Читать книгу A Regency Gentleman's Passion - Diane Gaston - Страница 13

Gabe made his way back to his hotel as if wearing blinders, noticing no one and nothing, not even the weather. On previous mornings, he’d savoured this same walk, enjoying all the sights and sounds, savouring the fresh morning air. This morning his mind was as mechanical as an automaton, turning it over and over that Emmaline was lost to him.

Back in his room at the Hôtel de Flandre Gabe shaved and changed. He would regain control of his emotions, he told himself. There were plenty of women in the world besides Emmaline, women with whom to share brief moments of pleasure. It would be enough. No longer would he dream of a home, a wife, a family. He would remain in the army where he belonged.

Conjuring up visions of another life had been a momentary lapse of sanity.

As a soldier he had one duty now. For Emmaline he had compromised that duty, delaying the report that the French were near, but he would delay no longer.

Gabe went straight to the Allied Army headquarters. As he entered the white-stone building, the two men he least desired to encounter walked towards him: Edwin Tranville, the man who’d tried to rape Emmaline, and his father, General Lord Tranville. The general had managed to inherit a title since Gabe had last seen him.

“What are you doing here, Deane?” the general barked. As a greeting, it was one of Tranville’s most cordial. His son, whose face bore a scar from his temple to his mouth, created by Emmaline’s knife, did not even bother to acknowledge him.

“Sir.” Gabe bowed to the general, a respect the man did not deserve. “I need to see Wellington or one of his aides-de-camp.”

“You?” Tranville’s brows rose. “What reason could you possibly have to see the Duke or his aides?”

If Tranville had not been Gabe’s superior officer, he would not have replied. “The French army has crossed into Belgium.”

Tranville frowned. “How can you know that? What evidence do you have?”

“I encountered a French soldier in the city last night.” This was wasting Gabe’s time.

Tranville’s eyes narrowed. “Encountered? Where?”

Gabe glanced from the general to his son, who was now leaning against the wall, as if needing it to keep him upright. How much did Edwin remember about that night in Badajoz? Gabe wondered. Had he told his father about it?

No matter what, Gabe refused to lead them to Emmaline. “I saw him on the street.”

Tranville laughed. “On the street? Not having a casual stroll through the Parc? Do not be a damned fool. If you saw anything at all, it was probably a Dutch infantryman.”

“I did not mistake the uniform. The man was not desiring to be seen and why would a Dutch infantryman be trying to hide?”

Why did he even bother arguing with Tranville? Gabe did not care if Tranville believed him or not. “In any event, I feel it is my duty to report it.”

Tranville’s nostrils flared. “Do not mention this to Wellington. Do not waste his Grace’s time.”

Gabe shrugged. “To one of his aides, then.”

Tranville huffed. “You will say nothing. Am I making myself clear? Your duty has been discharged by making your report to me.”

Gabe persisted. “And you will pass on this information?”

The general’s voice rose. “As I am your superior officer, you will not question what I will or will not do. The Duchess of Richmond is giving a ball tonight, in case you did not know, and I will not have his Grace and other gentlemen distracted by this foolishness.” He emphasized the word gentlemen.

When General Tranville became Gabe’s superior officer, he had made certain that Gabe did not rise in rank past captain. The general did not believe in field promotions or those based on merit. Gabe had come from the merchant class and only true gentlemen advanced the proper way, by purchasing a higher rank. It was a matter of pride to Gabe that he did not advance through purchase, although his family, and now he, could have afforded it.

Tranville waved a dismissive hand. “Go see to your men or whatever nonsense you must attend to. You can have no further business here.”

A string of invectives rushed to the tip of Gabe’s tongue. He clamped his teeth together.

“Yes, sir!” he responded, bowing and performing a precise about-face.

Gabe walked away, keeping a slow pace so that Tranville would not suspect he’d been roused to anger.

As he reached the door to the outside, he heard Edwin drawl, “How very tiresome.”

Later that evening Gabe learned his information had been accurate and that General Tranville had not passed it on. Wellington heard about Napoleon’s march towards Brussels at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, a good twelve hours after Gabriel reported it to Tranville. Wellington was said to have remarked, “Napoleon has humbugged me, by God. He has gained twenty-four hours’ march on me.”

Gabe would have saved Wellington half that time.

