 
Battle Scars: A collection of short stories

Volume 1

By David Cook

Other works by the author:

The Soldier Chronicles series

Liberty or Death

Heart of Oak

Blood on the Snow

Marksman

Battle Scars: A Collection of Short Stories Volume 1

Copyright © David Cook 2015

Contents

Contents

Outpost

The Emerald Graves

Pipe and Drum

The Plains Wolf

Summer is Coming

The Diabolical Circumstance of Captain Bartholomew Chivers

Flowers of Toulouse

Lamentation

Enemy at the Gates

The Bravest of the Brave

Outpost

The officer clambered up the side of the bank, the snow reaching the top of his knee-high boots. It was a land of cold beneath a wind-driven sky. A silvery mist hung above the flat landscape where, in the dawn light, it resembled roving sea fog creeping across a shoreline.

Lieutenant Jack Hallam of the 28th Regiment of Foot, a British regiment raised in North Gloucestershire, pulled out his telescope and peered north to where there was a dark smudge amongst the dusted crop fields and pewter-coloured dykes that were so abundant in Holland.

'Is it there, sir?' said a quiet voice to his right.

'Of course it damned well is,' Hallam said gruffly while still holding the glass to his eye. A flurry of soft snow drifted across the flat land with only the occasional hollow, hedgerow or patch of winter-bare woodland to offer some respite against the cruel wind that nipped at his exposed flesh. Bloody Holland.

The 28th Regiment of Foot, part of the Expeditionary Force under the Duke of York, had been sent to the Netherlands a year ago to join with the Austrian and Prussian armies to eject the French army that had been fuelled with a revolutionary zeal to expand their territories. Once victory was secured, it was said that they would march to Paris and the war would be over by Christmas. The campaign was approaching its third year. What had turned from a patriotic march to liberate Flanders with promised easy victories became a shambling retreat. The French were not easy to trample over and had consolidated with verve to stun and shatter the allies advance. The Austrians and Prussians were falling back to their borders, the British and German army were now obliged to retreat. The safest ports were miles away in Hanover and, in the harshest winter most people had ever known, the army trudged wretchedly north.

Today, as the wind jabbed like a Lancer's long spear, Hallam stared at a series of enemy-held defences that protected a stone bridge where swollen waters hugged the shoulders of the banks. It was that bridge over a wide stream that the British needed to cross. The land ahead was interspersed with the occasional tree and hedgerows made dark by the damp. He glanced at the men behind him, a company of red-coated soldiers shrouded in filthy greatcoats and other nondescript garments, and musket muzzles plugged with corks or bits of leather to stop the damp from getting down into the barrels.

Hallam shivered. The bridge, he knew, was half a-mile away. The defences: a ring of earth and timber thrown up, was likely to contain a French demi-brigade perhaps of over fifteen hundred men. And yet, could not see any flags or anyone, for that matter.

'Sir?' said the voice again.

Hallam turned to the junior officer at his side, his flint-grey eyes, hard and suspicious. 'What is it?' A plume of white-steam jetted from his mouth.

Ensign Julian Stubbington cleared his throat. 'Are we going to advance, sir?'

'Leave that for me to decide,' Hallam growled. He had become exasperated with Stubbington's questions, which had intensified over the last couple of weeks. Now a week into December, the boy's constant demands was shredding his temper. It wasn't as if the boy was stupid, because most of the time the questions were justified, and Hallam knew that a good ensign always asked questions. It was how they learned and Hallam was glad Stubbington appeared to be keen. Except that the campaign changed even the most normal quiet men into snarling beasts. Quarrels were daily. The officers seemed to be governed by grudges, jealousy and indifference. Hallam rubbed his half-frozen face, knowing that the ensign didn't deserve the rebuke. 'Where's Captain Clements?' he said in a more genial tone.

'He's still in his billet, sir.'

Hallam's expression darkened again. Captain Andrew Clements was the forty-year-old commander of Number Eight Company and an indolent drunk. He despised the men and was extremely jealous of Hallam. He saw a better officer and a better man in his twenty-nine-year old lieutenant and instead of allowing him to flourish and teaching him as a good captain should, he supressed his ability and blamed him for any misgivings.

'We'll advance to the hedgerows where I can take a better look at the bastards. We'll bloody well do this without the captain.'

'Are you sure that's wise, sir?'

Hallam glared at the eighteen-year-old. 'Bugger him,' he snorted. 'If he can't do his job, then to hell with him.' He thrust his eye-glass back in his haversack and strode down to the company that stood shivering in silence. His eyes negotiated over faces that were chapped and hollow-cheeked. Bearded faces, whitened with frost, and eyes hidden deep within homespun cloaks, scarves and nondescript caps. One man was grimacing as though standing was proving to be painful while another wore filthy bandages that gave off a foul odour. A roar of empty bellies clashed with the flurry of wind as Hallam cast one final look at the squalid village where Clements had his quarters. It was silent and a place of dead winter fields. The sun to the east was nothing more than an orange patch of luminescence in the grey sky and the west was as dark as nightfall. He ordered the company; his men, forward towards the bridge over yet more lifeless fields.

The retreat had brought misery, but instances of relief came in different forms. Battling the French was one. The redcoats might look like frozen tramps, but as soon as they scented a fight, they could be relied on to perform their duties. Fighting allowed a man to vent his anger and frustration at an unfair world, and of course the added bonus was the loot. The rich pickings left on a battlefield. Men dreamed of battles, riches and women, but now it was always food and drink. The army had suffered horrendous supply problems from the start of the campaign. Provisions were often delivered late, but now the commissariat had completely disintegrated, because the army was fast retreating and the soldiers were left hungry.

A gust of wind slapped the fields as the men advanced, sending clouds of stinging snow into their faces. Hallam squinted up at the dull-grey sky and wished the weather would end and that the sun would break out from behind the dense clouds to warm the land. Even a weak sun was better than no sun in this freezing version of Hell.

'Do you think the Crapauds are likely to have any artillery at the bridge, sir?' Stubbington said.

'I bloody well would if I were them,' Hallam replied, 'but I didn't see any. They've probably got a battery hidden there, though. They're crafty buggers. You can't defend with just infantry.'

A nerve shot across the ensign's belly. He pulled his greatcoat closer to his thin frame and adjusted his cocked hat as though that would comfort him with the news. He had a sudden vision of roaring flame and death – his death, and he tried to cast away the horrific image from his mind with thoughts of home and family.

'Perhaps the damp weather will ruin their defence?' he said pensively as Hallam continued to look ahead.

'Which means some of our firelocks won't spark too,' Hallam countered with a wry grunt.

The boy flushed, chastened by the emphasis Hallam had placed on the word 'our'. He was about to mention that the men had their bayonet's but bit it off in time.

It had rained all of November; a cold stinging rain that came in heavy sheets to saturate the land. When it had come down in the night, the canvass tents sagged under the pressure, and so by dawn, it was if a river had flooded the fields. Banks frothed white and even pontoon bridges had been swept downstream. Many animals had drowned in the torrent and camp fires often contained the roasting carcasses, rather than let them go to waste. Now, winter's touch had turned it into a frozen wasteland.

The company advanced steadily and Hallam halted them at the hedge unmolested by enemy gunfire. They were less than five hundred yards away. He brought out his telescope and trained it on the bridge. The defences were clearer to the eye now. There was a mound of snow-covered earth, but it was empty of cannon and looked partially completed. Hallam could see discarded engineering equipment propped up against the snow-covered bank. There were a half-dozen barrels and a strange half-built timber construction. The glass moved again. Snow had fallen across a large pit and Hallam wondered what had been its use, then he saw the top rung of a ladder and he knew the pit was part of a trench of sorts.

Stubbington hesitated and then enquired speculatively. 'I take it that you can't see any Crapauds, sir?'

'None,' Hallam confirmed curtly. 'It's deserted.' He sighed heavily, thinking that today was going to be another bastard of a day, but the bridge was clear and he would send Stubbington back to the battalion waiting a mile away with the good news. He was about to put the scope away when something caught his attention to the west. It was dark over there with snowfall, but something glinted. He held his breath as he tried to steady the glass against the wind. He centred it and then spat out an expletive.

'What is it, sir?'

'French bastards, that's what.' There were dozens of shapes; enemy shapes in the gloom. He could see steel-tipped muskets and long campaign coats.

'French,' Stubbington echoed warily, a shiver of apprehension surging down his spine. 'How many are there, sir?'

'Enough.'

Stubbington gulped. 'What are they doing?'

'They're heading straight towards the bridge. Jesus, but we shan't let them. If they reach the outpost before us, then we've a bastard of a fight on our hands.' Hallam shut the glass and turned around. 'Sergeant Fox! Company will advance at the double!'

A burly man with a dark, menacing stare stepped forward and gave Hallam a smart salute. 'Yes, sir!' He swivelled on his heels barking out the order to the men. One private seemed unable to move. Fox was on him like a terrier on a rat. 'Don't just stand there, Private Berridge! Move your stinking arse, or I'll put you on a charge!'

Berridge, whose sunken, bearded face was partly obscured by a length of common sacking, let out a groan. 'I'm hungry, Sergeant. I haven't the will to continue.'

Fox grabbed the man by his coat, thrusting him forward. 'I'll not have a man of the Slashers declare such a thing!' The sergeant used the regiment's nickname from a time they were stationed in Canada. A bullying lawyer picked on some of the men and their families, and so a few broke into his home and slashed his ear off in revenge. The lawyer never spoke another hostile word to them again. 'We're all Goddamn hungry. So get in line.'

