by April Munday
Mary encouraged her to sleep, but Sophia could not. Everything she had done for John had failed and John would die, because she had not been able to prevent the battle.
Wearily she had got up and joined Mary and Freddie for breakfast, but had been unable to eat anything. For the rest of the morning she sat listlessly in the sitting-room, unable to take up any sewing or even to talk to Mary. The book of sonnets lay in her lap. From time to time she opened it. The words on the page made no sense to her, but she knew they contained John’s love and it was important to hold on to that.
Paul had come back from church with the news that many people had fled Brussels and gone to Antwerp for safety. Mary had said they could not be blamed for being afraid and they had, themselves, run away from Paris. She did not add that they had had a purpose in doing so.
The boys were excited; it was obvious that something was happening. All the adults in the house were quieter than usual and one of the Bruxelloise maids started weeping in the entrance hall. Finally, when the guns started just before midday, Mary told Freddie that there was a battle taking place nearby.
“Is that where Papa is?”
Mary laughed. “No. Your father owns a manufactory. He is not a soldier. Uncle John is there.”
“Then we will be safe.”
Mary smiled at him. Sophia cried, careful to hide her tears from Freddie.
Edmund returned just before dinner. He was filthy and tired. After reassuring himself that Sophia was well, he went for a bath. Mary disappeared with him and dinner was delayed. Neither woman asked what had happened with Joude.
The mud on Edmund’s clothes worried Sophia. Her restless sleep had been full of dreams about John’s horse getting stuck in the mud, leaving him at the mercy of French lancers or sharpshooters. The thunderstorm outside had punctuated her dreams and woken her frequently.
“Should we leave?” asked Mary when they discussed those who had fled at dinner. She and Sophia looked at Edmund who shook his head.
“I’m in no position to protect you if we do or if we don’t.”
Sophia had never seen Edmund so indecisive. To some extent she and Mary could protect themselves. Edmund had taught them both to shoot and Sophia had been surprised to discover that Mary always carried one of Edmund’s knives.
“I can’t leave,” she said. “Not until John…”
Her tears had stopped her speaking. Mary patted her hand and Edmund said, “There will be much to do either way and John…”
He shrugged.
Sophia’s tears turned to sobs. Mary held her as she cried and Edmund’s hand rested on her shoulder.
Edmund went to bed after dinner, but Mary and Sophia waited until there was news of the battle. Throughout the night there were conflicting reports, most of them giving the victory to the French. Mary said that they would not give up hope until the French arrived in Brussels. When Paul returned with news that he had seen French soldiers on the streets she said she would not believe it until she saw them in the square outside. Finally Paul returned with a smile. The French army was retreating. There was no longer any danger to Brussels.
“We should go to bed now,” said Mary.
It was almost light
“In a moment. You go, don’t worry about me.”
“But I do.” Mary smiled ruefully. “Staying up will not make any difference to John and he will not return tonight.”
“I know.”
“Tomorrow, I think perhaps we should drive to the battlefield and help with the wounded.” It was a hesitant suggestion. “We have plenty of room here,” continued Mary, as if Sophia had agreed. “We can bring some men here and care for them. They will have little enough care otherwise.”
Sophia said nothing, certain if she went to the battlefield she would find John’s dead body. She sat for a while after Mary had gone to bed with a single candle, too tired to move. When she awoke it was because Edmund was saying her name.
“I have food and bandages.” He held up a basket. “Mary will make the house ready and we will bring as many men as we can fit into the carriage.”
Not wishing to delay him by washing and dressing, she stood and smoothed down her gown; she was going to a battlefield, not a ball.
Sophia slept most of the way. Edmund had told Paul to take the road south out of the city, but the coachman had no difficulty finding his way; the road was full of wounded men who had been walking through the night to get to Brussels.
As they drew nearer to where the battle had been, Sophia forced herself to look out of the window at them. These were men who had been wounded, but were still able to get themselves away from the battlefield; the ones they were going to help would be in a much worse state. Some of the men she saw could only walk with the help of others and some were being carried. Many were sitting by the roadside, unable to go further. She began to calculate how many they could bring back to Brussels; it was not a large number.
After a while, the carriage moved more slowly until it finally came to a halt. For some time Sophia had been able to hear the groans of wounded men and the occasional scream. Now that they were here, she was not sure she wanted to get out. She had already seen terrible things through the window. Dead men lay with dead horses. Many bodies wore only shirts and had been plundered of anything useful they had worn or carried.
“You can stay here, if you want,” said Edmund and she wondered if she had spoken aloud. “I know you’re strong, but this might be too much even for you.”
“No,” she said, “I won’t scream or faint or be sick.”
She owed these men more than that.
“I know you won’t.”
He helped her down.
“If you don’t think you’ll be too much in the way, Paul, wait here or nearby,” he said to the coachman. “God knows it shouldn’t take too long to find seven or eight men to take home.”
