to salute the enemy, before coming to rest upon the troopers’ shoulders.
Brandon spurred his horse forward at a walk, not looking to see if the brigade would follow. As a man they all did so, moving slowly out of the woods in a wedge formation.
Down and across the ridge the brigade advanced, the three colonels with but one last thought in their minds:
First at a trot, then a canter, the brigade moved towards the battle, dodging fallen men and animals, cannonballs splashing mud about the field. Finally, Brandon lowered his sword, pointed it towards the enemy, and shouted, “SOUND THE CHARGE!”
Trumpets blaring and regimental flags flapping, a roar arose from eight hundred throats as the men rose in their saddles and leaned over their galloping mounts’ necks, sabres gleaming in the sunset. Mud flying everywhere, Brandon’s Brigade rode towards destiny.
Pain.
His whole existence was confusion. He was blisteringly hot and then bitingly cold. He was wet with sweat and then dry and feverish. The sky was startlingly bright and then inky darkness. There were horrific screams, there were quiet murmurings, and there was deathly silence. But always there was pain—waves of pain of varying intensity.
The last thing he could remember clearly was the charge. It was a riot of noise and images and smells. The brilliant colors of the uniforms slashed against the gray mist as his horse slammed into the enemy. He struck one cuirassier down, the man’s shiny breastplate offering little protection against his sabre. He ducked just as another fired a pistol, and in the next instant, his sword made quick work of him. Again and again, he struck at men and horses, his arm rising up and slashing down a thousand times, his charger firmly beneath him as he worked like a machine.
And then—everything changed. The left side of his body exploded in pain. After that—blackness.
The rest was a dream—nay, a nightmare. A crushing weight held him down, and wet mud coated his face for what seemed an eternity. Night became day. Shadowy figures moved about him. Loud shouts and gentle arms lifted him. Lifted him—every movement blazing agony. He wondered whether it was his own voice screaming—then blessed blackness again.
The nightmare was complete when he awoke to find a stub where his left arm used to be.
He drifted in a dream world where he could escape the hot, painful fog for the mist of gentle memory. Father, mother, brothers—
He wondered—was he dead? Was this heaven?
The pain would return, and he cried out for the angel—again and again and again.
A rough shaking of his cot woke him. He opened his eyes, and above him was the orderly who attended him —a man he had come to hate—grasping the end of the cot.
“’Ere we go,” the man said to his companion, who had a similar hold on the foot of the cot. They lifted the patient and his cot and began to make their way through the hospital ward.
Sudden fear lanced through the patient. “What is happening? Where are you taking me?”
“Don’t ya worry none, Colonel,” said the orderly carelessly. His tone was flat, affected only by the efforts of his current task. It held no concern for the man on the cot. He might as well have been meat. “You’re not fur the surgeon today, no. Ya got visitors, like. Got ta pretty ya up fur th’ quality.”
The sun outside was painfully glaring, so he draped his good arm over his eyes and bore the painful transit without a word of protest. Not only was it beneath an officer to complain, it would not have done a bit of good. His damn orderly had not a drop of human kindness in his black heart, he was sure of it. They were soon inside a building near the field of tents that made up the hospital outside of Brussels, and after maneuvering down a hallway, his bearers deposited him in a small room.
His orderly began to wipe his face with a wet cloth while the other tucked a fresh blanket about his body. Such were the degradations he suffered during his month in this place that he considered a clean blanket a luxury.
The orderly cursed. “Them bandages need changin’.” He turned to his partner. “Nate, step over ta th’ dispensary and fetch some new cloths. I’ve got ta clean this one up.” Nate went out the door, leaving it ajar. Meanwhile, the man returned to his chore and not at all mildly. “Damn, you’re a dirty one, ain’t ya?”
“Here now, man—gently, if you please!” cried a voice that was somewhat familiar—proud and deep, a voice used to instant obedience. The patient
For the first time in weeks, Colonel Sir John Buford opened his eyes willingly. At the door were three people —two gentlemen and a lady. The men were instantly dismissed from Buford’s attention; he focused only on the lady. She was dressed in traveling clothes, black hair peeking from under a bonnet. Her eyes were green and wet. Tender lips half-hidden by one small, gloved hand moved wordlessly. Tears ran down her cheek along skin he knew was as soft as velvet. The most dear, the most beautiful face in the world.
He gasped and croaked, “Ca… Caroline?”
Lady Caroline Buford made a sound like a hiccup. She smiled—a very teary smile—before her countenance crumbled. With a groan, she dashed to his side, pushed away the orderly, knelt, and buried her face in his chest.
“Oh, John!” she cried. “Oh, thank heaven, my John, my John.”
Weakly, Buford raised his good arm and ran the fingers of his hand over her bonnet. “Caro, Caro… what are you doing here? How?” He forced his eyes from his wife to look at the gentlemen standing by. “By God!”
They were Philip Buford and Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“By God,” he said again. “How came you to be here? Am I not still in Brussels?”
Philip knelt beside Caroline, and Buford reluctantly gave up his attentions to his wife to grasp his brother’s hand. “It is Darcy we must thank for our transport here. Yes, this is Brussels, but you shall not be here much longer. We have come to take you home.”
“Home? Home to England?”
“As soon as we get you to Antwerp and aboard the boat—yes.”
Buford turned his attention to the weeping woman on his chest. “Caro, my love, this is a miracle.” His hand left Philip’s and slid under Caroline’s bonnet. “A miracle—the babe!” Buford’s eyes shot wide open. “The babe! You must leave this instant! There is disease here!” Panicked, he turned to the others. “You must get her out of here!”
She tightened her grip on her husband. “No, I will not leave you!”
“Caroline, you must!” He looked to the others. “Help me!”
“Do not concern yourself, John,” said Philip. “We leave this very day. All will be well.”
Meanwhile, Darcy spoke to the orderly. “We have papers that allow us to leave with Sir John. You will gather his things and bring them to our carriage.”
The orderly frowned. “See ’ere, I ain’t his servant!”
Darcy’s voice was cold and sharp. “I have your orders. You will be paid for your services.
“I can’t be held responsible fur that!” the orderly complained.
Darcy raised his chin. “Then I would be thorough if I were you.” Darcy jerked his head towards the door. The orderly, completely cowed, quickly left.
Caroline turned, sniffed, and said with a small smile, “Bravo, Darcy. I could not have done better myself.”
Two spots of color graced Darcy’s cheeks, but he only nodded his head. “Mr. Buford and I will see to the