Berridge, clutching his empty belly, let out a long irksome whine.

'''If music be the food of love, play on'',' Private Hulse said grandly, causing a ripple of laughter. He was tall and bony, with thinning hair and quick intelligent eyes. He had been caught stealing liquor, and offered by the magistrate: the army or the gallows.

'Shut your mouths, the pair of you,' Fox growled.

Galvanized at the prospect of fighting the enemy, the redcoats, cold limbs now pounding the iron-hard ground, pressed on towards the defences. Hallam kept his eyes on the enemy. More were coming. His gaze flickered back to the bridge. Three hundred yards to go. Sweat sheeted his back. Everything depended on their success. He had orders to take the bridge and that's what he would. Actually, Clements had been given the orders from the colonel, but as he was not present, Hallam was in command. Goddamn Clements. Hallam would not suffer dishonour because of Clements' incompetence. Besides, he wanted to prove himself the best officer at the colonel's disposal and as senior lieutenant, he would be looked at for the next available captaincy.

The French, seeing the redcoats, called out and suddenly both forces seemed to hesitate. Hallam reacted first.

'Run, you buggers!' he bellowed, legs and arms pumping. 'Slashers! To me! To me!'

The French sprinted on the roadside, muskets and equipment banged on their bodies. As the redcoats sprinted the last hundred yards, the French still had at least three to go and Hallam shouted exultingly. He ran aside to let his men past. The first few reached the trench and jumped down into it.

'Mister Stubbington,' Hallam called, 'you stay with me!'

'Yes, sir,' the ensign panted.

'Company! Make ready!' The men that were able to snatch off the rags tied around the flash pans and unplugged the corks in the long barrels. The French were still two hundred yards away. 'Quickly now! Fix bayonets!' Hallam urged, unsheathing his sword. Fox was hurrying men into the trench, which ran parallel to the bridge, the road and curiously was not completed on the eastern side. The men finished tugging their seventeen-inch blades free from frozen scabbards to slot them into place. 'Present!' Muskets went to shoulders, in slight disarray as more men were still running and joining the redcoats lining the frozen works. Hallam calculated that he had about thirty men able to fire. But then if the volley threw down twenty men, his men would be swamped as they would be left with unloaded weapons. 'Halt!' He called to those still outside of the trench. 'Sergeant Fox! I want half the men in the trench, the other in two ranks of ten behind them! Now!'

Fox pushed and pulled men into position. One cursed and the sergeant cuffed him about the head. The enemy were now fifty yards away, doubtful musket range, and there looked to be about eighty of them. Red epaulettes and bearded faces, hard as though they were set in stone. Grenadiers, Hallam thought. The elite of the battalion sent to take and hold the bridge. The rest would not be far behind. Thirty yards away and a bugle sounded and the bayonets dropped into the attack position. The French cheered and charged on.

Hallam pushed the last redcoat back. 'Those men in the trench will fire on my command,' he said calmly. He took a deep breath, waiting for the decisive moment. 'Fire!' He slashed down with his sword and muskets coughed to fog the air yellow-grey. 'Reload!' The French had disappeared, but Hallam could hear them. One volley would not be enough. He turned to the ten in the first rank behind the trench works. 'Front rank kneel! Present!' Foreign voices panted and some jeered.

'They are still there, sir!' Stubbington, posted on the left, pointed his sword blade at the mass of men.

An enemy officer was urging his men on and a score were obeying him. The dead and wounded littered the road.

'Fire!'

The front rank blasted a weak volley, but the balls found targets.

'Reload!' Some of the veterans had shifted their cartridge boxes round to the front of their hips to make it easier to load. However, reloading with an attached bayonet made the musket ungainly and could take the skin off the knuckles of a man if he wasn't careful.

Fox prodded one man who appeared to be frozen on the spot, gaping slack-jawed at the Grenadiers. 'Come on, Berridge, load your musket.'

The use of his name stirred the private into action. A faint smile played across Hallam's lips. 'That's it, draw cartridge. There's a Toad with that bullet's name on it. Slide the ramrod back. Now pull back the hammer. Present!'

'Tirez!' A French order came and a thunderous volley spat through the ever growing powder-smoke.

Redcoats were jerked back. A man gasped before falling into the trench. A ball took a man through an eye and he dropped like a sack of grain. Another slapped the air close to Hallam's face and another churned the snow at his feet. His eyes raked the drifting fog-bank, but the French were still not closing in. Shattered by the initial volley, Hallam thought. Lost their nerve, have they? He stared at the enemy. If that was the case, he continued to ponder, then the day was already won no matter how many of them there were. The trick was to hold fire until the attack, but enough to stop them until he could get a message for the reserves to be brought up. Hallam knew the musket fire would have travelled back to the British lines and he hoped inquisitive men would come to investigate if he was pinned down.

The French advanced again in line, steadily but warily. Hallam still did not give the order to fire. The enemy commander halted the men and muskets went to shoulders causing a ripple in the ranks as men moved.

It hung in the balance, everything on a knife edge.

'Men in the trench –fire!'

A wicked volley hammered out and Hallam thought he saw a dozen or more men tumble onto the road.

'Tirez!' The French muskets crackled like logs in a blazing fire and Hallam saw four of his men collapse. He could only assume the commander had hastily ordered his men to fire when they were recovering from Hallam's previous volley. He pushed men from the rear rank into the gaps.

'Reload!' Hallam then heard a roar come from the French. Figures moved beyond the egg-smelling smoke. 'Here they come! Cease loading! Bayonets at the ready!'

The first French charged the trench and were met with steel blades that jabbed up and sliced into bellies. Fox thrust his bayonet into a man's groin, twisted and the Frenchman doubled over, screaming violently. A pistol exploded to jerk a redcoat who fell, blood gushing in a fountain from his throat. A Frenchman kicked a redcoat in the face and a tooth exploded from his mouth to hit the next man in the side of the face.

'Kill the bastards!' Hallam yelled.

A musket flashed to send a ball into Berridge's forehead. The private sagged, eyes open, with fat beads of purple welling out of the ragged hole.

'Front rank!' Hallam shouted over the clash of blades. 'Fire! Reload!'

Ten muskets flamed and the balls drove deep into the bluecoats. The second ranks pushed past the dead, lurching, manoeuvrability made cumbersome by the bodies.

'Rear rank fire!' Hallam bellowed and immediately gave the order to reload.

The tiny volley twitched at men and suddenly there were holes in the French lines. Their commander, a big man with long hair and a face scarred by a sword blade, rapped out a command for them to retire. A stubborn Grenadier still trying to bayonet the redcoats in the trench was clubbed to the ground by Private Shawford, a large, solid man of muscle, who reached out to drag the man down into the blood-spattered ditch where four blades thumped repeatedly into his writhing body. Two Frenchmen went around the trench and came at Hallam. Stubbington brought his sword to bear, but Hallam shoved him aside. He stooped and flicked up a clod of snow into the first Grenadier's face. The man ducked and then slipped. Hallam kicked him in the face just as the second thrust with his bayonet. Hallam parried it with his sword and brought it back across the man's face, slicing an eye into ruin and hard across his nose, cutting flesh and splintering bone. The Frenchman screamed and tumbled onto the muddied snow. The first one rose and Hallam kicked him in the head again, and this time he did not get up.

'Permission to fire, sir?' Fox asked.

Hallam whipped around thinking the French were returning, but they were in full withdrawal. 'No, Sergeant,' Hallam said. He realised he had been holding his breath and let it out slowly. 'I think they've had enough for now.' He looked to the ensign. 'Are you well, Mister Stubbington?'

Stubbington looked pale. 'I am, sir.' He sheathed his sword. 'I apologise for getting in the way.'

Hallam placed a hand on his shoulder. 'Not at all. I just didn't want to see you hurt,' he said gently. 'You stood your ground. Only a brave man does that. Well done.' A small smile played on Stubbington's lips at the compliment.

Hallam climbed up the few steps to the incomplete platform, the wood, dark, slippery and crusted with hoar frost. The French were gathering their wounded and Hallam was content for them to do that. No other enemy units could be seen. Ten minutes later, the French had still not attacked and then Grenadiers retreated in good order. Hallam watched them disappear beyond the furthest crest where the land was still dark. Fox and the corporals did a head count: Five dead and another seven injured.

'Do you think they'll come back, sir?' Fox enquired in the tone that suggested he hoped the French would return.

'Not likely,' Hallam replied. 'At least not until our lads arrive, and then it'll be too damned late for them.' He turned to Stubbington. 'I think under the circumstances, you'd best return to our gallant captain and advise him of the situation.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I want you to report to the colonel too. Kindly tell him I'm holding the bridge with the best of the regiment.' The last sentence provoked a smattering of cheers. Privately, he was hoping to see Clements humiliated. 'And tell him no need to hurry. Number Eight Company has the situation under control and that I think he owes us all a spot of rum.' An explosion of cheering went up and Hallam laughed. He could see Stubbington hesitating. 'What is it?'

'It's just that you said it was not possible to defend here with infantry alone.'

'I did?'

'Yes, sir.'

Hallam acknowledged, then rubbed his face. 'I guess I can make the odd mistake,' he said, with a grin.

Stubbington returned the smile and sprinted away just as a troop of British cavalry were galloping towards them.

Hallam awarded himself a pat on the back. In truth, it had been his men who had won this fight. Firing three shots a minute in well-timed volleys that the French couldn't counter. He gazed back at the trench, the bridge and the road to freedom beyond. He hadn't smiled much during this campaign, it was a grim time, but the victory here today and realising he had survived made him proud and full of joy to be part of the Slashers. He was a soldier, defeat or victory could not change that, and the dark future looked star-bright.

