Page 10

The Past

W illiam opened his eyes to find himself once more at Chateau d’Hougoumont.

It was right about noon, with the sun beating down on the quagmire of mud left in the rainstorm’s wake earlier that morning, when the north gate was breached.

A sous-lieutenant of the French First Light Infantry broke through the gate with an axe, enabling bluecoats to pour into the fortified courtyard that William’s regiment had been charged with defending.

William frantically sought his cousin’s position, yelling his name, when he caught sight of Charles near the gate.

From thirty feet away, William raced forward to assist him, but he was too late.

He could only watch helplessly as Charles was run through with a flashing steel bayonet, falling to the ground as if time itself had slowed down to drag out William’s agonizing futility.

For the span of a second, William was frozen as grief slammed into his body, almost bringing him to his knees. Even at this distance, there was no doubt his cousin was dead, with his empty eyes staring into the abyss.

But then the tide of French soldiers reached him.

Realizing there was no time to reload his musket, he raised it up to fight, as he had been taught weeks ago when Charles and he had signed up to fight Boney.

That was when he noticed that his bayonet was missing.

William saw the soldiers were upon him, and he had no method to defend himself.

Recalling the training sergeant had said that Brown Bess had a thick stock and would not break if he used it as a club, William’s instincts as a blacksmith spurred him into motion while a mindless rage washed over him in a tide of red. They had killed his cousin, his best friend.

If I am to die in the yard today, I will take as many Frenchmen down with me as I can!

William raised his musket like a forge hammer, swinging it down with the force and precision of a smith beating iron on his anvil. Cracking it down, he raised it once more and swung it down. And raised it and swung again. And again.

When William’s rage slowly dissipated, he was panting from his exertions.

He groggily returned to his senses from the anger and hatred that had engulfed his mind, to find that he now stood with dead French soldiers at his feet.

The north gate was closed, and his fellow redcoats were frantically fighting the remaining enemy left within the yard.

It was like this every night. Every relentless night since the Battle of Waterloo.

This was the part of his recurring nightmare when he threw back his head to roar all the pain, and loss, and regret shuddering through him.

Charles was dead, and William had killed five men in close combat with the skills of his livelihood turned to abhorrent violence.

He did not even know the men’s names. Would never know their names.

Or if they had wives, children, parents who would grieve them.

This was the precise moment he would now make his vow to ? —

Then he heard it, a melodic voice humming a Christmas carol.

Thus spoke the angel. Suddenly

appeared a shining throng

of angels praising God, who thus

addressed their joyful song:

‘All glory be to God on high,

and to the earth be peace;

to those on whom his favor rests

goodwill shall never cease.’

He frowned, hesitating, uncertain of what to make of the joyful holiday song here in this yard of death.

This was a fresh development. He had suffered this nightmare for more than five years. It had never deviated before. Every night, it was the same sequence of events. Over and over again, so that he was afraid to fall asleep. Afraid to revisit this yard.

William shook his head in befuddlement, then turned to discover the source of the song.

Approaching him was sunshine herself, draped in a flowing white gown.

Her blonde hair was lit, her face serene as she walked toward him, paying no mind to the carnage at her feet.

She sang as she neared him, and somehow the soldiers parted to let her through so she might come to a stop in front of him.

Caroline Brown looked up into his eyes and asked, “Did you count your blessings, William?”

“Blessings?” he echoed dumbly.

She shook her head at him, as if admonishing a forgetful child. “Life is hard. Counting your blessings makes it easier to find happiness in this world.”

His brow creased, and he found himself at a genuine loss as he stared down at his filthy pale pantaloons and muddy boots, while breathing in the stench of blood and gunpowder.

Surely this was a jest? There was no possibility of hope or optimism to be found in a hell like this.

Caroline could not possibly have any blessings of value to share with him.

“What blessings are to be found in this farmyard of death?”

Her pink lips curled into a smile, and William wondered if he was missing some vital clue. She seemed confident there was grace present. “There are always blessings to be counted. It is all about perspective.”

