Marching off to be Killed

The musicians' military melodies had emanated out into the night before being dwarfed in their ears by the onslaught of a hundred stronger sounds. The quiet roads the guests had traversed to the ball hours earlier were now channelling noisy chaos. Blurring bugles and beating on drums had shattered the silence. Brussels buzzed with military music. Sleep suffocated. Groggy from beer and lack of sleep, half-dressed soldiers tumbled out of houses, dragging on jackets.

The streets were a seething kaleidoscope of uniforms. Wagons loaded with ammunition, food supplies, and soldiers' possessions mingled among hefty horse teams heaving cannon. Soldiers, lackeys, ordinary men and woman, several employed on errands, rushed everywhere, bumping into inquisitive loiterers. Soon the dance music was lost in the hubbub. The cobbles and walls reverberated with the tread of countless boots. The tide of humanity surged toward the city centre. The companies would form in the square between the royal palace and the Parc de Brussels.

"Should not you be with them?" Clara asked.

Major Anthony Keegan had ploughed on through the chaotic crowd, ignoring the general direction, determined to reach his own destination. "Not yet, time enough for me to join my men," he said gruffly.

Soon the place was reached, the Antwerp priest evidently just another lodger in just another middle-class Brussels house. Their knock was responded to by Madame Meire. Madame Meire looked like just another Belgian woman, indifferent to the outcome of the coming contest. She guided them through dark rooms by the rays of her lamp until they entered what they guessed to be her parlour. Their hostess then abandoned them in darkness while she went to call the man they meant to marry them.

Monsieur Jean Beaufort was not interested in the prospect of a French invasion or victory. The only thought he entertained in connection to the campaign was a question as to whether dying men he attended be able or not to pay. A bigger battle, the worse the British faired, would bring more business. Belgium had been under French rule for many years and he saw no need to fear another such occupation. What did he care whether Napoleon or Willem ruled his country?

Beaufort did care, however, about the call to arms commencing at midnight. Sleep had just reclaimed him when his landlady thundered on his door. What possible business had anyone with him at this hour, in war or peace?

"Mon père!" Madam de Meire cried as he opened his door to her. "Pardon, Monsieur, an officer is here begging you to marry him to a lady who accompanies him."

Beaufort scratched his scalp beneath his threadbare nightcap. Was the woman in earnest? Was this a practical joke? No, of course, Belgians don't play jokes.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said. "I mean, madame, I'll be down in a moment."

Ten minutes later, behind his hostess's circle of light, the priest shuffled into the parlour, where he discovered the couple, a few paces apart, blinking into the bright beam. Accustoming to it, they scrutinised him, the one whose it was to join them for life. His bald head was dignified by a powdered wig and his plump person by the scarlet dress of a man of the cloth. A prayer -book he held in one hand and a marriage document in the other.

"I trust you have the correct papers," he probed without preamble. "I don't care to have my time wasted. I usually elect to sleep these hours of the clock."

Major Keegan rushed to shake his hand. "I apologise for this abrupt calling! You will be handsomely rewarded."

Monsieur Beaufort's eyes sparkled greedily. "My services don't come without cost. Now, monsieur, where are your witnesses?"

"Witnesses?" Keegan's mouth ran dry.

The priest pursed his lips. "Yes, monsieur, a marriage needs witnesses, if it is to be legally binding."

"I had not considered the matter," the Major gulped.

Beaufort heaved a sigh and cast his eyes briefly up to heaven. "You should have done so. Never mind, I daresay Madame Meire and her son won't object to signing the certificate should you crease their palms with silver."

Madame Meire and her son did not object. The two Belgians took their places either side of the trembling bride and groom. Madame Meire's son offered Clara a toothless grin. Clara flinched. She hoped she was not overly nice but here were the worst types of people she could desire to witness her wedding. Her mood was quite miserable. Anything appeared preferable to this nightmarish situation and these ghoulish guests to the main event of her life. She reflected briefly on Sophia's glamorous nuptials. Let this not be a reality, let me be asleep, she wished.

