Timepiece (31 page)

“Yes, my lord.” Warren was almost visibly glowing, clearly proud to have been the bearer of the day’s first piece of good news. “I recognized the uniform quite clearly.”

“You encountered him where?”

Warren’s fair face twitched in confusion. “On—on the left, my lord. I was returning from—”

“The Coldstream Guards are stationed at Hougomount,” Wellington said, finally looking up. “On the extreme right. Was this man known to you?”

“N-no, my lord.”

A shell sailed rather closely overhead, whistling as it went. Other than automatically moving backward a pace, Wellington ignored it. He kept his eyes on Warren. “Describe him.”

“He—he looked like a sergeant, my lord,” Warren said helplessly. “He had the uniform of...”

“I said describe him, not his uniform.” Another shell whistled, not quite so terrifyingly close. Precise aim was impossible with large cannon, Freemantle knew that. The French gunners could shoot
at
Wellington all they liked, but they would find it nearly impossible to hit him. The thought was comforting in one sense—for if the Duke did not survive this day, all was lost indeed—but nerve-wracking in another. Am imprecise weapon was a greater threat to those standing beside the person at whom it was aimed. Freemantle tightened his grip on his rein to keep from pondering that fact too closely, but it did not even occur to him to edge away from the Duke.

“A biggish man,” Warren said, eyes shut and body taut with the effort of recall. “Broad-shouldered. White hair. Old enough for his rank; it made sense—”

“How did he speak?”

“Speak?” Warren’s eyes flew open. “I...I don’t remember noticing, my lord.”

A third ball whistled. It found its mark—or at least
a
mark—for men off to the right began to scream. Wellington’s eyes flicked once in that direction, then back to James Warren’s face. “Like a man from the ranks?”

“I...don’t...No, my lord, I don’t think so, now that you mention it. He was well-spoken for his station.”

Wellington pursed his lips. “I’m sure he was. Now you may tell me about his uniform.”

Warren floundered.

“Well looked-after?” Wellington prompted. “Torn? Loose? Tight?”

“Tight,” Warren said suddenly. “My lord. Tight in the shoulders; it’s what made me remember—”

“It is possible that he might have borrowed a uniform not his own,” Wellington said. He took his eyes off Warren now, appearing for the first time to notice the still and listening circle of aides. His voice turned caustic. “Gentlemen, we are somewhat thick on the ground. May I suggest—?” Freemantle, Cathcart, Wotten, and Canning all shifted their horses a sheepish few steps apart, but Warren stayed where he was, horror dawning on his face. Wellington returned his attention to the matter at hand. “It is possible that a Coldstream Guard might have borrowed a uniform not his own,” the Duke repeated. “It is possible that one single Coldstream Guard might have been seconded to Best or Kempt on the left.” He tapped the note against his palm. “And it is not impossible that Blücher should have sent a message of this kind. However, there is something about all this which smells rather rank.” He looked back down at the note. “‘Delayed by poor roads this morning,’” he quoted. “Yes, that I already know. ‘Attacking Napoleon’s flank at Placenoit.’ Yes. ‘Expect imminent victory, presence at your left within the hour.’ Perhaps. I might have believed it, had it come from a more creditable Coldsteam Guard. Napoleon has humbugged me once in this affair; does he try to do it again?”

“You...do not believe the note to be genuine, my lord?” Freemantle asked.

“I do not.”

“But who—”

“A spy, perhaps? Wearing a uniform that is almost correct, but not quite, and speaking carefully unaccented English?”

“For what purpose, my lord?” Freemantle asked. “How could it benefit—?”

“A man expecting reinforcements might not retreat when retreat would be otherwise called for,” Wellington mused. “He might stay and suffer even greater loss. Not that I consider us close to either eventuality, gentlemen,” he added briskly. “We are far from without recourse—much farther than Bonaparte can know.” Freemantle knew he meant the special battalion, though the aide suspected Wellington to be reluctant to call in the monsters, and with good reason. The Duke would doubtless far rather believe the note and its promise of an imminent Prussian presence. Freemantle shook his head in admiration. Only Wellington could have maintained the coolness necessary to think past the moment of hope and consider—

A snap somehow pierced through the thunder of the guns, and Warren sagged, blood soaking fast through the shoulder of his coat. Cathcart grabbed for him, catching him before he could pitch off his saddle.

“My lord,” Freemantle said, attempting to crowd Wellington backward, “my lord, that was surely meant for you. You must come farther away—”

 “Get someone to drive those fellows off!” Wellington told him, waving a hand at the snipers. “Cathcart,” he added, “see James taken behind the lines. Wotten, I want you to ride down to Placenoit yourself. Show this note to Blücher and discover if he did indeed —”

Freemantle, riding in search of men to drive off the snipers, heard no more than that. He went about his task feeling numb. What manner of subtle plot was this, to send a false message of hope? Surely that violated the rules of war. He could not fathom all the things it might mean.

