Here they came, crushing rye in their wake. Sixty yards, fifty yards, forty. In bloodcurdling accents, the French shouted, “Vive l’Empereur!”
And Stephen yelled, “Fire!”
The sharp crack of a hundred guns deafened, creating a wall of smoke in front of the square. Almost instantly the French riders emerged from the smoke atop their striving mounts, lashing with their sabers and thrusting their lances. The well-trained horses stopped just short of the row of bayonets while others swept around the square like a rushing current around a rock in the middle of a river.
As the smoke cleared, Stephen saw that many French had been killed by the initial volley and several horses galloped riderless back toward enemy lines.
“Cease fire! Reload!” Stephen and his sergeant called to their men. The front line of musketeers stepped back to reload as the second line stepped forward.
The French took the opportunity to wreak havoc from high atop their war-horses. The front ranks of the 28th used their bayonets to try to keep them at bay, but their razor-sharp blades found their mark time and time again. A steady stream of wounded fell back into the center of the square.
The remaining men struggled through the painstaking steps to reload, while foul-smelling smoke made it nearly impossible to see.
Stephen shouted, “Ready. Fire!”
Again smoke and thunder erupted and more French met the ground.
The first wave of cavalry retreated, and his men sent up a shout, but Stephen knew they had precious little time before the French charged again. He rushed to the front of the square that had taken the greatest punishment, and helped the wounded. As he dragged one man back to the center, cannons sounded in the distance. He paused to look toward the enemy lines in time to see puffs of smoke emitted from their batteries. Before he could react, dozens of explosions erupted as cannonballs slammed into the earth all around them, the French gunners taking advantage of their tight formation.
Men screamed in agony as flying shards of metal tore into their bodies. Off to his right, Stephen saw the British cannons answering the barrage, and he prayed their shots would hit their mark.
The number of wounded in the center of the square was growing. Stephen moved along the ranks of men still forming the square, searching for weaknesses in the lines and directing reserves into the gaps.
Stephen once again climbed atop the cannon to survey the situation with his spyglass. The French cavalry massed near the river were separating into groups—waiting for the devastating effects of the cannons to take their toll before they attacked again.
Suddenly an explosion knocked him from his perch. A French cannon ball had hit one corner of the square. A dozen of his troops had been felled by a single shot and a huge gap blown open in their formation. Many of the men were killed instantly, but others were left to suffer in agony.
Stephen regained his footing and rushed toward the carnage. As he reached the gap, a trumpet blast in the distance signaled the next cavalry charge. He called for several men to move forward and reposition themselves in the critical corner of their defense. The men hurried to obey, but the enemy was almost upon them.
Stephen commanded, “Prepare to fire!” Once again the pounding of the horses’ hooves made the ground shake all around them. He counted the distance and at thirty yards yelled, “Fire!” Then he grabbed a musket from a fallen soldier and joined the reinforcements filling the decimated line. A rider came barreling toward him, so close Stephen could see every detail of his blue uniform with red lapels, his body armor gleaming in the sunlight. The Frenchman’s chest plate would deflect the point of a bayonet but could not stop a musket ball from this close range.
The rider brandished a saber in one hand and a pistol in the other, the reins gripped tightly in his teeth. A sharp pain ripped through Stephen’s shoulder as a blade sliced into his flesh in a sickening blow. He slumped to one knee and blood ran down his arm. He looked up and saw the rider aim his pistol at Hornsby nearby. As he fired, Stephen pulled the young officer down, cutting his hand on the man’s blade. The bullet missed its target.
Hornsby helped Stephen to his feet as the battle raged around them. The soldiers sent another volley of lead into the attackers. His left arm now useless, Stephen could merely shout orders and fill the gap with his body, but he was able to offer little resistance.
To Stephen’s horror, another group of cavalry charged just behind the first group. This group was larger and galloping straight for the weakened corner of their square. Right where he stood. Their only hope was to stop them before they crashed through the gap and slaughtered his vaunted regiment from within.
Stephen yelled, “Fire!”
