Jack Caldwell - The Three Colonels

The nightmare was complete when he awoke to find a stub where his left arm used to be.

He drifted in a dream world where he could escape the hot, painful fog for the mist of gentle memory. Father, mother, brothers—his lady! An angel with dark hair and kind eyes, smiling at him, touching him, loving him, comforting him, whispering again and again that all would be well. He lived for that dream world. He fought hard not to leave it, because all that awaited him in the other world was unending pain.

He wondered—was he dead? Was this heaven?

The pain would return, and he cried out for the angel—again and again and again.

A rough shaking of his cot woke him. He opened his eyes, and above him was the orderly who attended him—a man he had come to hate—grasping the end of the cot.

“’Ere we go,” the man said to his companion, who had a similar hold on the foot of the cot. They lifted the patient and his cot and began to make their way through the hospital ward.

Sudden fear lanced through the patient. “What is happening? Where are you taking me?”

“Don’t ya worry none, Colonel,” said the orderly carelessly. His tone was flat, affected only by the efforts of his current task. It held no concern for the man on the cot. He might as well have been meat. “You’re not fur the surgeon today, no. Ya got visitors, like. Got ta pretty ya up fur th’ quality.”

The sun outside was painfully glaring, so he draped his good arm over his eyes and bore the painful transit without a word of protest. Not only was it beneath an officer to complain, it would not have done a bit of good. His damn orderly had not a drop of human kindness in his black heart, he was sure of it. They were soon inside a building near the field of tents that made up the hospital outside of Brussels, and after maneuvering down a hallway, his bearers deposited him in a small room.

His orderly began to wipe his face with a wet cloth while the other tucked a fresh blanket about his body. Such were the degradations he suffered during his month in this place that he considered a clean blanket a luxury.

The orderly cursed. “Them bandages need changin’.” He turned to his partner. “Nate, step over ta th’ dispensary and fetch some new cloths. I’ve got ta clean this one up.” Nate went out the door, leaving it ajar. Meanwhile, the man returned to his chore and not at all mildly. “Damn, you’re a dirty one, ain’t ya?”

“Here now, man—gently, if you please!” cried a voice that was somewhat familiar—proud and deep, a voice used to instant obedience. The patient knew that voice, but from where?

For the first time in weeks, Colonel Sir John Buford opened his eyes willingly. At the door were three people—two gentlemen and a lady. The men were instantly dismissed from Buford’s attention; he focused only on the lady. She was dressed in traveling clothes, black hair peeking from under a bonnet. Her eyes were green and wet. Tender lips half-hidden by one small, gloved hand moved wordlessly. Tears ran down her cheek along skin he knew was as soft as velvet. The most dear, the most beautiful face in the world.

He gasped and croaked, “Ca… Caroline?”

Lady Caroline Buford made a sound like a hiccup. She smiled—a very teary smile—before her countenance crumbled. With a groan, she dashed to his side, pushed away the orderly, knelt, and buried her face in his chest.

“Oh, John!” she cried. “Oh, thank heaven, my John, my John.”

Weakly, Buford raised his good arm and ran the fingers of his hand over her bonnet. “Caro, Caro… what are you doing here? How?” He forced his eyes from his wife to look at the gentlemen standing by. “By God!”

They were Philip Buford and Fitzwilliam Darcy.

“By God,” he said again. “How came you to be here? Am I not still in Brussels?”

Philip knelt beside Caroline, and Buford reluctantly gave up his attentions to his wife to grasp his brother’s hand. “It is Darcy we must thank for our transport here. Yes, this is Brussels, but you shall not be here much longer. We have come to take you home.”

“Home? Home to England?”

“As soon as we get you to Antwerp and aboard the boat—yes.”

Buford turned his attention to the weeping woman on his chest. “Caro, my love, this is a miracle.” His hand left Philip’s and slid under Caroline’s bonnet. “A miracle—the babe!” Buford’s eyes shot wide open. “The babe! You must leave this instant! There is disease here!” Panicked, he turned to the others. “You must get her out of here!”

She tightened her grip on her husband. “No, I will not leave you!”

“Caroline, you must!” He looked to the others. “Help me!”

“Do not concern yourself, John,” said Philip. “We leave this very day. All will be well.”

