Sebastian's Waterloo, Page 2

  Above the howl of the allied artillery as it rained fire and brimstone, in the form of balls and canister shot down on the French troops, he became aware that Heyland was trying to get his attention.

  Sebastian apologised and Heyland nodded. ‘This is it, Alder,’ he said, fumbling in his jacket. He pulled out the letter he had written the night before and held it out.

  'Take this. I want you to see it is delivered to Mary.'

  Sebastian hesitated for a moment. He wanted to protest that Heyland himself would be delivering it in person but he knew the odds of both of them surviving what was to come were stacked against them. He nodded and accepted the package. If Heyland lived and he died then the letter became irrelevant. If he lived and Heyland died... then the letter would be delivered. If they both died, the letter may be found and delivered or it may not. It no longer mattered.

  Despite the murderous fire power raining down on the, from the lighter guns of the well disciplined English artillery, the Imperial Guard came on. Those that made it to the top of the ridge were met by a wall of red coated infantry rising out of the corn to bring volleys of musket fire on Napoleon's finest. Men were mown down like the summer harvest beneath the scythe of musket balls. The drum beat hesitated and was lost and in what seemed like a heartbeat, Napoleon’s unbeatable force, wavered, taking uncertain steps backwards down the punishing slope up which they had just marched.

  'They're breaking,' Heyland said. 'We did it. By God, we did it! 40th forward...'

  And as the Imperial Guard broke, retreating in confusion back down the forward slope into the muddy depths of the valley, for the first time all day the allied forces moved forward.

  The remnants 40th Regiment of Foot formed a column. They had their orders, from the Iron Duke himself... they would take back the battered remnants of the La Haye Sainte farm house.

  ~*~

  Only a fool would have expected the Old Guard to just turn and run. Even disordered and in retreat, they turned to face their foe. As the 40th crested the ridge, they in turn came under musket fire from both the farm house and a detachment of the Guard who stood between the battalion and its objective.

  As the English had done earlier in the day, the French targeted the horses.

  Sebastian's horse faltered, going down on its knees with a scream of pain. Sebastian kicked himself free of the stirrups and rolled clear of the dying animal. Only a few yards away, Heyland's horse reared and Heyland hit the ground with an audible thud. Keeping low, Sebastian ran to his commander's side and found the Major winded but unhurt. He helped him to his feet as behind them the 40th faltered.

  Heyland cast around for his sword but it had broken in the fall and he kicked the useless weapon. Turning to his men, his eyes bright with battle fever he yelled. 'On my brave boys. We ...'

  His words were stopped by a musket ball. A spurt of blood jetted from his neck and he went down on his knees. Sebastian leaped to his side, gentling the wounded man into a lying position, trying ineffectually to staunch the bright arterial blood with his sash.

  Heyland's face registered only surprise. He looked up at Sebastian, his mouth working. He managed to utter 'My Mary...' before his life ended in a gurgle of bright blood at the corners of his mouth.

  Sebastian closed his commander's eyes. He had no time to stop and mourn. Their advance had been checked, the men dropping flat on the ground as the French continued to rain fire down on them.

  ‘What now, sir?’

  Sebastian looked up at the Battalion Sergeant Major. What now? He held seniority of rank, the command of the 40th was his. He had responsibility for the lives of three hundred men and never had he felt more inadequate for a task.

  'Up!' Sebastian commanded, on his feet once more. 'Up and let's finish this job.'

  He raised his sword and seized up the pathetic ribbons that had once been the Battalion Colours as they fell from the Ensign's dead hand. Another death he would mourn tomorrow but not now.

  He had lost his own cap in the fall from his horse and bareheaded, with the colours in his left hand and his sword in the right, he ran forward, straight at the line of French Guardsmen, the remnants of the 40th beside him.

  Later, Sebastian couldn't say when he was hit. In the heat of the battle and with the objective so close, he had been gripped with an almost maniacal need to see the task complete. The fierce hand to hand fighting as the guards put up their last resistance, the French troops on the walls of the farm house pouring musket fire down on them merged into a blur of heat and blood, overlaid with the acrid smell of powder.

