Shattered Rainbows: Book 5 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 12

  Wellington was famous for always being where the fighting was fiercest. Unperturbed by the nearness of his escape, he pulled up his horse. "Good show here, Kenyon."

  Michael forced himself to stand straight. "The regiment has done itself proud, sir. How goes the battle?"

  The duke shook his head. "We're taking a pounding. Blücher swore he'd come, but the rain turned the roads to mud, so God knows when we'll see him. If the Prussians don't get here soon..." His voice broke off. "I must be on my way. Stand steady, Kenyon."

  As Wellington prepared to leave, a soldier yelled, "When can we go at the frogs, sir?"

  The duke smiled faintly. "Don't worry, lads, you'll have your chance at them." Then he cantered out of the square toward the beleaguered Chateau de Hougoumont, where the Guards had been fighting the French all day in a vicious battle-within-a-battle.

  It was early evening, Michael supposed, but time had lost all meaning. Hard to believe that two days before, he had been waltzing with Catherine in a room full of light and elegance.

  As he waited for the next attack, he tried to remember what it was like to have her in his arms. But detail was impossible to recall. The only thing he could conjure up was the warmth in her aqua eyes, and the bittersweet joy of holding her close.

  The menacing beat of French drums began the signal for an infantry attack. Michael's lips thinned. He raised his spyglass, balancing it awkwardly with his good hand. Through the heavy smoke, he saw a vast French column advancing toward the allied lines. Luckily it would hit to the right of the 105th, so his tired men would have time to recover.

  A bandage on his thigh, Captain Graham limped up. "May I borrow the spyglass, sir?"

  Michael passed it over. The captain muttered an obscenity as he identified the red plumes and high bearskin hats. "So Boney is finally sending in his Imperial Guard."

  "Precisely. They've never failed in an attack, and after spending the day in reserve, they're as fresh as if they were on parade in a park," Michael said grimly.

  It was the last grand throw of the dice. With the Imperial Guard, Napoleon would regain or lose his empire.

  * * *

  At suppertime, Catherine forced herself to go home. Though activity was infinitely preferable to waiting, she must conserve her strength. It had been confirmed that another battle was being fought, so there would be a new wave of wounded in the morning. Intensely she prayed for the lives of her friends.

  Catherine collected Elspeth, who was also helping in the hospital. The girl was proving herself a stalwart Scot, but her face was gray and dark circles shadowed her eyes.

  Together they walked the short distance to the Rue de la Reine. Most of the Belgian servants had returned to their families, leaving only the cook and Catherine's groom. A good thing Everett was there, or the horses might have been stolen.

  After washing up, the two women ate together in the kitchen. Catherine found it impossible to swallow more than a few mouthfuls of soup. Wearily she added a generous dash of brandy to her tea and took it to the morning room.

  The portfolio of sketches was still there. She leafed through them again, wondering if the men in the pictures were still safe and whole. Was Colin glorying in what must be the battle of a lifetime? Would Charles live to see his unborn child, or Kenneth survive to draw other laughing families?

  She came to the last picture, and quickly closed the portfolio, her throat tight. It would be a pity to ruin the drawing of Michael with her tears.

  * * *

  The Imperial Guard fell back, shattered by the fierce resistance of the allied troops. Michael was almost too dazed to appreciate the enormity of it. France's finest troops had broken and turned into a mob instead of an army.

  But it wasn't over yet. How much longer would the battle last? How much longer could it last? The 105th had suffered over forty percent casualties, half of whom had died outright. Other regiments had fared even worse.

  Then Graham cried jubilantly, "Look, sir!"

  An elm tree at the crest of the ridge, where two roads intersected, was Wellington's command post when he was not riding the lines. The spot was barely visible through the smoke. Now the duke was there, his lean form silhouetted against the evening sky as he stood in his stirrups and waved his cocked hat forward three times. It was the signal for a general advance. A thunderous cheer went up in the regiments nearest the duke and rolled down the allied lines in a swelling roar.

