by Mary Nichols
‘I can take you to the next village,’ he added.
Gratefully they climbed up beside him. He was, he told them, a button salesman.
‘In the middle of a battlefield!’ Maryanne exclaimed.
He chuckled. ‘The army always needs buttons. It would hardly do if a fellow’s coat was flapping open or his breeches fell down just when he was ordered to charge, would it? Can you imagine the effect that would have?’
Maryanne laughed. ‘For the want of a button the battle was lost... But aren’t you afraid?’
‘Terrified, ma’am, but I have a living to make.’ He paused. ‘What are you doing so far forward? The baggage train is on the other side of Soignes woods.’
‘We are not camp followers,’ Maryanne said, mustering her dignity. ‘We are simply travellers who have had our horses confiscated and want to reach Brussels.’
‘Then it is as well you met with me, for unless I miss my guess there will be an unholy row starting before long.’
They left him at the crossroads at Mont-St-Jean, pondering whether to go left or right, and set off again on foot. They passed through the little village of Waterloo as dusk began to fall, but by unspoken agreement did not stop. Further along the woods on either side of the road were dotted with the camp fires of the waiting army, eating, preparing their weapons, trying to sleep. They gratefully accepted an invitation from one of the women to sit by the fire, where both dropped asleep.
When they awoke at dawn, cold, cramped and hungry, the men had gone and only a handful of camp followers remained. They bade them goodbye and began walking again, thankful the rain had stopped at last. They were approaching the gates of Brussels when they heard the bombardment begin behind them. It was half-past eleven.
It seemed as though half the population of the city was on the ramparts as they passed through the Namur gate. ‘What news?’ they called down to the travellers. ‘Where is Wellington?’
‘Back down the road,’ shouted a bandaged infantryman who had been walking beside Maryanne.
‘Is he beaten?’
The man shrugged and Maryanne looked up at the anxious faces. ‘I think he is making a stand,’ she said. ‘His aide said not to worry.’
‘What aide?’ A woman suddenly appeared on the cobbles beside her and grabbed her arm. ‘Which aide? Who was it? Tell me, I must know.’
Maryanne turned towards the speaker, who was dressed in an Empire gown of blue silk with velvet ribbon threaded through the high waist. Matching loops of ribbon and a long plume decorated the crown of her high-brimmed bonnet. She made Maryanne conscious of her own disreputable appearance, which did not make her feel any better about facing her. ‘It was Lord Brandon, Caroline,’ she said.
Caroline stared at her. ‘Maryanne! It can’t be.’
‘Oh, but it is. Your husband spoke to me yesterday. He bade me tell you he was safe and in good spirits.’
‘Thank God. Tell me, how did he look? He wasn’t wounded, was he? You would tell me if he were?’
‘No, he wasn’t wounded, and he looked well, just as if he were going to a ball.’
Caroline giggled suddenly as relief swept through her. ‘We were at a ball when the alarm was sounded. He rushed off without even changing. We hardly had time to say goodbye. Oh, you don’t know how relieved I am.’ She paused. ‘But how did you come to see him?’
Maryanne took Madame Saint-Pierre’s hand, drawing her forward to introduce her, then added, ‘We were on our way to Antwerp to find a passage to England.’
‘I am afraid you won’t be able to do that,’ Caroline said. ‘The commandant will not issue any passports. He says that running away will demonstrate a lack of faith in our troops and set a bad example to the locals. Some did try to go by barge, but those were all requisitioned to carry the wounded. I would not leave Richard in any event.’
All the time they had been talking the sound of gunfire had been increasing and could not be ignored. Somewhere to the south a terrible battle was taking place, a battle in which men of both sides were dying. Maryanne’s thoughts were with Adam. Was he out there, fighting with Napoleon? She felt weary beyond anything she had felt before.
‘Excuse me, I must find somewhere for us to stay. We are both excessively tired,’ she said.
‘Oh, you must stay with me,’ Caroline said unexpectedly. ‘I have plenty of room and I shall be glad of your company.’ She set herself between the two women and took an arm of each. ‘Come along. We will wait together.’
