Song Of The Nightingale (DeWinter's Song 1) (3 page)

Patricia, with her pale skin and darting gray eyes, agreed with her husband by vigorously nodding her head.

“Rubbish,” Aunt Mary said, smiling down at her favorite niece. “Kassidy is on the threshold of becoming a lovely young lady. While she’s in my house, she will not sup with the children and be sent to bed at sundown.”

Kassidy met Abigail’s eyes, and her sister smiled, enjoying Henry’s discomfort. Their brother would never dare to oppose Aunt Mary.

The butler caught Kassidy’s attention when he entered the room and approached her uncle, handing him a letter. “I’m sorry, sir, but this was marked urgent.”

George read the note. His eyes widened, and he glanced at his wife. “Let’s retire to the study,” he said.

Everyone rose immediately and began to leave the room. George grasped his wife’s hand, detaining her. “Your aunt and I will join you in a moment.”

Kassidy and Abigail sat down on the wide leather sofa, clutching each other’s hands. “I’ll bet Mother and Father were delayed,” Abigail said worriedly.

“Most probably,” Henry grumbled. “I hope their delay isn’t a lengthy one. I tire of London.”

When their aunt and uncle entered the study a short time later, it was apparent Aunt Mary had been crying.

“Is the letter from Father and Mother, Uncle George?” Kassidy asked anxiously. “Will they be arriving later than we expected?”

His eyes softened when he looked at her. “I’m afraid they won’t be arriving at all,” he said sadly. “You see, Kassidy, their ship went down at sea. It falls to me to tell you that there were no survivors.”

Kassidy shook her head in disbelief. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she was sure she could not bear the grief.

“No!” she cried, and Abigail reached out to comfort her. “It cannot be—not Father and Mother!”

Aunt Mary came to the two girls, sliding her arms around them. “Oh, my dearest ones, what can we say?”

Kassidy clutched Abigail to her, and they sobbed brokenheartedly.

The day that had started out so hopeful had turned to tragedy. To Kassidy it seemed life was over. She would never see her beloved mother and father again. A feeling of unreality took hold of her.

Abigail was crying uncontrollably. In that moment, Kassidy pushed her grief aside and became strong for Abigail. “There, there, dearest, we have each other, and we will get through this,” Kassidy assured her. “Cling to me and I’ll lend you my strength.”

Henry came to his feet and said in a voice that broke: “Well, it seems I am head of the family now. I’ll try and carry on as Father would have expected.”

Abigail and Kassidy exchanged hopeless glances. Knowing they were now under the guidance of a cold, unloving man made their grief tenfold.

It was raining the day the coach left London. Kassidy was seated beside Abigail, clutching her hand. Henry and Patricia were across from them, while the children followed in the second coach with their nurse.

Henry had indeed assumed his place as head of the family. He had inherited his father’s title of viscount and was taking his responsibilities seriously.

Aunt Mary had beseeched him to allow Kassidy and Abigail to remain with her, but he had stubbornly refused, insisting that girls of their age needed a firm hand and someone to watch their every move.

Abigail leaned her head on Kassidy’s shoulder and whispered, “I don’t know how I can bear the pain.”

“You will always have me, Abigail. I will never leave you.”

“I don’t think I would make it without you, Kassidy. I have come to depend on your courage.”

Kassidy closed her eyes, feeling as if she had left childhood behind. Abigail was fragile, so she would have to be strong for them both.

3

Belgium—June 17, 1815


Waterloo

Night fell early as ominous storm clouds shrouded the sun. Flashes of light from the electrical storm cut through the inky blackness, illuminating the countryside, while thunder reverberated across the sky like the sound of cannon fire.

Bone-weary and battle-fatigued British regiments were huddled beneath makeshift tents, hoping to find protection against the rain that would surely come. In the distance the sound of sporadic gunfire cut through the night as snipers from both sides exchanged volleys.

A jagged streak of lightning danced tumultuously across the sky, and a strange hush intruded upon the land. The first drops of rain fell heavily earthward, soaking into the fertile farmland.

Col. Raile DeWinter pulled his greatcoat about him and headed toward the bivouac fires. He had ridden for two days to join his troops, and had been in two skirmishes along the way.

As he walked along, his silver spurs jingled, because had been too exhausted to remove them.

He nodded to a group of soldiers who scurried to their feet to salute.

“At ease, men. Save your strength for the battle tomorrow,” Raile instructed them.

He paused at the entrance of his tent to gaze across the encampment and beyond to the woods. The outriders had reported that Napoleon and his forces were in hot pursuit of Wellington. In the morning they would undoubtedly clash with the enemy. Many of the soldiers camped there tonight would be dead by this time tomorrow.

Victory would belong to the strongest, and Raile, like most of the British, would place his faith in Wellington.

“We’ll give them frogs hell tomorrow, Colonel!” one of the soldiers, who was intent on polishing the brass buttons on his tattered uniform, cried out with enthusiasm.

