Authors: M. A. Sandiford
51
The bells of the St Michael
and Gudula cathedral chimed two in the morning as their carriage at last turned
into
Rue de la Violette
. Darcy sat up front beside Burgess; on his left,
Elizabeth clung to his arm, a blanket draped over her shoulders and her head resting
on his shoulder. Inside, on the cushioned seats, Colonel Fitzwilliam lay next
to another officer, more seriously wounded, to be transferred to the Minimes
hospital if there was room.
The forecourt was busy, even at this late
hour. Burgess manoeuvred into a spot opposite the coach-house, which like the
stables had been adapted as a hospital extension. A footman was still awake,
and with his help they carried Colonel Fitzwilliam inside, while a maid was roused
to attend Elizabeth.
Their arrival also woke the Viscount,
who joined Darcy in the lounge and offered a restorative brandy.
‘We have brought another officer from
the 52
nd
,’ Darcy explained. ‘He has grape-shot wounds down his right
leg, and the physician advised bringing him to a hospital in town where an
amputation can be performed in greater safety. My plan was to take him to the
Minimes.’
The Viscount shook his head. ‘The Minimes
is already overwhelmed; that is why my daughter has opened a new ward in the
coach-house. Let the officer rest here tonight, and I’ll ask my personal
physician to see him tomorrow. Perhaps after all the leg can be saved.’
‘But have you room?’
The Viscount paced the carpet, thinking.
‘We had to accommodate a surgeon in the room which Miss Bennet used before.
Your room is still free, but not large enough for two. We could move a mattress
into the colonel’s bedroom.’
‘Why not put the injured officer in my room?
I will move in with my cousin.’
‘Very well,’ The Viscount called a
servant and issued rapid instructions. ‘If you can overlook the discomfort.’
‘I’m so tired that I would sleep soundly
on the kitchen table. But what of Miss Bennet?’
‘She will share with Lorraine.’
‘A pity your daughter must be
disturbed.’
The Viscount spread his hands
helplessly. ‘She is still at work in the coach-house. I tell her repeatedly to
rest, but she will not hear of it.’
Darcy sighed. ‘I wish I could report
that the crisis will ease, but in truth it is only starting. The numbers of the
wounded are staggering, and as they are transferred from field hospitals to
Brussels, the city will bear most of the strain.’
‘It is a small price to pay.’ The
Viscount refilled their glasses. ‘These fine men have ended Bonaparte’s regime
for ever. King Louis will be restored, and with God’s help these perpetual wars
will cease, and we can all return to normal co-existence.’
Elizabeth stirred as the bed
creaked and someone slid under the covers. Confused, she believed for a moment
that she was back at the hotel in Oriago—a scene that had provoked
strange dreams more than once.
‘Who …’
‘
C’est moi
,’ Lorraine de Crécy
whispered. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘No. I mean, yes, but it doesn’t
matter.’ Lorraine had extinguished her candle, but Elizabeth could see her dimly
in the moonlight. ‘What time is it?’
‘Past three.’ Lorraine touched her arm.
‘I’m so relieved that you and your friends are safe.’
‘Have you been working all this time?’
‘It is hard to stop when men are
arriving day and night. The nuns cannot cope. We have to recruit volunteers and
train them by example.’ She stretched, and groaned. ‘My back is killing me.
Father said you helped at the field hospital.’
‘Yes, washing and dressing wounds.’
‘Conditions must be appalling there.
Worse than in the city hospitals …’ Lorraine paused. ‘What are your plans?’
Elizabeth lay back, recalling a
discussion with Darcy on the coach. ‘It will depend on Colonel Fitzwilliam. We
hope to bring him to England. Until he is fit to travel, we must stay here.’
‘Will you return to the field hospital?’
‘No. Mr Darcy may pass by Merbe Braine
to organise transport to the city, but they have less need for nurses.’
Lorraine smiled. ‘So, my dear Elizabeth,
we may find work for you here!’
52
Thursday 22
nd
June
On a humid afternoon, Elizabeth toured a
stables in
Rue du Lombard
which had been converted to a ward for men
recovering from head wounds. Her role had shifted from direct nursing to
supervision, as the improvised hospitals recruited servant girls capable of
performing practical tasks more deftly than she could. Her value now lay partly
in translating; she had acquired a vocabulary of French medical terms by
late-night study with Lorraine. Additionally, she had examined such a wide range
of injuries that she could judge when a physician had to be called urgently,
and prescribe simple treatments on her own. Like Lorraine, she was wearing the
uniform used at the Minimes for lay nurses.
