Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (46 page)

Guard, retreat!

Napoleon's most loyal veterans
folded on themselves, turned and fled. Prussians swept in from the left flank,
right at their heels. French soldiers stumbled over one another and were
trampled by their own shouting horsemen.

Wellington had reappeared behind
his infantry, waving his hat now to signal an advance. Ty caught sight of
Matthew disappearing ahead of his men into the fray.

His own men threw down their swabs
and charges, jumping up.

“It's the advance, sir!” cried one.
“Are we to go?”

He didn't have the heart to tell
his men that they were too far from the main body, with too few remaining
horses, to reach the field in time. Instead, he swept a hand in front of them.
“Go on, then! No sense keeping you from all the fun.” Fists grabbed furiously
for muskets and shot bags. They were off at a dead run, shouting and flailing
their limbs like children kept inside for too long.

Alone now atop the ridge, he patted
Alvanley's neck, resting his face in the animal's pungent mane. For a moment he
was overwhelmed, unable to think or find words. They’d done it. Again. When his
horse whickered, he sat up. “You did a sound job, helping me keep my promise.
You will be the most rewarded horse in France.”

Alvanley whinnied and shuffled
impatiently. Ty laughed. “Jealous of all the other horses running about down
there? Very well. Let's go see what all the fuss is about.” Tapping his heels,
Ty moved Alvanley over the slope and off of the ridge they had occupied from sunrise
to sunset.

From uncertainty to victory.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Antwerp, Belgium - June 19th, 1815

She had been up for three days, and
at this point, even ten more minutes felt impossible. Olivia hadn’t slept the
whole journey to Antwerp. Fear of being set upon by soldiers and deserters,
worry that DuFresne might grow bold despite his cowardice, and worry for Ty
robbed her of sleep. The moment she'd promised to let him live and get him
anonymous passage on a ship, he had given up volumes of information.

She’d committed every word to
memory, but all the while her thoughts were on Ty. There was no way of getting
news on the road. They had passed few other coaches, and when they stopped to
change horses, word was conflicted. An innkeep assured her of an allied
victory. A driver heading south described a Hussar's retreat, insisting allied
forces were subsequently decimated. A tramp peddling cigarettes near the
Brussels border swore fighting had yet to conclude. Each story drove her mad
with fear and hope.

Keeping her promise to DuFresne,
Olivia had bribed a captain to smuggle the man aboard his ship with a slightly
embellished tale about his problems with a certain woman’s husband.

That was the
only
part of
their bargain she intended to keep. A letter to Uncle Edward, posted the first
time they’d stopped for fresh horses, warned him to prepare Whitehall for
DuFresne’s arrival in London. That left a single loose end to tie off, and then
she could wash her hands of Emil DuFresne.

The harbor master's office had been
dark for nearly half an hour now. Certain that no one was still inside and sure
no one was coming back until morning, Olivia stole from her hiding spot along
the docks, passing through a dark alley between the harbor master's building
and a public house.

The lock fastening the rear door
was surprisingly complex. Her ears tuned to every sound, she went to work.
Footsteps a street over, laughter and shouts from a nearby tap room, and a
stray cat howling competed with the sound of the lock’s insides as she
struggled with her thin pick.

After several minutes of
frustration, Olivia sighed and hung her head a moment. Ty would have had it
open already. He would have teased her and made a fuss over his skill, then
kissed her in apology. Being without him, not knowing his fate, was wearing her
thin. Any other day, even she would have the lock open by now, unburdened by
worry.

The sooner I'm done here, the
sooner I'll have news
.

Shoring herself up with the
reminder, she attacked the lock until it sprang free.

Picking her way along a dark,
unfamiliar corridor, she worked towards the front office where the ledgers were
kept. Light from street lamps offered just enough illumination that she was
able to pick out a stoneware candle holder on a shelf below the counter.
Casting about, a box rattled when her hand brushed against it. Judging by the
sound and location, it was matches. Setting the candle stand on the floor, she
struck one, cupping it to hide its first brilliant flare.