Maryanne could hardly contain her surprise. ‘I would not want to inconvenience you.’
‘Inconvenience! After you have brought me the best piece of news I have had in two long days of waiting. Come along. You shall have baths and clean clothes and then we shall sit down and have a comfortable cose.’
There were, of course, no horses and, therefore, no carriages, so they walked to the Rue du Damier.
‘Did you say the Duke was making a stand?’ Caroline asked when Maryanne and Eleanor had bathed and changed their clothes and rejoined her in her drawing-room.
‘It would seem so. His lordship said they were waiting for the Prussians to come up with them and then they would stand and fight.’
‘But the Prussians have been defeated,’ Caroline wailed. ‘They have fallen back miles. For two days now we have had only bad news. Deserters and wounded coming back into the city with the most dreadful tales. A whole regiment of Brunswickers galloped back through the city and rode north as if the hounds of hell were after them.’
‘His lordship seemed very confident, Caroline, and the Duke was so calm, you would think he was out for an afternoon’s gentle exercise.’
‘If anything happens to Richard...’ Her voice faded.
Maryanne hardly knew how to reassure her because her own fears ran along the same lines. Caroline had been unexpectedly friendly and hospitable, but what would she think if she knew Adam was with the enemy? To speak of him would raise all the old enmity, all the old accusations, and Maryanne was too tired and weak to indulge in a private battle in the middle of a conflict which was putting an end to so many thousands of young lives.
It was getting late and still the guns boomed, still they heard the refugees and wounded trudging in, and still they waited. Maryanne persuaded Eleanor to retire, and kept vigil with Caroline, who darted to the window whenever she heard the clop of hooves on the pave.
‘Sit down, Caroline,’ she said for the third time. ‘It will not bring him any quicker.’
Caroline subsided into a chair. ‘You know,’ she said slowly, ‘I was such a conceited fool before I realised I loved Richard. Do you remember I said I would not marry for love? Oh, no, I wanted money and a title, wardrobes full of gowns and shoes, carriages and horses, everything that is not worth a pin when it comes down to it. I derided you for wanting to fall in love. And then I did exactly that. Richard has only a minor title and little wealth but he is a good man, the best. I cannot eat or sleep for thinking I might lose him. Can you understand that?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Adam?’
Maryanne smiled. ‘Who else? He is my husband.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I do not know. He told me to go back to England if there was trouble. I have been trying to do that.’
‘You are very brave, Maryanne. I don’t know if I could have done what you did. The scandal after you left was prodigious. I thought it would never die down. If it had not been for Richard, I do not think I could have borne it.’
Maryanne smiled; London and London Society seemed so far away, another world, an ostentatious, shallow, unimportant world. ‘Is there a warrant out for our arrest?’ she asked.
Caroline laughed. ‘No, Mark said while you stayed in France he would do nothing, but...’ She jumped up and went to the window as a horseman came galloping through the street, shouting. ‘Listen,’ she said.
‘Victoire!’ The shout was clear now. ‘Victoire! Boney is routed!’
Ca
roline rushed out to question the rider, but he had gone by the time she reached the street. She returned indoors. ‘It’s over,’ she said. ‘He will be home soon.’
‘Amen,’ Maryanne said fervently.
They sat together until dawn, and although carts full of wounded rumbled back to the dressing stations and officers, relieved of their duties, rode back to their loved ones, Richard was not among them. By six o’clock Caroline was desperate. ‘I’m going to find him,’ she said suddenly.
‘How?’ Maryanne had been dozing from sheer exhaustion.
‘The officers who came back had horses; I’ll borrow one for each of us. You will come with me, won’t you?’
‘Where?’ Maryanne asked.
‘To the battlefield.’
There was no dissuading her, and Maryanne, conscious of the charge Lord Brandon had put on her, would not let her go alone. They left a note for Madame Saint-Pierre, who was still asleep, and set off on horses which were already exhausted. The only advantage of that, Maryanne decided, was that they were easy to handle.
