Darcy's Journey (23 page)

49

Monday 19
^th
June

In the Duchesse de Beaufort’s parlour,
Elizabeth sat quietly beside Lorraine de Crécy. After staying up half the night
talking they were subdued, and having breakfasted, there was nothing to do
anyway but wait.

The previous day had been the most
fearful of her life—worse even than abduction by the Carandinis. From
mid-morning until evening, the rumble of cannon had been constant; if it could
be heard 30 miles away, what must it be like on the battlefield? A note from
Darcy confirmed that he would be helping behind the lines, and would send news
as soon as possible. At church she met army wives also waiting and hoping; one
had lost her brother at Quatre Bras and was anxious for her husband; others had
arranged to flee Antwerp by boat.

Late on Sunday they had heard shouting
in the streets as a report spread that the French had been forced back and
routed. The Vicomte gave it little credence, pointing out that contrary rumours
had been circulating all day.

Excited voices rang out from the hall,
and the Duchess looked into the parlour. ‘Lorraine, Miss Bennet, please join us
in the
salon
. Captain Marshall from the 52
^nd
has called with
a message for the Vicomte, and the news is good. Quickly now!’

Elizabeth’s heart jumped—
they
are safe, please let it be that they are safe
—and she ran after
Lorraine to the living room where a stocky red-coated young man was addressing
the Viscount.

‘… seemed all was up,’ he was saying,
‘but as the Imperial Guard advanced to break through our centre, the Prussians
arrived to defend our left flank, while the 52
^nd
lined up on the
other side and poured fire into the Guard. The
Chasseurs
resisted of
course. It is said they have never retreated in their history. But eventually
they ran, and our lads raced after them. On seeing this, the other French
forces panicked and also scattered.’

‘Wonderful!’ The Vicomte clapped his
hands. ‘And what of our friend Colonel Fitzwilliam?’

‘I heard he was at a village near
Waterloo called Merbe Braine. Wounded, but should recover.’

Elizabeth stepped forward. ‘And Mr
Darcy?’

Captain Marshall frowned. ‘Pardon, ma’am
…’

‘The colonel’s cousin,’ Elizabeth said,
her heart thudding. ‘He was to help behind the lines.’

‘Now that you mention it, I was
introduced to a cousin at the field hospital, doing useful work transporting
the wounded. I have no news of what befell him.’

‘Have you details of Colonel
Fitzwilliam’s injuries?’ the Viscount asked.

Captain Marshall consulted a pocket-book.
‘He was concussed, and took a bayonet slash in the leg, but with help was able
to walk off the battlefield.’

Elizabeth moved to the captain’s side.
‘You are certain there is no mention of Mr Darcy? May I check?’

He showed her the page, which listed
names of officers with shorthand codes representing outcomes ranging from death
to minor injury. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

Lorraine took her arm and whispered,
‘Elizabeth, we have no reason to think Mr Darcy has come to harm.’

Elizabeth grimaced. ‘I want to know
where he is.
’

By midday there was no further
news, and Elizabeth had formed a resolution:
she had to reach Brussels
. The
Viscount politely but firmly declined. There were reports of chaos as deserters
and locals clashed with soldiers struggling to keep order. Elizabeth was
reluctant to press her hosts, but had an ally in Lorraine, who was incensed at
remaining offstage in Antwerp when there was work to be done at the Minimes hospital.

A compromise was reached. A servant would
ride to their house in Brussels, seek news of Darcy and the colonel, and report
back on the state of the roads. They waited, expecting this mission to take
four hours at least, but in under an hour the footman returned, having been interrogated
by a Prussian officer and refused passage.

Next morning at dawn, the servant rode
out again, and found that the confusion had eased. By now the Viscount was
weary of arguing, and on learning that Captain Marshall was riding back, and
willing to accompany them, he agreed to make the attempt. Abandoning their
personal effects, they loaded two trunks with food and medical supplies and set
off, taking Lorraine’s maid as well as the driver and footman.

