The Spy's Reward (25 page)

Meyer climbed up to the rim of the depression and stood next to his son. Even in the small circle of light from his lantern there were over a dozen bodies.

“Did you go through all of them?” James asked.

“Nearly all.”

“How many are there?”

That was the problem with training as a spy. Your powers of observation did not shut off, even when you would have strongly preferred them to do so. “I would estimate around three hundred enlisted men and two dozen officers.”

“There are dozens more of both at the hospital. Most won't last the day.” James gave a short laugh. “I am a rare species. Nearly extinct.”

They began walking back towards the farmhouse-hospital. “How did you know I was out there?” asked Meyer.

“The walking wounded over there told me.” He nodded towards the men clustered around the farmhouse door. “You were very conspicuous, not being covered with mud. You look much more like the rest of us now, of course.”

“Any notion of how I might find Anthony?”

“He was one of the messengers.” James gestured helplessly. “He could have been anywhere.”

Meyer stopped. “Let us consider this logically,” he said. “Anthony was seconded to the messenger corps because he speaks German. That means he would most likely have been sent either to the German legions or to the Prussians. The Prussians arrived late, on the right flank of the French. Where were the Germans?”

“Back there,” said James, pointing. “With the reserves. And in the woods.”

“I've done the woods. The parts nearest the road, at any rate.”

“In that case, I'll try over where the reserves were stationed,” James had proposed. “It's on my way back to what's left of my company in any case. You look over by the Prussians.”

It had seemed like a reasonable plan. Meyer had walked back towards the hillock which had served as Wellington's command post and had begun working his way methodically across the field with his little squares, angling towards the southeast.

Waterloo was not a big battlefield. There was perhaps a mile between the ridge where the French had placed their cannon and the ridge where Wellington had stood. When you took the diagonal, as he did, it was a mile and a half. He moved one square at a time: pace off the distance, circle with the lantern, turn over prone bodies. The looters were out in force now; he saw parties hauling away cartloads and heard quarrels and threats in the gradually ebbing darkness around him. It was almost dawn; the most dangerous time, when the robbers became hasty and reckless. He reloaded his pistol, and felt automatically for the knife in his boot every time he bent over.

He found Anthony just after two looters did. His nephew was curled in a ball on his side, covered with mud. Meyer might have missed him if the looters had not rolled him over, exposing the relatively clean side of his distinctive jacket.

“That's my nephew,” he said in French.

“Bugger off,” said one of the looters in the same language. “We found him first.” He stepped on Anthony's shoulder to push him flat on his back for easy stripping, and Meyer heard a faint moan.

He raised his gun. “He's my nephew,” Meyer repeated. There was a soft click as he cocked the trigger.

“You can have him after we strip him, then.” The man bent over to pull off Anthony's boots.

If he had thought about it at all, he would have let them have their booty. Or offered them some money. But some primitive force rose up in him, as it had in the sandpit. He kicked the man in the ribs, hard, and pulled his big knife out of his waistband, not wanting to shoot unless forced. A pistol, once fired, was useless. The second man lunged at him; Meyer sidestepped and slashed him with the knife. Then the first man was on him again, holding his side with one hand but brandishing a gun of his own in the other. A high kick knocked the gun to the ground, and the man dove after it, swearing, but Meyer kneed him in the neck. His companion was up again; Meyer turned and hit him in the side of the head with the butt of the pistol. The man fell to his knees, then toppled sideways. Meyer glanced over at his other opponent. He, too, was on the ground, motionless.

Meyer flung himself down by Anthony, running his hands over him to see where he was hurt. He didn't feel any large, sticky patches on the clothing; that was a good sign. And Anthony was breathing, breathing steadily. Meyer lifted the lantern higher and moved it slowly up his nephew's body. One arm was lying at an odd angle; it was probably broken. There were no other visible wounds until he eased off Anthony's shako. On the right side of his face, just at the temple, was a huge bruise. The scalp behind the bruise was split, and the fair hair was caked with blood. He lifted the head, bracing his arm behind his nephew's shoulders. That produced another moan. He would have to hope Anthony's neck wasn't broken.

The second looter, the one with the gun, was stirring. Meyer looked at him, then walked over and knelt by his side. “You don't deserve this,” he said, “but I'm offering you the chance to earn some money.”

The man struggled up onto one elbow, wincing. “How much?”

