The Captain's Disgraced Lady

by Catherine Tinley

  Please bring him back to me, she entreated silently. Please keep him safe.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Harry was exhausted. Since battle was joined in the late morning, he and his men had been involved in a continuous fight to help hold the line near La Haye Sainte. His hearing dulled from the continuous boom of cannon fire and his musket arm tense and sore, Harry nevertheless focused on staying alert and protecting his men, barking orders continually. He was particularly aware of Jem and repeatedly charged the young man to be careful.

  With a brief moment’s respite, he glanced at the boy. For all his years, he seemed a boy to Harry—he was not much older than Olivia. Jem was reloading his musket for the hundredth time that afternoon, ready for the next assault. It was becoming more and more difficult to defend the stronghold, as wave after wave of French cavalry attacked. Harry and his men were behind the ridge, withstanding alternating waves of cannonade and cavalry attacks. They would lie flat when their own artillerymen fired on the advancing French cavalry, then, at a crucial moment, the command would come to the infantrymen: ‘Prepare to receive cavalry!’ On hearing it, they would race to form into squares, four men deep, while the artillery would fall in behind. The front row would drop to their knees, bayonets raised, while the lines behind fired round after round on the French cavalry, the men behind reloading continually. In between, when the cavalry fell back, the French cannons boomed, and their own, and men fell all around them.

  Suddenly, an aide-de-camp rode through with fresh orders. ‘Fall back! Fall back slowly behind the ridge!’

  Harry’s heart sank. Was this it, then, the beginning of a retreat that would see them overrun? No matter. His job was to follow orders. He must ensure his men did not panic, but moved back carefully, supporting each other and not allowing any part of the line to be breached. They moved out of their square and began retreating.

  It happened so quickly he almost missed it. A small group of French horsemen, ahead of their comrades, suddenly appeared in a running attack, muskets at the ready.

  To Harry’s left, a soldier fell, hit. He raised his own gun and fired, as did Jem, to his right. Then the cavalrymen were upon them. Raising his bayonet, he managed to stab one man in the throat, then, not waiting for him to fall, Harry turned immediately to help Jem.

  He was too late. A French horse—a beautiful bay creature—took a hit from a musket ball, stumbled in the mud and fell, rolling on top of Jem, who disappeared from view. The horse struggled in the mud for a few seconds, then expired. The rider scrambled away, unhurt, and immediately engaged with a group of British fighters on Harry’s right. Harry swung at the Frenchman in front of him, managing to land a blow on the man’s fighting arm. The soldier twisted away and he and Harry fought hand to hand, the sound of clashing metal echoed by a dozen other fights happening all around them. Harry twisted, ducked and saw his chance. His bayonet pierced warm flesh. The French soldier grunted in surprise, then fell forward, bleeding profusely. He did not rise again.

  Jem! Harry staggered forward to the dead horse. He could see Jem’s arm protruding from beneath the creature. The hand was flailing wildly. He was alive! Harry sank to his knees. Jem was trapped from the chest down, the weight of the horse pressing on his lungs and preventing him from taking a breath. His face was purple, his lips blue and his eyes were desperate and bloodshot.

  In an instant Harry was back at Badajoz, the dead boy’s bloodshot eyes staring at him accusingly.

  No! This time, he would not fail. Impossible to move the horse, but the soft mud gave him an idea. Moving round to grasp Jem by the shoulders, he pulled with all his might. The deep mud gave way beneath him and he slipped away, unable to brace himself to apply enough force to pull Jem out. He tried again, aware that Jem had stopped struggling and was now passed out.

  Strangely, it made it easier to achieve a better grip. Oblivious to the sounds of battle all around, he pulled and pulled, and pulled again. And then it happened—with a gloopy pop, Jem’s limp body moved through the deep mud and released itself against Harry’s chest, knocking him off balance. Quickly, he scrambled round to check if Jem was breathing. He leaned down. There! The faintest hint of air against his cheek.

  ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ Instinctively, hearing the war cry, Harry twisted round, raising his weapon as he did so. It was enough to deflect the blow that would have cleaved his head in two, but not enough to stop the blade of the French sword hitting his head with full force. As he lost consciousness, Harry knew he was lost. The French soldier would finish the job within seconds. He was a dead man. Dimly, he conjured up an image of his Juliana. His heart ached with a fierce pride that she had loved him, coupled with sadness about the shared life they would never live.

  Juliana, he thought, as the blackness closed in. I love you.

  * * *

  Around ten o’clock in the evening, the sounds of the guns finally dwindled, then stopped altogether. Juliana and Mama stood, picked up their shawls and went outside. The last light had not quite left the sky, and the town lanterns were just being lit. In that twilight state between day and night, light and darkness, Juliana moved with her mother towards the Place Royale. Soon they would know. Who had prevailed? Who had won the day?

  Everywhere they went, confusion reigned. The Allies had prevailed. No, the French had won and were advancing on the city! Confusion gave way to fear, as the townspeople, panicking, returned to their homes and barricaded themselves in. The posters and prints mocking Napoleon, which they had proudly displayed in their windows, were hastily removed.

  There was nothing they could do but return home and wait. Juliana lay down, but could not sleep. Was Harry alive? Would he come back to her?

  Monday 19th June, 1815

  Dawn finally came and good news with it. The French were routed! It had been a close-run thing, but the Allies were victorious! The bell-ringers hurried to their towers, and soon the sounds of jubilation rang throughout Brussels.

  Strangers hugged each other. Wine, beer and champagne was shared, and somewhere a fiddler began to play. Juliana and Mama wandered through the streets, enjoying the relief and the celebrations, yet Juliana could not be easy. Just because the Allies had won did not mean Harry had survived. Until she saw him, until she could put her arms around him and feel his warmth, she could not truly celebrate. Instead, she put an arm around her mother, who looked tired.

  ‘Let us go home to rest, Mama. The wounded will begin arriving soon.’

  * * *

  Juliana stopped to mop her brow. Although it was not yet nine in the morning, the sun was strong. So many injured soldiers! Another wound to bandage, more broth to feed someone, a sip of water for this one in a fever. She moved among the casualties, helping where she could, continually searching. Searching for Harry. She overheard snatches of conversation as she went.

  ‘—and then we broke for the woods, but by the time they reached us, we’d regrouped. We showed them what for!’

  ‘Wellington is still in Waterloo, writing dispatches. Won’t leave the battlefield and come back to Brussels ’til it’s done...’

  ‘I’m the only one left of my unit. Cannons got us when we were exposed on the ridge. Don’t know why I’m still alive...’

  Juliana had risen early and gone to the convent, even as more details of Wellington and Blücher’s near-impossible victory had filtered through. Blücher had marched his Prussian army to Wellington’s assistance in time and Napoleon had been unable to stand before their combined force. The Emperor turned tail by nine o’clock in the evening and the French forces were now retreating towards Paris.

  As the wounded began arriving, Juliana started looking for Harry, even as she helped the nuns and the doctors tend to the injured. One of the first men she recognised was Evans, who had suffered a broken arm and a nasty slash on his hand from a sabre. He was jubilant with victory, but had no news of Harry.

 
‘Depend upon it,’ he opined gleefully, ‘he will walk in here with a smile on his face and not a mark on him!’

  Juliana did not share his confidence. She could not shake the memory of her mama’s remorse that she had not been there to care for her father. His infected wound had apparently taken a week to kill him—a week when he was being cared for by well-meaning strangers. Her mother had said she would always wonder if she could have saved him. Juliana did not wish to experience the same regret.

  It was twelve hours since the battle had been won, and the sun was blazing down on the Warandepark. The injured were suffering in the airless tents, but there was nowhere else to bring them until they had been cared for. The heat was intense. Juliana walked past the octagonal pond—transformed today by a circle of tents all around. She bent her head and entered the next tent, immediately scanning the wounded men, all laid out on pallets on the floor.

