Another cannonball struck several men in the rear of the square. Captain Graham, the highest ranking uninjured officer after Michael, went to survey the damage. Expression grave, Tom Hussey said, "May I ask a question, Colonel Kenyon?"
"Go ahead."
"What is the point of standing here and being cut to pieces? There is no fighting in this section of the lines. Surely we could withdraw to a safe distance until needed."
"We are needed-to do exactly what we are doing," Michael said soberly. "If we weren't here, Napoleon's men would drive right through and the battle would be lost. The cavalry may race back and forth across a battlefield, but it is the infantry that takes possession." He kicked the soft earth. "As long as one member of the 105th lives, this is British soil. The death of our fellows is tragic, but it isn't meaningless."
The ensign nodded slowly. "I see, sir."
Though his explanation was true, this long and bloody day was a vivid reminder of why Michael preferred the swift, fluid combat of the Rifle Brigade. It felt better to be a moving target than a stationary one. He wondered how Kenneth and the 95th were faring. They were probably spending the day skirmishing with the French between the lines. He envied them.
He began ambling around the square again. He was talking with a lieutenant when he realized that he could hear his own voice. The ceaseless thunder of artillery had made speech and thought almost impossible. Now the cannon had stopped shelling their section of the lines. Knowing what that meant, Michael called, "Prepare for attack! They've stopped the artillery so they won't hit their own men."
Numbed soldiers came sharply alert. Sergeants barked at their men, firming the lines with curses and exhortations to check the loading of muskets. The air quivered with tension, for this could be the regiment's first taste of face-to-face combat.
At first the straining eyes of the regiment saw only ghostly shapes moving forward through the veils of smoke. Then a line of horsemen emerged, the misty figures gradually taking the shape of French cuirassiers. Their gleaming steel helmets and breastplates made them seem eerily like medieval knights. Large men on large horses, they were the heavy cavalry, designed to crush all opposition, and they were heading directly at the 105th and the two neighboring squares.
The massive hooves of the horses flattened the stalks of grain into the muddy ground as the cuirassiers moved inexorably up the slope. Seeing the front line of the square waver, Michael moved swiftly forward from his position in the center of the square. "Stand firm!" he shouted. "Horses won't charge directly at a square, and we have more guns than they do. Hold your fire until I give the word. Then aim for the horses!"
The oncoming riders were within forty paces when Michael ordered, "Ready. Level. Fire!"
His front rank discharged their muskets in a deafening blast. There was a shriek of wounded horses and a weird, metallic rattle like hailstones as balls ricocheted from the steel breastplates. Half a dozen horses and their riders fell, forcing those behind to swerve to the sides.
As his first rank reloaded, Michael gave the order for the second rank to fire. The ragged salvo brought more attackers down. In spite of the furious efforts of the riders, the horses sheered away, flowing around the square, which brought them under fire from the muskets on the flanks.
The cavalrymen churned chaotically around the square, firing their pistols and being fired on in return. Finally seeing the futility of the maneuver, their commander ordered a retreat.
The horses were cantering down the slope when a fallen rider called desperately for help. One of his comrades wheeled and came back. As he caught his friend's hand to pull him onto his mount, two British soldiers raised their muskets and took aim.
"No!" Michael barked. "Don't kill a brave man for helping his friend!"
After a startled moment, the men nodded and lowered their weapons. Courage deserved respect even in the enemy.
During the lull that followed, Michael scanned the field with his spyglass. He could see little beyond the neighboring squares, but it sounded as if the French cavalry was attacking along a wide section of the allied lines.
A shout warned that the cuirassiers were returning. Michael said wryly, "Enjoy the cavalry charges, gentlemen. They're a lot less dangerous than the cannonade."
Laughter rippled around the square. This time the firing was steadier. A barrier of dead or wounded horses began to build around the square, making it harder for the riders to approach.
Michael was moving toward the left side of the square, which was under the heaviest fire, when a ball struck him in the left arm. The impact spun him around and knocked him to the ground.
Captain Graham rushed over to him. "Are you hurt, sir?"
Dazedly Michael pushed himself to a sitting position. A wave of pain almost caused him to black out. When he saw the alarmed expressions around him, he forced himself to his feet. "It's not serious," he said tightly. "Get someone over here to bandage it."
The regimental surgeon had been killed and his assistants seriously wounded, so a corporal who had been a barber was doing what he could for injuries. After tightly binding the wound and fashioning a sling, the corporal offered a canteen. "Have a drink of this, sir, but slowly."
Heeding the warning, Michael took a swallow from the canteen. It contained straight gin. His eyes watered, but the spirits certainly distracted him from the pain in his arm. "Thanks, Symms. Generous of you to share your medicine."
Symms grimaced as he closed the canteen. "Need to keep you fit, sir, 'cause we're running short of officers."
The cavalry withdrew while Michael was being tended. Though the 105th had stood fast, injuries were thinning the ranks. Michael gave the order for the square to close up, and prepared for the next attack.
Catherine went early to work in the hospital tent. In midafternoon, she took a short break, carrying a glass of water to Ian Kinlock's operating table. A canvas wall separated it from the pallets of the wounded men. He was also taking a break, so she handed him the water, saying, "Perhaps the armies haven't engaged yet, Ian. There's no sound of firing today."
He swallowed deeply, then shook his head. "Wind's from the wrong direction. Anything could be happening, and probably is."
They both fell silent. Nearby, a church bell rang. Catherine said soberly, "I'd forgotten that today is Sunday. A bad day for a battle."
"They're all bad days." He wiped the sweat from his face, then said to the orderlies, "Bring the next one."
Catherine returned to work, giving water and changing dressings. But though she had a smile and a soft word for everyone, part of her heart was with the men who were fighting, and perhaps dying, only a few miles away.
The cavalry attacks swirled in again and again, like waves breaking against the rocks. Michael had lost track of the number. Ten? Twelve? But the regiment had gained confidence. As the third assault had lumbered up the hill, he'd heard a North Country voice drawl, "Here come those damned fools again."
The current attack was the worst. The cuirassiers had been circling for most of an hour, firing their pistols, brandishing their sabers, and doing their best to break the allied squares. They failed. Not only were they outgunned, but their horses continued to shy away from the British bayonets and muskets.
The 105th stood as firmly as if they were rooted to the soil. Wellington had taken heed of Michael's words the night of the ball and positioned the regiment between veterans. To the left was the British 73rd Infantry, to the right Hanoverians of the King's German Legion, who had fought with honor in the Peninsula. Michael's men had a fierce determination to prove themselves equals to their neighbors, and they were succeeding.