  Fierce exultation burned through Michael, searing away his weakness. In his bones, he knew that this battle was won. The long years in the army, the brutal hours of being cut up by French artillery, had come down to this moment. Raising his sword in the air, he shouted, "Follow me, 105th!"

  "Aye, Colonel! To hell if you'll lead us there," a voice boomed back.

  The regiment formed into companies and boiled down the slope over the matted, blood-soaked rye, muskets and bayonets at the ready. All along the ridge, the action was being echoed by the other allied troops under command of any officers who survived. They swooped down onto the plain, leaving behind them unmoving scarlet lines of dead and wounded.

  Vicious skirmishing began across the two-mile width of the battlefield. Though much of the imperial army was in full flight, pockets of French soldiers still resisted gallantly.

  The 105th split into smaller groups, some men pushing forward after the fleeing enemy, others engaging in fierce hand-to-hand combat with those Frenchmen who still fought. All was chaos. Light-headed from blood loss, pain, and fatigue, Michael was in a dark, fierce place where there was no past or future or fear. Only instinct and will and the madness of war, where any moment might be his last.

  Reality was a collection of feverish, disconnected images. A tangle of fallen French guards, their limp bodies intertwined like tree roots. An abandoned horse peacefully cropping a mouthful of grass. A dying hussar, his belly ripped open, pleading for death. Michael spoke a prayer in French, then cut the poor devil's throat.

  He thought his own death had found him when a cuirassier charged, sword swinging. Michael braced himself, but knew that in his present condition he had no chance against a mounted man.

  Then the Frenchman's gaze went to Michael's sling. He raised the hilt of his sword to his forehead in a salute and swerved away in search of other targets. Michael touched the hard ridge of the silver kaleidoscope, which was tucked inside his coat. His lucky charm had not failed him yet.

  They were moving up the opposite slope of the valley when Michael pushed through a gap in a ragged hedge and found Tom Hussey being attacked by two Frenchmen. As one stabbed a bayonet through the ensign's shoulder, Michael leaped forward with a murderous shout. He sliced one assailant's chest, then turned snarling on the other. Unnerved by his attack, both men fled.

  Tom wiped his forehead with a grimy sleeve. "How does one learn to fight like you, sir?"

  "Practice and a bad temper." Michael's fury subsided, leaving him panting. He indicated the blood seeping between the ensign's fingers. "You should get that taken care of."

  "There will be time for that later." Tom's eyes were bright with the intoxication of fighting and surviving.

  There were only two good hands between them, but together they managed to bind the bayonet wound. Then they moved forward again. Michael tried to keep an eye on the boy, but a flurry of advancing Hanoverians separated them.

  Death in battle can come in an instant, or with excruciating slowness. For Michael the end came swiftly. He heard a snarled French curse, and turned to see the men he had driven away from Tom Hussey. Both were aiming their muskets from less than fifty feet away. They fired. Two balls slammed into him almost simultaneously, one in the thigh, the other in his abdomen. When he crumpled to the muddy earth, he knew he would not rise again.

  He lay there, barely conscious, until he felt the vibration of galloping hooves drumming through the soil. He raised his head to see half a dozen French lancers racing toward him in mindless panic. Though he knew the effort was pointless, h
e tried to crawl toward a ragged hedge that might offer some protection. He did not reach it in time. The lancers rode over him, the hooves of the horses rolling him across the ground. One lancer slowed long enough to stab his lance into Michael's back.

  Pain was everywhere, so intense it blacked out the red setting sun and the clamor of battle. With each shuddering breath, he hoped that dying with honor would redeem the times when he had not lived with it.

  He felt himself floating away, disconnected from his battered body. Catherine was there, her presence more vivid than the devastation around him. She smiled and dissolved his pain with gentle hands.

  With the final shreds of awareness, he knew that he had died well, and that he had been privileged to know a woman worthy of being loved. Then he spiraled into darkness, his spirit at peace.

  Chapter 12

  As the evening passed, Catherine knew with nerve-searing certainty that something was terribly wrong. She and Elspeth sat together in the morning room, the dogs at their feet. There was nothing unusual about Louis sleeping, but even Clancy's high spirits were subdued.

