Waterloo

By David Vincent

While this is a work of fiction, it is based on actual events that took place during the time of Napoleon Bonaparte. Therefore, some of the characters in this book are based on historical figures that took part in these events. Other characters are entirely fictitious and are not meant to resemble anyone known or unknown to the author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465347961

David Vincent

David Vincent is a singer, songwriter, businessman, and icon in the international music community. He has performed in the globally successful bands Morbid Angel and Genitorturers, and he currently tours internationally with I Am Morbid, Headcat, and his own country band.

Book preview

PART I

The French

Chapter I

The little man emerged without warning from the farmhouse. He walked swiftly out into the rain, wrapping his long gray cloak about him. The sentries, caught completely off guard by his sudden appearance, snapped clumsily to rigid attention as if they had been viciously prodded in their buttocks with sharp bayonets. The man’s thin lips formed a shy, almost dainty, smile at their desperate contortions, and then he moved away. But he had managed only a few steps, enough though to completely cover the tops of his boots with thick unyielding mud, before other men, obviously of lesser rank, poured out of the farmhouse and anxiously surrounded him. They too had been unprepared for this unannounced early morning excursion, and there were not a few mumblings and whispered curses as they pulled on their cloaks, wiped the sleep from their eyes, and struggled to keep up with their leader, who appeared to be trying to briskly outstride them.

It was hardly past the beginning of the second hour of the new day, June 18, 1815, and it was still very dark. The steady unrelenting rain had been falling for hours. An occasional flash of lightning danced across the sky, to be followed by a boom of thunder, an eerie premonition of the man-made maelstrom that was soon to follow. The little man crossed the road, a heavily traveled thoroughfare that led straight into the city of Brussels. As his companions obediently trailed after him, he waved them off with an obviously irritated flip of his hand. Then he stood for a long time, his hands clasped behind his back, staring off at a ridge to the north, where a hundred lights twinkled like stars that had sputtered and crashed to earth.

It wasn’t long before the others managed to creep up around him again, despite his evident desire to be left alone. One among them, quite young and unschooled, even shone a lantern into his face. The man slowly turned his head to face this brash and bold intruder.

The young soldier swallowed hard as he gazed into the stern and silent countenance before him. His hand that held the lantern trembled, causing the light to flicker nervously with a ghostly wavering. The British campfires, sire, he croaked, indicating the lights in the distance.

He knows what they are, a voice piped up with contempt.

Having blundered himself into this unpardonable situation, the young soldier had no idea how to extricate himself. Thankfully, the pouring rain concealed the fact that in his agitation, he had relieved himself. Seeing no other recourse, the poor unfortunate babbled on. It seems amazing they can keep those fires going in this downpour. How do you think they manage it, sire?

Put out that light, you damn fool! a man beside him hissed.

In the seconds before he complied, the distraught young soldier confronted the face turned toward him. The unsteady light from the lantern fell over a face no longer young. In fact it was the visage of a weary man, old before his time. Beneath the thinning black hair, which the rain had plastered to his skull, the man’s skin was marble white and puffy. His nose, sharp and defiant, stood out from his face, while in contrast, his mouth was small, almost feminine. But it was his eyes that commanded the nervous young soldier’s attention, large and gray, they appeared filled with great sadness.

Put out the lamp, son, he commanded gently and with no trace of reproof. Instantly, the young soldier obeyed. For a long time, the little man remained stationary, oblivious to those gathered anxiously around him, all his attention fixed on the lights that twinkled through the rain on the distant ridge. Finally, he spoke. He has positioned himself badly. The forest will cut off his retreat.

He is a fool! an anonymous voice suggested from the group of anonymous faces standing there like cattle in the pouring rain.

Their leader chuckled. Oh no! Oh no, no! Our adversary is no fool. He shook his head with regret. If only he were. Abruptly he turned away and for the first time appeared to regard the others clustered around him. In the morning we will meet, he announced.

What about the Prussians? someone dared to venture.

Napoleon Bonaparte sighed and wiped away the rain dripping down from his forehead into his face. Where’s my hat? he asked in irritation.

Immediately, half a dozen pairs of legs went pounding off in search of the missing headgear. To those left behind, Napoleon responded, We have beaten the Prussians. They’ve crawled off to lick their wounds and bury their dead. They’ll not return in time to be of any help to the British.

It was just as you planned, sire, divide and conquer. First the Prussians, then the British, one of the men waxed in his best toady manner.

Napoleon gave him a sharp look of contempt, which even in the darkness and the rain was unmistakable and withering. Imbecile! he practically shouted at him. Nothing in war is ever as you plan! He plunged off back across the road, flinging his parting words over his back to those momentarily left behind. We will sleep in Brussels tonight.

On his journey back to the farmhouse, Napoleon sought out the unfortunate young soldier, still clutching the lantern and whose face was still covered with shame. Light my way back, son, he told him, so that I don’t fall into a ditch.

Lieutenant Christian Edouardo Dentremont rose quickly like a shadow from his place by the fire, trying to make no sound to alert the others to his movements. Much taller than most men, he had to duck his head to keep from hitting it on the shed’s low beams. While his face, and thus his thoughts, remained hidden in the semidarkness, the firelight flickered and danced across his long-limbed and solid torso, revealing the body of a man who, at the age of thirty-four, was at the peak of his strength and vitality. Over his legs, thickly muscled from many years in the saddle, he quickly pulled on a pair of black thigh-length boots.

Into his waistband, he thrust a pistol. But it was not just any weapon. Napoleon Bonaparte himself had given it to him many years ago when Christian had been the Emperor’s aide-de-camp in Egypt. It was a beautiful piece, its handle exquisitely carved with the head of an eagle and his initials. Christian fingered the pistol for a moment, remembering. Back then I believed in him, he thought grimly. Back then I would have followed him to the ends of the earth.

