Chapter: In Which Jos Takes Flight, and the War Is Brought to a Close

We of peaceful London City have never beheld--and please God never
shall witness--such a scene of hurry and alarm, as that which Brussels
presented.  Crowds rushed to the Namur gate, from which direction the
noise proceeded, and many rode along the level chaussee, to be in
advance of any intelligence from the army.  Each man asked his
neighbour for news; and even great English lords and ladies
condescended to speak to persons whom they did not know.  The friends
of the French went abroad, wild with excitement, and prophesying the
triumph of their Emperor.  The merchants closed their shops, and came
out to swell the general chorus of alarm and clamour.  Women rushed to
the churches, and crowded the chapels, and knelt and prayed on the
flags and steps.  The dull sound of the cannon went on rolling,
rolling.  Presently carriages with travellers began to leave the town,
galloping away by the Ghent barrier.  The prophecies of the French
partisans began to pass for facts.  "He has cut the armies in two," it
was said.  "He is marching straight on Brussels.  He will overpower the
English, and be here to-night." "He will overpower the English,"
shrieked Isidor to his master, "and will be here to-night." The man
bounded in and out from the lodgings to the street, always returning
with some fresh particulars of disaster.  Jos's face grew paler and
paler. Alarm began to take entire possession of the stout civilian.
All the champagne he drank brought no courage to him.  Before sunset he
was worked up to such a pitch of nervousness as gratified his friend
Isidor to behold, who now counted surely upon the spoils of the owner
of the laced coat.

The women were away all this time.  After hearing the firing for a
moment, the stout Major's wife bethought her of her friend in the next
chamber, and ran in to watch, and if possible to console, Amelia.  The
idea that she had that helpless and gentle creature to protect, gave
additional strength to the natural courage of the honest Irishwoman.
She passed five hours by her friend's side, sometimes in remonstrance,
sometimes talking cheerfully, oftener in silence and terrified mental
supplication.  "I never let go her hand once," said the stout lady
afterwards, "until after sunset, when the firing was over." Pauline,
the bonne, was on her knees at church hard by, praying for son homme a
elle.

When the noise of the cannonading was over, Mrs. O'Dowd issued out of
Amelia's room into the parlour adjoining, where Jos sate with two
emptied flasks, and courage entirely gone.  Once or twice he had
ventured into his sister's bedroom, looking very much alarmed, and as
if he would say something.  But the Major's wife kept her place, and he
went away without disburthening himself of his speech.  He was ashamed
to tell her that he wanted to fly.

But when she made her appearance in the dining-room, where he sate in
the twilight in the cheerless company of his empty champagne bottles,
he began to open his mind to her.

"Mrs. O'Dowd," he said, "hadn't you better get Amelia ready?"

"Are you going to take her out for a walk?" said the Major's lady;
"sure she's too weak to stir."

"I--I've ordered the carriage," he said, "and--and post-horses; Isidor
is gone for them," Jos continued.

"What do you want with driving to-night?" answered the lady.  "Isn't
she better on her bed?  I've just got her to lie down."

"Get her up," said Jos; "she must get up, I say":  and he stamped his
foot energetically.  "I say the horses are ordered--yes, the horses are
ordered.  It's all over, and--"

"And what?" asked Mrs. O'Dowd.

"I'm off for Ghent," Jos answered.  "Everybody is going; there's a
place for you!  We shall start in half-an-hour."

The Major's wife looked at him with infinite scorn.  "I don't move till
O'Dowd gives me the route," said she. "You may go if you like, Mr.
Sedley; but, faith, Amelia and I stop here."

"She SHALL go," said Jos, with another stamp of his foot.  Mrs. O'Dowd
put herself with arms akimbo before the bedroom door.

"Is it her mother you're going to take her to?" she said; "or do you
want to go to Mamma yourself, Mr. Sedley?  Good marning--a pleasant
journey to ye, sir. Bon voyage, as they say, and take my counsel, and
shave off them mustachios, or they'll bring you into mischief."

"D--n!" yelled out Jos, wild with fear, rage, and mortification; and
Isidor came in at this juncture, swearing in his turn.  "Pas de
chevaux, sacre bleu!" hissed out the furious domestic.  All the horses
were gone.  Jos was not the only man in Brussels seized with panic that
day.

