by Baird Wells
Kate glanced over her shoulder, eyes traveling down the lane and beyond the town, out to the dusty brown line weaving through the hills and snaking back toward Brussels. If she turned and took a step right now, it would be the hardest one. Every one after would be simple, moving her south faster and faster – if she did it now. Her feet stayed still, and her head swam, threatening her knees for a moment. She had a chosen a fork in the road, a choice she did not understand but which felt right somewhere deep inside. Though she had left herself the option of changing her mind, of returning once she reached Antwerp, a faint but resolute voice said that would not happen.
There was no turning back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
June the 17th , Evening – Waterloo
Matthew scrawled the information across the top of his dispatch as an afterthought, passed it off to McKinnon's waiting hand, and hung himself over his cot with all the effort of wet laundry. He tried to rub an aching neck, sucking in a sharp breath when flaps of skin over his knuckles tore open. Every dandy taking lessons at Gentleman Jack's should have to pummel the face of a bent-for-hell French soldier bare-knuckled at least once before he was allowed to brag.
Even the cot's cradling pressure made bruised tendons and twisted joints bark like a hound. A swollen left eye throbbed at being open and burned when closed, and it was easier to count the places where he was not cut up. External wounds were nothing to the weight of the butcher's bill on his heart. They had spent the whole day moving north, leaving him plenty of time to dissect his every order, every command. No day, he mused, was so detrimental to a general's confidence as 'yesterday'. The losses were acceptable, even expected, but losses all the same. At the close of the day, they all plucked at his soul.
His only satisfaction had come at hearing that Napoleon, on reaching the crossroads that afternoon and finding it empty, had sworn and thrown his hat into the dirt. If they both survived the war, Matthew resolved to gift the emperor a watch that kept better time than his generals.
They now enjoyed an uneasy respite, south of the village of Waterloo at the edge of the frontier. Napoleon was an arm's-length behind and by morning the fight would be handed back, this time in earnest. Nearly two-hundred thousand men in the bulls-eye around Waterloo, more than had ever in history taken the field at once, he guessed.
Blucher had been beaten back at Ligny to the east but had mysteriously been allowed to retreat unmolested. Matthew wondered at the good fortune, but would not question it. Wise old hawk that he was, Blucher had forgone his own lines of safe movement to push his retreat parallel with Wellington. They were still in communication and still set to crush Le Grand Armee between their left and right hands.
He tried to quiet his mind, to rest while he could, and to be ready at a moment's notice, but it was nearly impossible to do both. He envied the Field Marshal, who had no such struggle. Dispatches came and went all night, and he roused, then slept again with ease. Wellington would call up an officer in the dead of night who would toss and turn over his orders well after his Field Marshal was back to snoring.
Matthew had decided hours ago to let his own orders rest. There was no point conjecturing how he would manage his three brigades. His division would be the largest battalion on the field, but what he did with them was beholden to the enemy's position at sunrise. No amount of supposition would give him answers. He wriggled under his blanket, groaning with every twist, muscles stiff from exertion and the bone-deep chill of the afternoon's torrential downpour, which had slowed now to an insistent pattering against the canvas overhead.
For the first time all day, he truly longed for Kate. She had crossed his thoughts, and on the march north, he had missed her company beside him in the saddle, but he had been too preoccupied to think on it much. Now, her absence stung equal to any wound on his body.
A week perhaps, maybe two. After their victory, when a tenuous arrangement had been made in Paris, he had no doubt of being granted at least a short leave. The idea of it was a beacon, helping him to navigate the day ahead.
By now she would be gone from Antwerp aboard ship, probably cursing his name with every breath. Gone where? Because of his machinations to get her to safety, they had never formed a plan about where she would go or where to meet.
She is with mother, he thought, and felt reassured. If she had traveled the whole way to Antwerp, Kate would not escape Adelaide's single-minded dictatorship at the end. She would be waiting for him in England.