The Emerald Graves

The officer curbed his horse in one of the many fields below Vinegar Hill, a large pudding-shaped mound outside the town of Enniscorthy.

The sun had burned as fiercely as the rebellion these last few weeks and the night-air had been cool to the touch. There was a thin veil of mist that pooled around the grassy slopes of the hill. It was just after dawn and the sun was already rising above the valley floor, promising another kiln-hot day to come in County Wexford.

The officer brought up an expensive eyeglass and traversed it past the silvery haze and up to where fires burned a dull-red. His green eyes saw figures move up there. Only a score, but he knew there were thousands upon that emerald crown.

'Are you sure the bastard is up there, sir?' A voice rasped from the officer's left. The tone suggested speculation rather than worry.

'Aye. He's up there. I know he is.'

Sergeant Seán Cahill put a dirty finger to one nostril and blew a string of snot into a patch of nettles. 'Then the bastard knows we're coming for him.'

'I'm counting on it.'

'Why's that, sir?'

Major Lorn Mullone turned to his friend, studying the hollowness and extra lines in his face caused by a recent battle injury. 'Because that way he's scared, and men that are close to losing their wits make mistakes.'

Cahill nodded and looked solemnly up at the great mound. He rubbed his leg that was still bandaged from the desperate fight at New Ross two weeks ago. Thousands of United Irishmen had stormed the walled town and succeeded in beating back British troops under General Henry Johnson across the River Barrow. But the rebels had tired after the long assault and without firearms needed to hold back the redcoats, Johnson and his men had returned, brushed aside the fatigued rebels and retaken the town. It had been a bitter and bloody engagement, and the survivors along with many leaders of the rebellion, were now up on the hilltop.

'One mistake, Seán,' Mullone continued, 'and I'll have him. For all the blood that he's spilt, I'll have him at long last.'

Mullone was currently employed by the War Office to spy on Theobald Wolf Tone, a leader of the United Irish, and his acquaintance of a wily French agent called De Marin. So far the Frenchman had eluded capture having recently dressed as a priest and preached lies and rumour to the Irish people that instilled fear and anger. He had been chiefly responsible for the French landings at Fishguard and Bantry Bay, and for inciting the heavy attack on New Ross.

Cahill's voice cut into Mullone's thoughts.

'Let's hope these buggers don't put a shell up his arse first then,' the sergeant said lugubriously, jutting his unshaven chin at the battery of howitzers nearby, 'otherwise your little mission is over.'

'I'm well aware of that, Seán.'

The British troops had arrived in the early hours. Their final pre-dawn flanking march had taken several hours, far longer than their commander, Lieutenant-General Gerard Lake, could have anticipated. But it was a formidable force with over ten thousand men, twenty cannon and over four hundred carriages and wagons loaded with ammunition and equipment. The columns of redcoats were now beginning to make ready for assault. Their objective was simple: encircle the rebels and destroy them. There were four great columns designed to win the battle. Lake commanded the central force, Generals' Duff and Loftus were waiting to strike from the side of the River Slaney, Dundas waited on the east and Johnson was ready to attack Enniscorthy. Only General Needham had not reached position yet, but he had assured Lake that he would be there by dawn.

Mullone's gaze wandered to Lake and his countenance instantly soured. They did not see eye-to-eye. The commander had no empathy with the Irish people and there was a rumour spoken that he would not let any man, woman or child live if he found them alive up on Vinegar Hill. He was a cruel man with eyes like two shards of pale ice set with the expression of constant indifference. Mullone had asked to see him this morning to discuss his apprehension of De Marin, but the general had almost angrily rebuffed him. The major considered that the attack could turn ever so easily into a massacre. There might be a small chance to apprehend the Frenchman, but it would be difficult.

Lake was on horseback with several officers and aides, staring up at the rebel lines. The redcoats, a mixture of Regular, Militia and Yeomanry troops, eagerly waited for the signal to advance. Officers shared jokes and laughed. Some men were smoking tobacco pipes and chatting to the men in their files and one or two were honing their bayonets with sharpening stones. A tall officer wearing a white-faced coat of the Dublin County Militia slashed at knee-high weeds with his sword as though he was waiting for a picnic to begin.

At seven o'clock, the signal was given and the cold iron throats of the guns were blasted free. The noise was terrifying and ear-splitting. Swift fan-shaped patterns rippled the long grass under the long barrels. Banks of foul-smelling smoke drifted like low cloud. Birds scared from their nests flew from trees. Tintreach, Mullone's horse, stamped its feet and whickered. He patted his grey muscled neck to soothe it.

'It won't be long until our boys are up there,' Cahill said, as the long column of Lake's infantry began the advance. 'Skulls are going to be broken, that's for sure.' Mullone pursed his lips, but didn't reply. 'Are we joining them, sir?' he said at the major's taciturnity.

'You can stay here,' Mullone replied abruptly.

'What?' Cahill pulled a face.

The blond-haired major turned to him. 'You're injured and supposed to be resting. What am I to tell your wife if anything happens to you? I left you at New Ross so that you could mend.'

Cahill spat onto to the ground. 'And you think by leaving me with her I would be safe?' The sergeant laughed sardonically. 'Jesus and all the saints. Once she got wind that the Croppies were going to attack the town, she sold a silver ring to buy a musket. A musket for God's sake! The woman's madder than a bishop without his whiskey.'

'I thought you'd be safe.'

'I am.'

Mullone huffed. 'I promised her to keep you out of harm's way.' Their many years together had formed a strong bond.

'You have done,' Cahill quipped with a grin. 'I'm about to ride to battle and she's twenty miles away. I'm safe.'

Mullone chortled. In truth, he was glad of his friend's company, having no other person who he would have fought alongside him. They wore the uniform of Lord Maxwell Lovell's Irish Dragoons, a design based on the British Light Dragoons. Their scarlet coats had green facings, the colour of the rich grass beneath them. Mullone wore buff breeches that were patched and heavily stitched, and was bareheaded having lost his Tarleton helmet. One hundred men had once ridden in the ranks, but after various skirmishes, battles and disease, there were now less than ten. Mullone had left the remainder of his troopers under Corporal O'Shea with General Johnson's force whilst the two of them scouted for De Marin. He had been certain that the Frenchman was at Enniscorthy, until a blacksmith, caught making pike heads, had revealed otherwise. Mullone had questioned the man himself rather than let him be taken into custody and the smith had seen the compassion in the major's eyes and had talked. He said a bearded priest with a half-dozen United Irishmen, had asked him to increase the thirty pike heads he could turn out to fifty a day. That priest had been the spy and had joined a rebel leader called John Fitzstephen up on the hill. Mullone had guessed that the twenty thousand rebels planned to burn Enniscorthy to the ground and march triumphantly on Wexford.

The batteries opened up again, pumping clouds of jaundice-coloured smoke into the air, and bombarding the hill's crown with lethal iron shot. Mullone thought he saw great clods of earth flick up into the sky denoting a ball's strike. The redcoat column, supported by cavalry, were making the steep climb up the hill. So far they were marching in good order and with no rebel counterattacks. They hadn't even sent out their Light Companies and Mullone guessed that the threat of the cavalry was enough to hold back the few musket-armed insurgents.

'I think it's time we joined them,' Mullone said and clicked Tintreach forward.

'About bloody time,' Cahill muttered, following close behind.

'But stay out of harm's way.'

'You've not to worry about me, sir,' Cahill gave a look of innocence as he patted the carbine in its holster. 'And when all this is finished, you and I can put our boots up and find ourselves a place that serves rare ale.'

'If we apprehend De Marin, I'll buy you the bloody tavern.'

Cahill touched the peak of his tarleton helmet. 'What are we waiting for then?' He edged his horse further than Mullone's.

When they reached the ascending column, musket shots rang out and as they kicked their mounts up the hill, volley-fire was splitting the air raw. Aides galloped between the regiments that formed and wheeled from column into line. Mullone saw a host of red coats with yellow, green and blue facings and banners of matching colours. The nearest battalion was the 89th, a regiment with black facings raised in Dublin at the start of the war with France. Its commander, Lord Blayney, was a young aristocrat who despised the United Irishmen and, with a history of an untiring perseverance in capturing the rebels, the regiment had been given its unofficial nickname of 'Blayney's Bloodhounds'.

Through the drifting dirty clouds of smoke, Mullone could see groups of rebels firing down from the summit. Their fire was sporadic and ragged, but the first redcoats were falling. A line of pikemen appeared behind a screen of yellow-flowering gorse. There were scores of them. Green banners fluttered in the wind. Whistles blew and more skirmishers ran out to meet the rebels. The Light Bobs in skirmish chain were winning the battle against the scarce musket-armed rebels because they were loading and firing quicker. Men and boys tumbled to the ground in gouts of blood. A leader wearing a short brown coat and a hat wound with a green ribbon was yelling orders and the rebels retreated. He turned in his saddle, aimed his pistol, fired into the mass of redcoats and then kicked his horse up the hill.

'Do you see their pikemen, Sergeant?' Mullone asked.

Then the ridgeline, as though sown by dragon's teeth, sprouted men.

'Here they come,' Cahill said almost excitedly, as hundreds of pike heads bobbed with the march of the men above the peak. First was the long staves, then arms and then the mass of men came into view.

