Supervising Sally (25 page)

Sally was standing by the window, when she gasped, turned, and ran out of the room. Phoebe, who was changing the bandage on a soldier's arm, which had been badly cut by a sabre, glanced up and raised her eyebrows. Sally had risen that morning with deep shadows under her eyes, and was annoying Phoebe by asking every few minutes when Henry would be coming back to Brussels.

Phoebe tucked in the end of the bandage, a strip torn from a bedsheet, and, as there were no more urgent tasks to be attended to, went to look out of the window.

Sally was clinging to the black mane of a tired-looking grey horse, his colour barely recognizable since he was covered in mud. The man riding him was equally begrimed,
but he had washed his face, and Phoebe saw it was one of Sir Henry's friends. He shook his head, and as Sally let go the horse plodded on. Sally turned and ran back into the house.

Phoebe went to meet her on the stairs. She was wild-eyed, struggling to keep the tears from falling.

‘Sally, what is it?'

‘Peter doesn't know what's happened to Henry. He thinks he was thrown from his horse, but he said it was all so confused, it was almost dark, and there was smoke from the guns all over the area, and they couldn't find him afterwards. Phoebe, I have to go and look for him!'

Phoebe was aghast. This was a mad scheme. ‘You'd never find him! There were tens of thousands of soldiers, the battlefield must have stretched for miles!'

‘Peter says it happened near an inn. It was in the final charge, when the French were retreating. An inn called La Belle Alliance. Phoebe, if I can find my way there I know I'll find him!'

‘Your father won't permit you to go,' she tried, holding out her arms to prevent Sally pushing past.

‘He's not here, he went to the embassy.'

‘But look at the crowd of people coming towards Brussels. You'll never get through them.'

‘I'll ride, and then I can bring Henry back. Oh, do stop arguing, Phoebe, and let me get past.'

‘A girl alone, you could be in all sorts of danger.'

‘I'll wear my breeches, they'll think I'm a boy.'

Phoebe frowned. ‘But I took them away from you.'

Sally tried once more to push past. ‘I had another pair,' she almost screamed. ‘Phoebe, I'm going, and you won't stop me.'

Phoebe knew that only force could prevent Sally from carrying out her plan. She could hardly lock her into her room, or tie her up. She made up her mind suddenly.

‘Then I'll wear the other pair and we'll both go.'

Zachary's weary horse stumbled slightly and the earl, who had been riding with a loose rein, hurriedly pulled him up. Though they had been able to sleep the night after the battle, in the shelter of a small copse, the horse tethered to a low branch and Zachary rolled in his greatcoat and his back against a tree trunk, their exertions during almost twelve hours of battle had exhausted them. He hadn't woken until midday, and then only because he had felt a hand trying to roll him out of the coat. When the would-be robber saw he was not dealing with a corpse, he had fled, and Zachary had been too stiff to follow. It was a scorching hot day, which made the stench of smoke and gunpowder, blood and corpses, almost intolerable.

The duke had fired off instructions to all sections of the army, and sent his aides galloping across the battlefield to deliver them. Zachary, though not officially attached to the staff, had been used, and as the day wore on he was needed even more, as one after another the aides were killed or wounded.

Zachary would have dismounted to help the horse, but he was barely able to walk and knew it would lessen their chances of reaching Brussels on their own. There were far too many seriously wounded men being carried in on carts for him to hope to join them. His thigh had been grazed by a bullet towards the end of the fighting, and was still oozing blood. It was red hot, and after the night spent on the wet ground, with no treatment apart from his cravat being bound round his leg, it had stiffened.

He reached the small village of Waterloo, where the duke had his headquarters, and was wondering whether he might be needed. The door of the inn was open, and as Zachary paused one of the staff emerged.

‘Wrekin, good to see you're still with us. You're late,' he commented. ‘You're wounded?'

‘Not badly. Are there any orders?'

‘No, the old man left here at dawn, he'll be harrying those in Brussels by now.'

Zachary nodded, and went on. A hundred yards further his attention was drawn to two youths, because they were well-dressed, clean, riding beautifully groomed and slightly frisky horses with bulging saddle-bags, and leading another riderless horse. Then his eyes widened in disbelief. Was he hallucinating? The youth wearing a dark-blue coat rather too large for his slight frame was no youth. Surely it was Phoebe Kingston.

Phoebe saw him at the same moment, and felt a great weight lift from her. He was alive. He looked tired and grey, was covered in mud, but he was alive. She turned her horse, the one Sir William normally rode, and halted beside him. Sally rode up on his far side, looking rather pale as she saw the state he was in.

‘Zachary!' Then she realized she had, for the first time, used his name, and blushed. ‘I mean, my lord. Oh, how thankful I am to see you!'

‘Phoebe? And Sally. Are you mad? What the devil are you doing here, dressed like that?'

Phoebe was silent, but Sally burst into speech.