The remaining infantrymen discharged their guns in a desperate attempt to stop the attackers. A large black stallion in full gallop was hit by the barrage. The brave animal stumbled and came crashing into their square, widening the gap in their protective ranks. The dead rider was thrown from the horse and landed at Stephen’s feet, pistol still in hand. Stephen grabbed it.
In an instant another French cavalryman saw the opportunity and urged his mount toward the gap. If they did not thwart this intrusion all would be lost. Stephen aimed and fired. The shot hit home and the rider fell. The horse reared, hooves flashing, its front hoof delivering a blow to the side of Stephen’s head. Stunned, he dropped to his knees.
“Captain, behind you!”
Another shattering collision of steel on flesh and bone, like lightning felling a tree.
Stephen fell face-first into the rye. The dying black stallion rolled and trapped him beneath it, knocking the remaining breath from his lungs. Around him the sounds of fighting and shouts and cries continued, but faded, growing more and more distant.
I am going to die, he thought calmly. Sadly. Your will be done, Lord. Please comfort my family. And bless Sophie and her . . . our . . . child.
His eyes were open, and his small patch of vision—his own bloody hand, Belgian soil, broken stalks, and torn earthworm—came into sharp focus, then narrowed. A dark ring framed his vision like a spyglass, the darkness spreading, his vision shrinking to a tiny point of light and then . . . blackness.
chapter 25
An old friend of Colonel Horton’s had been on hand in London when a dispatch from Wellington arrived. As a favor to the colonel, he’d sent a messenger to Overtree Hall directly.
The colonel summoned the family and Mr. Keith into the parlour and shared the grave report. “Sobering news, I am afraid. There’s been a horrendous battle in Belgium—at a crossroads Wellington was determined to defend called Quatre Bras.”
He read a brief excerpt.
“On 16th June, the 28th in company with the 1st Royal Scots marched to the support of the hard-pressed 42nd and 44th, forming square and standing firm to continuous attacks from French cavalry. The British line, supported by guns and cavalry, gallantly beat back their assailants, and the ground the French had taken during the afternoon was regained. The French fought back but could not hold and were eventually forced to retreat. In the end, Quatre Bras was held and the road to the Prussians still open, but at a high cost. Casualties among the Highlanders were especially severe, but many were killed or injured among the 28th as well. No specific numbers or names yet reported.”
Sophie’s heart fisted. Please, God, no . . .
The colonel refolded the message and removed his spectacles. “Not the resounding victory we hoped for. And the battle continues to rage elsewhere. The survivors of the 28th are moving north with the rest of the 5th Division in hopes of defeating Boney there.”
Sophie’s fear must have shown on her face, because the colonel patted her hand. “Chin up, my girl. The captain has lived through worse.”
But Sophie feared the worst—especially knowing about Winnie’s prediction. Because whether the old nurse remembered it clearly or not, Stephen did, and that might affect the outcome. She prayed again for God’s protection, and for Stephen to come home.
Mr.
Keith rose, saying he would walk over to Windmere and share the report with Miss Blake. Sophie hoped his visit would not be rebuffed. They had not seen much of Angela since the tense conversation about her marriage prospects. But Sophie guessed that all their neighbors and friends would rally around the Overtree family as this news spread.
Wesley watched Sophie’s face as his grandfather read the report. Seeing her concern for Marsh stilled him, worried him, convicted him, even as he admired her for it. At first, he had suspected her attachment to Marsh was a performance for his family’s sake, but he was shaken to discover her affection for his brother had not been an act. At least not in the end. Her loyalty, however misplaced, was genuine and touching.
He’d also been surprised at CK’s eagerness to take the news to Miss Blake at Windmere. Wesley had noticed Angela had been making herself scarce lately and wondered if she was avoiding Overtree Hall on his account. He decided to be kinder to her in hopes of smoothing things over.
In the afternoon, he continued his painting of The Last Supper over the chancel archway. And when he entered the church, he stopped to pray, as he had rarely done before. For Marsh. For Sophie and the child. For patience.
