The Captain's Disgraced Lady
Page 23
‘Non,’ she responded. ‘La Haye Sainte.’
Her heart thumped loudly. Would the driver challenge her? He eyed her keenly for a second, then nodded. The cart lumbered on, continuing southwards on the Charleroi road. Juliana released the breath she had been holding.
A few miles further on, and with the road deteriorating, the cart abruptly stopped. ‘La Haye Sainte,’ said the laconic driver, indicating with his right arm a farmhouse on the ridge above. Ahead, the road had disappeared entirely beneath deep ruts. Juliana nodded. He could go no further. Already they were being approached by two soldiers, carrying a wounded man between them. They deposited him in the cart wordlessly, then turned and began to trudge back up the ridge.
They ignored Juliana completely.
‘I can do this,’ she muttered. Even to herself, it sounded like a vow. After retying her straw bonnet, she thanked the driver, then shuffled across and jumped lightly down from the cart. The driver began turning the cart for the journey back to Brussels with his new passengers—for more wounded men were now being carried or helped towards it. Hefting her basket, Juliana began to trudge through the mud towards the buildings.
Within just a few paces her progress had slowed. The mud was deep, clingy and greedy. The sun had created a thin hardened crust on the top, but her kid boots sank straight through with every step. It was ankle deep in places. Juliana’s petticoat and her white cotton dress—which had been clean and crisp this morning—were already heavily stained with mud right along the bottom. How on earth had the army fought in this? She left the path and walked up the grassy bank alongside. Here the ground was soft, but passable.
As she walked laboriously closer to the farmhouse, she began to see the fallen. Men, horses and weapons were sprawled randomly all around. Soldiers from both sides were displayed, gruesome evidence of the causes of their deaths clear to see. And the stench! Blood, excrement and mud.
Juliana’s stomach heaved as she almost stepped on a dead French soldier, his chest sliced open and his eyes staring vacantly at the blue sky above. She leaned over and lost the meagre contents of her stomach, being careful not to splash any on the dead soldier. What a strange courtesy! The man did not care now. She tried not to think about discovering Harry in a similar state.
* * *
She spent the next hour checking along the sunken road behind the farmhouse, a half-mile in each direction. The tall hedges and her parasol gave her some respite, but still, the heat followed her like a curse. The dead were everywhere and the living, moving among them. There were women and Allied soldiers, checking for anyone still alive, removing equipment, uniforms and other possessions that might prove useful, and moving the Allied dead to trenches for mass burial. The French bodies were being burned. One woman was applying pliers to the mouths of the dead and pocketing the bloody teeth she pulled. Juliana shuddered.
What if Harry was there, amid the dead, or buried already? The trenches were being filled in with clay and debris, new ones being dug as the old ones were populated.
She moved slowly along the road, steeling herself to look at every man lying there, every face, to miss no one, to stay until she found him. The midday sun beat down relentlessly. After an hour it began to become almost rhythmic—step, lift boots from clinging mud, check dead soldier.
Not Harry. Not Harry. Not Harry.
Having exhausted the road, she came back to the farm and made a systematic search there. One of the buildings had burned down, the ashes still glowing red and emitting a small plume of white smoke. There was a pretty garden on one side and an orchard on the other. Juliana could see clearly how beautiful a place it had been, before yesterday. She knew from Jem’s words that Harry had not fought in the farmhouse itself, but there was the possibility he had been moved here afterwards.
No. He was not here.
She stopped for a moment to fill her flask with water in the farmhouse well, in the corner of the garden. The farmyard was busy with soldiers and women, and the wounded, and piles of supplies were being sorted in one corner. She asked for a second flask and was given it, so filled that, too. With a quick thanks to the woman who had given it to her, she left through the other side of the farmyard and towards the main battlefield. Cresting the ridge, and slightly out of breath, she stood still in shock.