But Jos's fears, great and cruel as they were already, were destined to
increase to an almost frantic pitch before the night was over. It has
been mentioned how Pauline, the bonne, had son homme a elle also in the
ranks of the army that had gone out to meet the Emperor Napoleon.  This
lover was a native of Brussels, and a Belgian hussar.  The troops of
his nation signalised themselves in this war for anything but courage,
and young Van Cutsum, Pauline's admirer, was too good a soldier to
disobey his Colonel's orders to run away. Whilst in garrison at
Brussels young Regulus (he had been born in the revolutionary times)
found his great comfort, and passed almost all his leisure moments, in
Pauline's kitchen; and it was with pockets and holsters crammed full of
good things from her larder, that he had take leave of his weeping
sweetheart, to proceed upon the campaign a few days before.

As far as his regiment was concerned, this campaign was over now. They
had formed a part of the division under the command of his Sovereign
apparent, the Prince of Orange, and as respected length of swords and
mustachios, and the richness of uniform and equipments, Regulus and his
comrades looked to be as gallant a body of men as ever trumpet sounded
for.

When Ney dashed upon the advance of the allied troops, carrying one
position after the other, until the arrival of the great body of the
British army from Brussels changed the aspect of the combat of Quatre
Bras, the squadrons among which Regulus rode showed the greatest
activity in retreating before the French, and were dislodged from one
post and another which they occupied with perfect alacrity on their
part.  Their movements were only checked by the advance of the British
in their rear.  Thus forced to halt, the enemy's cavalry (whose
bloodthirsty obstinacy cannot be too severely reprehended) had at
length an opportunity of coming to close quarters with the brave
Belgians before them; who preferred to encounter the British rather
than the French, and at once turning tail rode through the English
regiments that were behind them, and scattered in all directions.  The
regiment in fact did not exist any more.  It was nowhere.  It had no
head-quarters.  Regulus found himself galloping many miles from the
field of action, entirely alone; and whither should he fly for refuge
so naturally as to that kitchen and those faithful arms in which
Pauline had so often welcomed him?

At some ten o'clock the clinking of a sabre might have been heard up
the stair of the house where the Osbornes occupied a story in the
continental fashion.  A knock might have been heard at the kitchen
door; and poor Pauline, come back from church, fainted almost with
terror as she opened it and saw before her her haggard hussar.  He
looked as pale as the midnight dragoon who came to disturb Leonora.
Pauline would have screamed, but that her cry would have called her
masters, and discovered her friend.  She stifled her scream, then, and
leading her hero into the kitchen, gave him beer, and the choice bits
from the dinner, which Jos had not had the heart to taste.  The hussar
showed he was no ghost by the prodigious quantity of flesh and beer
which he devoured--and during the mouthfuls he told his tale of
disaster.

His regiment had performed prodigies of courage, and had withstood for
a while the onset of the whole French army.  But they were overwhelmed
at last, as was the whole British army by this time. Ney destroyed each
regiment as it came up.  The Belgians in vain interposed to prevent the
butchery of the English.  The Brunswickers were routed and had
fled--their Duke was killed.  It was a general debacle.  He sought to
drown his sorrow for the defeat in floods of beer.

Isidor, who had come into the kitchen, heard the conversation and
rushed out to inform his master.  "It is all over," he shrieked to Jos.
"Milor Duke is a prisoner; the Duke of Brunswick is killed; the British
army is in full flight; there is only one man escaped, and he is in the
kitchen now--come and hear him." So Jos tottered into that apartment
where Regulus still sate on the kitchen table, and clung fast to his
flagon of beer.  In the best French which he could muster, and which
was in sooth of a very ungrammatical sort, Jos besought the hussar to
tell his tale.  The disasters deepened as Regulus spoke.  He was the
only man of his regiment not slain on the field. He had seen the Duke
of Brunswick fall, the black hussars fly, the Ecossais pounded down by
the cannon. "And the --th?" gasped Jos.

"Cut in pieces," said the hussar--upon which Pauline cried out, "O my
mistress, ma bonne petite dame," went off fairly into hysterics, and
filled the house with her screams.

Wild with terror, Mr. Sedley knew not how or where to seek for safety.
He rushed from the kitchen back to the sitting-room, and cast an
appealing look at Amelia's door, which Mrs. O'Dowd had closed and
locked in his face; but he remembered how scornfully the latter had
received him, and after pausing and listening for a brief space at the
door, he left it, and resolved to go into the street, for the first
time that day.  So, seizing a candle, he looked about for his
gold-laced cap, and found it lying in its usual place, on a
console-table, in the anteroom, placed before a mirror at which Jos
used to coquet, always giving his side-locks a twirl, and his cap the
proper cock over his eye, before he went forth to make appearance in
public.  Such is the force of habit, that even in the midst of his
terror he began mechanically to twiddle with his hair, and arrange the
cock of his hat.  Then he looked amazed at the pale face in the glass
before him, and especially at his mustachios, which had attained a rich
growth in the course of near seven weeks, since they had come into the
world.  They WILL mistake me for a military man, thought he,
remembering Isidor's warning as to the massacre with which all the
defeated British army was threatened; and staggering back to his
bedchamber, he began wildly pulling the bell which summoned his valet.

