Highest Stakes (17 page)

  
Our green recruits, however, having done naught more than march
and camp for months, fired aimlessly, randomly, and precipitately.
With precious few hits to their ranks, the French advanced briskly and
with a tenacious fire, further weakening us.

  
The young Duke of Cumberland was next to arrive, courageously
charging up from our rear infantry lines and taking command of the
right flank. Cool, composed, and with remarkable presence of mind,
he ordered the Foot to advance and fire. His propinquity alone rallied
the men to respond with feverish fury. Even after taking a musket shot
through the leg, Cumberland continued stoically in command, while
our Horse and remaining infantry steadily closed ranks.

  
We now rallied against the French, who had broken our first line
and penetrated the Scottish Fusiliers, but by this time several of our
cannons were in play and wreaking havoc on them. Bit by bit, we drove
them back before they ever reached our second line.

  
We had barely begun to regain ground when the fierce besiege
of French cavalry began in earnest with a second wave. The famed
Mousquetaires Gris charged us full force with two hundred horse! With
slashing saber and smoking carbine, we fought like devils. We were
now confronted with the enemy on all sides.

  
Forgetting nearly all I had learned, I cut and slashed blindly until
charged by a French officer. Our horses screamed and collided. Jack,
brave and true to the last, took a musket ball to the chest. Struck from
under me, he crashed to the ground, breaking my leg and pinning me
beneath him. I struggled in vain to free myself. I was defenseless.

  
My antagonist, now recovered from his own fall, approached with
his saber to strike the deathblow. I knew my end had come, Charlotte,
but of a sudden, he lurched to the ground, cleanly struck by musket fire.
The hand of Captain Drake had delivered me. Clearly, our fates were
sealed from that moment.

  
The battle raged interminably until our valiant English infantry
rallied again and advanced for the final attack, driving back the rem
nants of French Horse and forcing the now battered and all but broken
enemy to a hasty retreat across the river. Notwithstanding the sudden
and massive withdrawal, their makeshift bridges collapsed, drowning no
small number. The remainder swam like ducks to the opposite shore!

  
Of the two hundred French cavalry, fewer than fifty survived. We
took a great number of their officers and men prisoner and captured nine
cannons, as well as several of their colors and standards. Their losses
exceed five thousand and ours about two thousand men.

  
My own Sixth Troop, by the hand of Providence, sustained
only minimal damage, with but three men and four horses, and six
wounded, including myself. Pray do not be worried for me, Charlotte.
'Twas only a break of the thigh bone and already healing well under
Dr. Pringle's care—a rather crotchety Scotsman and Lord Stair's
personal physician. He judges I shall be mounted again in no time.
Indeed, I hope to ride through the gates of Whitehall on the back of
the gray stallion.

  
As for him, he had taken a ball to the flank and lost the tip of an
ear. I can only believe 'twas Bainbridge's vanity that caused his fall,
and no fault of the horse. Winthrop conceded to retrieve the ball, if only
to reward my service, and I shall take the horse in hand for the duration
of my recovery.

  
As for the man to whom I owe my life, Captain Drake has deserv
edly received a field promotion for his multifarious acts of valor, and I
have also been conferred a captaincy. Though I parted England a boy in
soldier's clothing, I return a man who will control his own destiny, and
that destiny shall be with you, if you would still have me, my dearest. I
pray that I shall soon return to you. Until then, I most earnestly pledge
my honor and my heart.

  
Your Most Devoted,

  
R. D.

  The inauguration of the month-long fete was the King's grand birthday parade, held at Whitehall Parade Grounds. After reviewing his Household troops, he presented the King's regiment of Horse with their new insignia, a golden oak leaf to commemorate their valor. The festivities concluded at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens with fireworks and a symphonic performance of Handel's "Te Deum" composed in honor of the victory.

  It was mid-December before the troops were at leisure and settled into winter quarters and finally free to pursue their own pleasure. For the captain, the novelty of London and nightly carousing had quickly waned. He'd been away from home for too long.

  His heart ached for his Charlotte.

R i
sing well before daybreak, Captain Devington prepared to depart his rooms in the crowded inn serving as garrison for his company. Quietly fumbling in the dark, he bundled his scant belongings into his pack and endeavored not to disturb his snoring comrades.

  Nearby, Major Drake stirred, bleary-eyed and groggy after another night's carousing. "We're on furlough, you bloody sod! What are you doing up before the cock has even crowed?" he growled at Devington.

  "I'm departing for Yorkshire, Philip. I've some unfinished business to attend."

  "What the bloody hell is so damned pressing in Yorkshire that can't wait until a respectable hour?"

  "I told you, it's business.
Personal
business."

  Intrigued by the evasive reply, Philip raised up on one elbow. "Oh? I surmise 'tis a woman, then. Must be a fine piece of arse if you're dragging your own all the bloody way to Yorkshire."

