Page 31 of The Forbidden Love of an Officer (The Marlow Family #7)

On day three of the fight, the first cannon fire rang out at twenty-five minutes past eleven in the morning. Paul’s regiment were prepared; they had their orders for the battle, the best position to defend, and a day’s rest.

But an hour and half later, the cannons were still pounding, and Paul and his men were on the ground, lying still and silent, hiding behind the ridge on damp bracken, as the rain seeped through the cloth of their uniforms. He was cold, but not because the day was cold, it was warm.

The chill in his skin was fear. It would ease when it came time to fight, but while they waited for their moment it was always like this.

In the hours he had lain here, he had thought a hundred times of Ellen in Brussels; she must be able to hear the cannons and would be thinking of him.

He had survived one battle; he only had to survive one more. Today, they all believed, would bring success or failure. Whichever army won this fight would win the war.

All of his men about him lay still and silent, listening, waiting.

There were encounters taking place only yards away over the ridge, on the hill.

He heard rifles firing in the rhythm of three rows, horses, swords clashing, screams from the wounded and battle cries, men exerting their strength to stay alive.

But the battle was not close enough for Paul and his men to be called in to fight.

The Duke of Wellington was holding back Paul’s regiment, along with others, so if the French prevailed in this initial fight, there would be a second wave of Allied forces.

Paul was aware of every beat of his heart, and every breath he took.

Another long hour passed, then the call to ‘Rise up!’ was shouted a hundred yards away. It was not an order for Paul’s regiment. It was Picton’s Highlanders who were called forward. The sounds made by a hundred men rising followed.

Paul watched Picton’s Highlanders silently creep towards the brow of the hill, swords drawn.

Shouts of ‘ Vive l’Empereur ’ rang from the far slope.

‘Charge! Hurrah!’ Picton yelled out, calling his men over the top.

Paul’s heart pumped hard, waiting for his moment, certain it would come soon, as he looked right and left for the lieutenant colonel.

His commander was holding back behind the ranks.

He rode the horse so he could see over the heads of the soldiers and see along the battle line for a signal, for orders.

The sounds of the fighting increased; screams, shouts and rifle fire as the cannons still boomed. The British would be firing at the French cannons. With the French on the hill, they could not fire their cannons without risking their own men.

Every muscle in his body burned to rise and take part. But he had been a soldier long enough to know how crucial it was to await orders from the men who had the oversight of the whole battle. He simply needed to hold his nerve.

Hollers of another charge came from beyond the ridge of the hill, and amid them more cries of ‘ Vive l’Empereur! ’

Instinctively, Paul looked back at his lieutenant colonel.

He had received a signal that had come along the line from the right.

His head turned sharply and he looked at Paul first and lifted his hand without a word, bidding Paul to rise.

Paul urged his men to follow the command, his palm up, his hand lifting, displaying the same signal.

‘Up,’ Paul said in a low voice, the word swept along the row, repeated in a quiet wave of sound.

The lieutenant colonel waved his hand, urging them forward.

‘Forward,’ Paul ordered as quietly as before, taking a step himself that the men followed a step after, and so, silently, they paced forward through the bracken.

‘ Vive l’Empereur! Vive l’Empereur! ’ The cries of the French became louder.

From the sounds, they were running up the hill, believing they were about to claim the point of advantage.

Lieutenant Colonel Hillier rode past Paul at a canter, leaning low in his saddle. ‘Halt, raise your rifles.’ He repeated the order as he rode along the line as quietly as possible.

The men’s rifles had been ready to fire for hours.

‘Present,’ Paul said firmly.

A couple of hundred rifles were lifted to press against shoulders along the line of the 52nd. The men were not in rows of three but stood as one long line.

Lieutenant Colonel Hillier’s palm lifted – wait.

Paul could hear the French army approaching, a mass of sound beyond the brow of the hill. Surely they would see the colonel on his horse soon.

His heart pulsed.

The colonel’s arm dropped and he rode through the middle of the line of men, out of harm’s way.

The French rushed over the top, in reams. ‘Fire!’ The cry rang out from half a dozen commanders along the line. A look of horror flooded the eyes of the French as the volley of shots scythed them down. They had not known the British soldiers had lain hidden over the hill.

‘Forward!’ the lieutenant colonel shouted over the sounds of battle. Paul raised his arm, calling his men forward, winning back the ground one step at a time, pushing the French down the hill.

When he was over the brow, in the fray, Paul could see thousands of dead and dying spread over the fields below.

Now they were in full sight of the French, it was only a few minutes before a cavalry regiment charged towards them, forcing Paul to order his men into a square behind the Allied cannons.

This time it was the gunners who manned the cannons who ran to shelter in the middle of the square his men had formed.

When the cavalry failed to break the square and withdrew, the gunners ran out to load and fire another round at the French.

A thunder of hoof beats came from behind Paul, a regiment of British cavalry charging through the riflemen. They were mounted on huge grey horses. The charge forced the French foot soldiers further back. The regiment carried on riding, chasing the fleeing men to the far side of the field.

There, they used their swords to strike down the gunners who were firing the French cannons.

The British lines cheered as the French were called back to the far edge of the field to regroup.

But it left the British cavalry trapped.

They were pulled from their horses and killed.

An eerie silence fell on the fields they fought over as Paul glanced back to check his men.

None of the Allied lines were called to move forward; instead, orders reached Paul to say that Wellington was taking the opportunity to break the soldiers from their squares.

As Paul and his men rested and drank water from canteens, messages were passed along the line, checking casualties and positions.

When the battle began again, Paul was on the hill, and like the whole Allied army, his men had reformed their square.

‘Move forward!’ the lieutenant colonel shouted, as Paul heard others call the same order.

His men stepped carefully, holding their rifles in a forward position, bayonets ready to pierce, moving as all the squares moved, claiming more ground. French cavalry continually assaulted them, but his men repeatedly repelled them, and each time more of the French fell to the ground.

Late in the day, a new wave of French soldiers poured onto the field.

The fight could not go on much longer; men could not fight forever. Yet the French were not conceding, and the Allied forces would not.

Weary but determined, as the French foot soldiers charged again, Paul received the order to have his men form a line four deep. The line was repeated by all regiments along the hill.

He called for his men to make ready and fire, as others shouted the same call.

Volleys rang through the air, and smoke from the gunpowder rose in clouds.