“Won’t you need me to help carry them? Begging Miss Arbuthnot’s pardon, but she’s not as strong as me.”
Edmund considered quickly.
“Wait here and we’ll see if we can find Captain Warren before we start gathering passengers. I’ll need your help then.”
Sophia started. “John?”
Edmund’s smile was brief.
“Since we’re here, we might as well see if he’s well. We can spare half an hour to find him, if you can bear it.”
“I can bear it.”
He must have known it was hopeless, but she appreciated the gesture. Some degree of optimism had returned with the new day.
“Thank you.”
Sophia looked around. Her first surprise was that she was not the only woman here. Frightened wives and daughters, she thought as she watched them moving around the dead, dying and wounded, although Edmund said ‘Looters’ under his breath. There were also soldiers trying to find fallen comrades. Above it all was the sound of hundreds of young men groaning and crying. She wanted to blank it all out, but she did not have the right. Despite all their efforts, despite Franz’s death, they had failed and these men had paid the price for their failure.
“Miss Arbuthnot?”
Sophia turned at the shout.
“Captain Dennis. I’m so glad to see you.”
At least one of their friends was still alive.
The young man smiled.
“Not as glad as I am to see you. Good morning, Mr Finch.”
Dennis’ voice was unnaturally loud and Sophia glanced at Edmund, who shook his head. Dennis bowed. There was a bandage around his forehead, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.
“We’re looking for Captain Warren,” said Edmund, his voice equally loud. “Have you seen him?”
“Not this morning, but I saw him during the night.”
Sophia groaned and her legs gave way. Edmund grasped her elbow and she collapsed against him, crying.
“I say,” said Dennis, “did I say the wrong thing?”
“Just the right thing,” said Edmund. “Thank you. Can I take a mess
age back to Brussels for you, unless you’re returning soon yourself?”
“Please tell Miss Jane Cudmore-Aspinall that I’m well. The wound is slight. I suppose it would be kinder to tell her I’m wounded.”
Despite her tears, Sophia managed to nod.
“I don’t know when I’ll get back to Brussels, but I’ll come as soon as I can.”
“Of course, it would be my pleasure to tell her. Come, Sophia, we can still spare a few minutes.”
Sophia released him and wiped her eyes.
Dennis told them where he had seen John and they set off in that direction.
“It was the guns,” said Edmund as they walked away.
“The guns?”
“You heard them in Brussels, imagine how loud they were here.”
“Will they all be deaf?”
“Only for a few days. It passes.”
The battlefield seemed vast and they had such little time. They concentrated their efforts on men they could see walking around, although Sophia found it hard not to kneel down by each wounded man and take his hand.
“Sophia! What are you doing here?”
John stood up from the wounded man he had been helping and came towards them.
Sophia ran to him and threw her arms around him. He lowered his head and kissed her. His relief was palpable and Sophia remembered belatedly that she was not the only one who had thought the other might die. Abruptly he pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice as loud as Dennis’s had been. “This is hardly the time or the place.”
Reluctantly Sophia let him go. She noticed Edmund standing beside them.
“We’ve come to take as many wounded men as we can back to Brussels.”
Edmund spoke, perhaps sensing that she could not.
“Oh, Sophia, you shouldn’t have to see all this.”
“I’m seeing you,” she said as she reached out for his hand. She repeated herself when his frown showed she had not spoken loudly enough.
“And the sight of you is truly good for sore eyes. But I’d much rather you weren’t here. You should still be resting.”
“You’re not wounded?”
She ignored his concerns for her well-being, for it must be obvious that she was not fully recovered, but able to stand with the assistance of her cane.
John looked exhausted. He was covered in mud and, now that he was close, she could smell him. His hand shook slightly and his eyes were bloodshot from the effort of keeping them open. He hesitated and her fear came out of her in a gasp.
“Surely not seriously,” said Edmund, as he started to search John’s clothing for blood. “I can see nothing through this mud.”
“My arm,” said John, stretching out his left arm so that they could see the tear in his jacket. “A lancer caught me with his spear.”
Edmund removed the jacket and pulled up John’s sleeve.
“Your own handiwork, I see.”
He untied the bloody cravat that John had used to stem the flow of blood. John did not even wince, but Sophia could see that the wound was worse than he had wanted them to know.
“Give me your hip flask.”
Edmund held out his hand and John placed the small silver flask into it. Pouring some brandy over the wound, Edmund cleaned the blood away with a piece of cloth.
“Can you bear to stand while I sew it up?”
“What?”
John pulled his arm away and took a step backwards.
“It needs to be closed.” Edmund was firm. “I can’t see anything suitable for you to sit or lie on.”
John shook his head.
“That’s not one of your special skills, is it?”
Edmund smiled grimly.
“No, but I know what must be done and I’ve the stomach for it.”
He glanced at Sophia.
“I don’t think I could do it,” she said.
“If it must be done,” said John, “then do it.”