Isidor answered that summons.  Jos had sunk in a chair--he had torn off
his neckcloths, and turned down his collars, and was sitting with both
his hands lifted to his throat.

"Coupez-moi, Isidor," shouted he; "vite!  Coupez-moi!"

Isidor thought for a moment he had gone mad, and that he wished his
valet to cut his throat.

"Les moustaches," gasped Joe; "les moustaches--coupy, rasy, vite!"--his
French was of this sort--voluble, as we have said, but not
remarkable for grammar.

Isidor swept off the mustachios in no time with the razor, and heard
with inexpressible delight his master's orders that he should fetch a
hat and a plain coat.  "Ne porty ploo--habit militair--bonn--bonny a
voo, prenny dehors"--were Jos's words--the coat and cap were at last
his property.

This gift being made, Jos selected a plain black coat and waistcoat
from his stock, and put on a large white neckcloth, and a plain beaver.
If he could have got a shovel hat he would have worn it. As it was, you
would have fancied he was a flourishing, large parson of the Church of
England.

"Venny maintenong," he continued, "sweevy--ally--party--dong la roo."
And so having said, he plunged swiftly down the stairs of the house,
and passed into the street.

Although Regulus had vowed that he was the only man of his regiment or
of the allied army, almost, who had escaped being cut to pieces by Ney,
it appeared that his statement was incorrect, and that a good number
more of the supposed victims had survived the massacre. Many scores of
Regulus's comrades had found their way back to Brussels, and all
agreeing that they had run away--filled the whole town with an idea of
the defeat of the allies.  The arrival of the French was expected
hourly; the panic continued, and preparations for flight went on
everywhere.  No horses!  thought Jos, in terror. He made Isidor inquire
of scores of persons, whether they had any to lend or sell, and his
heart sank within him, at the negative answers returned everywhere.
Should he take the journey on foot?  Even fear could not render that
ponderous body so active.

Almost all the hotels occupied by the English in Brussels face the
Parc, and Jos wandered irresolutely about in this quarter, with crowds
of other people, oppressed as he was by fear and curiosity. Some
families he saw more happy than himself, having discovered a team of
horses, and rattling through the streets in retreat; others again there
were whose case was like his own, and who could not for any bribes or
entreaties procure the necessary means of flight. Amongst these
would-be fugitives, Jos remarked the Lady Bareacres and her daughter,
who sate in their carriage in the porte-cochere of their hotel, all
their imperials packed, and the only drawback to whose flight was the
same want of motive power which kept Jos stationary.

Rebecca Crawley occupied apartments in this hotel; and had before this
period had sundry hostile meetings with the ladies of the Bareacres
family.  My Lady Bareacres cut Mrs. Crawley on the stairs when they met
by chance; and in all places where the latter's name was mentioned,
spoke perseveringly ill of her neighbour.  The Countess was shocked at
the familiarity of General Tufto with the aide-de-camp's wife.  The
Lady Blanche avoided her as if she had been an infectious disease.
Only the Earl himself kept up a sly occasional acquaintance with her,
when out of the jurisdiction of his ladies.

Rebecca had her revenge now upon these insolent enemies.  If became
known in the hotel that Captain Crawley's horses had been left behind,
and when the panic began, Lady Bareacres condescended to send her maid
to the Captain's wife with her Ladyship's compliments, and a desire to
know the price of Mrs. Crawley's horses.  Mrs. Crawley returned a note
with her compliments, and an intimation that it was not her custom to
transact bargains with ladies' maids.

This curt reply brought the Earl in person to Becky's apartment; but he
could get no more success than the first ambassador.  "Send a lady's
maid to ME!" Mrs. Crawley cried in great anger; "why didn't my Lady
Bareacres tell me to go and saddle the horses!  Is it her Ladyship that
wants to escape, or her Ladyship's femme de chambre?" And this was all
the answer that the Earl bore back to his Countess.

What will not necessity do?  The Countess herself actually came to wait
upon Mrs. Crawley on the failure of her second envoy.  She entreated
her to name her own price; she even offered to invite Becky to
Bareacres House, if the latter would but give her the means of
returning to that residence.  Mrs. Crawley sneered at her.

