Jack Caldwell - The Three Colonels

Marianne embraced the younger man. “May you obtain your heart’s desire, Colonel.”

“All things in God’s time,” he replied with a grin. Denny estimated that Lydia would require only six months of mourning before she would allow him to make his intentions known.

Christopher and Sir Richard shook each other’s hands. “Congrat-ulations, Fitz. I know you will be happy.”

“Thank you, Brandon. Give my love to that daughter of yours. Marianne, farewell.”

She kissed his cheek. “Until the wedding, I suppose. I am so happy for you and Anne! Safe journey.” She turned, and Brandon helped her back into the carriage.

Christopher turned back to the others, one foot in the carriage. “Good-bye, friends! Drive on, driver!”

As the carriage moved away, Marianne moved into her husband’s arms, a place she planned to spend much time in the future—perhaps the rest of her life.

“I cannot help thinking of poor Sir John. Had it been you—oh, I cannot bear it! I shall speak of it no more!”

“Hush, m’love. Do not worry. I have put in my papers. I will fight no more forever.”

“I was so proud of you yet frightened for you at the same time. I might be a coward, but I want you home in our bed, never to leave again.”

He kissed her tenderly. “I wish to be nowhere else, my Marianne,”—he started to smile—“although it will be a crowded place soon, I trust. When is the baby due?”

“Around New Years. Maybe it will be a Christmas baby.”

Christopher counted backwards. “After, I should think.”

“Perhaps. Do you think Joy will like a baby brother?”

“You do not know it will be a boy.”

“I was right about the other thing. You must trust me on this.”

Christopher gave up with an amused shake of his head. After all, she might be right. “I have but one request. If the babe is a boy, his name must be John Richard.”

She looked at his face with tears in her eyes. “Perfect—and Sir John and Caroline shall be his godparents.”

As Christopher bent to kiss her again, he murmured, “Perfect.”

There were no more sounds from the Brandon carriage as it rolled through the London night towards home and Joy.

The emperor stood on the deck of the Northumberland, a seventy-four-gun, third-rate ship-of-the-line, one hand holding a stay, fighting off seasickness while surveying the horizon for his new realm. He was as rigid as stone; the only movement of his body was his eyes. Three months to the day had passed since he stepped upon the deck of the HMS Bellerophon off Rochefort and into the hands of his enemies.

The officer of the deck, the ship’s second lieutenant, was at his station upon the quarterdeck, trying to keep his mind on his business. Yet, the young Englishman could not prevent his eyes from returning to the living statue. He knew all aboard had been ordered to refer to the ship’s honored guest as “Monsieur” or “General,” rather than some of the less-flattering names British tars had devised for the Destroyer of Mankind. However, the lieutenant could not think of the man as anything but the emperor.

The lieutenant wondered what the emperor was thinking. Once, this man was Emperor of the French, near-conqueror of Europe, the most dangerous and feared man in the world. Now, he was a powerless prisoner on his way to exile.

There would be no escape for him from this prison, the lieutenant reflected. Saint Helena was in the middle of the bloody South Atlantic Ocean.

To make sure that the emperor would spend his last days there, the lords of the Admiralty had decreed that a squadron of warships should keep station off the god-forsaken piece of rock until Monsieur Bonaparte was no more.

“LAND HO!” cried the lookout.

“WHERE AWAY?” returned the lieutenant.

“TWO POINTS OFF THE STARBOARD BOW!”

A half-dozen telescopes were clapped to a half-dozen eyes, but it was useless. From the deck, the island was still below the horizon. As he lowered his instrument, the lieutenant noticed that the statue had come to life. The emperor strained to see the isle, standing on tiptoe. The officer almost handed him the telescope but thought the better of it.

Turning to a midshipman, the lieutenant said, “Give the captain my compliments and report land two points off the starboard bow.”

The youngster repeated the order and scurried below decks. Within minutes, the captain was on deck, placing his hat on his head and ignoring the salute, all the off-duty officers following in his wake.

By now, the emperor was completely still again.

“Where away?” the captain demanded.

The lieutenant pointed out the reported direction as others, mainly the emperor’s entourage, emerged from below and began to fill the decks. Patiently, the captain peered through his telescope until the island was revealed. By now, those on deck could make out the dark spot on the horizon.

Turning to the midshipman, the captain said, “My compliments to the admiral and report that we have raised Saint Helena.” The lad saluted and left.

In the minutes that followed, as the Northumberland sailed on, Saint Helena was shown to be the ugliest and most dismal rock conceivable, rising like an enormous black wart from the bowels of the deep. The emperor and all aboard watched in silence as the ship grew ever closer to the ends of the earth.

The End

Austen, Jane, Pride and Prejudice

———,Sense and Sensibility

Coote, Stephen, Napoleon and the Hundred Days, 2005

Cornwell, Bernard, Waterloo, 1990

Heyer, Georgette, An Infamous Army: A Novel of Wellington, Waterloo, Love and War, 1937

Moore, Richard, The Napoleonic Guide, 1999–2009 www.napoleonguide.com

O’Brian, Patrick, The Hundred Days, 1998

Roberts, Andrew, Napoleon & Wellington, 2001

———, Waterloo, 2005

Schneider, John, Napoleonic Literature, The Anglo-Allied Army Order of Battle, 1996–2010 www.napoleonic-literature.com/Waterloo_OB/Allied.htm

———, Napoleonic Literature, L’Armée du Nord Order of Battle, 1996–2010 www.napoleonic-literature.com/Waterloo_OB/French.htm

My thanks go to Debbie Styne, Ellen Pickels, Mary Anne Mushatt, Sarah Hunt, Grace Regan, and Amy Robertson, who worked endless hours editing this work.

I could not have done it without all of you. 

Jack Caldwell, a native of Louisiana living in the Midwest, is an author, amateur historian, professional economic developer, playwright, and, like many Cajuns, a darn good cook. Mr. Caldwell has been a history buff and a fan of Miss Austen for many years. He is the author of Pemberley Ranch. A devout convert to Roman Catholicism, he is married with three sons.