But that didn’t mean they’d break. His teeth bared in what wasn’t a smile, Simon gave the order to fire and another cavalry charge broke on their infantry square.
Nightfall was coming, unless eternal night came first.
* * *
Suzanne was growing adept at basic nursing, and she’d taken to carrying a notebook and pencil so she could record messages and addresses from wounded soldiers who feared they would never make it home.
Most messages boiled down to “I love you.” Tears stung her eyes as she wrote the words down and swore the messages would be delivered.
Lucas was amazing, ever-calm as he practiced his bonesetter art along with treating open wounds. Bones that were broken were set, and twice Maurice was sent to find more laths for splints and more lengths of bandage to hold the splints in place. Soldiers Lucas treated wouldn’t have to worry about bones healing crookedly. If they lived, they would heal straight and true.
And the wounded kept coming. Their street infirmary was receiving men wounded earlier in the day, and they brought news of the fighting at the same time. As Suzanne patched a battered sergeant in a dark green Riflemen uniform, she asked, “How is it going, Sergeant?”
“Bloody awful.” He flinched as she treated his wounded arm with gin. “Sorry, missus, but there ain’t any nice words strong enough. ‘Tis a nightmare, with more French than Allied troops. And they’re more experienced, and they’ve got more and better guns.”
Trying not to show her fear, Suzanne started work on a bayonet slice across the sergeant’s cheek. “Are our troops retreating?”
“Nay, we’re holding. Bloodied, battered, but holding.” The Rifleman sucked his breath in at the vicious sting of gin on his lacerated cheek. “If you’re sending up prayers for your man, pray that the bloody Prussians reach the field in time to help. Otherwise . . .”
Suzanne drew in a slow, shaky breath. Pray for Simon, pray for the Prussians to arrive. She could do that.
Shewoulddo that.
* * *
“The Prussians have arrived, the Prussians have arrived, the Prussians have arrived!” Word moved across the Allied lines, reinvigorating the battered troops. The balance of the battle changed as Prussian troops poured in from the east.
The emperor played his last card by sending his Imperial Guards, the finest troops in Europe, who had never been defeated. Until this evening, when the tidal wave of the empire broke on the steel of the British Guards regiments.
The summer days were long, but even so, nightfall was only a couple of hours away when Wellington ordered a general advance, sweeping his dark cockade hat forward in a fierce command. Shouting with battle fever, the Allied armies advanced down the slope to meet the French head on. The battered Sixth rushed forward, raging to defeat the enemy once and for all.
Simon and De Jong led the way, but the regiment scattered into smaller groups as it rushed forward. Some of the men became involved in hand-to-hand combat with clusters of stubbornly resisting French fighters. Other members of the regiment swooped deeper into the valley of death. Simon was in a high, wild state dictated by warrior’s instinct.
That instinct drove him when a French heavy cavalryman thundered forward to ride De Jong down. The blond fisherman was doomed, until Simon lunged forward and drove his sword into the cavalryman. The rider fell off, mortally wounded, but Simon couldn’t avoid the steel-clad hooves of the great horse.
He crashed to the ground, his vision dimming. Pain, numbness, falling. His last thought before tumbling into darkness was of Suzanne.Always in my heart . . .
Chapter 43
It was well into the evening when Suzanne wearily approached Lucas with a hunk of good local cheese. She broke it in half and offered him the larger chunk. “Eat, almost brother,” she said, her voice raw from so much talking. “We aren’t running out of patients and we need to keep up our strength.”
He bit into the cheese as if it were an apple. She did the same, then swallowed hard as something vital twanged deep in her heart.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.Simon!She stared at Lucas. “Simon. I’m sure something has happened to him. Dear God,Simon!”
Lucas also froze for a long, agonized moment before he said, “I don’t think he’s dead. But he may be seriously wounded.”
An injured soldier was limping toward Suzanne, but she waved him off. “Go to that woman over there—she’ll help you.” Suzanne wiped sweaty, bloodstained hands down her skirts. “I must find my husband!”
This time the rescue party was Suzanne, Maurice, and Lucas, though they used the same cart as the day before. It was now stocked with medical supplies, blankets, and a basket of food and drink. Lucas drove the cart. Because they were armed, Maurice and Suzanne kept watch on all sides for any roving French soldiers or looters.
The road was jammed and chaotic as wagonloads of the wounded lurched toward Brussels and desperate family members forced their way south. Lucas was an expert driver and the small cart could be maneuvered better than most through the teeming mass of vehicles.
They had almost reached Waterloo when Suzanne spotted a familiar figure on horseback heading toward them. “Jackson!” she shouted as she waved frantically. “Edgar Jackson!”
Seeing them, he kicked his horse faster and met the cart as Lucas pulled over on the verge. She called, “Jackson, where is Simon?”
Looking ill, he said, “He was alive when I left him in surgery, but he was hurt bad, ma’am. I was coming to get you.”
