“We mean you no harm,” I repeated.
It was the old woman who suddenly came out of her corner and flew at me. “You’ve near broken my man’s arm and the young ’un’s head. That’s harm enough. What do you want from us?”
“Some clothes and a bit of rope. Food if you have it. Then we’ll go away and leave you alone.”
“Well, you’re too late. We’ve been robbed already. They took almost all we own, even the kettle of soup I’d made for our meal.”
“You’ve got rope at least.” Darvy pulled a loop of it down from a nail. “We need breeches and shirts or an old coat as well. Don’t make me search for them.”
I suddenly saw the fear in the old woman’s face and it shook me. They’d spoken French to us. These were our own people, not strangers in a foreign country.
“Mother,” I said, “these things are all we want and then we will go I promise you.” I fumbled under my clothes and found what I wanted. Being an old campaigner, I’d kept my purse strapped against my skin. For a wonder, no one had robbed me either on the battlefield or at the convent. The purse was still there. I pulled out a coin and held it out to her.
“Take this, so you can replace what you give us.”
She drew a deep breath and looked at her husband, who still stood under Darvy’s watchful eye.
“Give them what they want and we can be rid of them,” he grumbled.
The old woman took the coin to the fire to see it better, then she put it away inside her clothes. She went into the furthest corner of the room and opened a wooden box. She rummaged around in it and then came back with some clothes over her arm.
“These belonged to my son. He’s gone now and the boy’s too small to wear them yet.”
I nodded. “Buy him better with the coin I’ve given you.”
We got two pairs of breeches with holes in them where the moths had eaten the wool. Darvy put on a smock which almost drowned him and they gave me a large stained shirt. Fortunately my shoes would not betray me. They showed signs of their hard usage, cracks and splits appearing fast, which suited my invented character but they still protected my feet. I hoped they would last until I got to Boulogne where I could get some more, or else I would have to go barefoot. Darvy grumbled about exchanging his boots for a pair of wooden clogs. The boy leapt on the boots as soon as they were off his feet, holding them to his chest. His own feet were bare and black with dirt.
“Don’t wear those until the foreign soldiers have gone. Otherwise they’ll take them off you,” I warned him. “Hide them until it’s safe…”
“…And you’ve grown a bit,” Darvy said with a grin. We always teased him about his big feet.
As soon as we were changed, we left the cottage as we had promised to do. I didn’t have any animosity towards these people. We were travelling away from the fighting; they had to stay where they were, at the mercy of foreign armies. They were likely to lose what little they owned unless they hid their possessions carefully.
Now we looked like farmers. Some dirt rubbed into our hair completed the picture. We found a patch of mud which we applied to the horse. He didn’t approve of the proceeding, snorting and prancing as far as he could. I fashioned a headstall from the rope and we left the bridle under a bush. Then we mounted the same way as we had before and trotted off down the lane. As we went, we rehearsed the story we would tell if we were questioned.
“We’re brothers, I’m Pierre, you’re…”
“Paul.” Darvy laughed and then held onto his ribs. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Our father is a labourer on a farm outside…Where are we?”
“No idea.”
“We’ll ask at the next village or the one after that. Anyway we’re taking the horse to the blacksmith. One of the shoes is loose…”
“Let’s hope we have time to loosen it then,” Darvy said.
“No – we’re coming back from the blacksmith’s – that’s better.”
“I also think we’d better take a look at any villages before we go near them. God knows where the bloody English are by now.”
We saw nothing of them for a few days, as we rode along the lanes in the Netherlands. We travelled in the fleeting hours of darkness and hid if anyone was near. We slept until late afternoon in barns or woodland and continued our journey in the evening. When it became very dark, one of us led the horse while the other rode. We begged our dinner from farms or ‘liberated’ some vegetables from the fields when evening was falling. Very occasionally we paid a coin or two and received information. The English were spreading out across the region. An army of occupation was ready to pounce on people like us.
We bathed our injuries in the streams we crossed, being careful not to wash away our protective layer of dirt in other places. By now it had become streaked from the occasional shower of rain and looked authentic. My mother would have had a fit if she could have seen me and so would Eugénie. We hoped our disguise would pass a challenge but, as yet, it had not been tested.
We still travelled slowly at first, despite using the horse. He was a stayer, even with a double load on his back. We headed almost due west and we crossed the frontier somewhere between Tournai and Lille. The weather stayed kind and the peace of the countryside was soothing. We could not avoid the occasional refugee, but parted from them as soon as possible. One or two cast envious eyes on the horse, but we both had sticks and no one was brave enough to challenge our possession of him. We did not see any of the enemy. If they were searching for us, they searched elsewhere and we went on our way unhindered.
I, for one, existed in a dreamlike state, where the only reality was the dust of the road and the quietness of the country. It soothed my spirits as well as my body. Gradually our speed increased and we made better progress, as our injuries healed. We started to travel earlier and continued later and that led to our undoing.
