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The men shifted awkwardly and glanced at one another.
‘What Sergeant Hollins means, miss, is that we can’t find ’im,’ said a soldier with a badly tied and grubby bandage wrapped around his head. ‘He rode off yesterday once the Frenchies were beat and we was expectin’ to find ’im back here in Brussels, but there ain’t no sign of ’im.’
‘Oh, good heavens!’
Mary swayed, putting a hand against the doorpost to steady herself.
‘Oxton’s right, miss,’ affirmed the sergeant. ‘We’ve tried all the ’ospitals, even the military one at Mont Saint Jean, but he ain’t there, and we thought, like, since you and the colonel was friends, he might’ve come here. And to be honest, we don’t know where else to look for ’im.’
She closed her eyes for a moment. They did not know that she and Randall were no longer friends and they had brought her the news she had feared, that he was missing. When she opened her eyes again she found the men were regarding her hopefully.
‘I am very sorry,’ she said. ‘He is not here.’
‘Then he must still be on the battlefield,’ replied Sergeant Hollins, ‘but I’m dam—I’m dashed if I knows where.’
‘Then you must find him, there is not a moment to lose,’ she replied, recalling Bertrand’s words that morning. If only the doctor was here, she would beg him to go with them, but he had returned to the main hospital an hour since. Her eyes went again to the ragged binding wrapped around the head of one trooper. ‘Wait! I shall come with you. If Lord Randall is wounded you may need me. I have been helping Dr Lebbeke here and at least I know how to dress a wound now. ‘
The men looked at one another.
‘It ain’t that we don’t want you to come, ma’am, but we ain’t got a mount for you and there’s not a spare horse to be found in Brussels. They’ve all been commandeered by the mayor. Or the army.’ The sergeant pointed his thumb at the horses standing in the street. ‘We, um, commandeered these ourselves this mornin’. French cavalry ’orses they are, a real handful and no lady’s saddle, either.’
For the first time that day a genuine smile tugged at her mouth. ‘Do not worry about that, I have a horse of my own hidden away. Jacques, bring these men some refreshments while I get changed. And saddle Marron!’
Mary scrambled into her riding gown, trying not to think of the last time she had worn it, riding out with Randall. She could not afford to be sentimental. She must concentrate on what might be needed to save Randall, if he was still alive. Once dressed she raced downstairs and filled a saddlebag with the things she thought might be needed to tend a wounded man. At last she was ready and she went out to join the men waiting at the gate. Jacques was there, holding Marron, and she gave him one last instruction. He ran inside, returning a few minutes later with blankets and two long poles.
‘We have no wagon to bring Lord Randall back to Brussels,’ she told the astonished artillerymen. ‘You must take these so we can make a litter.’
The men exchanged looks, then with a shrug, two of them took the blankets and strapped them behind their saddles while two more took a pole each and tucked it under one arm. Dirty and unkempt as they were, they reminded her of a couple of jousting knights. She thought how much Randall would appreciate that image of his Rogues. She bit hard on her lip to stop the tears welling up: if she ever had the chance to tell him.
Mary was about to mount Marron when she heard a series of loud barks. A large shaggy black dog was racing towards her, followed by a lady on a white horse. Mary’s spirits fluttered. Perhaps Lady Sarah had news of Randall? After all she had the company mascot with her. The animal made straight for the Rogues, frolicking and jumping around them as if they were long-lost friends, but Mary’s hopes that Randall might be safe were soon dashed when she observed Sarah’s dishevelled appearance. Her hair was disordered and her pale blue riding habit was caked in mud, as if she had been rolling on the ground.
‘What has happened?’ cried Lady Sarah wildly, ‘Is it Justin? I know he is alive, but where is he?’
Mary took a moment to compose herself so that she could speak calmly and explain the little she knew to Randall’s sister. Sarah’s conviction that Randall was not dead was heartening, but totally without foundation, as was her assertion that Fate had brought her and the dog to the Rue Haute in time to accompany them. Mary shook her head.
‘I think you would be better returning to Antwerp,’ she said. ‘You are in no fit state to come with us.’
‘I have been looking for Gideon and I will not, cannot, give up my search,’ replied Lady Sarah, clearly trying hard not to cry. ‘I cannot go back until I know what has happened to my brothers.’
Despite her own worries, Mary recognised that Sarah was distraught, but if Randall was alive he would not thank her for allowing his sister to visit the battlefield. She was about to say as much when she noticed that the men were looking considerably more cheerful.
‘Dog’s got a good nose, ma’am,’ said the sergeant, scratching the animal’s shaggy head. ‘He’ll find the colonel for us, I’m sure.’
Mary took another glance at Sarah’s determined face. If she argued they would waste more time, so she gave in with as good a grace as she could muster. When she was mounted she brought her chestnut hack alongside Sarah’s showy mount.
‘Here.’ She held out a large pocket handkerchief. ‘Take this. I have drenched it in scent; we may need it when we get to the battlefield. I have a house full of soldiers with the most appalling wounds, and sometimes the smell is—’ She broke off, just the thought of it turning her stomach. ‘Luckily I have prepared more than one.’
‘Thank you.’ Lady Sarah gave her a tremulous smile and Mary realised how hard and practical she must appear to a society miss like Lady Sarah Latymor. Perhaps she was, but she feared they would both need nerves of iron to get through the coming ordeal.
* * *
The road to Waterloo was teeming. Carts and wagons jostled for space with crowds of ragged soldiers. Nearing the battlefield they saw signs of freshly dug graves and soon they reached the bloody killing fields themselves. She held the scented handkerch
ief to her nose as soon as the now-familiar smells of death and decay rose up. After the past few days Mary thought she was inured to the sounds of men screaming in agony and the sight of their bloodied, lacerated bodies, but nothing could have prepared her for the hellish landscape around her. There was nothing but devastation wherever she looked. What she had not bargained for was the sound of gunfire. She looked a question at the sergeant, who replied through gritted teeth.
‘They’re shooting the wounded, ma’am. Those that ain’t got no chance of surviving. Putting them out o’ their misery.’
Dear heaven, don’t let Randall be amongst them.
