Mills, Anita

by Autumn Rain

  "Here."

  He looked up, surprised to see the earl standing over him, a canteen in his hands. Despite the dusty earth, Longford dropped down on his haunches, and unscrewed the cap. "Port," he said succinctly. "The rum's bad. Oily."

  "No worse than the food, which tastes like day-old oatmeal." Nonetheless, Charles proffered his cup. "My thanks, my lord."

  "It's going to come a hell of a rain," the earl offered.

  It occurred to Charles that in his own way, perhaps Longford himself was lonely. He moved over, giving him room beneath the tilted canvas. "It's all of a piece, isn't it? Only choice is between the heat and the flies—or the mud and the worms. You'd think they'd drown, wouldn't you?—the worms, I mean, but they come forth in hordes every time it rains. Ground's full of 'em."

  "You ought to have taken the supply train," Lucien tried again. "There's as much honor in seeing we are fed as in taking a ball on the field."

  Charles stared at the flickering sky, then shook his head. "I'm a dragoon—not a sentry."

  Longford took a deep swig from his canteen. "You make me a liar, you know—I promised Lady Kingsley I'd see you stayed in the rear. She would have you safe."

  "It wasn't her place to ask—nor yours to give, was it?"

  "No. But I thought you might wish to know of her concern for you." His black eyes met Charles's blue ones soberly. "Some things might be worth staying alive for."

  Charles was silent for several seconds, then he nodded, sighing, "Devil of a coil, ain't it?—a man waiting for his own grandfather to die. Makes you think less of me, don't it?"

  "No. There are times I wish my father had perished sooner," Lucien admitted." He looked away, his expression distant. "Blood can make unreasonable demands on us."

  "If he treated her right, I could stand the wait." When Longford did not respond, the boy sighed again. "Sometimes I think I hate him, you know—and that ain't right."

  "I don't know—I cannot say I felt much for my father after my mother died," Lucien admitted.

  "Mad Jack?" Charles asked incredulously. "But he was—I mean, everybody knew—" He stopped. "Guess it ain't right to ask why."

  "Honor. Without a man's honor, he's damned—and Jack left none." Longford looked down to the plains. "I wonder what Marmont means to do?" he asked softly.

  "He ain't going to do nothing," Charles responded, disgusted. "We are going to sit here looking at each other until one side goes home."

  Lucien shook his head. "The French put too much stock in glory. I should be surprised if they let us retreat unscathed. Marmont will want to posture before Napoleon, and how is he to do that if we go?"

  "Damme if I don't wish for the fight," Charles muttered. "Better'n sitting here getting ate by fleas. Been praying for it ever since I got here."

  Longford took another pull on his canteen, then wiped his mouth with his scarlet coat sleeve. "It was the only thing of worth Mad Jack ever told me—'be careful what you ask for, boy, else you might get it'—though it was said in a different context, as I recall."

  "M'father died when I was in short coats." Charles hesitated, then blurted out, "What was he like? Mad Jack, I mean."

  Lucien's jaw worked visibly, and for a moment, Charles did not think he meant to answer. "Sorry—ain't my business, is it?"

  "No." Lucien squared his shoulders, then stared into a jagged ridge of lightning. "He was as big a bastard as I am."

  "But you ain't—"

  His words were drowned in a sudden, howling wind that brought a volley of rain. The earl muttered a curse, then rose.

  "Going to be a mire on the morrow," he said. He hesitated as though he would say more, then clasped Charles's shoulder. "I hope you don't get your wish, you know—I'd not fight in this."

  He was gone as abruptly as he'd come, leaving Charles to stare after him. He'd said the wrong thing, and he knew it. It seemed that as much as he wanted to know Longford, as much as he admired him, he never knew what to say to him. But he was not alone—no one claimed any great degree of friendship with the man—not even his batman.

  The wind caught the tattered canvas, ripping it from its rickety poles, blowing toward the smoldering, smoking coals of the fire set to ward off the pests. Charles lunged for it, then struggled against the sheet of rain to fold it beneath his arm. The sky poured now, soaking the stinking wool serge, the linen underneath, and the blanket he'd folded for his bed. There was no sense even trying to reset his tent.