We camped for the day in the lee of some bushes. I went to sleep, for Darvy had the first watch. Suddenly thunder rumbled. I opened my eyes to see the sky had darkened. Rain began to come down in torrents. Within seconds we were both soaked. Darvy scrambled over to hold onto the horse, who did not like this sudden change in the weather. If he hadn’t been trained to put up with the sound of the artillery, I don’t think we could have held on to him. He nearly twisted the reins out of my hand when lightening hit a tree not very far away. We clung together, wishing for the storm to end.
Fortunately it was not long in duration. The thunder rolled away and the rain became lighter. By now we were in a sorry state and neither of us fancied sleeping on the sodden ground. Movement would be warmer. So we came out of the bushes and climbed a small rise. A valley lay before us and I knew where I was for the first time since the battle started. Béthune – I’d been stationed there once, many years ago, on my way to Germany. I’d spent enough time there to recognise it and the place hadn’t changed much. We must have travelled further south than we intended and we would have to turn north-west to reach Boulogne. It would be necessary to skirt the town, because there were soldiers camped there. We were too far away to see who they were, but the bustle was unmistakable. I turned to Darvy.
“If they’re ours, do you want to join them again?”
“What for? The Emperor’s gone, or so they say. Our armies will be dispersed soon enough. Louis won’t keep the units who deserted him intact. All I would do is prolong the agony. No, I’ll take my chance and go home. What about you?”
Even when I asked the question, I knew the madness had left me forever somewhere on the battlefield. I had no wish ever to fight again, no wish to be made a prisoner. My one thought was to get back to Eugénie as soon as I could.
“I agree with you.”
We rode on, carefully as I thought. Perhaps we had become a lulled by the days that had passed so peacefully. At any rate, we didn’t see them but they saw us. We were crossing the corner of a field, from one stand of trees to the next. Suddenly, they were all round us and we had no chance
to run. There were five men with a youngster in charge of them. I did not recognise the uniforms.
Chapter 12
“Halt!” the officer said in good French but with the strange accent I recognised from the time when Lefebvre and I hunted for the ‘Missing Englishman’. Darvy pulled up the horse and we both sat waiting for whatever would happen next.
“Who are you?” the Englishman asked. Now we would have to see whether they believed our story.
“I am Pierre Duval and this is my brother, Paul,” I replied. Duval is a common enough name and we’d never bothered to invent another. “Our father farms some land, over there.” I pointed in the direction we wanted to go.
My heart thudded as I spoke and the officer, for all his youth, had a look in his eye I didn’t like.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“That is a fine horse you are riding for a farmer’s son.”
“He was a fine horse once, before he tried to jump a fence that was too high for him. He injured his hock and we never know when it’ll collapse under him. That’s why Monsieur Augier gave him to my father. He does well enough on the farm, but he’s not fit to go a long way any more,” I lied.
“He doesn’t appear to be in distress, even carrying two.” The officer made a gesture to one of his men. He got off his horse and ran his hand over our horse’s legs. He straightened up and said something to the officer. I learned a little English once but this was too fast for me to understand.
“My man says he can’t feel any injury on the leg. Your animal has a slash on his croup that looks as if it was made by a sword.” I cursed inwardly. We had washed the wound and only lightly muddied it, so that it would not become infected and heal.
“No, it was…”
“Stop. You’ve talked enough.” He pointed to Darvy. “Let your brother answer, unless he hasn’t got a tongue in his head.”
I hoped his ear wasn’t good enough to pick out the differences in our accents. Darvy was from the coast and I came from the other end of the country. There is a world of difference between the speech of Boulogne and Grenoble.
Darvy muttered something about a wire and some brambles. The officer had a cynical expression as if he didn’t believe a word he said.
“Dismount,” he said, when Darvy finished. I hesitated and one of the soldiers swung his musket up to cover me. At that distance, he did not need to be a fine shot to kill me, so I had no choice but to obey. I slipped to the ground and then turned to help Darvy.
“What’s wrong with him?” the officer asked.
“He fell off the roof onto a cart, when we were mending the thatch.”
“Let’s see.” The officer dismounted, came over to us and pulled up the smock Darvy was wearing. The tight bandages, although dirty, were obviously the work of someone who knew his trade.
“No country sawbones did that,” the young man said. “You had better come with us. You are riding a horse with a sword wound and your injuries have been treated by a man who knows what he is doing. Your Docteur Larrey perhaps?”
“No.” Easy enough to deny and the truth. Larrey had been at the battle, but not at the convent.
“You are French soldiers escaped from the battle.”
“We aren’t! We’re the sons of Charles Duval on our way home!” I said vehemently but it did me no good.
“Let’s find out. I’ll send for your father and, if he acknowledges you, we will let you go.”
They made us remount, which Darvy did with difficulty, not having a mounting block. I had to assist him and I had a sick feeling I pushed him too hard. Then they formed up around us and led us down the slope where we had been heading. When we got to their camp, we were put with some others under guard, and our horse was led away to the picket lines. I could hear a man muttering about the state of the beast.
“What are we going to do now?” I hissed to Darvy, who was white about the lips, as if he was in pain.
“Buggered if I know,” he whispered, “unless you do have a father named Charles who lives nearby.”
