Page 29 of The Forbidden Love of an Officer (The Marlow Family #7)

‘Rise up!’ The lieutenant colonel’s voice reached through the trees, strong and definite. ‘Rise up!’

The cannons had begun pounding at about one o’clock, but Paul, and his men, had not been among the fighting yet. His orders had been to remain in the woods, on the Namur road, just north of Lac Materne. The regiment’s role was to defend the road in case the French broke through.

Paul had been lying down amongst his men for hours, beside the sunken road, hiding among the trees, to avoid becoming targets for the cannon fire.

He had not been able to see over the brow of the hill.

He had lain here listening to the battle unfolding a short distance away from him, rejecting every urge to stand up without an order.

They might be the last defence; if the French got this far, they would not expect a whole regiment hidden in the undergrowth not already a part of the battle that had been raging for hours.

‘I said rise up, men!’

Now the order had come, Paul moved instinctively, getting onto his feet.

A moment later, the French riflemen poured over the brow of the hill, and in the next instant, after hours of waiting – no, after months of waiting – Paul was ready to fight. It was kill or be killed – for every single one of his men who had stood up on this ridge.

‘Rifles! Present!’ Paul called to his men to make ready. Then having given them a moment to prepare, raise their rifles to their shoulders and get a man in their sights, he yelled. ‘Fire!’

The front row of men charging forward fell, with screams of pain as they clasped at wounds. A man looked at Paul with horror, in the moment before he dropped to his knees and died.

The stench of gunpowder, blood and guts – death – dragged Paul back to the battles he had forgotten in Ellen’s bed.

‘Make ready!’ he called, raising his arm. The second line of his men stepped through the first, while the men in the first line began reloading.

The sounds of his men moving, firing, reloading and firing again, always stirred the patriotism in his blood.

For Britain and for victory! ‘Present! Fire!’ The second line fired their rifles.

More of the French who came over the brow of the hill collapsed to their knees.

Smoke, from the explosion of gunpowder in the rifles, drifted along the British line.

The caustic smell burned at the back of his throat, making his stomach lurch, as Paul’s third row stepped forward.

A volley of fire was released by the platoon beside theirs.

‘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.

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.

A hand shook his shoulder, waking him. It was light. The man who had woken him walked along the line of soldiers, shaking every man’s shoulder. ‘We are to move.’ The words were whispered to him by a stranger. ‘The Duke of Wellington’s orders are to pull back to the ground by Waterloo.’

Paul knew the ground. It was the point the Generals had considered the best place to fight.

It was more defendable, there was another ridge and a larger wood, the Forest of Soignes, where men could hide if need be.

Every officer had been ordered to become accustomed to the terrain in the months they had spent in Brussels.

Paul sat up and rubbed his face, urging himself to wake, as the men around him stretched and yawned, rising slowly. ‘Eat and drink,’ he whispered. They looked at him. There was only limited water and dry biscuits in their provisions, but they needed some sustenance before they fought again.

It seemed this second day they marched for hours.

But it was not very far. Within a day they had re-camped and positioned themselves on the Duke of Wellington’s chosen ground to take the enemy.

The losses of the day before had not been as bad as Paul feared, only a couple of thousand, some of the wounded had been moved by cart back beyond the lines, but many were bandaged and ready to fight again.