He did not wait, but strode out to his own room, to make what preparations for the journey were necessary. Both ladies ran after him, imploring him to tell them more.
‘I know nothing more than what I have told you. Cherry had no idea how things were going—badly, he thinks. I may be away some time: the road is almost blocked by the carts overturned by the German cavalry’s rout. Have Charles’s bed made up—but you will know what to do!’
‘I will have the pillows put in the chaise,’ Barbara said in a voice of repressed anguish, and left the room.
The chaise was already at the door, and Colonel Audley’s groom waiting impatiently beside it. He was too overcome to be able to tell Barbara much, but the little he did say was enough to appal her.
Colonel Audley had been carried to Mont St Jean by some foreigners; he did not know whether Dutch or German.
‘It does not signify. Go on!’
Cherry brushed his hand across his eyes. ‘I saw them carrying him along the road. Oh, my lady, in all the years I’ve served the Colonel I never thought to see such a sight as met my eyes! My poor master like one dead, and the blood soaked right through the horse-blanket they had laid him on! He was taken straight to the cottage at Mont St Jean, where those damned sawbones—saving your ladyship’s presence!—was busy. I thought my master was gone, but he opened his eyes as they put him down, and said to me: “Hallo, Cherry!” he said, “I’ve got it, you see.’’’
He fairly broke down, but Barbara, gripping the open chaise door, merely said harshly: ‘Go on!’
‘Yes, my lady! But I don’t know how to tell your ladyship what they done to my master, Dr Hume, and them others, right there in the garden. Oh, my lady, they’ve taken his arm off! And he bore it all without a groan!’
She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. In a stifled voice, she said: ‘But he will live!’
‘You would not say so if you could but see him, my lady. Four horses he’s had shot under him this day, and a wound on his leg turning as black as my boot. We got him to the inn at Waterloo, but there’s no staying there: they couldn’t take in the Prince of Orange himself, for all he had a musketball in his shoulder. Poor Sir Alexander Gordon’s laying there, and Lord Fitzroy too. Never till my dying day shall I forget the sound of Sir Alexander’s sufferings—him as always was such a merry gentleman, and such a close friend of my master’s! Not but what by the time we got my master to the inn he was too far gone to heed. I shouldn’t have spoken of it to your ladyship, but I’m that upset I hardly know what I’m saying.’
Worth ran down the steps of the house at that moment, and curtly told Cherry to get up on the box. As he drew on his driving-gloves, Barbara said: ‘I have put my smelling-salts inside the chaise, and a roll of lint. I would come with you, but I believe you will do better without me. O God, Worth, bring him safely back!’
‘I shall certainly bring him back. Go in to Judith, and do not be imagining anything nonsensical if I’m away some hours. Goodbye! A man doesn’t die because he has the misfortune to lose an arm, you know.’
He mounted the box; the grooms let go the wheelers’ heads, and as the chaise moved forward one of them jumped up behind.
For the next four hours Judith and Barbara, having made every preparation for the Colonel’s arrival, waited, sick with suspense, for Worth’s return. The Duke of Avon walked round the Hôtel de Belle Vue at ten o’clock, and, learning of Colonel Audley’s fate from Judith’s faltering tongue, said promptly: ‘Good God, is that all! One would say he had been blown in pieces by a howitzer shell to look at your faces! Cheer up, Bab! Why, I once shot a man just above the heart, and he recovered!’
‘That must have been a mistake, sir, I feel sure.’
‘It was,’ he admitted. ‘Only time I ever missed my mark.’
At any other time both ladies would have wished to hear more of this anecdote, but in the agitation of spirits which they were suffering nothing that did not bear directly upon the present issue had the power to engage their attention. The Duke, after animadverting with peculiar violence upon Mr Fisher’s manners and ideals, bade them goodnight, and went back to his hôtel.
Hardly more than an hour later, Creevey called to bring the ladies news. His prospective stepson-in-law, Major Hamilton, had brought the Adjutant-General into Brussels a little after ten o’clock, and had immediately repaired to Mr Creevey’s house to warn him that in General Barnes’s opinion the battle was lost, and no time should be wasted in getting away from Brussels.
