With a sigh, he approached the wagon that had just arrived. Like all the others, it was badly overloaded. The men who could still do so slipped over the sides, leaving behind only those unable to move. Ballard saw their uniforms for the first time. Their trousers were white and their dark blue jackets had green epaulettes. It was the same uniform he had given to the two men charged with finding his target. The familiar sight brought him up short, a last flare of hope surging deep in his belly. It pushed away the exhaustion, his body responding to the warm rush the emotion created.
Quick, urgent steps took him into the crowd of men that milled around the rear of the wagon. He moved through them, searching faces, looking for the flicker of familiarity that he longed for. It did not take him long. He reached the wagon and pulled himself up. Four men were stretched out on the floor. Two were dead, their faces waxy and grey. One of those still alive had lost the right-hand side of his chest. The dreadful wound had been stuffed full of lint, then bound with what looked like part of a bed sheet. The whole was smothered with blackened blood that glistened and pulsated in the rain. The last man’s wounds were hidden from view, but Ballard could hear his soft moans and sobs even over the noise of the rain. None of the four was the man he sought.
He turned, hopelessness fighting for control of his soul. Another wagon was pulling up behind the one he was on. It too was full of men from the Legion. He jumped down. The ground was slick, the wheels of the wagons churning it to so much slurry, but still he moved quickly, sending up fountains of water with every urgent pace.
Once again the lightly wounded disembarked first. The men ambled away, moving slowly, their expressions revealing the strain of their journey. He pushed through them, pausing to look at every face. None bore the resemblance that he wanted so desperately to see.
He looked hopefully down the road, searching for another wagonload of wounded legionnaires. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the road was empty. The temptation to end his search was strong, but he hauled himself up on to the second wagon nonetheless. He would see it through to the bitter end.
There were only two men left on the wagon bed. Both appeared to be alive. One had been hit in the guts, his uniform ripped open, revealing the grey-blue mess of his belly. His hands clasped around his innards, holding them in place with trembling fingers that were covered to the wrists with gore.
Ballard checked the man’s face, a fleeting moment of joy that it was not his target replaced swiftly by disappointment that the search was not over. The second man lay on his side, his face pressed against the wooden floor of the wagon. Ballard squatted, then picked his way forward, trying not to jar either man with his mud-splattered boots. He no longer noticed the thin river of blood that ran freely across the wagon bed.
The rain had darkened the man’s blond hair. It lay tousled against his scalp, with thick strands glued to his forehead. His eyes were shut, yet the pattern of his features was easily recognisable.
Ballard could barely breathe. He stayed where he was, staring at the face he had not seen for so long, unable to believe that the moment had finally arrived. He reached out, a single finger moving to ease the hair out of the man’s eyes. The touch sent a jolt running through him. It was enough to make him gasp, and he had to take hold of the wagon’s side lest he fall.
The man’s eyes flickered open. For a moment they looked up unseeing, then they focused. He gazed up at Ballard, dazed and unsure.
‘Father?’
‘My boy.’ Ballard choked on the words. His hand lowered for a second time to push the hair out of his son’s face.
‘Father?’ Fleming’s voice wavered with disbelief.
‘Hush.’ Ballard smiled. ‘Rest there.’ He straightened up. He no longer noticed the rain or the cold. He no longer smelled the acrid stink of powder smoke amidst the stench of old blood and torn bowels.
He had found his son, and nothing else mattered.
‘We are leaving. Immediately.’ Ballard had steered Mary out of the dressing station. He held her under a tree, sheltering her from the worst of the storm.
‘Now?’ Mary wiped a hand across her face. It left a trail of watery blood.
‘Yes, now. I have him.’ Ballard could not hide his delight.
‘What the devil do you mean?’ Mary was exhausted and struggling to comprehend.
‘I found him.’ Ballard took hold of her elbow and turned her to face the other direction.
