The retreat began as soon as the wounded were all on their way to Brussels. The infantry and artillery moved north along the gravel road toward Brussels. They were to go eight miles to a place called Mont St. Jean just south of a village called Waterloo. Cavalry and light artillery were to remain at the crossroads until every battalion had left. They would provide the rearguard. Wellington himself lay down in a pasture near the crossroads with a newspaper and waited calmly for his army to march past before he himself mounted his horse. With only the rearguard left, the British and Dutch troops managed to slip away from Napoleon.
The light infantry took up position behind the last of the infantry troops to leave.
The British Hussars and Life Guards waited on their horses, the animals moving nervously. The air was still and heavy as the looming dark clouds grew ever darker.
“I don’t like it,” Neville said. “Every battalion that leaves makes us more likely to be killed when the French wake up.”
“Look,” Georgiana said and pointed at the road toward Frasnes.
“Lancers,” Neville said. “I bloody hate lancers.”
“Time to leave,” Peter said, and they put their packs on and, together with the rest of the light infantry, retreated slowly up the road.
The British guns remained behind them, waiting for the advancing French lancers to approach, and then they opened fire with a tremendous crash. White smoke obscured their view of the road. The artillery limbered up and galloped down the road to escape the pursuing French, and the British 7th Hussars were ordered to charge forward to cover them.
Lightning flashed across the entire sky, giving the dark day a ghastly brightness before blackness returned. Thunder followed in a tremendous rumble that shook the ground, and the skies opened up with a torrent of rain. Georgiana could see no further than her own hand.
“Come on,” Peter said above the wind.
She turned, running quickly as they moved along the road. Behind them, the rearguard kept the French at bay, and the rain continued to soak the earth until the only thing that remained dry was the ammunition in waterproof cartouches. The road turned to mud, slowing them down as they sank to their knees in it. Luckily, the French would be equally slowed.
At the end of a day of retreating, they stopped near Mont St. Jean. Each regiment found the ground marked out for them by the quartermasters and, on a slope, they halted. Artillery guns were set along the ridge above, infantry behind, and then the cavalry. There would be no shelters, and the rain made a fire impossible. The supply wagons had been slowed down by the rain and mud. Tired, wet and hungry, they settled in for a cold night in the mud. The little food anyone had was shared out and soon devoured. Georgiana sat on her pack and watched a cavalry farrier inspect the horse’s hooves. She shivered, her teeth chattering.
“Find your brother,” Peter said.
She nodded. “I will bring food.”
“Whiskey,” Neville said. “I would die drunk.”
She walked up the slope to the slight ridge to stand under a lone elm tree. She looked down into shallow valley of crops and farmhouses and toward the opposite ridge. This was the arena Wellington had chosen for his battlefield.
Behind her, the ridge obscured a country road that ran east and west. The road was sheltered from the enemy, and Wellington could use it to move artillery or supplies unseen. Along the ridge, the gunners waited, ready to loose their cannon down into the valley. The farmhouses on the left and right in the valley would be used to slow down the French, as they marched across it toward the ridge.
She watched the last of the British cavalry arrive along the road, the rearguard holding off the French who pursued them. As the French moved along the valley road toward the encamped British army, the gunners loosed a volley of fire to hold them off. The French withdrew to a safe distance along the opposite ridge and settled in for the night, waiting for the rest of their battalions to arrive.
The valley farmhouse windows glowed with a warm light. The wheat and rye in the valley fields bent under the rain. She studied the stone walls of the house closest to her. A British garrison was busy fortifying the walls, the farmhouse’s previous occupants long fled. A large house and barn as well as an orchard swarmed with soldiers preparing to defend it. Likewise, a smaller farmhouse further east was also fortified.
The French would have to cross the valley and pass the heavily fortified farmhouses to reach the ridge. They would do so over open ground while the British had the advantage of cover behind thick stone walls. Tomorrow night by this time, the valley floor would be trampled, the ground scattered with bodies. This valley could be her end, she thought.
She turned back to look at the British and Dutch forces waiting for daybreak. The panic she had felt yesterday in battle had been replaced by a deep numbness. All she had seen and done had forced her to shut down. It was the only way she could continue through the hell she had stepped into. She had killed men, would kill again without thought of extinguishing a life, a life no different from her own.