The next day Gabe’s regiment, the Royal Scots, joined other Allied forces at Quatre Bras where they met the French. How quickly it all came back, the pounding of cannon, the thundering of horses, battle cries and wounded screams, a terrible, familiar world, more real to Gabe than his idyll at Brussels. The fighting was hard, but almost comforting in its familiarity.

Musket volleys assaulted Gabe and his men. Six times steel-helmeted cuirassiers charged at them with slashing swords.

As Gabe yelled to his soldiers to stand fast, he scanned the French cavalry thundering towards them. Was Emmaline’s Claude among them? Would Gabe see her son struck down? Would his own sword be forced to do the deed?

The weather turned foul. Black storm clouds rolled in and soon thunder and lightning competed with the roar of cannon. Late in the battle Gabe glimpsed the cuirassiers charging upon the 69th Regiment, seizing their colours. Feeling traitorous, Gabe blew out a relieved breath. If the French cuirassiers had been vanquished, Claude would have had a greater chance of being one of the casualties. Gabe prayed Claude had survived.

For Emmaline’s sake.

The battle ended in a great deal of mud, with neither side the victor, and both the Allies and the French retreated.

The following day Gabe’s regiment marched to a location Wellington had chosen to next engage Napoleon, near a village called Waterloo.

That night the rain continued to fall in thick, unrelenting sheets, soaking the earth into mud. Gabe and Allan Landon, now a captain like himself, were fortunate to share a reasonably dry billet with another officer. After Badajoz, Gabe had become good friends with Landon, although their temperaments and backgrounds were often directly opposed to each other. Landon, with his rigid sense of right and wrong, came from an aristocratic family and had, God help him, political ambitions.

Gabe would rather impale himself on his sword than deal with politics.

Good thing he had never told Landon about partaking of the spoils of war. At Vittoria, in Spain, Napoleon’s brother, Joseph Bonaparte, had fled in panic, abandoning his riches, which were scattered across a field, tempting even the most honest of men. Gabe, like countless other soldiers, had filled his pockets. Not Landon, though. Landon had been appalled.

The shack’s roof pounded with the rain. Gabe and Landon huddled near their small fire that gave them little relief from the chill.

One of the junior officers, streams of water dripping off the capes of his cloak, appeared in their doorway of their shack. “General Tranville wants to see you, Captains.”

Gabe groaned. “More nonsense. I’ll make a wager with you.”

Landon clapped him on the back. “You know I never gamble.”

They wrapped themselves in their cloaks and dashed through the downpour to the peasant’s hut that Tranville had made his billet.

“Mind your boots! Mind your boots!” Tranville shouted as they entered. Edwin, a sour look on his scarred face, manned the door.

They cleaned as much of the mud off as they could, the rain sneaking down the collars of their coats. After closing the door behind them, Edwin took a swig from a flask. Some sort of spirits, Gabe reckoned.

Tranville barked orders at them, nothing more than mere posturing, however.

He fixed the men with what he must have thought was a steely glare. “I’ll have no laggardly behaviour, do you hear? You tell your men they are to hop to or they’ll answer to me.”

“Yes, sir!” chirped a young lieutenant.

Gabe put on his most bland expression. He could endure Tranville for this brief period, but only because it was warm and dry in the hut.

“Landon,” Tranville went on, “I want you to find Picton tonight. See if he has any message for me.”

General Picton was the commander of the 5th Division of which the Royal Scots were a part. Landon’s task was to carry messages for Picton and Tranville during the battle, but it was ridiculous to send Landon out in this weather merely on the off chance Picton might have a message.

Landon must have had the same reaction. He glanced over to the small window, its wooden shutters clattering from the wind and rain. “Yes, sir.”

“And stay available to me tomorrow. I may need you during the battle.”

Landon knew that already, of course. “Yes, sir.”

Tranville nodded in obvious approval. His gaze drifted to Gabe and his lips pursed, but luckily his glance continued to his son, who was sitting on a stool sneaking sips from his flask.

There was a knock on the door and Tranville signalled for Edwin to open it. With a desultory expression, Edwin complied.

“Oh, Good God,” Edwin drawled, stepping aside.

Jack Vernon, the ensign—now lieutenant—who’d been with them in Badajoz, stood in the doorway.

Gabe poked Landon to call his attention to Vernon. He noticed that Tranville caught his gesture and quickly erased any expression from his face.

