Page 1 of A Lovely White Christmastide
Prologue
NEAR WATERLOO NETHERLANDS, JUNE 18, 1815
Dear James,
Sorry it has taken so long for me to return your letter. The speed of battle and the inconsistency of the post has made it difficult to receive and return correspondence.
It brings me great joy to know you are doing well. As we move from battle to battle, I hold the memory of this past Christmastide in my heart. Those few months back on English soil were a much-needed reprieve from the sights and sounds of war. Even if the Duke of Rothes tried to ruin them.
To answer your question, I have hopes that this will be my last campaign abroad. Bonaparte’s insanity cannot last long; at least that is my hope. When I return, I will take up residence again in Kettering with my parents, which I am certain will be a comfort to my mother. It may not, however, be a comfort to me.
Ever since my last campaign, she has been most insistent that I find a wife, as if I can pluck one from the roadside like one would a daisy. I do not think she takes into account that daisies make me sneeze. Also no one leaves sweet, beautiful ladies justlying about on roadsides waiting for one to come and sweep them off their feet.
And now for a most diverting story. As I told you at Christmastide, I have obtained the rank of lieutenant under Captain Bingham, also from Kettering, much to his confusion. However, I seem to have gained favor with General Waverly for my commendable service in subduing Bonaparte and his men and aiding in his exile.
Captain Bingham questions my abilities, but more specifically my choices. Can I help it if my conscience revolts at allowing poor defenseless kittens from being stranded in a tree during a raging battle?
Do not answer that. I can see how ridiculous it might seem, but the conflict was mostly over at the time and my services were no longer needed—at least I believed they were not.
Then again, perhaps he would see me in a more favorable light if I had not seen myself as a competent performer, and completely humiliated him at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.
In my defense, I knew Captain Bingham to have an excellent voice, and I underestimated how hard it might be to harmonize with him. Not that I have much experience in such things, but I had hopes of gaining some respect by showcasing his extraordinary abilities. But when a goose accompanies a canary it ends up sounding much like a dying donkey. I do not suggest it, on any account.
Daniel snickered at the disaster that had been his evening. He glanced out the door of the small shack. Yellow was just starting to push back the grey of night. Best to finish his letter quickly.
Thanks to said incident, I believe what respect he had for me is now fully removed. Sufficient to say I may have embarrassed Captain Bingham into never performing in public again.
“Lieutenant!”
Daniel’s head popped up and he dropped the quill. Shooting to his feet, he stared abashedly at Captain Bingham.
“What are you doing? It is time to assemble. Gather your men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sanding the part he’d written, Daniel made quick work of stowing the letter to one of his closest childhood friends. He and James Bailey had spent some of their happiest days at Eton together with Alfred Deane and Robert Cratchit. Their friendship was the glue that held him together when war threatened to tear his peace apart. If only he’d had time to write to Robert and Alfred, but the few words he’d penned would have to do. Hopefully this letter conveyed a buoyancy of spirit should he not…
No, he had to believe he’d make it through each battle. A positive perspective was the only steady thing he could lean into during such chaos. Besides, he’d yet to find a French force that could keep up with his men. They were fast and efficient, as evidenced by the way they were already gathered as he exited their commandeered shack.
Mounting his horse, he signaled for them to follow him to their position in a nearby field.
The call to advance sounded loud in Daniel’s ears. It was too soon. They were not in position. His horse skittered to the right as a few of the foot soldiers jumped into action. He made eye contact with Captain Bingham. Doubt and confusion met his gaze. He was simultaneously grateful not to be the only one concerned and worried that his captain did not know what was happening.
Captain Bingham removed his saber from its scabbard and raised it in the air. Daniel followed suit, signaling to the surrounding men. They had come this far, and God willing, thiswould be the end of Bonaparte’s ludicrous march. They had defeated the man once; they could do it again.
When Captain Bingham’s sword sliced down through the air, it took an instant for Daniel’s mind to connect with his arm, nerves overtaking his whole body. But when it did, he gave the signal with the other lieutenants for his men to advance.
He caught a brief glimpse of General Waverly on his large black stallion as he crossed the field ahead of them, his booming voice calling orders that were slowly passed down through the ranks. His confidence seemed to bolster the troops. The message finally reached Daniel from Captain Bingham shouting the orders to the lieutenants. Then, to his surprise, the captain approached him separately.
“Kaye, I need your men to cut off a retreat. Lead them around the right wing of the advancing foot soldiers. I have it on good authority that the French will try to escape that way in order to retrieve the supplies stowed in a shack not half a mile to the west. Can I count on you to follow my orders to perfection, no deviations?”
“I will do my best, sir.”
“I want a yes or a no, none of this do my best. You will either follow my orders or you will not. And none of your delusions of grandeur. I do not need you racing off to save a kitten from a tree.”
Daniel would have been offended if the scenario had been fictitious, but the reminder pulled a smirk to his lips.
“I will follow your orders, Captain.”