Meyer held up a gold coin. “Three of these. Help me lift him. I don't want to jostle his head much; he may have a broken skull.”

After a minute the man nodded grudgingly. Clutching his injured ribs, he got to his feet and hauled Meyer up once he had Anthony balanced on his arms.

Meyer gave him four coins. The man grinned, backed away, picked up his gun from the ground and aimed it at Meyer, almost contemptuously.

Meyer froze. If he put Anthony down, the man would have an easy shot. If he held on to him, the man might well aim for his nephew. He stooped slowly, as though setting down his burden.

The man was enjoying himself; he grinned again and raised the gun.

In one quick movement Meyer let Anthony's legs slide to the ground as he pulled the knife out of his boot. It hit the looter in the chest just as he pulled the trigger.

The force of the shot knocked Meyer backwards; he fell clumsily, trying to protect Anthony's head. Upper arm, he thought. Not fatal. He felt no pain, but he knew that would change within seconds. Desperately he dragged Anthony over his shoulder and got to his feet, first kneeling, then on one knee, then pushing off with the other foot.

He started back across the valley. His five seconds of numbness were over; his arm began to throb after the first step. One mile to the other side. Five thousand two hundred eighty steps.

He began to count.

27

“Mother, why aren't they back yet?”

Abigail looked up from the sheet she was tearing into strips. She thought Diana's phrasing was overly optimistic. It was nine o'clock in the morning, and already some civilians had driven out to the battlefield and returned with tales of unimaginable horror: three solid miles of corpses, wounded men stripped and killed by looters, field hospitals with piles of amputated limbs outside the door. It would take a long time to search through an entire valley full of bodies. She was not surprised that Meyer had not returned, and she had the unhappy premonition that when he did return, it would be alone. She had been trying to shield Diana from the more grisly reports, however, so she merely said, “There is always a great deal of confusion after a battle.”

Diana abandoned the window with a sigh and came back to the table. “May I go and see Mrs. Woodley? Very quickly? Perhaps she has heard something.”

“She has promised to send a message if she does.” Abigail handed her daughter a sheet of her own to tear up. “Start it with the scissors, otherwise it goes sideways,” she reminded her, before returning to the topic of Mrs. Woodley. “Her son was wounded; I am sure she is very busy.”

“Christopher was not badly wounded.” Diana gave the sheet a savage rip.

“
Lieutenant Woodley
took a ball in the elbow and will be lucky not to lose the arm,” Abigail corrected.

“I know. I am sorry.” She sighed. “I waited all day Saturday, while we were driving here from Ostend, because they told us when we docked that there had been a battle the day before, but they didn't really know what had happened. And then I waited all day yesterday, and the cannon didn't stop firing for one minute the whole day, and after what happened at the first battle I thought about people getting their heads taken off every time I heard one, and then I waited all last night, and I even tried to go to sleep, but I couldn't. I don't know how Mrs. Woodley can bear it, being a soldier's wife.”

While not the most eloquent speech, this was a fair reflection of Abigail's own state of mind, so she merely said, “I already told you, if no word has come by noon we will go out together. Perhaps Rosie will have heard something at the market. But you promised last night that you would not go out on your own, and I will hold you to it.”

That promise had been the result of a mother-daughter conversation which had surprised Abigail. She had expected Diana's usual extravagant remorse and even more extravagant pledges of eternal good behavior, but after Meyer had left, Diana had said nothing except, “You must tell me what you wish me to do.” And Abigail had extracted the promise. Even more surprising was Diana's halting description, late last night, of the revelation she had experienced yesterday at the gate when Abigail had found her. “And I cannot marry Anthony,” Diana had added. “At least not yet. Because I knew when I saw your face that I would not feel like that about him. I am fond of him, and worried about him, and I will be very anxious until we find him, but he is not my miracle.” The room had been dark; they were both trying to sleep. Abigail suspected the confession would never have happened otherwise.

Diana sighed and went back to her sheet.

A few minutes later there was a light knock at the door. Diana jumped up so quickly that the scissors flew halfway across the room from her lap. It was only a chambermaid, however, come to change the bed linens. She was scandalized to find them tearing up sheets, but after Abigail had reassured her that they did not belong to the hotel, she became very sympathetic and promised to see if she could find some older, torn ones that the innkeeper might be willing to discard.

