Move Heaven and Earth (17 page)

“Yes.” Garth pushed his hand through his carefully combed hair. “I suppose you’re right.”

Rand wanted to hug his brother as he had done when they were boys, when Garth’s idealism had clashed with reality and Garth had been wounded. But Garth wouldn’t welcome it. Not right now when he’d just seen Rand wed the woman of his choice. Later, when the wound had healed a little…“Go on to the mill,” Rand said. “I’ll make your excuses, and when you come back, we’ll talk.”

“Something’s wrong.” Rand stared out the carriage window at the mill. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but somehow, something was different and he couldn’t help but remember Garth’s anxiety.

“The machinery’s not running,” Sylvan said. “There’s no noise.”

Rand snapped his fingers. “That’s it!” Foolish, he told himself. So foolish he didn’t observe the obvious.

The square white building looked the same. The shingles toasted in the summer sun. The shorn grass around the foundation wavered in the wind. Charity, Beverly, Nanna, and Shirley straggled toward the sprawling structure, smiling and chatting about the wedding feast, so it would seem all the celebrations were winding down.

A good thing, too, for as they pulled to a stop, they
could hear shouting from inside the mill. It was Garth, and he sounded furious.

The women groaned, and Rand called from inside the carriage, “I’ll go in, ladies, and divert his wrath.”

“Blessings on ye, sir,” Nanna called back.

“Congratulations to ye both,” Charity said, and in a lower voice she wondered aloud, “But what are newlyweds doing
here
?”

Rand didn’t take the time to answer. He waited impatiently as Jasper handed Sylvan down, then helped unbuckle the straps that held his chair in place. The women came to lend a hand with unloading him, then Sylvan gave him a push to start him through the grass into the mill. He let her go in first, of course, but just inside the door, she stopped and looked around with troubled eyes.

The stillness and silence reminded Rand of the hopeful time before the steam engine had been installed and started for the first time. Garth had been ecstatic, sure that the mill would immediately prove itself to all skeptics. Instead it had been a project that swallowed hours of Garth’s time and much of his idealism. If only there were some other way to keep families on the estate, but there didn’t appear to be.

“Damn stupid machine!” Garth’s voice snarled from the center of the mill. “Stupid damn thing won’t run!”

A loud, metallic pounding accompanied his invective, and Rand glanced at Sylvan apologetically. “We’ve found him.”

Amusement brought some color back into her cheeks, and she said, “So we have.”

About a dozen women sat in a circle on the floor, and they stood as Rand and Sylvan approached, clearing a path and bobbing curtsies while offering felicitations.
The commotion attracted Garth’s attention, and he called, “Rand! Sylvan! What are you doing here?” He looked down at them from atop a ladder that leaned on the steam engine. “Did you enjoy as much of the company as you could stand?”

“Yes, thank you indeed.” Rand glared at his brother.

Garth tried to be normal and make conversation, when clearly the steam engine held his attention. “I can scarcely believe you walked out of your own party because you found the neighbors shallow.”

“You should believe it,” Rand answered.

Garth’s lip curled in disgust. “Was someone rude?”

“Yes.” Sylvan chuckled. “Rand.”

“Were you?” Garth took a moment to examine his brother. “Such a surprise.”

“I wasn’t the only rude one.” Rand glared meaningfully at Sylvan. “But you’re the duke. You should have had to suffer, too.”

“Ignorant batch of beggars, aren’t they?” Garth’s blue eyes twinkled in puckish merriment, but he dripped sweat from the heat of the furnace.

“Not all of them.” Rand took Sylvan’s hand and patted it. “Just Lady St. Clare. She tried to question Sylvan about her ancestry.”

Sylvan hung her head. “You were angry because I asked about her ancestry, too.”

“No, I was not.” Rand looked up at Garth. “Sylvan asked Lady St. Clare if her parents were married.”

Garth released a bark of astonished laughter.

“She made me angry,” Sylvan confessed to Rand. “She stared at you as if you were some kind of lesser creature. Whenever you spoke, she acted amazed.”

Rand hid his hurt behind a jaunty smile. “The organ-grinder’s monkey performed on cue.”

“Believe me, I’m sorry.” The engine clanged, and Garth clanged it back with a wrench. “I thought that our neighbors would be sophisticated enough to treat you with respect, as the son and brother of a duke and as a war hero should be treated.”

