“Like when you jumped in front of me in Talavera?” Hornsby asked eagerly. “And the French saber meant for me struck you instead?”
Stephen looked at the young officer in surprise. “I... don’t recall many details of that battle. But a good analogy, yes.”
“You’re just being modest, sir. It’s clear as day to me, and always shall be. Every time I see that scar of yours, I know it should be mine—or more likely my death—had you not shoved me out of the way.” Hornsby’s gaze shifted to his cheek. “I hope you don’t mind it, sir.”
“I wasn’t much to look at before I got this, Hornsby, so don’t give it a second thought. I don’t.”Or I won’t, Stephen resolved. Not anymore.
That afternoon, they reached the crossroads and joined the others who had arrived before them. Sir Thomas Picton, commander of the fifth division, rode over to greet him. He informed Stephen that the battle had begun slowly that morning with a few skirmishes but was now rapidly escalating. He was glad to receive some reinforcements, though they still awaited the Prussians.
Stephen and his men took up position on a knoll covered by tall stalks of rye. The overgrown fields made it hard to see and provided hiding places for approaching enemy scouts, spies, and sharpshooters.
Smoke from cannon fire wafted ominously across the battlefield, obscuring the enemies’ position in the distance. An occasional mortar round landed among the troops, and the men instinctively spread out to make themselves a more difficult target for the French artillery. Some men dropped to one knee, as if the slender blades of grain would somehow stop an eight-pound shot.
Around him, Stephen heard the sounds of fighting—gunfire, commands, grunts—as other regiments engaged in battle. It was only a matter of time before it was their turn. Their turn to kill or be killed. Their turn to fight the overpowering impulse to run. An infantryman’s job was to stand there and shoot in the face of oncoming slaughter and probable death. The worst part was the waiting.
While many other regiments had to make do with inexperienced recruits, most of the men who served beside Stephen had been through all this before. They were veterans of the Peninsula War and the Egypt campaign that had brought the 28th its greatest glory. Even so, he knew the fate of his men was directly related to his ability to make decisions quickly in the heat of battle, while the very men he knew and loved were dropping dead beside him. There would be no time to shed a tear or even to flinch. And afterward he would have to live with the consequences.
Sir Thomas Picton rode his horse past the men. “You’ll be all right, lads. Just remember, kill their officers first, aim at the bellies of the infantry and at the horses of the cavalry.”
He left them with the rallying cry, “28th, remember Egypt!”
The men cheered and the bandsmen began to play.
Stephen, however, remained somber. Using his spyglass, he stared toward the river that marked enemy lines, straining to catch any glimpse of the French through the growing smoke. Off to the left he thought he saw movement. He blinked and looked again and there it was, the unmistakable outline of a horse in full gallop some five hundred yards away. The smoke cleared just enough to reveal more horses galloping toward them. A cavalry charge.
“To the square, to the square!” Stephen shouted at the top of his lungs. Every second was crucial. He had to get his men into the defensive formation that would allow them to withstand the attack.
But over the gunfire and competing shouts, many did not hear. Or stood frozen in terror.
“Hornsby! To the square! Wilson—move!” Stephen grabbed several younger men and started shoving them into position. His old sergeant joined him, barking orders like a mastiff. If they didn’t move, they’d be slaughtered.
“Left flank here, right flank over there!”
The experienced men of the 28th sprang into action, their incessant drilling and training paying off.
A square was made up of hundreds of men, four ranks deep, with room at the center for supplies, aides, and the wounded. The outside line of infantry dropped to one knee and planted the butts of their muskets on the ground. They extended their bayonets upward to form a hedge of steel the cavalry horses would be reluctant to breach. Behind them soldiers knelt with their bayonets pointing outward to form another line of defense. The two remaining ranks were comprised of standing men with “Brown Bess” muskets, firing and then reloading in turn.
Stephen shouted orders, directing soldiers into vital positions in the square. “Lane, fill the gap. Stanley, raise that bayonet.”
The flag bearer carried the regiment’s colors safely inside, followed by the bandsmen and several pieces of field artillery. Any cannons left outside the square would be attacked and quickly disabled.
Glancing to his right, Stephen was disheartened to see several battalions in disarray. Other officers had been slow to recognize the threat and their lesser-trained troops were scattering in confusion. Some officers retreated, or remained well behind their troops in relative safety. But Stephen felt responsible for his men, some of them younger than Kate. He could not stand back.
Climbing atop one of the cannons for a better vantage point, Stephen saw that the fierce French cavalry were now within two hundred yards of their position, the red plumes above their helmets streaming behind them. In seconds they would be upon them.
“Prepare to fire on my command!” Stephen bellowed.
The men braced themselves and raised their guns to their shoulders. The exact timing of firing was critical. Too soon and the volley would be ineffective. Too late and the mortally wounded horses and riders would come crashing into the square.
His men stood firm, but Stephen could see the fear in the eyes of all but the most hardened veterans. Fear was a luxury he had rarely allowed himself. But love for Sophie made him feel vulnerable. Made him want to live as never before, which would only make his death more likely. Fear stole focus. Courage. Hadn’t his grandfather reminded him of that over and over again?
Stephen could feel the vibrations from the thundering horses about to engulf them like a swarm of locusts. The French riders raised their long curved sabers high above their heads as trumpets sounded the attack.
Here they came, crushing rye in their wake. Sixty yards, fifty yards, forty. In bloodcurdling accents, the French shouted, “Vive l’Empereur!”
And Stephen yelled, “Fire!”
The sharp crack of a hundred guns deafened, creating a wall of smoke in front of the square. Almost instantly the French riders emerged from the smoke atop their striving mounts, lashing with their sabers and thrusting their lances. The well-trained horses stopped just short of the row of bayonets while others swept around the square like a rushing current around a rock in the middle of a river.
