Death And Damnation: Book 2 Of Poacher's ProgressChapter 8: The Return To Waterloo free porn video
I came down to breakfast somewhat apprehensive as to how Annette would welcome me after the comedy of errors in the bedroom. However, she greeted me brightly and cheerfully.
“Good morning Jacques. I trust you slept well?”
There seemed to be no irony or sarcasm in the question.
“I slept well, Annette, and I hope you did the same?”
She nodded, smiling, and then poured me a cup of coffee. Woody, who was already seated at the table, first looked at me and then at her, and a slow grin spread across his face. He had realised Annette and I were now on a more intimate footing than yesterday, and had perhaps cemented that closer relationship between her bed sheets.
Woodrow Allen bore all the signs of a man who had obtained little sleep, but much pleasure, during the previous night. His jacket collar was turned up, but a livid love bite on his neck was partly visible. Mimi served us, and she wore a ‘kerchief about her throat, which no doubt hid a similar badge of passion. She also exuded the contented, satisfied air, of a woman who has been well and truly galloped. I had no doubt the other two girls in the kitchen would be similarly decorated, and sated. This only made my chagrin at not being able to accomplish the same for Annette more galling.
After breakfast Woody went to fetch the waggon and horses, and I saw him and all three girls exchanging passionate embraces at the stable door. Annette came and kissed me in the French way, with a buss on each cheek. As we watched the waggon approaching the front door, she suddenly dragged me into the hall, and, hidden from sight, gave me a hot, wet-tongued, passionate kiss of her own, which I returned with interest. We broke apart, gasping.
“The next time will be better, Jacques, I promise. God speed.”
She turned and ran upstairs, a handkerchief to her eyes, and I went outside and joined Woody on the waggon. As we drove through the gateway I saw the three girls waving on the steps, and Annette waving from her bedroom window.
After picking up the coffin from the Wallers carpenter our next stop was the undertaker’s in Valenciennes.
Hercule Hulot was a small, dapper man of about fifty years of age, with an air of geniality and joviality about him that was quite unlike the demeanour of any undertaker that I had ever known. He was however extremely business-like and efficient, and I arranged with him to deliver the body of Pierre Blanchard to his establishment before taking it on to Château Blanchard. The corpse might have decayed to such a point that even a skilled embalmer as Monsieur Hulot might find difficulty in making it suitable for viewing.
It was when I mentioned the fee for the embalming I received another surprise.
“There will be no fee, Major. I had the honour to serve with Brigadier Raoul Blanchard, Colonel as he was then, and a finer man you would never wish to meet. It will be a sad privilege and honour to prepare his son for the family tomb at Blanchard’s.”
He must have seen my start of surprise to learn that he had served in the army, for he smiled and said, with a face filled with pride.
“I was a furrier what you might know as a company clerk, in the demi-brigade commanded by Colonel Blanchard during the campaign in Northern Italy,. I probably used my musket and bayonet more often than my quill and ink pot, as Colonel Blanchard expected all of his men to be ready to stand in the battle line.”
A shadow passed over his face. “I thought my last hour had come at Rivoli. Murat’s cavalry saved my life, and Napoleon’s reputation, that day!”
The mention of Napoleon reminded me of my task, and I bid the undertaker farewell and set out for Waterloo.
I was not sure how custom officials would react to a corpse being brought across the border, so thought it best not to involve them. Annette had suggested I use one of the many forest tracks that led from Valenciennes to the Belgium border. We headed north from Valenciennes along a barely used track, through the darkly menacing forest.
“Hercule Hulot is a most extraordinary fellow. He has an extremely jovial and cheerful manner for an undertaker,” I said, making conversation as we threaded our way through the trees.
“Aye, and according to Mimi he has good cause to have such a happy disposition.” Woody did not enlarge on his statement, and I thought no more about it, as I continued to navigate through the forest.
Eventually the forest gave way to a more open, undulating, terrain, and ahead I could see what appeared to be a high road. I hoped we had crossed into Belgium and had arrived at the Tournai–Charleroi highway. We turned eastwards onto the road, and after a few miles of travel saw a signpost pointing towards Charleroi. Woody and I exchanged thankful looks, and we continued travelling east until darkness fell. A few miles west of Charleroi we stooped in a clearing, just off the road, and made camp for the night.
Woody unharnessed the horses, fed, watered, and then hobbled them, while I lit a fire and brewed some coffee. We had been supplied with provisions from the château kitchen, including a joint of cold roast beef, bread baked that morning, a hock of ham, a round of Cambrai cheese, and a small barrel of beer. Woody laughed when he saw the cheese.
“The girls stuff me full of that cheese all day long; then I stuff them with prime English beef all night!” He sat down and took the mug of coffee I passed him.
“Galloping three lively girls at the same time really does exhaust a man. When we return to Blanchard’s I shall gallop just two of them each night; the third girl can join you and Annette in bed.”
I snapped at him in a sudden fit of temper.
“Mind your manners, Sergeant Allen; you are dangerously close to insulting a lady I hold in high regard.”