Pushing the memories back into the past, he threw a wool cape across his broad shoulders, turning up the hood to cover his head and conceal his features even more. One might have suspected he was bound on some errand of mischief or wrongdoing where concealment of identity was a necessity. A few hasty steps and he reached the door. His hand caught the latch. A second more and he would have easily slipped out unnoticed. But it was not to be.

From the place by the fire where he had lain only moments ago, a second figure rose up in the darkness. Where are you going? It’s still dark. The voice was a woman’s, the words hesitant with sleep. I’ll slip out and pretend I heard nothing, Christian thought, even taking another step. Did you dream again?

Christian sighed in defeat and with reluctance turned back toward the figure across the fire, unseen except as a huddled mass wrapped in a blanket. I don’t dream anymore, he answered. It was true that the dream, or better the nightmare, he had been having since he was thirteen years old had stopped haunting him a few months ago. This almost nightly journey that had taken him back to the most terrible moments of his life had just suddenly ceased. But he would still often awaken in a cold sweat and trembling, as he had this morning.

Come back to bed, the woman tempted. For a moment, Christian caught a glimpse of a naked white shoulder and a tangled mass of red hair more vivid and more fiery than the flames that leaped from the fire.

Go back to sleep, he suggested. I won’t be long. To prevent further protest, he slipped the latch, swung open the door, and stepped out into the morning.

Closing the door behind him, Christian paused a moment, staring back at the tumbledown shack. It was a cowshed actually, although apparently its owners, whomever they were, had long ago deemed it unfit for even bovine occupation and let it fall into ruin. It stood in a little stand of poplar trees, its caved-in walls and rotting beams a testament to its decline. But hours earlier, when Christian and some other members of the Seventh Hussars had come upon it, dog-tired and soaked to the skin from the pouring rain, this sparse bit of covering had looked like paradise. A round of pushing and shoving had taken place, and even a couple of sabers were drawn, as various members of the Seventh struggled to take possession of this prize. But to no one’s surprise, given their reputation, it was Christian and his three friends who won the brief skirmish and happily climbed inside the dilapidated cowshed. While the rest of the men of the Seventh grumbled and cursed and prepared to spend the night out in the open in the rain.

Christian’s hand reached out to touch the rotting wood of the shed while for an instant, like a roaring whirlwind, the holocaust that he knew so well and that he knew would come again this day howled in stark imagery before his eyes. If only these walls were sturdier, he whispered to himself with great sadness, thinking of those who still slept peacefully on the other side of those walls and whose lives were so precious to him.

Burdened with an overwhelming sense of melancholy, Christian turned away from the shed and saw in the darkness spread out before him, like a child’s playset of wooden soldiers, Napoleon’s Grande Armée. Then, as if on cue, a thick fog rolled down the valley and swept everything from his sight, including the hand he held up to his face. If we go into battle with this fog, we won’t need the British to kill us, he thought. We’ll easily do the job ourselves. He directed his footsteps to the west where he knew the road running through the camp to be. Before it had been just a patch of ground, wheat or barley or some other grain had probably grown there, but the traffic of hundreds of wagons, pieces of artillery, horses, and men had churned it into a road. Now the rain had turned it into a quagmire of muck, and Christian found a firmer footing through the tall grasses at the side of the much-traveled depression. Still blinded by the fog, he made his way by instinct, his head and face completely muffled in the hood of his cloak. The rain had slowed for the moment, and only gentle drops now and then flicked his face. Then as quickly as it had arrived, the fog disappeared, pulling back before him as if a giant had inhaled deeply and taken every last wisp into his lungs.

The view of the road before Christian opened up a good three miles. His steps were firm and resolved, befitting a man who always knew where he was going and what he was about to do. On both sides of the road, soldiers had bedded down for the night amid conditions that could only be described as miserable. A few had managed to find space underneath the transport wagons, and others huddled around sparse fires that threw little heat, but the vast majority were left completely exposed and unprotected from the rain. None of course enjoyed the luxurious accommodations that Christian and his fellows had secured. But such was the respect, even awe, that the four of them were held in by their brother soldiers no one resented their good fortune. And the four themselves, equally convinced of their own importance, would never have considered relinquishing or even sharing their warm and dry shelter.

As Christian moved along, a tall hooded shadow, a morbidly appropriate vision for men facing battle, perhaps even death, many men recognized him, and some even called out to him. It was his height that gave away his identity, for in an age when the average height of a soldier was five feet and nine inches, Christian’s over six-foot frame was as easy a mark of identification as a livid scar that slashed across a man’s cheek or a leg broken in many places that was dragged behind.

In spite of the cruel elements and what was to come, there were some men who were able to sleep; mostly they were either the hardened veterans of many campaigns who had seen it all or the new recruits, the truly innocents, who had seen nothing. Christian came to an abrupt halt, startled by something on the ground before him. He knelt down. The soldier couldn’t have been more than fifteen, if he was that. With not even a soggy blanket to cover him, he lay curled in the fetal position, his hands thrust between his legs for warmth. The boy was asleep, but his mouth was open, and from it came little whimpering sounds like the noises animals, especially young ones, make when they are hungry or lost.

Every few moments, the young soldier’s body would be racked by a violent shudder as if he were going into a convulsion, and as Christian continued to watch, tears squeezed themselves from the corners of the boy’s closed eyelids and slid down cheeks that were still many months from seeing their first downy growth. The boy called out a name or rather an indistinguishable moan that sounded like a name. Watching him, Christian felt his melancholy become even stronger, tightening its arms around his chest, making his breathing difficult. He slipped off his cloak and placed it over the sleeping soldier, taking the time to make a pillow from the hood for the boy’s head. Then he got up quickly and walked hurriedly away. He did not look back.

