Nodding, Samuel returned the same way he came. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Picton leading his cavalry to charge. He’d been that close to the fighting. The sound of a single bullet pierced the air by his ear. He ducked, only to realise that it was his horse and not himself that had been hit. His beautiful mare stumbled to her knees and fell on her side, with Samuel’s left leg beneath her.
Samuel tried to pull his leg out, but the weight of the dead horse felt like a boulder. Looking around him, he saw several other bloody bodies on the ground. Some were as still as death, while others twitched and moaned waiting for help. If he did not move soon, he might be joining the dead. Touching the buttons on his jacket, he thought of Frederica. He did not want anyone else to help her with her buttons. No one but him.
With a surge of adrenaline, he used all his strength to lift the horse’s carcass and shimmy his leg out from underneath it. Samuel rolled to his knees, but his left leg would not bear his weight. Placing his hands on his leg, he felt down it. Nothing felt out of place, or broken, but it hurt like the devil. His knee was bruised and his ankle sprained.
He managed to get onto his feet and swayed in a standing position. Turning slowly, he saw that the French soldiers were swarming the Bossu wood like ants over a crumb. They would reach him in minutes. He stumbled forward and joined other Allies running towards the British line. Samuel met a group of Gordon Highlanders.
Samuel held his side with his hand. ‘They are coming.’
He felt a hand on his back and looked up into the face of Mark Wallace, who gave him a crooked grin.
Wallace handed Samuel a flask of whisky. ‘Looks like you could use a drink.’
The Scottish whisky burned down Samuel’s throat, but it revived him. He stood tall and handed the flask back to Wallace. ‘Thank you. Tell your men to get into position, the French will be here any minute.’
Wallace turned to the Gordon Highlander Brigade, wearing their clan tartans, and he yelled in a loud voice for them to make ready for battle. The air echoed with ‘ayes’ and a trio of bagpipe players situated at the back of the brigade began playing a bonnie tune. Samuel watched each man kneel to prepare to shoot their muskets. Wallace walked through his men giving encouragement.
‘First line, fire!’ Wallace commanded.
Gun smoke filled the air, and the first line of Highlanders ducked and fell back to reload.
‘Second line, fire!’
Several French soldiers fell to the ground, but countless others took their place and continued to charge.
‘Third line, fire!’ Wallace yelled, lifting his sabre. ‘The rest of you, get out your sabres and get ready to charge.’
The third line of Highlanders shot their muskets and fell back in their ranks.
‘Charge!’
The Highlanders yelled and held their sabres high above their heads, the silver blades reflecting the sunlight. They charged only ten feet before they met the French soldiers. Samuel stumbled to his feet, raising his sabre to block a blow from another French soldier. He continued to fight, but it didn’t seem to matter how many French soldiers they killed or wounded, more continued to pour out of the Bossu woods. The Highlanders fought with fury to the music of the bagpipes.
He stabbed a man through the neck and saw Wallace crumble to the ground, his lower leg bleeding freely. Samuel yelled, stumbling towards the French soldier who had stabbed the captain. The enemy soldier parried a few blows, but was no match for Samuel’s strength and speed. Samuel ran him through the stomach. Wallace moved his head and moaned. With the last of his strength, Samuel picked Wallace up by the middle and slung him over his shoulder.
‘Fall back!’ Samuel yelled to the Highlanders, limping his way back to the crossroads.
He set Wallace’s unconscious body into a wagon for the wounded and took off his uniform coat to wrap his leg. Samuel had barely tied the arms together when the driver set off for Brussels. Hopefully the young captain would be operated on by a doctor there.
Glancing around the battlefield, he saw that the British Ninth, Forty-Second, and Forty-Fourth Brigades were putting up a good fight, but that they were greatly outnumbered. British soldiers were falling back to the crossroads. If they retreated farther, they would lose communication with their allies the Prussians.
Samuel looked down the road and to his relief, he saw Colonel Alten leading the Third Division. The troops ran to join the battle. But they were falling like flies. In that moment, Samuel realised that life was fleeting and precious. He wondered if the dead soldiers had sweethearts and wives waiting at home in England. Frederica was only in Brussels, but it felt like a world away from him now. How badly he wanted to make it home to her. He’d give everything to see her smile once more.
He found Wellington mounted at La Haye Sainte farm near the centre of the Allies’ position. He thought of Frederica’s kisses and their picnics together. Those memories were bittersweet. Samuel borrowed the horse of an officer that had already been killed. Smoke from Hougoumont hung over the field between the two armies. Beneath the smoke, Samuel saw the helmets and feathers of the cuirassiers moving quickly towards them. Cannon and artillery fire fell upon them like rain.
‘Hard pounding, gentlemen,’ Wellington yelled to the British gunners from his own mount. ‘Let’s see who pounds the longest.’
Samuel saw a long line of wounded soldiers on the road behind La Haye Sainte. He looked in the other direction and saw the French preparing for another attack—Samuel guessed that they had seen the wounded men and assumed the British were retreating. The French cuirassiers and infantry yelled loudly and ran towards La Haye Sainte farm. They swept past the guards and slaughtered all the British inside. The French now held the centre position of Wellington’s line.
‘The Brunswickers must fill the gap,’ Wellington yelled. ‘We cannot let the French break the line and get control of the Genappe road.’
Samuel galloped towards a group of reserves dressed in black uniforms with tall collars and black trousers with a blue stripe down the side. He saluted the captain and relayed to him Wellington’s orders. The Brunswickers made four columns and marched to fill the gap on the Genappe road.
‘They are fleeing,’ Wellington yelled. ‘Come, Gordon, Pelford. We must rally the Brunswickers.’
The three men galloped towards the retreating men, and Wellington rode in front of the line, cutting off their path.
Wellington held up his sabre. ‘My men, follow me!’