She took her time aiming, trying to control her panic. She fired, and the rifle jumped in her hands. The bullet hit the French skirmisher dead center, and he stumbled and fell. She had regained control.
“Good shot,” Thompson said, taking the forward position.
She focused on the trees ahead, looking for movement before turning to glance back. Behind her, the group of light infantrymen she had joined continued to advance through the trees. They were fighting for possession of the woods, the French starting to pull back slowly. She had fallen in with Thompson’s regiment and been assigned to her new position as a skirmisher. If Peter were alive, he would be in these woods.
She reloaded. The rifle had a shorter barrel than the musket she was used to. It allowed her to reload while taking cover but it took longer to reload. The ball was wrapped in a patch that had to be forced down a grooved barrel. She preferred it to the musket because the inner grooves spun the ball and made it far more accurate up to three hundred yards. With her rifle reloaded, she waited as Thompson took aim then fired.
“Let’s move,” she said.
He didn’t follow her into the open, taking shelter behind a tree as a bullet slammed into it, splintering the wood.
“On the left,” he said.
“I see him.”
She fired and missed.
He took her place and waited, taking his time. He pulled the trigger and watched the Frenchman fall.
They moved on, taking shelter as they needed. She preferred fighting this way. Skirmishers required mobility and concealment and the skills stressed were marksmanship and initiative. Working in pairs, they moved ahead of companies, using the ground as cover. Every battalion had a light infantry company that moved ahead of it in open formation to harass the enemy. To do so, they had to get close and were usually seriously outnumbered. Their usual focus was to shoot officers and artillery gunners, but today their task was to take and hold the Bossu woods. Good marksmanship was a required skill. Georgiana envied their independence from the more formal fighting lines.
She crossed a stream, keeping low, listening for the enemy. A volley of rifle fire to their right sent a hail of bullets into the foliage around them, raining leaves and branches down on them. Georgiana took cover behind a fallen tree. When the last rifle banged, she rose up and aimed, finding a target as a blue coat moved amongst the trees. She fired, her view obstructed momentarily by white smoke.
She turned back to Thompson who lay on the ground behind her, his body twisted at an odd angle. She turned him over only to see a hole where his left eye used to be. She took his ammunition and moved on.
It was the woods Peter had told her to run to if things went wrong, and they had gone wrong. She prayed he had reached the woods and was now somewhere here, still fighting as she was. As she made her way through the trees, firing and reloading her rifle, she closed in on a pair of infantrymen. Each time she hoped she would find Peter, and each time she was disappointed.
She was moving fast through the trees, conscious of how vulnerable she was alone. Movement to her right made her pause. She lowered herself to the ground. Using a tree stump to steady her rifle, she waited for a flash of movement, not disappointed when a soldier emerged from behind a shrub far closer than she expected. She placed a second cartridge in her mouth and fired, knowing his partner would be right behind him.
She didn’t wait to see if she had hit her mark. Jamming the cartridge into the barrel, she slammed the rifle’s butt on the ground as hard as she could, hoping it would go down far enough. She raised the rifle and focused through the smoke on the soldier behind the man she had killed. She flinched as he fired but did not move to take cover. The ball ripped into the tree behind her, grazing her face as it passed. She fired but the recoil was weak, and she knew the shot would not go far enough. The Frenchman rose to his feet and ran towards her, his bayonet fixed and pointed at her.
She jumped up from her position on the ground and swung her rifle at him like a club. He easily deflected her blow and thrust his bayonet forward and into her side before pulling it out again. Screaming in pain, she twisted around to run stumbling up an incline. He chased after her, narrowly missing her, as he tried to sink the blade into the back of her leg. Holding her side, she crashed through the undergrowth, gasping for air. She could hear him close behind and dared not stop when suddenly a figure stepped from behind a tree in front of her.
“Drop,” he shouted, his rifle aimed at her, as he pulled the trigger.