The pikemen marched down the lip of the hill to the beat of drums and fifes. The Light Companies returned to their parent units after a flurry of blown whistles. Mullone could see the rebels' mouths open and close as though they were shouting or singing to a tune. The iron tips in each rank caught the sun, gleaming with orange light and with each step towards their enemy.

'Brave,' Mullone uttered. 'Foolish, but damned brave all the same.'

'Aye, sir,' Cahill agreed. 'There are women and children up there with their fathers and brothers. Jesus, but these bastards will not care who they kill.' He said the last sentence loud enough for the 89th to hear. The sergeant didn't care who heard him.

An officer, not yet thirty years old with dark curls and brown eyes, trotted his horse to the left of the regiment, a thin smile on his face. '89th!' Lord Blayney, pistol in his hand, commanded. 'Make ready! Let's spill some Croppie blood! Present!' Four hundred muskets went to shoulders. 'I want these bastards dead! Aim at their black hearts, boys! Send them to hell!'

Mullone watched the rebels close the gap. They broke from their ranks to charge the redcoats. A boy of twelve hefted a green flag showing the harp. He stared wide-eyed at the bayonet-tipped muskets and then closed his eyes. At thirty yards the musket was deadly in concentrated volleys. Firing en masse, that would blast the enemy ranks apart like a giant shotgun.

'Fire!' Blayney bellowed.

Four hundred muskets spat smoke, flames jetted from muzzles and the balls punched into the rebels. The fusillade was like the crack of doom; a death knell wrought to this green place. Scores collapsed and the green slope was suddenly awash with blood. The attack faltered and Mullone watched the survivors clamber away.

'Reload,' the sergeants bawled.

'Jesus,' Cahill said in the tone that could either have meant with awe or horror.

An aide galloped past, the beast's hooves scattering clods of earth behind it, and saluted Blayney before giving orders. The man then saluted again and kicked his horse towards a Militia regiment from Sligo on the 89th's right. A troop of Midlothian Fencible Cavalry guarded the flank, trotting with their sabres sheathed for now.

'89th advance!' Blayney rode forward and picked his way through the wounded. A man wearing a grubby white shirt was coughing up blood. Another man staggered with an arm hanging useless by his side. Mullone saw that the boy was still alive, but the green flag had been snatched away. His legs were trying to move his body, heels digging into the grass, but he faltered, chest expanding. Blood dribbled from his slack mouth. Blayney watched him. ''Tis a shame you fell in with the mob,' he said, stopping above him. 'But the shame will soon be over.' He brought the pistol around and shot the boy through the forehead.

The redcoats confidently resumed their march as though they had encountered no resistance. There had been a rumour that the rebels had built a series of defence works and Mullone twisted in his saddle to see the lighter field guns were being pulled and dragged up the slopes by the blue-coated horse artillery in case that proved true. The cannon could destroy the fortifications that had been hastily thrown up, and fire grapeshot into the packed ranks of pikemen. The howitzers were still lobbing shells overhead that fizzed and screamed like banshees before exploding above the packed ranks of the rebels. Every so often he heard a voice cry out, before it was snatched by the wind or from the sporadic musket-fire. Some shells, fired too high, crashed over the summit amongst the rocks. The rebels came down the hill again. This time they appeared in one contemptible line instead of a rabble. Muskets went to shoulders and the redcoats walked into a hail of lead. A few men went down, including a couple of officers ahead of their companies, but the range was too great. An officer of the Longford Militia to Mullone's left was trying to control his rearing mount that was screaming from a bullet to its neck. The horse kept tossing its head. A sergeant ran forward to help and received a kick for his trouble. He landed heavily on his back, where he gasped and clawed at his chest.

'Stupid bastard ought to have known better than to run behind a nag,' Cahill said carelessly. 'Probably now has a rib or two broken. Serves him right.'

Mullone heard a rebel shout commands to reload. A roundshot slammed into the slope and bounced high up into the air. Both sides saw the heavy iron ball spin, and hit the ground with a terrific thud again to roll back down the hill going past the cavalry on the flank.

'They're reloading too slowly,' Cahill remarked as though he was disappointed with the enemy's progress.

'They're not trained, Seán.'

The redcoats halted perhaps forty yards from the rebel line and levelled their muskets. The quick-witted ones turned and took flight, just before the red lines sent another crashing volley into them. More men tumbled like skittle and the line dissolved.

'Here they go again,' Cahill said as another line of pikemen appeared.

They descended steadily over the crest and Mullone saw three groups behind the fifth ranks moving, or steadying something. A glint of light flashed briefly.

'They've got cannon,' he said.

Cahill chuckled. 'Now we're getting somewhere, sir.'

The pikemen did not wait for any orders and suddenly broke cohesion to charge the redcoats. Again the musket line exploded and the balls twitched the British ranks crimson. A rebel picked up a fallen banner and waved his men on. Mullone espied a pike thrown like a spear just miss a Longford Militiaman in the front rank. Another man staggered as though he was drunk.

The redcoats were advanced through the whirling powder-smoke and the wounded rebels found beneath their boots were bayoneted without any disinclination.

Two of the cannon were small and Mullone considered them to be puny one-pounders, but the piece facing the men from Sligo was a six-pounder. The left gun fired a one-pound ball down the slope. It hit a bump in the grass and bounced harmlessly over the attackers. The other gun fired by farmers and labourers slammed straight into the 89th, decapitating a sergeant and disembowelling an officer's chestnut horse. The beast shrieked and collapsed before the man could climb out of the saddle. The horse fell and the man, trapped by the weight, gasped as his leg broke.

The redcoats were thirty yards from the crest and the rebel gunners were waiting until the very last minute before allowing the glowing slow-matches to touch the quills. The redcoats collectively took an intake of breath at the cold muzzles in front. Then, a howitzer shell fired from the British lines, screeched and flashed before exploding above the six-pounder killing all its crew. The remaining gunners fled and disappeared out of view.

A deep throated cheer went up from the redcoats and the ensigns hoisted their flags higher. Victory was certain and the rebels would be defeated. On all sides of the hill, they came and the rebels had nowhere to go. The battle was already won.

Then, a single man appeared on the crest. He wore a long green coat and a black hat with a green cockade. He stared with dark eyes and from a hundred yards away, Mullone recognised him. Fitzstephen was one of the United leaders whom he had met following the slaughter at New Ross. If he was here, then so was De Marin.

Fitzstephen gave an ironic salute with his sword, picked up the slow-match and put it to the quill. The powder fizzed a heartbeat before the six-pounder crashed back on its long trail as the grapeshot burst from the blackened muzzle. The shot jerked back a dozen screaming Sligo men, tearing bloody swathes in the ranks and sheeting the grass with blood, bone and gobbets of gore. The wounded stumbled away or lay in mounds and the battalion appeared momentarily stunned, but the attack did not falter and the drums beat them on.

The first redcoats over the summit saw the entire plain was packed with thousands of rebels. The pikes bristled with defiance. Horsemen galloped along the lines shouting commands, whilst others were trying to push men into formation.

Mullone and Cahill trotted in between the mauled Sligo men and the 89th, making way for three guns brought up to be quickly unlimbered.

'They've had it now,' Cahill said, plugging his mouth with chewing tobacco. 'There's nowhere else to run to.'

The redcoats advanced and the great rebel lines seemed to contract. Among the pikes and banners, wooden crosses were held up. Mullone saw a priest riding a horse up and down the lines. He was shouting with great fervour. Mullone looked for Fitzstephen and De Marin but could not see them. Drummers were still beating the phalanxes onward and the redcoats were cheering as they advanced, their voices enthusiastic and almost light-hearted, as though this was just a game. More and more redcoats climbed the crest and the situation for the rebels looked dire. The east side of Vinegar Hill offered no protection. There were no rocky outcrops, ridges and pockets here where the musket-armed rebels had offered insolence. British cavalry, sensing ease, trotted up the smooth grassy bank unopposed and wheeled into line. As Mullone neared the enemy, he could see that the ranks were not formed as one giant hollow square, but fragmented into numerous unsteady formations. That being so, the horsemen could not charge for the pike was a cavalryman's worst nightmare. The long blades would stab and pierce them in the saddles, unhorse them and the animals were frightened of the iron-tipped rows.

God, but we could die here today, Mullone considered. To be buried in mass pits. He imagined a series of emerald graves upon the summit that would be the only mark of the battle.

The forward Crown battalions halted fifty yards from the rebels and were met with more curses and derisory whoops. Mullone curbed his horse. He brought out his telescope and scanned the faces for De Marin and Fitzstephen. Bearded, dirty and bold unknown faces blurred as the glass traversed the ranks. Mullone grimaced for he could not see either of them. Then, he heard a deep voice emanating from the ranks, and Fitzstephen stepped forth.

'Don't fear them. They have one shot. You have your pikes,' he urged. 'The blade is as sharp as your wits, broad as your pride and deadly as your courage. Stand tall. Stand strong. Erin go Bragh!'

A crescendo of voices rose up to repeat the declaration and the hairs on the back of Mullone's neck stood up.

'Words spoken by a brave man,' he said, turning to Cahill. The rebel had captured Mullone after New Ross, but had let him live rather than turn him over to De Marin who would have killed him in the blink of an eye.

'The mutterings of a mad man,' Blayney shouted as the noise died down.

The redcoats brought their heavy muskets to their shoulders and the regular, Fencible and Militia regiments disappeared in white smoke and the air rippled with leaping flames like hell's horrors as the volley-fire thundered into the rebels. Scores fell to the turf. A man holding a coal-black banner with God Damn The King stitched in white needlework stumbled and dropped the flag, sinking to his knees. A man ran forward to haul another away, who had a small crimson stain on his ash-grey shirt. A riderless horse, sheeted with blood, cantered across the lines. Someone began laughing hysterically.