Walking on, Christian soon came to a little rise, just a spot of land actually that rose up like a bump on the earth. Atop this knoll, there stood a sentry, and he came to attention as Christian approached.

Who goes there? the sentry called out. Christian identified himself. What regiment are you with? the sentry challenged.

The Seventh Hussars, Christian answered.

The sentry was instantly impressed, and he whistled through his teeth. The Seventh—wow! He immediately relaxed his guard and stepped forward, and perhaps because of the loneliness of his post and the darkness of the night, he seemed eager for a few moments of conversation. I was gonna join the cavalry myself, he told Christian.

So how come you didn’t? Christian inquired, content to oblige the soldier with some minutes of meaningless discourse.

The sentry shrugged sheepishly and grinned. Scared of horses. Been so my whole life, he answered.

Glancing into the sentry’s face, Christian could see the young soldier wasn’t much older than the boy he had left sleeping on the ground.

Do you think it will be today? the sentry asked anxiously.

Christian nodded. Most likely. We’re here and the British are over there someplace, seems logical.

Do you know exactly where the hell we are? the sentry asked after a moment of silence. I mean, if I’m gonna die, I’d sure like to know where it’s gonna happen.

We’re somewhere in Belgium, Christian responded. I saw a sign on a road back there that pointed to Brussels.

Belgium, the sentry mused, and then he shook his head. How the hell did we get here?

How the hell indeed, Christian thought to himself.

They shared a few more words, mostly about the meanness of the weather. Then they parted, but not before each man had wished the other luck in the fierce struggle that was to come.

Soon after, Christian reached his destination: a barn set back from the road, across a narrow ditch, an area that once the battle began would be designated as the rear. Seeing the barn, a solid structure of two floors and in much better repair than the cowshed he shared with his friends, Christian was reminded that on this piece of land that two armies had come to despoil, ordinary everyday people carried on their lives. Men and women toiled in the fields, lived in the little cottages, and stabled their animals in the barns and the sheds.

On their march to this place, his regiment had even passed a château, an impressive great stone house with outbuildings, gardens, and orchards. But all along their route, they saw no people. Most of the people who lived in the area had fled the military hordes, advancing on them, taking their livestock with them. Later, when it is over, they would return to see what, if anything, was left of their holdings, their lives.

Crossing the ditch, Christian walked up to the barn. From the weather vane on the roof, a black flag hung limp in the rain, designating the building as a medical facility and hopefully deterring anyone from firing upon it. Parked in front of the barn were three two-wheeled light carts, well-sprung and fitted with litters. Called flying ambulances, they were the recent invention of Napoleon’s very own physician, Baron Jean Dominique Larrey, and were intended for the fast removal of the wounded from the battlefield.

Christian opened a small door, fitted in a much larger sliding door, and entered the barn. Immediately, his nostrils were assaulted by the pungent, acidlike aroma of disinfectant. But there was another smell, more pleasant and more persistent. The sharp bite of tobacco, hinting of cherries and pinewood, drifted lazily about the room and wrapped its friendly fumes around him. He instantly relaxed, feeling almost as if he’d come home.

Inside the Seventh Hussars’ field hospital, a single lantern illuminated a slight area near the door, leaving the rest of the barn in complete darkness. Sidestepping a blotch of red on the wooden planks of the floor, Christian on closer examination saw that it was the outline of a bloody footprint, a testimony to the fact that the hospital had already seen service. Two days before, at a village called Ligny, part of Napoleon’s army had been involved in a fierce battle with the Prussians, allies of the British. The fighting had lasted most of the day, and some of the wounded had been brought here for treatment.

A field hospital was usually located away from the scene of the fighting. It normally received the most grievously wounded and those who were close to death. For others who only required a quick patch up before they were sent back into the fray, there were aid stations set up closer to the action. In the early nineteenth century, the agony suffered by men severely wounded in battle was indescribable. There were no antiseptics or anesthetics. The only painkiller available was large doses of intoxicants. The French, of course, used cognac or wine.

Amputation was the preferred treatment for injuries to the limbs. Lopping off the offending appendage got rid of the problem, neatly and quickly. Some soldiers, however, complained that the surgeons cut off their arms or legs because they couldn’t think of anything else to do. Probably many amputations performed were unnecessary but probably just as many saved lives by ridding the body of the source of the infection. And in the after years, there were many Waterloo veterans who were quite willing to use their disability to spark the attention and sympathy of an otherwise disinterested skirt. Go easy with me, lass, I left a leg at Waterloo.

Bleeding was another form of treatment, and although it was widely accepted in its day as a means to free a man’s body of poisons and fever, in hindsight it seems ludicrous. A man who had been badly wounded by blade or musket ball and who had lost a great deal of blood hardly needed to be depleted of more of his life’s vital fluid. But still the leeches were applied. Over all, in spite of the good intentions and hard labor of the army surgeons who practiced their art on the grisly battlefields of the day, it was highly likely that many a gravely wounded man survived because there was an acute shortage of surgeons.

Under the lantern, the regimental surgeon, seated on an overturned feed box, was making entries in his neat and precise hand in the ledger in his lap. He looked up briefly as Christian entered. Ah, Dentremont, he grunted in greeting, seeming neither surprised or disturbed by the intrusion. Immediately, he returned to the work before him, his teeth clamping a tight hold on the stem of the large-bowled Dutch pipe clenched between his thin lips.