‘Henry didn't come back; I'm going to find him, and Phoebe insisted on coming with me.'

‘We know roughly where he might be,' Phoebe explained. ‘A friend said he was probably unhorsed, in the final charge, near the inn called La Belle Alliance. We went there when we rode out, weeks ago.'

Zachary nodded. ‘It was Bonaparte's headquarters. But do you have any notion of what the field is like?'

Phoebe swallowed. ‘I think so. We heard that thousands have been killed. And – and there won't have been time to bury them, will there? Besides, we have seen men along the
chaussée
who have died trying to get to Brussels. You need not be afraid we will faint, whatever the horrors.'

‘You can't go there, child!'

‘You can't stop us,' Sally said, and urged her horse on.

Zachary caught her reins and forced her to halt. ‘Not by force, I agree. Will you allow me to go and look for you?'

Phoebe and Sally spoke at the same time.

‘No, I'm going, I'm betrothed to him.'

‘You look ill, and you must be terribly tired. We heard how long the battle lasted, and even though you are not now in the army you have obviously been involved.' She looked at the blood on his breeches. ‘You've been wounded, too. You need rest and proper attention, not more riding in this hot sun.'

‘I am coming with you.'

He turned his horse and the three of them rode on, not speaking. Though she guessed what an effort it must be for him, Phoebe was selfishly glad to have his company. If they found Sir Henry either dead or badly wounded she did not feel capable of dealing with Sally, who would be distraught and hysterical.

When they rode up on to the ridge and she saw the devastation spread out for as far as she could see it was all Phoebe could do to keep moving. There were thousands of bodies, horses as well as men, scattered like broken toys in the mud and trampled corn. There were abandoned gun carriages and their deadly cargo, and the smell was so overpowering she gagged and clapped her hand over her mouth. Some buildings in front were still smoking, and there was a shimmering haze over the whole. As they moved closer she could
hear weak calls for help. She wanted to stop, but the sheer scale of the task of helping these unfortunates defeated her. They had come to try and find Henry, and she must think only of that.

‘This way, there is a road,' the earl said quietly.

‘Look, there are people helping,' Sally said, and indeed there were some men moving amongst the carnage. There were women too, weeping and calling as they searched for husbands.

Then Phoebe gasped in shock. ‘That man, he is robbing them, taking off rings and searching in pockets, not trying to help at all!'

‘What is that one doing?' Sally asked, as they passed close to a man bending over another corpse. ‘He looks – oh, no! He's pulling teeth, like a dentist! How, Why?'

‘They will sell them, for the artificial teeth some people now want,' Zachary told her. ‘Come, you can see La Belle Alliance over there. Concentrate on looking for your Henry. There is nothing you can do here to help.'

They found him, three hours later. The ground was littered with debris as well as bodies, discarded weapons, swords and guns, bayonets and pistols, helmets, knapsacks, and scabbards. Playing cards, the torn leaves of books, all sorts of paper, littered the ground or blew about. A sheet of paper fluttered on to Phoebe's saddle pommel, and instinctively she grabbed it and glanced down. It was the beginning of a letter:
My darling Minnie, we will be starting soon, but I will write further when I have a moment
. The edges of the paper were streaked with brown, dried blood, and tears came to her eyes as she thought Minnie would never receive another letter from her lover.

Henry was sitting propped against the body of a dead grey horse, rhythmically rocking to and fro. There was a livid bruise on his face and one eye was closed and puffy. His breeches were torn and stiff with dried blood. He cradled his right arm against his chest, and was moaning. As Sally flung herself from the saddle and ran to him, Phoebe heard him faintly asking for water.

She dismounted more slowly, and began to unpack the saddle-bags she had insisted on bringing. First she took out a bottle of water and went to offer it to Henry.

‘Hold it for him, Sally,' she ordered, when she saw Henry was too weak to do so. ‘And be careful of his arm, I think it may be broken. Don't let him have too much, I've some brandy here too.'

Zachary, having tethered the horses to a nearby tree, limped across to them. Kneeling down beside Henry he gently explored the leg beneath the torn breeches.

‘I think there's a bullet lodged in his calf. It would be better to get him to a doctor than try to deal with it ourselves. Can you help me lift him on to that horse you so sensibly brought?'

It was a struggle, for Henry fainted as they moved him and was incapable of helping himself, and Zachary had little strength left, but at last they had him sitting in the saddle, strapped on to keep him from falling. Then, with Sally and Phoebe riding close beside him to hold him, and Zachary leading the way, they began the long trek back to Brussels.

Phoebe concentrated on the immediate task, shutting her eyes to the horrors around them. As they passed through the village of Waterloo again, she gave the rest of the contents of a saddle-bag to a man Zachary said was a doctor. Henry had been unable to eat the food she had brought, and none of them could face eating. She had also brought bandages and
salves, but since they dared not try to deal with Henry's wounds themselves, these could perhaps be better used here.