Reluctant Heir Read online

  There had been fighting on the sixteenth. On the seventeenth his father rode out in a pouring rain. Gerard waved as his father smiled and saluted, then shook his finger and gave him a stern look, a visual reminder that he was to stay in Brussels no matter what the news from the front. That would be hard.

  No matter how much Gerard tried to heed his father he found himself in the street, saying goodbye to comrades, drummer boys much younger than he marching off to battle. He knew all the orders and signals. He should be going as well. The least he could do was drum for them but he could not bring himself to enlist without his father’s permission.

  Usually he could stomach staying behind but this time it seemed different. His father had given Gerard all his money and papers which he carried secreted in a belt. He’d done it carelessly, not as though dying in battle was a possibility. Gerard put the belt on under his shirt without even looking at the contents.

  If anything happened Gerard was to contact Captain Scott and make arrangements for that school in England. His father also gave him the address for his grandfather’s estate in Northamptonshire yet did not tell him what to do with it. Surely he would not want Gerard to go there. Then it occurred to Gerard that they would have to be notified if his father was killed.

  The waiting was horrible and he barely slept that night knowing the next day could be decisive. On the eighteenth when the wounded began to straggle or be carted back into Brussels the worry was excruciating. Gerard helped carry water and bandage wounds. These were simple enough tasks since he did not know the men but he found a dozen soldiers from his father’s brigade and none could tell him about his father.

  Gerard figured that by the time the column of wounded tapered off he would either know his father was still on the field or was dead. He had been through this before, working behind the lines to help when he was feeling nothing but black despair alleviated almost cruelly by some report of his father’s bravery.

  But this was different. He wanted to do more. When he thought about it, what he felt competent at had nothing to do with being a soldier. He didn’t want to kill. He wanted all this to end. If he could have his wish he would like to become a surgeon’s assistant, perhaps even a surgeon someday. As he extracted a wood fragment from a soldier’s leg and applied a tight linen bandage he made a mental note to ask Captain Scott if this school where his brother taught could train someone for such a profession.

  Finally at two in the afternoon he could stand it no longer. He hitched a ride on one of the wagons carrying shot and powder to the battlefield. The driver knew him and let him ride post on the leader since he was short a man. His father would be angry but he was so often angry anyway.

  It had occurred to Gerard that his father was not immortal, not infallible either. Perhaps he was wounded somewhere and would be glad to have him come with water and help him back to Brussels.

  When they came down the road past Mont-Saint-Jean all was chaos. Wounded and dead men and horses lay everywhere. As Gerard helped unload the wagon, dropping supplies by each cannon crew, he thought that the horses almost made him feel worse since they were innocent victims. But if it came to that so were the soldiers. Yes, they killed each other but they had not made the war. This battle could be laid only at the door of Napoleon and his devoted army. Though Gerard had lost his wish to become a soldier if he had Napoleon in his sights at this moment he would shoot him dead without compunction.

  He helped load the wagon with wounded for the return trip. Why had their army no ambulance carriages as the Frenchman Larrey had designed for their opponent’s army? He abhorred the thought that individual men meant so little. At least his father had cared about his men. He choked on a sob for thinking of his father in past tense.

  When he came to the field where he’d been told his father’s brigade had stood he did not see a man or boy left alive. He dodged the shells which smacked into the muddy ground. Most of the soldiers able to move would be sheltering on the reverse slope until the cannonade was over.

  He found the body of Crispin, their drummer and his friend. Gerard bit his lip and tenderly moved him to the shelter of an upended caisson, realizing this could be himself lying here dead if his father had granted his wish. He looked everywhere at every face. His father was not here, nor were the colors. That meant there was hope. Perhaps he was in another part of the field or was only wounded. Gerard picked up the drum and started toward the swell in the ground when Captain Givens rode up. Not from his father’s regiment but perhaps he’d seen him.

  “You’re Cochran’s son.”

  “Aye, sir. Have you seen him?”

  “Not in hours. We need a drummer. Can you do it?”

  Gerard said, “Aye, sir,” without thinking and trotted at a quick march after the man’s horse. His company was moving in to fill the breach in the line. The Captain began shouting orders to him. Assemble. The enemy had left off with the canon barrage and was about to send cavalry over again. Gerard started beating out the orders over the groaning of the wounded. Form square.

  He was standing in an open space with a square of red-coated men forming to his left and one to his right. At the last possible moment he was to run to the cover of one of the squares of soldiers. But the longer he could keep drumming the better the men stood for the cavalry charge to come against them.

  He saw the French cavalry and felt bad again for the horses. He felt the rumbling of their hooves as they began their charge, heard the sabers swinging like scythes and wondered how he ever could have glorified this. He kept a steady drumming, measuring the distance to the closest square and how long it would take him to get there running with the drum. But it did seem to him that the horsemen were riding straight for him.