The surgeon’s open instrument case on the floor beside him caught Christian’s attention. All the scalpels, knives, and saws were neatly lined up, their handles polished to a gleam by linseed oil and their blades sharpened to a quick. Looking at the instruments, Christian felt a throbbing in his right shoulder, where years before, another surgeon had spent hours probing for a piece of shrapnel that had buried itself in his muscle. That injury and a number of trivial saber cuts were the only wounds he had ever suffered during all his many years as a soldier. Christian was fully aware of how damn lucky he had been.

The Surgeon, the only name he was known by, his true identity and history lost somewhere in the years gone by, was a decent fellow of few words and much thought. Thoroughly dedicated to his profession, he had been in the army all his adult life and with the Seventh Regiment for the past twenty years. His length of service was something of a record, for army surgery was looked upon as the lowest form of professional drudgery and degradation. Little pay, long hours of grueling work—often struggling to repair what could not be repaired was their reward.

Some of them were already drunks when they signed up; others quickly became one. Some came to this life because they were running away from something, others because they had no other future. As the word went, You don’t need to be a surgeon to practice in the army. If a man of skill found himself in the army, it was hardly long before he abandoned it for the more lucrative and more respectable work of private practice. Some men, however, like the Surgeon, stayed on.

The man’s age too, like his name, was a missing statistic, although his appearance probably correctly placed him somewhat over fifty. Only a few stray wisps of white hair dancing across the top of his skull were all that remained from what had once been a rich, thick growth. His body and face were so thin he looked to be emaciated. But what else could be expected from a man who was so dedicated to saving the lives of other men that he had no time to see to his own?

While the wounded and the dying received his attention, his compassion, for the rest of mankind, he had little tolerance or time. Christian Dentremont was a rare exception. The Surgeon put up with him for two reasons: the first being that he sensed something admirable, something missing in most other men, in this big strapping young man; the second reason had to do with a woman, a woman named Lili Clare.

Christian leaned casually against one of the portable wooden surgical tables, its smooth surface now scrubbed clean by disinfectant and good old-fashioned soap and water. The casualties at Ligny? he inquired.

In the lantern light, the Surgeon’s bony face seemed to glow like a fiendish skeletal mask, an apparition that was in marked contrast to the man’s true and gentle nature. Behind his head, on a nail driven into the wall, hung the long rubber apron he used when he performed his amputations. Despite hundreds of washings, the apron was streaked here and there with splotches of dried blood. Like the soldier before him, the Surgeon wore boots. His were hip-length, made of sturdy rubber with thick rubber soles, and like his apron, stained with blood that would never wash away.

We lost seven of our men and one officer, Mascere, the Surgeon answered, his eyes still on the ledger before him. Finally, he looked up at the young hussar. Mascere was a good soldier. I will have to write to his father, he said.

Christian nodded. A great loss. I knew him well. In fascination, he watched the cloud of blue tobacco smoke as it hovered in the air just above the Surgeon’s head and then began to slowly settle down over him, engulfing him. He recalled hearing from one of those who worked with the Surgeon that if anyone ever disturbed that cloud of smoke, he would be forever banished from his presence.

The wounded have all been removed from the field, the Surgeon continued, taking his pipe from his lips. Those able to withstand the trip we’ve sent to Paris. The others, God help them, have gone to the hospitals in Brussels. Heaven only knows what kind of treatment they’ll get in British hands.

And the dead?

The dead? The Surgeon’s watery blue eyes appeared momentarily startled, as if this was a word he had never heard before. The dead lay where they fell, he responded. We were lucky to get the wounded away.

And will you write that to Mascere’s father? That his son’s body… , Christian began.

That his son’s body, stripped naked by plunderers, lies rotting in some Belgium rye field where it will, in all probability, remain until it turns to dust, the Surgeon finished for him, his voice not angry, only tired. He shook his head. I shall write and tell him his son died a brave and honorable death and now lies in a sweet little country graveyard with flowers and even a headstone to mark his final resting place. He shrugged. We do what we can, Dentremont.

I know that, Christian said, already feeling guilty for having provoked, even a little, this man who he genuinely liked and greatly respected. He remembered once seeing him out in the middle of a battlefield, with the fighting hardly twenty feet away, trying to stop the flow of blood from a severed artery that was quickly pumping away the life of a fallen dragoon.

Frowning, the Surgeon put aside his pipe, no longer finding pleasure in it. There are only six of us, he said, speaking of the five assistant surgeons who worked under his direction. And a bunch of good-for-nothing layabouts and drunkards, he added, referring to the bandsmen and other assorted noncombatants of the regiment who assisted the surgeons with such tasks as transporting the wounded from the battlefield and holding down men as they had limbs amputated. The Surgeon slammed his ledger shut with a crack. That’s the crew they give me to work miracles with!

And there’s Lili, Christian reminded him.

At the mention of that name, the Surgeon’s face underwent a transformation; instantly gone was the deathlike mask, and the harsh lines and contours softened as if they had been remolded in clay. And this man, who so far as anyone knew had no family, no children, and certainly no sweetheart, whispered words of endearment that left no doubt of his feelings. That girl, that angel… that saint.

As if the speaking of her name was her summons, Lili Clare came toward them from out of the darkness at the back of the barn, moving, as she always did, unobtrusively, almost apologetically. And as was always the case, no matter who else was about, all her attention and all her energy immediately and exclusively settled on Christian.

Spying his still wet and disheveled appearance that the elements had inflicted upon him after he had given up his cloak to the sleeping young soldier, Lili at once set into action. Forcibly plunking Christian down on a milking stool, and grabbing a towel from a pile of bandages, she proceeded to give his head a vigorous rubbing. Only an idiot would go about uncovered in this weather, she chided.

Rendered a rather ridiculous sight for the moment, this giant of a man tottering on a tiny stool, his long legs stretched awkwardly out in front of him, Christian protested her attentions. Don’t fuss, Little Mouse, he told her, using a nickname he had given her many years before.

