Val’s orders were to ride across the Coa at a point south of Sabugal and determine if Massena’s troops had crossed. As he made his way downstream, he could hear the French calling out to one another and when he crossed a few miles below Reynier’s troops the fog was still heavy. But there was silence on the other side, which meant that Massena intended this as an attempt to hold the line and prevent Wellington from crossing the river.
By the time he recrossed the river, Val could hear the sound of muskets and knew the engagement had begun. He found Captain Grant and Wellington watching from the top of a nearby hill.
“So they mean to make a stand?”
“It would seem so, my lord.”
Wellington offered Val his field glass. Without it, he could see only swirling mist and flashes of red and blue, but when he held it to his eye, he could make out the cavalry very clearly.
“The cavalry seems to be very active, my lord.”
“You mean that Erskine is sending them every which way, don’t you, Lieutenant? Between him and the damned fog I am surprised we are holding them.”
But holding them they were. Even Val, through all the confusion of smoke and fog, could tell the French losses were higher than the British. When one of Wellington’s aides climbed the hill an hour later, it was confirmed: The French were in full retreat.
“We almost wiped out Reynier’s Second Corps, my lord,” announced the aide.
“Yes, I could see that, and we would have done it completely if it hadn’t been for that bloody Ers—the bloody fog.”
The aide gave Val an amused glance.
“Come, Captain Grant, let us get back to camp and prepare our dispatches,” said the duke.
Val watched Wellington down the hill. He was dressed, as usual, in a plain blue jacket and looked quite unprepossessing, in contrast to the French officers Val had spied through the glass. But he had done it! He had accomplished what no one thought he could do: He had driven the French out of Portugal! With a sudden spurt of energy, Val scrambled down the hill, eager to congratulate Charlie on his troops’ part in the victory.
* * * *
When he reached the camp, the dirty and exhausted troops were straggling in. At first it seemed they were all foot soldiers, but after a few light horsemen went by, Val stopped a young lieutenant who was cradling his arm in front of him.
“The Sixth Light troops, where are they?”
The young officer only gestured toward the rear. Val couldn’t wait for everyone to file by, so he started off, slowly at first, and then faster, as he made his way through more and more riders with no sign of Charlie. As he drew closer to the river, the fog was beginning to burn off, and as it lifted, the sun glinted on a gold epaulet here, a sword hilt there as it shone down on the scattered dead and wounded.
Val froze. Surely he had missed his brother, he told himself, as he watched the surgeons and their assistants begin their search through the wounded. He should just make his way back to camp and there he would find Charlie and give him back his ring and have a stiff drink. Suddenly returning the Faringdon crest seemed critical. Charlie must have it back.
As he stood there, unable to move forward or turn back, he heard a groan and saw one of the men from Charlie’s company pulling himself up on one elbow. “Water,” the man whispered, looking pleadingly at Val. Val’s canteen was only half-full, but he knelt down next to the wounded man and held it to his lips.
The man’s thigh had been sliced open to the bone by a French saber and Val winced as he looked at it.
“Looks bad, don’t it?” said the soldier, grinning at the look on Val’s face. “But if the bloody sawbones gets here soon enough and sews it up, I’ll keep it. Better a saber cut than a musket ball any day, is what I say.”
“I am looking for my brother, Lord Holme.”
The man looked at Val thoughtfully. “Your brother, eh? A good man and a good soldier,” he added sadly.
“He is,” Val agreed. “Now, where did you see him last?”
“He and two of his men were inside the French lines the last time I saw him. Down close by the river.”
Val left his canteen and made his way to the river. “Oh, God, Charlie, where are you?” he muttered as he walked the muddy riverbank, stepping over the dead and wounded as best he could.
