Georgina Devon - Betrayal

Macdonell was a large Highlander, with a reputation for accomplishing what no one else could. His mouth was grimly tight. ‘Wellington has ordered us to hold the Château de Hougoumont.’

‘With what?’ Dev asked, realizing that the château’s open position made it a hard place to defend.

‘He has given me command of the Scots and Coldstream Guards, the best we have. The château occupies a strategically important place. As long as we hold it, Napoleon must split his forces in order to get to Mont Saint Jean.’ Macdonell made eye contact with each man. ‘It’s our best chance to defeat Napoleon. We must hold it or die trying.’

A frisson of excitement ran up Dev’s spine. He had never been one to ignore a challenge, not even one such as this. ‘Then we will do it.’

‘I knew I could count on you,’ Macdonell said. ‘See to your men and supplies. We have to be in place before Napoleon realizes what is happening.’

After Macdonell left, Dev turned and winked at Pat. ‘This is it, old friend. We are about to earn our place in the history books.’

Pat’s face was pale but determined, his blue eyes clear. ‘You always were one for action. I hope this isn’t your last.’

Dev clapped Pat on the back, ignoring the uneasiness his friend’s words created. ‘I’ll stand you to a bottle of Brooks’s finest port when we’re through this.’

‘And I’ll hold you to that,’ Pat said.

Dev sobered as he saw the fear return to his friend’s face. Dev knew his eyes mirrored Pat’s. ‘Good luck and God go with you,’ he said quietly before turning away.

Dev made haste to round up his troops and get them positioned. Coming from the east, they passed through an orchard before entering the walled portion of the property where the château, a chapel, and a barn stood. In reality, Hougoumont was barely more than a farmhouse, its grey stone walls bleak under a sky that had suddenly turned leaden.

The men broke loopholes into the buildings and walls for their Brown Besses to shoot through and then set about cleaning the rifles. Next, they built small fires in an attempt to dry their clothes, which were soaked from the earlier rains.

Dev made his rounds, uncomfortable in his wet jacket and breeches, but unwilling to stop long enough to dry them. Macdonell counted on him, and he would not let the man down. They would be prepared for Napoleon’s onslaught.

Once, he passed Patrick and grinned. Pat gave him a brief salute and continued his preparations.

It was after eleven in the morning when they saw the French. The enemy stormed through a hedge and into the fifty feet of barren ground that stood between them and the château. Dev ordered his men to fire. The French dropped, good British lead in their chests.

Time was a blur to Deverell. His men loaded and fired, loaded and fired. Dev paced amongst them, shouting encouragement, giving direction.

Without warning, a group of Frenchmen reached the gate of the château. A gigantic French lieutenant swung a sapper’s axe at the gate. The gate splintered.

Dev rushed forward, knowing that if the French breached the gate the battle was lost. He swung his sword in sweeping arches, using it like a machete. Around him other British soldiers did the same.

From the corner of his eye, Dev saw Colonel Macdonell put his shoulder to the gate and begin to push it closed. Dev followed suit. Men leaped to help.

Somehow the gate was closed. Dev only knew his existence had become a red haze of death and blood and survival.

The French trapped inside Hougoumont were killed or taken prisoner, the château secured once more.

The excitement that had held Dev drained away. He moved toward the grey stone wall with the intention of resting.

’Merci.’ A weak voice caught his attention. It belonged to a French drummer boy. He had been slashed in the arm and blood ran in a red rivulet down his sleeve. He was only a child.

Dev yanked the cravat from his neck and tied it securely around the boy’s arm, then yelled for one of his men. ‘See that this soldier is kept alive.’

The British ensign who took the prisoner was not much older than the Frenchman. Dev shook his head in resignation. Death and dying.

The day wore on. The French artillery pounded the château. Afternoon was well progressed. Ammunition was low.

Dev wiped sweat from his brow and prepared to exhort his men further, when smoke arose from the building behind him. The French artillery had hit a haystack. The flames spread to the barn where the wounded lay. Horses ran into the flames. Men and animals screamed.

Dev felt hot, then cold. ‘Pat,’ he yelled to his comrade, ‘see to our men. I must help those poor devils.’

Dev ran toward the fire. Another man joined him.

Dev plunged into the barn, grabbing the first person he reached. The man’s moans were pitiful, but Dev ignored them. Better to cause him pain than to lose him to the fire. He deposited him outside and went back.

Where was the French drummer? He had been near the door.

‘Boy?’ Dev yelled in French.

The answer was a ragged cough, but it was enough. Dev turned left. A figure staggered toward him, and Dev caught the slight youth. Smoke curled around them and burned Dev’s lungs as he sped toward the door.

Overhead the timbers crackled. A large snap reverberated through the murky air. A hand grabbed Dev’s leg. He slung the drummer boy over his shoulders and gripped the fingers still clinging to his leg. With a grunt, Dev pulled the other man to his feet and propelled the lumbering figure forward.

Noise reverberated through the building.

A large overhead timber gave way, crashing to the floor, bringing a curtain of fire with it. Dev threw the youth forward at the same time he shoved the older soldier toward the doorway.

Pain ripped through Dev. His right leg gave way and he tumbled to the ground. Smoke filled his mouth and burned his lungs.

His last conscious thought was: this is hell!

Pippa’s gaze darted around Brussels’s crowded, stinking streets. Wounded men lay everywhere. She could only be glad she was here. The times she had helped the local midwife and the county surgeon had given her skills which might save lives, or at least ease the passing.

Her twin might even be here. Wellington’s letter saying Philip was dead had been sent from here. Philip might be amongst the British fighting Napoleon, and Wellington might not even know.

Her mouth twisted. It was a far-fetched idea. The note was dated weeks ago, and everything pointed to her twin being dead. But she knew her twin was alive, she felt it, and this was the only place she had to start.

A cry of pain caught her attention. It was from a man, his head wrapped in bandages turned brown by dried blood. Flies buzzed around him. His cracked lips opened, and his tongue ran over them, searching for moisture that was not there.

Pippa rushed to him. Kneeling, she felt the heat of fever emanating from him. She took a dipper of tepid water from a nearby bucket and, supporting the soldier’s head with one arm, tipped the liquid into his mouth. He gulped greedily.

‘Thank ye, lad,’ the man said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Twas nothing,’ Pippa murmured, for the first time regretting her decision to disguise herself as a youth. She had done so because young men were allowed in many places where women were barred, places where there might be people with information regarding her brother. Nothing mattered more than finding Philip.

Yet, if she wore skirts, she could tear off her petticoats and make a new bandage for the man’s wound. As it was, she wore a pair of Philip’s old pantaloons and one of his shirts, her breasts bound by linen to give her the appearance of a man. She had nothing she could take off without exposing herself.