The Messenger

27

Varre reached for my right hand again, and placed a ring on my index finger. He tucked a card into one of my pockets and said, “This man will see that you have all you need when you are ready to return to England.”

The look on his face was one of triumph. He’s utterly mad, I thought. And I’m going to die here a madman, too. Yet I felt relief from the worst of my wounds, a lessening of pain.

“Thank you!” I said again, for that much alone, although I was still half convinced that all I was experiencing was a product of delirium.

I heard his laughter as he walked away from me.

The dog stayed by my side.

I managed, with the greatest of efforts, to move my hand enough to see the ring Varre had placed there. It was a silver mourning ring, a memento mori, and appeared to be quite old. Looking at its death’s-head, I felt an urge to work it from my finger and leave it for the scavengers to find. But even this small feat was beyond my strength. I left it on my hand.

Shade began barking. I had never heard the like, and I worried that he might frighten any help away. Apparently someone wise in the way of dogs realized the nature of his call, though, for he quickly drew the attention of others. Before long I was lifted by strong hands, and added to a blood-soaked, rough cart, already more than half loaded with other wounded.

Those who read this story so many years later may find it strange that days after the battle we were still being gathered, but the number of dead and wounded at Waterloo was more than forty-seven thousand, creating a city of casualties on a strip of land roughly two miles wide and six miles long. That I was not left among the dead seemed to me a miracle.

The dog followed the cart as it gathered as many other wounded as it could hold, and trotted alongside as it made its jolting progress toward a nearby village. To the creaking of the cart were added the quiet prayers, soft moans, and occasional fevered cries of those of its passengers still able to speak, many whose suffering far outstripped my own.

When the cart had traveled what seemed to me to be as far as Spain, but was probably no more than a few miles, I received a shock. As I lay pressed against the others, feverish but marveling at the continued lessening of my pain and the wonder of my rescue, I suddenly heard a man speaking to me, and just as quickly realized that he was not speaking aloud.

Captain Hawthorne, sir-if you please, sir-will you give the letter tucked in my boot to my wife? And tell my Sarah that I died telling you of my love for her?

“What is your name, and how do you know mine?” I said, frightened.

A soldier walking beside the cart had been praising Shade, but he broke off at this and said with a pitying look, “Baker, sir. Sergeant Thomas Baker. And you told us your name when we found you-or should I say, this fine fellow-Shade, is it?-found you. Just rest, Captain Hawthorne. We’ll have you on the mend in a trice.”

But no sooner had he finished speaking than I heard within my mind, Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you was new at this. Private William Makins. You need say nothing more aloud, sir. I can hear you just as plain as you hear me.

And Makins, who seemed utterly calm and at ease, went on to tell me that he came from a certain village, the name of which I immediately recognized, as it was not far from my home. He told me how to find his own home. He told me of his gratitude to me for taking the Messenger’s job.

Messenger? I silently asked.

Yes, sir. You’ll be the one who comes to us as is dying, and allows us to say what might otherwise have been unsaid to them we love. As time goes on, you’ll be able to do more to help us. And you’ll bring us such a peace, sir. You’ll be called to us, and give us what we’ve no right to hope for, but is thankful for all the same. It’s a good thing you’re doing, sir-never forget that when the job seems hard to bear, as I’m sure it will be. God bless you, sir, he said, and died.

“Sergeant Baker,” I said weakly, “I believe Private Makins…”

He looked over and sighed. “Makins, you say? Was that his name? Probably shouldn’t have picked him up, but I thought he might pull through. Not in your unit, though. Did you know him before the war, sir?”

“His home is not far from my own.”

“We’re almost to the hospital station now, Captain. If you can bear it-”

“I have lain among the dead for three days now, Sergeant. I shan’t be troubled by poor Makins.”

I spent several weeks in the place where they took me, although only a few days recovering from the fever and what those who found me assumed to be relatively minor wounds. By the time I left that village, Makins was only one of nearly a hundred men I had listened to. I began to keep notes, taking down their names, the names of their loved ones, the words they spoke to me. I became a great favorite among those who were tending to the wounded for the care I gave the dying, the ease I might bring to a restless patient at his last, my willingness to write to the families of the deceased.

I wrote to the Brussels address on the card Lord Varre had left with me, telling the agent named on it where I stayed, and saying I would be remaining there for the foreseeable future, but would come to him as soon as I was able. He replied by sending a courier who brought a large sum of money to me in mixed currencies, and a note assuring me that he would be happy to be of service should I need any additional funds or assistance.

I used some of that first sum of money-what those around me considered to be an inordinate amount of it-to have a special coffin built along the lines of one I had once seen made for a wealthy merchant. It was fashioned from iron. The remains of Private William Makins, who was among the many dead not yet buried, were transferred to it, and it was filled with alcohol and sealed. This, I had been told, would preserve those remains for the longest time possible. I planned to take Private Makins’s body back to England. Although nothing could leave me out of favor with the staff of the hospital, who saw this as a noble gesture, I have no doubt that others thought me a lunatic, even if they did not directly express this opinion to me.

