Prologue

Battle of Talavera—Spain—28 July 1809

Captain August Holt quickly gazed from left to right, his mind whirling at breakneck speed.

The British and Portuguese joint forces were in trouble. The allies had taken up a defensive position just east of Talavera and had already repulsed two attacks from the enemy at Medellin, one late yesterday evening and again at dawn this morning. The lull afterward had given both sides time to recuperate, and now the French had declared a full assault.

Sherbrooke's infantry was in disarray as Wellesley tried to plug the gap. August knew the numbers thanks to the officer's meeting he had been present at only a few hours ago in Wellesley's tent. The French had ten thousand men now advancing against the three thousand soldiers of the British-Portuguese alliance. It would be a bloodbath, regardless of which side won.

And August would go down fighting for king and crown.

He gave the signal, leading his men in a charge, shouting encouragement, his voice already hoarse from the previous engagements and trying to be heard over the dueling cannons from each side. If Ruffin's division could make headway, then Wellington's 48th Foot could plug the hole left by Sherbrooke's unsuccessful attack. August would do everything in his power to aid the British commander's efforts.

He had a pistol in his right hand and a saber in his left as he raced along the battlefield, leaping over the bodies of fallen comrades. A few horses surged forward from behind him, all but one passing him. That one mount shrieked, being struck by fire. August tried to bolt to his left as the horse fell, but he didn't get far enough away, and the beast knocked him to the ground, even as its rider sailed past him.

Stunned for a moment, he felt the weight of the horse pressing against him and realized he was trapped beneath it. The fallen rider tried to pull the horse from August, but it was an impossible task for one man.

Then the cavalryman also was felled by a bullet, and August lay helplessly on the ground. His pistol had been knocked from his hand, but at least he still clung to the sword, though how he would be able to use it was doubtful.

All around him, he heard the shouts and cries of the wounded and dying as soldiers ran past him in both directions. He tried to move his legs, but he was pinned. It would take several men to release him. Already, breathing was becoming difficult, the dying horse's weight unbearable.

"Ah, an officer," a soldier said in French. "Waiting to be butchered."

Perhaps it wasn't a good thing that he spoke the language fluently.

Replying in French, he told his enemy, "Move along. You see I am helpless. Where is your honor? Would you kill a defenseless man?"

"With great pleasure. Even if you are an Englishman who speaks flawless French."

The soldier stepped on August's left wrist, tearing away the saber.

"I shall claim this beauty for myself," he said matter-of-factly, already smiling at the sword.

August knew death was only moments away, most likely at the hands of his own weapon.

The Frenchman laughed and swiped the blade across the throat of the horse, which shuddered and then stilled. Then he swung the sword high, bringing it down. August threw up his left hand, trying to protect himself, feeling the blade slice through fingers and part of his palm. Pain shot through him, and he gasped, his right hand clutching the damaged left one, bringing it to his chest. Blood poured from the hand, and he saw three of his fingers barely attached.

His enemy cackled, swinging the sword high again, bringing it down once more. It struck the top of August's head, moving down to his brow, his eye, and slicing open his cheek. The white-hot pain sizzled, making him feel as if he were on fire. Blood poured from his left eye, clouding his vision.

It was over. His life would end on this Spanish field. All the risks he had taken, all the bravery he had shown, and he would die at the hands of a foot soldier who showed him no mercy. But he would meet death and look it straight in the eye.

August raised his face to his attacker, the blood freely flowing down his face, the gloating Frenchman standing over him laughing.

Then the laughter died. A perplexed look came over his killer's features.

And August saw the sword protruding from the man's chest.

He blinked several times, realizing someone had run a sword through the Frenchman from behind, the blade entering his body and coming out the other side. He watched as one of his own men placed his foot on the Frenchman's back and yanked hard, withdrawing the sword, as another man in his command pushed the dead body hard.

"We'll get you out from there, Captain," he was promised.

August continued to hold his injured hand to his chest, taking shallow breaths. Enough men must have been summoned because suddenly the weight of the dead beast was lifted. Someone grabbed his legs, dragging him away. He could breathe again, gasping as he filled his lungs with air.

Then he was lifted and being carried, a voice saying, "Get him to the surgeon. Now."

As he was jostled along the uneven ground, he heard the others who carried him tell him that the 48th had collapsed France's second line's attack and that Lapisse himself was supposedly dead.

He could smell the grass fires, though, as they swept across the battlefield, the wounded calling out in desperation to be moved before they burned alive. August closed his eyes again, but he could not close his ears.

He would hear those screams for the rest of his life.

If he lived.

After what seemed like an eternity, the men jogging with him came to a halt, and he determined they had reached camp.

