A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

Randall forced his eyes open. He was on the ground, winded but unhurt. Somehow he had managed to jump clear of Pompey, who was lying close by. Randall scrambled up and raced to the grey, but Pompey was already dead. He had taken the full force of the blast.

‘Killed instantly, thank heaven.’

He rested his hand briefly on the smooth neck. Another faithful friend gone.

‘Colon

el!’

Randall climbed to his feet as Bartlett came up. The major’s face was black as a chimney sweep, making his green eyes even more catlike. A memory swept through him of another pair of green eyes. Of Mary looking at him with shock and dismay as he ripped up at her.

‘I am unhurt, Major. And you?’

It was a mark of the man that he answered for his division. ‘We’ve had a few losses, sir. Evans has lost a leg, but we’ve taken him back to the surgeon. I hope he’ll live.’ He grinned. ‘Hot work today, sir.’

‘Hot work indeed,’ replied Randall. Glancing over the ridge, he drew his lips back into a humourless smile. ‘Here they come again. To your post, Major Bartlett!’

This time the Rogues sensed the charge was half-hearted and went in for the kill, responding with an even deadlier salvo. The smoke was thick, a dense low cloud just above head height, a heavy grey blanket glittering with scarlet from the fragments of scorched wadding that drifted slowly to the ground. Randall could not see the squares—everything was reduced to a small scenario—only the noise did not diminish, a deafening, screaming roar, as if all the demons of hell had been let loose.

Then there was no enemy within sight. Peering through the half-light, Randall made out a few riders wheeling about on the far side of the road and he strained his hoarse throat to roar out one final order.

As the guns fell silent he dragged his sleeve across his eyes, suddenly exhausted. A party of horsemen was approaching slowly on the road along the ridge. He blinked and looked again at the leading rider. His profile was familiar, that hooked nose—even more prominent than the Latymor nose!—the Duke of Wellington. He closed his eyes. Thank God they had ceased firing. The duke looked grim, riding slowly and ignoring the remains of the French cavalry still wheeling in confusion only yards away.

The Rogues began to cheer and Randall’s deafened ears picked up the thud of a drumbeat, soft and steady. He looked back. To the rear of his men a thin, straggling line of infantry was coming up the rise towards him. They marched past the squares and the guns, across the road and proceeded steadily down the slope towards the enemy. The gunfire from the far hill continued, taking down a few men, but soon the guns fell silent and that ragged line continued to advance. What was left of the squares on either side of Randall’s troop dissolved into lines and followed, their weapons at the ready.

‘By God we’ve done it,’ said a voice at his shoulder.

‘Aye, Major Flint. We’ve done it. But at what cost?’ Randall saw a stray saddle horse trotting by and shouted to a passing sergeant to catch him.

‘Heavy, but we expected that,’ returned Flint gruffly. ‘They say Bartlett’s wounded, but it doesn’t sound serious.’

‘The tomcat’s used up another of his lives, has he?’ said Randall. He saw the momentary gleam in Flint’s eyes, surprise that his colonel should know the major’s nickname, but he made it his business to know everything about his men.

That’s why the losses were so painful.

He said shortly, ‘Clear up here, Major.’

The sergeant ran up with the horse and Randall mounted stiffly. He would be bruised later from his fall. And just when did he get that gash on his leg? His pantaloons were ripped open along the thigh and there was dried blood mixed with the mud and grime on the skin, but it was no longer bleeding so he could afford to ignore it for a while. He nodded to Flint.

‘Tell the men well done.’

‘They’d rather hear it from you, sir.’

‘I’ll do that when I return.’ He wheeled the horse about and trotted off.

With most of the firing ended the smoke began to disperse and as it did so Randall’s head started to clear. A last glance at his troop had shown him the devastation they had suffered. The men were exhausted; those that had survived the battle were lying against the gun carriages, too tired to move. He doubted they had sufficient horses to draw away all the guns. He would deal with that later, if Flint had not already done so by the time he returned. Good man, Flint. Got things done. He’d be a good choice to take over the Rogues, he’d make a success of it. Or anything else he put his mind to, come to think of it. Wouldn’t do to tell him so, though. Prickly devil, his half-brother.

* * *

Randall galloped away from the carnage of the main battlefield in the direction of the building he had spotted earlier. A small group of soldiers was coming towards him and he drew rein. Their dark green jackets proclaimed them riflemen.

‘You are coming from the barn yonder?’ he said, nodding towards the dilapidated stone structure behind them.

‘Yes, sir.’ The leading rifleman raised his hand. It was a lacklustre salute, but they looked as exhausted as Randall felt and he was in no mood for formality. ‘It was full of Frenchies. Still is,’ he added. ‘But now they’re dead Frenchies.’

Randall nodded. That was all he wanted to know. He’d had visions of that thin line of infantry being picked off by the French tirailleurs if they passed close to the barn as they swept up the remnants of the enemy. With that worry out of the way he could return to his men. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. Not yet. A raging thirst had come over him and he realised he had not taken a drink all day. His borrowed horse had no water bottle hanging from the saddle. Randall looked towards the stone building. He could see now that there was a small orchard behind it and a line of lush green growth and reeds snaked past, suggesting a stream. He kicked the horse on. He’d take a drink then get back to his men. The silence of the barn did not worry him, nor the knowledge that it was filled with dead Frenchmen.

He had no intention of going any closer than necessary. There was indeed a small stream, little more than a trickle running between the high reeds, but it would suffice. He dismounted and dropped to his knees to slake his thirst. The water was sweet and cold and he splashed his face with it. All day the smoke of the battle had hung over the land like a grey raincloud, but now it was lifting and he could see that it was going to be a fine evening. Sitting back on his heels, he unbuttoned his jacket to allow the breeze to cool him. He might even make it back to Brussels tonight. It would be late, but perhaps not too late to call on Mary. He needed to make his peace with her. He could not rest until he had done so.