Retribution: A Novel

By Karen Beintema

Jonas Everard is a soldier driven by revenge, seeking to justify his friend’s unnecessary death by ruining the woman who drove him over the edge. When he meets Daphne Turnbull, he thinks he’s found his mark, despite the respect and admiration he comes to feel for her.

Soon Daphne is embroiled in a plot that threatens her entire family. Will her infectious faith in God draw Jonas to the One who can heal his wounded soul? Or will his thirst for revenge succeed in destroying the lives of the Turnbull family?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Word Alive Press
• Release date: Nov 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781486610778

Book preview

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks to the team at Word Alive Press for allowing me the opportunity to see my name in print. What an incredible honour. I am very blessed!

Be strong, do not fear; your God will come,

he will come with vengeance;

with divine retribution he will come to save you.

—Isaiah 35:4 (NIV)

PROLOGUE

Vitoria, Spain

June 20, 1813

We’ve got the frogs cornered. Wellington is planning an attack soon.

Second Lieutenant Jonas Everard lifted a brow at the pronouncement made by one of his fellow officers of the 18th (Queen Mary’s Own) Royal Hussars. The cavalry regiment, led by the General the Marquess of Wellington, had recently abandoned Madrid and headed north to take on Napoleon Bonaparte’s own brother Joseph and his army of sixty thousand.

The British allies outnumbered the French by over twenty thousand but were outgunned by half. Nevertheless, the mood in the camp that evening was jovial and confident.

If we take down his brother, do you think old Boney will give up his campaign? Corporal Theodore Bailey asked.

I wouldn’t dare to guess, Jonas replied to his best friend as he tossed down a card in their game of Faro. Theo was not a cavalryman but a foot soldier of the 45th in the 3rd division under the order of Lieutenant General Thomas Picton.

Jonas watched as play went around the table and made his bet when the dealer called the turn, using the calculations of cards he’d been keeping in his head. His estimation of the order of cards turned out correct and he collected the pot from the center of the table for the fifth time that evening.

If we have the same luck in battle as you do in cards, we’ll be guaranteed a victory, Theo muttered beside him.

Jonas allowed himself a grin. Nothing to do with luck, old boy, he said, and everything to do with skill, which is the ultimate guarantee to victory.

I surely hope so, Theo said. I pray for this war to end. I’ve got a wedding to attend.

One of the lieutenants across the table glanced up. Whose wedding?

Theo grinned. My own.

The men all chuckled at that and Jonas felt a strange pang of envy. Unlike many of the young men around him, he had not left a love at home. One thing he had noticed is that those who had didn’t talk often about the women in their lives. It was as though they didn’t want to even taint the name of their beloveds by speaking them on the battlefield. Even Theo, who had been Jonas’ friend since they’d first met three years ago after both joining the fight to defeat Napoleon in the Peninsular Wars, had not spoken much of the fiancée he’d left behind in England. Jonas didn’t even know the lady’s name.

Mail’s come in.

Everyone glanced up eagerly at the officer who had just entered the tent. There would be no call of Jonas’ name, though. With no family left and most of his friends at war, he had left no one behind in England.

Hudson. O’Brien. Ackland. Dalton. Bailey…

At the sound of his name, Theo jumped up from the table and nearly sent his chair tumbling over. Jonas chuckled as he grabbed it and righted it behind his friend. Theo retrieved his prize and held it up for Jonas to see. He waved him off, knowing that if the letter was from his sweetheart, Theo would want to read it immediately. Theo grinned in return and disappeared, ducking under the tent flap.

Jonas played a few more hands and pocketed his winnings before he called it a night. Not yet ready for bed, he wandered through the camp and made his way to the banks of the Zadorra River. The cool evening air felt welcome, as the late spring days in Spain were hot and muggy.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he peered through the darkness across the span of the river and wondered briefly if there was a Frenchie on the other side doing the exact same thing. After a winter spent reorganizing and strengthening the troops, Jonas was eager to be at battle once again. Should they fight tomorrow or the next day, he would need his rest now. Turning away from the river, he made his way slowly back to the camp, stopping where all the horses were tethered and seeking out his own mount, a large chestnut gelding. After his first two cavalry mounts had been shot out from underneath him, Jonas had learned not to name the animals. He found that it kept him from getting too attached. He gave the horse a pat on the neck before he returned to the tent he shared with Theo.

It was dark in the tent when Jonas entered. He didn’t hear Theo snoring, so he spoke quietly while removing his jacket and waistcoat.

Stood at the riverbank and could hear the frogs trembling in their boots.

Theo gave a small snort but said nothing.

Jonas unwound his cravat and pushed his braces from his shoulders.

