The general then led his horse through them and charged the enemy alone. Samuel spurred his horse to follow and held up his sabre and yelled, ‘To Wellington!’
He heard the gallop of Gordon’s horse beside him and, for a moment, thought that they were going to be a three-man charge against an entire column of French infantry.
Then he heard the Brunswickers echo his call. ‘To Wellington! To Wellington! To Wellington!’
Samuel turned to see the black cloud of Brunswickers running towards him, and he continued onward. He rode straight into the enemy’s line and began to stab at every man in his reach. He ducked and heard a bullet sail over his head. Turning his horse around, he circled back towards the Brunswickers, who were slaughtering the enemy before them.
He heard Alexander cry out in agony. His friend had been hit by a bullet in the leg, but he could not stop to help him.
‘Go on! Go on!’ Wellington yelled. ‘They won’t stand. Don’t give them a chance to rally.’
A bullet whizzed by Samuel’s ear.
‘Sir, you need to retreat back to safety,’ Samuel insisted. ‘You’re within firing range.’
‘Never mind, let them fire away. The battle’s gained, my life’s of no consequence now. We must clear the field and keep the French retreating.’
Samuel raised his sabre above his head and charged one of the few remaining French squares of soldiers. He stabbed two men, and then he felt a bullet hit him high in the chest. His hands slackened on his sabre and on the horse’s reins. Sliding off the horse, he fell face down into the mud and blood. He lifted his head up and fought to keep consciousness. He’d promised Frederica to do everything in his power to get back to her. Memories of her flashed in his mind: summer days swimming at Hampford Castle, bread and cheese picnics, kissing in the orchard, waltzing at balls, and their precious time as man and wife. Then the darkness consumed him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Agroup of Highlanders yelled in broad Scottish accents, ‘Boney’s beat! Boney’s beat! Boney’s beat! Huzzah! Huzzah! Boney’s beat!’
Frederica turned to look at the window and saw Highlanders throwing their bonnets in the air and yelling again. She looked for Mark, but did not see him.
It was over.
After months of preparation and days of fear, the great battle was finally over. Great Britain and her allies had defeated Napoleon a second time. Clutching her side, she exhaled with relief. They had been victorious and now all she needed was to see Samuel. To make sure that he was okay. She wanted her quarrelling-ever-after ending. He’d promised her that even girls who do not follow the rules of society could still have happy endings.
‘I must obtain news of Samuel.’
Mama was already dressed in her pelisse and bonnet. She kissed Frederica’s cheek. ‘I will send Jim. I wish I could go for you, but there are so many wounded officers that need my help at the hospital. It is a good thing we brought plenty of your soap. I am almost down to my last bar.’
She didn’t doubt that Jim would do his best to find out what he could, but a duchess would learn a great deal more than a footman. ‘I am well enough to walk, Mama. I promise you.’
Sighing, her mother nodded her head. ‘At least bring Jim with you. The streets are still not safe.’
Her chin quivered and she tugged at her collar. Mama and Miss Wade had spent the previous day from dawn to dusk at a makeshift hospital in a church, whilst she had lain in bed to recover. Mama told her last night that there was so much to do. Men to feed. Wash. And write to their loved ones. Some would survive with missing limbs, others would not. Frederica should be helping them this morning, but her mind and heart were focused on Samuel.
When Harper opened the door for her, Jim, the footman, waited outside. She noticed that he carried a pistol. She wished she had thought to bring her own.
‘We’ll have to walk, Lady Frederica,’ he said. ‘Her Grace let the men driving the wagons of the wounded borrow our horses.’
She nodded her head to him. ‘On foot is fine, Jim.’
The footman took her elbow and they wandered slowly through the crowded streets of Brussels. Many of the wounded soldiers were still able to walk and they filled the roads with their bloodstained clothes and pale, haggard faces. Frederica thought that half of the city seemed to be standing in the streets waiting for news of their loved ones. She saw women of rank beg eager questions to the lowliest of foot soldiers. Strangers conversed together like friends. There was no ceremony, no false dignity, it was humanity at its core caring and sharing with each other.
A beautiful young woman with a halo of gold hair grabbed the reins of a horse that Frederica recognised. It was Mark’s cousin’s magnificent black stallion, but a different man was astride it. A boy really. He could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old. The brown whiskers on his face were sparse.
‘My husband, Colonel Sir Alexander Gordon, have you heard anything of him? This is his horse.’
‘I am so sorry, Lady Gordon,’ the young soldier said, ‘but your husband died this morning in Doctor Hume’s arms.’
The young woman’s lower lip began to quiver. ‘Do you know where his body is?’
The soldier saluted her. ‘At Wellington’s headquarters in Waterloo.’
He tried to urge his horse forward, but Frederica stepped right in front of the horse’s snout and it recognised her scent.