The Marquess Monologue
R owan gaped, unable to hide his surprise when Anglesey came striding out of the mansion to greet them. No crutch, only a slight limp.
“Welcome to my country retreat, lads,” he gushed, shaking both his guests’ hands. “I see you’re impressed with my artificial leg, young Halstead.”
Niven jumped into the conversation when Rowan couldn’t find his voice. “’Tis a marvel, my lord. How does it work?”
“King!” the marquess exclaimed. “Good to see you hale and hearty. Happily married to Withenshawe’s girl, I hear.”
Rowan wondered how their host knew that, but he was more intrigued with Anglesey’s mechanical leg. “Sir,” he said. “We’re honored to be invited and pleased to see you looking so well.”
Grinning broadly, Anglesey turned to Niven. “What your brother-in-law means is, how can he get his hands on a leg like mine. ”
“I admit it,” Rowan replied sheepishly, joining in the good natured chuckles.
“All in good time,” the marquess exclaimed, gesturing to a tall, thin woman hovering behind him. “Now, let me introduce you to my housekeeper. Mrs. Grant will show you to your rooms.”
Worrying his lower lip, Rowan eyed the upper floors of the magnificent house with some trepidation. It was one thing to be helped up and down stairs in remote inns, quite another in such a grand house full of important guests.
“Don’t worry, Major,” Anglesey exclaimed. “Ground floor for you.”
The marquess hosted a dinner for the guests who’d arrived a day or two early for the ceremony. As the son-in-law of a duke, Niven was used to dining with nobility, but he admitted to being overawed by men he recognized as elite commanders of the Allied army that had fought against Napoleon. As like-minded men are wont to do when they gather socially, they rehashed the Battles of Quatre Bras and Waterloo. The host was particularly vocal and obviously enjoyed holding the floor.
“At about two o’clock in the afternoon,” he declared. “At a critical stage in the battle, I led a charge of the two thousand heavy cavalry of the Household and Union Brigades in order to throw back the columns of D'Erlon's French Corps. They were threatening to push back Picton's severely outnumbered 5th Division, with some fifteen thousand French infantry advancing on three thousand British and Dutch troops.”
“Your charge succeeded in sweeping the French infantry away in disorder,” one of the guests opined.
“But I was unable to rally the troops who ran on in pursuit and were cut up by counter-attacking French cavalry.”
As a member of the Fifth Division, Niven recalled only too well the surge of optimism he’d experienced when the Scots Grays charged, yelling their battle cry of Scotland Forever . His hopes of a quick end to the carnage died as he watched the French cut down the riders. “Ye ken I piped wi’ Kenneth McKay o’ the 79 th ,” he said, hoping he wasn’t speaking out of turn. “McKay thought part o’ the problem was a lack o’ battle experience on the part o’ the Grays.”
He was relieved when a moment of silence gave way to hearty agreement with McKay’s opinion.
Anglesey cleared his throat, bringing everyone’s attention back to him. “I spent the rest of the battle leading a series of charges by light cavalry formations; had eight or nine horses shot from under me.
“Then, when victory was in our grasp, I got my leg blown to pieces.”
“Rotten luck,” was the universal reaction voiced by the guests.
“But who would not lose a leg for such a victory?” Anglesey declared.
“Hear, hear,” came the chorus.
Rowan clenched his jaw. He couldn’t stand much more of this nonsense, but leaving the table would be considered rude, especially since he couldn’t manage it without people noticing. Making light of men losing limbs just wasn’t on. He certainly didn’t agree that victory made the loss of a leg any less horrendous. Yet, it was the marquess who’d set the tone, and he knew all about the agony of having a mangled leg cut off in less than ideal conditions.
Rowan steeled himself for more discomfort when the marquess continued his monologue. “Just after the Surgeon had taken off my leg, Sir Hussey Vivian came into the cottage. ‘Vivian!’ I said. ‘I want you to do me a favor. Some of my friends here seem to think I should have kept that leg on. Just go and cast your eye upon it, and tell me what you think.’ He went and discovered that rusty grape-shot had gone through and shattered the bones all to pieces. He returned to tell me I could put my mind quite at rest, as the leg, in his opinion, was better off than on."
Rowan cringed when hearty laughter rang out.
“You know I was offered an annual pension of ￡1,200 in compensation for the loss of my leg, which I refused.”
Several guests banged fists on the table as a sign of their approval of this honorable gesture. Rowan seethed. He’d been offered nothing. Not that he needed money, but…
“Five days after the battle, the Prince Regent created me Marquess of Anglesey and appointed me a Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath.”
For months, Rowan had felt only a dull ache in his stump. Suddenly, the saw was once again biting into flesh and bone.
Niven worried about Rowan. It wasn’t surprising his red-faced brother-in-law was growing increasingly uncomfortable with Anglesey’s monologue. The marquess couldn’t be faulted. He was the hero about to be recognized with the dedication of a monument which would apparently provide unparalleled views across the Menai Straits. He was certainly being an entertaining host and the majority of guests were clearly enjoying his anecdotes. But then the majority had all their limbs.
“After being wounded,” the marquess continued, obviously not finished with his reminiscences. “I was taken to my headquarters in the village of Waterloo, a house owned by Monsieur Hyacinthe Paris, who was still living in his residence at 214, Chaussée de Bruxelles. There, my damaged leg was amputated by Doctor John Hume, assisted by surgeons James Powell of the Ordnance Medical Department, and James Callander of the 7th Hussars.”
Niven cringed, wondering if Rowan was aware Callander was the surgeon who’d removed his leg, but Anglesey hadn’t finished the tale.
“Monsieur Paris asked if he might bury my leg in his garden, and has now turned the place into a kind of shrine. Visitors are first taken to see the bloody table upon which I lay during the amputation.
“I agreed, of course. The poor chap’s kitchen had been turned into an operating room.” At this point, the grinning marquess produced a slip of paper. “My leg has its own tombstone in the garden, inscribed as follows:
Here lies the Leg of the illustrious and valiant Earl Uxbridge, Lieutenant-General of His Britannic Majesty, Commander in Chief of the English, Belgian and Dutch cavalry, wounded on the 18 June 1815 at the memorable battle of Waterloo, who, by his heroism, assisted in the triumph of the cause of mankind, gloriously decided by the resounding victory of the said day.”
Gales of laughter and hearty applause followed. Niven couldn’t help but join in, and was relieved to see a hint of a smile tug at the corners of Rowan’s mouth.