A short distance away, a man was squatting on his haunches beside a bucket. The water it contained was the colour of blood, but he was still using it to wash his face as best he could. Sensing Mary’s scrutiny, he got slowly to his feet and walked towards her.
‘That’s him?’ Mary finally understood Ballard’s reaction. ‘That’s the man you’ve had everyone looking for?’
‘Yes.’ Ballard kept a firm grip on her elbow. ‘He is my son.’
‘Your what?’ Mary shook off the guiding hand. ‘We came here for your son?’
‘I will explain, I promise. Now is not the time.’ Ballard spoke urgently. He lifted an arm as he ushered the man into the conversation. ‘Mary, may I present William Ballard. My son.’
‘No! That’s not my name, not anymore.’ The blond-haired legionnaire spoke quietly but firmly. ‘Fleming. That’s my name now.’
Mary barely looked at him. She turned the force of her gaze on Ballard. ‘Where’s Jack?’
‘He fell.’ Fleming spoke first. His words were soft, as if he were embarrassed. ‘Palmer told me.’
Mary’s eyes narrowed at the news. She did not gasp, or appear shocked. ‘And where is Palmer?’
‘He must be dead. He hit me, knocked me senseless.’ Fleming looked at Mary, his eyes full of pain. ‘If he was alive he wouldn’t have left me.’
‘And here you are.’ Mary made the statement sound like an accusation.
‘I’m not staying.’
‘Yes you damn well are.’ Ballard had watched the conversation like a hawk. Now he interjected.
‘Damn your eyes, do not dare to tell me what to do.’ Fleming snapped at his father, then winced, the force of his words clearly hurting him. A single drop of blood trickled from his forehead to run down his cheek like a red tear.
‘You are my son.’
‘Not any more. I even chose to use Mother’s maiden name.’ He glared at Ballard.
‘Enough.’ The major snapped the single word. ‘Men died to bring you to me. Do not make that all have happened for nothing.’
‘I did not ask you to come here.’ Fleming raised a hand, then clutched at his head, swaying on his feet. The blood was running quicker now, the single drop followed by a flood. He closed his eyes against the pain, but his body betrayed him and his legs gave out. He crumpled and fell into his father’s arms.
Ballard staggered as he took his son’s full weight. For a moment he held him close, then he looked beseechingly at Mary. ‘Mary, help me.’
Mary made no move to obey. She stared at Ballard as if seeing him for the first time.
‘Help me,’ Ballard gasped as he struggled to hold Fleming in his arms. ‘He is my son.’
The simple words meant everything, and Mary understood. She glanced over her shoulder. Her own son was sitting on a stool, staring into space, as if looking at an object far away in the distance. The sight shamed her. She stepped forward, bracing her arm across Fleming’s chest. With her help, Ballard lowered the bloodied legionnaire to the ground.
‘We are leaving, right here and now.’ She took control swiftly. She had watched Ballard’s merry little gang for weeks now. She had not interfered with their plans, such as they had been, leaving them to their mission. The time for sitting on the sidelines had passed.
‘You will do everything I say. Do you understand?’ She spoke slowly, as if to a difficult child.
Ballard swallowed, then nodded.
‘We will take one of these carts, one of the small ones. We will go to the rail line and get on a train, and w
e won’t stop until we are back in London. When we are there, and only then, I will accept your offer. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ Ballard replied in an instant. There was no need to say anything more.
Mary pulled a bandage out of her apron pocket. It was bloodstained and smeared with dirt, but it would suffice for the moment. With deft movements she bandaged Fleming’s head. Then she stood, wiping her hands on her blood-crusted apron.
For a moment, she felt a pang of grief for Jack. It did not last. She could not mourn his loss. Once he had meant something to her, but that had departed with the last flushes of her youth. Her son was all that mattered now. Everything she did from that moment forth would be for his benefit.
She looked at Ballard. The major was staring at his own son, his eyes roving over the young man’s face as if trying to commit every pore to memory. She knew he would give her the security that she needed, and the home and the future that Billy deserved. Becoming Ballard’s wife would be the best bargain of her life.
