The Battle Dance: Waterloo

That's a Long Way!

The merry meal was interrupted. Wine had served to sooth senses, then stimulate spirits and silence the screams still ringing in ears. The rich supper spread out for the Duke of Wellington and his staff in the Hôtel du Roi d'Espagne satisfied their starving stomachs. They had tucked into the turtle soup, beef, gravy, onions, potatoes, and puddings as if previously denied such delicacies. Food had never tasted so good. Lord Jasper Courtney had began to regard the dirt encrusted uniforms of his companions as mantles of glory. The celebrators had just caught him up into drinking their victory toast when the door was flung aside and a blood stained British captain staggered into the coffee room.

Cheerful chatter ceased. The scarlet coated captain gazed dizzily around at the sea of staring officers. Then he spotted the commander in chief. Lord Fitzroy Somerset stood up as the young man saluted. Wellington was coolly inspecting his bloodied, battered clothes.

"I beg your grace for a surgeon," the captain gulped.

The Duke made a swift gesture. Jasper scarcely saw it but the military secretary was used to instantly interpreting these signs. "Pray take that empty seat, Captain Hardinge, and name to what we owe this pleasure," Lord Fitzroy said.

Jasper's brain had whirled with speculation as to the captain's identity and purpose, picturing the crossroads lost in a quick French counterattack or Brussels fallen. The face was vaguely familiar, Jasper had definitely seen it this afternoon, but it was difficult to name one of a thousand fresh faces. The name of Hardinge then thrust the cobwebs aside and Jasper recalled now the impressionable looking youth trailing the British colonel attached to the Prussians.

Captain Richard Hardinge slumped into the seat, his sharp breaths easing. "My brother's wrist is badly wounded," he said. "He fears it will have to come off."

"Louder, sir," Sir Edward Barnes barked from the opposite end of the table. The adjutant general had resumed eating and was chawing on a beef bone. "Sir Henry needs an amputation?"

"Yes!" Hardinge almost shouted, then sensing his disrespect, levelled his tone. "It was some hours ago. Canister got lodged in his left wrist. I searched for a doctor. None suitable was willing to operate. I implored Sir Henry to let me fetch his Grace's personal physician. The Colonel yielded only once our carrying him off the field aggravated his injury."

"Poor Sir Henry," General Barnes said sympathetically. "Good fellow. Sorry he's hurt."

"Well, that explains why we received nothing about the Ligny affair," Lieutenant Lennox said, sweeping a satisfied look around as if it had dispelled a general load. "Not his fault, this time."

Captain Hardinge widened his eyes. His panic had just been subsiding. "My brother has sent you several messengers!"

The Duke of Wellington decided it was time to intercede. "Putting aside for the present why no word has reached me any sooner from Colonel Hardinge, could you sketch me what was going on before you brought your brother off the battlefield?" He raised a hand to stifle the building protest. "Naturally my own surgeon will accompany you to Sir Henry."

The Captain let out a sigh. "How may I express my thanks?"

"Just answer," suggested Colonel Somerset.

"The Prussians are losing, your grace."

Richard Hardinge had not anticipated a stunned silence. The officers dropped what they were eating and stared at him in alarmed interest. Sensing his news was fresh at Headquarters and he had a means to stir sensation, Hardinge now gave his report with relish. "Prussian soldiers scatter the cornfields to their rear," he said, illustrating size with great arm gestures. "Severe suffering, intense fighting." He faltered, aware the expression was weak. "So I was told. Sir Henry kept me from the front fight. I did see wounded."