Three

Zachary

19 June 1815

The wounded and dead continued to pile up near the medical tents and, despite what appeared to be the end of a victorious campaign, Wellington commanded that a dozen more tents be erected for the purpose of attending to the wounded enemy. His justification came as the numbers of our British troops taken captive escalated in the past week. He intended on making a gentlemen’s trade in recovering our imprisoned men.

Last night, shortly after we transported all the wounded to the medical tents, I engaged in a swift inspection of my body. Fortunately, I had not lost any additional fingers—the two I lost a year ago on the peninsula were no longer a constant aggravation—but the left side of my torso and shoulder were littered with cuts from fragments of metal. In addition, I bore a gash across my right leg that could surely use several sutures. For now, I tied a handkerchief around it.

I leaned over the handle of a shovel, taking respite from the digging of mass graves and wiped the sweat from my brow. Officers, Dragoons, and foot soldiers alike did what was necessary for our comrades even if that meant unearthing and preparing their final resting place in a foreign land.

My heart thumped erratically in my chest as the sight of my fallen fellow soldiers continued to multiply. What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of port at this very moment.

Five days had passed since I swallowed a draught of liquor, the longest deficiency I had faced in years. Before our fight at Mont Saint Jean, we marched through Ghent and were proffered a few hours of leisure time before our orders to move on. The pubs happily pilfered my English blunt as I wet my dry throat with something other than stale water. The memory triggered a profound craving my body yearned for.

I knew there would be a suitable supply of liquor once the medical crates arrived, but a darker purpose awaited their fate and, appropriately so, with the increasing number of necessary amputations. As cannons and gunfire endured, terrifying screams rolled my stomach more than once.

Though my body hurt severely from the thrashing it suffered since I arrived in the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, my perpetual desire to locate a flask with liquor consumed me. The priority to numb my inner pain was far more essential than any injuries that may have befallen me.

Setting my shovel aside, I peered around at the flurry of activity that occurred before me. Nurses and doctors rushed about to save the soldiers, dressing their wounds, consoling, and offering rationed amounts of morphine and laudanum where they knew nothing more could be done.

A lump caught in my throat as I watched a nurse peel the burned skin off a man’s back as he thrashed under restraint. I witnessed far worse. I had inflicted far worse yet still turned away and cast up what little accounts remained in my stomach.

When I announced to my mate, Hunter, four months ago that I planned to return to His Majesty’s service, I genuinely had no idea what that entailed. I didn’t think through the process nor that I might witness another horrendous blood bath between the English and the French.

I had seen my fair share of it prior to Napoleon’s exile to Elba but, upon his escape, I somehow believed naively that he would not possess the same strength. That falsehood was borne from the recent interaction Hunter and I had with the French as we searched for our missing friend, Jaxon, this past year.

We quite enjoyed the company of many French citizens along our querying journey by sharing a drink, telling a tale, stealing a kiss, or engaging in a bout of fisticuffs… Hunter, naturally, covering the pugilist part. I never once considered allowing my face to be anyone’s sporting target if I could help it. Me, the kissing. Although, in retrospect, I have been at the receiving end of one or two incensed fathers’ fists purely from erroneous accusations.

I leaned back against the tent post once the contents of my stomach were relieved and immediately my thoughts returned to Jaxon.

Lord Jaxon Gray. The fourth to complete our company of mates—Lucas Walsh, Hunter Matthews, me-Zachary Collins, and Jaxon, all second sons of the peerage and all willing to take up arms and fight for His Majesty the King. Though, I admit, if a useful occupation to be had as a lover materialized, I would have accepted that wholeheartedly over this, but alas, to no avail.

Rubbing the thick growth on my jaw, I was reminded how even officers didn’t have the luxury of a daily shave in battle and missed the days of being clad in the garments of a gentleman. When I arrived in London for my first season post Oxford, the attention I received from the fairer sex magnified tenfold and I was not ignorant of it. I dressed for every occasion in the finest attire, matching colors to accentuate my smartly styled, dark blond hair and hazel eyes. And as foolish young men go, I basked in the attention I received from women of the beau monde.

However, Jaxon, a solid man of honor, never allowed his dapper looks go to his head like me and maintained the propriety expected of him as the younger son of the Duke of Camberley. With his dark curly hair and blue eyes, he garnered equal attention from the ladies, but never acted upon it. And, despite what little chance Jaxon had of becoming the duke with his older brother, Griffin, healthy, happy, and quite affianced, the marriage-minded ladies continued their unproductive pursuit.

