He bent his head, his words disappearing into muffled sobs. Juliana knelt beside him, uncaring of her silk dress on the damp grass. ‘Harry! Harry! Listen to me!’
No response. So she did the only thing she could. She wrapped her arms around him and held him while he cried. After a long, long time, his struggles eased and he quietened. Finally, he raised his head. What she saw in his eyes almost killed her.
‘Tell me,’ she said softly.
And he did. All of it. What had happened after the siege of Badajoz. How he felt responsible for not saving everyone—particularly that one small boy. She listened gravely, intently, her head tilted to one side. And all the time she gripped his hand, anchoring him to her.
Finally, he stopped. ‘So now you know.’
‘Yes. Thank you for telling me finally.’ She shook her head slowly, reflectively, as his words sank in. Had he been carrying this burden all the time they were together—even the times when she thought they had both been so happy? ‘You ought to have told me before.’
He shook his head. ‘I was a coward in that, too. I wished only to hide the truth, to hide myself from you. But I am beaten down now. I have nothing left. You might as well know.’ He gripped her hand. ‘Do you see?’ he demanded, his gaze filled with fierceness and despair. ‘Do you see now what a weakling I am? What a craven fool?’
‘No. I do not see that.’ Her voice was sure and steady.
He looked at her blankly. ‘Juliana, I beg you, please go and leave me to recover my wits. I have told you everything. You can want nothing more to do with me.’
Not for an instant did Juliana consider leaving his side. ‘No. I have listened to you and I am still here, still holding your hand.’
He glanced down at their clasped hands, then back to her face. His expression was full of confusion. ‘Why?’ he said huskily. ‘Why are you still here? Is it—is it pity?’
‘No!’
* * *
Now. This was her chance to speak. She might never have another. She prayed for the right words, though all she could do was to speak from her heart and hope.
‘Thank you for telling me everything. But, know this. When I stay with you, it is not your choice. It is my choice. And I choose you. I choose you, even though you believe yourself to be weak, or cowardly, or broken. For I know your true heart. And I am not deceived—though you tried hard to deceive me.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I love you, Harry.’
A look of confusion, mixed with amazement, dawned on his face. ‘Truly?’ His voice was almost a whisper. ‘You see me—like this, you know the truth—yet you do not spurn me?’
Juliana almost laughed as joy and relief welled up inside her. Was this it? Was this the twisted logic that had caused him to reject her? He had actually thought this would change things between them!
‘Of course I do not spurn you! Indeed, I imagine many soldiers feel as you do tonight. They just hide it.’
He looked at her warily. ‘Do you understand what you are saying? Did you understand what I told you just now—about Badajoz?
‘Of course I did! I am not completely mutton-headed, you know!’
‘Then—why—how can you choose a broken coward? You, who could have any man you wanted!’
‘But I do not want any other man. There is only you. So I suppose you will have to make the best of it.’ Her manner was matter of fact, but her heart was still pounding.
Her prosaic tone finally seemed to be his undoing. ‘Oh, Juliana! Juliana!’ He reached for her, covering her face with kisses. ‘I love you! You have no idea how I love you!’
‘I believe I do,’ she said drily, some moments later. ‘Though I wish you could have been more honest with me. You were so cruel on the ship.’
‘I know.’ He wiped away a tear from her face and licked it from his finger. ‘I saw no other solution. I am not worthy of you. I know that. But tonight, I am so weak as to let you see it.’
She shook her head, denying his self-judgement. ‘Now that I know the truth, be warned. I will not let you pretend again that you do not care.’
‘You have me. But, Juliana, I mean what I said. Should I survive the upcoming battles, I cannot marry you.’
‘Because of my illegitimacy?’
‘No! Never!’ He held both her hands, speaking fiercely. ‘It is because, despite your words tonight, I would not saddle you with a coward for a husband. I will not be moved on this.’