Vernon slanted a glance at Gabe and Landon before turning back to Tranville and handing him a message.

Tranville snatched the paper from Vernon’s hand and snapped at him, “You will wait for my reply.”

Gabe exchanged another glance with Landon. This was not the first time Vernon and Tranville had encountered each other, obviously. Whatever had transpired between them had left them acrimonious.

Tranville stretched his arm and seemed to be writing as slowly as he could. He dragged out this interaction with Vernon, presuming it would annoy the lieutenant, no doubt. Finally Tranville said, “Leave now.”

Landon spoke up, “With your permission, I’ll leave now, as well.”

“Go.” He waved him away.

Vernon left, Landon right behind him.

“Do you have further need of me?” asked Gabe.

“Of course not,” snapped Tranville. “All of you go.”

Once outside Tranville’s billet, Landon and Gabe pulled Vernon aside. “Do you have time for some tea?” Landon asked.

Vernon nodded gratefully.

They led him through the rain to the shack and heated a kettle on the small fire. The third officer in the billet lay snoring in a corner.

When they finally warmed their hands on the tin mugs of tea, Vernon glanced to their sleeping mate and back to them. “I need to tell you. I broke my word about keeping silent about Badajoz. I was forced to tell General Tranville.”

Gabe straightened. “Tranville!”

Vernon held up his hand. “It was not something I wished to do, but I had little choice. I showed him the drawings I made of the incident. Tranville threatened my family; the only way I could silence him was by threatening to expose Edwin. You are safe,” he assured them. “I did not show enough to identify you, not even your uniforms.”

“Did you show the woman’s face? Or her son’s?” Gabe asked, his chest tightening.

Vernon shook his head.

Relieved, Gabe rubbed his face. “Damned Tranville. I hope some Frenchman puts a ball through his head.”

“Watch your tongue, Gabe,” Landon cautioned, gesturing to their sleeping roommate.

Vernon rose. “I had better deliver my message.”

Gabe shook his hand.

Before he walked out he turned to Gabe. “What of the woman, Captain? Do you think she found a safe place for herself and her son?”

“She did,” Gabe answered. “In fact, she lives in Brussels. I saw her there.”

Landon sat up straight. “You did not tell me that.”

Gabe shrugged. There was no more he wanted to say.

“And the boy?” Vernon asked.

Gabe looked from one to the other. “In the army.” Let them think he had joined a Belgian regiment.

After Vernon left, Landon turned to Gabe. “How did you come to know the woman was in Brussels?”

“I encountered her by chance.” Which was almost the truth, if you didn’t add that he deliberately pursued her all the way to her shop.

“I thought she was French,” Landon said.

“She came to Belgium to live with a relative, she said.” He did not wish to talk about her. “I do not know a great deal more.”

Except everything she’d shared as they lay in each other’s arms after making love. Except how her smile seemed to make colours brighter. How the warmth of her skin made him feel as if he’d come home at last.

Landon dropped the subject and soon left to find Picton. For the rest of the night Gabe tried to ignore the water dripping from the ceiling and the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls. Mostly he tried not to think of Emmaline, how comforting it felt to sleep next to her, how wrenching it felt to lose her.

He needed sleep before facing cannonade, charging cavalry and thousands of soldiers marching towards them to the sound of the Pas de Charge.

The next day the rain dwindled to a light drizzle, but did not cease until mid-morning when the sun was finally visible again. Everyone prepared for what they knew would be the main battle.

Gabe conferred with his lieutenants and saw to the readiness of his company, ensuring they had dry powder and plenty of ammunition. His uniform was damp from the incessant rain, but those of his men were soaked through. As the sun heated the air, clouds of vapor rose from their coats and from the ground, lending an eerie cast to the scene.

The two armies faced each other across a gently sloping valley at a right angle to the Brussels road. One farm, La Haye Sainte, fortified by the King’s German Legion, was on one side of the valley. Hougoumont, another farm, occupied by the Coldstream Guards, was on the other. Gabe’s Royal Scots, along with other regiments of British, Dutch, German and Belgian troops, were strung the length between the farms with the forest of Soignes to their backs. Wellington ordered these troops to remain on the back slope of the ridge, so for most of them the battle was heard and not seen. Gabe witnessed a bit more from horseback. He watched the first attack on Hougoumont a little before noon, the first action of the day. Two hours later it was the Royal Scots’ turn. The formidable French column advanced into the valley. The ground trembled under their feet. Their drums pounded in the Allies’ ears as they marched up the hill.