All the curses and threats have come to end on this grassy mound. Such a waste of life, Mullone thought. Such a waste of good lives from men he could have called friends or drank with in happier times.

'Reload!'

'Send the Croppies to hell, boys!' shouted an officer of the Longford Militia. 'Send them back where they came from!'

Mullone couldn't see Fitzstephen or much of anything as the smoke clogged the air.

The British reloaded again and fired another volley into the vague shapes beyond the smoke. When a battery of six-pounders were brought up, the infantry was ordered forward with bayonets fixed.

'That's the way!' a colonel of the Sligo Militia yelled. 'Take no prisoners! Do you hear? Let not one of them live! That's an order now! Today is the Day of Judgement!'

Cahill spat tobacco juice onto the grass. 'The Croppies have no place to hide. This is the end for them.'

'I'm not so sure of that.' Mullone had been staring at the press of rebels to the south and they were disappearing. He quickly surmised that General Needham's force had not yet reached the hill and Lake in his rashness had left a gap in the attacking lines, which the rebels were fervently exploiting.

The redcoats marched and the drummers' rhythm was more ragged, as they had to step over the dead and dying enemy. Pools of blood were soaking into the ground, darkening the grass. Wounded men begged for water, or for their mothers, or for sweethearts. A great bear of a man with a stain from an old powder burn on his right cheek pounced on a writhing body.

'Look what I've found!' he said to his companions of the Sligo Militia, clasping long hair in his paw-like hands. It was a girl, perhaps sixteen years of age, pretty with hair the colour of peat, and the big redcoat struck her across the face to quieten her screams. She fell back onto the blood-slick grass. 'Let's have a look at you, my pretty.' He cackled and ripped open her dress to expose small, round breasts. 'Oh yes, they'll do.' He fingered one of her nipples and bent down to suckle when a boot caught him in the side of the neck. He rolled over to see a sergeant pulling the girl to her feet.

'You get up again and I'll spit you with this,' Cahill patted his sword.

The private cast sullen eyes and wiped his mouth. 'You want her for yourself, Sergeant?' he said, voice raspy from the assault.

'No,' he said and pushed the frightened girl up into the saddle. 'I'll return her to her family.' The man laughed sourly at that. 'What's funny, you ugly bastard?'

'Her family are here,' the private said, still laughing. 'Dead like the rest of them. Soon to be crow food.'

The girl whimpered and Cahill hauled himself up, wincing because of his injured leg. He spat a jet of the remains of his tobacco plug that hit the wretch full in the face, and clicked the horse on.

Mullone was frantically studying the bodies. 'I can't see Fitzstephen.'

'He must be with the mass of them over there,' Cahill said, staring east.

Musket fire crackled from the rebels and a handful of horsemen who were circling the moving horde tumbled to the ground. Mullone watched a ramrod wheel through the air. A knot of pikemen led by a sword-armed man charged into the 89th. The blades looked wickedly long in the smoke-torn sunlight. They slashed at faces, cut arms and tried to disembowel, but a blast of grapeshot threw reinforcements behind them down in a welter of blood, and the experienced redcoats killed the others with bayonet thrusts. An officer shot a woman who was pushing children away, then charged with his pistol raised as a club. Another cannon, brought to face the slope to the south, slapped horribly through the retreating rebel files to slash quick bloody swathes on the grass. Men, women and children were dying from canister. Canister was a cylindrical tin crammed with musket balls which burst open at the cannon's muzzle to hurl a spreading cone of bullets at the enemy. Mullone could see the effect of the grape shot and canister from the mounds of dead, and horribly wounded groups of rebels snatched backwards from the attacks. It was a sickening sight.

'Sir!' Cahill called urgently and Mullone twisted back in his saddle. The sergeant was pointing at a body.

Mullone dismounted and knelt down by the rebel leader. His face was pallid, grey almost like it had been rinsed of colour. He had been shot twice; a bullet to his shoulder and another had pierced a lung. Pink bubbles frothed at the corners of his mouth.

'Where is he?' Mullone asked him.

Fitzstephen coughed and blood seeped from his purple lips. He recognised the major and knew who he was enquiring about. 'Why should I tell you?' he croaked.

Mullone ogled the dying man whose face was distorting in a combination of shock, pain and disbelief. There wasn't much time. 'You asked me once whether I was a patriot and I told you that I was,' he said in a soft voice. 'I love Ireland as much as any man here. But I will not be a slave to the French. De Marin does not care for your ideals any more than the rest of them. He's using you and you've been a fool. Now where is he? Tell me so that he can't ruin any more Irish lives.'

Fitzstephen coughed again and a hand fluttered over his ruined chest. The light in his eyes was getting dimmer. Mullone shook him and he regained a little consciousness. 'If I tell you, will you help a dying man on his last journey? I'll not give these other damned redcoats the pleasure.'

Mullone ran his eye over the corpse-strewn ground, then nodded, knowing what was being asked of him. His eyes returned to the rebel with solemn agreement. 'Yes.'

'Your word.'

Mullone sighed. 'You have it.'

Fitzstephen's mouth spread to a smile. 'He left for Enniscorthy and from there he'll likely go north to Ulster. They're planning something up there.'

'Thank you.'

A bloodied hand gripped the major's arm.

'You promised me,' Fitzstephen looked pained.

Mullone got to his feet. 'I did,' he said. The rebel's once green coat faced-red, and decorated in gold lace and epaulettes, was ragged and grimy. His uniform had once dazzled, but now looked like a veteran's cast-offs. Mullone hazarded a guess that the last few weeks had been grim. 'Seán.' he uttered, jaw clenched. He could not do the deed himself.

The sergeant pulled out his carbine, cocked the hammer and brought the stock to his shoulder.

'Erin go Bragh,' Mullone said softly.

Fitzstephen showed his teeth. It was obvious from the uneven rise and fall of his chest that death was not far away, but he wanted a soldier's death, for he had looked after his men like any good commander had. 'Erin go Bragh, Major.'

Mullone climbed into the saddle as the shot rang out. 'We ride to Enniscorthy. And find that Crapaud bastard.' He remembered the girl was still with them and coughed to cover his embarrassment. 'We'll leave you safe at the town,' he said, and the frightened girl nodded.

They were about to move away when an artillery officer rode up to them, his bay horse slick with sweat.

'Captain Bloomfield, sir,' he said, saluting. He was a stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair.

'Major Lorn Mullone and this is my sergeant.'

Bloomfield shot Cahill a friendly glance, saw the girl and his mouth opened.

'What do you want, Captain? We have important business to attend to,' Mullone said tartly.

'Apologies, sir,' Bloomfield closed his lolling jaw. 'I was going to ask if you knew who this man?' The gun captain jutted his chin at Fitzstephen's body. 'Forgive me, sir, but I've heard there's a bounty on a man named John Fitzstephen. One of the Wexford leaders. I was hoping to claim it.'

'I'm afraid you're mistaken.' As he spoke, Mullone gazed at a patch of dry grass smouldering from the burning wads jettisoned from the musket barrels. 'This man just asked for water and so I gave it to him. I've no idea who he is.'

Bloomfield looked crestfallen. 'I see, sir.'

'I've seen Fitzstephen and that is certainly not him,' Mullone reiterated the lie. 'I'd look elsewhere if I were you. Good day to you, Captain.'

Mullone saluted, made sure the officer had left, and the three of them climbed down the slope to cross a ford two miles north. The cold water of the River Slaney reached their knees, but they had crossed the high grass-strewn banks without any confrontation with the pockets of rebels. They followed a track made of ancient wheel ruts to the town. Scores were streaming across Ennicorthy's seventeenth-century stone bridge where shouting and heavy musketry echoed loudly. The Norman castle dominated the town, which was garrisoned with redcoats. The Union Flag flew tall from the battlements.

Mullone found General Johnson directing two companies of green-coated riflemen into the narrow, cobbled streets. They were Germans from the 5th Battalion, 60th Rifles, and they ran forward in skirmish order. Beyond the roof tops, a thick plume of smoke carried from two burning buildings obscured the savagery ensuing on Vinegar Hill. A volley of musket fire hammered at a group of Light Bobs from the Dumbarton Fencibles, a Scottish regiment who wore bonnets and kilts. The Scotsmen were crouched behind walls, gardens and houses. One spun away and another staggered, clutching his side.

'Major Mullone,' Johnson greeted him warmly, despite the obvious fierce resistance his force had encountered. A steady stream of wounded were making their way to a barn where a surgeon was plying his trade.

'Morning, sir,' Mullone wiped the sweat on his face with a sleeve. Cahill hung back with the girl.

'Has General Lake sent you down here?' Johnson's tone rankled with hate for the man.

'No, sir. I came here of my own accord.'

Johnson was a tall man; gangly and narrow-shouldered with a face lined with age and a long nose. In the recent weeks, his face had become somewhat pinched as though he was worn down with the stress of the rebellion. He looked sideways at Mullone. 'More government work, eh? What the hell brings you here? Your troopers are helping to guard the baggage. Have you come for them?'

'No, sir. I need to ask you something.'

Johnson lifted his chin. 'Go on.'

'When we first met I told you I was looking for a French spy by the name of De Marin. He masquerades as a priest; a Father Keay.'

'Yes, I remember. And?'

Mullone looked towards the houses. 'A source has confirmed he's in the town, sir.'