As far as the eye could see—three miles at least—the land was a sea of reddish-brown mud. Here and there were trees and hedges that had survived the battle, but everything else had disintegrated into ochre clay. The landscape was dotted with abandoned artillery, dead horses and bodies. Her eye swept over them all, as the enormity of the task ahead sank in. How was she to possibly find him among all of this?
She squared her shoulders. Men had fought here, yesterday, and kept fighting, even when they believed they could not prevail. She could do no less.
And so she began. Forward and back along the uneven chaussée, using trees and hedges as landmarks, checking every single body she found. Not Harry.
Occasionally, she discovered a wounded man, still alive. British, French, Prussian—she did not care. Each time, she called for help to the others. Some, like her, seemed to be searching for someone in particular. Others, in uniform, were systematically removing the wounded to the carts. At least she was able to rescue some men, then. Someone’s brother. Someone’s son. Someone’s love.
She was not to know that, afterwards, some of those men would speak of the Angel of the battlefield, the beauty in white who found them and called for help, and saved them.
On she walked, and on some more. She went back and forth, systematically covering every inch of ground within a half-mile of the farmhouse. She filled her flasks seven times at the farm, then left again, intent on her quest. The mud on her dress was now at knee level, she noted absently, and the basket was three times as heavy as it had been.
Her arms burned from the sun, her back, knees and feet ached, and her head pounded. Still she had not found him. At least the heat of the sun was decreasing now. She stopped, looking westwards. The sun had lowered—she guessed it must now be seven or eight o’clock in the evening. She had been searching for almost nine hours! Sighing, she made a decision. She would have to rest. Just for a few moments. Slowly, she made her way down the ridge, to sit under an oak tree that stood, silent and strong, amid the carnage.
After drinking, she closed her eyes and tried to recall every detail of what Jem had told her. It seemed likely—now she knew the area better—that he was probably in the area behind the farmhouse, where she had first searched, rather than on the main battlefield.
Of course, Jem’s memory was unclear, as Harry had rescued him from being crushed by a horse. What had he said? How the horse had crushed him and Harry had been pulling him out when he had fainted from lack of air. And when he had awoken, with the battle over and confusion all around, they had pulled him away and carried him upwards to a cart without listening to his ravings about the Captain.
Juliana caught her breath. He had said it was a bay horse! Pessimism turned to excitement. She now knew she was looking for a large bay horse, probably behind the farmhouse and on a slight hill. Oh, why had she not remembered it before?
‘Thank you, Jem!’ she whispered.
With hope renewed, she ignored the protest of her sunburned arms and aching limbs. Hurrying as best she could, she moved directly towards the farmhouse, scanning all around for dead horses with bay colouring.
The first three proved fruitless—no one lying anywhere near—but then—
She knew, as soon as she saw it, that this was the one. The horse lay stiffly on an incline, its limbs half-submerged in the clinging mud and its position such that her eye had passed over it earlier. Now that she knew what she was looking for, she saw there was a small area of ground behind the horse where she definitely hadn’t searched before. It was entirely possible for someone to be lying there, hidden from view.
She raced up the incline as fast as the mud would allow, her heart racing with mingled fear and excitement.
And there he was. Lying on his back, one hand resting on his chest. His face and head were covered with blood and dirt, and she could not tell by looking if he was alive. She sank down beside him and gently touched his face.
‘Harry!’
Chapter Twenty-Three
So this is death. Thus far it is remarkably easy. The pain is gone, but his mind is awhirl with random thoughts, images and memories. He swoops through the sky of his mind like a swallow in flight, whirling and dipping through the space. Suddenly, though, his focus becomes clearer. He sees a flash of blue and follows it, darting like an arrow towards the scene. He lands, settles and looks around.
The dusty street in Badajoz looks the same, except this time it is empty of people, blood and horror. A door stands open to his right and the woman is there, wearing the same blue dress she wore on the day she died. She looks at the kitchen knife in her hand. It glints silver and clean in the sunlight. She looks at it, then places it on the sill.
‘Fabián Galdós de Marcos!’ she calls to someone in the house behind her. ‘Come outside! He is here!’