  Like everyone else caught out in the storm, he tried to unroll the canvas, then lay down, pulling it over him like a blanket, cradling his head on his arm, smelling the wet wool and the earth beneath it. But amid the howl of the wind, the force of the rain, and the hardness of the ground, he did not think he could sleep.

  His thoughts turned again to Nell. Come hell or high water, both of which seemed possible now, he was going to make her proud of him. And when he went home, he'd surprise her, for the boy that had left would be a man.

  Around him, the lightning flashed, the thunder crashed, and the frightened horses bolted, some of them charging riderless toward the enemy on the plains below. Those assigned to them ran frantically, trying to catch them, shouting, adding to nature's mayhem.

  His neck hurt, and the rain ran down his face in rivulets, dripping into the blanket beneath him. Finally, unable to stand the steady flow of the water, he pulled his saddle closer and used it for a pillow, then drew the soaked canvas higher, creating a pocket of protection from the storm. Sometime in the night, his aching body adjusted to the discomfort and the din, and he managed to sleep fitfully, his dreams carrying him away from that awful place.

  Then, before dawn broke, a scout rode through to report that the French were on the move, that they were trying to skirt the right flank, and that was that. Waterlogged and sullen from a lack of sleep, Charles groped groggily for his weapons. At first light, his leftenant shouted, the French would either fall back or they would begin to fire.

  "Kinda like the fireworks at Vauxhall, wasn't it?" another dragoon observed, dragging his saddle toward his horse. "But I cannot say I liked the seat."

  It still rained, but not so violently, and now there was no lightning to illuminate the movement of the French. Despite a certain stiffening of the hairs on his neck, Charles felt a sense of exhilaration. For the first time since he'd come to this godforsaken place, he was going to get to strike a blow against tile enemy. And, afore the Almighty, he was going to show everybody he could do it.

  There was a sense of urgency all around him, for every man there knew they were the only regular army England possessed, that to fail would be disastrous. Riders circulated, distributing Wellington's orders, shouting that the attack was coming from the west, on the right flank, that the Fourth and Fifth Dragoons and the light cavalry were to throw themselves to the center, next to Cotton and in front of the Portuguese. Already, the air was filled with the sound of French cannon pounding the hillside, softening it for the attack. Gunsmoke mingled with the rain, giving it a musty, sulfuric odor.

  Under the overall command of Cotton, the dragoons mounted, taking an offensive position between the French and the Third division, as the Portuguese and the British infantry fanned out to cover their flanks. It was a battle plan that had been discussed, but not executed, and as Charles rode to his position, he could see the lighter cavalry forming to his left. They would go in on second charge. At that moment, he knew they were not going to defend, that they were going to attack. For the first time since he'd arrived in Spain, his heart was in his throat.

  They moved slowly, in a solid wall of red over the hill, dragoons, hussars, infantry, fusilliers, grenadiers, across a shallow depression, and down from the crest to face the superiority of the French guns. Shells raked the scarlet line as the British descended, the awful din of the volleys compounded by the eerie wail of bagpipes from a Highland regiment. The noise obliterated shouted commands, the acrid smoke burned eyes and lungs.

  It was clear that Marmont
had not expected the British to come down from the hills, that he had expected them to hold their positions, and his armies, though superior in number and artillery, were not yet fully in place. In an effort to surround the Anglo-Portuguese forces, he'd left a mile-wide gap yet to be closed south of the Light division. As the sun came up, Wellington could look through his telescope and be pleased with what he saw.

  He ordered an even greater slowing of the advance, a thinning of the line near the center, and by early afternoon, he was rewarded when the French, perceiving what they believed a weakness there, charged, furthering the lag between their divisions. It was then that Wellington called for the advance of his reserves, and the charge of the Fourth and Fifth Dragoons.

  The dragoons, which had moved with almost precision slowness, their horses picking their way downward despite the enemy fire, saw the order given to the Portuguese cavalry, and the mounted force surged forward, rifles raised, shouting, cutting across a large body of surprised French infantry, overrunning them. It was brutal—bloodier than anything Charles could have imagined.

