Chapter 54: A Scarred Victory

The year was 1815, and the date, the 54th. Waterloo. The very name, even now, sent a shiver down the spines of those officers who had lived through it, for it was, without a doubt, the bloodiest, most harrowing battle of their careers. It was a vision of hell, a nightmare no one wished to revisit. Dying men cried out on the blood-soaked earth, cavalrymen were crushed beneath their fallen steeds, and the unfortunate who had fallen had their bellies ripped open, their entrails spilling onto the ground, as they clutched at themselves, moaning in agony. Napoleon had been defeated. At seven in the evening, the Prussians arrived, bolstering the British counterattack. The advancing soldiers, amidst the carnage, did not neglect to loot their comrades and their enemies alike – a grim, yet common, way to profit from war. They had won, but at a terrible cost. No one felt any joy. The Duke of Wellington rode his horse, silent and weary, across the battlefield. He was utterly exhausted, surveying the devastation with a distant gaze. "This was the most desperate battle I have ever fought," he wrote later in a letter to his brother. "I have never encountered so many difficulties in previous battles, nor have I ever come so close to defeat. Our losses are enormous, especially among the elite of the British infantry. I have never seen infantry perform so well." The Allied forces prioritized their own wounded, leaving abandoned French soldiers to lie on the ground, awaiting death. In this clash of armies, fifty thousand men lay dead or wounded, not even counting those who, having narrowly escaped death, now faced life with amputated limbs. On the evening of June 18th, as many as forty thousand corpses and grievously injured men lay strewn across the battlefield, along with nearly ten thousand dead or dying horses. They had to endure the cold night, waiting for the surgeons to find and treat them. The wives and mothers of soldiers, arriving at the battlefield in a futile search for their loved ones, wandered through the land stained with blood and littered with corpses, calling out the names of those who would never return, hoping against hope for even the faintest echo. Crying, grief, and mourning swept across the field, carried by the damp, chilling wind. Not long after, this rekindled war came to its official end. Amidst the tolling of bells, Napoleon's Hundred Days' Reign crumbled. Alicia first received the news of the battle at Quatre Bras on the very day of Waterloo, the 18th of June. The initial report of a British defeat caused a wave of panic. The list of casualties included the Duke of Brunswick and Lord Hay, their names stark and terrible against the page. This was only the first wave of dreadful news. The Duchess of Richmond and her daughters expressed their sorrow, lamenting the loss. The young Lord Hay, only seventeen, a dashing and cheerful young man, had been killed instantly by a bullet to the head, serving as an aide-de-camp to General Maitland. Alicia, standing nearby, paled. Brussels held its breath, awaiting further news. Carriages bearing the wounded continued to arrive in the city, and those injured at Quatre Bras were only the first wave. Surgeons and volunteers provided care, performing amputations with a grim, numb efficiency, mechanically sawing off arms and legs on makeshift operating tables – a desperate attempt to prevent further infection. The next wave of soldiers returning from Waterloo brought conflicting reports. Some said they had lost, others claimed victory. Having been injured early in the battle, they themselves could not be sure. Alicia waited anxiously for news of the war's end, writing letters to be sent to the front lines. Like other ladies of means, she dedicated herself to caring for the wounded. She prayed for the injured, and witnessed the passing of one gravely wounded officer after another. How young they all were. Some were not even twenty. They called her an angel, these men covered in blood, missing limbs. Alicia covered her face, overwhelmed by the sheer horror of it all. Even into the night, the stream of wounded soldiers continued. Alicia stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, seeking respite from the suffocating stench of blood that clung to the air inside. She looked up at the night sky. Only high-ranking officers were fortunate enough to be brought into the city's town hall and private residences for care. Many more were still en route, or stranded outside the city. She looked around the make shift hospital, she could not see a familiar face. Alicia, like many women, suffered the agony of false reports. One person would say he was unharmed, another that he was injured. Then, suddenly, news of his death would arrive. Only to be contradicted moments later – it was another man. Alicia slept briefly, only to awaken at dawn to just such a report. Her ears rang, her vision blurred, and even after the news was clarified, she remained sitting there, stunned. She