For over a year, the self-styled Emperor had lived in exile, and that year had brought a measure of peace to Europe after more than a decade of war. But in January, Napoleon had gathered enough money, ships, and support to escape. By March, he had reached Paris again, with an army at his back. The capital city of France had welcomed its Emperor home. After placating the French Parliament and finding that most of the country was still loyal to him. Napoleon renewed his plan to bring all of Europe under his control.
The Napoleonic Wars had not ended.
They would end today, MacLeod knew, one way or the other. If the British and Belgians could not hold, if the Prussians did not arrive because they had already been defeated, then Napoleon would win the day. His victory meant the defeat of European sovereignty and independence. From the Mediterranean to the Baltic, from the North Sea to the Straits of Gibraltar, the eyes of the Western world were focused on this battlefield.
The French were retreating, for now; they had not broken the squares, and for a few moments there would be a breathing space between attacks—at least on this part of the field. Time enough to get the wounded back to the surgeons and to give the dying a measure of peace.
MacLeod loaded his musket carefully, then stepped forward and finally ended the brutal torment of the horse in front of him. The humans would not be so lucky. Despite the best administrations of the army surgeons, many would die of their wounds, the pain-racked deaths of gangrene, blood poisoning, and fever. Others would survive, maimed and scarred, and even their survival would not come until after nearly unbearable pain.
MacLeod bent over the body of a man from within the ranks of his regiment. His face was almost unrecognizable under the mud and black powder residue, but MacLeod knew him by the bright red feather he had pinned to his lapel. Gordon Frazier, nineteen, from a farm outside Aberdeen.
The feather he wore had been given to him by his betrothed, just a week ago when she saw him off at the dock in London. Jenny was her name; Gordon often talked of her and of his promise to return once they had beaten “old Nappy.” He had joined the army for the pay, to buy a piece of land where he and Jenny could settle down to raise a family.
MacLeod looked from the bright red feather to the deeper red staining the young man’s middle, then up to the lifeless eyes that stared unseeing at the sky. There would be no farm, no wife and family, no future for Gordon Frazier.
As Duncan MacLeod gently reached out and closed the lids over those sightless eyes, he heard a moan nearby. Within the moan was the whisper of his name. Ten paces away, another young man—God, they were all so young—reached weakly toward him. Duncan hurried to his side.
He recognized Charlie McKenzie. Just last night they had sat together in the rain, sharing the dubious warmth of a smoky fire and the last of their day’s ration of rum.
“For the love of Christ, MacLeod, help me,” McKenzie said, clutching at the front of Duncan’s uniform. “Don’t leave me to die like this.”
“Hold on, Charlie,” MacLeod answered. “I’ll get you back to the surgeons.”
Duncan ran a quick, assessing eye down Charlie’s body. The blood from six wounds spread across his uniform like a crimson bouquet from an artist’s brush dotting a canvas in brilliant color. Whether these wounds were from the deadly shrapnel charges of the howitzers or the roundshot loaded into the French eight-pounders, Duncan could not tell, but he doubted the surgeons would be able to do much for McKenzie.
Still, MacLeod could not leave him here to die alone. “Hold on,” he said again as he lifted Charlie to his feet and began to half-carry, half-drag him back to safety.
McKenzie was silent, though his breathing was labored as he strove to keep in the cries of pain such movement was causing him. MacLeod was grateful. Though he was doing all he could to help his friend, he knew that this passage could not be easy.
Finally they reached the tents and wagons where the surgeons had set up their equipment. The smell of blood was even worse here than on the battlefield. MacLeod nearly choked on his own bile when he saw the piles of discarded limbs—arms and legs shattered by shot, trampled by horses, removed by the surgeon’s knife and saw.
Men screamed as the doctors plied their trade, having nothing to dull the pain except a few extra swallows of rum and a leather strap on which to bite. The lucky ones lost consciousness as the pain began. But despite the horror of the scene, MacLeod knew the surgeons were doing the best they could to save the men brought to them.