  It was almost a relief when the knocker banged in an eerie echo of two nights before. Both women dashed to the front door to find Will Ferris again. His face was haggard and blackened by powder, but apart from a bandage around his right forearm, he was uninjured. With a cry, Elspeth flew into his arms.

  Catherine envied them, wishing her own life was so simple. She gave them a few moments before asking, "What news, Will?"

  Still holding Elspeth, he said in staccato sentences, "The battle is won. Bloodiest thing I ever saw. Your husband isn't hurt, but Captain Mowbry was injured. I came to tell his wife."

  "She took the children to Antwerp. What are his injuries?"

  "A ball shattered his left forearm. He was knocked from his horse and likely would have died if not for your husband, ma'am. Captain Melbourne turned around, took him up, and brought him back to our lines."

  Thank God for Colin's indomitable courage. "I must bring Charles home. Do you feel strong enough to take me to him now, or will you need to rest first?"

  Ferris looked alarmed. "I'm well enough, but I can't take you to Waterloo, ma'am. Every house in the village is full of dying men. It's no place for a lady."

  "I promised Anne I would care for Charles as if I were her, and by God, I will!" she snapped.

  When Ferris tried to protest again, Elspeth said in her soft burr, "Don't worry, Will. Mrs. Melbourne can manage anything."

  Outnumbered, Ferris surrendered. Everett was called from his room above the stables to prepare the small cart that was used for household hauling. The groom covered the flat bed with straw and Elspeth brought blankets while Catherine packed her medical kit, including her laudanum. Rather than travel in the cart with Everett, she donned the breeches she had sometimes worn in Spain and rode Colin's horse, Caesar.

  As they set off through the Namur Gate, she asked Ferris about the fate of other friends. He knew nothing about infantry officers like Michael and Kenneth, but he was well informed about the cavalry regiments.

  The litany of casualties was brutal. Men Catherine had known for years were dead or grievously wounded. Though the Allies had carried the day, they had paid a bitter, bitter price.

  The road passed through a dense forest. It was a lovely drive during normal times, but as they neared the village of Waterloo the way became clogged with wagons, dead horses, and spilled baggage. Luckily their cart could squeeze through where a larger vehicle would have been stopped.

  It was after midnight when they reached their destination. Leaving Everett with the cart and horses, Catherine followed Ferris to the house-turned-hospital where Charles had been taken. An irregular mound lay beside the door. With a shudder, she recognized it as a pile of amputated limbs.

  Inside the house were the groans and stoic suffering that she knew all too well. A strangled cry came from the salon at the left. She glanced in and saw that the dinner table was being used for operating. A frowning Dr. Hume bent over it.

  Ferris led her through the crowded house to the small side room where Charles lay. He was conscious, though obviously in pain. When he saw her, he said huskily, "What are you doing here, Catherine?"

  "Substituting for Anne. When the outcome of the fighting looked chancy, Lord Haldoran offered to take her and the children to Antwerp until the danger was past. In return, I promised to care for you. Which means a kiss, though not quite the one Anne would give you." She bent over and touched her lips to his forehead. "We've come to take you home."

  He smiled crookedly. "I'd like that. I believe it's almost my turn for the cutting room. After my arm comes off, we can go."

  His eyes drifted shut. She studied his drawn face, then gave a nod of satisfaction. The arm would certainly have to be amputated, but if there was no infection, he would pull through.

  Softly she said to Ferris, "Since we'll be here for a bit, why don't you lie down and get what rest you can?"

  He rubbed his face, smearing the powder marks. "A good idea. I noticed an empty corner in the next room. I'll doss down there until you're ready to leave."

  A few minutes later, a boyish voice murmured, "Ma'am, could... could you get me some water, please?" The speaker was an ensign on the next pallet. There was a bandage around his head and another around his shoulder. He was heartbreakingly young.

  "Of course." She went in search of a pitcher of water and a glass, finding them in the kitchen. The ensign accepted the drink gratefully. She was giving water to a man on the other side of the room when Colin's bemused voice said, "Catherine?"