Darcy’s role was also changing. While Burgess
plied the roads between Waterloo and Brussels, ferrying urgent cases to the
city, Darcy took over Colonel Fitzwilliam’s duties in recording casualties and
writing to families. This still required travel, not only to Merbe Braine but
to Mont St Jean, where some men from the 52
nd
had ended up after
chasing the Imperial Guard into the centre of the battlefield. But much of it
could be done in the office, allowing Darcy to spend time with his cousin, and
consult him when necessary.
A new batch had arrived, and the ward at
Rue du Lombard
was filling up. Elizabeth had trained two maids from the
owner’s household to perform the simple tasks she had learned from Soeur
Gabrielle, and taught them English words for body parts, weapons, and symptoms such
as pain, fever and thirst. What the maids could
not
manage was
conversation: asking how the injury had been sustained, how it had been treated
at the field hospital, and whether the patient had special requests. Elizabeth
passed along the row, checking for cases that might be particularly urgent,
then froze with shock.
Could it be?
The man was barely conscious, and much
of his scalp was hidden by a rough bandage, but
those features
, that impudent
smirk engrained at the corners of the mouth …
She leaned over him and whispered: ‘Mr
Wickham?’
He opened an eye, and flinched.
‘You?’
She knelt beside him. ‘I’m overjoyed to
find you alive, sir. Can you talk?’
He blinked, as if absorbing her words
was a huge effort. ‘Darcy?’
‘Do you want to see him?’
He shivered. ‘No. Drink?’
She called in French to a maid, who
brought a glass of wine diluted in water. Afraid of choking him, she scooped a
small amount with a spoon, and held it between his lips.
‘You’ll like this. The owner keeps a
good cellar.’
He slurped it down, with the hint of a
grin. ‘More.’
Patiently she continued spooning the
liquid. ‘Are you in bad pain?’
‘Just weak.’
‘May I examine your wound?’
He flinched, and she pulled her hand
back. ‘I’ll be very gentle.’
He grunted. ‘Not a pretty sight.’
‘I’m used to that. Hold still.’
Very carefully she unwound the dirty
linen, so stained in blood that she suspected it had been re-used from another
patient. The blood was coming from a deep groove on the right side of the head,
where a musket ball or piece of grapeshot must have ploughed into the skull,
perhaps lodging there.
She wiped with a sponge to get a clearer
look. ‘What caused this?’
‘Musket.’
‘Is the ball still inside?’
He shook his head. ‘Surgeon took it
out.’
‘Listen, I’m going to get a doctor. I
should be back in twenty minutes.’
He nodded, and she called a maid over to
apply a clean bandage.
An assistant surgeon named Lebrun
was touring external wards. Elizabeth caught up with him at one of the largest
venues, a count’s coach house, and he agreed to pass by as soon as he was finished
there.
She returned at leisure, enjoying the fresh
air—a welcome change from the disgusting smells of the ward. Her first
thought had been to send a servant, but she was glad now that she had come
herself. The original motive had been practical: she believed her personal plea
would yield a quicker response. Escaping the stables, even for a few minutes,
was icing on the cake.
By the time she had reviewed the other
new cases, Monsieur Lebrun arrived, with an orderly. Elizabeth sat with Wickham,
trying to divert him with gossip from Jane’s letters, while Lebrun examined
another patient. Finally Lebrun came over and spoke to Wickham.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Dizzy. Sick.’
‘Can you recall where you fell?’
‘Only what I was told. Later.’
Lebrun raised fingers. ‘How many?’
‘Three.’
‘You recognised Miss Bennet straight
away?’
He nodded, eyes losing focus as he
submitted to the surgeon’s examination.
Lebrun drew Elizabeth aside and lowered
his voice. ‘I think with good care he should pull through. He must lie still,
and sleep as much as possible, to conserve energy. As you see, there is a hole
and some cracking in the skull. This can be repaired later by fitting a silver
plate.’
She found Darcy in Colonel
Fitzwilliam’s office, writing letters. In a trembling voice, fearing his
reaction, she told him what had happened.
He received the news in silence, a deep
frown suggesting either that he was dismayed, or simply thinking: she could not
tell which.
Eventually he asked, ‘What level of care
is he receiving at present?’
‘Rudimentary.’
