Chapter Nineteen
A musket shot whistled past Will’s head.
He broke from cover and dug his heels into his horse’s sides. Behind him, a shouted order—“Get him!”—overrode a string of curses.
But he had a message for the Duke of Wellington and his army, and he intended to deliver it. Staying low over his horse’s back, he veered away from the French encampment and rode straight for the sunrise, praying the slanted rays of the rising sun would give him sufficient cover.
A volley of shots followed him. They fell short and wide as his horse galloped hard along the track, turned a bend and headed north from Ligny.
Toward Waterloo.
When the adrenaline rush of his escape from the French troops wore off, Will at last paid attention to the throbbing pain in his left arm.
A quick exploration confirmed he’d taken a bullet.
Praying it was no more than superficial, Will pulled up in a small copse.
He tied a less-than-clean cravat around the wound, awkwardly pulling it tightly between one hand and his teeth.
Satisfied he wasn’t going to bleed to death, he gritted his teeth and rode on.
Rough, hard miles passed in a blur of looking over his shoulder and listening for pursuit. The message he carried could spell the end for the emperor. He prayed it would be so.
Hours later, amidst a torrential downpour, he pulled up at the perimeter of Wellington’s encampment at Mont-Saint-Jean above a narrow valley, and called to one of the guards. “Urgent message for the Duke of Wellington!”
He presented his password and was admitted to the camp. Security was tight, and well-disciplined soldiers, a number of whom Will suspected were old enough to have been veterans of the Peninsular War, watched his passage to the duke’s tent. Finally, he was taken into the commander’s presence.
Exhausted by his injury and the long ride in heavy rain, Will introduced himself, but couldn’t remember if he bowed, saluted, or simply spilled his observations as he conveyed the message.
“Marshal de Grouchy has taken about one-third of Boney’s forces and is pursuing Blücher’s retreating army.
Count von Gneisenau is leading the retreat. Bonaparte’s forces are split.”
The duke sat back in his chair and nodded. “Thank you, Ravenshoe. Well done.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Light-headed and aware only now that he’d accomplished his mission that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s breakfast, Will swayed. Only sheer willpower kept him on his feet.
The duke turned to one of his aides. “Captain Jenkins, escort Mr. Ravenshoe to the medic, then see he is given food and a blanket.”
The captain saluted.
Will made to follow him, but stopped at the entrance and turned back to the duke.
“It’s boggy as all hell in the valley, Your Grace.
Difficult for cavalry if the rain doesn’t stop.
The ground is firmer further along the valley, near the farmhouse.
” Then he ducked under the tent flap and followed the captain to food, a doctor, and a few hours of slumber.
And a prayer for dreams of Clem to replace the horrors of the Ligny battlefield.
The horror of all he had lived through.
If only the coming battle at Waterloo could be the last.
Will slumped over the bowl of thin soup and broke off a hunk of hard bread, dipping it into the soup, then shoving it into his mouth. His stomach ached with hunger, and his arm throbbed. All he really wanted was to eat and sleep, but the captain seemed inclined to linger.
“You’ve been in France a long time?”
Too damned long. “Not as long as many of your men must have been. Twenty months.”
He had made the Channel crossing back to England a month after Boney had gone into exile, a short time after Rufus had visited him at the tavern on the Bonneville road.
The news he carried then had been urgent enough for him to risk blowing his cover to be sure it reached London.
At Dover, Lord Carstairs met him, but the head of the War Office had other plans for him.
His orders reiterated what Rufus had told him.
He couldn’t help but recollect the conversation.
“We want to mop up any resistance to the return of the French king. You have proved yourself a most able spy in the service of the Regent. It is his wish you remain in France gathering intelligence about possible rebellion and spreading the seeds of—let’s call it misinformation as we see fit,” Lord Carstairs had said.
“Can I make a brief return to London first?”
Carstairs had pursed his lips and shaken his head.
“I regret that will not be possible, Mr. Ravenshoe. There are murmurings, rumors of an attempt to free Bonaparte. Imagine if he were to be set free while support for him remains strong. Uncover the truth of these rumors, and ensure we can thwart every attempt before the unthinkable happens.”
Now, Captain Jenkins shook his head and raised a mug of tea towards him. “You evaded capture for twenty months in hostile territory. You must live a charmed life.”
Will snorted and shoved another hunk of bread into his soup and then into his mouth. If he kept his mouth occupied, he could avoid telling the captain a few home truths. Luck was for innocents. If he’d led a charmed life, right now he would be at home with Clem as his wife.
“Make sure the duke is aware of how treacherous that valley is. The cavalry won’t last long if he sends them into that mire. Try further up near the farmhouse.”