Page 69 of Yielding to Love

“I’ll concentrate more men around Quatre Bras, but we won’t stop Napoleon there.” He drew a small circle on the map with his finger. Closer to Brussels. Too close. “We must fight him here. Waterloo.”

*

The duke took Crispin on as another aide-de-camp. Jasper would say he was one of the duke’s errand boys, but he was in good company: Somerset, Freemantle, Gordon, Lennox, Percy. A few more. Good men all.

It was to be a day of hard riding. He had a fine horse, Bolt, a gift from Jasper. Bolt was swift, but for stamina, only Mercury could have outridden Wellington’s Copenhagen—and Crispin had left Mercury at Chaumbers, safe from the folly of men.

They rode first to Quatre Bras, where the duke assessed the situation. Crispin did too. Bleak. By all accounts, the tiny force assembled there was vastly outnumbered by a wing of Napoleon’s army led by Marshal Ney. Yet Wellington pronounced himself satisfied. “We will be well-fortified within the hour. We can hold the position.”

An hour? Given how far afield the various regiments had been cantoned, that seemed doubtful to Crispin. But then, Wellington had beaten Ney before, in Spain, so one must grant he knew whereof he spoke.

Next, they rode to Brye, where Wellington met Blücher for a quick conference. It was now clear that Blücher’s Prussians would soon be attacked by Napoleon’s main force. Wellington promised support, on the condition that he was not attacked himself.

But Crispin knew he would be attacked. Napoleon had succeeded in driving a wedge between the two allies’ armies. How had Wellington let this happen?

By the time they arrived back in Quatre Bras, a battle was underway. If Crispin’s confidence in his commander had been wavering, it was soon restored. The man was everywhere. Firing off orders, rallying the troops, seeming somehow to see the whole of the battlefield at once. Crispin dashed about following commands and sometimes giving them. Poor flagging Bolt was shot from beneath him and he had to scramble to find another mount. In the ensuing muddle, he lost his fob watch. For the remainder of the day, time had no meaning. Ney launched one assault after another: calvary, artillery, infantry, then repeat. And each time, Wellington’s men fought them off.

Miraculously, Wellington had not misjudged his own strength. Reinforcements arrived in waves. Like the tide coming in. It gave the men confidence to feel their power waxing throughout the day rather than waning. At some point, Crispin sensed that the advantage had shifted to the British. And when night fell, and the firing finally ceased, Wellington still held Quatre Bras.

They held the position but at a cost. That night, the duke brought his staff to the Roi d’Espagne Hotel in Genappe, two miles to the north, to await word from Blücher. Supper and beds were afforded to them, but Crispin doubted anyone slept more than an hour or two. When word finally arrived, it was catastrophic. Blücher had fought long and hard at Ligny. But without reinforcements from the British, he had lost. The Prussians were in full retreat. Which meant Napoleon could now bring the entire force of his army against Wellington.

Stone-faced, the duke sent Lieutenant Colonel Gordon off to Ligny to see if the report was true. Then he said, “If Blücher has retreated, we must do so too.”

*

Early the next morning, the retreat began. Retreat was not surrender. Wellington meant to bring his army to fields near Waterloo and stop Napoleon there. Crispin could not imagine any other commander pulling off so massive a fallback without chaos. Without alerting the enemy to hound British heels and turn a retreat into a rout. In a torrential downpour, no less. There had not been such a rain since Noah floated his ark.

Crispin was given the task, along with several of his fellows, to stake out the positions Wellington was assigning to the various regiments along the ridge of Mont-Saint-Jean. Rain continued to fall in sheets, and the ground was sodden. If boots sank so deeply, it would be impossible to maneuver the cannons. The only consolation was that Napoleon would be equally mired.

Rain doesn’t bother me. Crispin remembered saying those words to Camellia. What else might he have said that had been a lie? Had they said anything to each other that had been true? Would he die tomorrow without having the chance to say he was sorry?

“Major Taverston?” A lieutenant whom Crispin did not know well slogged through the mud to draw closer. “The commander wishes to see you. Special orders.”

Damn. Special orders could mean many things. On the eve of battle, it was likely one of three: scouting the enemy’s position, carrying messages, or interrogating a fresh-caught prisoner. Crispin hoped for the first and prayed it would not be the last. Courier, of course, would be a waste of his talents.

*

Yet it was to be courier. Blücher had not turned tail for Prussia, but had regrouped at Wavre. The two armies were still just a little too far apart for comfort. Communication was critical if they were to be able to coordinate their attack.

So here Crispin was. Pounding along a muddy track through the woods on a strong bay gelding, Wellington’s missive hidden in the lining of his jacket, and Wellington’s words ringing in his ears. “Don’t get distracted, don’t get caught, and don’t get shot. You have one job to do today. One. To be our link.”

The battle had been slow to start because of the rain, but once the artillery began its fire, the farmland quickly became a hellscape. Crispin was attempting to skirt the periphery of the fighting without stumbling into the midst of it, a task made difficult by the ragged lines of the companies engaged. What had seemed clear enough in the scribbled map Wellington had shown him was now obscured by smoke and reverberating noise that made the air seem to shimmer. The big guns crescendoed and decrescendoed in waves, but the earthshaking clamor of armies clashing was unceasing, a constant chorus of men and horses screaming—

A distinctive loud crack sounded, and Crispin lost control of the bay. The horse stumbled, its sides heaving. A terrifying vision of the colonel in his wheelchair flashed before Crispin’s eyes before he scrambled free of his dying horse. The next moment, three frogs emerged from the woods, one on horseback and two on foot. They were exuberant, boasting of their prize. The emperor would reward them. They were heroes. God. They were fuzz-on-their-chins boys.

But boys with muskets pointed at him. He should have made a wider circle around the field. Damn it. He raised his hands in a signal of surrender—and cursed himself for what he was about to do.

At a clipped order from the one who was mounted, one of the others approached to disarm him. The moment he was close enough, Crispin grabbed him, wrenched his arm behind his back and spun him to use as a shield. He caught the frog around the neck, tight. Since he hadn’t three hands, he let go of the twisted arm, slipped his knife from its sheath, and stuck it in the struggling boy’s back. He yanked him hard against his own body, ignoring the scream in his ear. Left hand now free, Crispin pulled his pistol and shot the stunned Frenchy on the horse.

The next instant, there was an explosion, and the boy in the chokehold slammed against Crispin so hard he stumbled backward. His human shield became deadweight. Crispin dropped him, steadied his feet, and faced his remaining captor. They had both spent their bullets. The fellow stared at Crispin, eyes wild, knees shaking. Then he cast a desperate glance sideways.

They both needed that horse.

The boy made a dash for it. Crispin pulled his second pistol and dropped him neatly. Then he went to the horse, who’d remained remarkably calm throughout. A nag. Likely deaf rather than battle-hardened. Or maybe both. He hoped Blücher had a horse to spare. This one would not last.

He reloaded his pistols. Quickly. Then tucked them away. He put his foot in the stirrup, but before he mounted, he heard mewling.

“Maman. Maman.”