The letter from your lady friend? Jonas asked as he pulled off his boots.

Aye, Theo replied.

Anything new in England? Jonas climbed into his bedroll.

It was silent for a long time and Jonas wondered if Theo had drifted off to sleep. He closed his eyes and rolled onto his side when Theo finally spoke.

Nothing of importance, he said quietly.

Jonas frowned into the darkness, but stayed silent. He had learned in the past few years that if something was bothering Theo, it was best to leave him alone until he wanted to speak of it. Jonas closed his eyes again and went to sleep.

* * *

The sound of cannon fire jolted Jonas awake. Seeing that Theo was already gone, he dressed quickly, collected his sword and pistol, and prepared to report for duty. He left his tent and jumped straight into the chaos around him. Soldiers were running everywhere, looking for orders and trying to find their divisions.

What is the word? Jonas asked a fellow officer, Lieutenant William Spencer, as they headed towards the horses.

Lieutenant General Hill took his forces up the Heights of La Puebla. Stewart has gone to the left in an attempt to flank them on both sides.

What of the 3rd? Jonas asked, concerned for Theo.

Sitting idle thus far.

Jonas thanked Spencer and quickly saddled his horse. He mounted and went in search of his regiment.

He was among the first to report to his commanding officer, who stood with two other colonels discussing plans.

Colonel Grant. Jonas saluted. What is the stratagem?

We have approximately fourteen thousand infantry and forty-five hundred cavalrymen. We will make up the right centre column and drive them towards the left column. We will have them surrounded before they even knew what hit them.

Jonas gave a nod and rode up and down the lines as the men arrived, apprising them of the situation before they made their move.

Within a couple of hours, they had pushed the enemy back up the banks of the Zadorra.

Grant gave Jonas a message to bring to Wellington, updating him on their movements. Jonas asked his horse for everything it had and they galloped along the rear lines of the battle, making their way back to camp where Wellington was giving orders to Picton and the 3rd division.

Jonas hauled in his mount and watched the proceedings with interest. Picton asked for a small company of a dozen footmen to go ahead to the bridge and try to hold it until the left centre column arrived. A suicide mission if ever there was one, Jonas thought. Several men stepped forward and volunteered, followed by a few more. Jonas blinked. Theo was among them!

Jonas wanted to call out to his friend to ask what he thought he was doing, but to do so would be insubordination. Jonas’ heart pounded as the foot soldiers received their orders and turned to be on their way to near certain deaths. He was torn; he had a message for Wellington, but he needed to speak with Theo!

Knowing his duty, he spurred his horse towards the commander. Theo turned at the movement and they locked gazes. Jonas knew a wealth of confusion and questions could be seen in his, but all he perceived in his friend’s eyes was empty sadness.

What news, Lieutenant? Wellington’s commanding voice broke through and Jonas had to tear his gaze away. He gave Wellington the message, received one in return, and whirled his horse back towards the hill.

* * *

By five o’clock, the last of the cannon fire rumbled through the desolate battlegrounds. By all counts, the British allies had suffered their biggest loss, eighteen hundred men, over a third of the total casualties at the bridge. The French attempted a final stand at the village of Arinez, but their morale collapsed and the army scattered. Jonas’ Hussars were among the last back to camp, having given chase. To Jonas’ dismay, they had turned aside from the chase to plunder French wagons and seize prizes. He hadn’t taken part in the abandonment of discipline, instead riding back to report the losses to Wellington.

He rode his horse through camp, seeking a glimpse of his friend. When he found Picton, he dismounted. Forgetting his place, he ran up to the commanding officer and seized him by his lapels.

The dozen footmen you sent out on the fool’s errand to the bridge, he cried. What of them?

Picton looked at him coldly as he removed his hands from his coat. Remember yourself, Lieutenant, he warned. As far as I know they did an admirable job of holding the bridge, but the frogs hit us with forty or fifty cannon. Those at the front lines suffered the most.

His heart heavy with fear, Jonas took a step back. Where are they? he asked evenly.

We’re just sending troops to collect the casualties now.

Jonas swallowed hard and remounted his horse. He rode through the crowds of men still returning from the battlefield, weary and bloodied, his eyes searching, hoping beyond hope. He had never been a praying man, but Theo was, and Jonas sent up a prayer now for the survival of his friend.

He made it to the battered and beaten bridge, picking his way around the many corpses. He searched the faces of the dead, some mutilated so badly that he had to turn away.

Then he saw him. Theo lay neatly on his back beneath some bushes.

His jaw clenched, Jonas dismounted and dropped to his knee beside his fallen comrade. Several bloodied holes in Theo’s coat told Jonas how his friend had died. Theo’s vacant stare gazed at the sky and Jonas wondered for the first time what heaven truly looked like. A sob escaped him as he gently closed Theo’s eyes. He brought his fist to his mouth to stifle the cries he longed to release.