  She looked up to see her husband standing in the doorway. He was filthy and exhausted, but intact. "I'm so glad to see you!" She rose and went to him. "I've come to take Charles back to Brussels."

  "Good. I stopped by to see how he was." Colin put an arm around her and drew her close in a gesture that was as much fatigue as affection. "Lord, what a fight it was! There's not a man who came through who won't be proud to have taken part, but it was a near-run thing. Damned near-run." For a moment he rested his chin against her hair. Then he released her.

  "You were right about your magical immunity to bullets," she said. "Ferris told me you saved Charles's life."

  "The credit goes to Michael Kenyon for insisting I take his horse. During the afternoon, we made the grandest cavalry charge I've ever seen. It was magnificent." His eyes brightened at the memory. "We sent the French flying, but we went too far into their territory, then had to retreat with their cavalry after us. The ground was muddy from the rain. If I'd been riding Uno or Duo, I'd be dead now."

  He grimaced. "That's exactly what happened to Ponsonby, the Union Brigade commander. Like me, he didn't want to risk his best mount, so he was riding a second-rate hack. Because of the heavy soil, the beast became blown during the retreat. Ponsonby was run down and killed by lancers. I was spared his fate only because Kenyon's horse has incredible stamina. Saved Charles and me both."

  "Then I'm very glad Michael insisted on the exchange." She hesitated, then asked, "Do you know how he fared in the battle?"

  "I've no idea." Colin's brows drew together. "Did you come here on Caesar? If so, I'll take him and you can ride Thor back to Brussels. Because the Prussians missed most of the battle, they took charge of the pursuit, but tomorrow I imagine we'll go after the French, too. I'll need a fresh horse."

  Catherine described where Colin could find Caesar. "Is the fighting over?"

  Her husband shrugged. "If Napoleon manages to regroup, there could be another battle."

  "Dear Lord, I hope not," she said with a glance at the wounded men surrounding them.

  "Perhaps it won't come to that. I don't imagine I'll see you again until we're in Paris. Take care." Colin kissed her cheek absently and left.

  A few minutes later, orderlies came to take Charles to Dr. Hume. Catherine accompanied him. The exhausted surgeon greeted her with no show of surprise. After a careful examination, he said, "You're in l
uck, Captain. I'll be able to leave you the elbow. Do you want a piece of wood to bite?"

  Charles closed his eyes, the skin tightening across his cheekbones. "That shouldn't be necessary."

  Catherine moved forward and took hold of his right hand. His fingers clamped around hers and sweat showed on his brow when Hume sawed off the injured arm, but he uttered no sound. Hume had the swiftness that was essential to a good surgeon, and the operation was over in minutes.

  An orderly was taking away the severed limb when Charles said hoarsely, "Wait—before you toss that out. There's a ring my wife gave me on our wedding day. I'd like it back, please."

  The orderly looked startled. Then he tugged the ring from the dead finger. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, Catherine took the ring and slid it onto the third finger of Charles's right hand. He whispered, "Thank you."

  Catherine said, "Dr. Hume, I want to take him back to Brussels. Will that be all right?"

  "He'll be better off there than here," the surgeon said. "Give him some laudanum so the jarring of the cart won't distress him too much. You know how to change dressings."

  "Yes, and I've also got Ian Kinlock staying at my house, when he has time to rest."

  Hume laughed, his expression lightening. "Trust you for that. Mowbry's a lucky man—he'll have the best of care."

  The surgeon returned to his operating table. Catherine instructed the orderlies to take Charles back to his former pallet. She gave him laudanum, then sat back to wait for the drug to take effect. A few minutes later, she again heard a surprised male voice say, "Catherine?"

  When she looked up, it took a moment for her to recognize the man in the doorway because of the sticking plaster that covered most of his cheek and curved into his dark hair. But the burly build was unmistakable.

  "Kenneth!" She rose and took his hands. His Rifle Brigade uniform was almost unidentifiable and one epaulet had been shot off, but he was blessedly alive. "Thank God you came through." She glanced at the sticking plaster. "A saber slash?"