After she left, Diana went over to the window again and perched on the broad sill, peering down into the street below. “I wish we were nearer the Namur Gate,” she said. “We are halfway across the city.”

“It is not that large a city,” said Abigail. The same light knock came at the door. “I'll get it,” said Abigail, rising. “It's the chambermaid with the spare sheets.”

She opened the door. The chambermaid was there, looking rather frightened. Behind her stood Meyer. Anthony was draped over his uncle's shoulder; his eyes were closed and there was blood all down Meyer's side.

Abigail gave a little cry of horror and backed into the middle of the room.

“I'm sorry,” Meyer said. He sounded as though he was speaking from a great distance. “I should have taken him to the hospital. There are so many men there, though, I thought—” he staggered slightly. “I thought he might do better here.”

Diana, her eyes enormous, was standing by the window clutching a piece of sheet.

“Of course he should be here,” Abigail said fiercely. She held the door open and helped Meyer set his burden down on the bed.

“I believe his arm is broken,” Meyer said. “And he has taken a nasty blow on the head.”

Her daughter was issuing low-voiced instructions to the chambermaid. Now she came over and stood looking down at the slight figure on the bed. “He needs a doctor,” she said, worried.

“They are in very short supply.” Meyer turned back towards the door, stumbling a little. “I will see if I can find one.”

Diana was already cutting off Roth's jacket, easing it carefully away from the injured arm. “There is a great deal of blood,” she observed. “Not dried blood either. He must have a wound here that is still bleeding.”

Abigail, staring after Meyer, did not really hear her at first. She returned to the bed to find her daughter frowning down at Roth's body, which was naked from the waist up. She was too exhausted even to be shocked.

“Do you suppose all that blood could be from his head?” Diana asked. Then she answered her own question. “No, for that is all dry now.”

“What blood?” said Abigail, emerging from her daze.

“Look.” Diana stooped and picked up the ruined jacket, which she had tossed onto the floor. The lower portion was sodden with blood. “He should have a wound here”—pointing to the stomach—“but there is nothing.” She covered her patient with a shawl and began sponging the sticky mess at his temples.

At this point the chambermaid returned with hot water and towels, which the two women accepted gratefully.

“Shall I mop up the floor, then?” asked the maid.

Abigail looked down. There were little splotches of blood leading to the bed—and back. She went to the door and opened it. Little splotches in the hall. One set to the door, one set away from the door.

“Diana,” she said, feeling faint. “It's not Anthony's blood.”

Her daughter looked up, startled.

“Stay here,” Abigail told her. “Do not leave. I am going to find Mr. Meyer.” She picked up the nearest roll of bandages, grabbed her reticule, and ran out the door, nearly knocking over the chambermaid, who was mopping the hall. Down the stairs. Through the front room. There were little splotches everywhere. When she reached the street she stopped, suddenly at a loss. It was a short, narrow street, with several alleys and cross streets angling off of it. The cobbles, unlike the floors of the hotel, did not show bloodstains. And she did not see Meyer anywhere. There were too many people, people hurrying past on foolish errands that did not involve someone dripping blood onto the floor. As she ran from one alley to the next, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, she began to understand what he must have gone through last night. She was searching for a wounded man in the daylight, in a small street full of healthy, ordinary people. He had been searching in the dark, in an enormous field full of corpses, not knowing whether he would find his son and his nephew alive or dead.

After a minute she gave up trying to spot him. She would have to guess where he might have gone. And since the only place in Brussels she knew, besides Mrs. Woodley's house, was the Namur Gate, she began walking in that direction.

 

 

Meyer had actually passed through the gate before he realized where he was going and stopped. He closed his eyes. “No,” he whispered. Whatever monstrous undertow was dragging him back to the woods and fields of Waterloo, he would not give in to it. He turned around and walked back inside the walls. He knew he was not thinking very clearly. He had had no sleep at all; he had rummaged through piles of corpses; had shot a looter in the head; had been shot in turn; had walked for more than a mile carrying an unconscious man. There were holes in his memory, too. For instance, he could remember arriving in the city with Anthony in the supply wagon, but he could not remember getting into the wagon. And he knew he had promised to do something when he left Abigail's room, but now he could no longer remember what it was. He wished that some of his other memories would also disappear. Unfortunately, they refused to leave.

