The Imperial Guard fell back, shattered by the fierce resistance of the allied troops. Michael was almost too dazed to appreciate the enormity of it. France's finest troops had broken and turned into a mob instead of an army.
But it wasn't over yet. How much longer would the battle last? How much longer could it last? The 105th had suffered over forty percent casualties, half of whom had died outright. Other regiments had fared even worse.
Then Graham cried jubilantly, "Look, sir!"
An elm tree at the crest of the ridge, where two roads intersected, was Wellington's command post when he was not riding the lines. The spot was barely visible through the smoke. Now the duke was there, his lean form silhouetted against the evening sky as he stood in his stirrups and waved his cocked hat forward three times. It was the signal for a general advance. A thunderous cheer went up in the regiments nearest the duke and rolled down the allied lines in a swelling roar.
Fierce exultation burned through Michael, searing away his weakness. In his bones, he knew that this battle was won. The long years in the army, the brutal hours of being cut up by French artillery, had come down to this moment. Raising his sword in the air, he shouted, "Follow me, 105th!"
"Aye, Colonel! To hell, if you'll lead us there," a voice boomed back.
The regiment formed into companies and boiled down the slope over the matted, blood-soaked rye, muskets and bayonets at the ready. All along the ridge, the action was being echoed by the other allied troops under command of any officers who survived. They swooped down onto the plain, leaving behind them unmoving scarlet lines of dead and wounded.
Vicious skirmishing began across the two-mile width of the battlefield. Though much of the imperial army was in full flight, pockets of French soldiers still resisted gallantly.
The 105th split into smaller groups, some men pushing forward after the fleeing enemy, others engaging in fierce hand-to-hand combat with those Frenchmen who still fought. All was chaos. Light-headed from blood loss, pain, and fatigue, Michael was in a dark, fierce place where there was no past or future or fear. Only instinct and will and the madness of war, where any moment might be his last.
Reality was a collection of feverish, disconnected images. A tangle of fallen French guards, their limp bodies intertwined like tree roots. An abandoned horse peacefully cropping a mouthful of grass. A dying hussar, his belly ripped open, pleading for death. Michael spoke a prayer in French, then cut the poor devil's throat.
He thought his own death had found him when a cuirassier charged, sword swinging. Michael braced himself, but knew that in his present condition he had no chance against a mounted man.
Then the Frenchman's gaze went to Michael's sling. He raised the hilt of his sword to his forehead in a salute and swerved away in search of other targets. Michael touched the hard ridge of the silver kaleidoscope, which was tucked inside his coat. His lucky charm had not failed him yet.
They were moving up the opposite slope of the valley when Michael pushed through a gap in a ragged hedge and found Tom Hussey being attacked by two Frenchmen. As one stabbed a bayonet through the ensign's shoulder, Michael leaped forward with a murderous shout. He sliced one assailant's chest, then turned snarling on the other. Unnerved by his attack, both men fled.
Tom wiped his forehead with a grimy sleeve. "How does one learn to fight like you, sir?"
"Practice and a bad temper." Michael's fury subsided, leaving him panting. He indicated the blood seeping between the ensign's fingers. "You should get that taken care of."
"There will be time for that later." Tom's eyes were bright with the intoxication of fighting and surviving.
There were only two good hands between them, but together they managed to bind the bayonet wound. Then they moved forward again. Michael tried to keep an eye on the boy, but a flurry of advancing Hanoverians separated them.
Death in battle can come in an instant, or with excruciating slowness. For Michael the end came swiftly. He heard a snarled French curse, and turned to see the men he had driven away from Tom Hussey. Both were aiming their muskets from less than fifty feet away. They fired. Two balls slammed into him almost simultaneously, one in the thigh, the other in his abdomen. When he crumpled to the muddy earth, he knew he would not rise again.
He lay there, barely conscious, until he felt the vibration of galloping hooves drumming through the soil. He raised his head to see half a dozen French lancers racing toward him in mindless panic. Though he knew the effort was pointless, he tried to crawl toward a ragged hedge that might offer some protection. He did not reach it in time. The lancers rode over him, the hooves of the horses rolling him across the ground. One lancer slowed long enough to stab his lance into Michael's back.
Pain was everywhere, so intense it blacked out the red setting sun and the clamor of battle. With each shuddering breath, he hoped that dying with honor would redeem the times when he had not lived with it.
He felt himself floating away, disconnected from his battered body. Catherine was there, her presence more vivid than the devastation around him. She smiled and dissolved his pain with gentle hands.
With the final shreds of awareness, he knew that he had died well, and that he had been privileged to know a woman worthy of being loved. Then he spiraled into darkness, his spirit at peace.
Chapter 12
As the evening passed, Catherine knew with nerve-searing certainty that something was terribly wrong. She and Elspeth sat together in the morning room, the dogs at their feet. There was nothing unusual about Louis sleeping, but even Clancy's high spirits were subdued.
It was almost a relief when the knocker banged in an eerie echo of two nights before. Both women dashed to the front door to find Will Ferris again. His face was haggard and blackened by powder, but apart from a bandage around his right forearm, he was uninjured. With a cry, Elspeth flew into his arms.
Catherine envied them, wishing her own life was so simple. She gave them a few moments before asking, "What news, Will?"
Still holding Elspeth, he said in staccato sentences, "The battle is won. Bloodiest thing I ever saw. Your husband isn't hurt, but Captain Mowbry was injured. I came to tell his wife."
"She took the children to Antwerp. What are his injuries?"
"A ball shattered his left forearm. He was knocked from his horse and likely would have died if not for your husband, ma'am. Captain Melbourne turned around, took him up, and brought him back to our lines."
Thank God for Colin's indomitable courage. "I must bring Charles home. Do you feel strong enough to take me o him now, or will you need to rest first?"
Ferris looked alarmed. "I'm well enough, but I can't take you to Waterloo, ma'am. Every house in the village is full of dying men. It's no place for a lady."
"I promised Anne I would care for Charles as if I were her, and by God, I will," she said flatly.
When Ferris tried to protest again, Elspeth said in hersoft burr, "Don't worry, Will. Mrs. Melbourne can manage anything."
Outnumbered, Ferris surrendered. Everett was called from his room above the stables to prepare the small cart that was used for household hauling. The groom covered the flat bed with straw and Elspeth brought blankets while Catherine packed her medical kit, including her laudanum. Rather than travel in the cart with Everett, she donned the breeches she had sometimes worn in Spain and rode Colin's horse, Caesar.
As they set off through the Namur Gate, she asked Ferris about the fate of other friends. He knew nothing about infantry officers like Michael and Kenneth; however, he was well informed about the cavalry regiments. The litany of casualties was brutal. Men Catherine had known for years were dead or grievously wounded. Though the Allies had carried the day, they had paid a bitter, bitter price.