He looked so guilty that Sylvan hastened to say, “Most of them were lovely.”

“Most of them were civil,” Rand corrected. “A few were lovely. I could comfort myself that they’re cretins, but some of them I formerly called my friends. So who’s the cretin?”

“You don’t expect me to defend them, surely.” Turning back to the engine, Garth tapped a pressure gauge. “I have no reason to love them.”

Rand didn’t like his brother’s appearance. Garth still wore formal clothing, but his cravat had been torn off and black streaks marred the pristine white of his shirt. Placing a steadying hand on the ladder, Rand asked, “What’s wrong with the damn stupid machine?”

“Did I call it that?” Garth tried to look innocent. “It won’t start. It keeps hiccuping like it wants to, but it just doesn’t catch.”

Glancing at Sylvan, Rand experienced her anxiety almost as if she spoke aloud. Something gnawed at her, but when he took her hand and asked, “What is it?” she just shook her head.

“I don’t know. I just don’t like this place.” She tried to smile. “I’ve seen my father’s mills, and I don’t like them, even when they’re quiet.”

“I shouldn’t have brought you,” Rand said.

“You would have left me at the party?” Sylvan asked.

He laughed at the exaggerated hurt in her voice. “No. I guess even a mill is better than a roomful of nosy aristocrats.”

Around on the other side, Stanwood, the master mechanic, thrust his head out. “I just cleaned out the stuffing box, Yer Grace. Want to try it again?”

“Do it.” Garth climbed down the ladder. “These delays are irksome.”

“Perhaps Jasper could assist,” Rand offered. “He’s got a way with carriages. Maybe he can fix any moving parts.”

Jasper didn’t move out of the shadows. “Carriages aren’t steam engines. These contraptions are inventions of the devil.”

Garth laughed. “You don’t believe that superstitious claptrap, do you?”

“This place makes me squeamish.”

Sylvan looked as if she wanted to agree.

“But I wager you could fix this. Won’t you try?” Rand coaxed.

With a sigh that rattled the piston rods, Jasper came forward and accepted the wrench Garth offered.

The big engine before them shuddered, and Stanwood called, “Stoke that fire. We’ve got it now.”

Garth opened the door to the boiler and a blast of heat roiled past. Grabbing a shovel, he ladled coal inside onto the glowing fire until one of the women nudged him and took the shovel.

“Pressure’s going up,” Stanwood called, and Garth ran around to check the pressure gauge.

“Look at that,” Jasper crowed. He circled the engine as the main piston began shoving the flywheel. “That rod thing is moving.”

“We’ve got it now.” Garth wiped a drip of sweat off the end of his nose. “We can start up again. Come on.” He offered his arm to Sylvan. “Let’s go to my office and have a congratulatory drink.”

The noise level began to accelerate, the floor to vibrate. The women raised their voices above the rhythmic roar of the engine as they walked to their stations. Threads began to twitch, then roll, and Sylvan flinched as the mill developed its customary roar and cadence.

Rand held her hand tighter and said to Garth, “She’ll come with me.”

Garth’s lips twitched as he subdued a smile, but he said nothing as he led the way.

Following close behind, Rand asked, “Do you think these problems are the work of the mischief-maker?”

Lines of care etched themselves around Garth’s mouth and eyes. “He wouldn’t dare mess with the engine. The danger’s too great. If the pressure’s wrong in that thing, if a valve sticks, it could blow this—”

Sylvan made a sound of distress, and Garth must have heard it, for he quickly added, “Of course, that won’t happen.” He held the door to his office as they entered, then followed them in. He pressed Sylvan down in a chair and brought a bottle of wine from his cabinet. Waving the dusty bottle, he said, “This is the last of the smuggled stuff. French wine is authorized for import now that Napoleon’s been safely shunted off to his island, but I think the illegality gives this quite a tang.” He poured three glasses and distributed them, then raised his in a toast. “May you find the kind of happiness I have found.”

“God grant,” Rand agreed, and tapped Sylvan’s glass with his.

“Drink up, Sylvan,” Garth urged. “It’ll bring the roses back into your cheeks.” He waited until Sylvan had complied, then asked, “Now, what really brings you here?”

“It occurred to me you might be interested.” Rand placed his glass on the desk. “Sylvan had a ghostly experience last night.”