  At least one of them was. Silence the drummer and you cut at the heart of the unit. And he had no weapon. Except the drum. He waited as long as he could but he would not be caught from behind by circling cavalry. He would not run. At the last second he flung off the strap and whirled the drum around his head into the horse’s face.

  This set the beast back on its heels and because the hussar tried to turn it, the animal came over sideways on its rider. Gerard scrambled for the cavalryman’s saber but it was pinned under the horse and the man was in no position to put up a fight anyway. The pounding of hooves got his attention but too late. The circling cavalry rode over both him and the downed man though the horses leaped the struggling beast even as the pinned hussar cursed in pain. A crack sounded and pain shot through Gerard’s head.

  * * * * *

  Northamptonshire, England, June 19, 1815

  It was already later afternoon and Charles had just ridden back from the village with the post. Juliet clenched her hands in her lap as their uncle opened the bundle of mail on his desk. Flipping through the stack, he finally came to a letter that he unsealed and held at arm’s length to read. He blinked his eyes hard, then opened them and squinted. “This tells me of a battle in Belgium with an outcome far from certain at a place called Quatra Bras a few days ago. Old Reingold writes from London with the first word anyone has heard yet.”

  She had never seen her great-uncle look so old and unhappy. “Who won?” Juliet asked.

  “We won’t know until he writes again but casualties are heavy.” He handed the letter to Charles who scanned it eagerly.

  “I should have gone to find them before the war ignited again.” Charles dropped the paper on the desk and paced the study. “Now it may be too late.”

  General Cochran shook his head. “It was already too late when we had our discussion in March. If you recall it was only a few days later that we heard Napoleon had escaped Elba and was marching across France. Who could have imagined all his old commanders would abandon the Royalist army to rejoin him? Certainly John would never have come home once he knew.”

  Charles looked worried. “He might at least have sent his son home.”

  She saw the old man squinting at a newspaper he was holding in front of him and realized w
hy Charles now acted as scribe for him. She wondered who had done so before they came to live at Old Stand two years ago.

  “I could be in London by tomorrow and take ship the next day.”

  “We have not heard their fate. The battle is not over. We will wait.”

  “For news from the War Office?” Charles demanded.

  The general drew a magnifying glass out of the drawer and focused it on the page of the Times. “John has not written in a very long time but he would write about something like this to set my mind at rest. He was disobedient, not cruel.”

  Her brother looked up. “And if he doesn’t write?”

  General Cochran dumped the newspaper on the desk and blinked. “Then we will have our answer soon enough from the casualty lists.”

  Juliet cleared her throat. “Charles, did you establish if Gerard had enlisted?”

  “I don’t know,” said Charles. “There is no record of it. Though who knows what might get left unreported on the eve of war. It would seem extraordinary if he had not joined at his age and in his circumstances. I would have.”

  The general looked up with a sad smile on his face. “Charles, I fear you are too much like your father and might thrust yourself into harm’s way for the sake of finding them.” The general watched her brother pace. “I am forever grateful that you never went army mad and begged for a commission.”

  “Much good it would have done me.”

  The old man shook his head. “Perhaps that’s why your father left your affairs in my hands.”

  Charles looked toward her and shook his head. “I have responsibilities here, my sister.”

  “Not to mention the wool mill. Still I am glad you did not pester me for a commission.”

  It was at times like this she realized their uncle had a genuine regard for them. “I’ll go with him,” she said.

  A crack of laughter was followed by a measuring look from the general. “I grant you can ride or think as well as any man, even John but I don’t want you thrust into danger as well.”

  “If one of them is wounded I might be useful,” she said, not in a pleading way. Whining never swayed her uncle, just statements of fact. She had nursed her young cousin Jack through a broken arm. And she was no stranger to caring for invalids, having taken care of their mother for a year after their father’s death had broken her health.

  Charles blew out a tired breath. “Once banking is regularized I must go to Europe anyway to see about our wool contracts.”

  “We can hire an agent to do that,” the general argued. “Don’t you see? If I have lost a son and grandson I don’t want to put you two at risk as well.”

  “I want to see for myself,” Charles insisted. “And I agree that Juliet could come with me once the war is over.”

  “Why the devil would you do that, take your sister into a war-torn country?”

  Charles hesitated. “If either of them is alive her appearance may argue for a marriage. She can be more convincing than I can.”

  General Cochran squinted at her and then really looked at her as though for the first time. “You may have a point there. Having known her when she was a whey-faced chit I had not realized how beautiful she has grown. Nor how courageous.”

  Juliet flushed with both anger and embarrassment but did not get to give voice to her conflicting emotions before the man continued.

  “Very well. If an accident were to befall me the fate of Old Stand would be uncertain. I must establish who my heir is and quickly.” He turned and stared out the back window as he spoke. “Besides your own man take the head groom and that new footman Gordon with you. He’s a veteran. You should be safe enough.”

  Charles edged toward the door as though he thought this permission might be rescinded. “We shall be victorious again.”