He looked around for a place to lay his friend just as one of the doctors went rushing by. The man’s haggard face, his bloodstained hands and clothing told their own tale of the day and the battle against death this man had fought. MacLeod was loath to keep him from his errand, but he had no choice. McKenzie was still bleeding from his wounds and had already fainted twice.
MacLeod stuck his musket out in front of the surgeon, barring his way. “Where do I put my friend?” he asked.
The surgeon looked at McKenzie, then up into MacLeod’s face. Duncan saw the weariness in the man’s eyes; the look of someone who had gazed on death too many times in a single day and who knew there was so much more to come. MacLeod saw no hope for McKenzie in those eyes.
The surgeon sighed and glanced around. “Over there,” he said with a vague gesture to his right. “We’ll get to him as soon as we can.”
MacLeod lifted his musket and let the man go. He hurried away without a backward glance. Duncan took McKenzie in the direction the doctor had gestured, gently lowering his friend to lean against the wheel of a supply wagon.
“The doctors know ye’re here now, Charlie,” he said, slipping into the heavier brogue of his youth. “They’ll help ye soon.”
McKenzie nodded weakly. “Don’t go, MacLeod,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“I must, Charlie. There are others who’ll need my help.”
McKenzie was silent. He did not move for a long moment, and MacLeod wondered if he had lost consciousness again. But then he nodded once more.
“Aye,” he whispered. “So ye must. Go, then, and I’ll be here when ye return.”
Be there he would, but alive or dead? MacLeod wondered. There was no help for it; MacLeod knew his duty lay in helping to retrieve the other wounded from the field before the French attacked again. He touched McKenzie’s shoulder once in silent farewell, then rose and turned back to the battlefield.
Four more times, MacLeod made the journey from the battlefield to the surgeons’ tents, carrying a wounded man. Each time he checked on McKenzie. Finally, on the fourth trip, the surgeon to whom he had spoken before came out to meet him. One look and MacLeod knew what he was going to say.
“Your friend has lost too much blood,” the doctor began. “His wounds are too deep… there will be infection… I’ve done all I can. Take him back behind the lines where he can die in peace, away from… this,” he gestured vaguely again. “Make room here for someone I can help.”
MacLeod might have been angry at the seeming callousness of the man’s last words had not the wounded been spread all around him. He nodded once and went to find McKenzie.
Charlie sat where MacLeod had left him, still leaning against the wagon wheel. His eyes were closed and face was so drained of color that if it had not been for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, MacLeod would have thought him already dead.
Duncan dropped to one knee next to him and put a hand lightly on McKenzie’s arm. “Charlie-boy,” he said, “can ye hear me, lad?”
McKenzie’s eyelids fluttered open. “Aye,” he said. “I’m glad ye’re back, MacLeod.”
“Come on, Charlie. The doctor said I should take ye where ye can rest more comfortably.”
They both knew what was not being said, and they left it that way. McKenzie reached out an arm for Duncan to help him up, grimacing in pain at each movement as MacLeod draped the arm across his shoulders. Taking as much of the other man’s weight as he could, he brought McKenzie to his feet.
&nb
sp; Once more half-carrying, half-dragging his friend, MacLeod picked his way past bodies of the wounded, back farther behind the lines. There were wounded here too—the dying, the dead. MacLeod looked for a place less crowded with bodies, a place where there might yet be a bit of untrampled grass on which his friend might pass his last moments of life.
MacLeod saw a dark-cloaked figure in the distance, walking in his direction. As he neared there came the one feeling above all others Duncan did not want to feel.
He was Immortal.
Chapter Six
The cloaked man came closer. Duncan shifted McKenzie’s weight slightly as he reached down and loosened his sword in its scabbard. It was not his beloved katana; it was the basket-hilted claymore of his uniform. But it was a good blade and Duncan, who had fought with many weapons, knew it would serve him well, if needs must.
“I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” he said, drawing his sword so that a few inches of steel showed. He did not want to fight, but given no choice he was ready.