Why had Theo willingly given his life? Certainly, it was a risk every soldier took. There were no guarantees one would return to England once the war ended, if it ever ended, but why had Theo, who had so much to live for, given it all up? If Jonas could trade places with his friend, he would in a heartbeat.

Gently, he lifted Theo and draped him over the back of his horse. Jonas refused to allow his friend to be dumped into a mass grave. No, he would give him a proper burial. He rode back to the camp and retrieved a shovel before riding to the riverside, which had been so peaceful less than twenty-four hours previous.

As he dug, each shovelful tore a little piece of his heart. Sore and near exhaustion, he finished as the sun set on the dreadful day. He set the shovel aside and dropped to his knee beside his friend.

I’m so sorry, brother, he said to Theo, the closest person in his life since his father had passed away. He unbuttoned Theo’s coat and checked his waistcoat pockets. He removed the watch that Theo’s grandfather had given him upon his finishing school at Eton. He found the small cross and chain that had belonged to his mother; Theo’s father had insisted he carry it with him when he joined the army. He checked the breast pocket and found a letter. He removed it and realized that it was the letter Theo had received last evening, from his sweetheart. She would be devastated. His jaw firmly clenched, Jonas tucked the letter into his pocket. He would write to her and Theo’s father immediately. They deserved to know that he had died a brave and honourable death.

As gently as he could, he lowered Theo’s body into the grave. He released his grief with every shovelful of dirt. When his tears were spent and the earth covered, he stood at the foot of the grave and recited the Lord’s Prayer. With one last salute, he mounted his horse and rode back to camp.

He reported his actions to Theo’s brigade commander, Major General Thomas Brisbane, who thanked Jonas and offered condolences for his loss. He then made his way back to his tent, which seemed too empty and quiet, and stripped off his bloody clothes. He washed and changed and sat down on his bedroll, not ready to collect Theo’s personal items quite yet, though he knew he would have a new tent mate within a day.

He reached for his jacket to toss it out the door for the laundrymen when he felt the paper. He pulled the letter out and sat back down, unfolding it. So, he would finally learn the lady’s name.

Dear Theodore,

I hope this letter finds you well. We continue to keep you and the entire King’s Army in our prayers as we also pray for this war to end soon. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that I must break off our understanding. I find myself in love with another man, and with the uncertainty of your return, I cannot risk losing him. I hope you understand and can find it in your heart to forgive me.

Stay safe,

Warmest regards,

D. Turnbull

Chelmsford

Disbelieving, Jonas reread the letter several times. Here in his hands was the reason Theo had given his life today. His jaw clenched and his hands fisted, crushing the paper therein.

CHAPTER 1

Chelmsford, England

March 1816

Miss Turnbull, Mr. Harding is asking for you.

Daphne Turnbull glanced up from where she held the hand of a soldier who had just drifted off to sleep. Jacob Harper, the local physician, smiled down at her.

He’s finally asleep, he said with some surprise.

Yes, Daphne replied as she extricated her hand from Jonathan Miller’s. The poor lad had to be no older than eighteen, yet he had been subjected to the horrors of war for over two years. His body had returned to England sound, but his mind had not. During his lucid moments, he regaled Daphne with his boyhood stories; she could almost envision that he had once had his childlike innocence, but then he would be reminded of the war and he would scream and cry and go into violent tremors. She could only pray that with time, his soul would heal.

You go to Mr. Harding, the elderly physician told her. I will sit with Miller for a while.

Thank you, Dr. Harper. She collected her Bible and went to Mr. Harding’s cot. The foot soldier had lost his leg from the knee down, leaving him unable to work, like so many of his comrades. Thus was the problem in every district in England. The war had finally ended and soldiers were attempting to return to their previous lives, but for some that was impossible. The British government was struggling with the influx of retired officers and pension demands, leaving soldiers homeless and jobless. All over the country, just like in the small hamlet of Chelmsford, homes were being set up to aid those who had been willing to give their lives for king and country but had now been reduced to nothing by that same king and country.

The parish vicar, Reverend Oliver Barnes, had opened his large vicarage to welcome Chelmsford and district’s ailing soldiers, numbering eighteen and ranging in age from seventeen to forty-five with injuries to both body and soul. Daphne’s father, Baron Weston, approved the venture wholeheartedly and added his funding to it, but he frowned at the amount of time his daughter spent there.

No gentle lady should be ministering to common soldiers, he told her repeatedly. He did not like her hours volunteered there, but neither did he forbid it.

Mr. Harding was struggling to breathe when