The French doctors arrive at Gaillemarde first thing in the morning in a well-organized convoy of ambulance and supply wagons. They impress Willem with their efficiency.
A detachment of French soldiers had arrived earlier to secure the village, but found only the wounded, the dying, and the dead.
Under the supervision of the head surgeon, a small team of surgeons and physicians begin to examine the patients, preparatory to evacuating them to French field hospitals.
For two days British and Dutch wounded had arrived on the backs of carts, or on makeshift stretchers, dragged in by their comrades. By contrast the French have dedicated ambulance wagons, with bandages and blankets, manned by corpsmen and litter-bearers.
A number of women accompany them, acting as nurses, tending to patients, and bringing them water. At first Willem thinks they are nuns, but they do not wear habits, although all dress uniformly, in black gowns, with black bonnets and shawls.
They are not the only women in the hospital. Madame Gertruda seems not to have slept since the hospital arrived. She is everywhere, administering herbs and medicines to the patients. The British doctors allowed this and now the French doctors encourage it, seeing the light of hope that it kindles in the eyes of desperate men. Madame Claude, the mayor’s wife, is also tireless. She changes dressings and cleans wounds in a bustle of activity.
The wounded continue to arrive, as they drag or crawl their way off the battlefield. The French surgeons set up an area they refer to as triage, where the casualties are seen quickly and assessed, so the most urgent cases can be treated first.
The French are courteous but also suspicious, and although most of the detachment of soldiers leaves, some remain as guards. They are posted at the gates, in the church tower, and throughout the village.
Once examined by the doctors, the patients are loaded onto carts, carriages, or ambulance wagons and start the journey to French field hospitals, or in some of the more serious cases, to the main hospital in Brussels.
In typical French efficiency, an orderly or a nurse travels with each vehicle, tending to the men on their journey. A soldier sits up next to the driver, as a guard.
There are many wounded, and with more filtering in throughout the morning, it is a slow process. By midmorning all the available transports have left, and those who remain must wait for them to return.
When Willem enters the hospital, the head surgeon is examining a cavalry officer who has lost both his legs. The surgeon glances up at Willem, smiles briefly, then goes back to his work, tut-tutting over the standard of the British surgeon’s workmanship.
Captain Wenzel-Halls is conscious, and motions to Willem.
On the cot next to him is an artillery lieutenant, barely in his teens. A new arrival. He has been blinded and a fresh dressing covers his eyes. He is with a tall, strong-limbed private, who reminds Willem of Jean. The private sits on the floor beside the lieutenant’s cot. His only injury appears to be a broken arm, which has been set and splinted, and wrapped in clean white bandages.
Wenzel-Halls’s color is not good. He reaches out and grasps Willem’s arm, although there is no strength in the grip.
“I grow weaker,” he says in a voice that is little more than a dry croak. “A fever takes hold. Do not forget your promise.”
Willem looks at the ring, now on the middle finger of the captain’s left hand. “You have my word,” he says.
“The creatures I saw,” he says, indicating the young blind lieutenant next to him. “Lieutenant Frost here saw them too. As did his man.”
The private appears not to understand, and Wenzel-Halls speaks briefly to him in English.
“Private Jack Sullivan,” the soldier says, standing up and extending a hand in the British way.
Willem shakes it. “Willem Verheyen.”
“Do you speak English?” Jack asks.
“A little,” Willem says, in English. “You saw the dinosaur?”
Jack says, “I did, sir. But not properly until after it was dead.”
“What did you see?” Willem asks.
“Right horrid it was, sir,” Jack says. “Bigger than an elephant with teeth as big as … as big as…” At a loss for words, he goes quiet.
“As tall as our church steeple?” Willem asks.
“No, not as big as that, sir,” Jack says.
“The snout, it was long and thin like that of a crocodile?” Willem asks.
“Well, I ain’t actually seen a crocodile,” Jack says. “But I don’t think so, sir. The snout was stubby, like a raptor. At least the two we killed was.”
“Jack!” Frost says.
“Sir?”
“I suggest you hold your tongue when you are talking to our captors,” Frost says.
“Sorry, sir,” Jack says.
“I am not your captor, Lieutenant,” Willem says. “I am neither French, nor a member of Napoléon’s army.”
“But you are Walloon, and I fear that your allegiance is with the emperor,” Frost says.
“I am not, sir,” Willem says. “I am Flemish, of a Flemish father, and Napoléon is my enemy as he is yours. I, too, have seen one of these beasts.”
There is a long silence as Frost considers that.
“How can that be?” Frost finally asks.
“Sir, I would beg that you keep close counsel on this matter,” Willem says. “I fear what would happen should the emperor’s men learn of this.”
“Then it seems we both have secrets we would keep to ourselves,” Frost says. “I would know of the circumstances. This is of great importance.”
“And you will treat this information in great confidence?” Willem says.
“As will you,” Frost says.
A young nurse moves toward them, carrying a jug full of blood. She smiles briefly at Willem as she passes. He is silent, using a ladle to give Wenzel-Halls a drink of water from a bowl beside the bed.
“Prior to the battle, one of Napoléon’s creatures escaped,” Willem says when the nurse is out of earshot. “A great beast, even larger than the animals that Jack describes.”
“A creature as tall as a church steeple with a snout like a crocodile,” Frost says.
“It is so,” Willem says. “It attacked the village.”
“Do you not fear its return?” Frost asks.
“We do not,” Willem says. “It lies in a deep grave.”
Frost considered that. “You expect me to believe that the menfolk of your village killed a dinosaur with nothing but rusty swords and pitchforks?”
“It was killed by … a friend of mine,” Willem says. “With a crossbow.”
“A good story, but not possible,” Frost says. “I have seen these beasts with my own eyes.” He stops speaking and touches the bandages that now cover his eyes. He seems to withdraw into himself for a moment before continuing. “A bolt would merely bounce off its hide.”
“I tell the truth,” Willem says. “There is a way to mesmerize such a creature. It does not move and a brave hunter is able to draw in close.”
“Who has such knowledge?” Frost asks.
“I do,” Willem says. “And that information will get me killed if you are not careful with it.”
“Willem,” Frost says. “I must talk to you with grave urgency.”