There’s a rumor in the camp that you’ve brought her with you this time. That you’ve got her tucked away someplace, dressed in a hussar’s uniform, Lili said, massaging his head with greater spirit.

Ouch, careful what you’re doing there! You’ll wear my scalp away! Christian cried out. He tried to placate her. You know better than to believe what you hear in an army camp. Soldiers gossip worse than old women.

Lili stopped her labor and stared at him with her hands on her hips. Then she’s not here?

Christian reached up and gingerly touched the top of his head. I think you’ve drawn blood, he lamented. He glanced quickly at the Surgeon, hoping he might come to his assistance.

But the Surgeon had no intention of intervening. He leaned back against a beam, eyeing them with a slight look of amusement on his worn face.

I know she’s here, Lili concluded. I could expect nothing more!

But, Lili… , Christian began.

Oh, do shut up! she snapped, throwing the wet towel into his face.

Standing there confronting him, her hands still on her hips, Lili gave the impression of an insect facing an elephant, for even in a reclining position, Christian towered over her. Lili was barely five feet two, and her whole look, small and thin, was waiflike. And although the Surgeon saw to it that she was always well fed, she had a half starved look about her. Her face, framed by brown hair curled in chestnut ringlets, was gentle and reverent, the face of the Madonna glowing with serenity.

Her one striking feature were her eyes, deep chocolate brown in color; they seemed much too large for her tiny face, giving her a constant look of wide-eyed astonishment, as if she were seeing every sight for the very first time and was quite perplexed by it all. She seldom smiled, but when she did, it was with almost tentative hesitation as if she feared that whatever it was that had momentarily amused her would be quickly taken away. Although she was thirty-four, the same age as Christian, she looked the same as she had when she was thirteen and would undoubtedly appear the same when she reached the age of sixty. Her whole appearance was ageless.

Oh, you are such a man! she complained, still angry. She stamped her foot and then strode away from him, back into the recesses of the barn. Almost immediately, she returned with a cup of hot dark coffee, which she thrust into Christian’s hands. Drink this, she commanded and watched closely as he meekly obeyed.

The Surgeon reached for his pipe and stuck it into his mouth again, but this time he did not light it. The wooden stem felt good between his teeth, secure and reassuring. He had seen this, or similar scenes, acted out between the two of them hundreds of times before. And the cause of these little dramas was as simple as it was universal; one loved, the other did not. That it was he, he who had tried to distance himself from all men, except those whose lives he was trying to save, who somehow had become entangled in the web of their relationship completely amazed him. He knew their history together well, better than any other man. He was aware that they first met when they were children during the Revolution that tore France apart. The events of that time were horrible, and even he didn’t know the full details of what the two of them went through.

One day, this pale young woman, looking hardly more than a child, presented herself before him and quietly asked to work beside him. She sought no monetary compensation or position beyond her keep. In exchange, she offered her hands to assist his, no matter how awful, how difficult the task. The Surgeon was appalled. It was out of the question! This was simply not done! A woman administering to the wounded and the dying would be unthinkable! A woman assisting with surgery would be a scandal! And this one looked so frail and wane the Surgeon was certain she would keel over at the first drop of blood.

It is impossible, he told her swiftly, turning quickly away to end the interview. So quiet did she become after his rejection, and with his eyes averted from her, the Surgeon was certain she had left the room. But when he turned around, he was startled to see her still there before him.

Please, monsieur, she said softly. Please hear my reason. She did not beg or plead but stated her case simply and without tears. That she shed no tears before him the Surgeon was grateful, for a woman’s tears was the one thing that always frightened him to death.

Her name she said was Lili Clare, and her reason for wanting to join him in his work was a young hussar of the Seventh named Dentremont, whom she had loved since the moment she had first set eyes on him at the age of thirteen. This love she knew was hopeless, for he did not return her feelings. But she wanted only to be near him, wanted only to breathe the same air he was breathing. She would make no demands, cause no scenes. A glimpse of him now and then was all she wished. To know he was safe; to know he was warm at night and happy in the daylight. She asked for nothing more, content to live the rest of her life in the shadow of his.

It’s a silly lovesick young fool I’ve got before me, the Surgeon thought. Well, I’ll soon fix her! Then he did something for which he was immediately and forever profoundly ashamed. He verbally assaulted this timid-looking young creature with the most vile and disgusting descriptions his memory could come up with. All were scenes of horror that he had witnessed as a battlefield surgeon over and over many times: a man screaming out in agony as a saw blade first bites into the bone of his leg that must come off, another man’s flesh being eaten by maggots while he still lived, a young drummer boy staring into the gaping hole that had once been his chest, watching his own heart pound out the last few drum beats of his life. All the sights, the sounds, and the smells of war the Surgeon spewed forth in a torrent, hoping to break the spirit and the resolve of this young woman before him and thereby rid himself of her forever.

During his rant, Lili had not moved or changed the expression on her face. And finally, when the Surgeon’s voice gave out and the cruel words ceased to curse from his mouth, she spoke. I am prepared for all that, monsieur.

Sweat dripped down the Surgeon’s face and bitter bile backed up in his throat. He shook his head defiantly. This cannot be, mademoiselle! And then, as Lili stood her ground before him, never wavering, a look of calm serenity never leaving her face, a different feeling came over this man of medicine. He found he wanted to protect this young thing. She looked so innocent, so pure, so virginal. You would see men in all their ugliness. You would see their scars, he told her. You would see men… , but he could not finish that thought, for the word naked would not break forth from his lips in her presence.

For a second, Lili turned her eyes shyly away, as if she was embarrassed for him for what he was struggling to say.

You would see men completely unclothed, he finally stammered.

I am prepared, monsieur.

