Song Of The Nightingale (DeWinter's Song 1) Read Online Free PDF

witnessing the Corsican’s demise, Oliver. He will not recover from this last folly.”
    Raile glanced at the battlefield that was littered with dead bodies of men and horses—comrades and enemies alike. “So many dead—it all seems so senseless—“
    He was placed in a cart with other wounded to be transported to the nearby field hospital. Oliver sat beside him and cushioned his head as the rig jostled over rutted roads. The pain became too great and Raile was again enveloped in darkness.
     
    In the early hours of the morning, the surgeon’s knife removed the musket fragment from Raile’s leg, but the head wound was another matter. The surgeon cleansed it and bandaged it before turning to a worried Oliver.
    “I’ve done all I can for him,” he said, wiping his bloody hands on his apron. “The rest is up to God.”
    “He’s strong, he’ll make it,” Oliver said with conviction.
    “If I were a betting man, and I’m not, I’d say he won’t. His head wound is deep, and there was a fragment I dared not remove, fearing it pressed too close to the brain. Even if by some miracle he does live, he may be mindless or even blind.”
    Oliver grasped the doctor by the arm. “You have to save him. He is a man like no other—brave and courageous—a hero.”
    The doctor flexed his aching muscles and glanced at the rows of cots filled with the wounded and dying. “Every man you see here is a hero, but most of them will die, as I’m sure will this man.”
    Throughout the long hours of the day and into the night, Oliver kept his vigil, while outside the hospital tent the victorious soldiers of the 34th Regiment of the Light Dragoons waited in the rain to hear if their commanding officer would live or die.
     
     
    At sunrise the next day it was still dark as dense clouds covered the sun. By midmorning a feeling of gloom hung over the men of the 34th Regiment when they were ordered to move out with the other troops, leaving their commanding officer behind without knowing his fate.
    Oliver sat beside Raile, watching the rain pound against the window as his comrades departed.
    It was late afternoon when a British officer appeared at Raile’s bedside. The valet quickly came to attention, buttoning his tunic and trying to smooth down his disheveled hair.
    “Stand easy, soldier,” the man said, staring down at Raile. At last he turned his attention to the valet. “I am General Greenleigh of General Wellington’s staff. He has sent me to inquire about Colonel DeWinter’s condition.”
    “The doctor holds out little hope that he will survive, sir.”
    “Your colonel covered himself with glory in the battle yesterday.”
    “Yes, sir, that he did,” Oliver agreed with pride. “He was an inspiration to us all.”
    “General Wellington knows of his heroism and will see that he is duly commended.”
    Oliver met the general’s sympathetic gaze. “Little good the glory will do him if he’s dead, sir.”
    General Greenleigh stared at the tip of his own shiny boots. “I was ordered by Wellington himself to see that Colonel DeWinter is transferred to Brussels, where he will receive the best medical care.”
    “I’m not certain he could survive such a journey, sir.”
    “General Wellington has placed at your disposal one of his own coaches, which you will find well sprung. The fact that Colonel DeWinter is unconscious could prove a blessing. He will not feel the discomfort of the journey.”
    Oliver nodded grimly, wondering if the colonel would live long enough to reach the hospital.
    The doctor appeared beside General Greenleigh and sadly shook his head. “He’ll be gone within the hour, General.”
    “Oh, well,” the officer said absently, his thoughts already on other matters. “I shall write the necessary letters to his family. Damned shame. He was a good man.”
    Oliver glanced down at Raile, who was pale and pain-racked, his breathing deep and labored.
    “You’ll fool them all,” the valet said, feeling