"Get me to Morrow," he commanded. "He is the best."

"Yes, Captain!" his three saviors cried in unison.

He must have passed out from the pain because when he awoke, he was on a makeshift table, probably a barn door, the most common thing used to act as a surgical base during operations.

"He is coming around. Pour plenty of brandy down his throat. I'm going to have to take the eye—and possibly the hand."

August looked up, seeing Dr. Morrow with his right eye, the left still a bloody mess.

"You can't save the eye?" he asked weakly.

"No, Captain." The surgeon placed a hand on August's shoulder. "But I will try to save what I can of the hand."

Someone helped him to sit up, and a bottle was brought to his lips. He caught the strong scent of brandy and was urged to drink. He continued to do so, knowing it would help dull the pain. He prayed he would pass out from a combination of drunkenness and pain, and he did.

When he awoke, August ached everywhere. He was prone, on a cot, and sensed many others around him. Slowly, he raised his left hand, seeing the thick bandage around it. He tried flexing his wrist and found he could. That something was still on the other side of it. He then tried to wriggle his fingers, but the bandage was wrapped too firmly about his hand.

He brought his right hand up to his face. The left side was swathed in bandages. Without being told, he knew the eye was gone. His brow and cheek were also covered in gauze. Letting his hand fall, he closed his one good eye and surrendered to sleep again.

The next time he awoke, it was because someone shook him.

"Let's try to sit up, Captain," someone suggested. "I've got broth for you. You need something inside you."

As he allowed the soldier to help him move to a sitting position, he heard Dr. Morrow say, "The broth can wait. Let me speak to him first."

"Yes, Doctor."

August moved his legs from the cot, placing his feet on the ground. He felt woozy, from either blood loss or from having drunk too much brandy. Or both.

The surgeon knelt before him. "You still have your hand, minus the last three fingers. They had been cut through the bone and were only hanging on by a thread of skin. Having your thumb and index finger will help, though."

"Help me do what?" he said, not bothering to disguise his bitterness.

Morrow looked at him with sympathy. "Live."

"What about infection?" he growled, knowing oftentimes it was infection which killed an injured man and not the wounds themselves.

"We are keeping an eye on that, Captain Holt," the doctor assured him. "Both on your hand and your head and face."

He lifted a hand to touch it, but Morrow guided it down.

"The less you can touch it, the better. At least, that is what I have found. You are lucky to be alive, Captain."

"I don't seem to feel so lucky," he said. "You know what this will mean?"

The surgeon nodded wearily, having seen it all too often. "You will be ordered to sell your commission. The crown is grateful for your service to His Majesty, but an officer with one eye cannot lead troops into battle."

"Exactly. I might as well be dead."

Morrow laid a hand on August's shoulder. "Don't say that, man. Never say that. Life is too often taken for granted. By God, I've saved yours."

"If infection doesn't kill me," he added morosely.

"True. But you will get to go home to England. To peace. No more fighting. No more killing. No more scent of death in your nostrils, so deeply ingrained that you will never be rid of it."

"There is that," August said, seeing the green of Edgefield in his mind.

"Eat the broth. The more liquids we can get in you, the better. The sooner you have regained at least some of your strength and can move about, the quicker I can send the papers to your commander that will let you go home."

Home. What truly was there for him?

August was a second son. He would return to England a damaged man. There would be no title. He would be hideous to look at. He supposed he could retreat to his father's country estate. Edgefield was in Surrey, just five miles from Surrey's border with Kent. Perhaps he would be granted a cottage and live out his days in the woods, far from others.

"Bring the broth then," he commanded. Softening his tone, he said, "Don't think I am not grateful, Morrow. I am. I simply will have to adjust to a life I have no wish to live."

"You are a resourceful man, Holt. I think you might surprise yourself and find something worthwhile to do."

He accepted the broth from the private who offered it, even asking for a second bowl. Once his belly was full, he lay back on his cot once more, falling into a dreamless sleep.

The next days passed in the same fashion. He slept. Awoke. Saw Dr. Morris and had his wounds redressed. Ate. Then slept some more.

After a week, he noticed very few were still around him, and figured they had either died or been sent back to the front. He asked about the battle and learned the majority of Joseph Bonaparte's force had fallen back to defend Madrid. Casualties for the French at Talavera numbered over seventy-three hundred, while Wellesley's losses made up more than a quarter of his forces. Because the commander had lost so many men and Soult had a fresh army threatening to cut all lines of communication, Wellington had withdrawn his army once more to Portugal, leaving behind the wounded.

Even Dr. Morris was about to leave to rejoin Wellington's troops and came to say goodbye to August.

