The British Field Hospital arrives at Gaillemarde in a series of wooden carts and carriages, loaded with portable cots, orderlies, surgeons, a physician, and assorted medical equipment.
Casualties begin to arrive before they have finished setting up.
Within a few hours it is clear that the staff of the hospital are never going to be able to cope with the influx of wounded, and many of the villagers volunteer or are drafted in to help.
Madame Gertruda moves among all the patients, anointing wounds with powders and giving soldiers sips of liquids she says will prevent infection.
The two surgeons look on her as a mild nuisance, but the patients seem to appreciate the attention.
Madame Claude is everywhere, bathing and bandaging wounds, applying leeches, helping the surgeons with bloodletting.
The surgeons are Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Grace, and both seem professional and efficient in their work, which mainly appears to involve removing limbs that have been shattered by musketballs or cannon shot.
Everyone from the village has been given a stern talking-to by the mayor, reminding them not to mention anything about the secret that lies buried, in a thousand pieces, on Monsieur Canari’s farm to the east.
Willem was one of the first to volunteer to help. His job is to unwind bloodied bandages from those who arrive already dead, or who do not survive the surgery. The bandages are rinsed in the water trough outside the stables next door, then hung up to dry. It is not pleasant work, but still substantially less onerous than wheeling bloody barrow-loads of dinosaur meat.
Cosette is another of the helpers and he often sees her bringing pails of water from the river, some of which end up in his trough. They seldom have a chance to speak, but each time their paths cross there is time for a quiet smile.
Sometimes Willem thinks he would not make it through the day if not for those smiles.
When there are no bandages to wash, he helps in whatever way he can.
He brings a mug of tea to Mr. Sinclair, who is taking a short break after operating nonstop for four hours. He sits outside the market hall on a wooden chair.
“Thank you, son,” Mr. Sinclair says in perfect, unaccented French.
“May I ask you a question?” Willem asks.
“Of course,” Mr. Sinclair says.
“I do not understand why the soldiers always are shot in the arms and legs,” Willem says. “They never take musketballs to the body. Yet surely that should be more often hit; it is a much larger target.”
“You are right, son,” Mr. Sinclair says. “Most soldiers get shot in the chest or abdomen.”
“Where are those patients taken to?” Willem asks.
“Nowhere,” Mr. Sinclair says. “They do not generally make it off the battlefield. And if they did, there would be nothing we could do for them here.”
“It is a terrible war,” Willem says.
“This?” Mr. Sinclair waves a hand vaguely behind him. “This is a squall before the storm. I shall be much busier soon.” He sighs. “They call me a doctor, but I am merely a butcher, slicing meat. I hack off arms and legs to try and save these men’s lives, and half the time they die anyway from gangrene and infection.”
The sight of a wagonload of casualties, bodies jumbled up on top of each other, causes him to rise and hand the half-drunk mug back to Willem.
“Thank you for the tea, son,” he says. “It looks like I am back to work.”
* * *
In the evening, after a short break for a meal, Willem is back at the hospital in the market hall.
“Son, could you come here?” Mr. Sinclair says.
Two orderlies are holding down an officer with a mangled left leg. He is young and looks terrified as the surgeon readies his saw.
“This is empty,” Mr. Sinclair says, indicating a rum bottle beside the table on which he operates. “There is another in the trunk by the door. Would you mind?”
Willem takes the empty bottle and replaces it in the trunk, swapping it for a full one. He returns it to the surgeon, who nods at a small metal cup on the table. “Just a tot in there, thanks.”
Willem pours a little into the cup and holds it to the officer, who sucks at it greedily.
At the other table Mr. Grace is preparing a young corporal for a similar operation. Willem pours another tot into the cup and is about to take it to him when Mr. Sinclair stops him with a shake of his head.
“The rum is for officers,” Mr. Sinclair says.
Mr. Grace places his saw on the man’s leg and an orderly places a leather strap in his mouth, for him to bite on.
On the other side of the room there is a sudden commotion.
“Where are the leeches?” the physician asks, throwing his hands in the air. “How can I help these men if I do not have enough leeches?”
Behind Willem a man is screaming in his sleep. Next to him a tough-looking sergeant is weeping.
Two orderlies brush past Willem with a man held between them. A body. They are taking him out the back to pile him on a wagon with the others.
Willem’s breath is short. The room seems to be spinning; the ground is unsteady beneath his feet. He sucks in air and stumbles to the entrance, bending over with his hands on his knees, gasping at the fresh, cool air of the evening that flows past the hall.
“Willem.”
Willem looks up at the sound of Monsieur Lejeune’s voice. The blacksmith is standing right in front of him. He hadn’t known he was there.
“Are you all right, Willem?” Monsieur Lejeune asks.
Willem nods. “I needed some air.”
“I must know what happened at Quatre Bras yesterday,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “There is an officer here from the Second Dutch Division but he speaks no French. Will you translate for me?”
“Of course,” Willem says. He straightens, takes a deep breath, and follows Monsieur Lejeune down the long rows of blood-spattered cots to where a man in a colonel’s uniform is resting with his eyes closed. His left arm is gone below the elbow. A lucky wound, Willem has learned, because the odds of survival are much better than they are if the amputation is higher up.
Monsieur Lejeune gently touches him on the leg to let him know they are there, and the colonel opens his eyes slowly. He seems tired.
“Ask him about the battle,” Monsieur Lejeune says.
Willem does so in Dutch and almost immediately a red fire comes to the man’s cheeks, and he clenches his one remaining fist.
“Quatre Bras.” He spits out the words. “I cannot believe it. All day we fought for Quatre Bras, and although several times the French dogs took it, every time we beat them back. We had but a small force against a large army, but we were resolute. The French did not … they could not take the crossroads. And yet for all our sacrifice, Wellington just gives it up. So many men died, and he just hands Quatre Bras to the French. The fool!”
Willem translates quickly.
“Wellington is no fool.” The voice comes from a man in the next cot. His uniform also is Dutch and bandages cover one of his eyes. “He retreats to the ridgeline at Mont-Saint-Jean. He draws the French to a battleground of his own choosing, where he has the high ground, and strongpoints like the chateau at Hougoumont and the farmhouse at La Haye Sainte. Had he stayed at Quatre Bras to engage the French, he would have been out in the open, and easily outflanked.”
“Mont-Saint-Jean?” Monsieur Lejeune asks, after Willem has translated. “But that will put his back right up against the forest.”
“The forest is the least of his concerns,” the second man says.
“Monsieur, the forest is the greatest of his concerns,” Monsieur Lejeune says.
Willem does not translate that.
* * *
That night Willem is woken by the sound of crying from Cosette’s room, and lies awake waiting for the sound to subside, before himself drifting back to an uneasy and broken sleep.