Raile studied the man carefully. He was young, hardly old enough to shave. His clothes were wet, and he must be cold and miserable, but there was an eagerness reflected in his eyes that Raile envied.

“That we will, Private. If we didn’t believe that, we wouldn’t be here.”

The 34th Regiment of the Light Dragoons had been under Raile’s command since the Portuguese Campaign, and he had every reason to be satisfied by the performance of his men, for they had covered themselves with honors. Even though their uniforms were tattered and muddy and their faces were etched with fatigue, something in their eyes told Raile they would give their all in the battle ahead.

“Will it be over tomorrow, sir?” the young private asked, wanting reassurance from his commander. “Can we stop Bonaparte this time?”

“I believe, as General Wellington does, that we shall deal a stunning blow to Napoleon. If the Prussians arrive, we shall most certainly be victorious,” Raile replied matter-of-factly.

He moved into his tent and nodded to his valet, Oliver Stewart.

There was a hint of reproof in Oliver’s greeting. “I expected you earlier, Colonel.”

“I would have been here by noon but for the pockets of resistance we encountered along the way,” Raile said wearily. He unbuttoned his red tunic. “The woods are crawling with the enemy.”

“Here,” Oliver said, rushing forward and removing Raile’s coat. “I’ll do that for you, sir. You’re soaked to the bone. You’ll surely catch your death.”

“You fuss too much,” Raile stated, dropping down on the edge of his cot while Oliver removed his muddy boots.

“Have you eaten, Colonel?”

“I don’t want anything,” he said, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. “I just need to rest.”

Oliver saw the tired lines under Raile’s eyes and nodded in agreement. “Your boots will be needing a shine, Colonel. You’ll want to look your best tomorrow.”

Raile struggled out of his tunic and fell back. “Get some sleep yourself, Oliver. Tomorrow will test the fortitude of us all.”

The devoted servant, with the muddy boots dangling from his fingers and the discarded clothing under his arm, extinguished the lantern and withdrew.

Raile closed his eyes, wishing sleep would come. If only he could turn his thoughts off, but for some reason, persistent memories from the past plodded through his mind, denying him rest. He drew in a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the impending battle. The French would throw all their forces at them tomorrow—they had to—this was their last hope.

He was weary of war, and ready to return to England. When the fighting was over, he would go home and face his past.

He had not thought of England in months—at least not consciously. Why had painful memories now come unbidden to him? He supposed it was because it finally mattered to him that he might die before he could vindicate himself with his uncle.

His lips twisted with rancor. There was much he had to settle when he got back to England. His honor had been questioned, and he swore to clear his name before he died.

He thought of how insignificant his life had been before he fought under Wellington and faced death at each battle. In London his nights had been spent in the arms of beautiful women, and his days had been spent gaming and drinking with the Prince of Wales and his favorites.

How unimportant that life seemed to him now—and how far away. With rain heavily pounding against the leather tent, Raile finally nodded off from exhaustion, his anguished mind soothed by a dreamless sleep.

Sunday, June 18

It was almost the noon hour when the first shots echoed through the valley.

Raile raised his spyglass to observe the enemy position across the open field. The plowed ground was muddy from the previous night’s storm, and the allies were having trouble moving the heavy equipment. Cannons were bogged down in mud up to their axles, making it difficult for the soldiers to turn them toward the oncoming enemy. After a long struggle, the heavy guns were aimed, spiked, and ready to fire.

Each time a cannon spoke, fire bellowed across the valley. The biting, acrid smell of gunpowder permeated the air. Spiraling smoke seemed suspended above the landscape and was slow to dissipate. As the battle heated up, clouds of sulfur mingled with the ever-present mist like a ghostly omen predicting hellish devastation. The countryside was quickly becoming littered with the dead and dying.

Raile’s eyes darkened with irony as he looked at the battlefield where crops of barley and potatoes flourished—a bit of reality in an otherwise illusory world that was being trampled beneath the boots of advancing armies.

He watched the French forces mass to charge across the open spaces. Did they actually believe they could win today? He had been in enough battles to know that death honored no allegiance, favored no nation, respecter! no cause. Surely the valiant fools realized that in the end it would be the strongest who would prevail. And only God knew who was the strongest. Had it all come down to Napoleon’s strategy against Wellington’s cunning?

For long hours fierce battles raged, with neither side giving ground. Napoleon was sending out massive columns that struck hammer blows at the British front positions.

It was late afternoon when Raile’s attention was drawn to the advancing French infantrymen who marched in double-time toward Wellington’s right.

A fierce battle ensued, and Wellington was being driven back.

Raile and his men met the French Lancers with sabers ready. The clash of swords rang out even as the cannons echoed across the valley. Raile heard someone shout that the Prussians had arrived. God let it be true, he prayed as an enemy lance hit him in the shoulder and propelled him from his horse.

