Fitzwilliam: The French are moving in a rather narrow column. Must take care, but there is an opportunity here. If we can hit them at just the right time, we can cause no little disruption to their plans. Hit and run and circle back behind them. That is the idea. Must keep the men focused.
Brandon: What am I doing here? Marianne was right—I am too old for these sorts of games. Oh my love, what I would give to be at Delaford now with you and Joy! But there is only one road home, and it is before me, through those men there—through Paris. I swore to you, my Marianne, that I should return to you—and I shall. God help any Frenchman who dares to stand between me and home!
Suddenly British troops, hidden from sight along the path, seemed to appear from nowhere. The cloud of musket fire was as good a signal as any for Brandon. Wearing a borrowed Light Dragoon blue coat—something Fitzwilliam had good-naturedly insisted upon—the brigadier placed his hand upon the hilt of his sabre.
“Draw swords!” he called out as he pulled his sabre free. Immediately, eight hundred hands drew eight hundred sabres from their scabbards. The metal flashed in the fading daylight as the swords were first held up, as if to salute the enemy, before coming to rest upon the troopers’ shoulders.
Brandon spurred his horse forward at a walk, not looking to see if the brigade would follow. As a man they all did so, moving slowly out of the woods in a wedge formation.
Down and across the ridge the brigade advanced, the three colonels with but one last thought in their minds: Redemption! Victory! Home!
First at a trot, then a canter, the brigade moved towards the battle, dodging fallen men and animals, cannonballs splashing mud about the field. Finally, Brandon lowered his sword, pointed it towards the enemy, and shouted, “SOUND THE CHARGE!”
Trumpets blaring and regimental flags flapping, a roar arose from eight hundred throats as the men rose in their saddles and leaned over their galloping mounts’ necks, sabres gleaming in the sunset. Mud flying everywhere, Brandon’s Brigade rode towards destiny.
Chapter 28
Pain.
His whole existence was confusion. He was blisteringly hot and then bitingly cold. He was wet with sweat and then dry and feverish. The sky was startlingly bright and then inky darkness. There were horrific screams, there were quiet murmurings, and there was deathly silence. But always there was pain—waves of pain of varying intensity.
The last thing he could remember clearly was the charge. It was a riot of noise and images and smells. The brilliant colors of the uniforms slashed against the gray mist as his horse slammed into the enemy. He struck one cuirassier down, the man’s shiny breastplate offering little protection against his sabre. He ducked just as another fired a pistol, and in the next instant, his sword made quick work of him. Again and again, he struck at men and horses, his arm rising up and slashing down a thousand times, his charger firmly beneath him as he worked like a machine.
And then—everything changed. The left side of his body exploded in pain. After that—blackness.
The rest was a dream—nay, a nightmare. A crushing weight held him down, and wet mud coated his face for what seemed an eternity. Night became day. Shadowy figures moved about him. Loud shouts and gentle arms lifted him. Lifted him—every movement blazing agony. He wondered whether it was his own voice screaming—then blessed blackness again.
The nightmare was complete when he awoke to find a stub where his left arm used to be.
He drifted in a dream world where he could escape the hot, painful fog for the mist of gentle memory. Father, mother, brothers—his lady! An angel with dark hair and kind eyes, smiling at him, touching him, loving him, comforting him, whispering again and again that all would be well. He lived for that dream world. He fought hard not to leave it, because all that awaited him in the other world was unending pain.
He wondered—was he dead? Was this heaven?
The pain would return, and he cried out for the angel—again and again and again.
A rough shaking of his cot woke him. He opened his eyes, and above him was the orderly who attended him—a man he had come to hate—grasping the end of the cot.
“’Ere we go,” the man said to his companion, who had a similar hold on the foot of the cot. They lifted the patient and his cot and began to make their way through the hospital ward.
Sudden fear lanced through the patient. “What is happening? Where are you taking me?”
“Don’t ya worry none, Colonel,” said the orderly carelessly. His tone was flat, affected only by the efforts of his current task. It held no concern for the man on the cot. He might as well have been meat. “You’re not fur the surgeon today, no. Ya got visitors, like. Got ta pretty ya up fur th’ quality.”
The sun outside was painfully glaring, so he draped his good arm over his eyes and bore the painful transit without a word of protest. Not only was it beneath an officer to complain, it would not have done a bit of good. His damn orderly had not a drop of human kindness in his black heart, he was sure of it. They were soon inside a building near the field of tents that made up the hospital outside of Brussels, and after maneuvering down a hallway, his bearers deposited him in a small room.
His orderly began to wipe his face with a wet cloth while the other tucked a fresh blanket about his body. Such were the degradations he suffered during his month in this place that he considered a clean blanket a luxury.
The orderly cursed. “Them bandages need changin’.” He turned to his partner. “Nate, step over ta th’ dispensary and fetch some new cloths. I’ve got ta clean this one up.” Nate went out the door, leaving it ajar. Meanwhile, the man returned to his chore and not at all mildly. “Damn, you’re a dirty one, ain’t ya?”
“Here now, man—gently, if you please!” cried a voice that was somewhat familiar—proud and deep, a voice used to instant obedience. The patient knew that voice, but from where?
For the first time in weeks, Colonel Sir John Buford opened his eyes willingly. At the door were three people—two gentlemen and a lady. The men were instantly dismissed from Buford’s attention; he focused only on the lady. She was dressed in traveling clothes, black hair peeking from under a bonnet. Her eyes were green and wet. Tender lips half-hidden by one small, gloved hand moved wordlessly. Tears ran down her cheek along skin he knew was as soft as velvet. The most dear, the most beautiful face in the world.
He gasped and croaked, “Ca… Caroline?”
Lady Caroline Buford made a sound like a hiccup. She smiled—a very teary smile—before her countenance crumbled. With a groan, she dashed to his side, pushed away the orderly, knelt, and buried her face in his chest.
“Oh, John!” she cried. “Oh, thank heaven, my John, my John.”
Weakly, Buford raised his good arm and ran the fingers of his hand over her bonnet. “Caro, Caro… what are you doing here? How?” He forced his eyes from his wife to look at the gentlemen standing by. “By God!”
They were Philip Buford and Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“By God,” he said again. “How came you to be here? Am I not still in Brussels?”
Philip knelt beside Caroline, and Buford reluctantly gave up his attentions to his wife to grasp his brother’s hand. “It is Darcy we must thank for our transport here. Yes, this is Brussels, but you shall not be here much longer. We have come to take you home.”
“Home? Home to England?”
“As soon as we get you to Antwerp and aboard the boat—yes.”