"I don't want to be waited on by bailiffs in livery," she said; "you
will never get back though most probably--at least not you and your
diamonds together.  The French will have those. They will be here in two
hours, and I shall be half way to Ghent by that time.  I would not sell
you my horses, no, not for the two largest diamonds that your Ladyship
wore at the ball."  Lady Bareacres trembled with rage and terror.  The
diamonds were sewed into her habit, and secreted in my Lord's padding
and boots. "Woman, the diamonds are at the banker's, and I WILL have
the horses," she said.  Rebecca laughed in her face. The infuriate
Countess went below, and sate in her carriage; her maid, her courier,
and her husband were sent once more through the town, each to look for
cattle; and woe betide those who came last!  Her Ladyship was resolved
on departing the very instant the horses arrived from any quarter--with
her husband or without him.

Rebecca had the pleasure of seeing her Ladyship in the horseless
carriage, and keeping her eyes fixed upon her, and bewailing, in the
loudest tone of voice, the Countess's perplexities.  "Not to be able to
get horses!" she said, "and to have all those diamonds sewed into the
carriage cushions!  What a prize it will be for the French when they
come!--the carriage and the diamonds, I mean; not the lady!" She gave
this information to the landlord, to the servants, to the guests, and
the innumerable stragglers about the courtyard.  Lady Bareacres could
have shot her from the carriage window.

It was while enjoying the humiliation of her enemy that Rebecca caught
sight of Jos, who made towards her directly he perceived her.

That altered, frightened, fat face, told his secret well enough.  He
too wanted to fly, and was on the look-out for the means of escape. "HE
shall buy my horses," thought Rebecca, "and I'll ride the mare."

Jos walked up to his friend, and put the question for the hundredth
time during the past hour, "Did she know where horses were to be had?"

"What, YOU fly?" said Rebecca, with a laugh.  "I thought you were the
champion of all the ladies, Mr. Sedley."

"I--I'm not a military man," gasped he.

"And Amelia?--Who is to protect that poor little sister of yours?"
asked Rebecca.  "You surely would not desert her?"

"What good can I do her, suppose--suppose the enemy arrive?" Jos
answered.  "They'll spare the women; but my man tells me that they have
taken an oath to give no quarter to the men--the dastardly cowards."

"Horrid!" cried Rebecca, enjoying his perplexity.

"Besides, I don't want to desert her," cried the brother. "She SHAN'T
be deserted.  There is a seat for her in my carriage, and one for you,
dear Mrs. Crawley, if you will come; and if we can get horses--" sighed
he--

"I have two to sell," the lady said.  Jos could have flung himself into
her arms at the news.  "Get the carriage, Isidor," he cried; "we've
found them--we have found them."

"My horses never were in harness," added the lady. "Bullfinch would kick
the carriage to pieces, if you put him in the traces."

"But he is quiet to ride?" asked the civilian.

"As quiet as a lamb, and as fast as a hare," answered Rebecca.

"Do you think he is up to my weight?" Jos said.  He was already on his
back, in imagination, without ever so much as a thought for poor
Amelia.  What person who loved a horse-speculation could resist such a
temptation?

In reply, Rebecca asked him to come into her room, whither he followed
her quite breathless to conclude the bargain.  Jos seldom spent a
half-hour in his life which cost him so much money. Rebecca, measuring
the value of the goods which she had for sale by Jos's eagerness to
purchase, as well as by the scarcity of the article, put upon her
horses a price so prodigious as to make even the civilian draw back.
"She would sell both or neither," she said, resolutely.  Rawdon had
ordered her not to part with them for a price less than that which she
specified. Lord Bareacres below would give her the same money--and with
all her love and regard for the Sedley family, her dear Mr. Joseph must
conceive that poor people must live--nobody, in a word, could be more
affectionate, but more firm about the matter of business.

Jos ended by agreeing, as might be supposed of him. The sum he had to
give her was so large that he was obliged to ask for time; so large as
to be a little fortune to Rebecca, who rapidly calculated that with
this sum, and the sale of the residue of Rawdon's effects, and her
pension as a widow should he fall, she would now be absolutely
independent of the world, and might look her weeds steadily in the face.

Once or twice in the day she certainly had herself thought about
flying.  But her reason gave her better counsel.  "Suppose the French
do come," thought Becky, "what can they do to a poor officer's widow?
Bah!  the times of sacks and sieges are over.  We shall be let to go
home quietly, or I may live pleasantly abroad with a snug little
income."

Meanwhile Jos and Isidor went off to the stables to inspect the newly
purchased cattle.  Jos bade his man saddle the horses at once. He would
ride away that very night, that very hour.  And he left the valet busy
in getting the horses ready, and went homewards himself to prepare for
his departure.  It must be secret.  He would go to his chamber by the
back entrance.  He did not care to face Mrs. O'Dowd and Amelia, and own
to them that he was about to run.

