Page 56 of The Forbidden Love of an Officer
‘Prepare!’ Paul yelled over the noise. ‘Fire!’ Rifle shots rang out all around him as the third line of his men blasted the French.
He knew every inch of this terrain, and he had calculated in strides how long it would take the survivors to run and reach the British line. There would be time for two more rounds. Two more.
‘Ready!’ he yelled again, as the first row stepped through the third. ‘Fire!’ So many French men were charging over the brow now, they could not shoot them all.
They could fire one more round before the French would be upon them. He held his nerve, willing his men to do so too. They trusted him implicitly; he knew they would. ‘Prepare!’ The sound of rifles being lifted to shoulders and aimed repeated along the line either side of him. ‘Fire!’ The final shots were deafening, ringing in his ears. Paul looked into a man’s eyes and watched the man’s gaze shutter with pain, the light within his soul dying out. He fell.
There was no time for compassion. None for thought. Breathe and fight. That was all he must do. He lived as part of a whole on a battlefield. He was a soldier. A British soldier. Nothing else.
‘Draw arms!’ Paul yelled for his men to lower their rifles and present their bayonets. The enemy were too close now for bullets.
The French shouted, ‘Vive l’Empereur!’
‘Attack!’ Paul shouted.
‘On to victory!’ his men yelled. ‘Give them the bayonet!’ The words echoed over the cries of the wounded men they ran across, and blood streamed in rivers through the mud that squelched beneath Paul’s boots.
An unearthly cry came from behind Paul’s men, along with shrill hollers and whoops.
Paul looked back, as Picton’s Highlanders, the men who had been dancing jigs last night, came charging through the lines of Paul’s riflemen at a run, swords drawn.
The fighting was fierce. Paul held back, rather than waste himself by getting caught up with Picton’s men, he prepared to fight if the Highlanders failed.
Paul watched the Highlanders fight with a vicious energy in an unrelenting onslaught; they hacked and parried, pushing the French back, away from the 52nd riflemen. But then the sound of thundering hoof beats vibrated through the ground.
‘Form a square!’ Paul yelled to his men. ‘A square! Now! As swift as you can!’ The men ran about him. They rehearsed this manoeuvre over and over again, but in a battle, leaving any space in the square open would allow the horses through and from within it the cavalry could kill many men.
‘Retreat! Move among the 52nd!’ Picton called to his highlanders.
It was the turn of Paul’s men again. He shouted, ‘Make ready!’ Even as they moved into the square, the Highlanders ran into the middle of them for protection.
The men either side of him dropped to one knee, their rifles already raised to their shoulders ready to fire and bring the horses and their riders down. The brutally sharp bayonets on the end of the guns would be used to stab any cavalry man who dared to come closer.
Above Paul’s head, the regiment’s flag caught on the wind, held aloft by their pole bearer.
On all four sides of the square his men had formed, there were now men on one knee at the front of the square on every side. The last straggling Highlanders ran through their boundary as the cavalry came over the hill, their horses’ hooves trampling the dead and dying French soldiers.
Standing with a rifle, facing a man on a horse, was terrifying, if that man got too close there was no certainty you would survive… ‘Fire!’ Paul yelled. The cavalry were only paces away. Horses screamed and fell, writhing on the ground as Paul called his second line forward.
‘Present!’ Paul’s second line of soldiers lowered to one knee.
There were French men trapped beneath their horses, buried among the corpses already strewn across the ground, crying out to be saved.
‘Fire!’
Another volley, more men and horses fell. But there was no time for another, as the cavalry thundered into the front of his men. Swords slashed and hacked, while his men presented a boundary of lethally pointed bayonets. The metal glinted, catching the sunlight, trying to protect the Highlanders hidden within the square.
Two of the Highlanders had not made it to safety; Paul watched them be cut down on the field.
‘Present!’ Paul yelled, speaking to his third line. Those at the front were still kneeling, jabbing at the horses with the tips of the piercing blades on the ends of the rifles.
‘Fire!’
More horses and cavalry went down, some falling onto his men.
‘Make ready!’ he called again, determined to keep as many men as possible alive. Determined to win. ‘Fire!’ His mouth was dry and his voice hoarse from breathing in the gunpowder.
The French cavalry turned their horses and drew back. But he knew in a moment they would charge at his surviving square again. But his men were not alone. Along the brow of the hill, Paul could see other regiments also formed into squares, fighting just as hard.
