Chapter Sixteen: The Long March

 George's eyes appeared exhausted as his mounted figure led unlisted troops into the realm of Belgium. As the British colors were graced by the wind, his heart hurt for home. He felt his sister's absence and wondered how far Napolean would undertake his second attempt at the conquest of Europe. Dominion, George felt, mattered, but enough to kill other men? War is not only a game of painted figures holding toy bayonets; it often brings more destructive consequences than anyone can imagine. 

One of the officers turned to another. ''We are here, Waterloo,'' he said---the name sounded with bells and whistles, though hardly that of Christmastime. Hell was afoot, and heaven was only dreaming of now. Nearby and far off, men rushed against one another with swords as the lines behind them continued to add more gunsmoke. 

Mr. Somerset became disquite, however, upon his witness of several slain soldiers by a canon. Hearing the sounds of batteries in the distance, he knew his time for a great conflict was about to occur. 

Down the line, Peter Devonsham faced the cool earth, wet from the long, damp rain. Seeing George, he smiled; he enjoyed exposing the innocent to the world's cruelty. 

Helena's brother nearly fainted at the sight of the dead corpse across the road. It left a terrible vision in his presence and a wrenching feeling in his guts. No handsome uniform could prepare him for this day, nor beautiful banners. 

Heavy soil was blown up from the ground. Thick trees were tossed over by cannonballs. One young man was disturbed by the decay of nature that war brought today, and the thousands of lives taken by the red flags. 

The drums could be heard. As this English company arrived to join their regiment, George witnessed the collision of English and French forces on the battlefield. It was a spectacle, though not as he had hoped. He saw past the uniforms and banners, saw men as boys, boys dreaming of adventure, only to die in a reality that they could have never fathomed. 

George's eyes became as cold as wet glass. Tears rushed down his cheeks. His heart was still youthful and soft, like his sister's, alien to the cruelty of this barbarity. His informant felt hardly handsome now, seeing his English brothers swarmed by smoke and pistols, in the greatest confrontation of hell that he had ever seen. 

(some of the above may be used for the Waterloo battle). 

A lieutenant cursed the sounds. He drew his hands to his front, a tight formation around his chest. Then he faced his captain and said, ''Well, this is where it all begins.''

George didn't know how to respond. His state of birth had helped his position—those beneath his command knew more about war than he did. He simply nodded; what else could he do? For every gunfire, he recalled his childhood, his days playing with Helena, those days of innocence before youth was robbed of its joys by the evils of humanity. 

In the stead of violence, he realized he loved his sister more than his honor. His white steed was a symbol of her presence to him, its purity not yet forsaken by this hellish field. If war makes boys men, he felt, it is better to stay a boy and to remain ignorant of the impact canons and muskets can have on others' lives. 

Peter smirked at the collision. He was thrilled to see men as his chess pieces. To him, the bloodbath was a delight, a friction he could settle for. 

George's eyes, though, became filled with tears. He breathed as a man, though he loved as a boy. The sounds of canons and muskets presented this day as the end of time when God would judge the world. He saw no resurrected bodies today. However, only figures were torn and cut, lying in their own blood as their comrades fought to their own dying ends. 

''For Britain!'' many officers and enlisted shouted. 

Before George knew what he was doing, he was fighting in the front line of battle against the French forces coming his way. Smoke bypassed his figure, hiding what occurred with him next...

*      *      *

Helena felt that she had just witnessed the prior scene. Her heart was heavy, her head aching, and her soul distraught; she could not only consider Basil but where her brother was now. Lifting from the grass outside of her home, she recalled the day that Peter convinced her brother to become an officer in the royal army. Closing her eyes, Peter's attempts both toward her affection and George's welfare were aggravating. She withheld from speaking, knowing it was not within her order or sex to say how she really felt. She was compelled to speak as a sailor but retained the grace of a lady, an elegance and delicacy no man could ever learn to experience as did she. 

''Your brother?'' one of the maids asked. 

The young woman didn't answer. She rushed past her servant with her inhaled breath, imagining the faraway battle where her brother was present as if she had seen everything. 

''He is far from me, though never from my heart.''

The words sounded in her head from her gentle voice. Saddened by the thought of war, she was never accustomed, as some in her sex, of thinking only of parties and marriage. The world was far bigger, she believed. Helena was not blind to the world's evils but saw the earth through a pure lens---an optic in which she saw creation with no vile or malice on her part. She was as pure in the heart as she was in the flesh, and her purity shined with her---even when she wept for her brother. 

Nearby, Melbourne rushed through the grass and by her feet. Helena's tears befell the small, gray creature. Looking at her, he saw the sunlight even when she could not see it in herself. Comforted by its presence, she wept in front of it. 

Matthew saw his daughter cry from the garden window. Drawing his hands to his sides, he considered the little girl who had always meant so much to him. ''She is heaven's golden sun,'' he said, referring to her that name he and Mrs. Somersert referred to her at birth. 

''She weeps because it frees her of bondage. A heart softened to the sensitivity and care of others can still mourn. It is human to weep but immortal to love another as ourselves. Helena loves George as her own soul, a love not possible without Christ in her.'' 

Mrs. Somerset agreed. ''She is a voice of truth and a soul of innocence,'' she said. ''Helena is ever dear to all of us, as she should be. She is a good witness of womanhood to everyone, including the Barton sisters in Oxford, whom I know admire her deeply.'' 

The family considered George's pursuits in the war. They wished he were home with them, away from the many conflicts existing throughout France. 

''I pray,'' began Matthew, ''that George knows Helena's love, and if not, understands at least half of it. She loves him dearly, in the most enduring way a friend can. Today, she may weep over him in war, though I believe George will weep the day he sees his sister given away in marriage.'' 

Agnes bent down by the window. ''Soon, Matthew, we will be in London, perhaps meeting Basil. I wonder what Helena will think of such an encounter? After all, he had always been charming to her. Will she think the same of him now?''

Matthew smiled while drawing a chair to sit. ''We think often alike, my dear wife,'' he said. ''We can only speculate about what will happen. What is important now, however, is seeing that we meet the young man again. While none of us can predict the future, we can prepare for it. Helena would be most fond of seeing him again, and that matters very much to me.'' 

Once again, Agnes agreed. The Somerset couple had not only George to think of, but Helena. They desired her future happiness, whether that be through a marriage to Basil or something else. 

''London, let us head to London,'' said Agnes, getting to her feet. ''It is time we ensure the reunion of Basil and Helena at last.'' 

The words were the greatest change to their lives since the rise of Napoloean. Matthew wondered why, despite Helena and Basil's once-close friendship, the young boy had stayed apart from them for so long. Whatever Spring romance had blossomed between his daughter and the boy was infiltrated by mysteries that kept him on edge.