Mont-Saint-Jean Farm, Belgium
June 21, 1815
Gazing down at the shrunken figure lying on the hospital bed before him, Captain Edward Hathaway searched for signs of the perpetually happy young man everyone knew and loved. Why was it that men always looked so much smaller in stature when stretched out on a bed?
Or in a coffin.
His mind shied away from that image. He’d seen more than his share of death recently, but he’d also seen men survive worse wounds than the loss of a leg. And if anyone deserved to live, it was Private Freddie Reynolds.
It should have been him in that bed. Freddie had come between him and a bayonet aimed directly at his back during that final, bloody battle on the fields near Waterloo. The private had fended off that blow, but his heroism had been rewarded with a musket ball to the leg. Edward still didn’t know what exactly had happened. They had managed to break through the front line of Bonaparte’s infantry, but the enemy had been everywhere. Time had passed in a blur of blood and battle frenzy as every man fought for his very survival.
But he did know one thing. If not for this man, he would probably be dead.
He never knew what to expect each day when he walked into the field hospital that housed far too many of his men. The number of injured in the ward dwindled daily as men were discharged, transported, or succumbed to their wounds. But Freddie survived, and Edward clung to the hope that he would shake off the fever that seemed to plague him.
He was rewarded when the young man opened his eyes.
“The nurses told me you were awake earlier today. I was beginning to think you were pretending to be asleep to avoid speaking to me.”
“Not at all,” Freddie said with a strained chuckle as he drew himself up into a seated position on the bed. Neither of them said anything about his grimace of pain or about the visible absence of one of his legs underneath the blanket. “I was hoping to see you today, Captain.”
Edward lowered himself onto the stool by the bed. “It eases my mind to see you up.” He’d been thinking about what to say to this man, but how did one adequately thank someone for saving one’s life? “I am forever in your debt,” he said, having decided that the prosaic words would have to suffice.
“It has been an honor to serve with you, Captain.”
It sounded as though the man was saying his farewells, but Edward shook off that morbid thought. “The honor has been mine. If there is ever anything I can do for you, you have only to ask.”
Freddie looked him square in the eye, and in their depths Edward could see his determination. “In case there is no future, I do have a request to make of you.”
“There will be a future,” Edward said, refusing to believe otherwise.
Freddie looked away for a moment, struggling to form his next words. “I have written a letter to Grace. I’d like you to take it and deliver it to her personally. It is vital that she receive it.” He pulled a folded square of paper from under the corner of his pillow. “I wrote it earlier today, and one of the nurses was kind enough to seal it for me.”
Edward balked at the implication that the man before him would not be seeing his oft-spoken-about betrothed again. “I’m sure you will see her yourself soon enough.”
Freddie tried to hand the letter to him, but he was weaker than he appeared. When Edward didn’t take it right away, his hand sank to the bed. “I would consider it a personal favor.”
Edward couldn’t deny the request, but he hated that Freddie was even considering the possibility that he wouldn’t recover. He took the letter from his hand.
“Promise me that you’ll deliver it in person, Captain.”
“You have my word, Private. But I won’t be returning to England for at least another few weeks. I hope by that time to be delivering it to you and you can give it to your future wife yourself.”
His promise seemed to put the young man at ease. His shoulders visibly relaxed, and he could only nod in reply. Taking that as a sign that Freddie needed to rest again, Edward stood and took his leave.
When he reached the hallway, out of sight of Freddie and all the wounded men in the ward, he had to stop and gather the composure for which he was famous. Seeing Freddie in such low spirits had unsettled him more than he would have thought possible. The man in that bed was not the person he’d come to know. The Freddie he knew had buoyed the mood of every man in their regiment at one point or another. He was the eternal optimist who refused to give up hope even in the most dire of circumstances.
Edward had to struggle against the impulse to march back into that room and order the private to get better.
The sound of a single pistol shot came out of nowhere, unnaturally loud in the quiet hospital environment. Without thinking, Edward’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword, but then he remembered where he was and that he didn’t have the weapon that had seemed a part of him for so long.
He waited, listening for signs of a battle. But instead of hearing the clash of swords or the return fire he expected would come from the men stationed outside the makeshift hospital, a woman’s cry of alarm came from the room he’d just vacated.
Dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he rushed into the ward. What he saw there affected him more than anything he’d seen on the battlefield.