  ‘Miss Milford! Miss!’

  The voice was male, cracked and faint. Could it be Harry? Juliana quickly turned, locating the soldier who had recognised her. He was covered in mud like many of the wounded and was too small to be Harry. Her heart sank.

  ‘Miss Milford!’ He reached up to her, his eyes bloodshot and frantic.

  ‘Jem!’ She sank down beside him, taking his hand and automatically scanning his body for signs of injury. His left leg looked nasty—a broken bone visible through an open wound. Someone had set and splinted it with what looked like a tree limb, but the wound had not been dressed.

  She reached into her basket for some bandages and set to work, passing the bandages awkwardly through the gap between the leg and the crooked splint. Now she had finally found someone who might know Harry’s fate, she was frightened to ask. Jem flinched. Biting her lip, she concentrated, gently wrapping the clean bandages around his leg. He exhaled, then gripped her arm. ‘Miss Milford! You must listen—it’s about the Captain!’

  Time seemed to stand still. Here it was. What was his news? She finished tying off the bandage, then looked at him. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘When they took me from the battlefield—they thought he was dead, so they left him. But he was breathing! I swear it! They would not listen, and I was the last man put into the cart that time.’

  The world seemed to rock a little. She put a hand on the ground beside Jem’s pallet. ‘What are you saying? That H—that Captain Fanton is alive, lying on the battlefield?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s possible. He may be dead by now. This must have been two hours ago. He—he saved my life, pulled me out from under a dead horse. He must have been hit while doing it because there he was, beside the horse, when I came round.’ His eyes became unfocused. ‘Beautiful creature. Bay. Such a waste.’ His grip on her arm tightened. ‘If they didn’t go straight back for him, he might not be found.’

  ‘Where? Where is he?’ Juliana spoke sharply.

  He frowned. ‘I cannot recall exactly. Not more than a mile from the farmhouse at La Haye Sainte, I think.’

  ‘I have no idea where that is. Can you take me there?’

  ‘They won’t let me go.’ He gestured towards his leg. ‘They’ve told me I’m staying here in the heat, until they find somewhere to billet me. Could be hours yet. You will not be allowed to go the battlefield, Miss Milford. The carts are only taking those who have been officially assigned to collecting the wounded. You could check the carts as they come into the city.’

  ‘But what if they don’t bring him on time?’ Juliana frantically considered the problem.

  ‘I am sorry, miss. You will have to wait.’ Jem’s voice was weak and resigned.

  ‘We shall see about that!’ She straightened her spine. ‘When someone tells me I must do something, it immediately creates in me the desire to do the exact opposite! It is one of my greatest flaws, I know, but on a day like today it may turn out to be a strength.’

  Juliana considered. Jem watched her warily. Somehow, she had to get to the battlefield. She glanced at Jem, who looked distressed and ill. She could not just leave him here! So she needed a plan that would solve both problems.

  Looking around, she considered the bustling chaos, nodding thoughtfully as the germ of an idea came to her. She checked it over in her mind, looking for weak spots. There were a few and she would need to be brazen to carry it off.

  For you, Harry, she murmured under her breath. I can do this!

  She squeezed Jem’s shoulder and rose decisively.

  Moving assuredly through the disorder, she made her way to the supplies tent. Filling her basket with everything she thought she might need, she then walked confidently to the back, where the runners waited, sipping refreshments between runs.

  ‘You there!’ She chose two very young men, hoping they would be less likely to question her. ‘I’ve been ordered to move a soldier to another location. I’ll need a cart!’

  ‘All the carts are going straight back to the battlefield, miss. They’re still bringing back the wounded.’

  Perfect! thought Juliana. She shrugged. ‘I suppose one will have to be slightly delayed. This man has passed on information that is needed. I am to be brought to a place called Waterloo.’ She feigned innocence, as if she had no idea of the significance of Waterloo and the fact that Wellington himself was billeted there.