My outburst was really occasioned by my failure to gallop Annette the previous night, and I envied Woody his experience of copulating, successfully and often, with the three girls. I was also troubled by the thought Annette may favour Woody over me. She had called him by his nickname long before she addressed me by my given name.
Truth to tell I was envious of Woodrow Allen; of his ease in getting between a woman’s thighs, –high or base born –and how quickly he gained the confidence and friendship of man, woman, or animal.
“I beg your pardon sir. It was an ill-conceived jest on my part, and I beg your, and Madame Blanchard’s, forgiveness.” He had been taken aback by my sudden outburst, but he still spoke civilly.
I had regretted what I had said to him almost before finishing speaking.
“No, Woody, it is I who should beg your pardon. I am in a bad humour, from my failure to give Annette a good galloping last night. Truth to tell I barely managed a walk, never mind a trot or a canter.”
“It is no wonder that you hadn’t the energy to gallop; you’d ploughed a field that day. Ploughing needs to be done regularly, to gain stamina and maintain skill—you’ve not done any ploughing for over a year.”
“Galloping requires the same preparation — and I have not galloped for over three months.” I added ruefully.
We munched on our provisions.
“Annette refers to the three maids she employs as ‘her girls’, or as ‘my girls’. Are they somehow related to her?” I said.
Woody finished drinking his beer before replying.
“Mimi and Chloe are sisters – in fact, they are twins, but not identical – and Matilde is their cousin. Their mothers were twin sisters employed on the Blanchard estate. All three girls were born in the same year as Pierre Blanchard, and they all grew up together. The year Bonaparte crowned himself Emperor the husbands of the two sisters were conscripted. Their wives followed them as vivandières, leaving the children behind. Madame Blanchard said she would look after the girls until their parents returned. They never did. Mimi’s father was killed in Spain; each time I gallop her I wonder if I was the man responsible for his death.”
He wiped his hand over his face, as if wiping away a bad thought.
“When Pierre was reported killed, Madame Blanchard made a new will, leaving the entire estate to the three girls, with the stipulation that the first son born to any one of them should be registered under the surname of Blanchard, and when reaching his majority the boy would become Master of Blanchard’s. In that way the family name will be preserved.”
“You had best be careful that all three don’t get in the family way. You gallop them every night, and sooner or later a bun will be left in an oven.”
“Country girls aren’t ignorant. They all use methods to prevent such an occurrence. Here they use a douche containing witch hazel and lavender–in Wiltshire Sarah Paylin at the Anchor used a potion from a wise woman containing ragwort and lupine seed—in Lincoln Mary Whitehouse used a concoction of goats milk and vinegar, –in Bordeaux, Zsa Zsa...”
I stopped him. “I do not need to hear any more, Woody—and what the devil is a ‘douche’?”
He told me, and I wondered at the ingenuity of women, and the extended knowledge of the female anatomy possessed by Woodrow Allen.
A light drizzle of rain awoke us next morning, and after seeing to the horses we made a quick breakfast and set off again. I intended following the Charleroi—Brussels road to Waterloo; Pierre Blanchard’s burial site was a little west of Château d’Hougoumont. I was relying on those compass bearings that I had taken, from the burial site on three prominent points of reference, to calculate the exact spot to dig and recover the body.
Charleroi had been left well behind when Woody, who was sat in the back of the waggon, said.
“There’s a party of horsemen who seem to be following us. They go at the same speed as us and make no effort to overtake.”
“Not everyone rides at breakneck speed. They may have a long ride ahead of them and are sparing their horses.”
Some hours later we came to Quatre Bras, and both Woody and I recalled the horror and terror of that day. I could not determine, from being sat on the buck board, in which field we had been attacked by the cuirassiers. I pulled the waggon over to the side of the road and stood up to get a better view. One of the farmhouses which we had been advancing towards when the cuirassiers struck us was in my field of vision, but today we had approached Quatre Bras from a different direction than in 1815, so I could not quite orient myself.
I had just sat down, ready to whip up the horses, when Woody said.
“Those horsemen stopped when we stopped, and I don’t think they were viewing the battlefield. They are definitely following us, and there are four of them.”
I still thought him being unduly concerned, but said nothing and slapped the reins, and we started off. It would be at least another four hours before reaching Château d’Hougoumont, therefore I decided to test Woody’s theory.
We would stop in an hour, and rest the horses while observing the actions of the horsemen, this would put our, or rather Woody’s, mind at rest.
I pulled the waggon under some young elm trees, and unharnessed the horses while Woody kept watch on the horsemen.
“They are still following,” he hissed. I built a fire, and put the billy can on to boil, while he kept up a commentary.
“They’ve stopped—no, they start again. They are a furlong away and moving at a trot.”
I had just put the nose bags containing some oats and bran on the two Percherons when the four riders drew alongside. The leading rider was a man of about sixty years of age, with the thin, menacing, face of a ferret. He wore a black, all enveloping, riding cloak, and an unfashionable tricorne hat. His posture in the saddle hinted at military service at some time.
