The Three Colonels (29 page)

The emperor looked again at the English lines, not five hundred meters away. He saw some enemy troops moving about, but nowhere near enough to stop his Invincibles. With a nod to his still marching men, he turned his horse and rode back towards his headquarters at La Belle Alliance, already planning his assault on Blücher. Victory would be his.

It was 7:00 p.m.

***

The sergeant looked over as Major Wickham returned to the front lines. “Sir, are there any reinforcements coming?”

Wickham slowly dismounted and entered the pit of death that was supposed to be a square of British infantry. “I understand that Second Corps is moving to link up with the line,” he started in a flat voice. He looked about at the men, lying prone. They were no longer in square; they had again formed lines, as to prepare to receive infantry. “I see we have a few Germans amongst us.”

“Yes, sir. The duke himself brought them. He has ordered the men to lie down. We should only fire at the last moment.”

“Good idea. I suppose we should join them.” They moved a few bodies out of the way and sat on boxes.

“Major, those Frenchies. Are they—?”

“The Imperial Guard? Yes.”

“Sir, are the Prussians here yet? The duke said—”

“Only God knows, sergeant,” replied Wickham. The two grew silent; there was nothing left to say.

The French trumpets reverberated again, along with the strange sound of fife and drums; the marching band was advancing as well. More and more cannonballs fell around the lines. Wickham and his men turned to watch Armageddon approach slowly up the hill.

***

Brevet Brigadier Brandon and his brigade watched the Imperial Guard move slowly up the rise toward the center of the Allied line about a mile distant from their position. The little bit of woods protected the cavalry from French artillery fire, for the French could not hit what they could not see.

The three colonels of cavalry watched the climax of the battle, waiting the order to engage, immersed in their own thoughts:

Buford:
Too
often
in
my
life, I have thought only of myself. Now this is my chance to redeem myself—to prove myself worthy of my king, my uniform, my men, my friends—and especially my Caroline. God help me, but this is the only way to wash myself clean of my sins—through the blood of my enemies. I shall earn my place by your side, my beloved!

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.

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.”

Buford turned his attention to the weeping woman on his chest. “Caro, my love, this is a miracle.” His hand left Philip's and slid under Caroline's bonnet. “A miracle—the babe!” Buford's eyes shot wide open. “The babe! You must leave this instant! There is disease here!” Panicked, he turned to the others. “You must get her out of here!”

She tightened her grip on her husband. “No, I will not leave you!”

“Caroline, you must!” He looked to the others. “Help me!”

“Do not concern yourself, John,” said Philip. “We leave this very day. All will be well.”

Meanwhile, Darcy spoke to the orderly. “We have papers that allow us to leave with Sir John. You will gather his things and bring them to our carriage.”

The orderly frowned. “See 'ere, I ain't his servant!”

Darcy's voice was cold and sharp. “I have your orders. You will be paid for your services.
However
, if anything is found missing from the colonel's belongings, it will go badly for you.”

“I can't be held responsible fur that!” the orderly complained.

Darcy raised his chin. “Then I would be thorough if I were you.” Darcy jerked his head towards the door. The orderly, completely cowed, quickly left.

Caroline turned, sniffed, and said with a small smile, “Bravo, Darcy. I could not have done better myself.”

Two spots of color graced Darcy's cheeks, but he only nodded his head. “Mr. Buford and I will see to the arrangements for our departure. We will return shortly.” Philip gave his brother's shoulder a squeeze and left with Darcy.

Buford stared deeply into his wife's pale face. He could read the revulsion clearly written upon it. “Caroline, you should not have come.”

“Why not? I bore the voyage well, and the babe is in no danger.”

It cost him some hurt, but Buford turned his head away anyway. “You should not see me… like this.”

“John, I had to come.”

All the fears that had built up inside him since the battle now burst out. “What kind of husband can I be to you? I am but half a man!” He held up his left arm, the sleeve pinned back over the stump the surgeon left. “Look at me! Look at the wreck I have become! Left arm gone, face scarred, hip slashed wide open. I do not know if I will even stand again!” He did not grieve for himself; he accepted his wounds as payment for his mistrust of and infidelity to his wife. He had committed great sins against his marriage, and he earned every iota of pain he now suffered. The tears that ran unheeded down his battered face were for everything that
Caroline
had lost—a strong, faithful, useful husband who could provide for and protect his family. “You deserve better than me.”

His wife's wet eyes went wide with hurt. “What madness is this?”

“Caroline, you cannot even look at me without crying.”

Understanding flowed over her countenance. With fierce determination, Caroline grasped her husband's good arm. “Now you see here, Colonel Buford!” she managed through her weeping. “I do not weep for
me
! I am pained beyond measure for
you
! I am in agony for what you have endured! Could I but bear this burden for you, I would! But since I cannot, I will have to bear it
with
you.”

“But you should not have to—”

“Is that not what I promised to you and God when we married? Do you think I will shirk my duty now? What a low opinion you have of me, sir!”

“You twist my words—”

“Do you really think I will abandon you now? God's teeth, you are my very life. I will never leave you, my love—never!”

Buford wept without moderation. “Oh, Caro, my love!”

Caroline tried to kiss him, but he flinched. “Does it hurt?”

“No, but my face…”

She gently touched the undamaged right cheek. “Johnny, I kiss not your face—but
you
.”

Buford painfully tried to embrace her, but he could not. His left arm had been taken off at the elbow. “Damn it! I cannot take you into my arms!”

“Oh, Johnny,” she said, “do not concern yourself. I have arms enough for both of us.”

***

When Darcy and Philip returned, they found Lady Buford half lying over Sir John in a tender embrace. The two stepped back into the hallway and gave the couple a minute's privacy before Philip coughed loudly.

“Is the carriage packed and ready, Philip?” came Caroline's voice from within.

“No,” said Philip, “but it will be very soon.”

“Then come back when it is. And close the door.”

The two gentlemen looked at each other in embarrassment. Darcy reached out and pulled the door shut. He cleared his throat. “It is the least we can do.”

“Umm… yes,” agreed his companion. “Did I see some chairs on the porch?”

“I believe you did,” said Darcy. “I do not think it too warm to sit outside. Do you?”

“Not at all. Very pleasant today.”

“Yes. Well…” Darcy gestured towards the outside door.

The two made their way outside, took their seats, and watched the coachman load the carriage.