Jaxon’s father, His Grace, Lord Camberley, worked surveillance missions under Sir Evan Nepean in London which allowed Lieutenant Jaxon Gray a way inside an elite assignment as an agent of the notorious Alien Office , a British organization steeped in espionage. However, sometime prior to Napoleon’s first surrender, our friend, on his final mission, had simply vanished without a trace. For eight months, Hunter and I searched the continent until Hunter’s brother’s death required his return to Britain to assume the role of heir for his father’s dukedom.

Once the dust settled here in this final battle and my men were strong enough to ship home with no more soldiers laid to rest, I hoped to resume the search. For until I found a record of his death, or a body, Jaxon Gray remained incontestably alive in my mind.

I recalled the last time I had seen Jaxon at our table at Brooks’s. The four of us raised our glasses to our futures in the king’s service before we all accepted our separate commissions. Lucas to the cavalry, Hunter to the Secretary’s Office, me to the foot guards, and Jaxon to the Alien Office. I chuckled in remembrance of Jaxon’s last salutation and the way he tilted his head and smirked…

Much. Like. That. Man.

I stared across the compound past a bevy of injured men where one… one solitary man caught my eye as he leaned against a crate and took a shallow swig from a canteen. Our eyes met and, while I was certain mine nearly popped outside my head, his expression narrowed in perceived anger.

The man hopped to his feet, charging over with a vehemence. I grappled for my sword, then realized I removed my belt before I wretched. How convenient as this madman now charged toward me. Within seconds I was laid out to the ground, attempting to defend myself from the man’s brutal sequence of punches to my face, stomach, and chest.

“Devil be damned, you filth!” he cried in French.

What?

When I finally found the strength to fight back, I attempted to shove the man aside as he clutched my sleeves, forcing us to roll wildly through the long grass. After a series of aggressive counterstrikes, I managed to maneuver myself on top, holding him defenseless to the ground.

As my sight narrowed, taking in the whole of his features, I gasped, then mumbled, “Jaxon?”

The man’s jaw tightened, and he fought to climb out from beneath me. Then, somehow, confusion replaced the anger that surged within me. I moved to the side to release him and backed up to catch my breath.

Our stares remained unrelenting and intense. Breathing sporadically, I rose to my knees and eagerly clutched the man’s sleeve. “Jaxon, don’t you know who I am? It’s me, Zachary.” Though mud and blood obscured substantial portions of my appearance, I knew I stared at a man I had spent half my life with. He had to recognize something of my face.

Then my eyes dropped to his clothing… the uniform of a French infantryman.

I scrambled backwards and nearly retched again. Had my best mate truly deserted his countrymen and joined the enemy? Was Jaxon a traitor?

The man’s palms pressed against both sides of his head as if he suffered from a severe wound, though I didn’t pop off strikes hard enough for that. He mumbled incoherently as several of his comrades rushed over and lifted him to his feet. “André, stop, you’re injured.” One man placed his arm around Jaxon’s waist to keep him upright. “You must resist fighting them. We are prisoners now and can be hung or shot.”

I froze. I couldn’t move anything—my body, my mouth, my words.

André?

As the Frenchmen led the man away and into one of the tents, I questioned everything. How cruel for my mind to somehow invent this man to be Jaxon. I ran both my hands down my face and could not prevent the tears from falling. Had I truly been thinking of him in such precise detail that I imagined him here? How foolish am I?

Yet, I continued to stare as the Frenchmen helped the injured man onto a cot. I marveled at the familiar way he shrugged his shoulders, tilted his head, and lifted his chin in very Jaxon-like gestures. Though my mate spent countless hours in tailcoats and cravats, there was an ease and comfort to this new simplistic manner. I stood up and moved closer toward the tent. The man in question continued to hold his head as if he suffered tremendously.

I couldn’t stop watching him. The similarities were uncanny. The way he wrinkled his nose, clenched his teeth, and rubbed his forehead, and that’s when I saw it. The scar on the back of his hand. Jaxon received the wound in our championship game of cricket when he dove for a ball and came up with half his skin missing. The horseshoe shaped scar was unique to only him.

I darted forward in a rapid walk, but one of his comrades instantly intervened before I reached his cot.