By the time Jos's bargain with Rebecca was completed, and his horses
had been visited and examined, it was almost morning once more.  But
though midnight was long passed, there was no rest for the city; the
people were up, the lights in the houses flamed, crowds were still
about the doors, and the streets were busy.  Rumours of various natures
went still from mouth to mouth:  one report averred that the Prussians
had been utterly defeated; another that it was the English who had been
attacked and conquered:  a third that the latter had held their ground.
This last rumour gradually got strength.  No Frenchmen had made their
appearance.  Stragglers had come in from the army bringing reports more
and more favourable:  at last an aide-de-camp actually reached Brussels
with despatches for the Commandant of the place, who placarded
presently through the town an official announcement of the success of
the allies at Quatre Bras, and the entire repulse of the French under
Ney after a six hours' battle.  The aide-de-camp must have arrived
sometime while Jos and Rebecca were making their bargain together, or
the latter was inspecting his purchase.  When he reached his own hotel,
he found a score of its numerous inhabitants on the threshold
discoursing of the news; there was no doubt as to its truth.  And he
went up to communicate it to the ladies under his charge. He did not
think it was necessary to tell them how he had intended to take leave
of them, how he had bought horses, and what a price he had paid for
them.

But success or defeat was a minor matter to them, who had only thought
for the safety of those they loved. Amelia, at the news of the victory,
became still more agitated even than before.  She was for going that
moment to the army.  She besought her brother with tears to conduct her
thither.  Her doubts and terrors reached their paroxysm; and the poor
girl, who for many hours had been plunged into stupor, raved and ran
hither and thither in hysteric insanity--a piteous sight.  No man
writhing in pain on the hard-fought field fifteen miles off, where lay,
after their struggles, so many of the brave--no man suffered more
keenly than this poor harmless victim of the war.  Jos could not bear
the sight of her pain.  He left his sister in the charge of her stouter
female companion, and descended once more to the threshold of the
hotel, where everybody still lingered, and talked, and waited for more
news.

It grew to be broad daylight as they stood here, and fresh news began
to arrive from the war, brought by men who had been actors in the
scene.  Wagons and long country carts laden with wounded came rolling
into the town; ghastly groans came from within them, and haggard faces
looked up sadly from out of the straw.  Jos Sedley was looking at one
of these carriages with a painful curiosity--the moans of the people
within were frightful--the wearied horses could hardly pull the cart.
"Stop!  stop!" a feeble voice cried from the straw, and the carriage
stopped opposite Mr. Sedley's hotel.

"It is George, I know it is!" cried Amelia, rushing in a moment to the
balcony, with a pallid face and loose flowing hair.  It was not George,
however, but it was the next best thing:  it was news of him.

It was poor Tom Stubble, who had marched out of Brussels so gallantly
twenty-four hours before, bearing the colours of the regiment, which he
had defended very gallantly upon the field.  A French lancer had
speared the young ensign in the leg, who fell, still bravely holding to
his flag.  At the conclusion of the engagement, a place had been found
for the poor boy in a cart, and he had been brought back to Brussels.

"Mr. Sedley, Mr. Sedley!" cried the boy, faintly, and Jos came up
almost frightened at the appeal.  He had not at first distinguished who
it was that called him.

Little Tom Stubble held out his hot and feeble hand. "I'm to be taken
in here," he said.  "Osborne--and--and Dobbin said I was; and you are
to give the man two napoleons: my mother will pay you." This young
fellow's thoughts, during the long feverish hours passed in the cart,
had been wandering to his father's parsonage which he had quitted only
a few months before, and he had sometimes forgotten his pain in that
delirium.

The hotel was large, and the people kind, and all the inmates of the
cart were taken in and placed on various couches.  The young ensign was
conveyed upstairs to Osborne's quarters.  Amelia and the Major's wife
had rushed down to him, when the latter had recognised him from the
balcony.  You may fancy the feelings of these women when they were told
that the day was over, and both their husbands were safe; in what mute
rapture Amelia fell on her good friend's neck, and embraced her; in
what a grateful passion of prayer she fell on her knees, and thanked
the Power which had saved her husband.