He just had to make it there.
* * *
Kate sat herself atop a low stone wall along the jetty, salt spray whipping her face, too tired even to cry. It was her own fault. She had decided not to leave with Adelaide and Louisa, and then only an hour later, lost her nerve and booked passage to England. The sum was exorbitant, of course. A score of ships in sight but perhaps only three which did not boast navy colors. Civilian captains were in a very enviable position when it came to generating revenue during wartime.
It had not been until after she had nearly emptied her purse that doubt had struck. Had any of her reasons for not leaving changed? There had been no word, no hint that anything was amiss except a dull sense of dread gripping her belly, pounding in her temples. It was the very feeling which had worn through her resolve in the first place, sending her tail between her legs for the first ship to England. She was ashamed to admit her weakness, and more ashamed at allowing the crag-faced captain to cheat her out of so much coin. What stung most was that she knew better. War, and battle specifically, were moments for the opportunist. She was no stranger to that fact, having once paid three times the going rate for flannel because the army was cut off from nearby towns. Never mind that it was for the very soldiers the greedy merchant claimed to support.
Her only consolation was that she had made the right decision, disembarking, choosing to stay in Antwerp. The question was settled in her mind for good and all. She would be just hours away when the battle was over. Returning to Matthew would be a small matter of a congested road, rather than an ocean voyage.
She sucked a long breath of cold sea air in through her nose, steeling herself. A sharp odor of pitch, the mellow scent of weathered oak and the dank, primordial musk of the tide filled her. They were all smells she associated with Patrick, waiting at the shoreline for his departure or his return. Always waiting for him.
Suddenly, Kate needed to be somewhere else.
She stood up from the wall, wincing at a damp backside. The city was beautiful, but she had no desire to see it. As far as she could see, the wide streets were close to empty. Small parties gathered along the sidewalks at odd intervals to speak in hushed tones, and some of the alleyways visible from her place at the docks were entirely abandoned. It caused what few sounds she could detect to rattle hollowly around her, magnifying how alone she now felt.
While she struggled with where to go, a rumble overhead made the decision for her. Wisps of gray cloud that had teased at leaving all morning had regrouped over the ocean. They roiled, expanding quickly and bearing down on the city.
The first fat raindrops struck her hands and face. Wherever she chose to mope, it would have to be indoors.
* * *
Matthew arched, raising up in Bremen's stirrups to relieve a rapidly stiffening back. They had turned out on the field 'at dawn' in accordance with the Field Marshal's unofficial standing order, courage drummed to a fever pitch. The passing of six, then seven in the morning had tempered the men. Enthusiasm had cooled so that now, two minutes before ten, they stood silent, tired and resigned. The reason for Napoleon's hesitation was no mystery. Matthew had guessed it the first time Bremen shuffled eagerly and his hooves squished a sandy clump of grass. It had been raining off and on for days, the violent downpours of mid-summer saturating everything. A boon for crops, but a death knell for the French artillery who counted on the damage from their heavy guns to pave their path. Spongy ground would absorb the shells, preventing them from bouncing a devastating swath th
rough Matthew's lines. Napoleon was obviously hoping that the blistering morning sun would parch the terrain and return his advantage. Bringing up the French artillery was not an option for him, as it would put him in range of Matthew's own guns and rifles, a loss the emperor could not afford to incur.
For now, his enemy remained only threads embroidering the horizon in colored lines. The sun glinted off the metal breastplate of a cuirassier now and then, obliging Matthew to squint.
As he ran a final glance across his own lines, a hat rose up, suspended a moment by a straight arm. There was no making out the man without his glass, but Matthew did not need it. He and Ty had said their goodbyes the same way countless times before. He raised his own into the air in final salute, praying they were not parting for the last time.
He pulled out his watch, checking it again. Ten thirty-one. He sighed and ground his teeth.