  They were through the gates, fending off French infantry to the right and left.

  Only when it was over and the last Frenchman lay dead on the cobble stones of the yard, did he feel the pain beneath his ribs. He put his hand to his side, noting with surprise that his fingers were sticky with blood.

  ‘You’re hit, sir!’ The Battalion Sergeant Major was by his side, prying the remnants of the 40th’s colours from Sebastian’s grip.

  Got to stay upright. Can’t let them see me fall.

  ‘Secure the buildings and get that damn flag down,’ Sebastian ordered, gesturing at the tattered French flag that still fluttered from the chimney. ‘Got to let the Duke know we’ve...achieved...’ His words were slurring and the Sergeant Major’s face going in and out of focus.

  ‘Sir... you need...’

  ‘I need you to obey your orders... Get to it. I might just sit down for a moment...’ He staggered back against a mounting block, the faces of his brother and sister rising into his vision.

  ‘I’ve failed you...’ he murmured as the world roared in his ears and he knew nothing more.

  Chapter 4

  Monday June 19th 1815 – 2.00am

  Stars, bright and timeless, pierced the terrible blackness of the night. Sebastian lay very still, counting them. So many stars. He wondered if anyone had ever actually counted them all. The night air brushed his face with icy fingers and unidentifiable cries and moans drifted around him. He wondered vaguely what was making that terrible sound.

  Someone was tugging at his belt but he lacked the strength to resist or even raise his head to see who it was.

  A bright flash of light and a loud, 'Get away from him, you bastard,' uttered in a strident cockney voice, but he could see nothing. Someone swore followed by the sound of fist on bone. More swearing, this time in guttural French, and then silence.

  He turned his head away from the light of a lantern swung in his direction and drew a deep, shuddering breath, aware now of terrible pain beneath his right ribs. A face came into view, shadowed for a moment and then illuminated with startling clarity. A familiar face grinned down at him.

  'Strange place to have a lie down, Capn'.'

  'Bennet,' Sebastian managed. 'Did we do it?'

  'Aye, sir. We did it. Boneys on the run back to Paris with them Prussian bastards hard on his heels.'

  'Heyland's dead.'

  'Aye, sir. S'arnt Major reckons as how we've lost nearly two hundred men and officers. Thought we'd lost you too, but here you are. Taken me a little while to find you but now we'll get you back to the saw bones.'

  'Who was that...' Sebastian began but could not finish. ‘Did you hit him, Bennet?’

  'Not ‘ard enough. That was a damned looter, sir. They're all over the field. Anything of value, they'll take and if the cove ain't dead and puts up a fight, they'll just finish the job and have the teeth out of your head.'

  Sebastian fumbled in his jacket, finding Heyland's letter. He pulled it out and held it up to Bennet.

  'Whatever happens to me, Bennet, see that Major Heyland's widow gets this.'

  Bennet took the letter, stowing it in his own jacket. 'Nuffin's going to happen to you, sir.' He rose to his feet and addressed someone out of Sebastian's line of sight. 'You there, bring that stretcher over 'ere. Got a wounded officer.'

  His corporal hunkered down again. Sebastian raised his right hand, reassured when Benn
et clasped it in his own.

  ‘Connie and Matt,’ he said. ‘Can you tell them I did my best?’

  Bennet squeezed his hand so hard, the bones crunched. ‘Yer not going to die, Alder,’ he said. ‘Not while I has any say in it.’

  ‘I’m...’ He wanted to say scared. ‘I don’t want to leave them alone, Bennet. They have no one else.’

  ‘I know that, sir.’ Bennet laid Sebastian’s hand down across his chest. 'Bin quite a day, sir. Not one I want to go through again. I thought we was a goner this time. When those French horses came over the ridge and then that bloody Old Guard...but here we are, sir. You and I. Wonder what tomorrow will bring?'

  Sebastian closed his eyes. He would think about tomorrow... tomorrow.