Garth looked from one to the other. “A ghostly…?” Comprehension swept his face, and he focused on Sylvan intently. “Were you hurt?”

She shook her head.

“I beg pardon.” Garth looked furious and embarrassed. “I never would have pressured you into coming to Clairmont Court had I realized you would be subjected to danger. I suppose that since our ghost disapproves of everything I do, he also disapproves of you.” Garth grinned savagely. “But I think he’ll soon see the error of his ways.”

Rand leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve spoken to him.” Garth perched one hip on his desk. “He’s coming here. We’re going to have a talk, and there’s going to be an understanding reached.”

Incredulous, Rand demanded, “You know who it is?”

“I’m a bit of a fool,” Garth admitted. “But yes, I know who it is. The evidence has always been there, but I didn’t want to think that it could be one of my own.”

“Who is it?” Sylvan demanded.

“I don’t think I should say until I’ve—”

Sylvan reached for her throat. “You sent for him? Now?”

“He’ll be along directly, I imagine, and—”

“Don’t you understand how dangerous he is?”

Sylvan didn’t scream, but she came close, and Rand jumped. “Sylvan?” he questioned. “Is there something you should tell me?”

“Dangerous?” Garth visibly struggled with his disbelief. “He’s misguided, certainly, but—”

“Misguided? You call a man who stalks women in the dark misguided?”

“He hasn’t—”

“Killed anyone?” Rising to her feet, Sylvan slapped
her palms on the desk and leaned toward Garth. “Is that what it takes?”

“Sylvan, I’m going to punish him as he deserves, but—”

“How can you be so blind? He’s taken Rand’s recuperation and used it to try and drive Rand crazy. He came to my room and—”

“Recuperation?” Garth seized on that one word to the exclusion of everything else. “Rand’s better, yes, but isn’t recovery too strong a term?”

Sylvan looked guiltily at Rand, and he shook his head. In her excitement, she’d said more than she should, but he couldn’t work up a fury. He and Garth were close, closer than most brothers, and ever since Sylvan had convinced him of his innocence, he’d wanted to share his delight.

“Rand?” Garth stood and came around the desk. “A recovery?”

Rand heard the lilt in Garth’s voice and rejoiced. “I’ve been walking in my sleep.” To temper Garth’s dawning rapture, Rand warned, “But only in my sleep.”

“Walking in your sleep?” Leaning down, Garth grabbed his brother in a bear hug that lifted him out of the chair, then dropped him back. “How long have you known?”

“For months,” Rand admitted. “I thought that I—”

“Was the ghost?” Garth followed his thought with a sure instinct. “And that bastard let you think so?” He looked at Sylvan, at the fists she clenched in her lap and the earnest fright in her expression. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you?”

“I think you’re a man,” she corrected. “Always thinking you’re too big and strong to be hurt, always thinking you can protect everyone else from injury. But this scoundrel
doesn’t fight like a man; he lurks in the shadows and attacks when you’re weak, and if you don’t take him seriously—”

“Yes.” Garth bowed his head. “You’re right. I’ll send some of the men to escort him here, and we’ll confront him together.” Looking at Rand, some of his serious mien disappeared. “But you’re walking at night, and someday soon…I would give anything to have you walk again.” Lifting his head alertly, he held up one hand for silence. “What’s that?”

Outside in the mill, the sound of the machinery had changed. It seemed to stagger from start to stop and back again, and as Garth came to his feet in a rush, the door slammed back against the wall. Rand stared at the wild-eyed mechanic as he yelled, “’Tis making a chugging noise, Yer Grace, like it’s trying to go somewhere, and the piston’s freezing.”

“Have you tried the bleed valve?”

“Nothing came out.”

Garth pushed Stanwood aside and leaped out the door, and Rand snagged the mechanic when he would have followed. “What does this mean?”

“Means trouble,” Stanwood said, and tore himself away.

“Dear God.” Sylvan lunged at Rand as he pushed himself toward the door. “Don’t go! Can’t you feel that?”

He could indeed. Beneath them, the floor trembled. In the mill, the women shrieked, and he feared—

Boom
! The blast hit them, hot and harsh. It rattled the hinges and threw her against the wall. It blew papers in a whirlwind.

It knocked Rand’s chair over and sent him sprawling. “Garth!” Shoving the chair aside, he leaped up and ran toward the door. “Garth.”

