’t feel much stronger.

  But they both managed to make it outside to the cart, though Lucas moved like a sleepwalker. Suzanne swiftly spread two blankets on the floor of t
he cart, and the orderlies briskly laid Simon there. Suzanne ordered, “Lucas, you’re all done in. Lie down beside Simon.”

  Silently Lucas obeyed and Suzanne spread her last blanket over them both. Then Maurice turned the cart and they headed back to Brussels. Lucas’s hand rested on Simon’s the whole way, lending his strength to his almost brother.

  The miracle held, and Simon was still breathing when they reached the rue de Louvain in Brussels.

  * * *

  Heaven was a soft bed with a kitten purring in one ear and a sweetly scented female form on the other side. Simon hurt everywhere, but maybe his eyelids wouldn’t be so bad?

  Cautiously he opened his eyes. Yes, he was in his bedroom in Brussels with Leo to his left and Suzanne to his right. His left arm was bandaged. Splinted, even. His left leg was, too. But his right side worked, so he stretched out his right hand to pat Suzanne’s arm.

  She woke with a sleepy smile and reached up to touch his cheek. “Mon chéri,” she murmured. “Are you returning to the land of the living?”

  He blinked at her. “If I don’t, you’ll be a very wealthy widow.”

  Her smile turned mischievous. “Indeed, but I find you most useful in warming my bed. Leo tries, but he is only little.”

  “What day is this?”

  “June twentieth, two days after the battle. Which we won. You’ve been sleeping since we brought you back to Brussels. The Prussians and other Allied troops have chased the French army most of the way to Paris by now, I believe, and you can retire once more from active military duty.”

  “I like that idea.” He was beginning to feel stronger, more engaged with the idea of being alive. “One of my officers, Captain De Jong. Do you know if he survived?”

  “He did, and yesterday he called here to see how you were faring. He says you saved his life, and he will ship his finest preserved fish from the Netherlands to wherever your home is.”