It was a slow and harrowing journey. The
road was often blocked with wagons, guarded by short-tempered soldiers who
refused to move out of the way. At one point, while they were overtaking an
almost stationary wagon, a Prussian officer waved his sword in their driver’s
face and ordered him back; fortunately, Captain Marshall managed to restore
calm. As they neared Brussels the smell of gunpowder was overwhelming, and the
heat oppressive. At this point Captain Marshall had to gallop ahead—he
had promised to report in by midday—but at last they could deviate into familiar
side-streets, and progress was easier.

Elizabeth’s heart hammered as they clattered
up
Rue de la Violette
to the Viscount’s forecourt. As the gate opened
she recognised a manservant, with Burgess following behind. But no Darcy.

‘You have heard nothing?’ Elizabeth
pressed.

Burgess raised his broad frame to its
full height. ‘Not a word, madam. My instructions were specific. Remain here
until the master returned, or sent further orders. Or, if I heard he was, ah,
…’

‘Indisposed?’

‘Exactly. Indisposed. Then join you in
Antwerp and arrange transport to England.’

‘So two days have passed since you
parted.’

‘I was told to remain here, madam.’

‘You did well.’ She tried to appear
authoritative. ‘But now the situation has changed. We have the colonel’s address,
where we can obtain news of Mr Darcy.’

Burgess faced her stubbornly. ‘What if Colonel
Fitzwilliam is no longer at Merbe Braine?’

‘Then we will ask where he has been
moved.’

Predictably the Viscount opposed her
plan, this time with Lorraine’s support. But matters took a new twist when
Captain Marshall returned, and offered to escort Elizabeth and Burgess to
Waterloo. A small, manoeuvrable carriage was prepared, and they departed
directly, first to the Minimes hospital where Lorraine and her maid got off,
unloading most of the medical supplies, and then along the road south, with
Burgess driving and Captain Marshall riding ahead.

Conditions were now far worse. Soldiers
blocked their path; the captain had to wave his sword and shout their business
before they were allowed to proceed. As they painstakingly approached Waterloo
the air stank with rotting flesh, and their horses howled and strained as if impelled
by an instinct to flee. They turned towards Merbe Braine, the village to the
west where most wounded officers from the 52
^nd
had been taken.
Elizabeth could hardly bear to look. Mutilated bodies were abandoned in piles
beside the road—men, mostly British and Dutch by the uniforms, and horses
too. She drew the curtains, put her head in her hands, and wept.

The carriage halted, Captain Marshall
asked directions, and they turned into a row of cottages.

‘Here, madam.’

Burgess helped her down. A petite woman in
her thirties approached and introduced herself as Madame Villeneuve.

‘Villagers have offered hospitality,’
the captain said.

Elizabeth followed the woman to a tiny
room, where a board had been affixed to the wall and covered with a straw
pallet to make a bed. For a moment she trembled, thinking it was Darcy, but a
closer look revealed the similar features of his cousin.

He stared at her. ‘Miss Bennet? What …’

She pulled up a stool. ‘How are you?’

‘I’ll pull through.’ He pointed to the
bandage on his head. ‘Ran into the butt of a French bayonet. Confounded silly
of me. Not satisfied with giving me a headache, the blighter slashed my leg
just above the knee. Luckily he was cut down himself before he could finish the
job.’

‘And Mr Darcy?’

‘Haven’t seen him since he dropped by this
morning.’

‘So he is well?’ She blinked, fighting
tears. ‘Pardon me. I have been in such anxiety.’

‘As well as a man can be if he never
sleeps.’

A shape appeared in the doorway and she
span round, only to see Captain Marshall accompanied by a stranger in army
medical uniform.

‘How is my patient?’ the physician
asked.

‘Bored,’ Colonel Fitzwilliam said.

The man bowed to Elizabeth. ‘Good
afternoon, madam. Mr Harrison.’ He felt the colonel’s brow. ‘The fever should abate
soon. Sleep. I’ll bleed you again tomorrow if the wound festers.’

Colonel Fitzwilliam grunted. ‘The
Frenchie has already bled me enough for one lifetime. Have you seen Darcy?’

‘He’s still at the field hospital.’

‘Tell him Miss Bennet is here.’

‘No.’ Elizabeth rose and addressed the
captain. ‘Take me to him.’

‘Better remain here, ma’am. There are
hundreds of injured men at the hospital. It’s a most distressing sight.’