Our young lady, in her fevered and nervous condition, could have had no
more salutary medicine prescribed for her by any physician than that
which chance put in her way.  She and Mrs. O'Dowd watched incessantly
by the wounded lad, whose pains were very severe, and in the duty thus
forced upon her, Amelia had not time to brood over her personal
anxieties, or to give herself up to her own fears and forebodings after
her wont.  The young patient told in his simple fashion the events of
the day, and the actions of our friends of the gallant --th.  They had
suffered severely.  They had lost very many officers and men.  The
Major's horse had been shot under him as the regiment charged, and they
all thought that O'Dowd was gone, and that Dobbin had got his majority,
until on their return from the charge to their old ground, the Major
was discovered seated on Pyramus's carcase, refreshing him-self from a
case-bottle.  It was Captain Osborne that cut down the French lancer
who had speared the ensign. Amelia turned so pale at the notion, that
Mrs. O'Dowd stopped the young ensign in this story.  And it was Captain
Dobbin who at the end of the day, though wounded himself, took up the
lad in his arms and carried him to the surgeon, and thence to the cart
which was to bring him back to Brussels.  And it was he who promised
the driver two louis if he would make his way to Mr. Sedley's hotel in
the city; and tell Mrs. Captain Osborne that the action was over, and
that her husband was unhurt and well.

"Indeed, but he has a good heart that William Dobbin," Mrs. O'Dowd
said, "though he is always laughing at me."

Young Stubble vowed there was not such another officer in the army, and
never ceased his praises of the senior captain, his modesty, his
kindness, and his admirable coolness in the field.  To these parts of
the conversation, Amelia lent a very distracted attention:  it was only
when George was spoken of that she listened, and when he was not
mentioned, she thought about him.

In tending her patient, and in thinking of the wonderful escapes of the
day before, her second day passed away not too slowly with Amelia.
There was only one man in the army for her:  and as long as he was
well, it must be owned that its movements interested her little. All
the reports which Jos brought from the streets fell very vaguely on her
ears; though they were sufficient to give that timorous gentleman, and
many other people then in Brussels, every disquiet.  The French had
been repulsed certainly, but it was after a severe and doubtful
struggle, and with only a division of the French army. The Emperor,
with the main body, was away at Ligny, where he had utterly annihilated
the Prussians, and was now free to bring his whole force to bear upon
the allies. The Duke of Wellington was retreating upon the capital, and
a great battle must be fought under its walls probably, of which the
chances were more than doubtful. The Duke of Wellington had but twenty
thousand British troops on whom he could rely, for the Germans were raw
militia, the Belgians disaffected, and with this handful his Grace had
to resist a hundred and fifty thousand men that had broken into Belgium
under Napoleon.  Under Napoleon!  What warrior was there, however
famous and skilful, that could fight at odds with him?

Jos thought of all these things, and trembled.  So did all the rest of
Brussels--where people felt that the fight of the day before was but
the prelude to the greater combat which was imminent.  One of the
armies opposed to the Emperor was scattered to the winds already.  The
few English that could be brought to resist him would perish at their
posts, and the conqueror would pass over their bodies into the city.
Woe be to those whom he found there! Addresses were prepared, public
functionaries assembled and debated secretly, apartments were got
ready, and tricoloured banners and triumphal emblems manufactured, to
welcome the arrival of His Majesty the Emperor and King.

The emigration still continued, and wherever families could find means
of departure, they fled.  When Jos, on the afternoon of the 17th of
June, went to Rebecca's hotel, he found that the great Bareacres'
carriage had at length rolled away from the porte-cochere.  The Earl
had procured a pair of horses somehow, in spite of Mrs. Crawley, and
was rolling on the road to Ghent.  Louis the Desired was getting ready
his portmanteau in that city, too.  It seemed as if Misfortune was
never tired of worrying into motion that unwieldy exile.

Jos felt that the delay of yesterday had been only a respite, and that
his dearly bought horses must of a surety be put into requisition.  His
agonies were very severe all this day.  As long as there was an English
army between Brussels and Napoleon, there was no need of immediate
flight; but he had his horses brought from their distant stables, to
the stables in the court-yard of the hotel where he lived; so that they
might be under his own eyes, and beyond the risk of violent abduction.
Isidor watched the stable-door constantly, and had the horses saddled,
to be ready for the start. He longed intensely for that event.

After the reception of the previous day, Rebecca did not care to come
near her dear Amelia.  She clipped the bouquet which George had brought
her, and gave fresh water to the flowers, and read over the letter
which he had sent her.  "Poor wretch," she said, twirling round the
little bit of paper in her fingers, "how I could crush her with
this!--and it is for a thing like this that she must break her heart,
forsooth--for a man who is stupid--a coxcomb--and who does not care for
her.  My poor good Rawdon is worth ten of this creature." And then she
fell to thinking what she should do if--if anything happened to poor
good Rawdon, and what a great piece of luck it was that he had left his
horses behind.

