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Recalling the training sergeant had said that Brown Bess had a thick stock and would not break if he used it as a club, William’s instincts as a blacksmith spurred him into motion while a mindless rage washed over him in a tide of red. They had killed his cousin, his best friend.

If I am to die in the yard today, I will take as many Frenchmen down with me as I can!

William raised his musket like a forge hammer, swinging it down with the force and precision of a smith beating iron on his anvil. Cracking it down, he raised it once more and swung it down. And raised it and swung again. And again.

When William’s rage slowly dissipated, he was panting from his exertions. He groggily returned to his senses from the anger and hatred that had engulfed his mind, to find that he now stood with dead French soldiers at his feet. The north gate was closed, and his fellow redcoats were frantically fighting the remaining enemy left within the yard.

It was like this every night. Every relentless night since the Battle of Waterloo. This was the part of his recurring nightmare when he threw back his head to roar all the pain, and loss, and regret shuddering through him. Charles was dead, and William had killed five men in close combat with the skills of his livelihood turned to abhorrent violence. He did not even know the men’s names. Would never know their names. Or if they had wives, children, parents who would grieve them.

This was the precise moment he would now make his vow to⁠—

Then he heard it, a melodic voice humming a Christmas carol.

Thus spoke the angel. Suddenly

appeared a shining throng

of angels praising God, who thus

addressed their joyful song:

‘All glory be to God on high,

and to the earth be peace;

to those on whom his favor rests

goodwill shall never cease.’

He frowned, hesitating, uncertain of what to make of the joyful holiday song here in this yard of death.

This was a fresh development. He had suffered this nightmare for more than five years. It had never deviated before. Every night, it was the same sequence of events. Over and over again, so that he was afraid to fall asleep. Afraid to revisit this yard.

William shook his head in befuddlement, then turned to discover the source of the song.

Approaching him was sunshine herself, draped in a flowing white gown. Her blonde hair was lit, her face serene as she walked toward him, paying no mind to the carnage at her feet. She sang as she neared him, and somehow the soldiers parted to let her through so she might come to a stop in front of him.

Caroline Brown looked up into his eyes and asked, “Did you count your blessings, William?”

“Blessings?” he echoed dumbly.

She shook her head at him, as if admonishing a forgetful child. “Life is hard. Counting your blessings makes it easier to find happiness in this world.”

His brow creased, and he found himself at a genuine loss as he stared down at his filthy pale pantaloons and muddy boots, while breathing in the stench of blood and gunpowder. Surely this was a jest? There was no possibility of hope or optimism to be found in a hell like this. Caroline could not possibly have any blessings of value to share with him.

“What blessings are to be found in this farmyard of death?”

Her pink lips curled into a smile, and William wondered if he was missing some vital clue. She seemed confident there was grace present. “There are always blessings to be counted. It is all about perspective.”

She held out a hand, and it was clean. And soft. And perfect. He did not wish to sully her by taking hold of it, but she merely stood there, waiting with a tilt of her head until he reluctantly reached out to clasp it. “Come with me, blacksmith.”

Leading him over to a fortified wall, she stepped up onto a barrel with his help, then gestured for him to take his place at her side. Gingerly, he climbed up and turned to where she was peering with a fascinated expression.

William’s eyes widened in amazement as he realized he was watching himself. Events unfolded once more, but this time he watched them from the side. He was no longer a participant in the battle.

The French sous-lieutenant broke through the north gate, wielding his steel axe in a triumphant charge.

Bluecoats followed him, flooding into the courtyard.