The Spy's Reward (24 page)

“I have news from someone I know in the city,” Meyer said, holding up a folded piece of paper.

“Someone in the army?”

“I am afraid the only person whose address in Brussels I could recall is an informant for the British foreign office,” he said apologetically. “But I believe him to be an honest man.” He broke the seal and scanned the closely written page. “DeCoster reports that as of four o'clock this afternoon, the two armies were heavily engaged about ten miles south of the city. And as you can hear, they are still fighting now, two hours later.” The sound of the cannon had grown louder and louder as they drew farther south.

“So the city has not been invaded?”

“No.” His eyes ran down the rest of the page. “The rumors of Wellington's death date from Friday, when there was a preliminary engagement, and those rumors are false.” He turned the sheet over and drew in his breath sharply. After a moment he said, “Diana is safe. She is with Mrs. Woodley, as we suspected.”

“Thank God,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment in relief. “Thank God.” Rosie was peering out of the carriage window. “They have found her,” Abigail called. “She is safe; she is with the Woodleys.”

She turned back to Meyer. “May I see the letter?” Not waiting for an answer, she plucked it from his hand, searching for Diana's name, as though the sight of it was proof that she was indeed unharmed.

It took her a minute to realize that she would not see the word
Diana
, another minute to grasp that the letter was in French.
Mademoiselle Hart.
There it was. She savored the entire sentence.
As to Mademoiselle Hart, as monsieur had foreseen, she is situated with the Woodley family, who have taken a house on the Rue de la Madeleine.
She felt suddenly alive for the first time in days, full of eager questions. Where was this Rue de la Madeleine? How long would it take them to reach the city from here? The battle and its potential outcome had receded into the back of her mind, and she looked at the plodding ranks of fugitives on the road with bemused pity.

She was about to hand the letter back when she caught sight of another name: Roth. And then, lower down, James. She had forgotten that she was not the only parent with a child in Brussels. Numbly, she read the rest of the page.

So that quick, stifled gasp had not been a reaction to the good news about her daughter. It had been a reaction to the unsettling news about his nephew and his son. Very subdued, she handed back the piece of paper. Meyer accepted it without comment, folded it neatly, and tucked it into a pocket.

“I am sorry,” she said. The words sounded ridiculous.

“James has not managed to get himself killed yet,” he said. “And not for want of trying, I assure you. I am more concerned about Anthony.” He surveyed the jammed road. A grim smile appeared. “At least we will not have any trouble finding a hotel room in Brussels.”

26

News of Anthony had arrived piecemeal, a bewildering jumble of contradictory items, alternately terrifying and reassuring. Mrs. Woodley, who seemed to know half the military wives in Brussels, had been able to confirm within a few hours of their arrival last night that the 44th had indeed taken part in Friday's engagement at Quatre Bras, and that there had been a significant number of men killed on both sides. Although an entire day had gone by, however, there did not seem to be an official casualty list. Only very late last night had a boy arrived, dripping wet, with a note from one of her acquaintances. It contained not only the welcome news that Major Woodley had been posted north to reorganize the coastal garrisons but also an eyewitness report: Anthony Roth, the banker-infantryman, had survived Friday's battle unharmed.

“Your Mr. Roth appears to have become something of a celebrity,” Mrs. Woodley had commented as she read the note. “Apparently he dressed down an officer in the Rifles in front of half of Brussels. We will not have trouble getting news of him.” And she was right. The trouble was, the news seemed always to be half a day behind. On Saturday morning at Ostend, the news was of Friday's battle. On Saturday evening, it was of the survivors mustered that morning.

Things had become even more confusing today. For one thing, Diana had thought that everything was over. It had never occurred to her—especially after she saw the scores of wounded men lying in the streets—that there could be two such horrible events within the space of forty-eight hours. She had assumed that the casual references to “the battle” made by Mrs. Woodley and the other wives were references to Friday's affair, and only gradually had she realized her mistake.

“They are going to fight again?” Diana had asked in horror, looking up at her friend from yet another half-conscious patient. Martha, Diana, and Mrs. Woodley had been working nearly around the clock tending the wounded since they had arrived the previous evening.

“No one won,” explained her friend. “And it has stopped raining now. Of course they will fight again.”

“When?”

Martha poured more water into the cup Diana was holding. “This morning, most likely. I am surprised they have not started already.”

“On a Sunday?”

“They have prayers first.”

Realizing suddenly what this meant, she almost dropped the cup. “Anthony might be fighting right now!”

“No, not until you hear the cannon.”

Diana had moved along the rows of men in a state of terror for over an hour, convinced that every loud noise was the guns starting up again. A chance remark by one of her patients had relieved her anxiety: Anthony's regiment was not fighting today. They were stationed as reserves north of the city.