Johnson watched the Germans clear the houses, darting forward like professional soldiers, watching, aiming and covering each step. One pair spotted an enemy marksmen firing from a rooftop and put a bullet in him. The body slid down the slate tiles, leaving a trace of blood behind. One of the Germans whooped with glee. 'Enniscorthy is thick with the mob, Major. I fear you'll never catch him.'

'The bridge, sir. If your men can reach it, then perhaps my chances will increase.'

The general blew out a lungful of breath. 'That might prove impossible...' His voice trailed off.

'Sir?' Mullone prompted.

Johnson made an almost apologetic face. 'The rebels have already thrown my lads out once. They are hard-pressed.'

Mullone could see the men's lips were stained by black powder from biting cartridges and would be desperately thirsty from the saltpetre in the gunpowder. There were red bodies lining the road and slumped against houses. It must have been a tough fight.

Mullone's exasperation and anguish broke. 'I have to find him! I can't let that bastard escape!' Johnson looked shocked at the outburst and Mullone shifted awkwardly. 'My sincerest apologies, sir. De Marin is a slippery fellow and I've spent months trying to apprehend him.'

The crinkles around Johnson's eyes became more noticeable when he smiled. 'No regret needed, Major,' he countered quickly. 'I understand your position,' he said with empathy. 'I had hoped to have taken the town by now, but I take my hat off to the Croppies. Their pikemen are made of stronger stuff. They've blocked the roads and the bridge and my lads have not been able to push them back. I've asked Lake for reinforcements, but as every minute passes by with no answer, they slip away. I'm sorry.'

Mullone clicked Tintreach forward, his gaze drifted towards the bridge. He turned to Cahill. 'Tether Tintri to the post over there,' he said, pointing to a broken gate. 'I'm going into the town.'

'Let me come with you, sir,' Cahill pleaded. The girl still had not left his side.

'Stay here, Seán,' Mullone was emphatic. 'That's a direct order. Look after the girl.'

The sergeant reluctantly obeyed. 'Be careful, sir.'

'It's not me you should be worrying about.'

Cahill grinned, exposing yellow teeth. 'If you see the bastard, be sure to break his skull.'

Mullone picked his way down through the cobbled road to the heart of the town. Green banners, ribbons and freshly cut boughs hung from windows declaring their true loyalties. Musket shots echoed not far from him. His nose wrinkled at the roiling gun smoke and from the burning buildings. A ball smacked into a house's wall not far from him, making a buzzing sound as it spun away. He followed the street to where redcoats were firing sporadically at barricades. He went over to an officer on horseback who stiffened in his saddle.

'Major Mullone, sir.'

'Colonel Vesey, Dublin County Militia,' the officer said, mouth clenching a cigar. What brings you here, Mullone?'

'I'm tasked by the Castle to find a French agent by the name of De Marin, sir.'

Vesey chortled as though that had amused him. He took out the cigar and a plume of blue smoke erupted from his mouth. 'A spy? Here?'

'Yes, sir.'

Vesey remained silent for a few seconds as though the thought of French secret agents was the work of fantasy. 'I haven't seen or heard any Crapauds. Lots of Croppies shouting 'death to the king' and 'liberty and equality' and such like. Nothing in French. What does this villain look like?'

Mullone gave De Marin's description. 'He's known to dress in a priest's attire, sir,' he added, staring at the bullet-marked barricades and houses. He could see scores of pikemen and musket-armed rebels, but no priest. 'He may have abandoned the guise, though,' he added, knowing that was a possibility. He would have done the same in the Frenchman's situation.

Vesey paused for a moment to suck on his cigar.

Dear God, Mullone thought. Time is running out. He fixed the man a penetrating look. 'Sir?'

Vesey pursed his lips, then shook his head. 'No, I have not seen such a knave. In any case finding him would be like trying to find a musket ball at the bottom of an ocean. Impossible. I wish I could help you further. I'll put the word out, though, should my lads come across a Frog in these parts.'

'Thank you, sir. I briefly knew your predecessor. He died bravely.'

When the attackers had breached one of the New Ross' gates Lord Mountjoy, commander of the militia, had tried to reason with them, but his words had fallen on deaf ears. He had been pulled from his horse and piked to death.

Vesey's eyes clouded with sorrow, but not for long for he had achieved command of the regiment, which was something he had yearned for. 'Yes. A God-faring man to the end. You were there then? A terrible day and night that was.'

'I was there.'

Vesey shifted in his saddle. 'I've never seen such blood-letting in all my life. New Ross was a butcher's yard. Men, women and children slaughtered. I can still smell the scent of death.'

But Mullone wasn't listening. He was staring at a man wearing a long brown coat with a green sash and top hat. The rebel leader was standing on the bridge's stonework as a mass of fugitives were crossing the Slaney to where the survivors of Vinegar Hill were continuing to flee.

Mullone's skin prickled.

'De Marin!' He ran to an upturned cart and stood up on it, nerves taut, shouting furiously. 'De Marin! You bastard!'

The Frenchman looked around and smiled. He had shaved off his beard and was now dressed as a civilian, but at his hip hung his expensive sword. He waved once and disappeared in the seething horde.

Bile rose into the back of Mullone's throat. He had failed and he knew it. He thumped a hand down on one of the iron-rimmed wheels and swore.

From the slaughter of New Ross, to the blood-soaked battle on the hill and here at Enniscorthy today, De Marin had escaped. The Frenchman had boasted after New Ross that their paths would cross again.

Mullone knew that to be true, but when that time came he would be ready. He vowed it.

Pipe and Drum

Sampson McKay was not a handsome man. He was swarthy, well-muscled, with two dark eyes set in a hard countenance. What made his appearance even more noticeable were the two scars on his face; a smooth whitish line from the corner of his mouth to his earlobe from a musket ball and the other a curved pinkish-furrow under his right cheek bone caused by an enemy sword cut.

Both battle scars and Sampson McKay was a devil in a redcoat when it came to fighting. At twenty-three, he was a Private in the Grenadier Company of the 78th, the Ross-Shire Buffs, a Highland regiment stationed in India; one of the many British battalions embroiled now in the fight against the Mahratta armies of Scindia and the Rajah of Berar. The regiment had landed in Calcutta in 1797 and six years of warfare had honed his skills. His company had been attached to General Harris' command back in 1799 to storm the well-defended breach at Seringapatam where he had been shot fighting the Tippo Sultan's troops. In August of this year, he had joined in the assault on the fortress of Ahmednuggur, where an Indian tulwar had flashed through his skin. McKay, bleeding heavily, had twisted his bayonet into the officer's ribs and killed many others before the British captured the stronghold.

And now he was going into battle again.

The kilted 78th marched across a wide plain, interspersed with palm trees and cactuses. Their boots kicked up a plume of dust that made their red coats dust-stained and grimy. To the north were the Mahratta battle lines where scores of cannon barrels glinted under a burning September sun.

'There's the general,' Corporal Loughty said, in his usual rasping voice. 'Better smarten yourself up, boys.'

McKay craned his neck, past the mud-walled village of huts and cattle sheds he had overheard Lieutenant Fernsby call 'Peepulgaon', and the smaller settlement on the opposite bank was called 'Waroor'. A knot of horsemen on the bluff above the Kaitna's banks, and shaded by a thick canopy of trees, gazed across the land. One of the taller scarlet-coated officers turned his horse and waved a greeting to a mounted officer of the 74th, the other Highland regiment of this force, who wore plaid trews. Even from this distance, McKay could surmise the figure was Major-General Arthur Wellesley. Behind him were a half-dozen aides, one being Captain Colin Campbell, previously the Grenadier Company's lieutenant. Campbell had been the first man to scale Ahmednuggur's brutal walls, an act which gave him a captaincy and a position on Wellesley's staff. Lieutenant-Colonel Alexander Fraser and Colonel William Harness, the 78th's commanding officer, trotted over to the general and McKay thought he heard a hearty whoop of a laugh carried over the advancing column.

A call sounded up above and the NCOs returned down the lines that the battalion was about to cross the river, and the column stalled while the front battalions of sepoys and East India Company men went first.

'My poor bloody aching feet,' Private Tam Culpepper groaned, shifting his weight onto each leg. The men only carried their muskets, ammunition and haversacks. Their blankets and packs were stored on the bullock carts due to the heat. The big beasts were driven by local men, ten allocated per company and were under the command of brinjarris; grain merchants and bullock transporters. The baggage train now waited four miles to the south at a village called Naulniah.

'They're about to get a cooling, Tam,' McKay responded with a glib smile, the squint lines by his eyes pale against the dark suntan.

'Won't wash the stink away, though,' Private John Baillie said with equal sarcasm. He was a big man, broad-faced, a ready smile and kindly eyes.

Culpepper gathered himself. 'My feet have seen more battlefields than all of you young idiots put together,' he said. He was the oldest man in the company, nearing thirty-five, lantern-jawed with greying red hair, and had fought the kings' enemies for twenty years. He was a veteran of battles and the new recruits looked up to him. 'I've marched ten thousand miles, a soldier's reckoning, on roads which were frozen solid in winter, were foot-traps in the spring and summer and which choked the very breath from your throats in summer. Oh yes, I've a bloody right to moan.'

'I'd rather you whine about those,' McKay said, gesturing with his chin at the long Mahratta lines, far beyond the folds of land. Silk banners flapped in the wind. He could see masses of horsemen on the flanks, but the threat of the British and Company cavalry were keeping them away for now. 'Because when they start firing at us, we'll be knocked over like skittles,' he said wolfishly. 'So say your troubles, prayers, sins and your laments now. It's going to be the last breath you'll ever take.'

