Scovell picked up the portmanteau, and Frederica carried the full kettle. She led him through the front door where the carriage stood waiting. Her mother’s usual coachman was perched in the driver’s seat and Jim sat beside him holding a gun. Recognising Frederica, Jim relaxed his hold on the weapon. She recalled her mother saying that the horses had to be guarded from thieves when the battle began. So many people were trying to run away by any means possible.
Holding her neck again, Frederica said, ‘I need to get to Mont-Saint-Jean as quickly as possible.’
Scovell loaded the portmanteau and begged to be excused to retrieve his horse from the hitching post. Frederica thanked him and entered the coach carefully, as to not spill the precious water or lint weed in the kettle. She sagged back against her seat. She felt like Pandora trying to hold on to her small box of hope despite all the terrible calamities in the world.
What if Samuel were already dead before she arrived?
Why hadn’t she, like Sir Alexander Gordon’s widow, begged for information from anyone about her husband and the location of his body?
He might have suffered less and they could have spent a day and a half more together.
It was not the lifetime that she had hoped for, but at least she could have been with him. Eased the pain. Impatiently, she scratched at her face.
If only.
Leaning out the window for some fresh air, Frederica saw a shocking sight. Rows of soldiers’ bodies were being drawn along by fishhooks. The Belgian peasants were dragging them to a large hole in a field to be buried. Frederica covered her mouth with her hand as her stomach roiled. She swore to herself that Samuel would not suffer such an ignominious end. She would bring his body home with her and have him buried where she could visit often. They would never be parted again.
The coach came to a stop beside a wooden farmhouse with a garret, a stable, and a row of cow houses. Scovell dismounted and opened the carriage door. Frederica walked down the steps and saw soldiers using French shields as frying pans over small fires to cook their beefsteaks. Not even the smell of smoke could cover the stench of death.
Scovell picked up her portmanteau and begged her to follow him. He did not lead her to the farmhouse, but to the closest cow house. He opened the door with his free hand. Again, Frederica had to fight not to vomit. The cow house floor was covered in straw and blood, and carrion flies swarmed over the line of wounded soldiers. Infection seeped through the dirty rags that bound their wounds. It was a dirty place not even fit for cows. Let alone soldiers. The brave men who had fought for their country.
She did not see Samuel.
Frederica looked eagerly to Scovell. She was having difficulty breathing. It felt as if her throat was completely closed. Had she been too slow in coming to see him? Her chest felt tight and she struggled to find air.
‘They might have moved him inside the farmhouse, Your Grace,’ Scovell said, glancing at her. ‘When I recognised him this morning, I requested that he be made more comfortable.’
Taking her elbow, Scovell led the way back out of the door of the cow house across a short path to the farmhouse. The air was only slightly less pungent outside.
They were met at the door by a wiry woman with a mop of grey hair and a lined face. Her simple brown dress was covered in dust, and she had a dazed look in her eyes. ‘I stayed the whole battle right there, miss, in that there garret.’
Scovell tried to push past her, but she blocked the door-frame resolutely and repeated herself. He set down the portmanteau, and Frederica thought he was going to forcibly remove the poor, deranged woman.
She placed a hand on his shoulder and asked the woman in French, ‘Why did you stay here?’
Her eyes lit up with a wild look. ‘I have got a great many cows and calves and poultry and pigs. They is all that I have in this here world, and if I did not stay to take care of them, they would be all destroyed or carried off.’
Frederica gave the woman a friendly smile. ‘I promise I am not here to steal your cows or your calves or your poultry or your pigs. I am here only to see my husband. Would you be so kind as to move so that we may look for him in your house?’
The woman’s eyes darted back from Scovell to Frederica, then from Frederica to Scovell. She stuck her thin gnarled fingers on her chest and repeated the same phrase.
‘Of course you did,’ Frederica said soothingly, taking the woman’s arm and escorting her into the house. ‘Now, why don’t you step inside your kitchen, and I will make us a pot of tea while you tell me all about it.’
She did not resist her, but allowed Frederica to pull her into the kitchen. There were bodies of wounded men packed closely together. A lone doctor gave them a nod, but continued to help the soldier in front of him. There were three rooms in the lower part of the house, and the woman proudly showed each to Frederica, as if she could not see the wounded bodies in the first two rooms.
Frederica recognised the faces of Major-General Cooke and Major Llewellyn. The woman opened the third room, which was the size of a closet. She saw Samuel’s face on the pillow of a narrow cot—it was devoid of colour. Frederica set the kettle on the table near the bed and took his hand in her own. Scovell quietly placed the portmanteau on the floor. He took the overwrought woman by the elbow and escorted her out of the room, shutting the door behind them. Frederica did not have time to help her right now.
Stepping closer, she saw that Samuel still had both his legs and his arms, but across his bare chest were bandages tinged with a yellowish green. Frederica laid her head on his chest next to the bandages and listened to his laboured breathing. He was burning up and she felt cold all over. But he was alive!
She heard his breathing quicken and she raised her head.
Samuel opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘Freddie?’
Her heart lifted at the sound of his voice. She touched her cool fingers to his hot lips and kissed his clammy forehead. ‘It’sFrederica, as you well know.’
‘You should not argue with a dead man,’ he said in a croaky voice.
A sob escaped her lips, but she quelled her tears. ‘If you die, I will kill you.’