When the candle was lit, she peered
up onto the rough wooden counter top. Two ledgers sat closed, a quill and
corked ink jar between them. Gathering everything to her, Olivia stared at the
ledgers, trying to decide which one to check first. She opened the first one
and flipped to the most recent entry, which ended up being
too
recent.
She thumbed back a few pages. Too far. Ready to flip forward, she paused when a
name caught her eye:
Katherine Foster.
Age twenty-three, destination New
York, United States by way of Bristol, England.

She sat back, flabbergasted. Kate
had gone home to America?

Did Kate know something she did
not? Had the battle truly been lost? Olivia traced the small, neat signature.
If Ty lived, he might never see his friend again. On an impulse, she tore the
page free from its binding. Folding it, she tucked the paper into her pocket.

Skimming the rest of the ledger
yielded nothing. She slid it back atop the counter and opened the second book.

Reading through the dates, she
stopped when she came to a ship with the correct destination.
Corsair
,
bound for Plymouth. Correct destination, and two days before Waterloo. Let
anyone who looked believe he'd fled like a coward, ahead of the battle.

Opening the ink, she dipped the
quill, and on the first empty line scrawled
'Emil DuFresne – Minister of
Government.’

She'd kept her promise to help him
anonymously board a ship. She never said she would keep it for long. DuFresne
had been given a fair head start, more fair than he deserved. If anyone wanted
him now, Fouche, the Austrians or otherwise, they were welcome to him. Setting
the ledger next to its mate on the counter, Olivia left it wide open for all to
see. Licking her fingers, she snuffed the candle, put it away, and slipped out
into the night.

She practically ran the alley’s
length, so eager to reach the public house that she failed to hear the
footsteps until she was at its front stairs.

“Olivia.”

Sighing, she paused with a hand on
the door, and then turned around. “John.”

He stepped forward, and she stepped
back, cornered.

His hand came up. “I'm not here to
fight. Where's DuFresne?”

Olivia wasn't certain she trusted
his word anymore. “Gone.” She shrugged to herself. “Plymouth yesterday and on
to London, or so he claims. All yours, if you can find him.”

Exhaling, John took off his hat,
smacking it against his thigh. “Did he tell you anything?”

Now they were in dangerous
territory. John didn't need DuFresne if she knew all of the man's secrets.
“Nothing that I haven't already written up and sent to Grayfield.”

“You don't have to lie to me,
Olivia. What's done is done, in any case. Battle's over, Britain will decide
what happens now.”

“We've won?” She rushed John before
she could stop herself. “What have you heard?”

“Little more than that. Napoleon
fled the moment his Old Guard was broken. We nearly lost the whole thing.
Prussians turned it around,” he added grudgingly.

Nearly lost. “Oh God.” How would
she know? How long before Ty could get word to her that he was all right? She
might go mad well before then.

John's hand, warm against her
shoulder, steadied her. “One other bit of gossip that may be of interest to
you. Artillery company G Troop was the only troop that did not abandon their
guns. Responsible for a large portion of the rout against the Guard.”

He squeezed, then patted her arm,
smiling at her in the dark. “Not surprising, given their commander.”

On impulse, she threw arms around
him. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” He pushed her
away gently. “And I want you to know I didn't betray you or England. I was
assigned to take DuFresne's intelligence to Metternich and the Austrians, in
the event things did
not
go well for us yesterday.”

Stubborn ass
. “You chose to
keep that to yourself, even when I garroted you?”

John shrugged. “You were not an
approved contact.”

“Hmm.” A ship's bell chimed farther
down the docks, and she glanced around. “Where will you go now?”

“Back to London. The Prince Regent
is making noise about wanting a divorce. Some poor sod has to do the digging.”

She laughed. “That poor sod being
you?”

“Indeed. I have no feelings one way
or another. Just an assignment. More coin in my pocket.”

Something shifted in her chest, a
sensation, as though her feelings about John had settled into place. He was a
mercenary, but not a villain. To him, assignments were all business, and to her
they were entirely personal. It wasn't contempt she felt in that moment, not
like she had when she thought he’d betrayed them all. It was just a distance
that couldn't be filled the way she and Ty had done.

Olivia cocked her head toward the
door. “I'm going in, see if I can get a room, or at least a spot on the floor.”