She had won. She knew it and so did he. Only his surrender was not quite complete. And if I refuse? the Surgeon suggested meaninglessly.

Lili shrugged and pulled her shawl tighter around her thin shoulders. There are many camp followers who trail after an army. I would only be one more, she answered.

No! That we will not have! the Surgeon cried out, startled by the anger in his own voice. Softer, almost to himself, he repeated the words, That we will not have.

So he took her on despite the objections of his superiors, his fellow surgeons, and—the strongest protests of all—those that whirled about inside his own head. Something in this young woman had touched this man who everyone, including himself, thought could not be touched. Perhaps it was the memory, long ago, of someone in his own youth who was once desired, courted, and lost, a half-forgotten face appearing before his eyes for a fleeting second in the mirror of time.

But the Surgeon and everyone else in the regiment were in for a surprise, for unlike other flowers, this Lili proved to be made of steel. With no professional training, she seemed to know instinctively what to do. She would assist in the most ghastly procedures with no change in her demeanor except that her pale face would turn even whiter. But her hands always remained steady, and never once did she ever come close to fainting. Dying soldiers would see in her face the face of their mother, their wife, or their sweetheart. They would hold tightly to her hand as they staggered with their last faltering steps toward the gates of Heaven.

It was not long before the Surgeon was completely won over and he became Lili’s supporter and protector. In between campaigns, they shared a little house on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in Paris. Their relationship resembled that of a father and his cherished daughter.

Only once did the Surgeon ever lash out at her. Why are you such a little fool? he asked her. Why waste your years pining away for a man who will never love you? There are at least a half dozen others here, good young men from fine families, who would marry you in a minute.

That was the one and only time he ever saw her close to tears. A single tear gathered in the corner of one of her eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall. I will never love anyone else, Lili said quietly. Then she turned her face away and went on with her work. The Surgeon wanted to console her, wanted to take her in his arms, but he didn’t know how.

Soon after Lili had begun working with him, the Surgeon had gone and sought out the soldier, this Dentremont, prepared to dislike this young puppy who could so easily spurn the affections of this good and gentle woman. But instead of a callow cad, the Surgeon found an honest, straightforward young man who himself felt guilty for not being able to return Lili Clare’s feelings, feelings that no matter how hard he wished to possess, he would not, however, pretend. What was not there, was not in his heart, he told the Surgeon, could not be forced to reside there.

In time perhaps, the Surgeon suggested.

Young Dentremont was as adamant as he was honest. He would always respect Lili, feel a great friendship for her, and if need be, protect her, for she had once saved his life. But he knew he would never love her.

So the years passed with Lili and Christian maintaining an easygoing relationship filled with the good-natured bickering and teasing that often resembled the days of an old married couple, while the Surgeon remained on the sidelines, a reluctant if sympathetic observer.

Then, three years ago, in the midst of the army’s disastrous campaign in Russia, a new element entered into their personal lives, for there among the burning ruins of Moscow, Christian Dentremont was reunited with the love of his life, a woman he had known and loved in his youth and one whom he thought he had lost forever. Before Moscow, although he had had numerous female companions, for he certainly had a man’s appetite and a tall handsome young hussar in a gaudy uniform never had to hunt far for a friendly female, none of them lasted any serious length of time and none of them satisfied more than his physical needs. In these fleeting coquettes, Lili found no threat; these passing fancies were but a moment’s irritation. But this one, this one she knew right from the beginning was going to be different, for nothing is sweeter than love lost and then found again.

That it all began again in the middle of Napoleon’s ill-advised and ill-fated invasion of Russia, a debacle of monstrous proportions from which she, Christian, and the Surgeon were fortunate to escape with their lives, while many of their companions did not, seemed to Lili only fitting. From Lili’s viewpoint, both Napoleon Bonaparte and Christian Dentremont had made a serious error in judgment when they decided to invade Russia.

The Surgeon took his pipe from his mouth and wrinkled his brow in thought. He had never set eyes on this other woman, although he had been told she was an actress or had been once, among other things. And he had overheard other soldiers of the regiment describing her, although she was no longer young, as still ravishingly beautiful with fiery red hair and cat’s eyes of emerald green. So now she was here! Dentremont had smuggled his lover into camp. In the uniform of a hussar at that! In spite of himself, the Surgeon chuckled. God, that took gall! Dentremont must love the woman very much to take such a risk. But the Surgeon immediately stifled any further admiration he had for Dentremont’s actions, for he knew how Lili had been suffering these past three years. But true to her promise, there were no scenes and no tears. She had carried on with her life and her work as before with only the tiny lines of stress at the corners of her mouth betraying the hurt that was surely walled up inside of her. And now here was the final blow; her rival was here with the army, the one place where she had always had Dentremont to herself. How horrible for poor Lili, the Surgeon thought. How truly horrible indeed!

Then suddenly, there was no more time for thoughts. As if in a dream where everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, the Surgeon watched the half-finished cup of coffee fall from Dentremont’s hands. From outside the barn, there came the sound of bedlam, the angry excited voices of men mixed with the pounding of horses’ hooves.

Christian leaped to his feet and spun around. What the devil!

Are we under attack already? the Surgeon asked.

A sneak attack, I’d wager, one of the assistant surgeons suggested as the group of them came running from the back of the barn, where they had been sleeping among the hay and feed, most of them still struggling comically into their pants.

As he pulled open the sliding door, Christian reached for his pistol. But as he, with most of the others close behind him, poured out of the barn, he could see it wasn’t a weapon he would need.

Headed toward them, racing like the wind, were half a dozen horses, their hooves churning up the mud. An equal number of soldiers were pursuing them, waving their arms about like madmen.

A bolt of lightning spooked them! one of the soldiers shouted.