‘I could not go to bed without informing you of this,’ Creevey said. ‘I thought it only right that you should know, and decide for yourselves what were best to do under the circumstances.’
‘Thank you,’ Judith said. ‘It was kind of you, but there is now no question of our leaving Brussels. My brother-in-law is severely wounded. Worth has gone to bring him in.’
He looked genuinely concerned, and pressed her hand in the most speaking way. ‘I am excessively sorry to hear of this! But once you have Colonel Audley in your care you will see how quickly he will recover!’
‘We hope—Do you and Mrs Creevey mean to go to Antwerp?’
‘No, it is out of the question to move Mrs Creevey in her present state of health. I don’t scruple to tell you, my dear ma’am, that General Barnes’s prognostications do not convince me that all is over. Hamilton tells me he was shot through the body at about five o’clock, and borne off the field. I cannot but feel that if the battle had been lost we must by now have received intelligence of it. Do you know what I judge by? Why, I’ll tell you! The baggage-train is still moving towards the battlefield! To my mind, that proves that all is well.’
‘I had not thought of that. Yes, indeed: you must be right. You put us quite at our ease, Mr Creevey. Thank you again for coming to us!’
He saw that the result of the battle was of less importance to her at the moment than Colonel Audley’s fate, and after lingering only for a few moments to express his sympathy, took his leave and went back to the Rue du Musée.
After he had gone, no further interruptions occurred. The evening was mild, with a fitful moonlight shining through the lifting storm-clouds. Barbara had drawn back the blinds and opened one of the windows, and sat by it almost without stirring. In the street below a few people passed, but the sounds that drifted to the salon were muffled, as though Brussels were restless but quiet.
Once Judith said: ‘Would you like to lie down upon your bed for a little while? I would wake you the instant he comes.’
‘I could not rest. But you—’
‘No, nor I.’
The brief conversation died. Another hour crept by. As the church clocks struck the hour of one, the clatter of horses’ feet on the cobbles reached the ladies’ straining ears. Lanterns, dipping and rocking with the lurch of a chaise, were seen approaching down the street, and in another moment Worth’s chaise-and-four had drawn up outside the house.
Barbara picked up the branch of candles from the table. ‘Go down. I will light the stairs,’ she said.
Judith ran from the room, feeling her knees shaking under her. The butler and Worth’s valet were already at the door: there was nothing for her to do, and, almost overpowered by dread, she remained upon the landing, leaning against the wall, fighting against the nervous spasm that turned her sick and faint. She saw Barbara standing straight and tall in her pale dress, at the head of the stairs, holding the branch of candles up in one steady hand. A murmur of voices reached her ears. She heard the butler exclaim, and Worth reply sharply, a groan, and she knew that Charles lived, and found that the tears were pouring down her cheeks. She wiped them away, and, regaining command of herself, ran back into the salon, and snatching up a companion to the chandelier Barbara held, bore it up the second pair of stairs to the Colonel’s room. She had scarcely had time to turn back the sheets from the bed before Worth and Cherry carried Colonel Audley into the room.
Judith could not suppress an exclamation of horror. The Colonel
had been wrapped in his own cloak, but this fell away as he was lowered on to the bed, revealing a bloodstained shirt hanging in tatters about him. His white buckskins were caked with mud, and had been slit down the right leg to permit of the flesh wound on his thigh being dressed. His curling brown hair clung damply to his brow; his face, under the blackening smoke, was ghastly; but worst of all was the sight of the bandaged stump where so short a time ago his left arm had been. He was groaning, and muttering, but although his pain-racked eyes were open it was plain that he was unconscious of his surroundings.
‘Razor!’ Worth said to his valet, who had followed him up the stairs with a heavy can of hot water. ‘These boots off first!’ He glanced across at the two women. ‘This is no fit sight for you. You had better go.’
‘Fool!’ Barbara said, in a low, fierce voice.