‘If I ask Mr Darcy to come here, he will
be distracted from his work. I would prefer to help.’ She appealed to the
colonel. ‘I have brought provisions. Hard biscuit, oats and lint.’

‘It’s true that we’re overwhelmed,’
Colonel Fitzwilliam said. ‘If you really think you can face it, go ahead. But
you must be prepared for the most horrible scenes.’

She swallowed, reminded of her impulsive
decision to accompany Fraulein Edelmann at the recital in Verona. Was this
hubris? Was she taking on a task that she was incapable of performing?

‘I will try.’

‘Captain, can you go with Miss Bennet to
the camp?’

Marshall shook his head. ‘Impossible to
get a carriage through. The track is jammed with carts in both directions. I
will ride.’

Harrison, the physician, spoke up. ‘I am
walking back across the fields. I can accompany Miss Bennet if she is
determined to go.’

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at Elizabeth.
‘I’m not sure Darcy will forgive me for this, but you may leave with Mr
Harrison. The captain will find men to go with you and carry the provisions.
Take care to remember the path, in case you need to return.’

50

Arrangements had been made.
Burgess remained behind to watch the carriage, and send word if the colonel’s
condition worsened. Three soldiers were tasked to carry boxes of provisions. The
physician led the little party down a lane to the edge of a farm.

‘How far, Mr Harrison?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Fifteen minutes using the short-cut.’

They crossed a makeshift bridge into an
open cornfield. ‘When did you last see Mr Darcy?’

‘This morning. He was organising a new
convoy for the troops that defended La Haye Sainte.’ He pointed left. ‘It was
our central fortification, so most of the fighting took place there.’

‘Was he well?’

‘Exhausted. He worked through the night
Sunday and Monday, with scarcely a pause.’

She sighed: how like Darcy. ‘Important
work?’

‘Very. He organised recovery of the
wounded, made sure the roads were kept in good repair, and paid carters to
bring mattresses and blankets. They are trying now to set up a large field
hospital at Mont St Jean, but ours grew so quickly that we have accepted men
from other regiments.’

She swallowed, imagining the horror and
enormity of the task, and pointed back at the men carrying supplies. ‘This will
be a drop in the ocean.’

‘It helps, believe me. We were so short
of bandaging this morning that women were tearing strips from their
petticoats.’

They passed through a copse, and suddenly
there were soldiers everywhere. She glanced at a paddock where redcoats were
wearily digging, and her stomach lurched when she saw a pile of bodies beyond.
The physician hastened past stables into a courtyard, where women and children,
lined up in a chain, were passing water from the well.

‘This way.’ Harrison guided her to a
canvas-roofed enclosure and spoke to an officer. ‘Where is Mr Darcy?’

‘Who?’

‘Colonel Fitzwilliam’s cousin,’
Elizabeth said.

‘The Lieutenant-Colonel ordered him to sleep.
Try the barn.’

He lay under a haystack on a red
coat, his head supported by an empty sack folded double. She kept away, afraid
of waking him, but he moaned and twisted his head, irritated by a stalk poking
through the sackcloth. Carefully Elizabeth kneeled and pulled the stalk out,
but he sniffed, as if catching her scent, and opened his eyes.

‘Elizabeth? What …’

She took his hand. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb
you. Sleep now.’

He blinked and edged himself up a little.
‘Did you get my messages?’

‘Only the first. We had news of your
cousin from Captain Marshall, so I came to the village.’

‘This is no place for you, Elizabeth.’

‘It is no place for anyone, but I have
seen women and children doing their best to help, and so shall I.’

He clenched his fists, as if intending
to contradict her, then exhaled, his expression changing from alarm to resignation.
‘As you wish.’

She guided him to the pillow and stroked
his hair back, her hand brushing several days’ growth of stubble. ‘Sleep. I
will come by in an hour and hope to find you still here.’

He looked up at her, and his eyes
moistened. ‘I have seen terrible things.’

‘We will talk of them another time.’ She
leaned over, kissed his brow, and left him.

The hospital centred on the
cowsheds, the largest covered area, but overflowed into stables and tents. After
leaving her bonnet, reticule and jacket in the officers’ tent, Elizabeth was
introduced to Soeur Gabrielle, one of two local nuns who had taken charge of
nursing. The sister spoke no English, but from gestures, and her smattering of
French, Elizabeth understood that she was to follow the nun and help her apply
bandages.