In the course of this day too, Mrs. Crawley, who saw not without anger
the Bareacres party drive off, bethought her of the precaution which
the Countess had taken, and did a little needlework for her own
advantage; she stitched away the major part of her trinkets, bills, and
bank-notes about her person, and so prepared, was ready for any
event--to fly if she thought fit, or to stay and welcome the conqueror,
were he Englishman or Frenchman.  And I am not sure that she did not
dream that night of becoming a duchess and Madame la Marechale, while
Rawdon wrapped in his cloak, and making his bivouac under the rain at
Mount Saint John, was thinking, with all the force of his heart, about
the little wife whom he had left behind him.

The next day was a Sunday.  And Mrs. Major O'Dowd had the satisfaction
of seeing both her patients refreshed in health and spirits by some
rest which they had taken during the night.  She herself had slept on a
great chair in Amelia's room, ready to wait upon her poor friend or the
ensign, should either need her nursing. When morning came, this robust
woman went back to the house where she and her Major had their billet;
and here performed an elaborate and splendid toilette, befitting the
day.  And it is very possible that whilst alone in that chamber, which
her husband had inhabited, and where his cap still lay on the pillow,
and his cane stood in the corner, one prayer at least was sent up to
Heaven for the welfare of the brave soldier, Michael O'Dowd.

When she returned she brought her prayer-book with her, and her uncle
the Dean's famous book of sermons, out of which she never failed to
read every Sabbath; not understanding all, haply, not pronouncing many
of the words aright, which were long and abstruse--for the Dean was a
learned man, and loved long Latin words--but with great gravity, vast
emphasis, and with tolerable correctness in the main.  How often has my
Mick listened to these sermons, she thought, and me reading in the
cabin of a calm!  She proposed to resume this exercise on the present
day, with Amelia and the wounded ensign for a congregation.  The same
service was read on that day in twenty thousand churches at the same
hour; and millions of British men and women, on their knees, implored
protection of the Father of all.

They did not hear the noise which disturbed our little congregation at
Brussels.  Much louder than that which had interrupted them two days
previously, as Mrs. O'Dowd was reading the service in her best voice,
the cannon of Waterloo began to roar.

When Jos heard that dreadful sound, he made up his mind that he would
bear this perpetual recurrence of terrors no longer, and would fly at
once.  He rushed into the sick man's room, where our three friends had
paused in their prayers, and further interrupted them by a passionate
appeal to Amelia.

"I can't stand it any more, Emmy," he said; "I won't stand it; and you
must come with me.  I have bought a horse for you--never mind at what
price--and you must dress and come with me, and ride behind Isidor."

"God forgive me, Mr. Sedley, but you are no better than a coward," Mrs.
O'Dowd said, laying down the book.

"I say come, Amelia," the civilian went on; "never mind what she says;
why are we to stop here and be butchered by the Frenchmen?"

"You forget the --th, my boy," said the little Stubble, the wounded
hero, from his bed--"and and you won't leave me, will you, Mrs. O'Dowd?"

"No, my dear fellow," said she, going up and kissing the boy.  "No harm
shall come to you while I stand by. I don't budge till I get the word
from Mick.  A pretty figure I'd be, wouldn't I, stuck behind that chap
on a pillion?"

This image caused the young patient to burst out laughing in his bed,
and even made Amelia smile.  "I don't ask her," Jos shouted out--"I
don't ask that--that Irishwoman, but you Amelia; once for all, will you
come?"

"Without my husband, Joseph?" Amelia said, with a look of wonder, and
gave her hand to the Major's wife. Jos's patience was exhausted.

"Good-bye, then," he said, shaking his fist in a rage, and slamming the
door by which he retreated.  And this time he really gave his order for
march:  and mounted in the court-yard.  Mrs. O'Dowd heard the
clattering hoofs of the horses as they issued from the gate; and
looking on, made many scornful remarks on poor Joseph as he rode down
the street with Isidor after him in the laced cap.  The horses, which
had not been exercised for some days, were lively, and sprang about the
street.  Jos, a clumsy and timid horseman, did not look to advantage in
the saddle.  "Look at him, Amelia dear, driving into the parlour
window.  Such a bull in a china-shop I never saw." And presently the
pair of riders disappeared at a canter down the street leading in the
direction of the Ghent road, Mrs. O'Dowd pursuing them with a fire of
sarcasm so long as they were in sight.

All that day from morning until past sunset, the cannon never ceased to
roar.  It was dark when the cannonading stopped all of a sudden.