He looked around, seeking a place for a man with ugly memories and a fogged intellect to rest and take stock. His arm ached fiercely, but he ignored it. His intellect was not that badly fogged; he knew he needed a doctor. He also knew his chance of finding one today in Brussels was virtually nonexistent. There were others who needed a doctor far more than he did, and most of them would not get one. For one moment he recalled his promise to Abigail. Doctor. Anthony. The next moment it was gone again.

A few yards down from the gate was a staircase leading up to a platform on the wall. It had been built to allow defenders to haul cauldrons of pitch up to the edge of the wall and it was now considered a charming relic of more barbarous times. Somehow that platform, with its gruesome past, seemed entirely appropriate to him as a retreat. He made his way over to the base of the stairs and started to climb. After a few minutes he realized that he had stopped partway up. He looked down. The staircase seemed very narrow and steep. Better to go up. He clutched the wall with his good hand and resumed climbing.

There was a magnificent view from the top. Facing in, he could see all the way across the city to the walls on the lower side. He could see the cathedral, and, nearly below him, the palace. In the other direction he could see the road to Waterloo, with its litter of bodies and abandoned artillery pieces. He could see the forest. He could not see the battlefield itself, but the wheeling birds told him where it was. Then he began to feel dizzy—or rather, even more dizzy. He sat down on the stone floor and leaned his right shoulder against the parapet. The day was already warm; the cool stone felt good, and now that he was seated he was in the shade. Not only that, he could no longer see the battlefield, only the city.

When the small, green-garbed figure carrying a sausage began to climb the stairs he paid no attention at first. He couldn't imagine why anyone else would want to climb up ninety-six steps. They would become discouraged and go back down.

The figure kept climbing.

It occurred to him that he had seen that green dress before. Earlier this morning, in fact. That the cap—which was all he could see of her head from above—was also familiar. The sausage was a puzzle, but there was no doubt who it was. He watched her come closer and closer. She was climbing steadily—not fast, but at an even, disciplined pace. Every twenty steps she would pause, catch her breath, and then continue.

It occurred to him that he was trapped.

When she finally reached the platform, she glared at him. “Don't bother to get up,” she said, dropping down beside him. “I suppose you think it is a great joke to drip blood all over my bedchamber and then come up here to hide like a wounded bird.”

She was angry. He didn't understand that. He stole a quick glance at her profile, at her beautiful, perfectly modeled profile. He realized that she was not so much angry as frightened.

“It is just a flesh wound,” he said.

She was opening her reticule, which was the tubelike shape he had mistaken for a sausage. It was crammed with rolls of bandages. “Can you get your jacket off without hurting the wound more?” The answer was no, but he suspected that anyone who had brought bandages up to the top of the Namur Gate would also have scissors, and he did not want her cutting his clothing off in front of half the population of Brussels. With her assistance he managed to get his left arm out of the sleeve.

She sucked in her breath at the sight of his shirt. The scissors duly appeared. “Lean forward,” she said.

Obediently, he leaned forward.

“No wonder there was so much blood. The bullet went all the way through.” She began to bind on folded pads of bandaging, first on the front of his arm, then on the back. She tied the pads very tightly; his arm began to throb. “Good,” she said, standing up. “Let's go.”

He began to laugh.

“What is so funny?” she snapped.

“Abigail, there is no possible way that I can go down those stairs. I am sleepless, injured, starving, and dizzy. I will kill myself, and if you try to help me I will kill you, too. I am doomed to stay here until I rot.” The word
rot
made him shudder slightly, remembering the pit. At least up here there was no mud.

“Why did you come up, then?”

“I don't know.” But he did know.

“How am I going to get you down?” She sounded frantic.

“Why would you want me down?” He picked up the remnants of the blood-soaked shirt and held them up. “Would you want to wear this?”

She stared, bewildered.

“Last night,” he said, “I spent the whole night looking for my son and my nephew. And I found both of them. I even found them alive. I should be grateful, don't you think? I found your daughter, too. Three in one day!”

He paused, then said thoughtfully, “Do you know what I had planned to do, after I found Diana? What I fantasized about, on the way to Ramsgate and Ostend? I was going to present her to you, like a trophy from a contest, and ask you to marry me. I was too much of a gentleman to ask you while you were so distraught, you see. But my plans went wrong. Anthony went missing, and James. I needed more trophies.”