“Jaxon!” I yelled over his friend’s shoulder as he held me back. “I know it’s you!” I extended my hand and tapped the back, gesturing at the location of his scar. “You got that u-shaped scar playing cricket!”

His friend pleaded in French. “Please, he’s injured leave him be. We don’t want any trouble.” I understood clearly since both French and Latin were required languages at Eton.

“I’m not going to leave him be.” I responded with a perfect accent myself, taking a step back to compose myself. “He’s my best mate. I’ve been looking for him for over a year.”

The man’s eyes widened, then looked to the other soldier who helped keep me from reaching Jaxon.

Determined to attain answers, I darted around the two men and reached Jaxon’s cot. He flinched as if he feared retaliation from his earlier attack. I grabbed his arm and shook it. “Jaxon, do you not know who I am?” I cried.

He knocked his fist against the side of his head as if this motion might jar a memory. I grabbed his hand and showed him the scar. “You got this from a cricket game we played in together at Oxford.”

He shook his head in confusion and pulled his hand away.

I pointed to the slight scar on his upper lip. “And this one from climbing through that broken window in the hothouse when we snuck out of Eton our last year.”

He touched his lip. I watched as he reeled back as if a tempest bowled him over. He grabbed his head again and closed his eyes. “Zachary?” he whispered.

“Yes!” I dropped to my knees in front of him.

He opened his eyes and stared at me. “Zachary Collins?” he repeated slowly as if he recently learned how to speak all over again.

I knew his mates stood behind me because I could hear them breathing, but they said nothing.

He reached for the sleeves of my uniform and clutched my arms tightly. “Why did you leave me?”

“Leave you?” I questioned. “What are you talking about?”

He grabbed his head again and one of the other soldiers pushed me out of the way to help him lie down. I heard him mumbling as I backed up slowly, trying to wrap my head around all of this.

Standing far enough to be out of the way but close enough to hear, I felt paralyzed.

“ Vos maux de tête sont revenus ?” His friend asked him if the headaches had returned.

Had he been severely injured? And why did he think I left him? We searched for eight months and even back in England we met with previous commanders, studied maps, reviewed notes… we never forgot about him.

I walked out of the tent feeling utterly defeated. My mind swung from the most exhilarated to the most discouraged in a matter of seconds. I had no misgivings in my mind that Lord Jaxon Gray laid on that cot in there, but what had happened to him? Was he wounded, taken prisoner by the French, tortured, and turned? How did he come to fight for the French?

I no longer desired one drink. I needed an entire bottle. Several, in fact.

When news of Napoleon’s defeat reached us, there should have been a holler of triumph, but only a wave of collective sighs surfaced from the medical tents. With no time to celebrate, the injured continued to pour in as other soldiers rotated in shifts, digging graves for the dead.

After I finished one such shift, I returned to Jaxon’s tent, hoping that with a day passed, he might have recalled more. I came bearing gifts, holding a carrot in one hand and a potato in the other. Despite our diminished resources, I managed to locate a vegetable cart delivered by a local farmer distributing food to our makeshift kitchen and, well, this is one instance the role of an officer came in handy.

Upon entry to Jaxon’s tent, I noticed once more that the two men who sat with Jaxon the day before were quite protective of him. I began my approach when one chap stood up to stop me.

“Please not today, mate.”

“I must speak with him.”

He shook his head. “His head aches terribly.”

“Please, tell me how you know him and where he’s been for the last year,” I pleaded.

He looked at me curiously. “You really believe he is this man you claim, Jaxon?”

I rubbed my forehead. “Without a doubt.”

He pursed his lips. After glancing back at the other man, he gestured for me to follow him to an opposite corner of the tent. He folded his arms over his chest and rubbed his chin with one hand. “My brother—” he pointed to the other man, “—and I found him on the side of the road near our home in Mailly-le-Camp, bleeding from the neck and head. Though it didn’t seem like he would live through the night, we took him home to our mother. She labored as a nurse during the revolution and cared for him as if he were one of her own.”

“Mailly-le-Camp?” I whispered the name of the village with a faint recollection of seeing it on a map. “How far is that from Sézanne?”

“About 150 kilometers.”

150 kilometers separated Hunter and me from Jaxon. The very thought tormented me. We were so close.

“When he awoke, he didn’t know his name or who he was. We suspected British ties, though he did not wear the uniform of a soldier. Then, after several days of silence, he spoke to us in flawless French.”