When the guns had begun firing just before noon, she had felt very thankful that she did not have to think about Anthony and picture the balls crashing into his company. She was worried on Martha's behalf, of course. Her friend's father was safe for the moment, and Charles Woodley was posted in London, but Christopher Woodley was in an infantry regiment which had marched out last night to take their places in today's conflict. As the other wives and daughters and sisters who were helping tend the wounded looked up at the sound of the first shot, Diana felt almost guilty to be spared.

That happy state had lasted for only a few hours. In the middle of the afternoon a very cheerful man had come along, wearing a tattered uniform that Diana could barely recognize as the one from the parade ground at Horse Guards.

“My wife tells me there's a pretty girl paying for news of the 44th,” he said, grinning at Martha. She pointed at Diana. “Is it you, then, love?” he asked, turning with an equally wide smile to Diana. “I'm bound for camp now, who's the lucky fellow? I'll tell him I've seen you.”

“Mr. Roth,” she said.

“Ah, the little banker.” He shook his head. “Headquarters nabbed him yesterday.”

“Where is he, then?” she asked.

“No idea. They took him off for messenger duty. He's some sort of foreigner, speaks German.”

She paid him well anyway, but afterwards she had asked Martha what messenger duty would mean. “Perhaps he has been sent away, like your father,” she said hopefully.

Martha had not been certain; Mrs. Woodley, when consulted, had murmured vague, reassuring generalities about couriers and dispatches. But Diana, mulling over the likely needs of a multinational army composed of thousands of men, was becoming more and more convinced that Anthony was at the battle. He was not even with his company, who could offer some protection. No, he was galloping around on the field unarmed and unaccompanied—a perfect target. And he was not a very good rider even under ideal conditions. She had tended enough men in the past twenty-four hours who had been crushed by horses to be under no illusions about the possible penalties for poor horsemanship on a battlefield. Ever since the grinning man had arrived all she could think of to do was to pray for night to fall. And as if to torment her—and the thousands of combatants—the sun seemed to be inching across the sky with provocative slowness.

Diana had no idea who was winning or losing. She could hear the cannon and see the pall of smoke hanging over the fields, but early reports of a catastrophic Allied defeat had proved false, and Mrs. Woodley had advised the girls not to listen to any more rumors. Otherwise they would end up prostrated with hysterics, like Eleanor. Martha's cousin was currently in bed attempting to roll bandages and bursting into tears every fifteen minutes for no apparent reason. Martha and Diana, meanwhile, were bringing another load of medical supplies from the Woodleys's rented house to the impromptu hospital in the streets around the Namur Gate. The victims of Friday's battle were now a distant memory; since the middle of the afternoon, ever-increasing numbers of men were staggering or being carried into the city from today's action.

She put down the jars she was carrying and wiped her face with her sleeve. It had been getting hotter and hotter; she did not know how the men could bear it in their wool jackets. “I haven't any handkerchiefs,” she explained to Martha apologetically. “I used both of them last night for the man with the hole in his elbow.” Then she looked up at the sun. “It is lower, isn't it?” she asked anxiously.

“It is,” Martha assured her. “It will set within the hour.”

“If only it were not June. The days are endless at this time of year.” She picked up the jars again.

As they came up to the church of St. Jacques, Diana saw that the rows of men waiting for help had now reached the church steps, all the way at the top of the street leading down to the gate. Some of the other women were there, assisting the newcomers, and one of them hurried over to take the heavy jars from Diana.

Suddenly a murmur ran through the ranks of the wounded men. A voice called out sharply, “Quiet, you lot! Listen for it!”

Diana had not realized how much noise the men were making until they stopped. The calls for water, the curses, the encouraging speeches, even the groans—all silenced, for one long moment. Then the cheering began, rolling down the street in waves.

“What is it?” asked Diana, bewildered.

“The cannon,” Martha said slowly. “They've stopped. The cannons have stopped.” She gave a little sob. “It's over.” Thrusting her bandages into the arms of an older woman she began to run towards the gate, with Diana right behind her. At the end of the street a huge crowd was gathered, some already streaming out towards the site of the battle, eager to see for themselves. Women were shouting, jostling each other, calling out names. Diana realized they were asking for news. There were eighty thousand Allied soldiers, eighty thousand An-thonies whose mothers or sisters or sweethearts were waiting, here or in London or in a village in Yorkshire, for someone to tell them whether the name represented a living man or a dead one.

When she heard someone call her own name, she thought it was a hallucination. They called again, more urgently. It was more than one someone now, and it was coming from behind her. She turned. Mrs. Woodley was hurrying down the hill. Next to her was Anthony's uncle. And next to him, picking up her skirts and beginning to run towards her, was her mother, with an expression on her face that told Diana exactly what those women wanted to happen when they called out the name of their missing soldier.