It had been one thing when Wesley thought Marsh was lounging about in a Dublin barracks, ordering men about as he liked to do, and sharing a comfortable mess with fellow officers. But now that Wesley knew his brother was well and truly enmeshed in battle—his life at serious risk—Wesley decided to retreat from Sophie. Give her time and space.
He had offered to help her repair the portrait of Stephen, but she said she preferred to do it herself. It was clear she wanted to be alone—or at least, not alone with him. So that evening Wesley removed his easel and supplies from the old schoolroom and carried them back to his own small studio adjacent to his bedchamber. There he continued to work on his new portrait of Sophie. Now and again, he glanced at the crate in the corner. The crate that represented and concealed his past in Lynmouth. And his love for Sophie Dupont Overtree.
In the white parlour the next day, Sophie and Kate sat reading novels, Kate on the sofa and Sophie in an armchair nearby. Mr. Keith and Miss Blake played the pianoforte together—Angela serving as his second hand. They sat close to one another on the bench, playing and laughing and flirting. Sophie didn’t know what Mr. Keith had said to Angela to bring about the change in her demeanor, or if something else had restored her spirits. Perhaps she simply wanted to be a comforting presence for the Overtree family during an uncertain time. Whatever the case, Angela was once again spending time in Overtree Hall—and at Mr. Keith’s side.
The sight of the two of them together struck Sophie as bittersweet. Sophie was happy for them, but sad for herself. She had never enjoyed a sweet, proper, public courtship. She and Wesley had spent most of their time alone on remote Castle Rock, or hidden away in his cottage. She should have held out for better. Valued herself more highly.
Still the pair were amusing, and Sophie looked from them to Kate with a smile. But the girl did not return the gesture. She turned the page of her novel with little of her usual enthusiasm.
Guessing the reason, Sophie said, “I have not seen Mr. Harrison lately.”
“No. He’s gone to London for the week.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Mr. Nelson told me he’s visiting his old friend, Sir Theodore Terry. He has offered to use his connections to help him find a publisher for his book.”
Sophie studied the girl’s wan expression. “But . . . is that not good news?” she asked.
Kate shrugged. “If he is successful, I fear he will remain in London for some time.”
“Yes, but if he is successful, will that not go a long way in winning your parents’ approval?”
Kate looked up at her hopefully. “Do you think it might?”
Sophie nodded, and was gratified to see the girl’s customary smile return.
Wesley appeared, hesitating in the doorway. His gaze swung from Sophie and Kate, to Miss Blake and Mr. Keith at the pianoforte.
Kate patted the sofa cushion beside her. “Hello, Wesley. How was your meeting with Mr. Boyle?”
He shrugged and sat down. “All right. Old codger certainly knows how to make a short story long. His daughter has just made him a grandfather twice over—twins named Rachel and Rebekah, of all things.”
“How charming.” Kate turned to Sophie. “That reminds me. Have you given any thought to what you will name your baby?”
Sophie noticed Wesley send her a wary look.
“I . . . have not yet decided.”
Angela spoke up from behind the piano. “I suppose if it is a girl, you shall name her after yourself? It is traditional in many families.”
“No. I think that would be too confusing,” Sophie replied.
“Yes, it can be. As I know from personal experience.”
Kate asked, “What did Stephen suggest?”
Sophie recalled that the topic had made the captain visibly uncomfortable. At the moment, it was making her uncomfortable as well. “He did not say much on the subject,” she said. “Though he did mention the colonel’s given name is George.”
Angela offered, “Stephen’s second name is Marshall, as you probably know. And Wesley’s is Dalton. Both fine old family names.” She smiled sweetly from her to Wesley and back again.
Sophie swallowed. “I don’t think so, no.”
“Better not choose Marsh,” Wesley muttered.
Mr. Keith stood abruptly. “What do you say to a game of billiards, Wes. Leave this sort of talk to the ladies?”
“Excellent idea. Thank you, CK.” Wesley rose and led the way.
Sophie was grateful as well.