Searing pain stunned him for the moment. Shaking his head to clear it, he jumped to his feet, noticing that several hundred Prussians had dug in on his right. But something was wrong. Apparently their commander had been killed and chaos had broken out among the ranks. The Prussians were abandoning their positions and scurrying toward the safety of the woods.

Raile quickly assessed the situation and realized that if the panic-stricken Prussians didn’t hold their ground, the enemy would penetrate the lines and come up on Wellington’s right, his weakest point. Pushing his booted foot into the stirrups, he bounded back into the saddle. Amid a punishing cannonade, he turned his horse in the direction where the enemy was advancing on the fleeing Prussians.

Raile’s maneuver had been observed by his own men, who, inspired by his heroic action rallied behind him, their horses thundering across the field.

The sun reflected off drawn sabers as a daring charge ensued.

With his mount running full out, Raile reached down and scooped up the fallen Prussian flag attached to a lance. Without breaking his horse’s stride, he met a wall of French cavalry. One Frenchman, whose sword was already bloodstained, charged toward Raile. Without thinking, Raile plunged the lance into the enemy, driving it into his heart.

There was a surprised look on the Frenchman’s face as he fell forward and slid from his horse, the bloodstained Prussian flag waving above his prone body like a banner of victory.

The spectacle of seeing their flag flying atop a slain enemy caused pride to surge through the fleeing Prussians. They turned back, rushing down the hill to meet the French with renewed fervor.

It soon became a struggle for supremacy, a hand-to-hand combat with Raile in the middle, spurring loyalty in the breasts of Englishmen and Prussians alike.

At one point, Raile’s horse was shot out from under him, so he continued his fight on foot. Sweat and blood stung his eyes, and he didn’t know if he was tasting his own blood or that of the enemy, not that it mattered. Raile swung his sword, connecting with flesh and bone. He felt a sting of pain and glanced down to see blood spurting from an open gash on his leg. Ignoring the pain, he wielded his blade and met the enemy with a clash of steel.

Time had no meaning—the only thing that mattered was to kill or be killed.

Suddenly a cannonball exploded nearby, and Raile reeled from a stunning blow to his head. He staggered and fell to his knees, only to rise again. All at once, the ground tilted, and he felt himself falling into a black void.

He was unaware that his men circled him like a protective shield, fighting to keep the enemy at bay. He did not hear the ghostly bugles that sounded the French retreat. He was unaware of the bedlam that broke out among the enemy ranks, or that the battle had turned and the French forces were being pursued by Wellington.

Raile regained consciousness just as several men lifted and carried him toward the hospital tent behind the lines. Through a haze of pain he observed a land that had been turned into an inferno that would bear the scars of this war for many years to come. He thought for a moment that he was in hell.

For the French, hope had turned to despair, and with despair came the knowledge that their mighty emperor had been thoroughly defeated. Raile watched as abandoned French flags were trampled beneath retreating boots.

Oliver appeared beside Raile and spoke encouragingly, trying to hide his distress.

“You’ll be all right, sir. Just a little nick, I suspect.”

In truth, Raile’s face was a bloody mass, and the wounds on his leg and shoulder were bleeding profusely.

Raile tried to rise, but the pain was so great he fell back weakly. “My command?”

“Seven dead and twenty wounded. They did you proud today, sir,” Oliver assured him. “You mustn’t talk. The surgeons will expect you to lie quietly until they can tend your wounds—you’ll be up and about in no time, sir.”

Raile drew in a ragged breath. Both he and Oliver knew he was gravely wounded.

“Did we win today?” he insisted on knowing.

“That we did, Colonel. Even though I’m told there are yet pockets of Napoleon’s crack regiment, the Old Guard, who stayed at their posts, determined to remain until the end to protect their emperor’s withdrawal. But they can’t hold out for long.”

“Praiseworthy in battle, praiseworthy in defeat,” Raile murmured, still gripping the handle of his saber. His eyes moved to Oliver, and he said with considerable effort: “Today we are witnessing the Corsican’s demise, Oliver. He will not recover from this last folly.”

Raile glanced at the battlefield that was littered with dead bodies of men and horses—comrades and enemies alike. “So many dead—it all seems so senseless—“

He was placed in a cart with other wounded to be transported to the nearby field hospital. Oliver sat beside him and cushioned his head as the rig jostled over rutted roads. The pain became too great and Raile was again enveloped in darkness.

In the early hours of the morning, the surgeon’s knife removed the musket fragment from Raile’s leg, but the head wound was another matter. The surgeon cleansed it and bandaged it before turning to a worried Oliver.

“I’ve done all I can for him,” he said, wiping his bloody hands on his apron. “The rest is up to God.”

“He’s strong, he’ll make it,” Oliver said with conviction.

“If I were a betting man, and I’m not, I’d say he won’t. His head wound is deep, and there was a fragment I dared not remove, fearing it pressed too close to the brain. Even if by some miracle he does live, he may be mindless or even blind.”