A miracle, that was what they wanted. It was a bit terrifying to be someone else's miracle.

“Are you all right?” asked her mother, gripping her shoulders so hard that they hurt.

She nodded.

“And Mr. Roth? Did you find him?”

“No.” She turned to Meyer, who was standing off to one side, as if afraid of intruding. “He was on messenger duty, and no one has seen him since this morning.”

“I will find him,” said Meyer. “That seems to be my specialty lately. Finding lost children.”

 

 

He had been searching for hours. It was very dark now; the moon had set. He had a lantern, but he kept it shielded. He did not want to attract attention. The looters were out in force, and he was alone. He moved carefully in little squares, crossing off pieces of an imaginary map, looking at the easiest clues: jackets and weapons. Blue, no. Black facings, no. Sabre, no.

He had started out on the road. It had still been light then, although just barely; it had taken some time to make sure that Abigail and Diana were safely settled and to persuade them to wait there for his return instead of hovering by the city gate. It was light enough, however, to make him decide that the road was a bad idea. Men were still pouring towards the city; it was nearly impossible to walk against the flow, and if James or Anthony were on this road they would not need his help. He had cut through the woods instead.

There were more corpses here than he had expected. Most were lone men who must have staggered instinctively into the trees to die, but occasionally he would come across a small cluster in a clearing. He had to go carefully in the dark. It was distasteful to step on corpses; it could be fatal to step on a pike, or onto the trigger of a loaded musket.

Not all the bodies in the woods were dead either. He had stumbled—literally—onto several wounded men, and had heard many more, thrashing and breathing raggedly in some thicket as he picked his way through the trees. He had gritted his teeth and walked by when they called for help. He would never even have made it through Brussels to find Diana Hart if he had stopped for every man who needed him. On the steps of the church alone there must have been two hundred. So he had a routine: every man in the woods, alive or dead, got the same quick glance. If they were not wearing the right jacket—green, or red with yellow facings—he moved on.

At the farmhouse just beyond the woods, which had been converted into a hospital, he had been able to work more quickly. The bodies were all laid out neatly in one place for him. He felt like a monster holding his lantern up over one bloodless face after another, but there were others doing the same thing. The men outside were not so neatly arranged, but they were less serious cases; they could answer questions. No one had seen Anthony. No one had seen James. There were several men from the Rifles, however, and they had been able to describe their position on the field fairly accurately, so that was where he had started his search. A shallow pit, they told him, just over the brow of the hill.

He had spent over two hours in the sandy depression. There were hundreds of bodies, and they were all wearing green jackets. Some of the bodies were piled three and four deep, and he had to lift one corpse to see another. He had stopped looking at faces; there were so many men to examine that he searched only for the telltale epaulette which marked the officers. There were plenty of those, too. He began hauling the bodies he had already checked to one side so that he would not look at them again, an endless round of blood-stained green. The neatly laid-out rows attracted a looter eager to save himself some work; Meyer looked up from the pit, startled, as a voice came out of the darkness in French: “Mind if we share? There are plenty.” A lantern bloomed, and Meyer saw a square, unshaven man with a haversack over his shoulder. Looped around his waist were five silver-trimmed sword belts, and in the lapel of his coat he had pinned several pairs of gold spectacles.

“Where did you get those?” Meyer asked, his eyes locked on the spectacles. He was trying to remember precisely what Anthony's pince-nez looked like. His nephew had not been wearing it much lately; he used it only for reading and accounts. Perhaps he had not even brought the damn thing with him. But Meyer couldn't stop looking.

The man shrugged. “Here and there. Most of them don't wear them in battle, and they hide them away in strange places like their boots so they won't get broken, but if you find them alive you can tickle them a bit with a knife and they'll tell you fast enough where they are.”

Without even thinking about it Meyer pulled out his pistol and shot the man in the head. Then, his hands shaking, he pulled the spectacles off the man's coat. Two were proper spectacles, with ear pieces. Two were like Anthony's. He held them up. They didn't look familiar, but what did, in this hellish pit full of dead men? Carefully tucking both pairs away, he had gone back to work.

When he heard footsteps he grabbed his gun again, certain that it was another looter. The voice that emerged out of the darkness spoke English, though.

“Looking for me?”

He held up the lantern and saw the haggard, unshaven, and unutterably wonderful face of his son.

“Yes,” he said. “And for Anthony.”

“I wouldn't mind finding him myself,” said James. “He gave me a blistering setdown in front of half of the officers in my regiment. I've been thinking of clever responses ever since.” He stared somberly into the pit. “Of course, there are not many witnesses left.”