She’s speaking Spanish, Harry thinks, and yet I understand every word.
The boy is there, smiling shyly at Harry. Without looking, he reaches up to his mama and she takes his hand. ‘Fabián, tell him,’ she urges the child softly.
‘It was not your fault,’ says the boy, looking at him with clear eyes and healthy, glowing skin. ‘You are not to blame.’
His mama nods. ‘You did all you could, soldier. You are absolved.’ She moves her hand like a blade, moving downwards, then up and across in the shape of a cross. ‘Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.’
Latin, thinks Harry. As she says the words he feels a lightness coming over him and a peace such as he has never known. Fabián and his mama smile.
‘Your soldiering days are done now,’ she says. ‘You have another calling.’
‘Harry!’
The voice is familiar. He looks around in confusion. No one is there.
‘Harry! Come back!’
It is compelling. He has to follow. Badajoz fades, though he senses its eternal peace within him. He moves towards the voice...
* * *
‘Harry! Oh, Harry, please wake up! Please come back!’ Juliana raised her head from his chest, overcome. His heart was beating! Her voice cracked as she searched his face for any sign that he could hear her. There was a bad-looking wound on his head, but, apart from that, he seemed intact. She had swept his arms and legs with gentle hands, and checked his torso for any signs of a wound. Nothing. Just the injury to his head. She gently ran her hand over his ribs, seeking unseen injuries. She paused as her hand sensed something strange on his chest—a small lump on his breastbone. What on earth was it? Could it be a break in the bone? If so, it could be serious—his heart or lungs could be damaged. Quickly she loosened his clothing, and separated his shirt to view the injury better. Scanning down his smooth skin, she caught her breath.
It wasn’t an injury. It was a small leather pouch, suspended round his neck by a thin leather strip. With shaking hands, she carefully opened it. Inside was a glossy dark curl, gleaming in the sunlight as it had the day he cut it from her head.
‘Oh, Harry,’ she cried. She could almost feel her heart breaking. ‘Please live. Please.’
Carefully replacing the lock of hair, she looked more carefully at the deep gash to the side of his head. She could see the bone of his skull beneath, though, thankfully, the bone itself looked unbroken. It was still frightening. Since arriving back in Brussels, she had seen too many soldiers die after innocuous-looking wounds to the head. The longer they slept the worse it tended to be. And Harry had been passed out for a full day. Was this to be Harry’s fate? Against almost impossible odds, she had found him and he was alive. Was he now to be lost to her after all?
What could she do for him? Taking a flask from her basket, she dribbled a little water into his mouth. Nothing. No response. She wiped the spilled water away from his lips, noting as she did so that his face was covered in blood, mud and soot. She spilled some of the precious water on to a clean handkerchief and gently sponged the blood and grime from his beloved face. There! Now he looked like himself again—although his face was badly sunburned.
She rested back on her heels. In a moment she would call for help and they would come and carry him to a wagon, and she would bring him home. For now, she just wanted to try, one last time, to see if she could awaken him. Moving carefully, she lay down beside him. Lifting his left arm away from his body, she snuggled close and rested her head on his shoulder, her left hand over his heart. She stayed like that for a few minutes, lying with him under a paling evening sky, the dead of Waterloo all around.
‘Harry!’ she pleaded softly. ‘Come back!’
Then, the miracle. His arm closed around her and he moved his head a little. She immediately raised herself up—just in time to see his eyes open.
‘Harry!’ she whispered. Her mind could not produce any other words in that moment.
He looked at her hazily. ‘Juliana?’ His voice was hoarse.
She laughed, joy filling her. ‘Yes! All is well.’
‘I know.’ His grip tightened and he murmured her name again, reverently. She could wait no longer, but pressed her lips gently to his. He responded and they kissed slowly and gently. Her eyelashes fluttered closed as she savoured the feeling of his warm lips beneath hers. She had wondered if she would ever again feel this sensation.
