Marian could not bear to see her countrymen running away like the French had run from Hougoumont. Her chin trembled and her throat constricted with unspent tears.
‘I’ll be damned.’ The soldier whistled. ‘If that is not a sight.’
Marian opened her eyes.
The French, not the British, had broken from their lines and were running away. ‘I don’t understand. Why did they run?’
‘Who can tell?’ The soldier laughed. ‘Let’s be grateful they did.’
She was indeed grateful, but by now she knew not to ask if the battle was over. The French would try again and Napoleon was known to pull victory from the jaws of defeat.
Marian took a breath and mentally braced herself for whatever came next.
Allan rode the ridge. After taking MacDonnell’s message to Wellington, he searched for Picton, who seemed nowhere to be found. He’d settle for Tranville, then, for new orders. From the distance he’d seen the second siege of Hougoumont and gave a cheer when the French had again been repelled.
He reached his regiment, the Royal Scots, just as the French attacked. Artillery pummelled the French columns, but still men in the front ranks fought hard in hand-to-hand combat. Allan unsheathed his sword and rode into the thick of it.
The fighting was fierce and bloody. Fists flew and bayonets jabbed and the air filled with the thud of bodies slamming into each other, of grunts and growls and cries of pain. Allan slashed at the French soldiers, more than once slicing into their flesh as they were about to kill. They came at him, trying to pull him from his horse. He managed to keep both his horse and himself in one piece, but blood and mud splattered on to his clothing. By the time the French retreated his arm was leaden with fatigue, and he breathed hard from the effort of the battle.
For a mere moment he indulged in the relief of still being alive, but only for a moment. He quickly resumed his search for Picton and Tranville, but spied Gabriel Deane instead. He headed towards his friend. Gabe, too, would have fought without heed to his own survival and Allan said a silent prayer of thanks that he appeared unscathed. General Tranville had been always been unfair to Gabe, denying him promotion because Gabe’s father was in trade.
‘Gabe!’ he called. ‘Have you seen Picton?’
Gabe rode up to him. ‘Picton is dead. Shot right after he gave the order to attack.’
Allan bowed his head. ‘I am sorry to hear of it.’ The eccentric old soldier might have retired after this. ‘Where is Tranville, then?’
‘Struck down as well,’ Gabe answered.
‘Dead?’ Allan would not so strongly grieve if Tranville was lost.
Gabe shook his head. ‘I do not know. I saw him fall and I’ve not seen him since.’
Orders came for the cavalry to advance upon the retreating French. Allan and Gabe grew silent as they watched the Scots Greys ride out, like magnificent waves of the ocean on their great grey horses.
‘Perhaps we will win this after all,’ Gabe said.
They must win, Allan thought as they watched the cavalry pursue the French all the way to the line of their artillery. The Allies were on the side of all that was right. Napoleon had broken the peace, and too many men had already died to feed his vanity.
Gabe struck Allan on the arm and pointed to where French lancers approached from the side. ‘This cannot be good.’
‘Sound the retreat! ‘ Wellington’s order carried all the way to Allan and Gabe’s ears.
The bugler played the staccato rhythm that signalled an order to retreat, but it was too late. The cavalry were too far away to hear and too caught up in the excitement of routing the French infantry.
Allan and Gabe watched in horror as those gallant men were cut down by the lancers, whose fresh steeds outmatched the British cavalry’s blown ones.
‘Perhaps I spoke too soon of victory.’ Gabe’s voice turned low. He rode off to prepare his men for whatever came next.
Allan asked several other soldiers if they had seen Tranville. No one could confirm his death or his survival. He found the officer who had assumed Picton’s command.
‘I have messengers aplenty, Landon,’ the man said. ‘Make yourself useful wherever you see fit.’
Allan glanced towards Hougoumont, now being pounded by cannon fire. Dare he go there? See to the safety of one foolish woman over the needs of the many? He frowned. Cannon fire made Hougoumont even more dangerous, but perhaps if she stayed put as he’d asked she’d stay safe.
The cannon were also firing upon the infantry, and Wellington ordered them to move back behind the ridge and to lie down. Allan spied a whole regiment of Belgian troops deserting the field.
The cowards. Could they not see? The battle was far from over. Victory was still possible. The British had already captured thousands of French soldiers and were marching them toward Brussels.
Allan turned back again to Hougoumont, still being battered relentlessly.
Heading to the château became instantly impossible. A shout passed quickly through the ranks. ‘Form square! Form square!’
A battalion of men stood two to four ranks deep, forming the shape of a square and presenting bayonets. Cavalry horses would not charge into bayonets, so, as long as the square did not break in panic, cavalry were powerless against them.
Allan rode to the crest of the ridge to see what prompted the order. Masses of French soldiers rode towards him, their horses shoulder to shoulder, advancing at a steadily increasing pace.
What was Napoleon thinking? There was no infantry marching in support of the cavalry. This was insanity.
But it was very real. The French advance was so massive, it shook the ground like thunder. The vision of a thousand horses and men was as awe inspiring as it was foolish. Allan stood rapt at the sight. He almost waited too late to gallop to the nearest square.
The square opened like a hinged door to allow him inside.
Another officer rode up to him. ‘Captain Landon, good to see you in one piece.’
It was Lieutenant Vernon, whom he’d first met that ill-fated day at Badajoz. Vernon had been a mere ensign then. He had also been in the fighting at Quatre Bras two days ago. Gabe and Allan had run into him afterwards.
‘Same to you, Vernon,’ Allan said.
The roar of the French cavalry grew louder and shouts of ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ reached their ears. A moment later the plumes of the Cuirassier helmets became visible at the crest of the ridge.
‘Prepare to receive cavalry,’ the British officers shouted.
Horses and riders poured over the crest, some slipping in the mud or falling into the ditch below, but countless numbers of them galloped straight for the squares. The men in the front line crouched with bayonets thrust forwards; the back line stood ready to fire a volley.
All depended upon the men remaining steady in the face of the massed charge.
Allan rode to one side of the square. ‘Steady, men,’ he told them. ‘They cannot break you. Steady.’
The riders might have been willing to ride into the square, but the horses balked at the sight of the bayonets pointed towards them. They turned and galloped past, the men on their backs only able to fire a single pistol shot each.
The British infantry raked them with a barrage of musket fire, and the British cannon fire was unceasing. Smoke was everywhere, and through it the cries of wounded men.
Finally the cavalry retreated, but it was a short respite. They reformed and attacked again.
The