Page 57 of The Forbidden Love of an Officer
The bombardment went on for hours, as they repelled line after line of the French, and after a while he heard the cannon booming to the north of them again. But there was no time for fear. No time to wonder if they would survive – if the French would tire before he did. Only time to fight.
‘Fire!’ he called again, his throat painful with thirst.
They would run out of ammunition soon.
‘Fire!’
He could see his men were pale and worn.
‘Fire!’
How many more men did the French have?
‘Fire!’
Another charge of cavalry came over the hill, a fresh wave. But there was only a single battalion charging against Paul’s square and the others that he could see.
There must be many more Allied squares he could not see along the line of the hill.
‘Fire!’ he yelled.
The volley rang out, denying the yells of those charging towards him, their horses’ hooves pounding over the dead and wounded at a gallop. The horses were already blowing, they must have been raced at a gallop all the way up the hill.
‘Make ready!’ Even with another wave of cavalry charging towards them, even though they must be tired to their bones, Paul’s men did not falter. They stayed steady, bayonets held upwards and rifles hurriedly recharged.
‘Present!’
‘Fire!’
More French went down.
‘Make ready!’
Paul prayed for it to be over. His men could not hold much longer, but this new French charge was already thinning.
Instead of attacking directly, the French sought to pass between the squares of the Allied lines and ride on over the hill.
‘Present! Left! Right!’ he yelled. The same call came from the squares beside his. Shots rang out, bringing down a dozen men or more from their horses.
The next row of rifles rose. ‘Fire!’ Another volley and a dozen more men and horses went down as other horses reared and their cries reverberated on the air.
‘Make ready!’ Paul called again; the French onslaught had slowed, though. Those remaining turned their horses and raced away.
His heart leapt, and energy – which had been non-existent a moment before – flooded into his arteries, as adrenalin pulsed into his limbs.
‘Attack! Attack!’ The cry came from a man on a horse racing at a gallop behind the lines. ‘Wellington bids you attack!’
The square closest to the rider was already breaking up, men rising and dispersing – men who had knelt for hours at the front with bayonets, stood, and were now charging forward on unsteady legs.
‘Attack!’ Paul took up the cry, beckoning his men to move forward and release the Highlanders from within. ‘Attack!’
In moments, they were running, with energy only a quarter hour ago he would not have thought they had. ‘Attack!’ he yelled again to keep his men on their feet and moving. ‘Attack!’ The cry came from the right of his regiment now too, as the British army raced forward, running over bodies, as though bodies were no more than mud or grass, forcing the French to withdraw further and further back.
Within an hour they were no longer charging but walking, claiming more ground, as the French continued pulling back. The light turned from day to early dusk then twilight, before slipping further and further towards night. It was then the call came to camp. But there were no tents to be put up. Small fires were lit from gathered wood, and he and his men, and others further along the line crowded about them, exhausted from battle, and haunted by death, and lay down on the cold hard ground.
It was only then he thought of Ellen, left behind in Brussels. Dread ate into his empty stomach.She must be afraid for me.He whispered silent prayers for her and for his return to her before his eyes closed. When they did, he thought of her soft, beautiful body, of sleeping with her warmth and softness against him. Even thinking of her soothed his soul and freed him from the memories of the fight and the faces of the dead men.
Exhaustion and darkness claimed him.