Her heart sank. What strange reasoning was this? And why would he dismiss her base birth with such little consideration? No matter what he said, her illegitimacy remained a huge barrier to any thoughts of a future together. Looking at his stubborn expression, she decided to leave it—for now. Tonight, he loved her. That was enough.
* * *
They sat for a full hour, kissing, murmuring words of love and talking of the pain they had both been feeling since their estrangement. She was content that his motives, though clearly misguided, at least were borne out of love and a desire to spare her.
Suddenly, both stilled and turned their heads towards the ballroom. Something was amiss! The music had stopped mid-tune and there were raised voices coming through the open terrace doors. Harry stood, offering her his hand, and together they hurried back inside. As they walked, the first heavy drops of rain began to fall.
Blinking at the bright light, Juliana took a moment to take in the chaos. Wellington was disappearing out of the ballroom and into a private parlour, his senior officers following. Some women were crying, while older gentlemen were standing around muttering and looking grave. And the soldiers! They were milling around, grouping together, searching for comrades. Evans—now Captain Evans, Juliana remembered—approached them in haste.
‘There you are, Harry! It’s on! Napoleon is on the move. He has crossed the border and battle is to be joined today. We are to be at Quatre-Bras with our men by three o’clock!’
‘What! Three o’clock? But that’s less than two hours from now!’
‘I know. We’re going to war in our evening dress! The horses are being brought here. Officers are wanted in the parlour in ten minutes—we’ve to bid our farewells to our...er...loved ones.’
Farewell! This was it, then. They looked at each other, conscious they could not kiss here, in full view. Evans, belatedly sensing the charged air between them, muttered something about the parlour and made a hasty retreat. Harry gazed into Juliana’s eyes and his look was the opposite of the coldness she had seen there recently.
Taking her hand, he raised it reverently to his lips. ‘I love you,’ he murmured.
‘I love you, too,’ she replied, her voice almost a whisper.
He stepped back, bowed smartly and was gone.
Friday 16th June, 1815
Dawn was breaking. The rain had eased a little, thankfully, but the road was a muddy swamp in places. Harry marched his men along, knowing many of them would be dead by sunset. The second battalion was one of the few which had fought the French in the Peninsula, so Harry knew they would be central to the Duke’s plans.
Wellington had given precise orders about the deployment of each unit, as he always did. He thought about every single aspect and detail, and had a huge team of aides-de-camp continually issuing specific instructions. Napoleon had crossed the border a day earlier than expected, and the Prince of Orange, with his small unit, was the only force currently defending the strategic crossroads at Quatre-Bras.
Harry knew nothing was certain today. Napoleon had them outnumbered and General Blücher’s Prussian army was many miles away, facing the other part of the French Army at Ligny. If they could hold the crossroads, it would be easier for the two Armies to join together later to face the French as a single force. Still, it was not for him to think of tactics, or strategy. His role was to play his part as best he could. Helping defend the crossroads would stop the French from marching on Br
ussels, where his Juliana waited. That was simple and clear. For the first time, he had someone to fight for.
* * *
Juliana finally lay down mid-morning. With Mama, she had watched from an upper window in the house as the army filed past, with tramping feet and banging drums—a process which took nearly four hours. The people of Brussels had lined the streets, knowing their fate could also be settled this day. Juliana struggled to imagine what Harry was travelling towards. She pictured him as she had seen him last, looking noble and serene, no sign of the turmoil he had allowed her to witness in the gardens last night. Would it be the last time she saw him alive? The Duke of Wellington had been in a confident mood, apparently telling people he would be back in Brussels in time for dinner with the job done. Juliana, remembering the grim determination in Harry’s eyes, could not believe it.
* * *
She had slept fitfully and woke in the early afternoon. There would be no news yet, but she could not stop herself from going to find her mother to confirm it.
Mrs Milford was in the front parlour with three of her friends, all clucking and fussing with vague anxiety. She looked relieved to see Juliana, reaching out her hand and pulling her daughter into a brief embrace. Madame Vastine had been to the convent. The nuns were working hard, preparing for the onslaught that would happen later. They were erecting tents at the Louvain Gate and the Namur Gate for the wounded and had appealed for blankets, bandages and pillows. Juliana dared not think about it.
