Terrors Aftermath

A s he watched Napoleon's elite Imperial Guard flee for their lives, Niven clutched his bagpipes to his chest and tried to slow his erratic heart. He had only a vague recollection of most of what had transpired in the last few hours. Sheer terror had kept him playing, the sound of his pipes the only reassurance he was still alive. It was like waking from a nightmare and not remembering the terrifying details. However, he would never forget the horrific sounds of battle—the boom of cannon, the crack of musket fire, the screams of agony, the desperate cheers of relief when their Prussian allies finally arrived. The hungry flames that devoured most of the Chateau Hougoumont would live on in his memory. He marveled still at McKay's foolhardy decision to play his bagpipes outside the safety of the square during a lull in the fighting. McKay and Niven had kept on playing inside the square when the French cavalry renewed their attacks and men fell dead around them. Surprised by his lack of fear, he'd calmly resigned himself to death in this remote village, his one regret that Willow might never know what had become of him. Every note he played was for her. The memory of her laughter sustained him.

"But I'm nay dead," he rasped, startled any sound emerged from his parched throat. Along with the cheering survivors of the 79 th , he watched the remnants of the Grande Armée retreat into the twilight.

"Aye," McKay replied, clamping a hand on Niven's shoulder. "Victory's ours, thanks to the timely arrival o' yon Prussians."

Feeling disoriented and not quite believing he still lived, Niven cast his eyes over the ghastly scene of total destruction. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but ruin, death and despair. Severed limbs littered the churned fields. Wounded men and horses screamed in fear and agony. The smoke-filled air smelled of death. Incredibly, somewhere in the midst of all this horror, a bird warbled its joyous song.

Like the bird, he had survived. He hadn't met his fate during this monumental battle. Life went on and he was meant to live that life with Willow Halstead. She was his destiny, not this blighted village he'd learned was called Waterloo. His determination to wed her was so powerful his knees buckled and he slumped to sit on the muddy ground. Somehow he would escape this hell and return to England.

McKay handed him a canteen of water. "'Twas a boon for me to have the support o' another piper and I thank ye. The lads appreciated it too. Ye're a braw laddie, but I wager we'll be marchin' on Paris and 'tisna right for ye to shoulder that responsibility. Ye've played yer part."

"Aye," Niven chuckled after gulping down most of the canteen's contents. "And what sane man would wish to go any further wi' a fool who marches outside the square?"

McKay laughed. "Aye! Dinna ken what came o'er me!"

"But ye inspired the lads to carry on when things seemed bleak."

"As did ye."

Another voice intruded. "And our regiment was never out of earshot of the inspiring sound of your pipes."

Puzzled, Niven turned to see who had spoken. Ash Halstead stood behind him, his stern face smeared with dirt and blood, his regimental headgear nowhere to be seen.

McKay helped him to his feet. Niven had always thought of Ash as a youth, but before him stood a man who'd seen and come close to too much death. "Are ye wounded?" he asked.

"No, Thorne and I escaped uninjured. But Rowan…"

Ash choked on the words.

The possibility his nemesis had died should have elated Niven, but he took no pleasure in it. Willow would be grief-stricken.

Ash swallowed hard and continued. "My brother was hale until he saw Thorne staggering around on the ground after his horse threw him. A French cavalry officer was poised to behead him with his sword. Rowan rode to his rescue. He skewered the Frenchman but exposed himself to cannon fire. Shattered his knee. The surgeon amputated his leg right there in the midst of the battle."

Niven's first thought was of Daisy. Did she have the courage to marry a man with one leg? "Where is he now?"

"By some miracle, he survived. They carried him off to the field hospital at Mont St. Jean. I have no right to ask, but will you accompany me to see him? Thorne is guilt-ridden and refuses to come."

Rowan awoke with a vague memory of saving Thorne from certain death, but couldn't be sure his brother had survived. Something had happened right after that but, for the life of him, the details proved elusive. His head was stuffed with…stuff!

It didn't help that there was something wrong with his leg. If he could just get rid of the intense pain he'd feel better, more able to go back to the fighting. He had no recollection of coming to this place. Wherever he was stank to high heaven and he'd sooner rejoin his men. They must wonder what had become of him. It was all too confusing for his befuddled brain.

Perhaps the summer heat had got the better of him. He'd never tolerated hot weather very well. Now, he was hotter than Hades. And the noise! So much moaning and groaning. What in God's name was going on? And what the fyke was wrong with his leg?

The day after the battle, Ash sought permission to visit Rowan. Kempt reluctantly refused on the grounds every officer needed to give his full attention to preparing the remaining troops for the next push on to Paris. Ash understood. Having lost nine officers and more than a hundred men, his regiment had to be reorganized for the march to the French capital. They still hadn't cremated all their dead.

He worried about Thorne who'd barely spoken more than ten words since Rowan was wounded and who still refused to consider accompanying Ash to Mont St. Jean.

Frustrated, he sought out Niven in order to explain the delay.

"Aye," Niven replied. "'Tis the same thing wi' the Cameron Highlanders. Thirteen officers dead and one hundred seventy men killed. Kempt is trying hard to convince me to enlist, but I'm for England and Willow."

Not surprised the tenacious Scot still intended to pursue his sister, Ash nodded. "You'll get no objection from me."

Niven grinned. "We must speak wi' someone in authority who can get me released from any obligation to the regiment and grant ye permission to visit Rowan."

The answer was daunting, but there was only one person who might help. "Wellington," Ash declared. "I'll use my father's name and seek an audience."