They rode silently, each with her own thoughts, each trying to stifle the fear of what they might find. It mattered little which side the men fought on; she and Caroline had something in common-their concern for their husbands. Among the forest trees, the remnants of an army had returned to their camp fires to eat and drink and talk, but, most of all, to sleep. Caroline did not expect to find Richard among their number, and they rode on, past the inn and the little chapel at Waterloo and on to the crossroads where Maryanne and Eleanor had left the button man. The scene was worse than either of them could ever have imagined.
Dead and dying men and horses littered the fields, along with broken guns, uptilted limbers, wood, shreds of uniform, plumes. The whole area stank of gunpowder, blood and death. Dreadful sounds of muted groans seemed to issue from the earth itself. Some of the wounded had dragged themselves to the edge of the road, others lay propped against trees, waiting to be carried off to the surgeon. Orderlies with stretchers were running to and fro, loading them into carts. Women darted in and out among them, looking for their men, crying their names. Some who had found them lay sprawled across their bodies, sobbing out their grief; others stoically went from one motionless form to another, searching with growing desperation.
The battlefield covered several miles from the chateau of Hougoumont in the south-east to Papelotte over on their left, and they had no idea where to start looking.
‘Have you seen Lord Brandon?’ Caroline cried, dismounting and dashing up to a stretcher-bearer who was tying off the stump of an arm, before putting its owner on to a stretcher.
‘Who?’
‘Lord Brandon. He was with the Duke, one of his aides.’
‘As far as I know all the Duke’s aides fell. It was a miracle he wasn’t hit himself.’
‘Oh, no! Where? Tell me where,’ Caroline pleaded.
The man shrugged. ‘Could be anywhere; you will just have to keep looking, or go back and wait for news.’
Caroline would not do that, and they tethered the horses and combed the field, hardening themselves to the terrible sights they saw. They searched all morning, even after the orderlies had left with the last of the wounded. ‘There aren’t any more,’ they were told. ‘Those that are left are beyond help. We will come back for them later.’
Maryanne was only half aware of the last cart leaving, for she had come upon a sight which had stopped her in her tracks. Three French soldiers lay, one on top of the other, so that it was difficult to tell which limb belonged to which. One of them had a wide grin on his face as if he had died laughing. It was all she could do to control her heaving stomach, but she could not stop staring at him with her mouth open because she had recognised the uniform of the French Seventh Regiment. Did that mean Adam was dead? She did not want to believe it; she could not believe it. She would know, deep in her heart, she would know, wouldn’t she?
She turned away at last and followed Caroline into another field, where the tall corn had been flattened and would never be harvested. The picture was the same, and over at the chateau of Hougoumont it was even worse. Thousands of men had died in the orchard surrounding it; their bodies were piled everywhere.
Maryanne, looking at the gruesome scene, put her hands to her stomach as she felt the first faint movements of her child. In the midst of death there was life; something sweet and new would come out of all this carnage. She took a deep breath and followed Caroline, who had gone through the gate of the chateau and was racing across to where a man lay propped against a wall.
‘Richard!’ she shrieked, falling on her knees beside him. He still wore his dress uniform, which was in tatters, and one of his dancing slippers; the other had disappeared along with the foot which had been wearing it. His face was a uniform grey and his eyes were shut. Caroline put her hand on his heart. ‘He’s alive!’ she said, tears streaming down her face. ‘Maryanne, he is alive.’ She looked up at Maryanne. ‘Oh, what are we to do? We need help, a stretcher, a cart. Oh, why did they all have to leave? We must bind up that foot. I’ll do it. You go and find help. Quickly! Quickly!’
Maryanne, dashing off to obey, marvelled at the strength of character Caroline had found to help her do what had to be done. That was what love did for you, she thought wryly.
The road, when she reached it, was empty, except for the button man’s wagon, with its tired old horse clop-clopping along, as if driver and animal were both asleep. She breathed a fervent prayer of thanks and stood waiting for it to come up to her.