Sylvan grabbed for Rand
and missed. He ran out into the mill, and she darted after him.

And staggered back. Beyond the office door, hell reigned. A new hell, one of twisted lumber and curling steam. The far wall had blown out. Sunshine beamed in inappropriate gaiety. Tiles of the slate roof fell in masses, like playing cards from a careless hand. Machinery rested on its side. Dust mixed with the wind, and Sylvan tasted it—the dust of defeat.

In an instant, the mill had changed from manufacturer’s dream to worker’s nightmare.

Sylvan coughed and squinted, trying to see through the floating grime. Rand struggled through the wreckage, and for the first time, Sylvan realized—he was walking. Without a thought to himself, he was walking. It was a miracle—the miracle they’d been seeking. He leaped overturned machinery, cleared a path through the devastation, and called his brother in a desperate tone.

Another beam crashed to the ground, and she jumped. God, a miracle, but at what cost?

Other voices joined Rand’s, quietly at first, then louder. Women moaned, cried, called out names. One slowly built to a scream that hit a high note and stayed.

This looked like a battlefield. This looked worse than a battlefield.

Sylvan cringed. They wanted her. They needed her. She had to help them.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t help them. She already knew that. She’d already proved that.

Below the constant shriek caused by someone’s pain, she could hear a low, steady weeping that begged for attention.

Across the room, someone staggered to her feet. A bedraggled, filthy Nanna swung her head back and forth like a pendulum, seeing the destruction through shocked eyes. Leaning over, she picked up a long fragment of wood and tossed it aside. Then another, then another. She collapsed onto one knee, then walking her hands up a crooked timber, she dragged herself erect again.

She needed help.

Sylvan took her first step out. Everyone needed help.

“Lady Sylvan.” A feeble voice called her. “I think my ribs are broken, but if ye’ll help me, I’ll stand and give a hand.”

Beverly. Sour-faced Beverly struggled to tear strips off her skirt so she could wrap herself and help the others. Sour-faced Beverly.
Brave
Beverly, who knew what was required and did it without question. Without whimpering.

Sylvan whimpered and clambered through the chaos to her side. “Let me.” With her teeth, Sylvan ripped strips off her own linen petticoat. After all, she did know
how to do that. She’d done it often enough. Assisting Beverly as she sat up, Sylvan bundled the strips around Beverly’s chest and tied them. “Is that better?” she asked.

“Much.” Beverly’s white cheeks told of the lie. “Thank you, Lady Sylvan.”

“I found her,” Nanna called. “I found the screamer. Shirley’s caught. Lady Sylvan—”

“I can’t. Oh, God, please, I can’t.”

“Could you go find somebody to dig her out?” Nanna finished.

Jolted, Sylvan stared at Nanna, then at Beverly, and slowly she realized they didn’t expect her to bandage them, cure them, help them. They didn’t expect anything from her, now that she was a noblewoman, and that was fine with Sylvan. “I can’t help.”

She whispered, but Beverly heard her, for she patted Sylvan’s hand as if she were the one in need of succor. “Lady Sylvan, if you would just prop me on my feet—”

The building released another shower of tiles, stone, and rafters, then, with a groan and a mighty bang, an oak cross beam hit the floor. Sylvan ducked, cowering, almost wishing something would strike her and put her out of her misery. Pain had to be better than this constant uncertainty, this debilitating cowardice.

But the dust settled once more, Sylvan was uninjured, and she raised her head.

Nanna had disappeared. The screaming had stopped. It was silent. Dead silent.

“No,” Sylvan whispered. Staggering to her feet, she strained her eyes as if Nanna would rise from the rubble. “No, please.” She started across the room. Each step seemed weighted, too slow to help yet so heavy it would produce another rupture in the mill’s framework. Above
where Nanna had stood the sky gleamed. Rafters hung askew. Heavy slate shingles slapped the floor as they slithered off the roof. Not a glimpse of Nanna remained.

Sylvan took a breath, then another; faster and faster until her head buzzed and she realized she didn’t need air. She just needed courage.

Scorning breath, she started carefully moving sticks and plaster. A splinter jabbed her palm; she impatiently jerked it out. As she shifted down through the debris, she saw an apron and underneath that, the shape of a leg, trapped beneath beams and boards that crisscrossed like a child’s game of pick-up sticks. Pull the wrong board, and the whole structure would fall on her head.