  He fired, stabbed, bludgeoned, and reloaded, all the while under a steady barrage of cannon fire, grenades, and small arms fire. A grenade loaded with nails exploded but a few feet from him, and he saw a fellow dragoon fall, horse and rider mortally wounded. Another took a direct hit, nearly severing his torso at the waist. There was a stench to that too—and now agonized screams added to the terrible cacophony that deafened his ears. Despite the almost constant exhilaration, the fear, there was the fleeting thought that Longford had been right—they were in the bowels of hell.

  Another comrade fell, his horse shot from under him, and the man scrambled to escape the charge of his own men. Charles saw him take a ball in the shoulder, stumble, and go down to his knees. It was Beatty, the company wit, a fellow with a wife and children at home. On the instant, Charles leaned down, trying to grasp the man's arm, shouting to him to throw himself up. His hand closed over the other's, and as he straightened, he felt the sudden, hot, searing pain in his neck. He reeled in his saddle, lost his grip, and slumped forward. His head against his horse's neck, he could see his blood pour downward, and he wondered why he was cold, why he did not hurt. Ahead, the light nearly blinded him, a bright beacon beckoning, pulling him. His father and mother stood there, waiting for him. He didn't want to go, but he was already in the tunnel, and they would not let him go back. "Nell," he gasped.

  Down the line, Lucien de Clare struck with his bayonet, jabbing his way through a wall of infantrymen, smelling the awful stench of blood, sulfur, and smoke. He saw a Frenchman raise his rifle, but he was too late. The report was deafening, and he knew he'd been hit. He snapped back from the impact, and as the hot pain spread through his body, a wave of nausea hit him. A second bullet half spun him around, then he fell forward, clinging to his saddle. He could not breathe—he was drowning. He tried to cough, to clear his chest, and red-flecked pink foam spewed from his mouth. The French bastards had hit a lung, and he was going to die. And the awful irony was not lost on him—for all that he'd done, Jack had died at home in bed.

  "Major! Gawd! The major—Longford's been hit!"

  Someone grabbed his reins, pulling his horse from the fray. He swallowed, then reached to hold left his shoulder. Numbness was spreading down his arm, and blood filled his hand, trickling between his fingers.

  "Can't help—me," he managed to gasp. "Don't leave—your position—I—" He coughed again, tearing his chest out, and more of the bloody foam came up. He hunched forward, trying to conserve his strength, clinging to his life, as a captain and another dragoon turned his horse between theirs. "Cannot—" He leaned, trying to use his knees to guide the animal, and fell, sliding headfirst into the mud. One of his men dismounted, shouldering him, and began carrying him back to the rear. "Save yourself," he choked. "I'm done."

  "And how's it to look if I was to let Mad Jack's son die?" the fellow shot back.

  Someone else caught Lucien and helped. Between them, they staggered, zigzagging across the field, dodging fire and the shrapnel from exploding grenades, until Lucien's consciousness disintegrated into black oblivion. He never knew when they caught him up, a man to each extremity, and ran for the hospital tent, calling out that Mad Jack's son was dying.

  He lay on a pallet, its blanket stiffened with his own blood, his mind somewhere between blackness and a dim awareness that a surgeon worked on him, muttering that it was bad—that a lung had collapsed.

  "Put that piece of wood in his mouth that he does not swallow his tongue," someone barked.

  His chest and shoulder were on fire, and still the foam welled in his throat, choking him. He tried to protest, to tell them to save someone else, then he felt the probe and everything went utterly, completely black.

  "Mercifully he's fainted," the surgeon mumbled.

  "Can you save him?" the woman hovering over Lucien asked.

  "No—bullet got the lung. Unless it reinflates itself, there's naught I can do but get the ball out and pray."

  "Then—"

  "Mad Jack's boy!" he snapped at her. "Got to try."

  Lucien regained consciousness slowly. All around him, he could hear cries for help, mumbled prayers, whispered words of comfort—and somewhere in the dark distance, the sounds of the battle faded to sporadic fire. But there was the stench—the stench of blood and death there with him. He tried to open his eyes, but they were swollen from the smoke. He was parched.