"I spoke to your commanding officer on your behalf, Captain Holt," the army doctor said. "He came to see you early on."

"I do not recall that at all."

"He put in for the papers which would allow for your commission to be sold. Records stated that your father, the Marquess of Edgethorne, had purchased it on your behalf. Once sold, the monies will be sent to his solicitor."

His father wrote to August upon occasion, while his brother wrote with regularity. August wondered if Father would allow him to keep the proceeds from the sale of the commission in order to live on. He thought it a reasonable request, especially after all he had given to his country.

Withdrawing parchment from his coat, Dr. Morris said, "This letter came for you the day of the battle. I held it until now, waiting for you to be well enough to open it."

Morris offered his hand. "I am leaving, Captain Holt. I must catch up with our troops in Portugal. You are to stay here another three days. At that time, your bandages can come off both your hand and face. Let me give them a look and change your dressings for the final time."

He forced himself to sit patiently as the doctor examined him. Normally, August was a restless man, never staying still for long, but Morris had taken good care of him and showed more concern for him than August would have expected.

The doctor applied some type of salve and then fresh bandages were again placed upon his wounds.

Holding up the jar of salve, Morris said, "Keep this. It is almost full. Even after the bandages come off, place it upon your face, in particular, until it runs out. You might also wish to consult a doctor once you return to England."

"How bad do I look?"

He had never asked to see a hand mirror, and none had been offered to him.

"You will be given an eyepatch to wear. Keep it on at all times unless you are sleeping. I will be frank, Captain. You are not a welcomed sight. I stitched up where your eye was, and that doesn't look half-bad. You will have a scar, though, on part of your forehead and the length of your cheek. It is angry and red now, much as you are angry inside for losing control of your life. But it will fade in time."

Morris looked at him in sympathy, gentling his voice. "Try to also let your anger inside fade, August. I know you did not ask for this. That it is something you will live with the rest of your life. But do not let it control your life."

He snorted. "Easy for you to say, with your pretty looks, Doctor."

Morris laughed. "At least your sense of humor is returning. But I am serious. Don't let this injury affect how you view yourself."

Shaking his head, he said, "It will be the very first thing others see when they look at me, Morris. You and I both know people judge others by what they see. I will be ridiculed. Pitied. I cannot help but be angry. Some worthless, nameless French bastard has ruined my life. I no longer have my good looks, much less my position in His Majesty's army. My life might as well be over."

"You may feel that way now, Captain, but I hope your attitude will change in time. That your family and friends will accept you because they know the man you are. Will others judge you by your appearance? Most certainly. But their opinions are not important. Be true to yourself, Captain Holt."

Dr. Morris paused. "Write to me. Tell me how you fare. And I don't mean once and think your obligation is ended. Write to me in six months' time. Again, in a year. Even five years from now. Once those five years have passed, I will excuse you from that obligation."

"Obligation?"

Morris smiled. "Then shall we call it a request? I do want to hear from you. And I believe as the years pass, your attitude will soften toward your appearance. That you will find the important things in life and enjoy those simple things."

He shrugged. "We shall see."

"Read your letter then, Captain Holt. I hope we will meet up again someday."

The doctor left, and August turned his attention to the letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar to him, and that did not bode well.

He opened it, his eye falling immediately to the closing, seeing it had been written by a P. Thomas, a name he could not recall ever hearing before. He returned to the top of the page.

1 May 1809

Dear Captain Holt –

I know we have not been introduced, but I have been Lord Edgethorne's solicitor for the last several years. I regret to inform you that your father passed away last week, and he was buried in Surrey, in the Edgewood churchyard, two days ago.

His affairs were in excellent order, and your brother has assumed the title. Unfortunately, his poor health prevented him from leaving London and traveling to Surrey for the burial service.

I do not by any means wish to be presumptuous, Captain Holt, but I must express my concern regarding your family's holdings. Lord Edgethorne—that is, your father—spent the bulk of his time in London and rarely went to Edgefield. Now that your brother has become Lord Edgethorne, his health is even more precarious. I fear he will not be long for this world.

My professional advice would be for you to sell your commission and come home to see to the business affairs of your family. Your brother shows no interest in them nor any inclination to remedy things left undone during your father's time of holding the title. Because you are now the heir apparent, I suggest you return to England at once, not only to care for your brother in his last days but to see to your family's affairs.

I hope you will be able to make due haste and return to England, Captain Holt. It would be for the best.

Your humble servant,

P. Thomas

His father dead. Peter apparently dying. And him now half a man, one whom the army no longer had any interest in.

"Well, I shall be home sooner than I expected, Mr. P. Thomas," August said aloud.