  If you enjoyed this short ‘prequel’ story, you may enjoy reading LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR to find out what adventures awaited Sebastian in the days after Waterloo. A short excerpt follows…

  CLICK HERE FOR A FREE BOOK

  LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR

  Alison Stuart

  (Escape Publishing 2015)

  From the battlefield of Waterloo to the drawing rooms of Brantstone Hall, Sebastian Alder’s elevation from penniless army captain to Viscount Somerton is the stuff of dreams. But the cold reality of an inherited estate in wretched condition, and the suspicious circumstances surrounding his cousin’s death, provide Sebastian with no time for dreams, only a mystery to solve and a murderer to bring to justice.

  Isabel, widow of the late Lord Somerton, is desperate to bury the memory of her unhappy marriage by founding the charity school she has always dreamed of. But, her dreams are shattered, as she is taunted from the grave, discovering not only has she been left penniless, but she is once more bound to the whims of a Somerton.

  But this Somerton is unlike any man she has met. Can the love of an honourable man heal her broken heart or will suspicion tear them apart?

  Please enjoy the first chapter of LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR....

  Chapter 1

  London

  June 28, 1815

  ‘Are you certain he’s here?’ Isabel — Lady Somerton — asked, her voice muffled by the lavender scented kerchief she had pressed to her nose and mouth.

  The pathetic piece of muslin did little to conceal the stench of unwashed bodies, blood, corrupted wounds and worse that pervaded the makeshift hospital. The price Wellington had paid for the victory lay crowded on filthy straw mattresses on the makeshift hospital floor of an old warehouse in Battersea.

  Everywhere she turned the wounded had been crowded together, so many of them that only a curtain separated the officers from the other ranks. Pushing aside the curtain, the conditions for the officers was little better. At least they had cots, not straw-filled bags, but those who had survived the rapid evacuation to England were in a poor state. Most still wore the tattered remnants of the uniform they had worn in battle over ten days ago and it looked to Isabel as if the rough bandages over their wounds had not been changed in days.

  A young boy, hardly older than Peter Thompson, the stable boy at Brantstone, screamed for his mother. Her heart stopped at the heartrending sound and she turned and knelt down beside him, smoothing the hair back from his burning forehead. He clutched her hand, looking at her with unseeing eyes.

  She murmured to him, the sort of platitudes she imagined a mother would use with an ailing child and his breathing steadied and then stilled; the hand clutching hers fell away.

  Her companion, Bragge, the Somerton man of business, touched her shoulder.

  ‘Come away, my lady.’

  She stared down at the child on the cot. ‘But...’

  ‘He’s dead, my lady.’

  Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it down. She could not show weakness, not now. She needed all her strength.

  She rose slowly to her feet and cast the dead boy one last look, her lips moving in silent prayer for his soul and the mother who would grieve for her son.

  ‘The orderly over there said he’s in that corner, Lady Somerton.’ Bragge’s voice carried no conviction and he looked as green and sickly as she felt.

  He held the lantern higher to illuminate the man they had sought for so many months. He lay on his left side with his back to them. A torn and stained scarlet jacket with a Captain’s epaulettes had been thrown across his shoulders and a ragged blanket covered his torso and legs. All Isabel could see of the man was dark matted hair.

  Isabel held back for a moment, wondering what she would say. She had rehearsed a pretty little speech in the coach but now as she looked down at the man known to the world as Sebastian Alder, the words deserted her. How would he take the news? It could not be every day that the humble son of a country parson found himself elevated to the peerage. Would he rejoice or rail against his mother who had kept the secret of his parentage from him?

  Doubt seized her. What manner of man would he turn out to be? Surely a parson’s son would have some education, but would he be capable of running the Somerton estates? For the first time since hearing the news that they had found an heir to the Somerton estates, a niggling doubt caught her.

  ‘My lady?’ Bragge’s voice broke through her musing and she took a deep breath.

  Steeling her nerves, she reached out a gloved hand, touching the man on the shoulder.

  ‘Captain Alder?’ she ventured in an uncertain voice.

  When he did not stir, she looked up at Bragge, her heart sinking.