If they had, they would have found me in complete agreement. At that time I did not believe Lord Varre’s promises of long life and eternal good health and youth, even though I knew my wounds had healed unnaturally quickly. I was soon rid of the initial fever-although now and then it would return with a vengeance and incapacitate me for a few hours-and gradually I regained my strength. I told myself that perhaps the fever had induced hallucinations, that I had never been as severely wounded as I had thought I was. Still, something far out of the ordinary had happened to me, and I could not deny all of its effects. In truth, I spent most of those days in terror, and if it had not been for Shade, whose presence had a calming effect on me, and the counsel of the dying, I am certain I would have lost my sanity.

In those first weeks, contrary to what the staff of the hospital believed, it was the dying who comforted me. In my moments with them, their candor and tranquility soothed me. It was their care of me, their uncomplicated concern, that allowed me to grow accustomed to my new responsibilities. It was little enough to thank them by penning a letter to a family member or sending a memento to a friend. In whatever time I had free, I did what I could to help those not so close to death, bringing them water, reading to them, writing missives home for those who were too wounded or ill to do so, or who were unlettered.

I had written to my brother, who had thought me dead, reports having reached him from those who saw me fall in battle. His letter in return I found quite moving, and he urged me to come home. I put it off. I sold out of the army, but given my sincere belief that I could communicate with the unconscious, I did not want to return only to be placed in an asylum.

Through my visits to the hospital, I gained a valet. Even before the war, Merritt had taken care of his young lieutenant, who now lay dying of a wound from a saber. He had been his batman on the Peninsula, and returned to the Continent with him after Napoleon escaped from Elba. Merritt was a quiet man, and did not flinch from any task the care of his wounded master required.

One evening I told him I would sit with the lieutenant, so that he might sleep for a few hours. He refused, saying he did not think the lieutenant would last the night.

He was right, and as the final moments of the lieutenant’s life drew near, I felt the nearly gravitational pull the dying had on my attention. I took the lieutenant’s hand.

You can trust Merritt, he said. Let him know you can hear me.

No, thank you. I’ll either be thought mad or frighten him.

Frighten Merritt! I’d like to see you try. Tell him I said there’s a creaking third step on the second landing at Wyvern’s Lair. Go on, man, do it. Haven’t got much time.

So with great trepidation, I repeated the message aloud.

Merritt’s eyes widened, and he stared hard at me, then said slowly, “So there is.”

“Yes, you old fox, and a boy’s treasures hidden in a wooden box in a hollowed-out oak in the home wood.” I blushed and added, “Or so he says.”

“Yes, Captain,” Merritt added, tears coming to his eyes. “So there is.”

As you can see, Captain Hawthorne, the lieutenant said to me alone, he can keep secrets. He’s a good man-has a gift with animals, as well-and I understand that your own batman was killed. Will you take him on?

I looked across at Merritt. I will ask him, but I do not want him to feel pressured into becoming my servant out of love for you.

I knew you were the right man for him! You won’t regret it. And now, if you would be so good as to tell him…

What followed was a mixture of reminiscence and requests. The reminiscence showed the lieutenant to be a man of good humor and kindness, if not completely able to keep himself out of scrapes. He told Merritt not to blame himself for this injury, and to seek my help in sending certain items home to a beloved aunt.

“For you know I liked her above all the rest, Merritt,” I repeated on the lieutenant’s behalf.

Merritt spoke to me as if I were the lieutenant’s ears, which I realized I was, as the lieutenant answered him. The lieutenant mentioned that I might need help back to my rooms, as this visit had put a strain on me.

A short time later, the lieutenant died. The fever set in on me not long after, and I was grateful for Merritt’s assistance in returning to my lodgings. Although I recovered quickly, he did everything possible to provide for my comfort in the hours when the fever laid me low, not seeking his own rest until dawn.

When, after the lieutenant’s burial, I asked Merritt if he would work for me, he readily agreed to do so.

“I must ask,” I said, “that you do not tell others of…”

“Your gift, Captain? I would not think of doing so, sir.”

“There is a dog…”

“Yes, I’ve made his acquaintance. Shade, I believe you call him. He’s a fine gentleman, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I said, somewhat at a loss.

“It will be my pleasure and honor to serve you, sir.”

In the coming weeks, I saw that the lieutenant was right. Merritt was a discreet and capable man, and his assistance freed me to spend more time at the makeshift hospital.

Eventually the dying made clear to me that I was to return to England.

Your gift will go with you to England, Captain, one of them told me, so never fear. Be sure to give the dog a walk in a cemetery now and again.

A cemetery?

Sure, he’s a cemetery dog-didn’t you know? And they need their time among the graves. No shortage of graves here, of course, but it won’t be the same when you go back.

I thought about this, and felt a rising tide of uneasiness over my return to England.

There’s a bit of business for you to attend to there, Captain, but if England doesn’t suit you, sir, you’ll find another home. God bless you, Tyler Hawthorne, and many thanks for your kindness to me.

Before I could ask him what “bit of business” he meant, he died, and his thoughts were lost to me.