They began in the cowsheds, where only a
curtain separated rows of makeshift beds from the tables where amputations were
performed. Elizabeth saw straight away that she was not the only untrained
helper. A surgeon toured, calling out instructions, but most of the work was
done by women, including English wives and daughters from the camp followers.
On the adjoining line a little girl of perhaps nine or ten was carefully
tearing lint into strips and passing them to her mother.

They kneeled beside a man lying on an
improvised straw mattress; Soeur Gabrielle lifted a blanket to reveal white
woollen breeches shredded up one side and stained with mud and gore. Elizabeth
winced as the impassive sister cut away the tatters around the wound. The man
screamed, and Soeur Gabrielle thrust the scissors to Elizabeth, gesturing that
she should cut from the cuff.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. Adapting
dresses had given her experience of tailoring;
surely she could do this
.
She managed to cut through a hard ridge at the bottom, after which the material
parted easily to reveal a sickening mess of mangled flesh and dried blood.
Soeur Gabrielle peeled the edges back, and cleaned the leg with a wet sponge. She
waved to an assistant surgeon who peered into the wound, muttered ‘Grape shot’,
and told them to keep the patient still while he probed with forceps. Kneeling
at the head of the mattress, Elizabeth took the man’s arm and felt him tremble
as metal balls were removed from his leg. Through gritted teeth he grinned and
muttered something that might have been
‘You’re a pretty’un’
. His face
ran with sweat. She touched his brow, and spoke to the surgeon.

‘He’s feverish.’

The surgeon nodded. ‘Apply a light
camphor dressing for now. Don’t think leeches will help. Probably have to come
off later in any case.’

Elizabeth looked at the sister, who
pointed to a bucket and said, ‘
Camphre.
’

‘First wet the bandage,’ the surgeon
said. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

Elizabeth turned to thank him, but he
was already on his way. The sister dipped a strip of lint into the camphor
water and wrung it out.

‘
Élever!
’ She motioned Elizabeth
to lift the injured leg so that she could wind the bandage around it.

Gently Elizabeth replaced the leg.
Probably
have to come off later.
Which meant amputation, presumably. She shivered as
they passed to the next bed.

Hours must have passed, and the
horrific had become routine. Now working alone, Elizabeth had been sent to an
open tent where a new consignment was laid in the dirt, cushioned only by a
layer of straw. She had evolved a formula, repeated for each case. Try talking
to the patient to classify the injury. Expose the affected parts, sponge them
down, and unless the wounds were superficial, call a physician. Follow
instructions, and pass to the next.

She was treating a man who had been struck
by a cannon ball. Normally such an impact would be fatal, but since he had suffered
a glancing blow on an area well layered in muscle, he had escaped with severe
bruising and a hip fracture. The assistant surgeon suggested rubbing on
eau
de vie
, a liquor which smelled of pears. The soldier had banged his head on
a rock while falling; he observed her with a friendly smile as she sponged and
bandaged the graze.

‘Bless you, ma’am. What’s the stuff you
rubbed on?’

‘A spirit similar to brandy.’

‘Any left over? I could fancy a drink.’

‘I can bring water later. Mixed with
wine if the pain is unbearable.’

‘I can wait. There’s men worse than me.’

‘Where are you from, sir?’

‘First Yorkshires.’

She gasped. ‘Do you know an Ensign Wickham?’

He nodded immediately. ‘He took over as
our platoon leader after the Lieutenant bought it. Good fellow. Liked a drink
and a game of cards.’

She flinched at the past tense. ‘What
happened?’

‘We was lying behind the crest, see,
when the Frenchies was climbing up from La Haye farm. We jumped up and fired
straight into ’em. George was near me in the second line, and got four or five
of the blighters before falling. Never saw him after that. They turned and ran,
we chased ’em down the hill, and I was on me way back when the ball hit me.’

Elizabeth tried to control tears. ‘He
died bravely, then.’

‘Sorry ma’am. Relative, was he?’

‘A distant one.’ She frowned. ‘Why have
you only just arrived here?’