Cautiously, she moved a board. Nothing happened. She moved another. And another. Parts of two bodies appeared, then Nanna’s face. At first Sylvan thought she, too, was unconscious, but her eyes flickered open as Sylvan uncovered her face. Her mouth was one thin line, held tight with pain, and when Sylvan uncovered her leg, she saw why.

The massive beam had landed right on her ankle and crushed it into the floor. There was no way to move it, no way to move her. If anyone had the right to scream, it was Nanna, but she clung to silence. Sylvan stared into her eyes, knowing what would have to be done and sick with the knowledge.

Nanna mined the bedrock of her courage—where was Sylvan’s bedrock?

“I can help.” One of the other women stood beside Sylvan. “I’m just a little scalded.”

Scalded, indeed. The steam from the explosion had blistered one side of her neck and her cheek. More courage.

“Shirley’s under there,” Sylvan said. “Let’s see if we can find her.”

They carefully cleared debris. Others joined them. Pert, Tilda, Ernestine. All were injured, but they reported on the others. Ada had a broken arm. Charity was awake but seeing double. Jeremia had lost teeth and had both eyes swollen shut. Beverly was trying to herd them all outside.

The talk kept their minds off their increasing worry as no sound issued from beneath the rubble. Then—

“I’ve got her, Lady Sylvan.” Ernestine dug eagerly for a moment, then sat back on her haunches. “She’s here.”

Sylvan didn’t need to look beyond the expression on Ernestine’s face to know Shirley’s fate, but somehow she’d taken the lead in this small, besieged group. Solemnly, she leaned forward and pulled the last board away to uncover Shirley’s torso—a torso robbed of breath and heartbeat by massive injuries.

She’d seen death before. Why did it always tear her heart out? Why did it always place another weight on the guilt in her soul?

A sob shook Ernestine, and Pert put her arm around the larger woman. “She was Shirley’s sister,” she explained.

“Of course.” Sylvan looked into the sky. Shirley had been alive after the blast. Danger still hovered over their heads, and they never knew when another part of the mill would give way.

“Salvage something to build a shed over Nanna,” she commanded.

“Should we send someone to the village and Clairmont Court to tell them?” Tilda asked.

“They know,” Sylvan assured them. “I imagine they heard that blast for miles.”

“Felt it, too,” Tilda said.

“Yes.”

“What are we going to do about Nanna?”

Sylvan looked at Nanna’s agonized expression. “I’ll take care of her.” But she didn’t move, still staring at the crushed foot that held Nanna in place. Visions of saws that separated flesh from flesh and bone from bone ripped at her until a man’s voice brought her head up.

“Dear God.” The vicar stood not five feet away, taking in the scene with horror, then comprehension. Swiftly, he came to Nanna’s side and dropped to his knees beside her. With a gentle hand, he smoothed her face, then picked up her hand. “God has chosen you for a special mission, Nanna.” His voice sounded deep, strengthening, and he rubbed her wrist slowly as if to massage the significance of his words into her flesh. “You’re still alive, and God placed Lady Sylvan here at this time to save you. Do you hear me?”

Nanna’s gaze clung to his, and she nodded.

“Do you believe me?”

She nodded again.

“Good.” He beckoned Tilda and had her take his place at Nanna’s side, then rose and took Sylvan’s arm. “Lady Sylvan, you have already done much good in this place. It’s time to do more.”

Ashamed, she whispered, “I’m afraid.”

“I’m here to help you. We’re all here to help you. See?”

He pointed, and for the first time, Sylvan saw the others. Lady Emmie and Aunt Adela stood before the carriage that had brought them, taking in the scene with a shock that equaled Sylvan’s own. Through the open wall, she could see James running down the hill toward them, his elegance in disarray. Then she looked up into the Reverend Donald’s eyes. Tears leaked from the corners, and a great compassion gleamed from the
depths of his soul. As Nanna had before her, Sylvan gained strength from his boundless sympathy. Somehow, without words, he conveyed his faith in her, and she straightened.

“Oh, I’ll do it. I’m just afraid.”

“You have every right to be afraid, but God will guide your hand.” He patted that hand, and said, “Now, tell me what you need and we’ll find it somehow.”

Somehow she managed to tick off the required supplies, and he replied, “It shall be as you require.”