Watching a man die a slow, agonizing death was a horror beyond words. Knowing he was dying by her own hand was an end to reason—but then to multiply that horror with more death was an end of everything she had known to be true. Her brother was right. War was a savage madness that would spare no one, least of all the survivors. Once the killing began, there was no end to it. The darkness remained inside her now, a shadow she had swallowed, ancient and vicious.
A group of soldiers walked passed her, carrying a door from one of the farmhouses. They broke it into pieces, and a fire was kindled as the rain eased. More fires began to glow dimly over the fields, and soldiers huddled around them for what little warmth they gave.
She left the comfort of the elm tree and descended the slope in the direction of the tents. Spying her brother around a campfire, a cup of tea in his hand, she debated with herself on how to approach him. In the end, she waited in the rain, cold and miserable, until he moved away from a group of officers. She followed him into his tent.
The floor lacked its usual luxury carpet, covered instead in a wet sucking mud.
“Can this muddy creature be my sister?” Charles asked, frowning.
“I have not your talent or resources for cleanliness, dearest brother.”
“Nor my good sense, it would seem, or you would have remained in Brussels.”
“I do not wish a quarrel.”
“What do you wish?” he asked, removing his coat and gloves.
“I need you to place Rupert’s regiment far from the battle tomorrow.”
“Your wish is my command,” he smiled. “Is that not what they say? Have you considered that perhaps you are playing guardian angel to an undeserving little devil?”
“Please, Charles.”
“I am overly fond of your good opinion for I have already placed his regiment on reserve, much to their commanding officer’s disgust. Your plan may, however, fail for I fear tomorrow it will take every regiment here to find victory.”
“Then I will remain vigilant,” she said. “Do you have food?”
“Some,” he sighed. “Keeping your crew fed is costing me a pretty penny.”
“Then take comfort that there are three less mouths to feed.”
“I’m sorry, I did not think.”
She remained silent, too tired and cold to engage in further talk.
He frowned at her and, reaching for a glass, poured her a whiskey.
“Here,” he said. “It will warm you.”
She sat on a chair and swallowed the liquid as he studied her.
“You are pale,” he said. “What ails you?”
“I am well enough.”
“Sleep here tonight.”
She shook her head, “I must return.”
He packed some bread and cheese in a bag for her and wordlessly she took it from him.
As she stood to leave, pain sliced through her side, and she winced.
“You are hurt.”
“It is nothing,” she said, straightening.
“I insist you show me,” he demanded, blocking her way.
She allowed him to pull her shirt up, and he removed the bandage carefully to study her wound.
“How did you come by it?”
“Bayonet.”
“It is cauterized.”
“Peter,” she said simply.
“He did well. Sit down.”
He cleaned the wound, trying not to hurt her but having little success of it. Then he wrapped a new bandage.
“I will not entreat you again to leave, but I will ask that you do not take unnecessary risks with yourself tomorrow.”
She laughed, “What dear brother is an unnecessary risk in battle?”
“Being within range of a bullet, cannon, or even a sword.”
“I will do my best.”
“That is what frightens me,” he said, handing her the bag.
She turned to leave then hesitated and faced him again. “You are the best brother a sister could wish for.”
“It is to be our goodbye then?” he frowned.
She hugged him, holding him tight to her and kissed his cheek.
“Come now,” he laughed. “We will drink to victory tomorrow night.”
“Yes,” she smiled, still not letting him go. “Charles?”
“Georgy?”
“You were right.”
He smiled, “As much as it pleases me that you finally recognize my greater wisdom, I prefer you less humbled. What has you so low?”
“Death. I feel I am afloat in a great darkness without end, but I feel nothing. Not even fear.”
He held her hand in his, looking at her with a great sadness. “We are not meant for the onslaught of horrors we face here, Georgy. Our minds, I fear, have not the capacity to comprehend it, and so, in defense, they retreat into themselves, stop us from feeling the enormity of horror that surrounds us. It has happened to me, as well, and I know that, unfortunately, it will not last. Eventually, your mind will bring it all to the surface, bit by bit, usually in the quiet moments when you least expect it. For now, allow it to keep you insulated from what will come tomorrow.”
“Promise me you won’t die.”
“Considering tomorrow’s main event and both of our proximity to it, I doubt very much either one of us can make or keep such an obviously ambitious challenge.”
“Promise me.”
“Very well,” he said, his arms tightening around her. “I promise not to die.”
She drew away from him and turned to leave.
“Why do you remain?” he asked seriously. “It is not about Rupert at all, is it?”
“It is, but that’s not the only reason,” she admitted.
