Belgium, late May 1815 It had been a month since Thomas left the Farm, and the green peace of Spain now seemed like a hallucination—a dream conjured under silk sheets and candlelight. Here, in the churned mud of Belgium, there were no velvet walls, no warm hearths. Only smoke, sweat, and the thunder of boots against ruined roads. The Rifle Brigade had received him with mixed eyes—respect for the insignia on his shoulder,...