‘Then we should intervene. Whatever we
may think of Mr Wickham, he is your sister’s husband, and has by all accounts
fought bravely. Can you take me to him?’
She hesitated. ‘I think he fears you.’
‘That is one reason I would like to see
him.’
As they walked the short distance to
Rue
du Lombard
, she asked Darcy about his desk work.
‘I’ve been writing letters for families
of those who fell in the 52
nd
. So far we have the names of 38
officers and men.’
She thought of the hundreds of men she
had treated. ‘It sounds a large number, but perhaps it is not.’
‘That is correct. In a regiment of over
a thousand men our casualties were relatively light, since the 52
nd
took the field later in the battle.’
‘What can you say to the families?’
‘We express regret, of course, but I
have tried also to include details of what these men did, and how they died. I
spent much of yesterday touring hospitals to talk with our wounded, to get
their reports. Of course some editing is necessary. Then I take the letters to
my cousin, who signs them.’
Elizabeth observed as Darcy carried
a stool to the bedside. Wickham, who had been dozing, opened an eye, and
flinched.
‘So, George.’ Darcy spoke gently. ‘We
meet again.’
‘It was just a dance,’ Wickham muttered.
Darcy smiled. ‘I hardly expected you of
all people to turn up in Brussels.’
‘Like the proverbial bad penny …’
Elizabeth stepped forward, encouraged by
Wickham’s fluency—perhaps he was recovering from the pounding in the
wagon. ‘I was glad to dance with Mr Wickham, and his behaviour was
gentlemanlike.’
‘Hear that, Darcy?’ Wickham looked away,
reddening, and muttered, ‘What’s the use? You’ll never give me a fair chance.’
Darcy snorted. ‘Fair chance? Who paid
compensation when you renounced the living? Who arranged your marriage and paid
off your debts? Who did all this and more,
despite
your abuse of … my
family?’ Darcy held up a palm, forestalling objections. ‘You know, in your
heart, that all this is so. But one more thing needs to be said. What you do
not
know is that just before the battle was decided, I found myself on the hill
above the chateau, and saw the French infantry climbing to the ridge where you
and your comrades were hiding. Of course I could not identify individuals, but
I spoke later to a man in your platoon who confirmed that you were there. I
watched as you and your comrades rose, formed into lines, and poured round after
round into the French ranks, keeping your discipline even as they returned
fire. It was the bravest action I ever saw, and quite possibly turned the
battle.’
Wickham stared at him. After a long
silence, he cleared his throat and said in a creaking voice, ‘I cannot remember
any of it.’
‘You fell, but only after standing your
ground for four or five rounds, and downing several of the enemy.’
Elizabeth had expected Wickham to gloat
at receiving such praise, from such a source, but instead he scowled, as if
ashamed at his own heroism. ‘We had no choice.’
‘Pardon?’
‘They shoot runaways.’
Darcy touched his arm. ‘Come, George,
accept that for once you acted honourably, and let us discuss what is to be
done. Miss Bennet and I are lodged nearby with a family that has taken in a
number of patients, including my cousin. I believe that you would be more
comfortable there, and receive superior treatment. If you agree, I will ask for
you to be moved.’
Wickham looked anxiously at Elizabeth,
as if seeking confirmation that this could be true.
‘It will be best,’ she said. ‘We can
arrange it.’
His face softened. ‘Then I am in your
debt.’
53
Monday 26
th
June
Darcy rode south, paying a final visit to
the village of Merbe Braine. Burgess had left with the carriage earlier in the
morning, with instructions to wait there. Before closing down the operation,
Darcy wanted to ensure that all patients had been transferred to the
city—excepting those who could not safely be moved.
The huge task of clearing up after the
battle was continuing. By comparing statistics with officers from other
regiments, they estimated British losses as 3000 dead and 10000 wounded;
another 2000 were unaccounted. These casualties added up to a quarter of
Wellington’s army; the other three-quarters were now advancing on Paris. Bonaparte
was still at large, but it was rumoured that he would shortly abdicate and go
into hiding. All coalition armies, including the Prussians and Dutch, were now
occupied with the invasion of France, leaving it to the Walloons to cope with
the aftermath of the battle.
Convoys of wounded still came from the
field hospital at Mont St Jean, keeping Lorraine de Crécy and Elizabeth busy
until late into the evening. However, the days of two or three hours sleep were
over. More and more wards had been set up in private houses; servants had been
trained in simple nursing; surgeons had come from Antwerp, Mons and Ghent.