The priest began the age-old ritual, reciting the age-old words from a worn book, too rapidly for the couple to catch or absorb. Major Keegan clasped her arm, aware his bride was nervous but unsure of what exactly. Clara shivered at his touch, guilt grooving through her. To him, there might be romance but to her romance was dulled by a consciousness of her own motives. Marriage to this man merely to escape spinsterhood could not make up for the want of a proper wedding. Everything lacked respectability. Would she really be happy with him or regret this night's work for the rest of her life?

What he could provide were protection and an establishment. Life might be worse without them. The alternative might be poverty and neglect. Clara shrank from continuing as a burden. Surely happiness would come with an adoring husband in an adequate establishment with, presumably, at least one inhabitant of the nursery. These reflections warmed her heart and countered the sense she was sacrificing joy for ease.

Before reality returned the vows had been uttered and Clara come to from the dream of her wifely and motherly future as the Major slipped a cold ring onto her finger, brushed her cheek with his lips, and whispered: "Mrs Keegan."

In a moment the marriage ceremony had concluded, her husband was dropping silver into grubby hands, and their expressionless priest, without a congratulatory word, was hurrying back to his bed. Their hostess, who had coldly put her mark to the nuptial document, was more helpful than her tenant. She sidled to the Major's side.

"Have you adequate lodging for your new condition?" the Belgian woman asked, her unnatural smile looking odd on her face.

Keegan squinted in her blinding lamplight. Clearly, he had not considered so far. "No, my lodge is for one," he admitted, "but my regiment is mustering to march, I march with my men."

Madame Meire flashed a look at Clara, then to her surprise winked at the Major. "Surely you will march with your men, monsieur! Just as surely, sleepy soldiers muster slowly. Upstairs I have a decent room that has a decent double bed you could hire for an hour. The time is now two o'clock."

Even in the uncertain glow, Clara saw pink tinge her husband's cheeks. He glanced at her and her nerves twanged as she sensed the strange spark in his eyes. Keegan stared at her for a long minute, caught between duty and desire. Desire won out.

"Thank you, madame, I'll take your room—for one hour."

In reality, the room was occupied for two hours. Perhaps the period would have extended had not a bugle alerted the husband to concerns unconnected to the marriage bed. The Major stirred to his feet and padded in his shirt sleeves to peer out the window. Beholding nothing, he unfastened the latch and lurched the frame wide. Soldiers struggled in different directions. Lights shone in the houses across the street. The faintest touch of morning showed him peasant heads peering out at the commotion. The foot beats receded and silence reclaimed the neighbourhood. The lights snuffed out and the inquisitive heads disappeared.

Keegan shut the window and looked at his wife in the bed. She peered at him with just as much awe as he and the peasants had out at the hurrying war makers. He stepped to the table on which lay his coat and fumbled for his pocket watch.

"Four," he said gloomily. "I must fetch my baggage."

In the street, they met several groups of soldiers. The most striking marched in measured steps, acquainting them order had begun to prevail over the chaos. Their uniforms were black, putting Clara in mind of a funeral procession.

"The Black Brunswickers," Major Keegan whispered, "Germans."

Most of their walk was spent in silence. Both were too full of feeling to speak. It was agreed that she should wait outside his lodgings while he went up to pack his possessions. Clara had desired to do this one wifely duty but Keegan was sensitive of how she would appear to onlookers who knew he was unmarried. She had not long to wait.

"My belongings have been collected and carried on with the other officer's baggage," he said, taking her hand. "We must hurry if I am to join my men before they march out."

In the Place Royale, soldiers slumped on the rough paving, knapsacks strapped to their backs. A handful of wives and children were kissing goodbye. Lovers lingered to wipe away tears. A certain fellow repeatedly returned to bid his wife farewell and cradle his baby again in his arms. Brushing away a tear with his coat sleeve he gave up the child for the last time, wrung its tiny hand, and ran off to join his company. As other troopers ran up into line, their comrades dozed on straw bales, oblivious to the din. Horses and wagons were loaded up with their baggage. Artillery and commissariat trains harnessed up. Officers rode in every direction. Carts clattered, chargers neighed, bugles blurred, drums beat, colours flew.

