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From the direction of the Parc there was a tumult of shouting, bugles, drums. ‘They’re mustering in the Place Royale,’ George the groom said, coming to stand beside her as an artillery train clattered past, gun carriages bouncing on the cobbles behind the trotting horses. He was a stolid man, good with the horses and more intelligent than his expression less face betrayed. ‘You come inside now, Miss.’
‘No, I want to see—oh, look at that poor woman.’ A soldier, knapsack on his back, musket slung over his shoulder, was grasping the hand of a woman with a child in her arms, while she tried to hold him back for one last embrace. ‘George, I am going to the Parc.’
With the groom grumbling at her heels, Julia began to push through the crowds as the sound of bagpipes made everyone turn. ‘It’s the Forty-second,’ someone called. ‘And the Ninety-second.’ The sound was deafening and yet heartening and the sight of the Highlanders swinging along lifted not only her spirits, but those of everyone around, Julia could see from the watching faces. Were the men marching here amongst those who had played and danced to entertain the guests at the ball last night?
And then, bringing the atmosphere of martial glory crashing down to earth, the market wagons started to rumble into the city, their drivers gawping about them as they found themselves in a world trans formed.
Steadily the men formed up, moved off, the sounds began to fade and an uneasy silence fell over the city as the clocks started to strike seven. The flower beds and the paths of the Parc were crushed and rutted. Under the shade of trees, heavy wagons stood, their horses grazing under armed guard while drivers settled down to sleep on the tilt carts.
‘Those’ll be for fetching the wounded later,’ George remarked. ‘Look, Miss. There’s old Nosey.’ And sure enough, Wellington was riding out, his ADCs clustered at his heels.
When they had gone, it felt as if everyone had been holding their breath and now there was a collective sigh. The watchers turned and looked around, shrugged, wandered off as though they did not know what to do next.
‘We must go back and get some rest,’ Julia said, trying to sound positive. ‘Nothing will be happening for a while now. Are you settled, George?’
‘Aye, Miss. I’ll be fine in the stables with the horse and the gig and my gun. The baron was worried about people stealing them, and I reckon he’s right.’
Julia had not expected to sleep, but somehow she did, her dreams restless, filled with images of Hal overlain with the sounds of the morning, the tramp of marching feet, the skirl of the pipes, the rattle of side-drums. She woke from a dream of holding him, to find she was curled around the bolster, its linen cover damp with tears.
Their landlady served a distracted luncheon in the kitchen, while supervising her husband digging holes in the vegetable patch to bury their good pewter and jars of cash. Unlike some Belgians who welcomed the idea of Napoleon’s return, she had only hard words for the French and was filled with pessimism.
‘The Allied Army will win, Madame,’ Julia tried to reassure her and received a fatalistic shrug in response. ‘What is that? Thunder?’ Would it be good or bad for the Allies if the rain came down?
‘No, that’s gunfire I reckon, Miss.’ George said from his end of the table. He went outside, then came back, shaking his head. ‘Long way away.’
The gunfire went on through the afternoon, getting closer and closer, more and more regular. In the city, the streets were full of carriages, horses, hand carts, and people on foot streaming towards the northern gates. Those who were not going stood around in the streets, silent except when a fresh wave of rumours reached them. The French had been slaughtered, they said. Then word came that the Belgian troops had fled, leaving the English to be cut to ribbons as almost two hundred thousand French swept over them. Julia refused to believe it. But no-one seemed to know where the battle was.
She tried to keep calm. It would do Hal no good if she made herself ill imagining the worst. It was very easy to resolve and very hard to do. Finally, with the cannon fire seeming closer yet, she left George guarding the horse and walked up to the rampart walk. There were no fashionable strollers enjoying the late afternoon air now, only crowds facing south, listening to the re lent less roll of the guns.
‘Wounded!’ someone called. ‘Walking wounded.’
It took time to make any sense of what was being shouted. Forward divisions of the Netherlands troops had met the French at a cross roads to the south, at a hamlet called Quatre Bras, and had held them until the Prince of Orange, and then Wellington, arrived with reinforcements. Gradually, more news trickled in, none of it good. The Highland regiments had suffered greatly and the Prussians were engaged some distance away and unable to join up with the Wellington’s Army. The Allies were retreating towards Brussels.
‘Boney’s managed to split the armies then,’ George said as they all sat around the kitchen table pooling what news they had each gathered. ‘Cunning bugger—begging your pardon, Miss.’
‘Listen.’ Julia said. ‘The guns have stopped. What’s the time?’ The clock on the wall said ten. ‘Eight hours, without stopping,’ she whispered. ‘Eight hours.’
The night seemed endless. Just after midnight, the sound of heavy artillery moving at speed had everyone up and at their windows until the word came that it was heading for the front line. Then at six, a troop of Belgian cavalry galloped through in full retreat. Julia gave up trying to rest at that point, helped Madame make break fast and tried to make sense of what their more sensible neighbours were saying.
‘I am going down to the Hôtel de Flandres,’ she told George, packing a flask of brandy and the bandages she had been tearing from old sheets into a basket. ‘Monsieur Grignot says that the wounded are being taken back to their original billets because the hospitals are already full. I will look for Major Carlow there.’ Finally she had admitted out loud why she had stayed. She felt slightly drunk, she realized. It must be reaction, or perhaps the lack
of sleep. ‘You had better stay here and guard the horses.’
‘But, Miss—’
‘The streets are full of decent people and the only soldiers are wounded ones: no-one will trouble me.’ She jammed her plainest bonnet over tightly braided hair, picked up the basket and hurried out.
The sound of gunfire had her ducking into an alleyway, her heart in her mouth, then she realized they were shooting wounded horses. Every house seemed to have doors and windows open, and through them she could glimpse men, sitting or lying wherever there was room. The towns people were throwing them selves into caring for the injured.
The hotel that had been Hal’s lodging was as full of men as any she had passed, but she could see no blue uniforms with buff facings. One tall infantry officer leaning against the wall, with his arm in a sling and his face half covered with a bandage, seemed well enough to speak to.
‘The 11th Light Dragoons?’ He smiled, a lopsided grimace. ‘Arrived too late to fight, came in just after darkness. They had to ride from Ninove,’ he added, as though to excuse them. ‘But they’ll be in it now. Fighting retreat, that’s what happening.’
‘Retreat into Brussels?’ Julia asked, feeling dizzy. Yesterday—last night—Hal had been safe. But today? Around her, the sounds of men groaning, the bustle of helpers, and the arrival of more stretchers filled her ears. The smells were all stomach-turning: blood, sweat, smoke and worse.
‘No. Wellington will protect the city at all costs. Mont St Jean is where we were headed for, just south of Waterloo.’ Julia pulled the brandy flask from her basket and opened it for him. ‘Thank you, ma’am. Your man with the eleventh?’
‘My—yes, my man is with them,’ she said, lifting her chin, feeling her pride in Hal stiffen her backbone. ‘It all seems so chaotic here, I wonder how I can best help.’