The lead horse was a great white stallion, charging with flanks heaving and head down. Even through the rain and the gloom, Christian could see the fear in the creature’s eyes, fear that set its eyes afire. In the instant before the stallion would have led his equine companions rumbling straight through the barn, Christian leaped upon the horse’s back. Without reins, he dug his knees into the horse’s sides and wrapped his arms tightly around its mighty neck. Almost at once, the thoroughbred came to a halt, so swiftly that Christian was almost thrown over the animal’s head. The other horses too, following their leader, also came to a standstill, and they looked around with quizzical looks on their faces, as if they were asking, "Now really, what was that all about?"

Christian slid quickly to the ground and moved around to the front of the horse. The proud stallion was quieter now, but he was quivering and his sharp hooves pawed at the ground. He’s been badly frightened, Christian thought, and I’m not sure it was by the lightning as the soldier said. He had often wondered if horses had any perception of memory. Had this one, sensing that a battle was coming soon, suddenly had a vision of the past, a remembrance of past horrors? He has seen death before, Christian thought, and he knows once again it is very close.

He placed his hand gently over the horse’s muzzle to calm him. The great eyes, still filled with fear, regarded him with both trust and suspicion. Christian had been around horses all his life. His older brother had taught him to ride before he was seven, long ago, in that period of his life that now seemed no more than a shadow.

An aged cavalryman who was so old he could not mount his horse without assistance had once cautioned him not to ever let himself become attached to his horse. It could cost you your life, the ancient equestrian warned. In the heat of battle, your horse is shot out from under you. Uninjured, you leap to your feet, and for a split second, you turn to check on the condition of your fallen steed. In that instant, the enemy, noting your distraction, sees his chance. He thrusts his saber straight through your heart before you’ve even gone for your own weapon. Think of your horse only as part of your equipment like your saber or your helmet. Take as good care of it as you would of them, but never become attached to it.

Through the years and through many battles, Christian had followed this philosophy. He always took the best of care of his mounts, and he always took the care to select the best of them for his use, but never once did he let himself become emotionally attached to one of the creatures. He saw other men who did. He saw other men who treated their horses as if they were their children or, worse, their lovers. Men who cared for their horses more than they did for their fellow soldiers. Men who sung to their horses, talked to them, and whispered in their ears. And in more cases than he wished to remember, Christian was convinced these man had paid for their devotion to their animals with their lives.

The soldiers led the horses away; most of them were calm and docile now, although the white stallion continued to nervously toss his head about. Christian trudged back through the mud to the entrance to the barn from where Lili and the Surgeon had watched the scene. The other surgeons had already gone back to their beds, grumbling about this interruption of their moments of precious sleep.

That was a stupid trick, Lili scolded as Christian came up to them. He could have killed you.

Christian wiped the rain from his face with the back of his hand. He shook his head. The animal was frightened not angry.

The Surgeon said nothing, which was often his way, but he was studying the other two as they stood side by side for a moment. It was Dentremont’s height, of course, that was the dominant feature of his appearance. He towered above everyone else. His height was matched by his breadth and the thickness of his chest and thighs. He was a powerful-looking man. Seeing him stand beside Lili, the Surgeon feared that if he ever did envelop this little woman in his arms, he would most probably crush her into dust. Happily for everyone except Lili, no such action was forthcoming.

The Surgeon certainly knew about Dentremont’s reputation as a soldier, a fighter. Christian Dentremont on the battlefield became a man wild and fierce. He sought no quarter, and he certainly gave none. He would lead a charge into the very spot where the enemy was the thickest. It was not an uncommon sight to see him cutting and thrusting at half a dozen of the enemy at the same time. Often in the heat of battle, he continued over and over to thrust his saber into the body of an adversary long since dead. It was obvious that when he was fighting, Christian was also struggling against ghosts and demons not of this world. But once the weapons were put down, once the bloodletting had stopped, all the ferociousness left him, except in his eyes, savage eyes as black as Chinese marbles that became flecked with red sparks in moments of heightened excitement. Off the battlefield, Christian often became quiet and reserved, almost shy. His smile was likewise shy, even tentative, as if he was reluctant to share it. But when on occasion it did burst into full brilliance it lit up his whole face like a lamp suddenly turned on in a dark room.

He wore his thick black hair long, past the collar of his tunic and heavy on the sides, perhaps in an attempt to conceal his ears, which were rather large. Throughout his career in the army, he had experimented with a variety of mustaches: from a small unobtrusive growth under his nose to a long and luxurious masterpiece with ends that twirled up in merry impudence. But now he was clean-shaven, his unblemished milk white skin set off by brows and hair as black as the deepest void.

With a little jolt, as if he had suddenly remembered something of great importance, the Surgeon recalled that Dentremont had been clean-shaven ever since their return from Russia. He had set off on that tragic campaign, if the Surgeon remembered correctly, not only with a mustache but a full beard as well, which had given his face a definite leonine look. That he had returned without a trace of facial hair, the Surgeon could only deduce was due to the influence of his newfound lady friend. The Surgeon chuckled to himself, his amusement befitting one who considered himself above, and not with regret, the everyday fray of male and female give-and-take. One should never underestimate the power of a woman, he mused, or under certain circumstances, the weakness of a man.

The three of them stood there silhouetted in the doorway of the barn. Around them, night was ending and the gray dawn was breaking, bringing little comfort. Soon the army, cold and wet, would be stirring as men struggled to bring a little warmth, a little sustenance into their lives before the inevitable began. The rain kept up, now light, now heavy, its drops tapping against the sides of the barn almost like bullets. From somewhere far off, the barking of a dog echoed like ghostly memories of times and places long gone.

There are fifteen-year-old boys out there shivering in the rain and waiting to die, Christian said quietly. They will too. They haven’t a chance. You can hear them crying for their mothers.