She dove as he fired, hitting the ground hard. The Frenchman close behind her screamed in pain, but still he came at her, stumbling up from the ground and lunging towards her, battle-maddened, determined to kill. She pulled her knife, as his hands tightened around her throat. She slammed a fist into his face, but he did not let go and she thrust the blade into his side. He screamed in pain, and the pressure on her throat eased slightly. She thrashed under him, the world turning dark around the edges. Then his weight was lifted from her, and she desperately sucked in air and coughed, her throat burning. She lay on her side, struggling to breathe.
“Slow deep breaths,” Peter said as he pulled her up.
She clung to him, the relief of seeing him overwhelming.
He was alive.
He helped her up, and they made their way back through the trees, Neville covering their retreat. When they were well behind the firing line, he let her rest beside a tree, handing her his canteen. Her hand shook violently, as she raised it to her mouth, and he took it from her. He held it while she drank. The water burned as it went down her throat, and she coughed again.
“I thought you dead,” he said, wiping at the blood from her face. He examined her grazed cheek.
“Others?” she asked painfully, her voice a deep scratchy sound.
He shook his head, his face black, caked in dirt and blood. She took his canteen and drank some more, realizing suddenly how thirsty she was.
“Ready?”
She nodded and stood, then winced as pain shot through her side.
Peter lifted her jacket, and she looked down to see her shirt soaked in blood. He pulled her shirt up to expose a two-inch gash in her side where the bayonet had passed through her.
“Didn’t pierce anything you need, but it’ll want stitching.”
“Now?”
He pulled a needle from his bag. “Be still.”
She looked nervously around, afraid they would be shot if they lingered.
“We are safe enough here,” Peter said. “We have them on the run now.”
He stitched her up as Neville wiped the blood away, so he could see. She lay still, trying hard not to move or scream every time the needle pierced her skin.
“You can cry if it helps,” he said. He was making fun of her, she knew.
“Sod off,” she said, and he smiled.
She had witnessed a man having his leg amputated. She was lucky.
“There,” Peter said, biting off the thread. “Not pretty, but it’ll do.”
She sat up, and he wrapped a bandage around her and tied it off.
He helped her up, and she winced at the pain but moved towards the sound of the cannons, pausing when she realized they were not following. She turned back to see them standing and watching her.
“We must go,” she said.
Neville and Peter turned to look at each other, and she tried to decipher the look that passed between them but couldn’t.
“I mean to find Charles,” she said and turned back through the trees.
They caught up with her, Peter handing her a rifle.
***
On the frontline, the British had the French on the defensive. The trio arrived to see the last of the French infantry running back across the field to rejoin their retreating comrades. A cheer rose up from the British skirmishers and the first foot guards who had together taken the woods. They stood in the tree line and looked out at the fields where the British infantry now held the ground, pushing the French back to Frasnes. The farms on the east side of the field fell to the British, and, as the light faded from the sky, the fighting grew less until the sound of cannon stopped and the last volleys of musket fire faded. The French gave up the fields for the night, but there was little sense of victory.
Georgiana stared out across the trampled rye field. A rider-less horse galloped across it, stepping on the dead and the wounded alike, as it raced on in panic. A soldier tried to stop it, but it shied away, running down a wounded man in its attempt to flee capture. Finally, a rifle shot brought it down and it fell, desperately trying to get up again before another shot killed it.
Slowly they made their way across the field to where the 69th had fought and lost, the ground piled with the dead and dying. Soldiers rifled through the pockets of the dead, looking for anything valuable, stabbing at the wounded French with bayonets, picking up weapons to be reused. A wagon began to make its way across the field, picking up only those not mortally wounded. A few surgeons did what they could, which was far too little. The rest were left to die, begging for help, as they were passed by.
“Over here,” Neville said, turning over a man.
It was Haskell, his eyes staring sightlessly at them. Not far from where they had started the day, they found Morris.
