There is something different about the next arrival at Gaillemarde.
The carts are by now a familiar sight; the trails of blood they leave on the riverbank have turned the stone and dirt of the path to a deep ochre. The men they bring are mostly alive, and sometimes dead, although all were alive when they were placed on the carts at the battlefield.
But these men are different. The eyes of men who have faced cannon and massed volleys of muskets stare into the distance as though they sleep and are in the grip of a terrible dream.
Always, following the carts, are the walking wounded, men with arms and heads wrapped in red bandages. But this time the carts bring with them also soldiers on whom no apparent injury can be detected. Soldiers who still carry their weapons, yet trudge with the reluctant shuffle of defeated men.
A senior officer on horseback comes with them. He dismounts and strides quickly into the hospital while an adjutant takes hold of his horse.
Willem is outside, washing bandages in the water trough. He can tell that something is wrong, but is not sure what.
When the officer emerges, it is to confer with several other officers who have arrived with him. There is some discussion over maps, and much pointing of hands, before he and his adjutant ride off. They ride fast. They are in a hurry.
It is Mr. Sinclair who gives Willem the news.
“We are leaving,” he says, in tears. “At first light.”
“Leaving?” Willem asks.
“Our army is retreating toward the coast,” he says. “We have been cut off, and so must head east and try to link up with the Prussians. But they are also withdrawing. The situation is dire.”
“What will happen to the wounded?” Willem asks.
“We will take as many as we can,” he says.
* * *
A heartbeat.
At first Jack thinks it is his own, pounding in his ears. But it can’t be. It is too gradual. Too heavy. Like a regimental bass drum sounding the beat for a slow march.
He cannot move. When sense returns in measured amounts, he realizes this is because his arm is caught on something. Not on, but under. He lies flat, staring at a clear sky in which smoke still twirls in spiraling columns from fires that must be burning nearby. The stars are bright. Too bright, he thinks, as if the sky itself is on fire in some far distant place.
He can see only half of the sky. The other half is blocked by something that blots out the night. Understanding brings with it a new horror.
That is where the heartbeat is coming from.
Then blackness covers him once again.