And so the afternoon passed and the sun began to sink lower in the sky. They had conflicting reports all day—the Allies were holding fast at Quatre-Bras, but the Prussians had come under severe pressure at Ligny. No one could tell who would prevail. But all Juliana could think of was Harry.
* * *
‘We did it, sir!’ Jem’s eyes gleamed with relief and pride as they watched the French pull back from Quatre-Bras. They had arrived in time to support the Prince of Orange and his small force—strangely, the French had made no serious attack until after the Allied reinforcements had arrived. They both sank down on to the damp ground with relief, too tired to do much more. After a brief rest, Harry sought out Major Cooke.
The Major was in sombre mood, but came forward to shake Harry’s hand as soon as he spied him. ‘Well done, lad. Your men fought like lions all day.’
‘Thank you, sir. Have we further orders?’
‘It’s not good, Fanton. Although we held the line here at Quatre-Bras, Blücher and the Prussians were pushed back at Ligny. The Duke wants us to pull back tomorrow to a stronger position. We are too far ahead of Blücher here and we will surely need the Prussians.’
Harry frowned. Had their efforts been for nothing? ‘We are abandoning the crossroads?’
‘We are indeed pulling back, but make no mistake, this was an important victory. Holding the French back at the crossroads means Wellington, not Napoleon, will choose the battleground. He has scouted the area previously and has a good idea of the land around here.’
He unrolled a map. ‘The march begins tonight. We are to make our stand here.’ With his finger, he indicated the area below a small village south of Brussels. Waterloo.
Saturday 17th June, 1815
The next day, a strange atmosphere pervaded Brussels. Juliana was told by at least three people that the British and Dutch had won the battle yesterday and held the crossroads at Quatre-Bras, though the Duke of Brunswick had been killed, and a great many others, and the Prussians had been pushed back at Ligny. The Highlanders had been hard hit. Juliana wept when she remembered the strong young men who had played the pipes and danced the reels at the Duchess’s ball. She had enquired after Harry and been told he had survived the engagement unscathed. He was on the march, with his men, to a new location. Her relief was short-lived, as she now had to worry about his next engagement.
Juliana, her mother and Madame Vastine spent the day giving aid to the wounded. Many hundreds had arrived in carts and wagons. The tents at the gates had proved insufficient to house them and the parks were now full of small tents and awnings, sheltering the injured from the hot sun and heavy showers. Juliana’s day passed in a blur of lint, slings and bandages. She saw two men die while she held their hands, and helped hold another down while a surgeon dug out a musket ball from his thigh. After the surgeons were done with them, the men were loaded back on to wagons and brought to local houses to be billeted. The townspeople had opened their doors and their hearts to those defending the city, and welcomed in soldiers from England, Prussia, Portugal, Brunswick, Hanover, Scotland, Spain, Austria and Dutch Belgium, vowing to give them every succour as they healed.
Her mother had already asked Sandrine to prepare their small house for the wounded, and Sandrine had vowed to procure everything that was necessary. Juliana had offered her own room—she would sleep with Mama in her mother’s bed, as she had done when she was a child. Sandrine had stripped back Juliana’s bed and added a pallet on the floor—she was sure Juliana’s small room could accommodate two wounded men. They all knew battle would be joined again, and soon.
Many of the society families had now, belatedly, realised the danger and the Antwerp road was busy with an exodus of those with the money and means to flee. Juliana and her mother had no carriage, nor had they the money to pay the extortionate amounts that buying one would cost in this crisis.
Her mother was phlegmatic about it. ‘I do not wish to leave, Juliana. We will do more good if we stay to help.’ Juliana did not argue overmuch; though she would have preferred to know her mother was safe, she herself had no intention of leaving Brussels until Harry’s fate was known. She fell into bed, worn out and numb, but still sent a fervent prayer for her love before falling into a fitful sleep.
