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Crispin was given the task, along with several of his fellows, to stake out the positions Wellington was assigning to the various regiments along the ridge of Mont-Saint-Jean.

Rain continued to fall in sheets, and the ground was sodden.

If boots sank so deeply, it would be impossible to maneuver the cannons.

The only consolation was that Napoleon would be equally mired.

Rain doesn’t bother me. Crispin remembered saying those words to Camellia. What else might he have said that had been a lie? Had they said anything to each other that had been true? Would he die tomorrow without having the chance to say he was sorry?

“Major Taverston?” A lieutenant whom Crispin did not know well slogged through the mud to draw closer. “The commander wishes to see you. Special orders.”

Damn. Special orders could mean many things.

On the eve of battle, it was likely one of three: scouting the enemy’s position, carrying messages, or interrogating a fresh-caught prisoner.

Crispin hoped for the first and prayed it would not be the last. Courier, of course, would be a waste of his talents.

*

Yet it was to be courier. Blücher had not turned tail for Prussia, but had regrouped at Wavre. The two armies were still just a little too far apart for comfort. Communication was critical if they were to be able to coordinate their attack.

So here Crispin was. Pounding along a muddy track through the woods on a strong bay gelding, Wellington’s missive hidden in the lining of his jacket, and Wellington’s words ringing in his ears.

“Don’t get distracted, don’t get caught, and don’t get shot.

You have one job to do today. One. To be our link. ”

The battle had been slow to start because of the rain, but once the artillery began its fire, the farmland quickly became a hellscape.

Crispin was attempting to skirt the periphery of the fighting without stumbling into the midst of it, a task made difficult by the ragged lines of the companies engaged.

What had seemed clear enough in the scribbled map Wellington had shown him was now obscured by smoke and reverberating noise that made the air seem to shimmer.

The big guns crescendoed and decrescendoed in waves, but the earthshaking clamor of armies clashing was unceasing, a constant chorus of men and horses screaming—

A distinctive loud crack sounded, and Crispin lost control of the bay.

The horse stumbled, its sides heaving. A terrifying vision of the colonel in his wheelchair flashed before Crispin’s eyes before he scrambled free of his dying horse.

The next moment, three frogs emerged from the woods, one on horseback and two on foot.

They were exuberant, boasting of their prize.

The emperor would reward them. They were heroes.

God. They were fuzz-on-their-chins boys .

But boys with muskets pointed at him. He should have made a wider circle around the field. Damn it. He raised his hands in a signal of surrender—and cursed himself for what he was about to do.

At a clipped order from the one who was mounted, one of the others approached to disarm him.

The moment he was close enough, Crispin grabbed him, wrenched his arm behind his back and spun him to use as a shield.

He caught the frog around the neck, tight.

Since he hadn’t three hands, he let go of the twisted arm, slipped his knife from its sheath, and stuck it in the struggling boy’s back.

He yanked him hard against his own body, ignoring the scream in his ear.

Left hand now free, Crispin pulled his pistol and shot the stunned Frenchy on the horse.

The next instant, there was an explosion, and the boy in the chokehold slammed against Crispin so hard he stumbled backward.

His human shield became deadweight. Crispin dropped him, steadied his feet, and faced his remaining captor.

They had both spent their bullets. The fellow stared at Crispin, eyes wild, knees shaking.

Then he cast a desperate glance sideways.

They both needed that horse.

The boy made a dash for it. Crispin pulled his second pistol and dropped him neatly. Then he went to the horse, who’d remained remarkably calm throughout. A nag. Likely deaf rather than battle-hardened. Or maybe both. He hoped Blücher had a horse to spare. This one would not last.

He reloaded his pistols. Quickly. Then tucked them away. He put his foot in the stirrup, but before he mounted, he heard mewling.

“Maman. Maman.”

Christ! He looked about. It was the shield. Knife in his back, gutshot by his jumpy friend, the boy was still alive. Alive with two mortal wounds. It might take all day and night for him to die, but die he would. Alone in the mud, in pain, crying for his mother.

Crispin walked over, flipped the boy onto his stomach, and pulled the knife from his back. Shutting his ears to the sound of whimpering, he slit the frog’s throat.

He wiped the knife, put it back in its sheath, and returned to the horse.

Nothing. He felt nothing. He had one job to do. One. He mounted and spurred the nag on.

*

My Dear Jasper, No doubt you’ve heard rumors that a great and terrible battle took place near Waterloo.

By the Grace of God, I am alive and unharmed.

One might say I missed most of the fight.

Someone had to carry dispatches between ourselves and the Prussians, and I imagine you are glad to hear it was me.

Crispin lowered his quill, disgusted with his own tone.

The bloodbath was nothing to be made light of.

If Blücher had not been so determined to bring his army to Wellington’s aid, the outcome would have been different.

Standing by the fireplace in the dining room of the Roi d’Espagne Hotel, using the mantle for a desk, he tried again.

One day perhaps I will speak of the unspeakable. I have never seen, and hope never again to see, such horrors. Suffice to say, whatever you may hear, it was a thousand times worse. At times I thought it could only end with our mutual annihilation.

Major Percy came up from behind and tapped his shoulder.

“If you want your letter going with me, give it here.” Wellington had awarded Percy the task of carrying his report on the battle, as well as the two captured Napoleonic Eagles, home to Bathurst, Liverpool, and the Prince Regent.

The honor might have gone to Crispin. Of all Wellington’s aides-de-camp, they were the only two still alive and standing.

Crispin was glad Percy had gotten the assignment. He wanted nothing more than a bed.

“One moment.” How to convey the unconveyable? He finished with: Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for, thou are not so. Jasper, Donne was wrong. Death IS mighty and dreadful. And too many brave men have discovered that this day.—Major Crispin Taverston

*

For two days, Crispin helped bury the dead and succor the wounded. It was necessary to ignore the inconvenient part of himself that felt things, or he would never have stopped weeping. So many of his fellows were gone. And the list continued to grow.

There were still corpses littering the battlefield, some in piles two or three deep, as well as dying men who had not yet been tended to—men who would never be tended to—but Wellington gathered the tattered remnant of his army to move on to Paris.

Blücher and the Prussians had given chase immediately upon Napoleon’s defeat, but as far as anyone knew, the emperor had not yet been captured.

Crispin was not the only one who hoped it would be Blücher’s men who found Boney.

Blücher, furious and merciless, would see him summarily executed.

Wellington would not. The only honorable soldier left in this polluted world, Wellington would follow the rules.

Once Napoleon surrendered, he would be treated with the respect accorded to any worthy foe.

Never mind that the man could not be trusted to keep his word.

They could be back at this again in another year.

It was a foregone conclusion that the duke would be given command of the occupying army once they entered Paris.

After they crossed the French border, the officers sat down in an auberge to sup with their commander.

Crispin pushed food around on his plate, pretending to eat.

Later, he intended to retire to his chamber and eat the onions and carrots he had bought from one of the peasants Wellington had given his men strict orders not to harass.

“Taverston,” Wellington barked, “Colonel Grant has asked that I relinquish you again to his command.”

Crispin laid down his knife. God, it never ended. “To do what, Your Grace?”

Wellington waved dismissively. “You will have to ask him.”