  ‘Waterloo!’ The soldiers exchanged glances, suddenly interested. ‘Of course! Whatever we can do to assist!’ One bustled off to find a cart, while the other accompanied Juliana back to the tent where Jem lay.

  ‘It’s him,’ said Juliana, pointing in a uninterested way at Jem. ‘He has information that should be told at Waterloo and I am to ensure he is properly cared for—’ she lowered her voice ‘—to ensure he does not expire in the meantime.’

  Jem looked more than a little surprised to discover he was now an important—and dying—informant, but thankfully said nothing to contradict her tale. Within ten minutes he had been placed in the back of a sturdy farm cart, Juliana beside him, with her basket and, of all things, a parasol she had purloined from one of the other ladies who were ministering to the sick. She angled it as best she could to shield poor Jem from the hot sun.

  The two soldiers who had assisted her in getting Jem into the cart now saluted in farewell. Juliana raised her hand, relieved her ruse had worked so well so far. She eyed the back of the Flemish driver’s head speculatively. She had listened carefully as the soldiers had instructed him. Thankfully, they had been fairly vague.

  ‘Hello. Do you speak English?’ The man half-turned at her words, then shrugged. ‘Français?’

  ‘Oui,’ he indicated gruffly.

  Good. In French, she instructed him to go via the Rue de Brabant, then turned back to Jem, asking him for the name of the place he had last seen Harry. ‘Is it near Waterloo?’

  ‘La Haye Sainte. It’s around four miles further on, near the centre of the ridge where the battle was fought.’

  The centre! Trust Harry to end up in the thick of things!

  ‘We will be going to La Haye Sainte,’ she told the driver assuredly, ‘after we billet this soldier in the Rue de Brabant.’ For a second, she wondered if the driver might question or challenge her. His eyes narrowed as he pondered her words. Did he care enough to make a fuss about bringing an unaccompanied lady to the field? Then he shrugged, yawned and scratched his stomach. Juliana closed her eyes briefly in relief, then began plying Jem with questions, looking for every detail that might help her find Harry.

  On arriving home, she helped the driver and Sandrine lift Jem to the bedroom, while her mother clucked and fussed in the background. The driver was plied with bread, cold meat and ale, which he accepted gratefully. While he was distracted, Juliana whispered her plans to Mama, who squawked in distress, taking both her hands.

  ‘Julie-Annie! Must you do this?’ Mama looked carefully into her eyes and flinched from what she found there. ‘I see you must.’ She nodded, sq
uaring her shoulders. Juliana was conscious of a feeling of relief—her mother’s newfound strength made this so much easier. ‘Be safe, child.’ They embraced briefly, then Juliana pulled away, intent on her mission.

  Juliana climbed into the cart, beside the driver, and he clicked the horse to go. An hour had passed since Jem had spoken to her—three hours, then, since Harry had been left on the field of battle. Frustrating though it was not to have been able to order a carriage to go to him instantly, at least her plan so far was working.

  Could she really do this? Deliberately go to a battlefield, where it was rumoured forty thousand men died yesterday? Go alone, without protection, relying on the discipline of the soldiers who would be organising the burials and the removal of the wounded?

  Yes. And yes. And yes. As Mama had said, she must. She could not wait in Brussels, simply hoping and praying, when perhaps Harry might be dying under a hot sun and she could save him.

  Now there was nothing to do but wait and wonder, and hope, while the cart lumbered down the crowded road and the sun shone mercilessly, and birds twittered and swooped as if such events were commonplace. They passed dozens of carts, heading back to Brussels with the wounded. Ahead, another empty vehicle, off to gather another human cargo. Thankfully, the road took them through the Forest of Soignes, giving blessed temporary relief from the heat.

  * * *

  The village of Waterloo was thronged with soldiers. They stood in groups, or rested under trees. Those who were awake seemed light-hearted, now they knew the battle—and the war—was won. Juliana wondered if she would catch sight of the Duke of Wellington, who had won the victory, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Ici?’ asked the driver, asking if Juliana wanted to stop.