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

battle-fatigued British regiments were huddled beneath makeshift tents, hoping to find protection against the rain that would surely come. In the distance the sound of sporadic gunfire cut through the night as snipers from both sides exchanged volleys.
    A jagged streak of lightning danced tumultuously across the sky, and a strange hush intruded upon the land. The first drops of rain fell heavily earthward, soaking into the fertile farmland.
    Col. Raile DeWinter pulled his greatcoat about him and headed toward the bivouac fires. He had ridden for two days to join his troops, and had been in two skirmishes along the way.
    As he walked along, his silver spurs jingled, because had been too exhausted to remove them.
    He nodded to a group of soldiers who scurried to their feet to salute.
    “At ease, men. Save your strength for the battle tomorrow,” Raile instructed them.
    He paused at the entrance of his tent to gaze across the encampment and beyond to the woods. The outriders had reported that Napoleon and his forces were in hot pursuit of Wellington. In the morning they would undoubtedly clash with the enemy. Many of the soldiers camped there tonight would be dead by this time tomorrow.
    Victory would belong to the strongest, and Raile, like most of the British, would place his faith in Wellington.
    “We’ll give them frogs hell tomorrow, Colonel!” one of the soldiers, who was intent on polishing the brass buttons on his tattered uniform, cried out with enthusiasm.
    Raile studied the man carefully. He was young, hardly old enough to shave. His clothes were wet, and he must be cold and miserable, but there was an eagerness reflected in his eyes that Raile envied.
    “That we will, Private. If we didn’t believe that, we wouldn’t be here.”
    The 34th Regiment of the Light Dragoons had been under Raile’s command since the Portuguese Campaign, and he had every reason to be satisfied by the performance of his men, for they had covered themselves with honors. Even though their uniforms were tattered and muddy and their faces were etched with fatigue, something in their eyes told Raile they would give their all in the battle ahead.
    “Will it be over tomorrow, sir?” the young private asked, wanting reassurance from his commander. “Can we stop Bonaparte this time?”
    “I believe, as General Wellington does, that we shall deal a stunning blow to Napoleon. If the Prussians arrive, we shall most certainly be victorious,” Raile replied matter-of-factly.
    He moved into his tent and nodded to his valet, Oliver Stewart.
    There was a hint of reproof in Oliver’s greeting. “I expected you earlier, Colonel.”
    “I would have been here by noon but for the pockets of resistance we encountered along the way,” Raile said wearily. He unbuttoned his red tunic. “The woods are crawling with the enemy.”
    “Here,” Oliver said, rushing forward and removing Raile’s coat. “I’ll do that for you, sir. You’re soaked to the bone. You’ll surely catch your death.”
    “You fuss too much,” Raile stated, dropping down on the edge of his cot while Oliver removed his muddy boots.
    “Have you eaten, Colonel?”
    “I don’t want anything,” he said, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. “I just need to rest.”
    Oliver saw the tired lines under Raile’s eyes and nodded in agreement. “Your boots will be needing a shine, Colonel. You’ll want to look your best tomorrow.”
    Raile struggled out of his tunic and fell back. “Get some sleep yourself, Oliver. Tomorrow will test the fortitude of us all.”
    The devoted servant, with the muddy boots dangling from his fingers and the discarded clothing under his arm, extinguished the lantern and withdrew.
    Raile closed his eyes, wishing sleep would come. If only he could turn his thoughts off, but for some reason, persistent memories from the past plodded through his mind, denying him rest. He drew in a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the impending battle. The French