“I may be able to do something about that too,” Elizabeth said, surveying him critically in turn. “Move buttons, at least. I hope there’s enough thread...”
“How well do you think you can do it?” Maxwell asked her bluntly, rolling his shoulders under the tight back of the coat. “It would be worse if it looked obviously altered, and I didn’t think you cared for needlework.”
“I don’t,” Elizabeth returned, “but I have been trained in it. I am competent at the art moving buttons and adjusting hems. I’ll start with William’s coat, as it will be easier, and then I’ll see what I can do for you.”
She went to try on her new clothing first, and returned to the lantern with a quick step and a smile on her lips. At least hers fit, William thought. The boy’s shirt was almost modest, compared to Katarina’s blouses. When Elizabeth bound up her hair and hid it under the cap, he thought she would be able to pass well enough.
She came back to him and stood close, examining the length of his sleeves, pinching the fabric at his waist to gauge the fit. For a moment he thought nothing of it; then his face flushed hot at the same time she suddenly turned pink. “Did you happen to bring pins along with a needle and thread?” she asked, determinedly matter-of-fact.
“I did not.”
“Well, no matter, I can remember.” Her eyes swept him up and down again, then rested on his face. “You do look very smart,” she said, rather shyly. “It suits you.”
The unmanly sense of choking closed his throat again. Damn. Damn, damn, damn, so it does, and I shall never—He coughed hard to clear it. “Why, thank you, Miss Barton.”
She was blushing again, shaking her head. “I am sorry. I—didn’t think, before I said that. I only meant—”
“No matter,” he said. “I made it to Waterloo in a lieutenant’s uniform after all, didn’t I?”
The alterations to said uniform were quickly completed, and they did help the fit some. William thought he would be able to manage the required deception tomorrow, especially as no one would examine him so very closely in the heat of battle. He sat down with pen and ink to write out his message, talking it through with Maxwell several times before committing words to paper, while opposite them Elizabeth fussed with the sergeant’s uniform. Maxwell then took the pen to write a message of his own.
Elizabeth rose and stretched. “Here, Mr. Maxwell, I believe this will suit.” She came to stand beside him, coat in hand, and her eye fell quite naturally on the paper before him. Then William saw something flicker over her face.
“What a—clear hand you write,” she said. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen one so bold.”
Maxwell looked up at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh—nothing.” Elizabeth shook her head. “It was nothing. Try the coat, if you please. I think it will fit better now.”
William lay down in the hay and closed his burning eyes, telling himself it was only for a moment and knowing it was a bad idea even as he did it. The rain drummed down on the roof, almost drowning him in soft dark sleep before he jerked himself back into a sitting position.
Maxwell and Elizabeth looked over at him with identical expressions of concern. “You ought to sleep while you can,” Maxwell said gently.
William found it difficult to muster any argument. He contented himself with, “So should you, sir,” and lay back down. “We’ll take it in turns. Wake me in two hours.”
Somewhat to his surprise, Maxwell did. The older man dropped into sleep almost immediately afterward, leaving William to sit alone until the early dawn. He listened to the sound of rain fade and watched the blackness lighten into gray, reflecting that a mile or so distant, other men in scarlet coats would soon be doing the same. He stood up, for he had the farthest to go, and tucked his message into his shirt.
He crossed softly over to Elizabeth. She lay huddled in straw, chemise covering her like a blanket, cap beside her, hair mussed and escaping its knot. He put a daring hand to her shoulder, and she blinked up at him. “It’s dawn,” he said unnecessarily.
She nodded, struggling to sit up. “Here,” she said, “your arm—” She tore a strip of cloth from her chemise to fashion into a sling.
“Won’t you need—” he began, too late.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and though she tried to smile as she fashioned the sling, he did not find the attempt convincing. She looked up from her work finally, and swallowed hard. “Good luck,” she whispered.
“And to you,” he said. “Give Maxwell another hour. Neither of you can do anything until the chaos has well begun, so you may as well let him rest that long. Take care. Please.” He wanted to say more than that, but now was not the time.
“I’ll take care,” she promised. He gave her a bow that felt absurdly formal under the circumstances, and then headed off for Placenoit.
The artillery was not due to start until late morning. Elizabeth stayed hidden in the barn until then, knowing that she would—as William said—need chaos to blend into if she wished to overhear anything worth hearing. When the first boom shook the rafters overhead and the ground under her feet, she brushed off the hay and started the walk to the makeshift infirmary at Mont St. Jean. She had been forced to acknowledge that it was impractical for her to get any closer to Wellington than that, much as she might prefer to. Her source of information as to the Duke’s actions would have to be from his injured soldiers and officers.