‘As you please,’ he shrugged, and, taking the razor from his valet’s hand began to slit the seams of the Colonel’s Hessians.
While he got the boots off, Barbara knelt down by the bed and sponged away the dirt from the Colonel’s livid face. Judith stood beside her, holding the bowl of warm water. Over Barbara’s head, she spoke to Worth: ‘Will he live?’
‘He is very ill, but I believe so. I have sent for a surgeon to come immediately. The worst is this fever. The jolting of the chaise has been very bad for him. I thought at one time I should never get through to Waterloo: the road is choked—wagons lying all over it, baggage spilt and plundered, and horses shot in their traces. There was never anything so disgraceful!’
‘The battle?’
‘I know no more than you. I met Charles in a common tilt-wagon half way through the Forest, being brought to Brussels with a dozen others. Everything is turmoil on the road: I could come by no certain intelligence; but I conjecture that all must be well, or the French much by now have penetrated at least to the Forest.’
He moved up to the head of the bed, and while he and his valet stripped the clothes from the Colonel’s body, Barbara poured away the tainted water in the bowl and filled it with fresh. She looked so pale that Judith feared she must be going to faint, and begged her to withdraw. She shook her head. ‘Do not heed me! I shall not fail.’
By the time an over-driven surgeon had arrived, the Colonel was lying between clean sheets, restlessly trying to twist from side to side. At times it needed all Worth’s strength to prevent him from turning on to his injured left side; occasionally he made an effort to wrench himself up; once he said quite clearly: ‘The Duke! I’ve a message to deliver!’ But mostly his utterance was indistinct, and interrupted by deep groans.
The surgeon looked grave, and saw nothing for it but to bleed him. Judith could not help saying with a good deal of warmth: ‘I should have thought he had lost enough blood!’
She was not attended to; the surgeon had been at work among the wounded since the previous morning, and was himself tired and harassed. He took a pint of blood from the Colonel, and it seemed to relieve him a little. He ceased his restless tossing and fell into a kind of coma. The surgeon gave Worth a few directions, and went away, promising to return later in the morning. It was evident that he did not take a very hopeful view of the Colonel’s state. He would not permit of the bandages being removed to enable him to inspect the injuries to the thigh and the left side of the body. ‘Better not disturb him!’ he said. ‘If Hume attended to him, you may depend upon it the wounds have been properly dressed. I will see them later. There is nothing for it now but to keep him quiet and hope for the fever to abate.’
He hurried away. Worth bent over the Colonel, feeling his hand and brow. Over his shoulder, he addressed the two women: ‘Settle it between yourselves, but one of you must go and rest. Charles is in no immediate danger.’
‘There can be no doubt which of us must go,’ said Judith. ‘Come, my poor child!’
‘Oh no! You go!’
‘No, Bab. It is you Charles will want when he comes to himself, and if you sit up now you will drop in the end, and think how shocking that would be! It is of no use to argue; I am quite determined.’
Barbara glanced towards the bed; the Colonel was lying still at last, sunk in a heavy stupor. ‘Very well,’ she said in a deadened tone. ‘I will do as you wish.’
Judith led her away, with an arm round her waist. Barbara went unresistingly, but by the time they had reached her room such a fit of shuddering had seized her that Judith was alarmed. She forced her to sit down in a chair, while she ran to fetch her smelling-salts and the hartshorn. When she came back, the shudders had given place to dry sobs that seemed to convulse Barbara’s whole body. She contrived to make her swallow a dose of hartshorn and water, and got her upon the bed, and sat with her till she was a little calmer. Barbara gasped: ‘Oh, do not stay! Go back to him! This is nothing!’
‘Worth will send if he needs me. Only tell me where I may find your laudanum drops.’
‘Never! He did not like me to!’
‘In such a case as this he could have no objection!’
‘No, I tell you! See, I am better; I wish you to go back.’