  "Keep a civil tongue in your head." The warning was made with a telling glower.

  Philip smirked. "Indeed? True love, then. Didn't know you were a romantic, Devington. Didn't know you were a Yorkshireman either, come to think of it. Small wonder you joined the Horse Guard," he drawled. "From whence do you hail in the land of frightened sheep?"

  "The South, if it's anything to you. Raised near Doncaster, and for your elucidation, the horses in the region outnumber the sheep."

  "Indeed? Doncaster, you say? I hear of tolerable good horseflesh in Doncaster. I have on occasion witnessed a respectable Doncaster runner at Newmarket."

  "Occasionally, you say! We run some of the primest flesh in England on Cantley Common!"

  "So you fancy? You've not witnessed a race 'til you seen them run the Rowley Mile. Newmarket's where the real action is. My family has kept a stable for decades at Cheveley, outside Newmarket, and all prime Derbyshire stock."

  "I quite assure you of the quality of South Yorkshire horseflesh, Drake. I find you surprisingly ignorant for a turf-follower, my friend. Who can be unacquainted with the famed Flying Childers? The stallion has one of the greatest names in the country, with an undefeated running career. Indeed, he won over half his races by default, as none dared challenge him."

  "I am well acquainted with the Duke of Devonshire's celebrated stallion. He's a top producer of champions, and he stands
in Derbyshire
."

  "You are once again misinformed. Flying Childers, the pride of the Duke of Devonshire, who once refused the horse's weight in gold, was born and bred by Colonel Childers
in Doncaster
."

  "I shan't dispute the quality of this
one stallion
from the region," Drake grudgingly conceded.

  "I contest that he was one of a number of exceptional South Yorkshire blood horses. Indeed, Colonel Childers knew a good thing when he saw it. He bred his dam, Betty Leedes, a second time to the Darley Arabian and produced a full brother, Bartlett's Childers, who still stands at Masham
in Yorkshire. This blood-cross has produce
d many good runners: Smale's Childers and Lord Portmore's Grey Childers both come to mind, but the finest of the Darley grandsons to date, is probably Squirt. His was a most lucrative career. He won the two hundred guineas in '37 and again in '39 at Newmarket, and then followed with wins at Epsom, Stamford, Winchester, and Salisbury."

  "I know well the reputation of Squirt, but I argue this fine horse also stands
at Derbyshire
. And what of Francis Godolphin's famed stallion? He stands in
Derbyshire, and none dare contest the quality of hi
s get. Thus far, they are without match. His son Lath won the thousand guineas in '37, and defeated your Squirt the following year."

  "It might surprise you to learn that Lath was also indisputably bred i
n
Yorkshire," Robert contested with no small pride. "I stand by my clai
m that our Yorkshire studs produce the finest horses in the country."

  "I am duly impressed with your knowledge, Devington," Drake confessed, "but how do you come by such an intimate knowledge of blood horses?"

  "I was probably mounted before I was out of leading strings. I spent my formative years riding anything with four legs. Worked as stable groom, under groom, racing groom, and later apprenticed in the North as a stud groom. Living no great distance from Doncaster, I had ample opportunity to follow my passion. Addiction, it is, the racing, sheer addiction," Devington murmured wistfully.

  "So you fancy the races, Devington? Surprising. You've never struck me as a gambling man."

  "Me,
gamble on the horses? God forbid, man! Learned my lesson
s early on at the expense of others who were so imprudent. 'Tis a dirty business, that. I've witnessed countless men fall into utter ruination following a four-mile heat. No. My addiction is riding, chasing the wind, you know. There's nothing like it. No future in it, though.

  "After my father passed, I had hoped to fill his shoes at Heathstead Hall but… circumstances as they were…" He paused as if hesitant to continue on that track. "Suffice to say, it came upon me to make my own way, and with no name to recommend me and no connections, my options were few."

  "So you packed your belongings and Ol' Jack and made your way to Woolwich," Philip finished for him.

  "Something like that, though the initial seed was planted in my head by a cocky young officer of the Horse who threw me a coin purse at the Litchfield races!" Devington grinned.

  "Litchfield is where I procured Hawke. Damme, was that you, Devington?"

  "One and the same, though I hardly caught more than a glimpse of you at the time. Later, at Woolwich, I didn't make the connection until seeing Hawke. I remembered the horse well. It was the race that I defeated that fiend Uxeter. How exactly did you come by Hawke, anyway?"

  "That fiend Uxeter, as you so aptly describe him, is my half brother."

  "I didn't know. No offense intended."

  Drake laughed outright. "Oh, don't fear any insult on my account. He's an irrefutably arrogant sod and a blight on my existence. There's no love lost between siblings in my family. But to answer your question and to recount the rest of the story, when the blackguard lost the race, he ordered the groom to shoot the horse. So, given your history, one might say my presence at the Lichfield races proved serendipitous to both man and beast."