At the very least, he reflected, it meant that the British could
not
in fact count on imminent Prussian support.
If they are delayed much longer, will there be anything left of us for them to reinforce? His Grace may need to summon the special battalion after all.
Freemantle grimaced at the idea, but if the Prussians were not coming, the Duke might have no other choice.

William managed to coax Christopher Palmer to nearly the door of the infirmary before the latter’s leg crumpled underneath him and he pitched forward in a faint. William couldn’t shift position fast enough to break Palmer’s fall, but at least they were within easy distance of aid. One of the surgeons’ assistants came over, wrapped a fresh cloth around the wound, and dragged Palmer inside—whether to be tended or to join the others waiting to be tended, William could not be sure, but either way, Chris was safe in their hands now. William had done all he could, all that duty and friendship demanded.

He stepped over to the doorway anyway, wishing to have one final look, wishing to assure himself that Chris needed nothing more from him.

The smell of the place almost knocked him down. He knew that odor—blood and urine and feces and misery. His limp arm seized with pain again, and bile rose in his throat. He leaned against the door frame, realizing after a moment that he was giving a very good impression of a man nearly too weak to stand who had dragged himself to the surgeons. Someone paused inquiringly before him, but William managed to wave the man off. “Just a broken arm. I’m fine.” He pulled himself straight, willed his swimming vision clear, and decided to leave before he vomited.

One of the water-bearers had snapped a look up at the sound of his voice, and William recognized the face in a distant sort of way as Elizabeth’s. She hastened across to him with no thought for discretion, but at least she kept her voice low—and faintly French-accented; it seemed she could not dismiss the affectation all at once. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“My sister’s husband,” William said, gesturing vaguely toward the inner room. “I couldn’t leave him.”

“Oh—of course.” She glanced at the doorway and bit her lip. “Will he be all right?”

“I think so. At least, they’ll tend to him.” He hardly knew what he was saying. His nostrils were full of the smells of sweat and despair, and he wanted to back out the door and run.

“And—and otherwise?” She looked up at him, and he wondered how anyone in the room was fooled by her ruse. Surely no boy alive had a mouth shaped like that. He, at least, would have known her anywhere and under any disguise. “How—” She took a breath, and tried to resume the performance. “How does it go on the field, sir?”

“Well enough, I think,” he said. “At least, I believe I discharged the duty I was given. I could not say how...how all my comrades fared, though.”

She nodded. William felt eyes boring into the back of his skull, and turned slightly to see a man in a captain’s uniform seated on the floor, back braced against a wall, studying him with eyes only slightly less glazed than Palmer’s had been. A chill ran through William, and he shivered. He wondered if he and Elizabeth had been speaking loudly enough to attract attention. But even if they had, surely they had said nothing to arouse suspicion?

The odor had driven most other thoughts from his mind. It took him a moment to realize that a
tête à tête
between a lieutenant and water-bearer was rather odd, more than enough to attract a more senior officer’s attention. William thought he had better leave Elizabeth before they drew any further gazes. He said as much, and she nodded. “Don’t stay too long,” he added, and she nodded again. He stumbled out of the door and turned his steps for the barn.

He was nearly there before his mind cleared enough to realize that the captain had been wearing a uniform of the 52nd. He had doubtless been perplexed by the sight of his regiment’s uniform on a young lieutenant unknown to him, and William cursed inside his head, but it was too late to do anything about that. At least the captain was in no position to tell the Prussians and rouse their suspicions about his message. His intelligence ought to have already done its job in any case.

To his profound gratitude, William found their barn still deserted. He loosened the sling, peeled off his uniform coat, and sank into the straw a bare moment before Maxwell opened the doors he had just closed. Maxwell took in his presence with an air of relief, then frowned. “Where is she?”

“At the infirmary, playing at being a water-bearer,” William said. “She told me she would come to us shortly.”

Maxwell frowned again, but did not comment further. “Did you succeed?”

“I think so,” William said. “At least, I delivered the information to General Bülow, and I think he understood its value. Perhaps the Prussians will quickly break through Placenoit, and there will be no need for the monsters. Did
you
succeed?”

“I think so,” Maxwell echoed, undoing the straining buttons of his own uniform. “At least, I delivered the paper message to one of Wellington’s aides, and I spoke of it to as many other people as I dared. Perhaps His Grace will decide that the Prussians have nearly arrived, and there is no need to send for the monsters. If this does work,” he added, rather gruffly, “I will owe Seward an apology across time and space for ever disdaining his sand-grain strategy.”

“It didn’t work,” Elizabeth said, opening the door in a rush. Her face was drawn and pale beneath the boy’s cap. “The aide to whom you gave the message—he was brought to the infirmary just after William left, and I heard the one who brought him talking with some of the other injured officers. The Duke did not believe the message. He thinks Napoleon sent it, for some purpose of his own.”

Maxwell’s face drained of color in its turn, aging him twenty years in an instant. “So he will not delay before summoning the monsters,” he said heavily. “He may even summon them sooner, thinking the Prussians removed from the calculation entirely.” He looked at William. “I just undid any good you might have managed.”