Major Keegan stopped short of his regiment. "Here we must separate, my love," he said, wishing she would meet his eyes. "We can announce our union to the world once the battle is won. First, the battle must be fought. If this war goes on, I'll find a way to you."

Her fright at what she had done melted as he leaned in to kiss her and she was able to return his embrace, if not with the same fervour, at least tenderly.

"Here, have my gold timepiece," he said, placing the weighty watch in her palm and winding its chain around her wrist. "You can sell it if I don't survive this contest. It is my only valuable item."

"Don't think of such a horrible thing!" Clara pleaded. "I'll keep it safe and return it to you when you return to me."

Her husband held her for a final intense instant before relinquishing her and dashing toward his men who then received him with raucous cheers. Clara gazed after him, amazed at her situation, wondering if her attachment to this man would ever grow to its proper proportion.

Brussels appeared to her already to be fully awake. Spectators filled every window and door frame. The Belgians may not largely be concerned in the war's outcome but to many, it was a drama worth watching. Clara recognised many of the officers trying to strike order into their confused troops. The ranks had no idea why their sleep had been rudely disturbed. She was grateful to the common crowds for shelter and shrank from acquaintances seeing her. However, social conventions could have slackened for the crisis. Nobody would censure her lack of a chaperone as strongly as during peacetime.

Clara merged with the onlookers and tried to discern with which side the citizens most sympathised. But even as a stranger in their midst she was unable to discover any emotions except awe at the spectacle. The Belgians neither cheered nor booed the passing troops. They released their tenants as coldly as they had received them. Fervour seemed reserved for the British.

Regiments had begun to depart and she examined Keegan's timepiece: 4:30.

The 95th Rifles headed the procession. These peninsula war veterans wore forest green with black facings and belts. The 28th North Gloucesters played the stirring 'British Grenadiers'. The 42nd Highlanders march was so steadily the sable plumes on their bonnets scarcely vibrated. The 79th Cameron and the 92nd Gordon Highlanders also wore tartan kilts and plumed bonnets covered with black ostrich feathers. Clara admired their fine appearance. Most looked livelier than they had when she had set out from the ball a few hours earlier. Their faces shone happily yet their march was firm and collected. Bagpipes played and tartan kilts swayed. The growing sunlight shafts glittered across their weapons. She looked for the few whom the Duchess of Richmond had acquired to entertain her guests, but her search was lost in the sea of Scottish faces.

Then came a contrast to the buzz for battle. The customary trickle of market carts came quietly through the city gates from the countryside. The old Flemish women rattling on the overloaded wooden wagons looked irresistibly comical among their cabbages, green peas, potatoes, and strawberries. Clara realised they must be ignorant of the cause for the exodus. She could not resist laughing at their gaping mouths and astonished eyes. While endeavouring to slip passed the regiments filling out the gates several carts overturned. The farmers' livelihood spilt out onto the unforgiving dirt of the streets.

Their inferior plight was largely ignored. Napoleon Bonaparte was in Belgium with a force of about 122,000 men; even the greenest recruit glimpsed what a formidable task lay before them. For a great while, there was nothing but noise, bustle and confusion. Ladies wept and laughed hysterically as they sent their lads off with tear sodden handkerchiefs; civilian men wished them good luck, envying the soldiers chance for glory and the part history.

As the sun rose higher and the murky streets were bathed in warmth, everyone was influenced by the enthusiasm of the new day. Battle did not seem half as dreadful as it had a few hours ago. Brussels as a whole had that night faced the true reality of war and it was now going forward with a brave spirit.

Numb and fatigued, Clara slowly sneaked back to her cousin's house and was startled to find the entrance inactivity. Staff officers stood and sat around on their horses. Several greeted her. Their presence was explained by that of their commander in chief in the hallway. The Duke of Wellington was taking leave of certain matrons he had missed at the ball. His costume resembled in part uniform and in part gentleman rider. It was his habitual campaign dress. The blue riding coat contrasted with that of his suite, whilst his simple white breeches and hat belied his status. The Peer shook Clara's hand with his usual friendliness.