“If any Duvals live here, I’m unlikely to be related to them.”
“Thought so.”
“Let’s wait till it’s dark and then try to sneak away.”
“Without a horse we wouldn’t get far and I doubt I’d go very fast on foot. Something shifted when I mounted last time.”
“Let me see,” I pulled up his smock and saw that some of his bandages were covered in blood. “You’re bleeding.”
“I could have told you that.”
“You need help.”
I got to my feet. “My friend is injured, he needs a doctor,” I shouted.
One man came towards me holding his musket threateningly. I groped for the few words of English that I remembered.
“Friend…hurt…blood.” The next thing I knew, the stock of the musket hit me and I measured my length on the ground.
When I came to, nothing had changed. Darvy lay by my side and did not move when I groaned and sat up holding my head. The slight movement brought the attention of the guards to us but I ignored them. The sight of Darvy almost made my heart stand still. His face had a greenish tinge and there was frothy blood on his lips. I rolled over and knelt beside him, taking his wrist and searching for the beat of his heart. It was still there but very faint. I looked at his bandages and, as I expected, they were covered in blood. Darvy was bleeding to death before my eyes! Wildly I turned and yelled,
“A doctor! Fetch a doctor, this man is dying!”
“They won’t come,” a voice said behind me. “They’ve more than enough of their own wounded to care for. Their battlefield doctors aren’t as good as ours. Let me look at your friend; I have some knowledge of such things.”
The young man had shuffled up to us on his bottom. I moved aside and let him take my place. His examination was deft and obviously skilled.
“Are you a doctor?” I asked.
“Medical student or I was, before I got into this mess, apprenticed to my uncle.” Then he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, but there is nothing I can do for your friend. His ribs have shifted and one of them has pierced his lung. Listen.” He tapped the right side of Darvy’s chest and it sounded dull. “Not even Larrey could save him. He has only moments left.”
Not another one! The thought flashed through my mind as I recalled the friends I had lost, first Pierre, then Gilbert and Lefebvre, now Darvy. Perhaps I was cursed and so were the people who befriended me. At that moment, Darvy gave a great heave, struggled to sit up and vomited a gush of frothy blood. I put out my hands to hold him upright but he slumped backwards and his eyes opened for a second, turning up so the whites showed. The medical student took his wrist and then put his hand on Darvy’s bloodstained smock over the place where the heart is. Then he turned and told me what I already knew.
“He’s gone.”
I wanted to scream, to run at our guards and kill them or to die myself, but I did none of those things. The medical student stopped me. He must have guessed at the thoughts running through my mind and he certainly knew the foolishness grief can lead a man to. He put a hand on my arm and held onto me.
“Getting yourself killed as well won’t bring him back. Drink this.” He handed me a small flask. “Finish it.” The flask was half full of brandy and it burned a pathway down my throat. I corked the flask and gave it back to him.
“Thought they would have looted something like that,” I said, “but I’m glad they didn’t. Thank you.”
“It was safely hidden. Your friend – did he have kin?”
“A father in Boulogne. Don’t know about anyone else.”
“No woman?”
“He used to say that no soldier should marry in wartime. He’s right.” I suddenly pictured Eugénie’s face. My expression must have changed because the medical student said,
“But you did.”
“No. I’m not really a soldier. I was once, a long time ago but I was invalided o
ut…”
“It sounds like an interesting tale. Tell me, it will help us to pass the time.”
When I thought about it later, I realised that he was trying to stop me making a fool of myself over Darvy’s death. His strategy worked. Telling my story made me remember all the reasons I had to live. If I could have saved Darvy it would have been different, but his body was cooling even as we talked. An officer, not the one who had arrested us, and some soldiers came through the prisoners from time to time and they stopped beside us. Two of them bent down to pick up Darvy’s body but I threw myself over him.
“I want to bury him!”
One of the soldiers pushed me aside and I went sprawling. Then the medical student said something to them in their language and they looked at me. The officer stood over me, looking down, with his hands on his hips. The medical student spoke again.
“What are you telling them?” I asked.
“I said that this man was your friend and you don’t want him to be thrown into a pit with the others. You want to bury him. If they will give you a shovel, you will dig his grave and I will help you.” He turned again to the English officer again, speaking and waiting for a reply.
“What did he say?”
“Says it will save his men work but he wants our parole that we will not try to escape while we are digging. I told him we were all officers and that obviously means something to him. He understands French, by the way,” he said hurriedly as I opened my mouth to answer. “I will give him my parole, what about you?”
“Tell him he has mine too and thank him for me.” The main thing was to get Darvy properly buried.
I picked up Darvy and heaved him over my shoulder. They gave us a shovel and a pick to break up the hard clay and then we were led outside the camp into some woodland. I could not help thinking of Lefebvre, Pierre and Nathan as we worked. I had certainly dug enough graves recently to last me a lifetime. This one was easier than the others though, because the medical student helped.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “You’ve never told me.”
“Luc Evrard. You?”
Duval at Waterloo (Napoleon's Police Book 15) Page 12