lowered her head and took out the miniature portrait he had given her. "I feel as though I am about to lose him," Alicia wrote in a hurried note the night before. She felt utterly weary. And so, she mounted her horse and rode swiftly out of the city, gazing at the distant roads, the fields, and the rolling hills. She stayed for hours. On the afternoon of June 19th, news finally arrived from the front: the British had won! The city's heavy atmosphere lightened, though not by much. Wave after wave of wounded continued to arrive, clogging the roads, with many more still being cared for in the villages near Waterloo. The severed limbs were piled into a small mountain. Alicia, who had initially vomited at the sight, had grown accustomed to it. The Duke of Wellington had written a dispatch to the government, which his aide-de-camp carried to Brussels, and then onward to London. Around noon, a small group of horsemen rode into the city. Hearing this, Alicia ran from the town hall into the street. She saw him at once. The young officer rode his horse, a sergeant beside him carrying two captured French Eagle standards. His once-bright red uniform was stained with mud and dust. A black cloak was draped over his shoulder, his face pale, streaked with grime and blood. She ran to him, and he stopped his horse. She noticed he held the reins with only one hand, dismounting slowly. He stood there, silently pulling her into his arms. "I'm so tired," he murmured, his chin resting on her shoulder. "I missed you terribly." "Alexander Gordon died, early this morning," he said, his hand stroking her hair. "Lord Uxbridge lost his right leg. Lord FitzRoy Somerset had his right arm amputated. Frederick Ponsonby… they haven't found him yet…" He listed a string of names, acquaintances and friends. So many dead, she thought. Of the Duke of Wellington's eight aides-de-camp, two had been killed outright, and the rest were injured, some severely. Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Gordon had succumbed to his wounds in the early hours of the morning. Of the army's twenty-six aides-de-camp, only Colonel Henry Percy (a cousin of the Earl of Percy) had returned completely unscathed. The list of injured and dead officers from each regiment was extensive – and that was just the officers; the number of enlisted men was countless. On a mere two and a half square kilometers of land, forty thousand corpses and men struggling for their lives lay. On the second day of the battle, they no longer asked, "Who died?" They only asked, "Who survived?" Alicia listened, and noticing something amiss, she pulled back the black cloak draped over his shoulder. Through the unbuttoned collar of his uniform, she saw his right shoulder, heavily bandaged, with blood seeping through. She finally understood why his face was so pale! William Cavendish refused to let her go, leaning against her, whispering reassurances. "It's a light wound, my dear, at least I can still hold you." He said the bullet had passed clean through his shoulder. It hadn't lodged in the bone, nor had it severed any major blood vessels. It had happened near the end of the battle. He said he had always been a lucky fellow. His companion, Lord Uxbridge, had been struck directly by a cannonball. "When I left, the poor man was lying on a door, having his right leg amputated. He made the decision quickly, to prevent infection and save his life." Of his fellow aides-de-camp, one had been struck in the head by a bullet, another had suffered a gunshot wound to the abdomen, and had died in the arms of his comrades. Alexander Gordon… he had watched him die. His leg had been amputated, but he had still not survived. Only he had merely grazed his right shoulder. And so, he had seen her again. He spoke of these things lightly, trying to make light of it, but the slight downturn of his mouth betrayed his sadness. Those aides-de-camp were only in their twenties or thirties, and the other officers and soldiers, so young. They had been so brave, so fearless, leaving their lives forever on the battlefield. Everyone had lost loved ones and friends. "The doctor said I was very lucky. No surgery, no amputation, though we still need to watch for infection." He seemed stoic, almost indifferent. But Alicia knew he couldn't lift his right arm. If he could have, he would have. Now, it hung limply at his side. He could only move his fingers slightly. "I thought, as long as I could still ride, I would come to you. Don't worry," he said, smiling at her. "I'm not dead, and I haven't lost any limbs. I'm perfectly fine." He was exhausted, but he still managed a smile. "It was a living hell," he said finally. "You see so many comrades die from their wounds." Alicia held him tightly, weeping openly. Colonel Henry Percy took the two Eagle standards, as he was to travel to the port, sail to London, and deliver the dispatches to the government. William Cavendish remained, his wound redressed by a summoned doctor. He paid the price for