"I'm happy I caught you, Miss Fitzpatrick," he said. "Now I can ride off with an easy mind. Lady Ashton here was fretting for your safety."

Sophia had gasped at the sight of her. "Thank goodness you are unharmed!"

Clara was struggling to keep her eyelids from drooping. "Obviously Nicholas neglected to give you my message."

"I only glimpsed my brother once this entire evening," Sophia complained. "Anyone else marching off to be killed would come passed his sister!"

"The cavalry collected a considerable distance from Brussels," said Jasper, stepping out from behind the Duke of Wellington, where he had been conversing with Ashton. "We can allow Lieutenant Tilden wasn't at liberty to do his will."

"At liberty, he was to take leave of a titian haired beauty," said Sophia sulkily.

"I'm sure Tilden won't come to any injury," the Duke said soothingly. "By Jove, I am expecting to ride back for dinner. Old Blucher has likely finished the business alone."

"I hope you are right, sir," Lord Ashton said faithfully. "I'm sure the campaign will be a total anticlimax for anyone anticipating a great battle for us."

"I am pleased you are no pessimist, sir," Wellington said, smiling. "Pray, to excuse me, marchioness, I must bid adieu to the other hostesses."

Lord Jasper lingered while his chief mounted up and trotted on. "Perhaps the great man is a trifle too optimistic," he said, grinning. "I wager we will be required to wage a little war."

"Why were the French permitted to advance so far?" Lord Ashton demanded. "That's what I want to know!"

Jasper grimaced. "Dörnberg. The German general neglected to forward a message he had received, warning of a planned French attack yesterday on Charleroi. He supposed it was counterintelligence because all reports had been to the contrary. When he discovered his mistake Dörnberg immediately rushed to Brussels. I gather our lethargy dismayed him. We were still asleep when he arrived demanding to see the Duke. Dörnberg was convinced we were unaware of the situation's seriousness. Well, he had his way, because Wellington dressed and went to the park, where he met General Sir Thomas Picton overseeing his troops."

"Picton only arrived yesterday, did he not?" Clara asked. The conversation had stimulated her senses to the greater scope of affairs. Her little life dwindled insignificance.

Looking at her, Jasper's eyes twinkled. "By Jove, yes! The Peer gave him the command at once in one sentence. His air was crass, none of his amiable attitude he adopts in the company! I detected Picton was quite pricked. He bristled, turned tail, and left." His expression grew serious again. "Now I must leave. I won't say goodbye. I hope to update you on events when I am able."

"Pray, inform us the minute you suspect Brussels is in danger," Sophia said, her eyes welling up with tears. "You,I pray, keep out of gunshot."

"Oh, no Frenchman can catch me! I'm too small and fast," Jasper grinned. "See you all soon, my dears!"

His hand brushed Clara's arm as he passed and she felt a hot lump rise in her throat, threatening to choke her. She swung around and waved at him in the threshold. "Oh, see you, sir!" she sounded as he sprang onto his horse. "Take care, Lord Jasper, take care."

"So where were you for all those hours?" Sophia demanded as the clip-clop of hoofs receded. "Are you determined to create a scandal?"

Clara turned to her cousin and smiled. "Nothing improper. I merely got married. I married Major Keegan."

For some minutes Sophia was silent, her frame swayed slightly, and her hand settled on the arm of her husband, who had advanced at these words.

"That's impossible," she uttered at length. "Oh, Clara, no, you were meant for Baron Alvanley."

Clara came forward and smiled at Sophia as she went passed her. "I would never have married that man, my dear, never. I've disappointed you but I hope you will see it how I do someday. Now, if you'll excuse me to my bedchamber, I am very tired and wish to sleep, for much has happened in the last thirty hours to rob me of my wits."