A sound drifted to him, one he had both dreaded and craved all morning. Mechanisms and thunder, the rumble of horses and heavy gun carriages claiming their place.
It was time.
There was a stomp and a whimper over his shoulder. “What, are you frightened?”
Matthew glanced back to find Sergeant-major Cleary glaring down at his pretty, silk-clad wife who clung to a nervous, spirited little pony. Outrage welled up, mingling with his irritation. What in the hell was the man thinking? “Cleary, do you mean your lady to march with us to the front?”
“No, sir.” He had the decency to drop his gaze and look a little ashamed at his bravado.
Matthew swept an arm, jabbing a finger toward the camp. “Then by God man, send her to the rear. If you're lucky, she'll still be waiting when you return.”
A stomp-stomp-stomp echoing over the valley pulled his attention back to the field. French lines appeared like a spine along the hill-tops, earning a robust cry from his men.
“Ready!” He swept his hat toward the ground ahead. “Form up men, and steady now! Hard pounding and no retreat!”
They roared like wild animals, raising muskets to cheer him on.
Blood rushed hot through his veins, pounding back the temperance he had imposed all morning. He raised his saber and cried, “Faugh a ballagh!”
His Irishmen all through the ranks went wild at his entreaty to 'clear the way'.
With fearsome, ground-devouring steps forward, they began to do just that.
* * *
She stood in the front window of the public house, absently noting how clean the tiny panes were. Indeed, how clean the whole place was for an inexpensive inn so near the waterfront. Anything to keep her mind from agonizing, wild imaginings at what must surely be taking place by now to the south.
Taking up the post with her back to everyone, Kate hoped to discourage her hostess from pressing her yet again with entreaties of food or conversation, two things she wanted least in the world at that moment. What she longed for was news, some word carried north. A courier had been due early that morning, but the day slipped willingly into midafternoon with no sign of a rider.
Ships came and went at long intervals, but she hardly noticed. The last time she had cared was yesterday, seeing Adelaide and Louisa onto the Lion, waving them along until they were a speck tumbling off the edge of the horizon. She had been made to promise a visit to Highgate, and a letter every week, which she had made in bad faith considering Fann's never-ending tome.
Wind caught the sails of a ship directly out from the window, whipping the furled canvas in an invitation, ushering in charcoal rain clouds from the south. Kate refused to let it be an omen. Suddenly the men and women passing the inn glanced back, some turning with hurried strides. Hoof beats stirred up a murmur outside the door. Hopefully the forbidding wind had finally blown in her wayward courier.
Townspeople were already abuzz when she reached the wide spot along the wharf where the high street came to its conclusion. The governor-general had been there all day, wandering, waiting in case word came of an allied retreat. She had seen him each time she scoured the road, looking for horse and rider. His back was to her now, slumped shoulders already shuffling away. There were no cheers, no shouts. The milling folk turned wide, incredulous eyes on one another.
“What is it? What did he say?” she asked again and again. Some townspeople clearly did not understand her, and some were deafened, thoughts as far away as the look in their eyes.
“They say it's over.” A weathered captain leaned against a lamp post near his slip, buried in the shadow of his wide hat. His arms hardly bothered to cross, as nonchalant about the news as he might be about the time of day.
She turned to him, surprised that someone had taken notice. “Pardon?”
“It's over.” He chewed his thumbnail, then spit. “Bony's broken clean through the middle. Already torn most of 'em up. Now all's left is to sweep up the bits.”
She stood rooted to the spot. The world closed in, going dark around the edges. Don't breathe too fast. Don't hold your breath. Kate coached herself against the buzz swirling between her temples, treating herself as she might a patient. She forgot about the town, the captain, until he spoke again. “You waitin' for something, miss?”
Her chest constricted, diaphragm too tight to help the words out. As she spoke, they seemed to come from far away. “Just an answer, whether I should stay or go.” She was asking herself, not him, but the captain did not seem to grasp that.
