ought to hang for this,’ the lieutenant protested.
‘He’s the general’s son,’ the captain shot back. ‘If we report his crime, the general will have our necks, not his son’s.’ He tilted his head towards the woman. ‘He may even come after her and the boy.’ The captain looked down at Edwin, now quiet. ‘This bastard is so drunk he may not even know what he did.’
‘Drink is no excuse.’ After several seconds, the lieutenant nodded his head. ‘Very well. We say nothing.’
The captain turned to Jack. ‘Do I have your word, Ensign?’
‘You do, sir.’ Jack did not much relish either father or son knowing he’d been here.
Glass shattered nearby and the roof of a burning building collapsed, sending sparks high into the air.
‘We must hurry,’ the captain said, although he paused to extend his hand to Jack. ‘I am Captain Deane. That is Lieutenant Landon.’
Jack shook his hand. ‘Sir.’
Captain Deane turned to the woman and her son. ‘Is there a church nearby?’ His hand flew to his forehead. ‘Deuce. What is the French word?’ He tapped his brow.
‘Église?’
‘Non, no église, capitaine,’ the woman replied. ‘My…my maison—my house. Come.’ ‘You speak English, madame?’
‘Oui, un peu—a little.’
The lieutenant threw Edwin over his shoulder.
‘Take care,’ the captain said to him.
The lieutenant gave a curt nod, glanced around and trudged off in the same direction they had come.
The captain turned to Jack. ‘I want you to come with me.’ He looked over at the Frenchman’s body. ‘We will have to leave him here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Come.’ The woman, with a despairing last glance towards her husband, put her arm around her son’s shoulder and gestured for them to follow her.
They made their way through the alley to a doorway facing a narrow street not far from where they had been.
‘My house,’ she whispered.
The door was ajar. The captain signalled them to stay while he entered. A few moments later he returned. ‘No one is here.’
Jack stepped inside. The place had been ransacked. Furniture was shattered, dishes broken, papers scattered everywhere. The house consisted only of a front room, a kitchen and a bedroom. He kicked debris aside to make room for them to walk. Captain Deane pulled what remained of a bed’s mattress into the front room, clearing a space for it in the corner. The woman came from the kitchen with cups of water for them. The boy stayed at her side, looking numb.
Jack drank thirstily.
‘Can you keep watch?’ the captain asked after drinking his fill. ‘I’ll sleep for an hour or so, then relieve you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jack replied. He might as well stand watch. He certainly could not sleep. Indeed, he wondered if he would ever sleep again.
They barricaded the door with some of the broken furniture, and Jack salvaged a chair whose seat and legs were still intact. He placed it at the window and sat.
The captain gestured for the woman and her son to sleep on the mattress. He sat on the floor, his back leaning against the wall.
Outside the sounds of carnage continued, but no one approached. Jack stared out on to a street that looked deceptively innocent and peaceful.
Perhaps by morning the carnage would be over, and Jack would be able to return to his camp. Perhaps his major and the others in their patrol would still be alive. Perhaps someone, before this war was over, would put a sword through Edwin Tranville’s heart for his part in this horror.
Jack reloaded his pistol and kept it at the ready. In the stillness, images flooded into his mind, over and over, flashing like torture, forcing him to relive the horror of this day.
His fingers itched to make the images stop, to capture them, imprison them, store them away so they would leave him alone.
The sky lightened as dawn arrived, but Jack still heard the drunken shouts, the musket shots, the screams. They were real. Even though it was day, the plundering continued.
Captain Deane woke and walked over to Jack, standing for a moment to listen.
‘By God, they are still at it.’ The captain rubbed his face. ‘Get some sleep, Ensign. We’ll wait. Maybe things will quieten down soon.’
Jack gave the captain his seat. He glanced at the corner of the room where the woman and boy lay. The boy was curled up in a ball and looked very young and vulnerable. The woman was awake.
Jack surveyed the room and started picking up the sheets of paper scattered about the floor. He examined them. Some sides were blank.
‘Do you need these?’ he asked the woman, holding up a fist full of paper.
‘Non.’ She turned away.
Some of the sheets appeared to contain correspondence, perhaps from loved ones at home. Jack felt mildly guilty for taking them, but his notebook was stored safely in his kit back at his regiment’s encampment and he’d not realised how badly he would need paper.
He found a wide piece of board and carried it to a spot of light from another window. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he placed the board on his lap and fished in his pockets for his wooden graphite pencil. Jack placed one of the sheets of paper on the board, and heaved a heavy breath.
He started to draw.
The images trapped in his brain flowed from his fingers to the tip of his pencil on to the paper. He could not get them out fast enough. He filled one, two, three sheets and still he was not done. He needed to draw them all.
Only then, after he’d captured every image, would he be free of them. Only then could he dare to rest. Only then could he sleep.
Chapter One
London—June 1814
It was like walking in a dream.
All around him, history paintings, landscapes, allegories, portraits hung one next to the other like puzzle pieces until every space, floor to ceiling, was covered.
Jack wandered through the exhibition room of the Royal Academy of Art, gazing at the incredible variety, the skill, the beauty of the works. He could not believe he was here.
His regiment had been called back to England a year ago. Napoleon had abdicated, and the army had no immediate need for his services. Jack, like most of the young officers who’d lived through