He found Charlie’s bay first, standing head down, his rear leg hamstrung. Val gently stroked his neck and looked around. Then he saw his brother twenty yards away, lying on his back as though he were napping by the river. The sun gilded his hair and the buttons on his tunic glittered. The buttons that were clean of blood, that is. Val knelt beside him and gently closed his eyes with the palm of one hand. “You shouldn’t be looking directly at the sun, Charlie,” he whispered. There was a froth of blood around his brother’s mouth and Val pulled a linen square out of his pocket and carefully wiped Charlie’s lip clean. When he looked down, he saw the wound: a saber thrust had pierced his brother’s lung. “Please God, you died quickly, Charlie,” he said, smoothing his brother’s hair back from his brow. He picked up Charlie’s hand and sat down on the bloodstained grass.
“You did well, little brother,” he said as he stroked Charlie’s hand. It was still warm and Val could imagine that Charlie was only unconscious. “Despite that fool Erskine, we won, Charlie, and the French are on their way out of Portugal.”
He looked down. There on his brother’s third finger was a white stripe in the shape of the Faringdon ring. “Charlie, I kept the ring safe in my kit,” Val reassured him. “I was afraid if anything happened to me…well, you must have it back, Charlie.”
Oh, God, his brother wasn’t listening, couldn’t hear him, would never smile at him again. Val felt a great emptiness. Charlie had loved him, God alone knew why, but Charlie had loved him. And he had loved Charlie. Had he ever told him? Never in so many words. And now it was too late. “I love you, Charlie,” he whispered. Surely his brother could hear. Surely his hand would stir and he would give Val a sign. But the sun shone down on them both and the flies and mosquitoes buzzed and settled on Charlie’s bloody uniform, and the day became warmer as his brother’s hand grew colder and colder.
* * * *
Val didn’t know how long he sat there before the surgeon reached them.
“He’s gone, is he?” The doctor patted Val’s shoulder. “Is there anything you want, Lieutenant?” he asked awkwardly. “A keepsake? The burial detail will be around soon.”
Val shook his head and then watched as a small breeze lifted a lock of Charlie’s hair. “Do you have a knife with you, Doctor?”
“A scalpel, Lieutenant.” The surgeon handed it to him, a puzzled look on his face, which became a look of compassion as he watched Val cut off a few thick curls and tuck them into his tunic pocket.
“Where is the burial crew, Doctor?”
“Back up the hill, Lieutenant. They are digging a pit…er, a grave…and soon will start hauling the bodies.”
“I will wait, then. I don’t want him to be alone. Nor do I want the battlefield buzzards going through his pockets or cutting off his buttons,” Val added bitterly. “I will wait with him.”
* * * *
It took an hour, but they finally came to carry Charlie to his final resting place in the soil of a foreign country. Val watched as they shrouded the body and placed it next to one of his fellow light horseman. Charlie was one of the last and as the dirt was piled up on top of them, the chaplain recited the burial service.
“You should lie at Faringdon, Charlie,” Val whispered as he dropped a handful of dirt on top of the mass grave.
When he returned to camp, it was dark and he went straight to his tent. He had wrapped Charlie’s ring in a piece of linen and pushed it in the back of his kit. He lit a candle and pulled the kit out of his knapsack.
He sat there, looking at the battered gold ring. The Faringdon crest, passed down from generation to generation. He had promised to return it. He drew an old brass chain out of his kit and, threading it through the ring, hung it around his neck. It lay there, heavy over his heart.
“It should have been me, Charlie,” he whispered as he fingered the ring. “You were the son he loved.”
The ring was gold, but might have been lead for all its lack of luster. He carefully pulled out the curls from his pocket. “For a’ that and a’ that, the man’s the gowd for a’ that,” he half sang, half spoke. “You were golden, Charlie. Not because of your title, but because of your loving heart.” There was a small book in his knapsack that he had carried for years, and he drew it out and opened it to where a faded, brittle rose was still pressed between its pages. There he placed the locks of hair and carefully closed the book. He held it on his lap for a long while before repacking it carefully, for in it lay the only reminders he possessed of the two people who had truly loved him.