Page 47

T he British infantry had stood their ground since the morning hours, grateful for the sunny day that had followed the sleepless night of heavy rain.

The muddy fields of Waterloo slowed the advance of Napoleon’s heavy artillery so that the battle only began in earnest shortly before noon.

William had lost count of the number of times the French had fired their more than two hundred cannons since then.

The whistling sounds and smoke-filled air had lasted for hours, felling thousands of men within range of the shattering cannonballs and flying shrapnel.

But Wellington held his infantry in reserve behind the ridge. They were his most reliable soldiers, disciplined and steady in the face of death. They waited as the day grew warm—hungry, thirsty, tired—before they had even fired a single shot.

Beside William, Lieutenant Richard Foyle’s seat on his saddle grew ever less secure.

The man had been drinking steadily all night.

Even now, he sipped from his hip flask to prevent sobriety from clearing his mind.

William would have had pity for the man, for they were all afraid, but the officers were expected to set an example.

An enlisted man found drunk on the field was a menace to his comrades and would likely be shot before he even met the enemy.

Yet here was Foyle, listing to the left and in grave danger of unseating himself.

“Foyle,” William hissed, “Sit up. The men will think you’ve been shot.”

Richard Foyle lifted his head and looked about him, as if seeing the battlefield for the first time. As more and more detail registered, he reached for his flask.

“Put that away,” commanded William more sternly. “Another swig and you’ll be on the ground, ready to be trampled. Can you even hold your sword up?”

“Lea’ me ’lone,” grumbled Foyle, emptying the last of his flask’s contents down his throat.

He cast an unfocused eye into the neck of the container, shook it, found no joy in his discovery, and thrust it back into his boot leg, where he had kept it hidden.

His eyes closed again and William could make out the unmistakable sound of snoring emanating from the man.

It took a few minutes for William to realize that the artillery had stopped.

His ears still rang with the echoes of the continuous firing, making it difficult to know whether the sounds were real or imagined.

He listened carefully, trying to confirm whether the cannons had merely paused or stopped altogether, when a thundering sound beat through the air and the earth trembled with the hooves of thousands of approaching cavalry horses.

“Hold!” came the order. “Hold!

The screams of French soldiers and their innocent steeds now added to the chaos as Wellington unleashed loose shot into the mass of attacking bodies.

The thrumming of hoofbeats continued to bring fresh fodder for the allied artillery, as wave upon wave of Napoleon’s cavalry tried to break through the enemy lines.

At last, the British cavalrymen were unleashed, their sabers extended, their mounts holding steady before being urged into a gallop.

Barely audible over the shouts and cannon fire came the clashing of swords, though these sounds were brief, the metal blades cutting into flesh before they could be deflected again.

William tried not to imagine the carnage in the field beyond the ridge. The horror of it would reach them soon enough.

It was shortly after six that evening when it did.

By now, the infantry was almost desperate to be involved.

They had stood for hours, hearing their brethren die by the hundreds, then thousands, choking on the thick smoke that hung over the field of Waterloo.

They were tired and scared and helpless.

The thought of battle seemed almost a relief.

A chance to shake these feelings from them.

As the French finally topped the rise, their faces filled with sweat and mud and blood, the infantry finally heard the words they had waited an entire day for.

“Chaaaaaaaaarge!”

Tens of thousands of soldiers heard the call, braced their muskets, and prepared for the onslaught. The French cavalry plunged through their ranks, heartened by their success and renewing their attack, cutting down the ground troops like stalks of wheat.

A horse whinnied right beside William. He turned to see Foyle’s mare rear up, her rider slipping from the saddle toward the ground and hitting his head on an iron ball that had run its course. Bearing down on the fallen figure came a Frenchman who neither saw Foyle nor would have cared if he did.

William kicked his heel into the side of his horse, bringing him broadside before firing his pistol at the rider. The bullet grazed the man’s cheek, and still he came at William, his saber raised.

William drew his own sword, ready to block as much as he could of the furious blow that must come at such speed.

The shock of the blades connecting reverberated up his arm, the lighter enemy saber raised and ready to strike again before William’s heavier sword could match it.

His sword was still lifting to defend when the French blade connected with it, sliding upward along the length of it, deflecting away from his shoulder toward his face.

William turned his head, the last inch of the saber slipping past his nose across his eye.

He uttered a primal scream as extreme pain shot into his head.

The orb of his eye filled with blood, then grew dark.

William tried to concentrate, desperately turning his horse so that he might see the enemy with his remaining eye.

The French soldier’s blade was already in motion, ready to deliver a killing blow.

William ducked forward beneath it, thrusting the pointed tip of his sword into the man’s throat.

It was his first kill. It was why he was here, on this field, far from home. But he could not stop to think how it made him feel. The agony in his head was almost unbearable, half his face was covered in blood, and yet more riders approached.

He looked through a blur of pain at the figure of Foyle. If he left him there, he would surely die. Perhaps he was already dead. William had but a moment to think.

Every fiber of his being wanted to flee. Instead, he slipped down quickly from his horse. Grunting and struggling, he lifted the figure of Foyle, who groaned slightly as he did so.

“Stand, you useless bastard! Get on my horse!” William shouted through pain and blindness, managing to prop Foyle up against his horse’s flank.

Precious seconds went by as William manhandled the semi-conscious lieutenant over the back of the animal before grabbing his musket from the ground.

He slapped the horse’s hide and it set off gratefully away from the noise of the battle.

Once more, William turned to face the French.

“Fooooorm squares!” came the order.

Now on foot, William stumbled to join his regiment.

He felt someone grab him around his back and under his arm, running with him toward the cover provided by five hundred men.

He did not know who it was, the man being on his blind side, until the voice of Captain Larson said, “Stay with us, Cole. It’s not over yet. ”

The first volley went over their heads. When the second rank took aim, William knelt with the first, trying to ready his weapon.

It was nigh impossible. His surviving eye was dimmed with grit.

He could not see to aim. He felt his way through the steps necessary to load, touched the arm of the men on either side of him with his elbows to orient himself, and fired when the order came.

Round after round he sent toward the enemy before him, not knowing if he made a difference at all.

The smoke burned his nostrils, and still, he loaded, sought direction, and fired.

He only managed every second round, but he kept at it for what seemed like an eternity.

Until the next order did not come.

“They’re retreating!” shouted the soldier next to him.

A new noise exploded. The sound of two thousand riflemen celebrating with shouts and laughter. William felt himself being roughly embraced by many hands.

As if his body had been kept upright by force of will alone, William now sank to the ground.

“Bring a horse!” Larson commanded. “Even a French one will do.”

William sensed himself being lifted. He gripped the saddle as soon as his fingers recognized it. Then the bulk of another body climbed up in front of him.

“Can you steer with that shoulder, soldier?” Larson asked. “We don’t want the animal taking you behind enemy lines.”

“I’ll manage, sir,” said the nameless man on the horse with William.

“Get going, then. Have them send wagons for the more gravely injured men. Tell them it is safe to do so now.”

“Yes, sir. God save the king, sir!”

There was a pause. Then the captain replied solemnly, “God save us all.”

For William, the world went black.