"Her wits must have deserted her for Clara to have committed such folly," Sophia gasped to her husband. "How she must someday regret this day!"

Another young lady had drawn reproof for her attentions to an army officer on the eve of battle. Her actions had been less subtle, more willingly committed, but of a less binding nature. Lady Evangeline Burton had disappeared from her godmother's view for most of the momentous evening. Madame d'Rougier had glimpsed her at supper with that dangerous officer but was unable to reach her later when everyone deserted the upstairs dining room. Despairing of discovering the hoyden, her nephew had conveyed her home at the premature breakup of the ball. Fifteen minutes later, a bustle in the house informed her Evangeline had returned. Madame d'Rougier was on the edge of slumber when the street door opened and shut. A moment later Antoine knocked at her door. The Comte de St Pierre was red with rage.

"Evangeline emerged in her riding gear and has galloped off besides that cavalry officer!" the Frenchman thundered. "I rushed out but was unable to catch her. Have they eloped?"

The couple had not eloped. Two hours later, Evangeline returned, rather muddy and dishevelled from riding out with the cavalry. Her eyelids were heavy but her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkly. Yet when she encountered St Pierre she showed apprehension if defiance.

"How dare you shame me? Do you think because your father is an English earl you can do whatever pleases you? I'm a laughing stock!"

"Oh, pray, St Pierre, don't be an ass," Evangeline yawned. "Nobody dares laugh at you. Do you imagine anyone spares a thought for us when our soldiers are marching out to meet the enemy? My indiscretion went unnoticed. Other women did the same."

The Comte blocked her path to the staircase. "Those other women would have been soldiers' wives!"

Staring up at him, she retreated a step. "I doubt anyone recognised me. If someone significant did see me, fear for loved relations is of greater concern. Should scandal spring on us, I don't care a damn!"

"Evangeline, you have promised to be my wife!"

She flinched at his words, pondered a moment, glanced down, then met his eyes steadily. "Perhaps I ought never to have done such a silly thing."

With a swift lunge, St Pierre caught her up in his arms, pressing her to him until her struggles subsided and she just glared up at him. "You promised yourself to me, Evangeline, and I mean you to be mine. You will be mine and I won't let anyone else have you."

"You have no control over me!" she hissed hoarsely. "Oh, let go, hateful man. Do you truly suppose such conduct will induce me to bind myself to you for life?"

"Then what will make you willing?" he demanded desperately.

"Let me go, then we can talk like civilised creatures," she promised.

Reluctant, breathing heavily, the Comte obeyed, and Evangeline led him into the parlour, where she confronted him, ensuring a considerable space separated them. "Now can we try not to wake the house?" she pleaded. "I was mad when you brought me to France," she explained deliberately, "I was mad with hurt and anger, so out of my wits I fell in love with the notion of the French aristocratic life you presented to me. At least, I fancied I fell in love. Yet I was bitter. You answered how I should fill the empty space Nicholas Tilden vacated. I was wrong to succumb to your scheme. I am truly sorry for allowing you to sweep me off my feet when I should have stayed standing until my lieutenant came courting. I hope you will find it in your heart someday to forgive me."

Evangeline waited for him to respond. His eyes were inscrutable. The tension was insupportable. Suddenly a wave of sleepiness swept over her and she moved mechanically toward the door.

"You are not crying off," St Pierre said.

Evangeline stopped her stride. "That is exactly what I'm doing," she yawned.

"Perhaps you misunderstand me. I mean, I won't allow you to cry off. Not even if it means I must bind you up and drag you before a bribed priest."

His words sent an icy shiver through her. "I'm going up to the bed," she explained, walking on. "We won't discuss this while you're senseless. I hope later to find you reasonable."

Only once she was sheltering in the door arch did the Comte respond. "I won't reason. You will be my wife, Evangeline. If that former fiancé comes near you again, I will blow his brains out."

Evangeline crossed to the stairs in a rush and did not slow until she had shut and locked her door. Panting she supported her back against it and gradually gave way to tears. The thunder of a thousand feet reverberated throughout the timber house.