The hand that Sophia was holding gripped hers, then released it.
Edmund looked in the bag that he had slung across his body and drew out a small box.
“Hold his arm,” Edmund instructed Sophia, “and keep it steady. You’d better take a sip from this flask, John. A large one.”
They both obeyed and Edmund took the flask back and poured more brandy on the wound. Sophia and John watched as Edmund took a needle out of the box and threaded it. John raised his free hand to Sophia’s cheek and she turned to him,
“I’d rather look at you,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
Neither of them was looking when Edmund began to sew.
Sophia thought she was not strong enough to watch, but she managed it, looking away every now and again from John’s face. Even if John did not notice it, she could see that Edmund was nervous. It was not that his hand shook or that he was indecisive; it was simply that his breathing was quick and shallow.
John grew paler and his jaw must have ached from holding it clenched shut. However much she wanted to distract him, Sophia could neither speak nor move, for to do so would distract Edmund.
John’s head began to bow and she thought he might fall, but she spoke his name and his head snapped up again.
“Almost done,” Edmund said.
“It hurts worse than the wound,” gasped John.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Finally it was done and Edmund bound the wound and made a sling.
“I know it’s pointless, because you won’t listen, but don’t use that arm. If you break the stitches, it will hurt even more when I replace them.”
“I don’t think I want you near me with a needle in your hand ever again. Not that I’m ungrateful.”
His voice shook and he took another sip from his hip flask.
Edmund drew out his own flask.
“Take this,” he said, giving it to John, “but use it sparingly.”
“Thank you.”
“And here’s some cold meat and pie. Please, don’t give it away. I doubt you’ve eaten much since before the ball.”
John hesitated before he accepted the food.
“It seems wrong when there are others…”
“You’re wounded, John. Granted, we came here to help men more seriously wounded than you, but you are wounded.”
John put the food into his bag.
“Are you coming back to Brussels?” asked Sophia.
“Tonight.”
She rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek.
“If I’m asleep, wake me.”
He nodded.
“Please go,” he begged. “You’ve already seen more of this than I can bear.”
“I’ll go, my love.”
His lips moved as he turned away, but she did not hear his words.
After dinner that night they removed to the sitting-room; the drawing-room having been given up to the wounded men they had brought back from the battlefield. Edmund was already planning tomorrow’s journey and then they would have to give up the library and the sitting-room.
Sophia was half asleep; she had not really thought about what must be done with the nine wounded men they had brought back. They had squeezed the men into the carriage and one less seriously wounded man had sat between her and Paul on the driver’s seat. Outside, Edmund had taken what would have been the groom’s place had they taken one and stood as they had returned to Brussels. He had said only that he must bring a horse tomorrow, so that they might bring one more man back.
Sophia had never loved Edmund more than she did today. He had been prepared for everything. Food and wine were waiting for the men when they arrived. Then Sophia and Mary had bathed each one of them and Edmund had seen to their wounds as best as he was able; there were no doctors to be had in all of Brussels. Then the men had been placed on blankets on the floor. Deciding that they would not be able to produce mattresses for all of them, Mary had concentrated her own and the servants’ efforts on giving
them something on which to rest their heads and something to cover them.
Although they had tried to select men able to stand the journey, one died during the evening.
Sophia could not get the sight of the battlefield out of her mind. What must it have been like when these men were standing or riding with musket shots and canon fire around them? What had John seen and experienced? Not just over the last few days but in the three years since he had left her. How had her peace-loving friend been able to stand it? How could she stand it, knowing it had been her words that had sent him there?
“Perhaps we can provide more help on the battlefield,” said Edmund as he waited on the women in the sitting-room.
“Can we get another carriage or a cart?” asked Mary, taking a glass of port from him.
“Possibly.”
Sophia said nothing; she had been sickened by the number of carriages she had seen full of people going to visit the battlefield, not to help, but just to see the place where the battle had taken place. Edmund had already said that she should not accompany him tomorrow, but she had pointed out that if he had a horse, he could stay and help and she could bring back the wounded with Paul. He had smiled. “I see you are frightened of nothing now you know that John lives,” he had said.
Sophia had not been able to deny it.
Edmund and Mary went to check that all was well with the soldiers before they went to bed and Mary ordered that water be made ready for Captain Warren’s bath, for he would return soon.
Sophia waited in the sitting-room. Absently she took up the book of sonnets. For the first time she saw that it held loose sheets of paper on which sonnets were written in John’s hand. They must have been his own work, for each one praised her. She read them for a while, but she must have dozed, for the book was lying in her lap when the sound of a door closing brought her to herself. Quickly, she took up a candle and went into the hall.
“John, you’re here. At last. Georges, please go and take the hot water up to Captain Warren’s room. John, your bath will be ready soon. Do you want to eat?”
“Let me look at you, Sophia.”
He took one of her hands and pressed it to his lips.
“My love,” he added as Georges left them.