“He was…” I stopped suddenly, afraid to say more than I should. Then remembered the French had lost. We were victors again. “He did not wear a uniform for his part in the war.” My chest ached for Jaxon and the confusion and fear he must have faced. I had heard of such an ailment from my own father’s doctor. It’s when a man’s memory is stripped from him.

I breathed deeply through my nostrils. This man seemed to really care for Jaxon’s welfare, and I suddenly felt overwhelming gratitude to him for what he and his family had done. I extended my hand. “I’m Zachary Collins.”

He shook my hand. “Claude Dupont.” Then he pointed to the other man and said, “And my brother, Henri.”

I caught sight of Jaxon watching our interchange. His furrowed brows pointed to his continued attempt to remember me.

“I met Jaxon fifteen years ago, when we were ten. We went to school together.” I spoke solemnly as if the man I knew no longer existed. I should not be so sorrowful; I should be thrilled to find him here and alive.

“May I?” I motioned permission for me to approach.

Claude appeared cautious. “I don’t believe his former injury ever fully healed. His headaches began again recently.”

“How did he come into the service of Napoleon?”

“My brother and I returned to service when we heard of Napoleon’s escape. André insisted he join us. We already recognized his soldiering skills. He’s exceptional at both the musket and the saber.”

“Did he tell you his name was André?”

“No, that is the name our mother gave him.”

I stepped forward cautiously but kept a suitable distance. When Jaxon looked up at me, I wanted to embrace him. I had waited so long for this. “Jax—André?” I chuckled. “I’m not sure what to call you.”

He watched me closely but didn’t speak.

“I don’t know if you remember me or Hunter Matthews or Lucas Walsh. We were your closest mates and attended Eton and Oxford together.”

He stared.

“Those are schools in England. You’re British.”

He lowered his head, but I still saw wrinkles forming on his forehead.

“I am not here to cause you harm. I only wanted you to know we are friends from a former time. Hunter and I have been searching for you for the last year.”

His head snapped upward. Then he whispered, “Matthews… Matthews… Hunter? Chilton?”

“Yes.” I nearly jumped for joy. “And so much has changed, Jax! Josiah passed away. Hunter is now the heir and is married.” I stopped. Claude and Henri motioned for me to speak slower and softer. Again, I tried too hard and pushed too much, and Jaxon winced. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

Claude advised him to lay down then pulled me aside. “You will need to approach his history with you gradually. The doctor that passed through our village several weeks after we found him attended to him, and he believed the memory loss to be irrevocable since so much time had passed. However, he also spoke of a phenomenon where certain aspects of a person’s life could be recalled if exposed to it. If André’s former life was in England, then nothing in France helped him to recall it. His friends, his entire world existed across the channel. Now that you are here, it’s possible that this is what is causing his headaches. His mind is trying to remember… albeit painfully.”

“His name is Lord Jaxon Gray, he is the son of a duke,” I said. “And one of my oldest friends. Please, tell me what I can do to help him.”

Claude’s eyes grew wide, he glanced over at his brother whose brows furrowed. “The son of a duke?”

“Yes.”

Just then several British soldiers appeared. When they peered over at my dirty and torn uniform, they balked, until they caught sight of my rank and instantly saluted. “Forgive us for the interruption, sir, we are tasked to transport the prisoners that can walk to Hougoumont. A detainee encampment has been set up there.”

As they turned to round up the brothers and Jaxon, I stopped them. “These three men are my personal prisoners. I am interrogating them.”

The soldiers’ saluted once more and moved on to the next group of men.

Claude, Henri, and Jaxon all stared at me. I stepped closer and whispered, “I need to get you out of here. Stay here for just a moment, if anyone else tries to detain you tell them you are under orders to remain here from Captain Collins.” I looked at Jaxon. “You will need to speak in English for the three of you.”

He reluctantly agreed.

Minutes later, I returned with two of my most trustworthy men, Lieutenants Gable and Hawthorne. Between us all we managed to get Claude, Henri, and Jaxon out of their French uniforms and into British ones.

I fortuitously utilized the same wagon and pair of horses that brought the vegetables and generously paid the farmer for his time and effort to transport the men to a town near the coast, far from the fighting, giving them enough money to survive on until we could be reunited.

If all went as planned, I would likely see them in a fortnight and make all necessary arrangements for the brothers to return to France and for Jaxon to come home with me.