Adam allowed the horse to go at its own pace, too exhausted to think any more, yet too tired to stop his thoughts from wandering. Pictures came and went in front of eyes too deprived of sleep to focus properly. Maryanne, Maman, the father he had never really known, the man who had taken his place and died so cruelly. But his death, brutal as it had been, had been a quick one compared to the suffering of these poor devils in the last three days. The stench of death filled the air and unsteadied the horse. ‘Easy, old fellow, easy,’ he said. ‘Soon have you home and a bag of oats on your nose.’
He smiled crookedly. Home. Where was home? Wherever Maryanne was. Pray God she was safe. He could tell her now, all of it, from the beginning, from the day in 1810 when he had run into a British patrol in the mists of Busaco to yesterday when he had witnessed Napoleon leaving the scene of his defeat in his blue and gilt carriage, escorted by a handful of his faithful Old Guard. He could tell her, if he could find her. He knew she had not gone to England, so where was she?
The Duke of Wellington must let him go now. He had done all that had been asked of him and, like his chief, had come through unscathed. But it had been a close thing, too close for comfort. Life with the Seventh had become untenable when one of the men had challenged his identity, and he had decided that the time had come to leave them. His usefulness there had been over in any case; Napoleon had decided to march on Belgium. He had rejoined his commander-in-chief and spent the time chasing from one battlefield to another with dispatches, watching the French movements, infiltrating their ranks and listening to their gossip.
He had been on his way to Brussels with his intelligence when he had fallen foul of a patrol from the Seventh who had recognised him, and he had been obliged to fight his way out of his predicament. He had killed one, left two others mortally wounded and the remainder searching the cornfields for him. Evading them had taken the best part of half a day and, in his haste to make up for lost time, he had been careless of his horse; the stallion had fallen and could not rise. He had put it out of its misery, cursing in at least four languages, but it had made no difference; he could not turn the tide; it rolled inexorably on towards the fields of Waterloo. Afterwards, returning to the British lines on foot, he had come across the wagon under a tree, with its button-covered owner dead across the seat; it was better than walking.
The last hundred days might have solved Europe’s problems but they had done nothing to solve his. He could no longer
live in France, where those still loyal to the Emperor might seek revenge, but neither was he sure England was the answer. Even if he was not indicted for murder, there would still be the scandal; ought he to subject Maryanne to that? And, more to the point, could he stand by and let Mark Danbury usurp his title and say nothing? But he was tired of fighting. All he wanted was to live in peace; surely, somewhere, there was a haven for the two of them?
He smiled slowly, painting pictures in his mind’s eye. Maryanne at Castle Cedars, young and fearful of the future, even more fearful of the past; Maryanne helping a chubby little doctor dig a bullet out of his shoulder - how the damp weather made that ache! - Maryanne laughing, Maryanne angry, Maryanne sad. He saw her dressed for a ball in a pure white gown, wreathed in greenery, and Maryanne in rags, covered in mud and blood, her hair hanging damply about her face, her eyes wide with anxiety. The vision was so real that he pulled on the reins and the horse stopped with an abruptness which nearly threw him off the driving seat. Was it a vision, a ghost come to haunt him for neglecting her?
‘Maryanne,’ he croaked. ‘Maryanne.’
‘Adam!’ She reached up tentatively to touch his thigh. ‘Adam, can it really be you?’
He blinked and slid down from the seat. Her hand was warm in his, her eyes were vibrant and alive. Real tears were sliding down her face, making channels in the dirt. He took her in his arms and held her close against his chest, feeling the warmth of her, the trembling of her, felt her heartbeat under his hand, tasted her lips, gently lest she disappear like the apparition he had believed her to be.
She wanted to stay in the security of his arms, but the urgency of her errand forced her to be practical. ‘Come,’ she said, scrambling up on to the driver’s seat and picking up the reins. ‘Come quickly. Lord Brandon has had his foot blown off. Caroline is with him. They are up at the chateau. We need the cart.’