  ‘Are we too late?’ she ventured.

  ‘Try again, my lady.’

  She bent down and closed her fingers on his shoulder, shaking him.

  With a speed that took her completely by surprise, a hand grasped her wrist as the man rolled onto his back, hot, angry, feverish eyes seeking out the person who had disturbed him.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

  Isabel gasped, taking a step back, but he did not release her wrist. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you...or hurt you,’ she added, seeing pain in the tightened lips and sunken eyes.

  Slow comprehension softened the unshaven face and he released her wrist. His eyes closed and he let out a softly aspirated breath.

  ‘My apologies to you, lady. I did not mean to scare you. Just a soldier’s instincts,’ he said.

  Rubbing her wrist, she looked down at the man and caught her breath. There could be no denying he was a Somerton. He had his cousin’s finely chiselled cheekbones and well-shaped mouth, but his jaw had a strength to it that Anthony had lacked.

  ‘Are you...’ she ventured. ‘Are you Captain Sebastian Alder, son of the late Marjory Alder of Little Benning in Cheshire?’

  His eyes opened again but all the fight had gone from him. Beneath the stubble on his chin, his face looked grey, the eyes feverish and sunken in his skull.

  ‘My mother is eighteen years in the grave. Why do you want to know about her?’ The man frowned as if he were trying to bring them both into focus. ‘Who are you?’ His voice rasped with the effort of speech.

  ‘I am the dowager Viscountess Somerton and this is my late husband’s man of business, Bragge. We have been looking for you for over six months now.’

  He frowned. ‘Looking for me? What do you mean? What is your business with me?’

  ‘We’ve come to take you home,’ Isabel said.

  His mouth quirked into a humourless smile. ‘Well that is a nice sentiment, Lady Somerton, but I very much doubt I would survive such a trip. It’s nigh on two hundred miles to Cheshire.’

  ‘Oh, not to Cheshire. We are taking you to your new home: Somerton House in Hanover Square.’

  The man ran a hand across his eyes. ‘This is a jest or some strange fever dream that I’m going to wake from. Lady Somerton, or whoever you are, I do not live in Hanover Square. I told you, my home is in Cheshire.’

  ‘It’s no jest, Captain Alder. You are now the Viscount Somerton of Brantstone, first cousin to my late husband and as such, the heir to his estates.’

&n
bsp; To her surprise, Alder covered his face with his hands and laughed.

  Ignoring him, she continued, ‘The doctors said you would be all right to be moved such a short distance and I have arranged the best doctor to see to you.’ She glanced at Bragge. ‘Bragge, go and fetch the coachmen.’

  Bragge inclined his head and scurried out, leaving Isabel alone with the new Lord Somerton.

  Alder removed his hands from his face and watched her with puzzlement in his eyes — brown eyes, she noted, a soft, warm brown, not the cold grey of Anthony’s.

  She looked around the ward and shuddered. ‘This is a terrible place,’ she said, more to herself than to him. ‘I’m surprised anyone survives it.’

  ‘They don’t.’ The man on the pallet tried to sit up, falling back with a groan.

  ‘’Ere! Who are you then?’ A strident cockney voice caused Isabel to turn on her heel to be confronted by a soldier of Alder’s regiment, judging by the yellow facings of his jacket. He carried a bowl of water and some cloths, and he looked at Isabel as if she were some ill-intentioned assassin.

  Isabel straightened. ‘I’m Lady Somerton. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Bennet, Corporal Obadiah Bennet and you ain’t got no business with my captain. He ain’t strong enough for visitors.’

  Alder’s hand clutched at his corporal’s jacket. ‘Lady Somerton is just leaving, Bennet,’ he croaked.

  Isabel glanced down at the sick man. He had to come with her. Without him she would be lost. It was not his choice. He had obligations and responsibilities to assume. Didn’t he understand that?

  ‘Why do you want to take him away? I can take perfectly good care of him ‘ere,’ Bennet said.

  Isabel looked around the stinking ward. The dead boy still lay unregarded on his mattress, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.