Captain Belling cleared his throat and turned to face Lady Melton. “I owe you an apology for not personally seeing to your comfort. I’ve not been at my most amicable recently. Our evacuation plans have changed five times in the past three days, because each messenger has brought worse news about conditions of the roads. Wellesley probably pictured us rounding up a fleet of comfortable carriages to transport the wounded to the coast, after which boats would magically whisk us across the Channel until, within a few days, the wounded would be under the care of a staff of competent physicians. Apparently, the first and largest batches of wounded soldiers managed that scenario and are, I hope, being loaded into the boats as we speak. Word is that the second group ran afoul of deserters on three separate occasions.”

“British or French?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? Men probably went rogue from many forces as soon as the battle turned and we became the winners. Napoleon was so confident of victory that he didn’t plan for retreat. So, retreating regiments were bottlenecked at the bridge at Sambre and soldiers ran away, rather than die during the chaos. Disenchanted soldiers from every country meet, form alliances, and will then kill without compunction, to stay free, or to appease their hunger for food and women. And every day, more will be on the roads.” When she stiffened, he said, “Don’t worry. Our messengers reported where they’d seen large groups, and we’ll avoid those roads.” She sat still as a statue and listened. “I’d like to get to London without killing anyone else, because I’m tired of the fighting, tired of wars.” 

She shuffled a few inches back towards him and laid her hand on his knee. “I’m sorry that I’ve added to your problems.”