“What’s the other reason?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“I need to be here,” she said honestly.
“You know what war is now, that it will never leave you, but still you choose this?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not natural, Georgy.”
“For a woman you mean?”
“For anyone,” he said angrily.
She flinched at his words, looking down at the dirt beneath her feet for a moment. His words hurt. Of all the people she loved in the world, she needed him to understand her and accept her. Stubbornly, she raised her eyes to his.
“I would follow you to hell itself,” he said. “Our current position proves the point very well, but you terrify me, Georgiana.”
“I didn’t ask you to be here,” she said.
The words were petty and beneath her. She knew the instant she said them she was wrong to give voice to them.
“No,” he said. “You will have to forgive me, for I care far more than I should.”
“Charles—”
“I am tired,” he said cutting her off.
She left the tent and walked back through the camp angry at herself. He deserved a sister far better than she was.
***
They lay on the wet straw with a blanket over them covering their faces to keep the rain off. Peter lay next to her, not touching her. She was curled up next to him, trying not to move. She wanted to reach out to him, but he was angry with her. He would not say it, but he didn’t need to. It was strange how much she had come to rely on him. For months now, he had been there when she fell asleep and when she woke again.
He waited for her at the beginning of a long day or at the end of a road. He knew who she was. He had always known, because she had never been able to hide anything from him and had never felt the need to do so. It frightened her how much she needed him. How much she had come to rely on his presence next to her. And he was here, next to her now under a wet blanket, lying in the mud on what could be their last night, close enough to touch, and yet he felt a million miles away.
“Peter,” she whispered. “Are you awake.”
“No.”
“I need you to do something for me if I die.”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“The devil takes care of his own.”
“That is unkind.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
She moved uncomfortably, and he moaned in protest as the water under their straw seeped up.
“Stop moving,” he complained.
She could hear the anger in his words and was sorry for it. She desperately wanted to right the wrong she had done him but knew time was against her. With a careful hand, she moved the blanket to look up at the stars. The rain had momentarily ceased, and the clouds parted to show a brilliant clear sky alive with millions of stars.
“Do you remember the tree where you tried to kiss me?”
He did not answer.
“I buried them there.”
“What?”
“The jewels.”
He raised his head, his body tensing. “Georgiana?”
“Price gave them to me before I realized what it was.”
“They are stolen.”
“Certainly,” she said.
“Why didn’t you give them back?”
“He was gone by then.”
“Then you should have left them.”
“My overwhelming need to find Rupert carried me on. I mean to return them do I live.”
He shook his head and turned to her. “They will accuse you as an accomplice.”
“I failed to see the danger at the time, but I must try.”
He remained silent, and she drew the blanket over them again as the rain returned. She reached out a hand to trace the line of the scar on his face.
“Don’t,” he said, taking her hand.
“You have so many scars.”
“Mostly because of you.”
“Then I have ill-used you.”
“You have.”
“Will you find them?”
“And do what with them?”
“Return them.”
He hesitated then said, “You trust me to do that?”
“I trust you with my life. You will do it?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
She leaned forward and kissed him. He had warm lips, soft and giving. He pulled away suddenly, leaving her feeling bereft.
“What are you doing?”
She was confused by the feelings raging inside her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I did that.”
“Don’t lie.”
“Fine. I need you to stop ignoring me.”
“I am not ignoring you.”
“You are.”
Relenting, he pulled her closer until she rested next to him. “Maybe.”
“Why?”
“Christ, Georgiana. It’s just hurt pride. I’ll get over it if you let me. Can you not leave a man to sulk?”
“I need to know you don’t hate me.”
“You don’t need anything, Georgiana,” he said with contempt. “And I am no dog to be whistled for when you feel the need for appreciation. You know very well I could never hate you.”
“I was scared,” she admitted.
“Of?”
“Is it not obvious?”
“No.”
“Losing you.”
“You should be.”
She smiled at his teasing.
“There are a lot of big guns and sharp knives out there,” he said seriously. “We may die a horrible slow death, but what scares you is losing me.”
“Yes.”
“You really are a girl.”
She smiled, “There are far worse things.”
She touched his cheek, his face unshaven, and he leaned in, this time kissing her, a long deep kiss that left her breathless.
“Sleep,” he said finally, pulling away from her. “If we are lucky, tomorrow will be a very long day.”
He turned his back to her then and did just that. He slept. She couldn’t sleep. She lay awake thinking about the kiss.