He released her and gathered the other women around him, and Sylvan once again had a demonstration of his power. Was it just this morning that he’d performed her wedding with such majesty? Then he had been an apt representative of the church. Now he was more the able servant of God. She might not like him or his unbending attitude, but he had a deft, sure touch in steering panicked people in the right direction.

Using the strength he had lent her, Sylvan knelt beside Nanna’s head. “I will take care of you,” she promised.

“Aye, Lady Sylvan,” Nanna agreed, but she didn’t really seem to hear. Her gaze never left the Reverend Donald, and she took a sustaining breath. “At bottom, he’s a good man.”

“Lady Sylvan.”

The shout jolted Sylvan, and she swiveled to stare at Jasper. He stood outside the mill’s former wall, waving his arms.

“Lady Sylvan, ye’ve got to come!”

“Rand,” Sylvan whispered. Amazingly, she’d forgotten about Rand, but then, she knew Rand could take care of himself.

Or could he?

With an anxious glance, she located Lady Emmie and Aunt Adela. James had them both by the arm, holding them still and speaking rapidly. Although Sylvan couldn’t hear them, it was clear by their gestures that they argued in return, and she seized the moment to escape the confines of the mill. She didn’t want to talk to them now. Not before she discovered the extent of the tragedy.

“Look.” Jasper pointed before she had even cleared the mill’s foundation. “Look.”

Rand sat among the remains of a wall, holding his brother’s body, his head held to Garth’s chest as if listening for a heartbeat.

It was useless. Even from a distance, Sylvan could see it was useless. Garth’s limbs flopped and twisted, and his head kept slithering off the support of Rand’s knee. He was dead.

Sylvan turned away.

Jasper grabbed her. “Where are ye going?”

“Back inside to get Lady Emmie. There’s nothing I can do here.”

“Lord Rand is yer husband,” Jasper snapped. “Help him.”

Sylvan hesitated. Her first instinct was to leave Rand to his grief, but was Jasper right? Was it her function as Rand’s wife to comfort him? Gingerly, she approached him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Rand?”

He tilted his head and looked at her. “What?”

His intense frown reminded her of Gail when she sought to understand something beyond her comprehension. “Can I help you?” she asked, then immediately cursed herself. Stupid question, for all the world like a hat shop girl with a customer. But she didn’t know what to say. What did one say in the face of death? “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

Oh, God, this was worse than she thought.

With exquisite care, Rand laid Garth on the ground and arranged him so his body looked as if it were in repose. He tucked the singed, torn clothing into a semblance of normal form. He frowned at the face; nothing could return it to its original shape. “Do you think it hurt him?”

Hurt him? To be blasted through a wall, to have every bone in his body broken?

“He was gone when I found him, and I was angry at first, because I didn’t get to say what I wanted.” His eyes shone glassy with the fever of trauma. “But then I thought how much he would have suffered, and I wondered if you thought he might have died instantly.”

“Of course he died instantly. I’ve seen a lot of death, and I know.” Know? Sylvan wanted to laugh at her own idiocy. She was telling a falsehood, but it was surely a good falsehood. Rand seemed to believe it, and it seemed to comfort him. Maybe her lie would cushion the blow until he was ready to face the truth. Maybe he would never face the truth. Maybe—she touched Garth’s cold hand—maybe the truth didn’t matter.

“I’m always the lucky one,” Rand said. “Always the one left behind while the others go on to glory.”

She hadn’t known Garth long, but she’d liked him, respected him.

“I’m the only one left alive out of my regiment, did you know that?”

Garth had been a good duke: too arrogant for his own good, of course, but he took responsibility for his people and his lands in a manner almost lost in modern England.

“I’d been fighting for hours with no surcease, and my
regiment had been commanded to charge the French. The French were winning.” He laughed harshly. “We would have done anything for Wellington.”

Rand’s narrative and Garth’s dead body before her sucked her back into the past. She remembered holding her parasol over her head and observing the battle from a distance. The distance had provided a buffer between her and the suffering.

“But my horse had been shot out from beneath me, so I found another—there were riderless horses all over the field, adding to the madness—and mounted, and a boy ran up with water. I took the cup. I lingered to refresh myself, and when I tried to catch my regiment, I couldn’t. The French line surrounded them, swallowed them, and I never saw another person alive.”