Chapter Thirteen

June 18, 1815

“Can you walk on that leg?” James knelt beside Corporal Jonas Walters, hastily bandaging the gaping gunshot wound in his left leg. All around them musket shots popped and echoed off the trees.

The young corporal looked up to James, green eyes grim. “I don’t think so, sir.”

James flinched and hunkered lower as a shot splintered a tree just three feet from his head. Everything had gone wrong. Everything. The correspondence intercepted by General Boland had been nothing but a trap. It was fortunate only a small party had been sent to investigate as opposed to the entire army or a large brigade. James and his men had walked right into it. Now he and Walters were the only members of the scouting detail left.

“Just leave me, Colonel. I’ll only slow you down. Better I bleed to death here than we both die picking through these woods.”

“Nonsense.” James knotted off the linen bandage. “We’re a half-mile from General Boland’s camp at most. I’m not leaving you here to rot.” Odds were they’d both die within ten feet of this very spot, but he didn’t share such with the young corporal. James pulled Walter’s arm across his shoulders and hauled the soldier to his feet. He’d never left a breathing man behind and he wasn’t about to start now.

Musket balls kicked dirt up all around them.

“Keep your head low,” James muttered grimly, guiding Walters behind a long row of boulders. “We have a long run ahead of us.”

Two hours later James and Corporal Walters approached the Brussels Road. British flags and familiar regimental standards flapped in the breeze. Carts, horses and soldiers rushed back and forth along the road carrying wounded and ammunition. James frowned. This battle was far bigger than skirmish fire in the woods.

“By God,” Walters sobbed, tone wrought with exhaustion. “Our colors. I see our colors.” The young man slumped weakly, nearly falling to his knees and dragging James along with him.

“Stay strong, lad.” James hefted him up once more. “We’ve got a stretch to walk yet. Then we’ll get you to the medical tent.”

“To hell with the medical tent. I want water and a pint of ale.”

James chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Within twenty minutes, Corporal Walters was safely ensconced within the medical tent with a water canteen and a whiskey flask. James clasped the younger man’s hand warmly, thanked him for his loyalty, and left him in the surgeon’s care. Despite the evidence of a major battle waging, the medical tents were not yet over run. That would change soon.

James vacated the medical tent and went in search of General Boland. He needed to update the general of his mission and catch up on the major events which seemed to be unfolding all around him.

“Colonel Witherspoon!”

The call snapped James from his intense thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder and immediately checked his stride. “General Boland.”

The general strode importantly to his side, brow furrowed over a sternly. “It’s about damn time you returned.”

“Forgive me, General. We returned as soon as possible. The documents were a trap. We—”

“Tell me something I haven’t already figured out,” Boland boomed, cutting James short. “None of it matters. We are in the midst of an epic campaign. While you were gone, Napoleon advanced far more quickly than we’d anticipated.” The general raked a critical eye the length of him. “Are you fit to ride, Colonel.”

James squared his shoulders. “Always, sir.” Exhausted or otherwise, he’d be damned before he missed this fight. His men needed him and he planned to ride at their sides.

“Excellent.” The general turned and marched toward his tent, indicating for James to follow. “I’ll get you a quick meal and catch you up to speed. Then you’ll report to General Uxbridge and rejoin your regiment.”

*          *          *

Two hours later the afternoon sun tipped a little past noon as James maneuvered Sam through the British Heavy Cavalry brigades forming behind the ridge, out of sight of the French. Mood grim, he tried to ignore the heavy pit settling in his gut. He had a bad feeling about today. A very bad feeling. And he didn’t agree with General Uxbridge’s orders. The general wasn’t holding enough units in reserve, and he’d ordered each brigade commander to command his own charge. James feared the assault would be disorganized and catastrophic.

“Witherspoon!” Nick Collins lifted a hand and steered his mount toward James. “Your timing is impeccable.”

A low cheer rose from his regiment as James approached.

He lifted an arm and grinned. “You gents didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun?”

“Thank god you’re back,” Nick said, expression grave. “You look like hell.”

“I’m quite certain I’ve looked worse a time or two.” James grinned at his junior officer and friend.

Nick made no attempts at joviality. “Colonel,” he sidled closer, voice low, meant for James’s ears alone. “I received a letter from Sarah while you were away. It carried new of La—”

Several artillery blasts drowned out Nick’s words.

James shook his head. “I can’t hear, Collins!” He glanced down the line. All of the commanders were barking orders, preparing for the charge.

“James, I have to te—”

“This isn’t the time to discuss your wife’s correspondence.” James shifted his attention from Nick to his regiment, preparing for the charge and the orders he would need to issue. “The bugle is going to sound at any moment.”