Elizabeth had recovered her strength, and performed the daunting work calmly.
Late at night, sipping brandy with the de Crécys, she looked fulfilled, even
radiant. Their conversation too had changed. There was no sarcasm, quarrelling,
or teasing, and only sporadic flashes of wit or erudition. It was as if, now
that they had genuinely important things to say, they had less need for these
embellishments—just as wholesome food had less need for spice. Nobody
needed to be clever, personalities retreated into the background, and they
simply talked.
The patients, too, were on the mend.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s concussion had passed, except for a slight headache, and
his wound was clearing up after a course with maggots. Wickham had been moved
to a small bed in the Vicomte’s box room, and examined by a specialist in head
injuries. The treatment was simply to lie still, so that the skull could
re-knit, then affix a plate. The physician removed a few fragments of bone with
tweezers. Without a deep cut there was no call for leeches; a little honey was
smeared on, to reduce festering, and a clean bandage applied. Of course with
Wickham there would be problems. Often bored, he did his best to charm the
maids, and pester the footmen into playing cards; luckily, he passed much of
the day asleep.
Darcy had asked Madame Villeneuve
to take in Corporal Harold Dunne, hoping that his condition might improve under
her excellent care. The trip from the field hospital, during the battle, had
been so rough that it was surprising the corporal had survived the day. Since
then, he had lain in constant discomfort from a cough, as well as difficulty in
breathing. His wife, also badly shaken up, had spent two long days in labour,
becoming so weak that she had sadly passed away after delivery of a baby boy.
Reaching Merbe Braine, Darcy learned that
the situation had taken another turn for the worse: he found Madame Villeneuve
distressed, and her patient dead.
Darcy went to the tiny bedroom, once
occupied by his cousin, and saw the corporal laid out. He asked what had
happened, his French now good enough to follow the answer. Corporal Dunne had
always wanted a boy, planning to hand down his own name, Harold; but news of
his wife’s death had soured what should have been a happy event, and he had
faded rapidly.
Arrangements were made. Two patients
could be taken to Brussels; the villagers would bury Corporal Dunne and his
wife in a brief ceremony. The baby was brought out—a plump little fellow
with a square wrinkled face—and consigned to Darcy’s care. Luckily
Burgess was ferrying another wife back to the city; she agreed to take the baby
so that Darcy could ride ahead.
Elizabeth cradled the baby, now wrapped
in a clean white shawl. ‘So sad. What can we do?’
It was nearly six o’clock—dinner
hour in the de Crécy household—and they were in the
salon
. Darcy poured
two glasses of sherry from a decanter. ‘Responsibility is not ours, since
Corporal Dunne was in the 71
st
Foot. However, it was I that brought Dunne
to Merbe Braine, and he hailed from a village named Rodmersham in Kent—no
great distance from our route into London. If you agree, I would like to take
the infant there, and search for relatives who might adopt him.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘I will be happy to
look after him.’
‘We can find a nursemaid to accompany
us.’
‘How?’
‘I know of several Englishwomen who find
themselves stranded here after their menfolk left, or fell in the battle. For
instance, among the camp followers in the 52
nd
was a woman named
Martha Briggs, who helped with repairing the road as well as nursing.’
Elizabeth looked up. ‘Rosie’s mother! I
met her at the field hospital. What happened to her husband?’
‘He marched off unscathed towards Paris.
Mrs Briggs stayed behind because she wanted to return home. She is working in
Brussels while the 52
nd
organises her transport. Burgess has her address.’
‘Perfect! Let us ask her immediately.’
‘I’ll put Burgess on the job.’ Darcy
watched her dandle the baby, moved by the domesticity of the scene. ‘I hope that
in a few days we can leave for Ostend. Colonel Fitzwilliam is fast improving.’
‘And Mr Wickham?’
‘Will have to stay several weeks longer.
The Viscount offered to keep him here until there is room at the Minimes. After
that, the First Yorkshires can look after him.’
Elizabeth looked away, her eyes moist.
‘It is an absurd thing to say, but I shall be sorry to go.’
He nodded. ‘The experience of a
lifetime.’
‘Yes.’ She regarded him earnestly. ‘I am
so grateful that you allowed me to play my part.’
‘We were desperately short. Whatever my
misgivings, it was necessary. For the men.’
She whispered, ‘For me too.’