Judith drew the quilt up over her shoulders. ‘I will go, if it will relieve your mind. There, my dear, do not look like that! He will recover, and you will both be so happy together!’ She bent, and kissed Barbara, and had the satisfaction of seeing the dreadful pallor grow less deathly. ‘I shall come back in a little while to see how you go on,’ she promised, and, setting the candle where its tongue of light would not worry Barbara’s eyes, went softly back to Colonel Audley’s room.
Barbara returned to the sick-room shortly after six o’clock. Judith came forward to meet her, saying in a low tone. ‘We think him better. The pulse is not so tumultuous. There has been a good deal of restlessness, but you see he is quiet now. Oh, my dear, such glorious news! Bonaparte has been utterly overthrown and the whole French Army put to rout! Worth sent round to Sir Charles Stuart’s an hour ago, and he had just himself heard from General Alten of our complete victory! You must know that Alten was brought in, severely wounded, very late last night, but had left instructions with one of his aides-de-camp to let him know the result of the battle at the earliest opportunity. The news reached him at three o’clock.’
‘The French Army routed!’ Barbara repeated. ‘Good God, is it possible? Oh, if anything can make Charles recover, it must be that news!’
‘You shall tell him when he wakes,’ Judith said. ‘I am going to bed for an hour or so. Worth has gone off to shave and change his clothes, but his man is just outside if you should need any assistance. But indeed, my dear, Charles is better.’
She went away. Barbara took her vacated chair by the bedside, and sat watching the Colonel. He lay quiet, except for the occasional twitching of his hand. She felt it softly, and found it, though still dry and hot, no longer burning to the touch. Satisfied, she folded her own hands in her lap, and sat without moving, waiting for him to awaken.
A few minutes after seven he stirred. A deep sigh broke the long silence; he opened his eyes, clouded with sleep, and gave a stifled groan. His hand moved; Barbara took it in hers and lifted it to her lips. He looked at her, blankly for a moment, then with recognition creeping into his eyes, and, with it, the ghost of his old smile. ‘Why Bab!’ he said, in a very faint voice. ‘You’ve come back to me!’
Tears hung on her lashes; she slipped to her knees, and laid her cheek against his. ‘You have come back to me, Charles. I shall never let you go again.’
He put his arm weakly around her, and turned his head on the pillow to kiss her.
Twenty-Six
For a minute everything was forgotten in the passing away of all bitterness and grief between them. Neither spoke: explanations were not needed; for each all that signified was that they were together again.
Barbara raised her head at last, and taking the Colonel’s face between her hands, looked deep into his eyes, her own more beautiful through the mist of tears that filled them than he had ever seen them. ‘My darling!�
�� she whispered.
He smiled wearily, but as fuller consciousness returned to him, his thoughts turned from her. ‘The battle? They were massing for an attack.’
‘It is over. The French have been overthrown: their whole Army is in full retreat.’
A flush of colour came into his drawn face. ‘Boney’s beat! Hurrah!’
She rose from her knees and moved away to measure out the medicine that the surgeon had left for him. When she came back to the bedside the Colonel was lying with his hand across his eyes, and his lips gripped tightly together. Her heart was wrung, but she said only: ‘Here is a horrid potion for you to swallow, dear love.’
He did not answer, but when she slid her arm under him to raise him, he moved his hand from his eyes, and said in a carefully matter-of-fact voice: ‘I remember now. I’ve lost my arm.’
‘Yes, dear.’
He drank the dose she was holding to his mouth, leaning against her shoulder. As she lowered him again on to the pillows, he said with an effort: ‘It’s a lucky thing it was only my left. It has been a most unfortunate member. I was wounded in it once before.’
‘In that case, we will say good riddance to it. Oh, my love, my love, does it hurt you very much?’
‘Oh no! Nothing to signify,’ he answered, lying gallantly.
He seemed as though he would sink back into the half-sleep, half-swoon which had held him for so long, but presently he opened his eyes, and turned them towards Barbara with an expression in them of painful anxiety. ‘Gordon? Have you heard?’
‘Only that he had been wounded.’
He was obliged to be satisfied, but she saw that although his eyes were closed again he was fully awake. She said, taking his hand between hers: ‘We shall know presently.’
An Infamous Army Page 43