The Royal Scots and the other regiments were ready. Hidden behind the crest, Gabe held his men back until Picton gave the order. All at once the British rose up in front of the French column and fired. Front ranks, standing shoulder to shoulder, fired on order, then dropped down to reload. Those behind them moved forwards and fired. Front ranks advanced again. Volley after non-stop volley poured into the French columns. Countless Frenchmen fell, only to be trampled on by the hoards of their comrades marching behind them.

Gabe rode along the line of his men, urging them to stand and keep firing, but, as devastating as their muskets were, there were simply too many enemy soldiers coming at them. In seconds they would be overpowered.

All was not lost. The British cavalry came in the nick of time, charging down the hill, routing the French infantry. Gabe cheered the French infantry’s frantic retreat. He watched the cavalry cut a swathe through the fleeing men, slaughtering them as if scything grain.

The sight brought relief, but no pleasure, and soon turned to horror. The British cavalry were cut off by French cuirassiers. The tables were turned, and now it was the British on the run and the French cavalry on the slaughter.

Was Emmaline’s Claude among them? Gabe wondered. Was he quenching his thirst for vengeance, or had he already fallen? Claude was too young and new to battle to hone the instinct for survival that became second nature to veteran soldiers, an instinct that had served Gabe well.

By four o’clock, fighting continued around Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte and Gabe prepared for another attack of infantry. Again the men were pulled back to the far side of the ridge. Gabe rode to the crest of the hill to see for himself what they would face next. Again the ground trembled, but this time with the pounding of horses’ hooves. Like a huge, unstoppable wave thousands of French cavalry, line after line of them, charged directly towards them.

Wellington gave the order to form square, a battlefield formation where men stood three deep, a line presenting bayonets, a line to fire, a line to reload. Cavalry horses would not charge into the bayonets and the muskets could fire at will. The interior of the square sheltered the wounded, the artillerymen and the officers, whose job it was to make sure the men stood fast, kept shooting and closed any gap.

“Fire at the horses,” Gabe shouted to his men. Without his horse, a cavalryman was helpless.

Gabe wound up in the same square as Landon, who, thank God, was unscathed. Gabe might have got his wish about General Tranville. He’d been seen falling from his horse during that first infantry charge and no one had seen him since. His son Edwin, coward that he was, had disappeared at the beginning of the battle. Gabe presumed he was hiding somewhere that cannon fire and musket balls could not reach.

“Fire at the horses,” Gabe yelled again. “Stand fast.”

Gabe’s square held and, as far as he could tell, the other British squares held as well, even though the French charged again and again. Between charges Landon rode off to render assistance to Hougoumont, which was now on fire. Gabe stayed with his company, their numbers dwindling with each attack, the square becoming smaller and smaller.

The ground around them was littered with dead and dying horses and men, their screams melding with the boom of cannon and crack of musket fire. The air filled with smoke and it was difficult to see much further than ten to twelve feet.

Between cavalry attacks, Gabe worried that the French would train their artillery on the squares, or that more columns of infantry would join the charge. Neither happened. Just more cavalry. As the latest onslaught neared, a gap formed on one side of the square. Gabe rode to it. “Close the gap,” he ordered.

A cuirassier on a dark bay horse rode directly for the opening, but Gabe’s men fired on him as they closed ranks again. The rider jerked like a rag doll as several balls hit him. The horse was such a beauty, Gabe was glad his men had missed it. Its rider tumbled from the saddle as the horse ran on. The man rolled towards the square, landing about four feet from Gabe. His helmet came off and bounced into the body of a French comrade.

Facing Gabe was the youthful countenance of Claude Mableau. The boy struggled to rise. One of his men aimed his musket at him.

“Do not fire,” Gabe cried, dismounting. “He’s no threat.” He ran out of the square and grabbed Claude by the collar, dragging him inside to where the other wounded lay.

“A Frenchie, Captain?” one of the man asked.

“Spare him,” Gabe ordered, not caring if the man thought him soft on the French. “He’s just a boy.”

Emmaline’s boy.