On the afternoon of June the 23rd, Sophie and Kate were again sitting in the white parlour together, when galloping horse hooves and scattering pea gravel drew their attention out the front windows. Young Mr. Harrison came riding in and all but leapt from the saddle, leaving the reins dangling before the groom even jogged out to take his horse.
“I thought he was in London,” Sophie murmured.
“He was.” Kate’s brow knit. “I hope nothing is wrong.”
Sophie inhaled a shaky breath. “I hope he doesn’t bring bad news.”
The two women hurried into the hall.
A moment later, the young man burst through the door, ignoring the footman’s attempt to forestall him or take his coat. Mr. Harrison brandished a copy of the London Gazette Extraordinary, folded so that the headline in huge capitals caught Sophie’s eye:
GLORIOUS VICTORY
“Victory!” he called. “We have triumphed over Bonaparte!”
Outside, the church bells began ringing on cue. Mr. Harrison smiled and nodded. “I rode past Papa on the way in and shouted the good news.”
Mr. Harrison breathlessly explained that he had ridden all night from London as soon as he heard the report.
Word spread throughout the house, and the family and servants gathered as though to hear a town crier.
When all had assembled, Mr. Harrison read aloud of the victory obtained by the Duke of Wellington over Bonaparte at Waterloo on the previous Sunday, the 18th of June.
Cheers arose and echoed throughout Overtree Hall.
Mr. Harrison beamed at them all, clearly enjoying his role as bearer of glad tidings.
“What a celebration in London—the Tower guns fired, trumpets sounded, church bells rung. The mail coaches dressed in laurels and flowers, ready to carry the great news to the rest of England. Thousands of us filled the streets, cheering and shaking hands. I shall never forget it.”
Around the room, God was praised and smiles exchanged. Backs were slapped and embraces shared. Only the two Mrs. Overtrees remained somber.
“What does it say of casualties?” Mrs. Overtree asked, eyes on the newspaper.
“Not much,” Mr. Harrison replied. “No doubt more particulars will follow shortly.”
And follow they did.
Every day after that, Sop
hie gathered with the family as they read the Gazette and other papers and discussed the latest news. Wellington had won, but at a staggering cost of human life.
Lists of the wounded and slain were printed as information reached London. The Overtrees read the lists with morbid dread, knowing they were among thousands of worried families doing the same.
Those early feelings of triumph curdled into sickening dismay, as the lists of regimental losses mounted, and now and again they recognized the name of a friend or acquaintance who had fallen.
The horrendous lists continued and were added to for days. Weeks. And every time they were read, Sophie sat silently praying and holding her breath.
Captain Stephen Overtree’s name was not on those early lists and the family began to hope, even believe he had survived. A tender sprout of hope began to grow in Sophie’s heart as well.
The colonel patted her hand and tried to reassure her, saying they would no doubt receive a letter from him soon.
They did receive a letter. But it was not from Stephen. It was from someone named Ensign Hornsby. Sophie was sitting in the parlour with Mr. Overtree when it arrived. He asked Thurman to summon the family. Sophie stole surreptitious glances at her father-in-law’s tense, pale face as they waited. His expression did not bode well.
Soon family members and Mr. Keith gathered in the parlour, clustered on sofas and chairs. Mr. Overtree stood beside his wife’s chair, holding the letter in one hand, his other gripping her shoulder.
He read the words aloud in a quavering voice that grew painfully thin several times. He had to stop and start more than once to get through it.
“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Overtree and family,
I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Deeply sorry. But Sergeant Wallace urged me to write, saying the not knowing is probably worse yet.
As of this writing, your son, Captain Stephen Overtree, is missing and presumed dead. The bandsmen who swept the farmhouses and fields after the awful battle at Quatre Bras did not find him among the dead. I wish I could offer hope that he might yet be found among the living, but I saw him fall myself, struck by a French cavalryman. You know their reputation too well to doubt their merciless skill with saber. If not, Colonel Horton could tell you. I write this not to give you needless pain, but to assure you that he would not have suffered long.