“I'm heading out with the tide. Not
anxious to stay longer than I'm required.”

“Good luck.” She stuck out a hand
and John took it in his firm grasp.

“You as well, Olivia. I imagine we'll
cross paths again.”

She nodded. “Eventually.”
But as
acquaintances, not spies
.

That life was nearly over.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Waterloo, Belgium - June 20th, 1815

Ty surveyed the clumps of wounded
men. They were arms and legs akimbo, burned by sun, and swarmed with flies.
They needed Kate. Doctor Hallick – the doctor sent to replace her – was aged,
old-fashioned, and overwhelmed. Ty had found himself offering suggestions which
surprised the man, ideas which seemed common sense thanks to Kate's example. A
canteen to give the wounded shelter and fresh water. A triage yard. Moving the
dead out from among the living, for sanitation as much as morale. Exhausted,
Hallick had at last asked humbly if Ty could oversee those tasks, and for a
night and day, that was all he had done. Conscripting men from every cantonment,
he set them to one of two tasks. If they were well rested and mostly uninjured,
they heaped bodies, dug latrines, and tended their brothers. Weaker, exhausted
men were sent out to reclaim firearms, round up horses, and scavenge the
battlefield. In that manner, for twenty-four hours, he'd worn two hats at once.

He hadn't slept and probably
couldn't have if he'd wished to. There were so many dead. Bloated under the
sun, mangled by gruesome wounds, some that he knew had not been quick or kind
in dying. If he turned in, he would be alone with the memories, his thoughts,
and his sorrow. Without Olivia to take away some of the sting, Ty wasn't sure
he could face that. Instead he worked, comforting the living and honoring the
dead. If he kept busy, he didn't have to think.

He was so busy not thinking, right
now counting ammunition crates, that the hoof beats behind him fell into the
background noise.

“Major.”

The voice spun him around fast
enough that he nearly tripped on his own boots. “Webb. By God!” Matthew
dismounted and he threw his arms around his friend, squeezing with every ounce
of gratitude he had, then pulled away. “We've embraced as long as two soldiers
can without the threat of battle at their heels.”

Matthew grinned at his own words
and nodded. “So we have, but I'm no less glad to see your hide in one piece.”

“And I yours, though,” he raked a
finger along Matthew's temple, “seems you had a close call. Hopefully it
knocked some sense into you.”

“If only the same could be said of
you, major.”

Planting fists on his hips, Ty
squinted into the sun and looked around them. “I've been with you far too long
for any hope of that.”

“I suppose we're set together now.”

He nodded. “So we are.”

They grasped hands and shook,
filling the space between them with so much that remained unspoken. Then
Matthew stepped away. “I start for Paris today. You are to follow in a week's
time.”

“To Paris? Not to London?”

“No, not to London! If I'm to be
buried in this provisional government mess, you are going with me.”

“This is inhumane. I'm telling
Kate, when she gets here.”

Matthew grinned like an absolute
rogue. “Politician. Precisely why I chose you for the job.” Remounting, he
grabbed Bremen's reins. “Ride with me as far as the guard post?”

Ty unhitched Alvanley, who looked
put out at being pulled from the shady spot beneath the oak under which he’d
spent the better part of his day.

Side by side in companionable
silence, they trotted together up the hill where Napoleon's battery had stood a
day earlier.

“It was close,” Matthew muttered,
squinting out to the horizon.

“Did you think we were lost, for a
moment?”

“I did. I admit it.” There was a
touch of guilt to his words.

Ty reached over and put his hand on
Matthew’s shoulder. “But you didn't believe it, and neither did I. Nor did a
hundred thousand other men. That is why we took the day.”

Matthew heaved a sigh, shoulders
relaxing. “This is why I keep you around, major.”

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Ty
gathered himself. “Likewise, general.” He wheeled Alvanley nose to nose with
Bremen, and after a moment of silence, he and Matthew saluted.

A cheer broke out in the valley
below, spreading between the islands of men as they waved arms and hats
overhead.

One corner of Matthew's smile
cocked up. “My God, I don't think Wellington earns this sort of applause.”

Ty winked. “Don't let it go to your
head.”