his impulsiveness and haste; the doctor said his right arm would be useless for at least a month. They would also need to observe it daily for any signs of gangrene. William Cavendish brought news of Lord FitzRoy Somerset to his wife. The couple had been married for less than a year. Lady Emily Pole-Wellesley, niece of the Duke of Wellington and sister of the aforementioned William Long-Wellesley, had also come to Brussels with her husband, having given birth to their first daughter just weeks before. Upon learning that her husband had only lost his right arm and was still alive, she wept with joy. When his arm was amputated, he had insisted on taking the wedding ring from his right hand. He had sent a message back with a comrade: "Emily, my dear, I can only embrace you with my left hand now." "Compared to that, I am fortunate enough," William Cavendish said, looking up at her. She reached out her hand, and he took it. "But I don't think I'll be considering a military career any further." The news of victory finally reached London on June 21st, filling the city with celebratory revelry and parades accompanied by bands. Meanwhile, Brussels was overwhelmed by the peak influx of wounded soldiers. Frederick Ponsonby, Alicia's great-aunt Lady Bessborough's second son, a beloved "little uncle" to Alicia, was a member of the charging Royal Dragoons. He had been missing and unaccounted for, ultimately found lying severely wounded in the mud for two days and nights. It was a difficult task, searching through so many corpses. He recuperated in a village near Waterloo for a week before being brought to Brussels. His mother arrived from Italy, and his sister, Caroline, also came to care for him. This lady's fractured relationship with her husband had been somewhat mended. At least in February of that year, when Lord Byron married Miss Annabella Milbanke, her emotions had not been overly affected. This, at least, had relieved her family. Frederick had suffered seven wounds. Alicia stayed by the side of her relative, grieving and praying for him. Thankfully, he overcame numerous obstacles and survived. But most did not. On June 26th, for instance, another aide-de-camp, Colonel William De Lancey, succumbed to his injuries. His wife of three months lay beside him, witnessing his passing. It was a week after the Battle of Waterloo before the list of injured and dead officers was compiled and sent to London, officially published in The London Gazette. Apart from those struck directly by cannon fire, most had died in the subsequent week due to severe blood loss or infection. It would be another half a month before the families of the nameless soldiers left behind could know the fate of their loved ones, after which they would don black mourning clothes and grieve in hushed tones. They had been victorious, but, again, at a terrible cost. It took William Cavendish two months to fully recover. He was left with a permanent scar. He was naturally optimistic, not overly burdened by the shadows of war. But it was impossible to be completely unaffected. Like many officers, he could not help but recall the horrors of those few days of battle. He would often become lost in thought, a sharp, stabbing pain in his brow. The wound, too, would ache with age, in heat and cold, an incurable ailment. But, as he often said, he was a lucky fellow, always had been. Napoleon announced his abdication on June 23rd. In October, he was exiled to Saint Helena, where he died six years later. Years after his death, his coffin was brought back by those who had once opposed him, remembered and revered as France's greatest hope and hero. William Cavendish tried not to mention the sentimental letters he had written. But during his convalescence, they strolled through the woods outside Brussels, spending the last days of summer together. They read one letter each day. Cavendish still marveled at how he could have written such incredibly sentimental words. "If I had died, what would you have done?" he asked, folding the letters. He was working hard at his rehabilitation; he didn't want to lose the use of his right hand. Although he was left-handed, he wanted to be able to sharpen quills for her, to tie her bonnet strings, to embrace her with both arms. "I would have done as you said: I would always remember you, and cherish your memory," Alicia replied, staying close by his side during this time. She understood the depth of her love for him. This ordeal had deepened their connection, forging a bond that was strong and profound. As he had said, in terms of marriage and a husband, he was indeed the person she loved most. She couldn't imagine life without him. Once he had recovered somewhat, the two of them attended the Allied victory parade in Paris. "For the rest of my life, I don't want to see another war," he said. They held hands. As he had told her, he was dedicated to devoting the rest of his life to a career in diplomacy. This turbulent, unforgettable year of 1815 came to a close.