As the smoke cleared, Stephen saw that many French had been killed by the initial volley and several horses galloped riderless back toward enemy lines.
“Cease fire! Reload!” Stephen and his sergeant called to their men. The front line of musketeers stepped back to reload as the second line stepped forward.
The French took the opportunity to wreak havoc from high atop their war-horses. The front ranks of the 28th used their bayonets to try to keep them at bay, but their razor-sharp blades found their mark time and time again. A steady stream of wounded fell back into the center of the square.
The remaining men struggled through the painstaking steps to reload, while foul-smelling smoke made it nearly impossible to see.
Stephen shouted, “Ready. Fire!”
Again smoke and thunder erupted and more French met the ground.
The first wave of cavalry retreated, and his men sent up a shout, but Stephen knew they had precious little time before the French charged again. He rushed to the front of the square that had taken the greatest punishment, and helped the wounded. As he dragged one man back to the center, cannons sounded in the distance. He paused to look toward the enemy lines in time to see puffs of smoke emitted from their batteries. Before he could react, dozens of explosions erupted as cannonballs slammed into the earth all around them, the French gunners taking advantage of their tight formation.
Men screamed in agony as flying shards of metal tore into their bodies. Off to his right, Stephen saw the British cannons answering the barrage, and he prayed their shots would hit their mark.
The number of wounded in the center of the square was growing. Stephen moved along the ranks of men still forming the square, searching for weaknesses in the lines and directing reserves into the gaps.
Stephen once again climbed atop the cannon to survey the situation with his spyglass. The French cavalry massed near the river were separating into groups—waiting for the devastating effects of the cannons to take their toll before they attacked again.
Suddenly an explosion knocked him from his perch. A French cannon ball had hit one corner of the square. A dozen of his troops had been felled by a single shot and a huge gap blown open in their formation. Many of the men were killed instantly, but others were left to suffer in agony.
Stephen regained his footing and rushed toward the carnage. As he reached the gap, a trumpet blast in the distance signaled the next cavalry charge. He called for several men to move forward and reposition themselves in the critical corner of their defense. The men hurried to obey, but the enemy was almost upon them.
Stephen commanded, “Prepare to fire!” Once again the pounding of the horses’ hooves made the ground shake all around them. He counted the distance and at thirty yards yelled, “Fire!” Then he grabbed a musket from a fallen soldier and joined the reinforcements filling the decimated line. A rider came barreling toward him, so close Stephen could see every detail of his blue uniform with red lapels, his body armor gleaming in the sunlight. The Frenchman’s chest plate would deflect the point of a bayonet but could not stop a musket ball from this close range.
The rider brandished a saber in one hand and a pistol in the other, the reins gripped tightly in his teeth. A sharp pain ripped through Stephen’s shoulder as a blade sliced into his flesh in a sickening blow. He slumped to one knee and blood ran down his arm. He looked up and saw the rider aim his pistol at Hornsby nearby. As he fired, Stephen pulled the young officer down, cutting his hand on the man’s blade. The bullet missed its target.
Hornsby helped Stephen to his feet as the battle raged around them. The soldiers sent another volley of lead into the attackers. His left arm now useless, Stephen could merely shout orders and fill the gap with his body, but he was able to offer little resistance.
To Stephen’s horror, another group of cavalry charged just behind the first group. This group was larger and galloping straight for the weakened corner of their square. Right where he stood. Their only hope was to stop them before they crashed through the gap and slaughtered his vaunted regiment from within.
Stephen yelled, “Fire!”
The remaining infantrymen discharged their guns in a desperate attempt to stop the attackers. A large black stallion in full gallop was hit by the barrage. The brave animal stumbled and came crashing into their square, widening the gap in their protective ranks. The dead rider was thrown from the horse and landed at Stephen’s feet, pistol still in hand. Stephen grabbed it.
In an instant another French cavalryman saw the opportunity and urged his mount toward the gap. If they did not thwart this intrusion all would be lost. Stephen aimed and fired. The shot hit home and the rider fell. The horse reared, hooves flashing, its front hoof delivering a blow to the side of Stephen’s head. Stunned, he dropped to his knees.
“Captain, behind you!”
Another shattering collision of steel on flesh and bone, like lightning felling a tree.
Stephen fell face-first into the rye. The dying black stallion rolled and trapped him beneath it, knocking the remaining breath from his lungs. Around him the sounds of fighting and shouts and cries continued, but faded, growing more and more distant.
I am going to die, he thought calmly. Sadly.Your will be done, Lord. Please comfort my family. And bless Sophie and her...our... child.
His eyes were open, and his small patch of vision—his own bloody hand, Belgian soil, broken stalks, and torn earthworm—came into sharp focus, then narrowed. A dark ring framed his vision like a spyglass, the darkness spreading, his vision shrinking to a tiny point of light and then... blackness.
chapter 25
An old friend of Colonel Horton’s had been on hand in London when a dispatch from Wellington arrived. As a favor to the colonel, he’d sent a messenger to Overtree Hall directly.
The colonel summoned the family and Mr. Keith into the parlour and shared the grave report. “Sobering news, I am afraid. There’s been a horrendous battle in Belgium—at a crossroads Wellington was determined to defend called Quatre Bras.”
He read a brief excerpt.
“On 16th June, the 28th in company with the 1st Royal Scots marched to the support of the hard-pressed 42nd and 44th, forming square and standing firm to continuous attacks from French cavalry. The British line, supported by guns and cavalry, gallantly beat back their assailants, and the ground the French had taken during the afternoon was regained. The French fought back but could not hold and were eventually forced to retreat. In the end, Quatre Bras was held and the road to the Prussians still open, but at a high cost. Casualties among the Highlanders were especially severe, but many were killed or injured among the 28th as well. No specific numbers or names yet reported.”
Sophie’s heart fisted.Please, God, no...