The path from the village to the farmhouse of Mont St. Jean took her through the Forest of Soignes. Remembering her first encounter with the forest the afternoon before, Elizabeth resolved to keep close to the road. Getting lost in woods like these was a staple of German fairytales, and now she understood why. The shadowed glades and twisting tree trunks were as menacing as they were confusing, looking capable of concealing absolutely any fantastic thing...Elizabeth stopped herself there and resolved to think no further along those lines. She had enough to worry about as it was: the deafening barrage up ahead, the risk of encountering messengers or deserters if she stayed on the road, the risk of encountering the special battalion if she strayed too far off it. She had more than enough actual dangers to avoid without imagining clawlike fingers and cackling laughter.
The trees thinned finally, and a pleasant white cluster of buildings came into view. This must be Mont St. Jean, for it matched Maxwell’s description perfectly. He must have quite committed the Duke’s unpublished memoirs to heart, Elizabeth thought. The farmhouse that was to serve as the main infirmary was hidden from her sight by the rise of the road. This was the moment, then. She took a deep breath, left the shelter of the trees, and crested the hill.
It was horrible. The injured had begun to make their way from the front line to the surgeons, and she had a perfect view of them stumbling through the slimy mud of the road—some supported by comrades, some carried in blankets, a few stumping grimly along unaided. When she drew closer to the farmhouse, she could hear the screaming within, and she had to clench her hands into fists and force herself to go forward. She peeped through a window, thinking she had better know.
She ought to have realized that the surgeons would set up near the windows, for the sake of the light. But this did not occur to her, and so she was badly startled when she pressed close to the pane just in time to come face to face with the teeth of a saw. There was an arm underneath the blade, there were two men holding down the owner of the arm, and then there was a spurt of blood and a gagging cry, and Elizabeth clung to the windowsill.
The surgeon wielding the saw looked up, irritated at the shadow that marred his light, and Elizabeth found herself—in the role of idle village lad—pressed into service as a water-bearer. It was more or less what she had wanted, since it put her in a position to hear the men talk. She could even ask, in carefully French-accented English, how the day went on the field. In between attempts to learn what she could, she went around with a dipper and a bucket, kept her eyes cast down to avoid
the sight of mangled limbs and blood, and tried not to think about what could happen to William or Maxwell today.
The worst part was always the waiting, William thought. Having crept into position before the French and Prussians could engage at Placenoit, he could do nothing until late afternoon. So he huddled within a copse of trees, watched the sun move along the earthen floor, and tried to look as much as possible as a British messenger who had been thrown from his horse and knocked insensible. Just in case someone should come upon him before his hour.
The Prussian reinforcements had been delayed by a combination of bad decisions and bad roads. The first division of the four, the one commanded by General Bülow, was only just now approaching. Maxwell said they would come to attack the French flank, and clash with the French in the village of Placenoit. The fighting would be fierce and long—the village would change hands more than once—and there would not be Prussian troops free to actively support the British until evening. By which time Wellington would have bowed to the inevitable and sent for the monsters. But if the Prussians could be hurried, even by half an hour...William waited until the nearby gunfire and shouting told him that the French and Prussians had in fact engaged at Placenoit. Then he rose from his hiding place, dirtied his uniform and face with handfuls of mud, and staggered as if dizzy toward the village.
It wasn’t much of a role to play this time. Nothing so nervewracking as Murchinson’s, even though there was significantly more than one child’s life dependent on his success. An entire battle, he thought, trying out the idea. The course of history. It sounded ridiculous, and he thought he might be fortunate that it did. Could he have been fully aware of what he was trying to do, his tongue might have seized in his throat and made the attempt impossible.
As it was, his tongue considered the lines he was to speak to be comprised of eminently ordinary words. He was no kind of actor, but this role was no deception. He had no reason to feign the conventions of the service, for they had settled back into his skin with the scarlet coat’s embrace. He was a British officer. If he was not one Wellington would have customarily sent as a courier, well, that was a small point. He staggered toward the Prussian line, reminding himself with every step to walk as though dizzy and injured.
“Le général Bülow?” he said over and over, to everyone he encountered. “J’ai un message de le duc de Wellington.” I have a message from the Duke of Wellington. Bizarre in one sense to be asking for his ally in the language of his enemy, but it would not strike a false note. Wellington did not speak German any more than William did, and since few of the German officers spoke English, business was customarily conducted in French.
“Un autre messager?” a staff officer responded in surprise.
Another messenger. William’s gut clenched. Wellington had of course been sending messages to Blücher and his subordinates all afternoon. That was the point. That was what would enable William’s alteration of history to slip in unnoticed. But apparently he was hard upon the heels of a legitimate courier, and oh hell, attracting suspicion would undo—
But the staff officer only jerked his head. “This way,” he said, and led William toward Bülow—a man of sixty, handsome despite his narrow face and long nose.
“Oui?” Bülow snapped.
“De Wellington,” William said, handing Bülow the message he had forged the night before and doing his best to sway. “Un officier français a été capturé, et a donné des informations sur leurs tactiques pour cette bataille.” From Wellington. A French officer was captured, and gave information about their tactics for this battle.