‘Spent a night on the battlefield,
didn’t I, followed by another night waiting at La Haye.’

‘You were left alone? No food? No
medical care?’

‘Couple of local lasses passed with
bread and ale. Angels.’ He held up a finger with blood near the knuckle.
‘Unlike the hag what done this.’

‘You should have told me!’ She sponged
the injury, but it was merely a graze. ‘She scratched you?’

‘Dug her nails in, didn’t she, trying to
rip off the ring while I was asleep. Probably thought I’d bought it.’

‘How disgraceful!’

‘They do worse than that. Pull teeth, even
cut off fingers if they can’t get the ring off …’

Elizabeth winced, sickened by the
thought that Wickham might have suffered this fate. ‘I must move on now. Good
luck to you, sir, and thanks for your information.’

Dusk was falling; inside the tents,
lamps flickered. More and more carts arrived, and with fewer women now available
to help, Elizabeth forced herself to keep going. At the back of her mind,
thoughts of Wickham intruded. Was he really dead, or only injured? Was it even
possible that he had fallen
deliberately
, playing dead to escape enemy
fire? She dismissed the unkind thought. If Wickham had intended such a trick,
he would surely have fallen
immediately
rather than firing several
rounds first. No, people were a mixture of good and bad: a scoundrel could show
heroism in war. She wondered what Darcy would say …

Darcy! She had promised to look for him
during the afternoon—was he now fretting over her safety? She finished
bandaging a sabre cut and made her way past the cowsheds towards the barn. A
nun approached, and she recognised Soeur Gabrielle, still hard at work. The
sister regarded her impassively.

‘
Tout va bien?’

‘
Oui
.’

‘
Reposez-vous!’

Without smiling, Soeur Gabrielle
embraced her before walking on. Moved, Elizabeth paused, watching the nun’s
weary tread, before hastening to the barn. There were still men resting, but
Darcy had gone.

She went to the officers’ tent, took a
mug of tea from an urn, and sat on an empty barrel, chewing a biscuit. An
officer’s wife, also helping, waved to her, and they talked. An uncomfortable realisation
had surfaced. She had seen Lydia’s marriage to Wickham as an obstacle to her
own hopes. But suppose Wickham were dead! Lydia would grieve; everyone would
mourn Wickham and commend his bravery;
but the barrier would be removed
.

Instantly this thought intruded, she
rejected it, hating herself. No! There should be no silver lining to a man’s
death. A marriage based on such a premise would turn sour, like a river
poisoned at its source.

‘Elizabeth!’ She rose, dismissing these
musings as Darcy approached with outstretched arms and took both her hands.
‘Taking a well-earned rest, I see.’

‘The nurse advised it.’ She peered
through the gloom at his face. ‘Did you sleep long?’

‘A couple of hours.’

‘I’m sorry, I meant to look for you …’

‘You were busy. I saw you while I passed
the stables, but decided not to disturb you.’

‘I must tell you something.’ She pointed
to another barrel and they both sat. ‘I met a private from the First Yorkshires
who was in Mr Wickham’s platoon …’ She repeated what she had heard, wondering
what feelings lay behind Darcy’s grave countenance. ‘Tragic, is it not?’

‘Indeed.’ He studied her closely. ‘But
is it certain?’

‘This man knew Mr Wickham well. He
talked of him as a friend.’

‘For your sister’s sake, I hope the
soldier is mistaken.’

‘I hope so too.’ She puzzled over the
implication of his words. Did he mean that Wickham’s death would be a
misfortune
only for Lydia
? Or was he merely expressing the truism that
Lydia would be the person most affected?

Not wishing to discuss the matter now,
she asked: ‘Do you mean to work through the night again?’

He looked down a moment, thinking. ‘Our
intake will fall to a trickle soon since they are ready to open a hospital at
Mont St Jean with superior facilities. We have already cared for the casualties
from the 52
^nd
, which were in any case relatively light. I understand
from Captain Marshall that Burgess is waiting at the village, with a carriage.’

‘Yes. He was told to stay there, and
send word if the colonel’s condition altered.’

‘Can you continue another two hours? Then,
if you agree, we might walk back to Merbe Braine and find out whether my cousin
can be moved to Brussels.’