“What of Fleming?” she asked.
Peter shook his head.
All gone, she thought. Dead. She looked out across the field to the valley. A man was being stripped clean of all he had on him. His horse met a similar fate as the locals moved in and stripped even the dead horses of their valuable harness. With the battle over, the dead and wounded became the spoils, robbed of anything of value.
“We must bury them,” Peter said.
They carried them to the woods and, digging two graves, buried them under a chestnut tree. Georgiana watched them, unable to be of much use. When they were done, she tied two branches together to fashion a cross. Peter placed these on the graves, then said a prayer for them. She listened to the words, her mind on Rupert and her brother. The light was fading fast from the sky; searching for them in the dark would be even harder. The cries of the wounded tore at her, as she imagined her brother in the field at that moment, dying. She turned her head to the edge of the woods, her eyes on the field beyond it.
“He’s not there,” Peter said from beside her.
“I must be sure,” she said and took a step away from him, only to feel her legs give way. She found herself falling.
Peter caught her. “You need to rest.”
She hesitated then nodded and allowed him to take her back to the trees. Neville built a fire, and she lay down in the grass, exhausted. She closed her eyes, thinking she would only rest for a few minutes.
***
He watched her sleep. The light from the fire cast deep shadows over her thin face. She had lost weight these last few months. He didn’t doubt her strength, but still he grew more concerned with each day. A cry for help from the fields drew his attention, and he wondered which poor soul lay dying in the dark. It could have been any one of them out there. If she had not driven herself to exhaustion, she would now be out there searching. He heard the voice again, this time a rifle shot silenced him.
“Ripe pickings,” Neville said from across the fire. “Wouldn’t mind finding myself a dead gent. Expect they would have all manner of riches on them.”
“Officers are the first to be robbed. There will be no trace of them anymore.”
“Dead and naked as the day they arrived in this world. Serves ‘em right.”
Another shot rang out in the night.
“Doing a proper job they are. Killing the wounded is a mercy I say. Was it me out in them fields, I’d thank a stranger to take the time and effort to end me fast. No good waiting on death on a night like this. Far too busy he be.”
Peter stood and looked out into the darkness.
“You aren’t thinking of plundering some for yourself now, are ye?”
“You know me better.”
“Aye, that I do,” he nodded. “Then it be the young master you’re after?”
“I am,” he said and, reaching for his rifle, he reloaded it. “Watch her. If she wakes, keep her here.”
Neville saluted him mockingly. “Bring us a good purse.”
Peter turned his back on the warm fire and made his way slowly into the dark. Stepping over a corpse, he watched the moving shadows of those that plundered the dead. He turned in the direction he had last seen Charles.
Crows descended on the field, drawn by the smell of the carcasses. They picked and pulled at the bodies, feasting on the sudden bounty. A stray dog fed on a man’s arm. He chased the dog from his meal, and it growled at him, then waited a short distance away, only to return after he had left.
The voice of a young boy calling for his mother stopped suddenly, and he turned to look back, seeing a shadow huddled over a body. It was an old peasant woman. She turned to him as he approached, a knife in her hand, uncertain. She raised her bloodied knife at him in warning, and he stepped away. She turned back to the boy she had killed and removed his shoes. There were hundreds like her, picking over the dead like scavengers, killing those still alive to take what they had.
He continued his search, turning over bodies to make sure it wasn’t Charles. As he stepped over a corpse, a hand grabbed hold of him and held fast.
“Help me.”
The voice was weak, but his grip still showed strength. The soldier had buried himself under another and dragged himself up.
“Please,” he begged again.
Peter looked up toward where a group of men were slowly making their way towards them and knew that if he left the man, he would be leaving him to die.
“Can you walk?” Peter asked and noticed the soldier’s coat marked him a lieutenant.
“Yes.”
Peter hesitated, knowing it was a lie, and examined the man’s broken right leg.