Jack struggled to place one foot in front of the other. The rain came down in torrents, unceasing and uncaring. Few men were foolish enough to still be walking the battlefield. Most had found their mates and had hunkered down, sitting in misery as they waited for dawn.
The rain made every step a test of endurance, yet the downpour also spared him. In the murk he could no longer see the ruined bodies that lay in every direction. With the rain pounding against his head he could not hear the pitiful cries of the wounded left to suffer where they had fallen.
He found the copse where they had left Billy. There were troops among the trees, tired men who had sought what little shelter they could find. Jack did not know what regiment they belonged to, or even what army. But one thing was certain. There was no sign of Billy or the horses
He looked around him. He saw nothing but rain. The last of the day’s light was fading fast, the leaden skies cutting off any hint of evening sun. He shivered as he stood there. The chill was deep in his bones. He was tired, so very tired. But he could not rest. Not yet.
He turned his back on the copse and walked into the teeth of the gale, bending over like a redcoat advancing in the face of enemy guns. It was hard to keep moving. The rain had soaked his uniform, and he shivered with every step.
He found the road that led along the bottom of the ridge easily enough. In the darkness it was harder to see the corpses that lay on either side, and he stumbled as his tired legs caught against the dead flesh of men dragged off the road’s surface.
The going was easier once he was on the road, but the storm did not let up. Above his head the skies raged with thunder and lightning, the display so ferocious that he could not help flinching every few paces.
He was nearly upon the aid station before he saw it. A few lanterns had been lit to give the place an unearthly glow. He saw shadowy figures moving around, a handful of men and women tending to the wounded through the long, lonely hours of the night that would see many of their charges breathe their last.
He walked to the far side of the buildings. He tried not to look at the great heap of bodies at the roadside, or at the smaller pile of severed limbs beside it. He turned a deaf ear to the screams and cries that echoed from within the aid station, the pitiful wails coming one after another without pause.
He spotted the place where he had bade farewell to Ballard and Mary and walked towards it, his pace increasing. He felt a pathetic spurt of something that came close to excitement as he peered through the gloom, searching the ground for the fire that he knew Mary would have kept alive even in the storm. He looked for Ballard’s distinctive figure and for Billy’s smaller frame.
He slowed down, scanning in every direction, certain that they would be there. He tensed, waiting for the shout of recognition. Ballard would be sure to admonish him, but he did not care. He wanted to be back in the fold, to return to people who knew him. He wanted to be home.
The excitement faded. He saw no one.
His pace slowed until he was standing by the tree. The rain fell without pause, but he no longer felt it. His tired mind tried to think clearly, to consider where they might have gone. It failed, and a feeling of such loneliness overwhelmed him that it was all he could do to hold back a cry of anguish.
He did not know how long he stood there. Everything he had done these past weeks had been at the behest of Ballard. The search for Fleming had been all. It had given him purpose when he had had none. Without it, he had nothing. Without his friends, he had no one.
‘Monsieur?’
Jack started at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. ‘Who are you?’ His voice cracked. He sounded like an old man.
‘Ah, you are English too.’ A thin French orderly was looking up at him with concern. ‘Are you wounded?’
‘No.’ Jack fought through the fog in his mind. ‘Were there other Englishmen here? A woman? A boy?’
‘Oui, monsieur, an English gentleman and a lady. They helped with the wounded.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘They left.’ The orderly shrugged. ‘A few hours ago, I would say. They took a carriage. They had a boy with them, and a wounded man, a legionnaire if I am not mistaken.’
‘How . . .’ Jack’s voice caught in his throat as he tried to speak. He sucked down a draught of air, then spat, clearing the sourness from his gullet. ‘How did the legionnaire get here?’
‘He must have come in on a wagon of wounded.’ The orderly pulled a face at the odd question. ‘There are so many wounded, monsieur.’