As he pulled his horse to a stop alongside me I noticed a thin white scar on his right cheek, which was quite conspicuous against his saturnine complexion. It ran from the side of his mouth to the corner of his eye, and the wound must have caused damage to the muscles under his cheek, for his right eye drooped downwards slightly, while the side of his mouth had an upward slant—giving him a permanent leer. He spoke, in good English with only a faint French accent.
“You drive a well matched pair of horses, what price do you ask for them?”
“They do not belong to me, and are not for sale.” I replied, rather curtly it must be said.
The other three riders continued riding past, shooting me and Woody sour looks from under their hat brims, which were pulled well down over their faces.
“A pity. They are as fine a pair of Percherons I have seen.” He raised his hat, and rode on after his companions.
“There,” I said, turning to Woody. “Just a man interested in horseflesh—your concern was unnecessary.”
“How did he know you were English?” He said.
I felt the first chill of apprehension, and wished we had brought weapons with us on the journey.
Three hours later we were in front of the Château d’Hougoumont. The damage sustained in the battle had not been repaired, and it lay derelict.
The blackened timbers of the roof beams were stark reminders of the struggle that had taken place; all the windows were shattered, and cannon balls had left gaping holes in the walls. The orchard was a mass of splintered trees and broken walls, and the gardens overgrown and untended.
I had come across the body of Pierre Blanchard, surrounded by dead Chasseurs of the Guard, in a shallow valley to the west of the château. I assumed the platoon commanded by him had been separated from their battalion, which had struck the 1st Foot Guards just to the north, or else he was trying to flank the 52nd Light Infantry, who were the eventual nemesis of the 4th Chasseurs.
Whatever, the party had been enfiladed by an artillery battery sited on the ridge by Braine l’Alleud, and had perished to a man.
I will not bore you with the minutiae of how Woody and I relocated the grave of Pierre Blanchard. Suffice it to say it involved using the theodolite—after calculating back bearings from my original compass bearings—and marker poles. From each of the three prominent reference points, taken note of when burying the lad, we established a line of marker poles. Where these three lines intersected would give an indication of the location of the grave. I say’ indication’ as an exact location depended on the accuracy of my initial compass bearings, and how skilfully I had manipulated the theodolite.
It was a slow business, and the sun was low in the sky and the shadows lengthening by the time we had obtained an intersection of the three lines of poles. I laid twine between the nearer poles to the intersection, marking out an area of approximately five square yards.
I was quite confident that the grave would be found within this area. Woody returned the marker poles to the waggon, and picked up the lanterns we had bought with us, as the digging would now be carried out in dark.
I had begun clearing the ground with a mattock when a sudden shout made me look up. Woody, pinioned by two of the riders we had met earlier, was being dragged towards me. The sound of horse’s hoof beats spun me around, to see the other two horsemen behind me.
“Well met, Major Greenaway. Your activity has had me enthralled, but time is getting on, and I fear I must hurry you.”
It was the man with the scar who addressed me.
“Who the devil are you sir? How is it a damned foreigner knows my name? And let go of my man!” I replied in a blustering tone, hoping to give the impression of a typical Englishman when dealing with foreigners.
“I thank you for showing us the grave-site, all you need to do now is dig down to the body.” He said, in French.
I had to give the impression of not understanding what he had said.
“There’s no point in giving me answers in that foreign lingo of yours, whatever it is. I speak only English, sir, as do all civilised men!”
He smiled grimly. “Ah, you English, so insular. However my name does not concern you. What does concern you is that we have been waiting these past three days in Charleroi for you to show up.”
“You’ve followed me from Charleroi—why?”
“I’ve followed you from eighteen Queen Street.”
He smiled broadly at my astonishment that I had been under his eye since leaving London.
“I see that you have cozened Madame Blanchard out of her prize Percherons. Doubtless you cozened yourself into her boudoir, hence your delay in arriving here. You, and your man, will now dig down and uncover the body of that dear lady’s son. I will then take possession of my property, and you, and the Percherons, will be free to travel back to England. Selling them will recompense you for the money you may have spent out on this enterprise.”
I had no idea of what he meant; to what property did he refer? The only possessions of Pierre Blanchard had been removed from his body.
The scar-faced man was obviously the leader of the gang, as the other three ruffians merely watched Woody and me with cocked pistols and menacing looks, and took no part in the conversation. It appeared they were all former members of the French Imperial Guard, as all three wore an earring in their right ear, and the hair braids that denoted members of Bonaparte’s elite.
The scar faced man suddenly barked out an order in French.
“Pissoir, come here!”
A hooked nosed man, with a face that would curdle milk, ran over to him.
“Yes, Colonel?”
“We have spent too much time waiting for these rosbifs. You and I must leave immediately. I have a meeting in London in two days’ time concerning ‘Free the Emperor’, but unfortunately I think we were recognised at the border crossing, and would probably be arrested if we tried to reach Calais. You will ride to Ostend and take passage to England. I will make for Nieuport and do likewise, and we will meet at the Le Coque Francais.”
Elle
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