Most men when they’re dying call out for their mothers, the Surgeon observed.

Christian turned his face away from them, and the scowl that took over his features signaled that his thoughts were dark. Why do you suppose he came back? he asked.

Who? Lili asked in innocent ignorance.

Napoleon, the Surgeon whispered into her ear.

Christian’s eyes seemed to have caught something that the other two couldn’t see. All his attention appeared to be riveted on something in the far distance while his words, soft, at times almost incoherent, drifted back to the others. Why did he come back and start it all over again? For what purpose? For France? For us? For his ego? When I first heard he’d escaped, I cheered and wept with all the rest of them. And if he walked in on us right now, I know I’d throw myself at his feet and pledge him my life. He shook his head. But for what purpose? So thousands more can die?

If he’d stayed married to Madame Josephine, he’d have been a lot better off, Lili suddenly announced.

Amused, Christian turned to look at her. What?

He should never have dumped her for the Austrian cow, Lili went on. That’s why so many people turned against him. They loved Madame Josephine. She was a decent sort.

Christian laughed. Decent? As I recall, even in prison, with her husband at her side, she still took a lover.

But Lili would not be swayed in her loyalty. That was only her nature, somewhat promiscuous I must admit. But her heart was good, she insisted.

I hardly think not setting aside Madame Josephine would have changed the course of history, Christian returned rather sarcastically. For a second, the memory of the woman he had once worshiped with the intense ardor only a child can muster came drifting back to him like a whiff of sweet perfume.

Thrones have been lost on the twirl of a petticoat, the Surgeon suggested.

Nonsense! Christian cried out. The people turned against Napoleon because they were tired of serving him up their sons for cannon fodder!

What about you? Lili asked quietly. Have you turned against him?

Christian was silent for a moment. Behind them, the gray dawn had brightened the background; the stage was lit; the play could begin. I was with him in Egypt when he deserted us, he told them. In Russia too, he left us behind. I actually saw him speed by on that special sled they built for him while we were struggling and dying in the snow. The intensity in Christian’s voice had glued their eyes to him. I tell you this, today he will not desert us. If the day goes bad for us and he tries to leave us and run off, I will not let him, Christian promised them. He gripped the handle of his pistol. If we die on this field, so shall he.

The Surgeon felt a shiver dance down his spine. He was certain the young hussar before him meant his words. They were not an idle boast or the rantings of a madman. Oh no, Dentremont was quite sane and, the Surgeon was equally sure, quite determined.

What about yourself? Christian asked the Surgeon. Don’t you want this all to be over? Don’t you ever wish for peace?

Peace? The Surgeon stumbled over the word as if he had never pronounced it before. His hand gave a little meaningless wave as if he were brushing away some unseen annoyance. This is all I know how to do, he answered. Patch men up, stop the bleeding, cut off a gangrenous limb. What would I do if there was peace, Dentremont? What purpose would I have? He jammed his pipe back into his mouth and walked back inside the barn.

I want it to be over, Lili said. I want it to be over before it even starts. She seized Christian’s arm. We don’t have to stay here! she told him. We could run away right now. Grab a couple of horses and be off! Her excitement had brought unaccustomed color to her cheeks and almost choked the words in her throat.

Christian smiled at her, this time quite tenderly. And where would we go, Little Mouse?

We could go anywhere!

Christian shook his head. I am a soldier and a Frenchman. I have no intention of being a fool. He looked down at her. Keep yourself undercover when it begins.

I can take care of myself, she reminded him defiantly.

And anyone else you’ve a mind to, Christian added. And then he turned and walked away, disappearing quickly into the fog that had rolled in again, disappearing as if he had retreated into the past.

Chapter II

The Dentremont family was arrested on a cold winter day early in the year of 1794 on their estate in the Paris suburb of Vernase. Henri Dentremont and his three sons, along with a number of their servants, were conveyed into the city of Paris in closed carriages. Upon their arrival, they were detained in the Carmes, a former convent in the rue de Vaugirard, now transformed into a prison.

For Henri Dentremont, his family’s imprisonment was an especially bitter blow because he had tried so hard to prevent it and, had up until the actual moment of its happening, convinced himself that he had succeeded. A self-made man who had inherited no family fortune, Henri had prospered due to his own hard work. Starting out as an apprentice mason at the age of sixteen, his entry into the construction business coincided with that industry’s immense growth in the mid-1750s throughout the city of Paris and its suburbs. He worked almost exclusively on private homes, and such was the quality and quantity of his labors that in the short span of two years, he had opened his own business. Prosperity quickly followed: a sizeable fortune and a house in Paris’s rue Martignon and a country estate, a retreat in the quiet countrylike suburb of Vernase.

His marriage to the daughter of a well-to-do merchant provided him with three healthy sons and, most importantly, a gentle fair companion, whom he loved, he was convinced, like no man before him had ever loved a woman. "Mon chere, I love you to the point of madness," was the closing line of the letter Henri wrote to his future wife the night before their marriage. And from the day of their wedding until the day of his death, he wore a cameo pendant bearing the likeness of his beloved around his neck.

But such happiness, such love, was perhaps too much for the jealous gods to allow. The gentle Annabelle, being not only fair but frail, was cruelly taken by influenza the winter following the birth of their third son. Henri’s grief was total and, like the pendant he wore around his neck, it would stay with him until his death. As the years passed, he rallied somewhat for the sake of his sons, but in truth, the light and the color had gone out of his world and all his sad eyes saw were shadows blurred in despairing hues of black and white. Still life went on, his sons grew strong, and his business continued to flourish. But then that ordinary pace of life, which so often is taken for granted, was interrupted as first Paris and soon after the whole of France was swept into the whirlwind