‘Yes.’ Jack was grateful for the information. The legionnaire had to be Fleming. Somehow everything had turned out to Ballard’s satisfaction. He sensed Palmer’s hand in the matter, but the orderly had made no mention of the large Englishman.
‘I must leave you.’ The orderly interrupted his thoughts. ‘There is much to be done here.’
Jack nodded. Ballard and the others were lost to him, but Palmer was still out there somewhere in the darkness. The knowledge ignited a small flame of hope deep inside him. He would try to find him in the morning. For the moment, he had discovered enough.
Jack awoke to sunshine. The warmth of the morning sun wandered across his face, its touch like a lover’s the morning after a night spent in each other’s arms. He savoured the feel of it, lifting his face with his eyes clamped shut. He did not want to open them. He did not want to see what waited for him.
The sun passed behind a cloud, shutting off the warmth. He sighed, then opened his eyes. It was time to face another day.
Slowly and painfully he levered himself to his feet. He was chilled to the bone and his uniform was damp, streaked with mud and stained with old blood. His whole body ached and he gasped as he stood, his head swimming. He reached out to grasp at a tree, holding himself upright.
He was also hungry. He hadn’t eaten since the previous morning, and now his stomach growled painfully. Yet he had no food with him, and so the hunger, like the pain, would have to be ignored.
He looked down at the muddy hollow next to the thin line of cypress trees that had been his bed for the night. An inch or two of water lay in the depression his body had made in the sodden soil. It had not been a comfortable place to rest, but still he had slept, the exhaustion claiming him despite the discomfort.
Somewhere in the distance a bugle sounded, summoning the battered and exhausted troops who had camped on the field of battle. It was the first sign of a return to normality, the clear notes a reminder that the men who had slept on the sodden ground were soldiers, not vagrants.
The battlefield was shrouded in mist, but he could just make out several parties of men beginning the harrowing task of sifting through the dead. They would be searching for the fallen from their own regiments, so that their comrades could at least be given some sort of burial. It would the last thing their army could do for them.
They were not the only ones searching. He could see several small groups of civilians, the peasants of Lombardy arriving to
pick over the dead and the dying, their possessions enough of a lure to bring even the most timid souls in search of bounty. He did not begrudge their presence. The dead no longer had need for such things.
The bugle sounded again, the notes muffled by the heavy air. It was time for him to move, but still he lingered, trying to order his thoughts. The French orderly at the aid station had not mentioned Palmer’s presence with the others. That meant he was either dead or missing. If he were missing, then Jack was certain Ballard was ruthless enough to leave his bodyguard behind. But it was hard to think of Palmer allowing himself to be lost.
Jack sighed. He could think of only one reason why Palmer would have left Fleming’s side. He looked again at the groups picking through the dead. There was only one way to find out for sure if Palmer had fallen. If he were dead then he had to be found.
He retrieved his rifle from the muddy ground, then trudged away from the line of trees. He had a vague notion of which direction to take, the landscape he was now passing familiar.
He walked into a vision of hell. Bodies lay in every direction. Some were in heaps, three, four or more corpses intertwined, limbs contorted at impossible angles, open eyes bulging and staring. Many were missing limbs or even whole sections of flesh, their cause of death obvious. Others lay as if asleep, peaceful at the last.
The fields on which they sprawled had been devastated. Acres of wheat and corn had been flattened. Orchards that had been carefully tended for generations now lay in ruins, the trees mangled and shattered. Great holes had been gouged in the soil, the earth ripped and torn apart by hundreds of rounds of shot and shell. They were now filled with pools of bloody water or worse. The ground was littered with the detritus of battle. An army’s worth of discarded equipment lay in every direction, some as broken as the bodies that had carried it, some simply dropped as the battle ebbed and flowed.
He walked through it all until he found the ground where the Legion had fought the Hungarians. He had searched that area the night before, so now he turned towards the west, thinking to follow the path some of the legionnaires must have taken as they ran from the Austrian cavalry.
The Last Legionnaire Page 32