All of us have read of what occurred during that interval.  The tale is
in every Englishman's mouth; and you and I, who were children when the
great battle was won and lost, are never tired of hearing and
recounting the history of that famous action.  Its remembrance rankles
still in the bosoms of millions of the countrymen of those brave men
who lost the day.  They pant for an opportunity of revenging that
humiliation; and if a contest, ending in a victory on their part,
should ensue, elating them in their turn, and leaving its cursed legacy
of hatred and rage behind to us, there is no end to the so-called glory
and shame, and to the alternations of successful and unsuccessful
murder, in which two high-spirited nations might engage.  Centuries
hence, we Frenchmen and Englishmen might be boasting and killing each
other still, carrying out bravely the Devil's code of honour.

All our friends took their share and fought like men in the great
field.  All day long, whilst the women were praying ten miles away, the
lines of the dauntless English infantry were receiving and repelling
the furious charges of the French horsemen.  Guns which were heard at
Brussels were ploughing up their ranks, and comrades falling, and the
resolute survivors closing in.  Towards evening, the attack of the
French, repeated and resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury.  They
had other foes besides the British to engage, or were preparing for a
final onset.  It came at last:  the columns of the Imperial Guard
marched up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep the
English from the height which they had maintained all day, and spite of
all:  unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which hurled death from
the English line--the dark rolling column pressed on and up the hill.
It seemed almost to crest the eminence, when it began to wave and
falter.  Then it stopped, still facing the shot.  Then at last the
English troops rushed from the post from which no enemy had been able
to dislodge them, and the Guard turned and fled.

No more firing was heard at Brussels--the pursuit rolled miles away.
Darkness came down on the field and city:  and Amelia was praying for
George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his
heart.

 Everyone in Brussels runs outside in alarm at the gunfire. Isidor keeps coming back with more and more bad news about the British and Jos is increasingly panicked. Finally he decides to flee the city and comes to take Amelia with him. At first Mrs. O'Dowd thinks he just wants to get her to go outside and is concerned that she's too sick to move. Then she mocks his cowardice and says they're not going anywhere till they hear from their husbands. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Pauline the maid sees her fiance Regulus, who is in the Belgian army, stumble in. According to him, he and his regiment deserted the field after being slaughtered by Napoleon's troops. The narrator makes an aside about the Belgians and their lack of bravery. In any case, listening to Regulus's tale, it sounds like the British are about to be beaten as well. Isidor and Jos listen and Jos really loses it. Jos gives Isidor his military-style coat and puts on civilian clothes. Then he orders Isidor to shave off his mustache. He tries to get horses for his carriage, but - oh no! - basic supply and demand kicks in here. Everyone is trying to flee, so there aren't enough horses to go around. Jos can't find any at all. Meanwhile, Becky is sitting pretty. She has three horses: one for herself and two that she can sell to the highest bidder. The first bidder is the Bareacres family. They've spent their whole time in Brussels ignoring and snubbing her, so now Becky gets to have her revenge. At first she won't talk to anyone but the actual Countess. Then, when the Countess shows up to bargain for the horses face to face, Becky won't sell them to her and laughs in her face. It's kind of awesome. In a funny conclusion to this little episode, the Countess, Count, and their daughter end up sitting inside their carriage, without horses, waiting for someone to bring them some. Becky sees Jos wandering around and decides to sell her horses to him. Knowing how high demand and how low supply is - and also seeing how scared and desperate to escape Jos is - Becky sells him the horses for a completely crazily overinflated price. It's so much money that the narrator won't even tell us how much...much like Jos will never tell anyone about it either. Jos brings the horses back to his own hotel, but just as he gets there the rumors shift. Suddenly there is new information that actually the British withstood the French assault after all. A few injured soldiers are brought back into town. One of them stops at Jos's hotel and turns out to be Stubble, one of George and Dobbin's ensigns. He is really badly hurt. Amelia and Mrs. O'Dowd start to take care of him, which makes Amelia feel better. Stubble tells them about the glorious battle, and lets everyone know that George, Major O'Dowd, and Dobbin are all fine. Still, whoever can flee the city is still doing so. It turns out this was just a minor victory, and now Napoleon is bringing the rest of his army to fight Wellington. The Bareacres family manages to somehow get a horse and leaves town. Becky sews her valuables into her clothing in case she has to flee suddenly. The next day Jos again begs Amelia and Mrs. O'Dowd to leave with him. They refuse, and he sets off by himself. Meanwhile the new battle is fought. And guess what it will come to be known? The Battle of Waterloo. So you can probably guess who loses. OK, we'll spell it out for you: Napoleon! People in Brussels are psyched. But the chapter ends with this crazy, totally unexpected paragraph: "No more firing was heard at Brussels - the pursuit rolled miles away. Darkness came down on the field and city: and Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart." Whoa. But also - touche, right? The guy who's obsessed with his appearance dies facedown in mud? The heartless guy gets shot through the heart? Well played, Thackeray.