The men around him gave him suspicious glances. It wasn't like McKay to be so pessimistic. It wasn't even as if he was a God-faring man.

Truth being it was nerves, although he was taking great lengths to hide them. He was known as fighter; a devil of a man bred for it, but no devil feared anything, and McKay feared death. He feared today's fight and the thunder of guns was churning his guts and making his spine tingle with panic. Ahmednuggur. That was where he thought he would die. He could still see the flash of sword coming down at his bare head. The pain had been like hot-fire. He wondered whether he had been blinded, but the blood had splashed up over his eyes. Months on, he still suffered nightmares. He saw that blade coming every night.

Somewhere a dog barked in the village and naked children chased chickens as the redcoats sweated on the beaten-earth road. The first battalions had crossed the ford and were now marching north past Waroor towards a town in the distance with high mud walls and thatched roofs. The cavalry were somewhere there as well as the ox-drawn artillery, but they were shielded by fields of millet and groves of trees. McKay wondered what the name of that particular straw-roofed settlement was.

'I'm not sure to shake your hand or cuff you about the ears, boy,' Culpepper said, facing McKay. 'Why are you in such a black mood?'

McKay wiped his face of sweat. 'Have you counted the Indian guns?'

Culpepper gave a dry sniff. 'No, I have not. Why would I do such a thing?'

McKay's melancholy reply was not heard because the Mahratta gun batteries opened fire. The report split the air with the force of a thunderclap. The cannons, operated by experienced Goanese gunners, roared, spitting smoke. The iron balls landed in front of the advancing redcoats. Most fell short. McKay watched one land, scatter earth and fragments of stone, to bounce several times before finally rolling to an undignified halt at the end of a long furrow, one hundred yards past its intended target.

'That was every bloody field gun!' A knot was tying itself in McKay's stomach as he imagined the battalion marching straight at them.

Colonel Fraser galloped back on his roan mare to the battalion and ordered it forward. 'You're going to earn your pay today,' he said. 'They're quaking in their boots at the sight of you, bastards. Let the pipes carry you on to victory!'

The Scotsmen, in good order, watched the sepoys of the 10th Madras descend the banks to cross the west-to-east flowing river. The sepoys were good Company troops who marched, drilled and fought as well as their European counterparts for six rupees a month, less than half a private received in the King's army. They wore red tunics and turbans adorned their heads, and all had moustaches and some beards, for it was said to be a disgrace to be clean-shaven.

Another cannonade battered the sky, and McKay heard a loud slapping sound. It was a huge eighteen pound ball, bouncing down the river, where it struck the rear companies of the 10th Madras. Men were smashed aside and the banks were splashed bright red.

'Jesus Christ!' Baillie voiced loudly.

''Tis a Sabbath Day, boys,' Loughty barked down the line. 'So keep your blasphemous tongues still! Save your breaths for the killing to come! Lots of blackamoors are waiting, so be quiet!'

They would keep firing, McKay thought. The dry earth was about to be drenched in blood.

The Goanese gunners would already be ramming fresh rounds into their long barrels. Today was a killing day, Sabbath or not.

Another shot screamed overhead. Men searched the skies frantically, but it hit the hard ground to the right of Waroor to disappear in a patch of brush. A patch of grey-white smoke roiling at the edge of the gun lines, showed where the shot had originated.

Soon, the Highlanders plunged into the brown waters of the Kaitna, cool and invigorating to hot and tired limbs, reaching up to most average men's thighs. The sunlight was creating bright shimmering patterns on the water. McKay glanced east to see dead sepoys float downstream like scattered children's toys.

The brigade was ordered into a line of attack, each battalion was in two lines facing the might of the Mahratta army, some fifteen thousand strong, to the west.

Baillie whistled softly at the might of the Indian princes.

It was a killing day, Sabbath or not, the words echoed in McKay's mind.

'You'll be advancing soon enough, do you hear?' Brigade Colonel William Harness yelled his command. He was reputed to be ill of the mind, but today he ruled from the saddle like any normal fit senior officer. 'I know you rogues are baying for heathen blood, and your cold steel will be washed with it, but for now you wait until I give the order. You stand and wait!'

'I heard he wanted to flog every man in the battalion for the theft of his coat,' Baillie said through a crooked mouth. 'Colonel Fraser had to point out to him that he was in fact wearing it. Mad as a bloody brush.'

'It's the climate,' McKay replied, staring out across the plain split by gullies, crop fields, groves and ridges. 'When we landed in Calcutta back in '97, the battalion was over seven hundred strong. Within a month, there were only one hundred and fifty of us fit for parade. Maladies, the food, the heat. It's all foreign. It saps a man.'

'It's what I've always said: white men aren't meant to be here,' Culpepper put in his thoughts.

'No, but those bastards are,' Baillie jutted his head at the long Mahratta lines. 'Jesus, they stretch for miles.'

A roundshot bounced to churn a file of sepoys into bits of blood, bone and gristle. The few British guns fired back, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Another enemy ball smashed into a British field gun with an almighty crack, knocking the gunners aside in its path, as it tore a wheel off. Two men were down while another weaved about as though he was drunk.

Then came the order the redcoats had been waiting for.

'Forward!' Wellesley shouted, almost in anticipation, waving his cocked hat to drive his men into chaos. 'Forward!'

'Forward, you rogues!' Harness bellowed, drawing his long broadsword from its scabbard.

The drummers began their rhythmic beat, the pipers of the 78th played the tune of 'Highland Laddie' and the army advanced under a kiln hot sun in two long ranks.

The British artillery ahead of the line threw their iron balls at the enemy ranks, but a thunderous explosion ripped through the air as the Goanese gunners returned fire. The sound of the guns was deafening and relentless. McKay saw an officer struck with solid shot simply disintegrate. One minute he had been giving orders and the next was a spray of blood and what looked like a collapsed bag of offal strung out on the ground.

McKay licked dry lips. They were more than seven hundred yards away from the Mahratta infantry, now hidden by thick banks of jaundice-coloured smoke. But he knew they were there, waiting by the thousands to receive the assault.

'Dress the ranks,' Harness shouted as men stepped past thick scrub which altered the lines momentarily as the men paced back into their positions. The Highlanders were big men, certainly bigger than their Madrassi comrades, and the steel-tipped attack lines became uneven with their eager stride.

The Mahratta batteries opened up again and McKay saw great tongues of fire leap from the blackened muzzles. The shot screamed down into the files, churning men into twitching piles of gore. An officer's nervous horse skittered sideways and somewhere a man panted heavily.

Wellesley, looking grim, spurred ahead with his staff to where Harness rode with the regiment's Colour Party. 'To the guns, Harness, the guns. We'll halt and give them a volley.'

'Aye, sir,' the old colonel replied, wiping his red face with a handkerchief. 'I intend to do just that.'

The Highlanders climbed out of a wide hollow and were in full view of the enemy artillery, which was now less than three hundred paces away. The Mahratta infantry looked like a solid wall beneath their gaudy banners, while the advancing lines seemed very fragile.

Perhaps, this was it? McKay saw birds whirling in the sky. Vultures. The birds of death. He licked dry lips, cursing himself for not drinking more as the battalion had waited to cross the ford. His tongue was suddenly swollen and his throat parched. His boots were still wet and cursing that irony, the Mahratta lines disappeared behind a huge bank of smoke as the guns blasted their long throats free. Immediately, heavy iron shot plunged into the red-coated files.

A Highlander screamed as a ball tore off his leg at the knee and was luckier than the man behind who was eviscerated as it bounced. A ball bounced, missed the redcoats, but sent debris of its leap into the face of one of the men in the rear rank who was momentarily blinded. A Scotsman toppled sideways, blood drenching his white breeches. Every battalion seemed to be suffering fatalities as men were snatched bloodily back from the bombardment.

'Steady the line!' Harness shouted, noticing that the men in the front rank were hurrying. 'Colonel Fraser.' He called to the battalion's commander. 'Steady your men, or I'll flog the bastards red.'

'Aye, sir.' Fraser nodded and kicked his horse forward. 'Steady the line, do you hear! Do not run!'

The guns kept firing and more men fell in the deafening chaos. The corporals and sergeants ran men from the rear rank to the front as the gaps grew with each step. Yet, despite the growing piles of dead and wounded, the Highlanders did not falter. Instead, they marched stoically on as the pipers skirled and the drummers beat.

'The bastards have switched to canister!' Baillie said, gnashing his teeth.

'God have mercy,' Culpepper exclaimed, feeling the small wooden cross around his neck under his shirt.

The cylindrical shot exploded to send musket balls into the red lines. The farmland in front of the 78th was shredded by the balls as little puffs above the soil revealed their strike. It was a heartbeat later that the new shot found targets and men were jerked backwards into oblivion. The booming noise of the solid shot had changed to a harsher sound as the tin cases left the muzzles to blast apart in a wide arc. A piper took a ball to a lung and he collapsed with pink foam dripping from his lips. Loughty, limping from a wound to his thigh, shoved a man into a gap, turned and as he did, a piece of jagged metal neatly punched through the private's bonnet and skull to scythe off the top of his head.

'Close up!' the NCOs shouted calmly.

'Steady!' Fraser gave the single laconic order, and then his mount was hit square in the forehead and sunk to its knees. The colonel managed to kick his boots out from the stirrups as the beast slid sideways, hind legs jerking in its death throes. He picked up his cocked hat, dusted it off, put it back on his head and resumed the advance on foot.