She held out a hand, and it was clean. And soft. And perfect. He did not wish to sully her by taking hold of it, but she merely stood there, waiting with a tilt of her head until he reluctantly reached out to clasp it. “Come with me, blacksmith.”

Leading him over to a fortified wall, she stepped up onto a barrel with his help, then gestured for him to take his place at her side. Gingerly, he climbed up and turned to where she was peering with a fascinated expression.

William’s eyes widened in amazement as he realized he was watching himself. Events unfolded once more, but this time he watched them from the side. He was no longer a participant in the battle.

The French sous-lieutenant broke through the north gate, wielding his steel axe in a triumphant charge.

Bluecoats followed him, flooding into the courtyard.

William watched once more in torment as Charles was run through with a bayonet, this vantage point a new seat to witness hell unfolding yet again.

Then William watched himself across the yard as he called out his cousin’s name in agony.

He witnessed the other William’s anguish, followed by the realization he had no bayonet with which to defend himself as the tide of blue rushed toward him.

The other William brought the musket back over his head to wield it in the manner of a blacksmith’s hammer.

Caroline was humming next to him, nudging him and pointing to the left of where William was fighting the enemy.

Curious what had her attention, he focused on where she pointed and noticed for the first time that as he fought, Corporal Graham, Graham’s brother, and several soldiers were fighting near him while Captain Wyndham led them to the north gate.

As the other William brought the stock of his musket down on the head of a French soldier, he now noticed that the man had been preparing to stab Corporal Graham from behind with the point of his bayonet.

The corporal paid no heed to what was happening behind him as William cracked his stock down on the enemy soldier’s skull, killing him in a single, powerful blow.

Graham raised his musket and fired at a French sniper who was taking aim at Captain Wyndham.

He hit the sniper, and then the group of redcoats fought their way forward under the command of Lieutenant Colonel MacDonell to the north gate.

Closing the gate was their only hope of survival, and the men fought their way valiantly in service of the British army, as they had been instructed to do.

Chateau d’Hougoumont had to be defended at any cost.

William watched on, realizing for the first time that while he fought in the skirmish across the yard, his fellow redcoats made it back to the gate and struggled to get it closed. Then they turned to fight the remaining bluecoats in the yard.

Caroline broke off from her song. “If you had not been standing in that exact spot, Corporal Graham might have died. If he had died, so too would Captain Wyndham have died. And if Captain Wyndham had died, Lieutenant Colonel MacDonell would have failed, and Hougoumont would have fallen.”

“What of it?” William heard the belligerence in his voice, but he could not help it. He had returned to the site of his downfall as he did every horrible night. It was hell on earth, and he had had to relive it every evening since that day.

Caroline turned to gaze at him with lively hazel eyes. “It was a blessing you were here that day, William. The Duke of Wellington himself declared that the success of the battle turned upon the closing of the gates at Hougoumont.”

William’s brows drew together in his confusion. He supposed he must have known that, considering Caroline was merely a guest in his dream. She could not point it out unless he had already heard it. At least, that seemed the most logical explanation.

Observing his perplexment, Caroline placed her hand on his forearm in a gesture of comfort as she explained, “If you had not been there to stop that Frenchman from stabbing Corporal Graham, we might have lost the entire war with Napoleon.”

That seemed far-fetched. And besides, it did not address the excruciating cause of his true grief. “But because of me, Charles is dead!”

“Charles was going to sign up whether you joined him or not. He was frustrated that more than a decade of war with Boney looked to be starting anew. He wanted no more wives of Chatternwell to be widowed. When Boney escaped, Charles informed you that he would fight with or without you because he was a good man. A courageous man.”

William paused, thinking back on the events leading up to Hougoumont. Now that he thought about it, Charles had been the first to raise the subject of joining the fight after Boney escaped Elba.

“Charles would be proud of the part he played this day. That his loss prompted you to fly into a rage, which in turn led to saving the corporal. His presence here that day, it was ? —”

“A blessing?”