Bülow unfolded the paper, and his eyes widened as he read it. Assuming Maxwell’s recollection of history was accurate, the note contained enough information about the dispersal of the French troops to enable the Prussians to efficiently finish their business at Placenoit and press forward to bring their badly needed reinforcements to the British line. It might not hasten them by more than half an hour, but half an hour could be enough. Sand in the gears, William thought. Bülow dismissed him, and William started the careful and nerve-wracking journey back to the British lines, hoping Maxwell’s half of the plan would go as smoothly.
It took William quite some time to make it to safety without drawing attention, but at last he found himself once more on the road that led away from the ridgeline. He need only hike back through the forest to find himself at the village of Waterloo and the barn he had slept in the night before. He decided to pause at Mont St. Jean, for a glimpse of or possibly even a word with Elizabeth.
He crested the hill and stopped. The road before him, the road from the ridge to the infirmary, was crawling with the injured and the dying. They dragged themselves along with their arm over a companion’s shoulders. They lay limp in blankets carried between six men. They walked alone until they fell, and then they lay in crumpled heaps of scarlet on the roadside.
His limp and usually numb arm gave one of those ghostly twists of pain that had been a common feature of his early convalescence but had not haunted him for nearly six months. The thought occurred to him, in a rather distant way, that it was too great a risk for him to walk alongside these men—that he had better return to the barn by a more discreet route...But even as he considered this fact, his feet took a step into the road as if not subject to his will.
That man there will lose his leg, whispered a voice in his mind, automatically categorizing what he saw in light of expert knowledge, though he would have much preferred to do otherwise. That one has a belly wound—he’s dead even if he hasn’t stopped moving yet. Dear God, how did the one over there get so mangled? Not a cannon ball, or he’d be smashed to pulp—is that what it looks like when the enemy fires bags of horseshoe nails that break apart on impact? He had heard veterans speak of that particular weapon, but he had never seen it or its horrible effect himself. That man there might have nothing worse than a broken leg—how did he get that, did a horse perhaps fall—
“Will?”
He was turning, responding to the bone-deep familiarity of the voice before he had consciously placed it and well before he had time to think that perhaps answering to his name would not serve the purposes of discretion. His brother-in-law Christopher Palmer lay curled on the side of the road, staring up at him out of glazed, incurious eyes.
The skin of Palmer’s face shone sickly white, a stark contrast to the muddy red wool below it. A bandage around his left thigh was soaked through with blood, the same scarlet as his coat. Beside him on the roadside lay a tree branch of length and breadth sufficient to be used as a walking stick. William could read the whole story from those few signs. The wound. The necessity of getting it tended. The refusal to allow anyone else to leave their duties to accompany him. The boast that he could manage perfectly well with a staff to support his weight. The slow stumbling progress toward the infirmary while all the time his beating heart pumped hot red blood onto the road, until the stick slipped from his nerveless fingers and he fell.
Palmer’s brows furrowed. “Why’re you...here? You’re not...here, are you?” He squinted at William’s coat. “Not our...regiment...”
William knew that cross-eyed look. He had been on its other side, remembered fighting to make his eyes focus and his tongue untwist while darkness lapped at him. Chris Palmer would be seeing nothing clearly at the moment. William could easily decline acquaintance—“No, sir, you must have mistaken me for someone else”—and Palmer would neither argue with him nor find it an unreasonable fever-dream once he recovered. He might not even remember it once he recovered.
If he recovered. William looked at the soaked bandage and the blood oozing around it.
William knew it was errant madness for him to stay here any longer. At any moment, someone else from his old regiment might happen by, might hail him as Palmer had and cause him and Maxwell no end of trouble. The closer he got to the infirmary, the greater was the risk of such a meeting—he should never have taken this route in the first place—and the longer
he lingered with Palmer, the greater the chance of Palmer becoming convinced of William’s reality and drawing attention to William’s presence. William imagined being waylaid and forced to explain himself; he imagined Maxwell and Elizabeth searching for him rather than determining which other gears might appropriately respond to sand; he imagined failure, the looming future, all those lives, the child Meg with her jaw eaten away and her skin glowing green, Katarina falling under a hail of construct bullets.
“Will?” Palmer said again, with even less conviction this time.
I can’t carry him, William thought wildly. I can’t even brace him, not with my right arm. Surely someone else will come along and help him.
Surely. The word seemed to echo in his mind.
“You’re not here...are you, Will?” Palmer murmured.
William crouched down to eye level. “No, Chris,” he said, pitching his voice low so that no one passing would have their attention caught by this ridiculous performance. “I’m not here. I’m home safe in England, because I lost my arm. You’re thinking of me, is all. You’re hurt enough to dream while you’re awake.” Which was, in William’s assessment, a true statement. William vaguely remembered a parade of ghosts and delusions from his fevered time in bed after the bullets were dug from his arm, and he did think Palmer was as badly injured.
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