Meanwhile, Darcy spoke to the orderly. “We have papers that allow us to leave with Sir John. You will gather his things and bring them to our carriage.”

The orderly frowned. “See ’ere, I ain’t his servant!”

Darcy’s voice was cold and sharp. “I have your orders. You will be paid for your services. However, if anything is found missing from the colonel’s belongings, it will go badly for you.”

“I can’t be held responsible fur that!” the orderly complained.

Darcy raised his chin. “Then I would be thorough if I were you.” Darcy jerked his head towards the door. The orderly, completely cowed, quickly left.

Caroline turned, sniffed, and said with a small smile, “Bravo, Darcy. I could not have done better myself.”

Two spots of color graced Darcy’s cheeks, but he only nodded his head. “Mr. Buford and I will see to the arrangements for our departure. We will return shortly.” Philip gave his brother’s shoulder a squeeze and left with Darcy.

Buford stared deeply into his wife’s pale face. He could read the revulsion clearly written upon it. “Caroline, you should not have come.”

“Why not? I bore the voyage well, and the babe is in no danger.”

It cost him some hurt, but Buford turned his head away anyway. “You should not see me… like this.”

“John, I had to come.”

All the fears that had built up inside him since the battle now burst out. “What kind of husband can I be to you? I am but half a man!” He held up his left arm, the sleeve pinned back over the stump the surgeon left. “Look at me! Look at the wreck I have become! Left arm gone, face scarred, hip slashed wide open. I do not know if I will even stand again!” He did not grieve for himself; he accepted his wounds as payment for his mistrust of and infidelity to his wife. He had committed great sins against his marriage, and he earned every iota of pain he now suffered. The tears that ran unheeded down his battered face were for everything that Caroline had lost—a strong, faithful, useful husband who could provide for and protect his family. “You deserve better than me.”

His wife’s wet eyes went wide with hurt. “What madness is this?”

“Caroline, you cannot even look at me without crying.”

Understanding flowed over her countenance. With fierce determination, Caroline grasped her husband’s good arm. “Now you see here, Colonel Buford!” she managed through her weeping. “I do not weep for me! I am pained beyond measure for you! I am in agony for what you have endured! Could I but bear this burden for you, I would! But since I cannot, I will have to bear it with you.”

“But you should not have to—”

“Is that not what I promised to you and God when we married? Do you think I will shirk my duty now? What a low opinion you have of me, sir!”

“You twist my words—”

“Do you really think I will abandon you now? God’s teeth, you are my very life. I will never leave you, my love—never!”

Buford wept without moderation. “Oh, Caro, my love!”

Caroline tried to kiss him, but he flinched. “Does it hurt?”

“No, but my face…”

She gently touched the undamaged right cheek. “Johnny, I kiss not your face—but you.”

Buford painfully tried to embrace her, but he could not. His left arm had been taken off at the elbow. “Damn it! I cannot take you into my arms!”

“Oh, Johnny,” she said, “do not concern yourself. I have arms enough for both of us.”

When Darcy and Philip returned, they found Lady Buford half lying over Sir John in a tender embrace. The two stepped back into the hallway and gave the couple a minute’s privacy before Philip coughed loudly.

“Is the carriage packed and ready, Philip?” came Caroline’s voice from within.

“No,” said Philip, “but it will be very soon.”

“Then come back when it is. And close the door.”

The two gentlemen looked at each other in embarrassment. Darcy reached out and pulled the door shut. He cleared his throat. “It is the least we can do.”

“Umm… yes,” agreed his companion. “Did I see some chairs on the porch?”

“I believe you did,” said Darcy. “I do not think it too warm to sit outside. Do you?”

“Not at all. Very pleasant today.”

“Yes. Well…” Darcy gestured towards the outside door.

The two made their way outside, took their seats, and watched the coachman load the carriage.

Three colonels—one in red, two in blue—rode with the owner of the Darcy carriage through the streets of London on an uncommonly mild August afternoon. The four gentlemen were silent as the carriage made its way from the docks to the more fashionable part of town. Finally, the coachman brought it to a stop before the Buford townhouse. The gentlemen disembarked and climbed the few steps to the door. They were met in the foyer by the butler and Mrs. Albertine Buford.