* * *
Harry spent the day on the march, through heavy rain. He and his men traversed farmland, low hills and country lanes which were more like muddy streams than roads. From time to time they discovered fields of grain and stopped briefly to gather supplies.
The French Army was also on the move, following, but with no orders to attack. Both Wellington and Napoleon were content, it seemed, to move the battle to a new location. At times the French advance was surprisingly close to the Allied rear. Once, gathering grain in a field, Harry surprised a French soldier on the same mission. The man wore the distinctive uniform and shako of a French line regiment. When Harry came upon him, the Frenchman was bent to the task of stripping grain from a long stalk. The Frenchman raised his head, surprised, then, after a moment’s pause, went back to his task. Harry kept walking, quickly stripped a couple of plants, pocketed the grain, then left.
Returning to the main body of men, Harry reflected on the strangeness of war. Today, they had the same concerns—hunger, tiredness and walking in this damnable rain. Tomorrow, one might kill the other. Had the man a sweetheart, like himself?
This led his thoughts to Juliana, for the thousandth time that day. His chest swelled as he thought of her—her fiery, passionate nature, and the miracle that she could love a man as broken as he. He squared his shoulders. Suddenly the road had become easier, the rain less cold, and the march more purposeful.
Sunday 18th June, 1815
The area south of Waterloo suited Wellington’s purpose very well. The undulating countryside would allow him to fight from a ridge punctuated by three fortified farms and hide the bulk of his army behind it, so the French would not see where his forces were massed at any time. They could move easily from line to square formations, depending on whether they faced infantry or cavalry, and there was a sunken road behind the ridge which would assist with communications.
Harry’s battalion, the second, was sent to the centre, less than a mile from the farm at La Haye Sainte, along with the King’s German Legion and two other units. On receiving the orders, Harry nodded grimly. Wellington trusted them to hold this key position; the entire outcome might rely on them.
They had spent all day and most of the night marching, without food or rest, to get to their position. The countryside was farmland, with rye growing taller than a man in places. As the army passed, what was not foraged was trampled underfoot. The rain had not helped matters; they were all cold, tired and hungry. Yet they each knew their duty. Harry glanced at Jem, who was still by his side. Gone was the confidence and joy of a few days ago; Jem was subdued and silent, the rain dripping off his hat and running down his shoulder belt like tears. Harry wondered where Juliana was right now, what she was doing. He hoped she was sleeping soundly. He hoped she would remain safe.
‘Get some rest,’ he ordered, though the men were already bivouacking, not needing to be told. Having relieved himself and swigged some water, he lay down, uncaring of the rain, wrapped his greatcoat over himself as best he could and slept instantly.
A moment later, or so it seemed, the wake-up was sounded—trumpets, bugles and drums calling the men to rise and prepare, all along the lines. Five o’clock and the sun was just above the horizon. His teeth chattering, Harry gratefully accepted the double ration of gin which was being issued to everyone. It gave him the illusion of warmth as it slid down his throat. At least the rain had stopped.
He shook out his greatcoat and hung it on a nearby bush, hoping the sun’s rays would dry it a little before battle was joined. Jem, always his shadow, copied him without speaking. They moved towards the campfire, and a simple breakfast of mixed-grain stirabout, which was at least warm and filling. The ground was saturated and Harry’s boots made a squelching sound as he moved across the ridge, trying to pick his way through the soft landscape via the remaining tussocks of grass. After eating, he checked his musket, retrieved his still-damp coat and took his place in the formation. Now, they waited.
* * *
Sunday Mass in Brussels and the churches had never been so full. Juliana, like hundreds of others, prayed as she had never prayed before. The guns had not yet started their death sounds, but it could not be long now. Everyone knew that both armies had spent yesterday moving into position; today, battle would be joined. She closed her eyes, allowing the reassuring rhythm of Latin prayers to wash over her, and pictured Harry. Pictured him healthy and well, and smiling at her mischievously.
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