“I am Darius,” the cloaked man said. He glanced down at Duncan’s sword. “You won’t need that.”
It was then Duncan noticed that beneath his cloak the man wore the robes of a French priest. He was an Immortal, but he was also a holy man; McKenzie would not die uncomforted.
“Put him down here,” Darius said, motioning to the dubious shelter of an overturned wagon where MacLeod could lay his friend. It was not such a place as MacLeod wanted, but glancing around, he knew it would have to do. It was as much shelter as anyone, living or dead, had known on this battlefield today.
Duncan gently eased McKenzie to the ground. All around them lay bodies of the fallen. Some few were dying; most were already dead. MacLeod tightened his lips in a grim line as inwardly he again cursed Napoleon and his obsession to rule the world.
Darius looked up from examining McKenzie and noticed MacLeod’s expression. “Those wounds we cannot heal,” he said of the dead men beneath Duncan’s gaze. “We bury them to prevent disease. Infection kills more than all the English and French cannon.”
Under Darius’s careful touch, McKenzie moaned again. Duncan turned his eyes away from the dead and back to his friend. Then he looked over at the other Immortal’s face and he saw the deep compassion in his eyes.
“The surgeon said he would die of infection,” MacLeod said softly, “to bring him straight here.”
“Well, perhaps I can save him,” Darius replied.
“From the fevers?” MacLeod was unable to keep the amazement from his voice. “How?”
Darius moved swiftly now He handed a tin cup to MacLeod. “Here,” he said. “Fill this.”
Duncan looked around for a source of water. The heavy rains of the last two days had swollen the small streams in the area. He crossed swiftly to one and filled the cup. Then he stopped at a small fire he passed to warm the water a bit before returning to Darius.
As he held the metal cup over the flames, he looked again at the Immortal priest. Darius was bent over McKenzie, examining him with a gentle, almost tender touch and a look as loving as a parent for a dearest child. Curiosity about who this man was and why he should care so much filled Duncan. He stood and hurried again to Darius’s side.
“Here,” he said, holding the cup out.
Darius did not take it. Instead he withdrew a small vial from a pocket in his cloak.
“There are medicines which have been lost to modem doctors,” he said as he shook a small portion of the fine powder into the water. He then took the cup and swirled it, flashing Duncan a brief but confident smile. MacLeod felt oddly encouraged by the sight.
Gently, Darius raised McKenzie’s head and held the cup to his lips. MacLeod was once again moved by the tenderness on the priest’s face as he watched the soldier drink. A few sips, and with a grimace of pain McKenzie turned his face away. Darius lowered his head softly to the ground.
“Now we wait,” he said. “It will take hours.”
In the distance, cannons were thundering once again as attacks resumed and moved closer.
“Hours?” Duncan cried, knowing he could not stay away from his regiment so long. Another cannon blast rent the air. At its crash, so close, Duncan sprang to his feet.
“How goes the battle?” he asked, hoping Darius would have news he had missed while he carried McKenzie here.
Darius looked at him. “Why does that matter to you?” he asked. “Napoleon may lose a campaign, Wellington may win a great victory—but what have they really won or lost? Their reputations? These men have been robbed of their most precious possession… forever.”
There was a sadness, incalculably deep, to his eyes and a weariness in his voice that spoke of too much knowledge of death. At his words, Duncan’s gaze shifted out over the sea of bodies surrounding him and he felt the tragedy of the moment. But he was a soldier; he had seen such scenes before—in raids among the highlands, in battlefields like Culloden.
Darius came to stand beside him. “You shouldn’t be taking pan in this… tragedy,” he said softly, sadly. His words were simple, heartfelt, and somehow he had chosen the same word that had echoed through Duncan’s thoughts. But MacLeod’s answer to him, as to himself, remained the same.
“I was raised a warrior,” he replied. “I choose battles I believe to be just.”
The weariness in Darius’s eyes deepened. He lowered his head briefly, then raised it again and studied Duncan’s face.