After a long moment, she sat back, to see him better. His eyes softened with love as they locked gazes. She should say something, she knew. He would probably be wondering how bad his injuries were. She had comforted men earlier today who had awoken to find that a limb had been amputated, or that they had lost an eye.
‘You are injured, but you are going to be well.’ Her voice trembled. ‘You have all your limbs and—it seems—your faculties.’
They grinned foolishly at each other. Then, as if thinking of it for the first time, he muttered, ‘Where the devil am I? And—ouch! What the deuce happened to my head?’ He winced slightly as his fingers found the wound. She grimaced in sympathy, but he eyed her roguishly. ‘Did you hit me with a spade again?’
Now she did laugh and he joined her. All truly was well.
* * *
Harry’s recovery was rapid. The wound healed cleanly, though the scar was deep. Luckily, he suffered no fever and his mind had been unaffected by the blow to the head. Under Juliana’s tender ministrations and with regular visits from Dr Hume, he was cosseted, fed and cared for, until, after two weeks, he declared he could stand no more of it and demanded his clothes.
Her mother would have argued, but Juliana, seeing how he chafed for his freedom, agreed to it. She asked Peter—the new manservant they’d employed to help look after Harry and Jem—to bring Harry’s uniform, which had of course been washed and pressed. Jem, watching forlornly from the bed, asked if he might be allowed to get up, too, but this was met with a firm denial from Mrs Milford.
‘Now, Jem, you know the doctor said you are to put no weight on that leg for another three weeks! Do you want to set back your recovery?’ she demanded, hands on hips.
‘No, of course not, Mrs Milford.’ Jem subsided, chastened, but Harry leaned over the bed to gently cuff his friend’s shoulder.
‘Never fear, Jem, I am not abandoning you. I will return later for today’s chess game. Now, ladies, if you will excuse me, I shall contrive to don my uniform!’
Juliana, smiling at Harry’s evident glee, was last to leave. She met Harry’s gaze and smiled at his mischievous wink in her direction. She was glad he was so well recovered and, she admitted, surprised they’d managed to keep him fro
m leaving the bedroom before now.
Jem had been a great help, she knew, as the two soldiers had entertained each other for much of the time, with chess and cards, and light-hearted conversation. At times, they had talked of more important issues, too—she had twice joined them when they were recalling aspects of the battle. Harry was gently helping Jem make sense of it all, she thought. She was pleased they had trusted her enough to keep talking when she entered and she had sat quietly, listening to the careful way they were exploring the subject.
Having them both in the same room had been a godsend. Harry had insisted on sleeping on the pallet, though Jem had wanted to give up his comfortable bed to his Captain. ‘No, lad,’ Harry had said firmly, ‘you need it for that leg of yours.’
Major Cooke had visited, before he left for Paris. ‘You are both on leave, indefinitely,’ he had instructed, after enquiring after their health and praising them both for their efforts in battle.
Harry had asked to speak to him privately, if possible, but, since the doctor had forbidden him from leaving his bed, the best they could contrive was for Juliana to engage in conversation with Jem, while the Major had lowered himself to sit by Harry’s pallet, where they had conversed in low tones.
Juliana couldn’t help overhearing expressions of surprise from the Major, and, as he left, he had begged Harry to ‘reconsider’.
Reconsider what? she wondered. A worrying idea had soon come to her.
* * *
She and Harry had, naturally, not had the opportunity for private conversation since he had been helped from the battlefield by two burly infantrymen, but she would never forget the journey back to Brussels, his head warm and heavy in her lap, and his hand in hers. After a while, they both realised that one hand was not enough and he had raised his other hand so she could hold that, too.
Since then, they had communicated constantly using their eyes, and smiles, and as much touch as they could manage in company. This included Juliana straightening Harry’s pillows very frequently and checking his wound a lot, and, on occasion, some blatant hand-holding. Her mother and Jem had indulged them, although Jem was once heard to wonder plaintively why no one ever fixed his pillows. At this, Juliana blushed furiously while Harry threw a pillow at him, laughing.