“James,” Nick insisted  as they rode side by side into position for the charge. “I…” After a moment he shook his head, and glanced down the line of soldier’s mere breaths from racing into battle. “Jesus,” he muttered. “This really isn’t the time.” He shoved a hand into his jacket. “Take this letter, James. Read it,” his words battled the noise swelling all around them. He thrust a folded missive at James.

Confused, he took the letter, and stuffed it into his uniform jacket. What would Sarah Collins have to say that required James’s attention? He turned to ask Nick as much, but the bugle blared, banishing any thoughts but those of the fight ahead.

James, along with the crush of heavy cavalry, drew his saber and kicked his mount to a gallop. Their mission was to support the infantry. Many of these soldiers were green, the rest were arrogantly over-confident, and several were both. It would take all of James’s skill as an officer to keep them fighting effectively and efficiently.

The fighting was fierce. Bloody. All around him men and horses were cut down by musket balls, artillery fire, and sabers alike. Soon it seemed only a cluster of cavalry remained as their forces were decimated.

From the corner of his eye, James spied Nick surrounded by three blue-coated French. Suddenly Nick’s mount collapsed out from under him, hit by a stray musket ball. James spurred his battle hardy horse forward in an instant, charging toward his friend, his sabre poised. He swung at one soldier, slicing brutally into his arm.

The trooper howled and whirled, a feral gleam in his eyes. He grasped James’s thigh attempting to haul him off Sam’s back. James held firm to the horse’s mane with his left arm and plunged his sabre down with the right, spearing the soldier through the heart.

An unexpected blow from behind knocked James forward, Sam skittered to the side, as strong arms banded around James’s lower half, dragging him backward and off the horse. James fell hard to the ground, but maintained the grip on his sabre. He glared up at the enemy solider who’d unseated him, prepared to fight.

The Frenchman swung a bayoneted rifle down. James swiftly parried the move and scrambled to his feet. His opponent viciously attacked. James successfully blocked several blows before gaining the upper hand and jamming his blade into his rival’s chest. James growled and savagely twisted the sword.

“Look out!” Nick shouted in warning.

James whipped his head to the side. Bloody hell. The third enemy soldier ran toward him, bayonet aimed straight at his chest. With his sabre still buried in the second dying soldier James had no time to react or defend himself. Instinctively he ducked, bracing for the impact.

At the last moment, Nick hurled himself in front of the bayonet. The blade sank into the younger man’s chest with a grisly crunch of torn flesh and splintered bone.

“No!” James cried in horror. He dragged his saber from the French trooper he’d just run through and turned it on the soldier that had stabbed Nick. Grasping the handle with both palms he swung hard, making brutal contact with the trooper’s neck slicing into the flesh. Dulled from battle the sword only passed halfway through the Frenchman’s neck, catching on his spine. Blood poured around the blade as the soldier’s crumpled to the ground.

Heart pounding James whirled toward Nick. “Why did you do that?” James crashed to his knees, catching Nick as he staggered and finally fell. Blood pumped from the younger man’s chest.

“Th-the letter from Sarah,” he mumbled haltingly. “Y-you need t-to go home, James. You need to go home.”

“I don’t understand. Why do I need to go home? You have a new wife, a future. If anyone should die here, it’s me.” Guilt seized James. He didn’t deserve such sacrifice. Never could.

“No, James. You…you…need…” Nick’s garbled speech become totally incoherent as his head flopped back.

“God, no.” James had lost men before, but never because they’d taken a blow meant for him. Nick wouldn’t die. Not if he had anything to do about it. James set him on the ground and whistled for Sam.

The horse came instantly and James quickly located the bandages stored in his saddlebag. He hastily applied a pressure dressing to Nick’s chest in order to stem the bleeding and then hauled him toward the horse. Fortunately his friend was still breathing, each respiration shallow but steady. At this point it was impossible to gauge the extent of Nick’s injury—how deep the blade had sunk… if any major organs or arteries were hit… James prayed he could get him to a surgeon in time. He bodily hoisted Nick onto Sam’s back, draping him on his stomach over the front of the saddle. James then swung onto the horse behind the injured man, and urged the horse forward through the sea of bloodied bodies.

To the rear, away from the heavy fighting several men and wagons were busily removing wounded from the field. James headed straight for them. He could deposit Nick in one of the wagon’s with strict instructions to get him to General Boland’s personal physician, and then rejoin the fighting.

Fire and ice paralyzed James’s right side as a bullet hit him square in the back of the shoulder. He pitched forward, thoroughly rocked and barely maintained his seat. He gritted his teeth through the pain, and anchored his left arm in Sam’s mane binding himself to the horse. An eerie whistling met his ears a split second before white light exploded in his head. Knocked totally senseless, James slumped forward over Nick’s body. His head swam sickeningly as he fought to maintain consciousness.

Phoebe… flashed through his mind as blackness consumed him.