“Oh, I’m sure,” he said. “You’re quite loyal to your convictions and compatriots.” His eyes swept out over the dead. “But I wonder what these men think about convictions and compatriotism now?”
Duncan had no answer. Darius turned away. He went to find the next wounded man who needed his help, leaving MacLeod alone to face the feelings his words had stirred.
Again, the cannons exploded. Musket and rifle fire shattered the spaces between bombardments and the moans of the dying raised a chorus of grief.
MacLeod stared in bewilderment at the retreating form of the man who had just left him. He saw Darius stop and kneel beside another prostrate soldier. There were no medicines to help this man; even from where he stood Duncan could see the gaping wound that had once been the man’s stomach and the pallor of death spreading across his face.
Darius stayed there with him, whispering words of comfort, holding the man’s hand so that he would not die alone. Duncan saw the look of peace slowly encompass the soldier’s features as he closed his eyes a final time. Darius bowed his head, said one last prayer, then he stood and moved on.
MacLeod heard his name called. Looking toward the sound, he saw Rodney MacFergus, a lieutenant in the 71st Highlanders, his own regiment, beckoning him.
“Come on, MacLeod,” he called. “We need you.”
MacLeod glanced once again at Darius. The priest had also heard MacLeod’s name called and he looked up to meet the eyes of his fellow Immortal. Once more, Duncan marked the sadness in Darius’s eyes and the compassion—and with it, Duncan saw also an understanding he had never before encountered. There was an unspoken invitation to peace Duncan wished he could accept—but he could not, not at this moment.
He tore his eyes away. As he did so, he saw Darius sigh and turn back to his work. Duncan found himself sighing as well. Part of him wanted to stay, to hear more of this Immortal’s words.
But he was a soldier. He was raised a warrior…
The battle continued for hour after bloody hour. Twice Duncan found the time to go back behind the lines and check on McKenzie. Each time, his friend was stronger. In Duncan’s mind it was nothing short of a miracle.
Finally, the French Cavalry broke and their last retreat became a rout; finally, the darkness that, so near the summer solstice had seemed to hang back forever, descended, falling like a blanket—or a shroud—across the battlefield.
Bone-weary, MacLeod once more headed to McKenzie’s side. Seeing that he slept peacefully, Duncan gently touched his forehead. There was no sign of the
fever that could come so quickly and kill with so much agony.
Duncan stood and searched the area, straining his eyes for a glimpse of the dark-cloaked figure moving among the men. But Darius was nowhere to be seen.
Duncan hailed a soldier walking by. “Have you seen the priest who was here earlier?” he called.
“He left, during the battle,” the man called back before continuing on his way.
MacLeod’s disappointment was bitter, like the sudden bile that rose in his throat at the sight of the dead around him. He wandered away, not really caring where his feet took him but hoping to find a place free from the smell of blood and gunpowder where he could rest.
But he found himself wandering again to the surgeons’ tents. As he neared, one of the doctors stepped outside and stood gulping in air hungrily; the man’s face was ashen. Duncan walked up to him. He wished he could offer comfort and strength, but he had none to give.
“There was a priest here a few hours ago,” he said instead. “Have you seen him?”
The surgeon looked at Duncan with tired, red-rimmed eyes. He blinked a couple of times, as if MacLeod’s words had come in a different language he had to struggle to translate.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a few seconds. “What did you ask?”
“There was a priest helping the wounded. I asked if you had seen him.”
The surgeon closed his eyes, but he nodded. “I hear he’s set up a hospital of some sort in a chapel a couple of miles from here. French, English—he doesn’t care who’s brought to him. He welcomes them all. Poor bugger, he has his work cut out for him. We all do.”
The man took one more deep breath of outside air, then turned back to the tent and the horrors that awaited within.
Duncan stayed where he was. Although he wanted to move, his feet felt rooted to the ground—by the fatigue that had overwhelmed even his Immortal body and by the words of a priest that had unsettled his Immortal soul even more.
Highlander: Shadow of Obsession Page 4