He straightened, leathery face grim, and hooked a thumb at the ship behind him. “I'd suppose it's time to go.”
She passed by the captain, mute, choked with mounting despair. Kate pulled her eyes away, fixing them to the ground and ignoring his calls behind her, studying the gravel until she was far down the wharf. He was a false prophet, she asserted. A doomsdayer, willing to believe the worst. She was not going anywhere until she was certain of Matthew's fate or until someone drug her from the city. They would have to unwrap her from the pilings first.
Up ahead, at the berth for one of the last civilian ships still at anchor, there was a commotion between one of the ship's officers and a group of six or seven soldiers. Their voices erupted from conversational to argumentative, fingers jabbing wildly at the vessel. Kate froze, eyes darting for a place to hide, fearing that Napoleon's first troops were claiming the city. Then she heard the crewman shout back and realized he was speaking German. In the gray murk of stormy late afternoon, she had mistaken green coats for blue.
They must know something more than the courier, Kate thought, a seed of hope taking root. She gathered her skirts and ran. Four sailors lumbering down the gangplank in response to the belligerent soldiers had her questioning her haste a moment later. When the officer on deck produced a pistol and waved it at the men, she dug her heels into the gravel, skidding to a stop. He pointed it from man to man, lashing them in halting Dutch. “You god-damn deserters! Not a foot on my ship. You stay and die like the dogs that you are.”
Insults lobbed from the Hussars, and one had the guts to shake his rifle overhead, but they all lost their nerve when a scrappy sailor on the deck overhead cocked his musket.
The soldiers were not behaving like victors, and the captain certainly did not believe them worthy of praise. Things were falling apart. For the first time, real fear caused her heart to drum.
The Hussars shook fists and protested over their shoulders, but they moved off. Their unwilling retreat jostled her as though she was invisible until she grabbed the last man's coat. Kate regretted it immediately, flinching when he spun around and his fist nearly kissed her cheek.
“Calm, calm! I mean no harm!” She threw her hands up to placate him, and he raked her up and down with suspicion, jerking the end of his brushy mustache. “Information...Nachrichten?” Kate hoped she was saying it correctly.
He huffed a laugh, shrugging a broad shoulder to pull her hand free, and strutted past.
She grabbed again and missed. “Please, anything! Webb...did you see General Webb?”
He didn't stop, but a younger sol
dier at the front of the pack snapped around, throwing up a hand. “Webb, ja! General Webb!”
She elbowed between the burly soldiers, not the least bit afraid now of any retaliation, until she reached the lanky, soot covered boy. “Is he all right, is he alive?”
His baby face scrunched up, concentrating to translate her question. Then his sad blue eyes turned down. “Defeat.”
It was a blow to the gut. Her lungs ached and for a long moment she could not catch a breath. Defeated. It did not mean that Matthew was dead. He could have retreated, or been captured. Kate clung to shreds of hope. “The general...General Webb? What happened?”
“Er fiel,” bit out the man next to him, already pulling the younger soldier away.
“He fell, ja.” The boy put fingers to his temples, splaying them out in a gruesome arc. “Boom!”
Time stopped, feeling stopped. Only the hateful band of Hussars moved, shouting and elbowing their way down the pier.
He was wrong. The soldier had no idea what he was saying. In fact, he was probably just saying it to be contrary, upset at being denied passage on the ship. She breathed through her nose, again and again, paralyzed. Her gut twisted, lurched, and if there had been anything in her stomach it would have heaved up on the spot.
When she could move it was primitive, barely managing a graceless fall with her back against the cold, damp stone of a piling. Sobs gripped her without warning, wringing out her rib cage with unsympathetic violence. Her head would split open if her heart did not tear first.
It was a lie. The soldier was confused. Weren't they deserters? That's what the captain said. But the courier had said it, too. And why had the Hussars deserted? Because the situation was too dire, too hopeless to press on. The lines were broken, and Matthew would never turn from the fight.