  "Water," he gasped weakly. "Thirsty. Cannot breathe—"

  There was the muffled rustle of skirt against petticoat, then someone leaned over him. "Major—can you hear me?"

  "Yes," he croaked. He forced his eyes open, trying to focus through the slits, and recognized Leftenant Wilson's wife. Her eyes were red, her face streaked, either from smoke or crying.

  "My arm?"

  "Shoulder's hit," the surgeon declared from behind her. "May be stiff when it heals. Bled like a pig, though—lucky to have lived." He did not tell him about the lung—he'd seen too many give up when they knew.

  Mrs. Wilson dipped a rag into water, then dribbled it into the corner of his mouth, waiting for him to swallow. She repeated the process again and again until he pushed her arm away. He coughed, and she wiped his mouth quickly, before he could see the blood.

  "John—?"

  Her face contorted hideously, then she managed to control herself. "Johnny's dead," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

  "There are so many—such need—there is not time to grieve." Once again, she dipped the rag and held it to his lips. Her own chin quivered. "Johnny would not forgive me if you perished now—he was proud to have—to have served under you, my lord."

  "You ought—"

  "No. Alone, I should have to think about it."

  The doctor moved to him, kneeling to feel for the pulse in his neck, then he straightened, apparently satisfied. "Strong for a big fellow," he muttered. "Usually, it's the big ones as perishes. And God knows there've been a lot of 'em today."

  The boy. Lucien remembered Kingsley. He coughed, trying to clear his throat. "Damn!" he uttered, lying back, closing his eyes for strength.

  The woman moved away, then returned with a tin cup. "It's laudanum," she murmured.

  "Best drink it," the doctor said without turning back. "Had a devil of a time going for the ball."

  He hated the taste of the stuff—always had. But as the pain brought tears to his eyes, he managed to gulp it down. His other hand closed over the woman's, holding it, drawing and giving strength.

  "I'm sorry," he repeated.

  "It was quick—at least it was quick. There were others—not so fortunate." Her voice was so low he had to strain to hear her. "How strange it seems to speak of dying quickly as though it were a blessing. Johnny was proud of what he did—best regiment—best cavalry, he always said."

  He lay there, blocking out the sounds of the suffering, holding her hand, trying not to think of any of it. It seemed it took the laudanum a l
ong time to take effect, but finally the warmth, the detached dizziness began to take hold of his body and mind. Only then could he bring himself to ask, "Word of—young Kingsley? Word of— the boy? With Cotton too—"

  Her fingers tightened in his, and she took a deep breath. "There was nothing to be done, I'm afraid." Her voice quavered, then she managed to go on, "He took a ball in the neck."

  "Bled to death," the doctor confirmed. "Painless way to go. After the first instant, he didn't feel it."

  Whether it was from the drug or from the pain, Lucien thought he hallucinated, for he could see Elinor Kingsley as clearly as if she were there. And he didn't want to tell her that he'd failed.

  "The battle?" he gasped.

  "Won it," the surgeon answered. "Fifth Dragoon Guards—and the Fourth and Fifth Dragoons won the day—cut up the French line—your charge, in fact. Killed 'em three to one." His hands pressed against the thick bandage tied to Lucien's chest. "Bleeding's slowed-good sign," he muttered. "Won it," he repeated. "Marmont's dead—four generals also—got so many prisoners can't tend to 'em." Seeing that the massive dose of the opiate was taking hold, he rose to move to another.

  "Good," Lucien managed to mumble behind him.

  He slept, his hand in Leftenant Wilson's widow's, not knowing when she left to tend others. His laudanum-induced dreams were fitful nightmares, bizarre flashes that faded from one to another. He was on his mother's lap. He could hear the quarrels, the threats. The room was dark, she lay upon the bed, as white and bloodless as the linen beneath her, and Mad Jack pulled him away, saying she'd fallen suddenly sick and died. But there were overheard whispers—it was too much opium, someone said. There was Diana, screaming that Mad Jack was too young to die, that it could not be, not now, not when— and there was Jack asking him to marry her, to cover her shame, to give his father's babe a name. They were all there, tormenting him. He wasn't alive—he was in hell.