  The general nodded. “I admire your optimism about our chances but believe me, the fate of the war is far from decided.”

  Charles blew out a tired breath. “I believe we will win. This was just a last desperate gasp by that madman Napoleon.”

  General Cochran stared out the window again. “Sometimes I think all those who go to war are mad and the maddest are the ones who do succeed. What say you Juliet?” He turned to her. “Do you agree to marry an heir, either of them, if they should be found alive and sane?”

  She realized for the first time that he was giving her a choice, a real choice. “There is no one else I wish to marry. If I did not entertain that possibility I would not be willing to go.”

  He laughed less bitterly this time. “I never get a straight answer from you. I am used to hearing, ‘Yes, sir’.”

  She smiled as though to a doddering old man. “You must be recollecting when you were in the army and your men had no choice but to obey you. Armies cannot work any other way.”

  “Certainly it’s not a place for creative thinking even if you are mad. When we have word the war is certainly over, go then but mind you come back safe even if you can’t find the errant Cochrans. I know you are only going because Charles is and you don’t want anything to happen to him.”

  As always, he floored her with his departing shot and she left the office admitting to herself that was why she wanted to go. If they found John and Gerard that would be wonderful but she would not marry either of them unless she truly wanted to. And now she doubted that the general would force her to. Moreover he trusted her to keep her head over the slight inconvenience of travel over bad roads. Perhaps it was because of all those times he had stopped in her mother’s sick room and found her on duty that he now trusted her like an adult.

  * * * * *

  Waterloo Field, June 19, 1815

  His father’s name being called penetrated Gerard’s fogged brain. He lurched up on hands and knees and a spin of dizziness knocked him back down. More carefully now he staggered to his feet and looked around. There were soldiers moving about in the fog and some civilians tending the wounded or perhaps robbing the dead. His clothes were wet with either dew or rain.

  The hussar and his horse were missing so must have survived. Odd that the man had not cut his throat. One hardly looked for mercy in the heat of battle. When he put a hand to his throbbing head he recoiled on touching the gash at his hairline and staggered. Perhaps the cavalry man had thought him already dead.

  “Major Cochran. John Cochran.”

  Gerard knew that voice. It was General Soutine’s large servant. But what was he doing here? Recognizing his father’s name made him stagger to his feet and stumble toward the road below. There was a carriage parked there, perhaps two carriages. He squeezed his eyes shut and steadied himself on an upended cannon.

  “Look there,” said someone by the carriage. He said it in French. The voice sounded like General Soutine’s. But why? He squeezed his eyelids shut and felt himself swaying. Suddenly someone large picked him up and carried him.

  “Father?”

  “We cannot find your father,” Conde said in French with his nasal accent.

  How odd that the words translated themselves in his head without the slightest delay even though his head ached horribly. But his mother had always spoken French to him. She said someday it would be important for him to know it.

  “I must find my father.”

  “Quickly, into the carriage,” Soutine ordered.

  “I must find my father,” Gerard repeated in French.

  “We will try but you are hurt and must get attention soon.”

  He found himself laid on the seat opposite the general and struggled to sit up while Conde wound a bandage around his head. Gerard felt himself spiraling down into the blankness of sleep but he could still hear. Conde exited, jostling the well-sprung vehicle.

  The carriage lunched forward with Conde calling for Major Cochran from his vantage point at the back. Good, they were going to search. But why? Why had General Soutine come all the way from Paris to look for an officer in the British army? No matter how grateful Gerard was for the aid he could not forget this man was his grand
father’s enemy. But his brain was too racked with pain to be able to attribute anything sinister to the man’s motives.

  He felt the old man’s concern as he drew a blanket over Gerard. That was enough. Then all the faces he was picturing in his mind, his father, Soutine, Conde, and Crispin blurred into one which was gone in a swirl of fog where one name was still shouted in vain.

  * * * * *

  Paris, June 22, 1815

  Lights danced behind his eyelids, forming strange patterns of red and black. What was he seeing? Blood and smoke? Gerard let his eyes flicker open then clenched them shut against a blaze of sunshine that seemed to burn a hole through his vision. He could see the hole on the inside of his eyelids lit along the edges with green fire. Then it grew smaller and eventually dissipated to a reddish glow.

  His head ached a bit less but his body felt as though it had been racked. He experimented with moving his arms and legs. They functioned more or less but had no strength. Then he remembered that some French cavalry had ridden over him. Small wonder that he ached in every limb.

  A tray rattled and he squinted at the source. Conde with his great gentle hands pouring something into a mug. Tea would be wonderful. He struggled to get an arm under him and rise. But Conde slid him up against a bank of pillows as though he were a rag doll.

  “Can you hold this?” he asked in French.

  “Oui.” Gerard took the warm cup and cradled it to his lips. It was broth, not tea but it was fragrant and hot and reminded him how thirsty he was. He asked for water in French. Then he remembered his father and was almost afraid to ask the question. “Did you find him?”