“Remove your coat,” he said, watching the approaching shadows.
The man’s expression changed, as he considered suddenly that Peter was not his salvation but like the rest only out to rob him.
“No please, sir,” the man said, begging. “Have mercy.”
“I mean to help.”
Understanding, the lieutenant removed his coat and handed it to Peter who paused, as he saw that the gentleman was also suffering from a wound to his side. His shirt was soaked red with blood.
“It’s but a scratch,” the man said in defense.
Peter doubted it, but he hid the coat under a body. With help, the young lieutenant stood up, trying bravely not to cry out in pain.
“Thank you,” he said. “Did you not assist me, I would have died here tonight.”
“We may still both die here tonight for you, sir, are but a prize.”
They made their way slowly and painfully back toward the woods, stopping often to rest, as Peter carried him more than he walked. Twice they were stopped and twice Peter pointed a rifle at a man’s head to ensure their safe passage. They had made it halfway across the field when a group of men surrounded them, this time they did not move aside when Peter raised his rifle.
“Give them my purse,” the lieutenant said. “They will leave us alone.”
“Not these men.”
Peter put him gently down and drew his knife and his rifle. He pointed the latter at the biggest man.
“Leave me then,” the lieutenant said weakly.
“Too late for that,” Peter said as one of the four men lunged at him, and he pulled the trigger.
The big man screamed in pain, as a hole opened up in his chest, and he dropped to the ground. Peter dropped the rifle and used his knife to hold off the three men who were suddenly less sure of themselves. The hesitation did not last long as they circled around before attacking all at once. Peter slashed at one man’s midriff, cutting him, but another pulled him to the ground. A kick to his head disoriented him, and a blow to his stomach doubled him over in pain. A shot rang out, and the weight on his chest moved suddenly away.
“Kindly step away, gentlemen, or I will be forced to run you through.”
Peter recognized the voice, as the robbers moved quickly away, leaving their wounded comrade behind. Sitting astride his horse, his uniform perfectly clean and not a scratch on him, was Charles.
“Wyndham?”
“Warwick,” Charles smiled. “I see you have missed the obvious fact that for today at least the fighting is done.”
Peter smiled as Charles dismounted and helped him up.
“Is Georgiana with you?” Charles asked, concerned.
“She is.”
He looked relieved. “Then what in God’s name are you doing out here besides trying to get yourself killed?”
Peter turned toward the young lieutenant he had placed so carefully down.
“It seems the young man is dead,” Charles said, stating the obvious, for though his eyes were open, there was no longer any life in them. He leaned over him and closed his eyes.
“Who was he?” Charles asked.
Peter shrugged. “I never learned his name.”
“And yet you risked your life for him? You are a strange fellow, Warwick.”
“You mean foolish, no doubt.”
“No,” Charles smiled and, with a hand on his shoulder, he walked back with him toward the woods. “You are by far the least foolish person I have ever met, except perhaps when it comes to being in love with my sister.”
Peter stopped and turned to Charles.
“I am certainly not against love itself or you, Peter,” he said dropping his hand from his shoulder.
“But?”
Charles hesitated, “You must see that such a union can never become a reality. You are from different worlds. You would never be accepted in society. She may play the peasant on occasion, but do you really believe she could live without money and the luxuries it affords her?”
“You do her no justice.”
“She’s my sister. I have known her my whole life.”
“You mean to protect her from me,” Peter said, nodding his understanding. “But she is asleep in the middle of a battlefield and will tomorrow fight in a war she will probably not survive.”
“It is a point well made and a grievous affair indeed,” Charles said. “You are perhaps right. Best not dwell on the details.”
“No,” Peter said, nodding. “Best not.”
Together they walked back into the woods, Charles leading his horse.
“You know dear fellow, were it a free world, I imagine I would very much enjoy having you as my brother-in-law.”
“Why is that?”
“I would love to see what dear Mama would make of you.”