The Highlanders reached the first tendrils of the acrid artillery smoke when Harness, leading the brigade, ordered them to halt. Loughty dragged a dying man out from the line.

McKay glanced right to see that the Company sepoys were using the 78th as markers to halt, so that the entire force was one long red line.

'Present!'

'Let's give these bastards a proper Highland greeting,' McKay said, fear making him cocksure.

The Scotsmen brought their heavy muskets to shoulders. They were fifty yards from the gun teams who were desperately trying to reload, but the Scots had survived the hail of lead and were now wraithlike phantoms peering at them through the edge of the smoke.

There was a sudden lull in the noise, an intake of breath of calm before the storm.

'Fire!'

The volley smashed into the batteries and the gunners were blasted apart. Some had managed to duck under the carriages or seek safety behind the limbers, but most were killed by the murderous fire.

'Reload!' Harness bellowed. He wanted his muskets loaded in time to face the infantry, which had still not moved. Ramrods rattled in barrels, and dogheads were hauled back. 'Now, kill them!' His face had twisted into that of an animal. 'Avenge your brothers! I want these bastards dead!'

The Highlanders with their bayonet-tipped muskets surged forward into the batteries, screaming terrible cries that sounded half-man and half-beast. They pulled out the gunners who had hidden under the cannons and their steel blades ripped them apart. A gunner tried to crawl away, but a Scotsman hauled him by his legs and kicked and stabbed his over and over. Another gunner armed with a pike, tried to skewer McKay, but he knocked the cumbersome weapon aside and charged. The Indian saw a fierce-looking man with a scarred and blood-splattered face come for him and he thought he was witnessing the devil first-hand. He froze and McKay lunged to feel the bayonet's tip slice into the gunner's belly, where his bowels gave way. McKay twisted and kicked the blade free in time to meet an officer running with his sword drawn. The image of the attack at Ahmednuggur played in McKay's mind and as the blade chopped down, he watched it arc. It was beautiful to witness; the blade glimmered and flashed in the sunshine as though it was made of the purest silver. With lightning speed, the Scotsman brought his musket up to parry with both hands, the strike hit the barrel, jarring his arms. He thrust off the attack, kneed the man in the balls and rammed his bayonet into the Indian's chest, where he pulled the trigger. A flash and the man was punched backwards over the screaming gunner, limbs flopping and tulwar spinning in the air.

'Well done, that man,' Harness said to McKay who did not hear the praise over the din as the sepoys slaughtered the gunners in front of them. The colonel turned to the battalion. 'Form line!'

The Highlanders hurried back to their files, leaving trails of blood, gore and twitching bodies behind. A few surviving gunners limped to the safety of the walls of the Mahratta infantry which had remained in line to see their artillery butchered.

'Jesus,' Baillie said to his left, panting from the exertion. He was gazing at the enemy infantry and knowing the real fight was about to commence. 'Jesus,' he said again. The British force looked terribly outnumbered against the Mahratta horde.

The pipers played Cabar Fèidh; the name Caber fèidh meaning 'stag's antlers', in Scottish Gaelic, and was the symbol of Ross-shire. The Highlanders, hearing the tune, advanced with a new patriotic verve. The ranks marched silently and huge, for the bonnets were tall and the men larger than the sepoys.

A command went up and was repeated along the Mahrattas who were in four ranks. Fernsby had said their brigades were called compos or something. McKay saw the files turn a quarter to the right which sent ripples down the compos as muskets went to shoulders.

Thousands of them, he thought. Death from thousands of bullets.

Ninety yards.

Eighty.

Seventy.

A glimmer of light as a tulwar slashed down. McKay closed his eyes. This was it. A soldier's fate. He gripped his musket tightly.

The volley thundered out as the redcoats marched undauntedly towards the great bank of rotten-egg smelling smoke, but it left men behind, men who were bleeding, crawling, staggering and crying for their friends or mothers.

McKay opened his black eyes. There was no pain. He had not been hit. He breathed pure naked relief.

Harness gave a great whoop of a laugh. 'The rabble fired high!' He turned to an Aide. 'Fired high like damned wet-behind-the-ear recruits! They're amateurs!'

'Close up!' The NCOs shouted and men were pushed into the gaps.

'I thought we'd all die, John,' McKay said.

'What?' replied a voice.

McKay ogled his left. Baillie was gone and replaced by a man named Quiller from the rear rank.

'Where's Baillie?' McKay asked with concern.

Quiller jerked his head to one side. 'He fell down back there. Likely took a ball.'

McKay gasped. 'What?' He craned his head back at the littered ground.

'Face front, Private McKay!' Loughty scowled.

'Baillie's hit, Corporal.'

'I don't care. You've heathens to kill. So face your front or find yourself on a charge.'

McKay reluctantly obeyed and tried to press grim thoughts to the back of his mind as the smoke cleared and the enemy was close, dreadfully close. The Mahrattas were fifty yards away and still reloading when Harness stood up in his stirrups.

'78th! Halt!' His voice boomed across the battlefield like a sergeant shouting across the parade ground. He smiled as he spoke, thinking of the slaughter he was about to cause. 'Make ready! Present!'

Dust whirled around the Highlanders' boots as the men turned with clockwork precision to level their muskets. A bead of sweat dripped down McKay's brow, down his nose to spatter the ground just as Harness gave the order to fire. This is for John, you bastards!

Four hundred muskets exploded and the Scotsmen's aim was perfect. The heavy balls ripped into the enemy infantry, gouging great holes in the massed ranks. Scores of men tumbled to the ground. But instead of reloading, Harness had seen fear in the Mahrattas and now considered a bayonet charge could shatter their morale.

'Charge!' The colonel swept his broadsword downwards. 'Don't let them stand! Kill the bastards! Charge!'

The 78th, unleashed with a murderous fury, ran forward, unperturbed by the sheer number of the remaining enemy infantry. The Scotsmen howled like fiends, growled, snarled and screamed and the Mahrattas could not overcome the terror, but just turned and fled.

The bayonets plunged into retreating backs. Mouths filled with blood. The air was punctuated with cries of despair as the Mahrattas were being slaughtered by Scottish giants.

One minute the red-coated men in their strange war-gear were being thinned by their vaunted artillery, and the next they had survived a powerful volley to shatter the Indian lines with their own.

The blood-letting continued as the sepoys charged and Scindia's men were scattering like starlings before steel blades. But it was not what Wellesley wanted.

'Halt!' He screamed at the sepoys who continued to slaughter a hated enemy. 'Halt!' He kicked his fine horse to Harness. 'The 78th to hold here, if you please!'

'Aye, sir,' the old colonel replied with a curt nod and gave the order.

'Their right is gone,' Wellesley said. 'Only their left holds. Form here against those marauders.' He jutted his chin at the enemy cavalry hovering a quarter of a mile away to the west.

Harness snorted. 'My lads do not fear that rabble nor the Sassenach that commands them,' he said of Anthony Pohlman, the commander of Scindia's army. He had been a sergeant in the Company's infantry and had deserted, attracted by the fabulous salary and benefits packages offered to European officers and NCOs.

'Not worth a damn, Harness,' Wellesley agreed, revelling in the success so far. 'His men are well-drilled, but I wouldn't give a penny for their shooting. Not one.'

'What I do when I see someone pretty is to gawp and smile, and then when I have no more resolve, I simply put the mirror down.' Harness said matter-of-factly, smiling as he mopped his brow. 'What do you do?'

Wellesley stared hard. He said nothing at the colonel's bizarre comment, but reached for a canteen and took a long gulp. 'Form your men into square, Harness. Now, if you please.'

Harness stared blankly at the ground momentarily before seemingly coming to. 'Aye, sir. Into square and damned the Jacobites.'

The Highlanders, at the beat of the drum, were ordered back into a hollow square , invincible against horsemen as the beasts would not charge the bayonet-tipped ranks. Eventually, the Sepoys re-formed on the 78th, the brigade forming a line north on Scindia's chaotic and broken right flank. Wellesley's right continued towards the gunfire outside the mud-walled town.

McKay was desperately thirsty, and soon the regiment's puckalees arrived to quench their parched throats. Some men who had been wounded limped into the ranks, eager to continue their duty despite some rather hideous wounds. Baillie was not among them and McKay cursed under his breath.

'If John is dead,' Culpepper said gravely, understanding McKay's thoughts, 'then I pray that he did not suffer.'

'Aye,' McKay uttered, wiping his mouth of water. 'I always thought it'd be me that would go first. Not John. I expected him to live forever. Nothing harmed him. He never got sick or injured. He was invincible.' McKay realised he had been speaking of his friend in the past tense and sighed disconsolately.

'But one thing I do know.'

'What?'

Culpepper grinned sadistically. 'If he is dead, then these heathens have a devil coming for them, and his name's Sampson McKay!'

McKay grinned dutifully back. Unashamedly, he felt good when he killed a man. Better still, an enemy.

'80th will form into line!' Harness shouted, spittle twirled from his lips.

There was an embarrassed silence until Fraser stepped forward.

'78th! Form line!'

The battalion resumed their two ranks, companies wheeling into position when Wellesley ordered them east.

'The guns, Harness!' he pointed. Several Goanese gunners had feigned death and once out of musket range, they had brought their guns around to face the British rear. 'I want them silenced!'

'Battalion to advance!'

The Highlanders started forward again as a regiment of the 7th Native Company Cavalry, having watched the flank, spurred their mounts into the batteries and began to spear the surviving gunners with glee.

McKay's eyes ravished the heaps of bodies in the hope of spotting Baillie, but infuriatingly, he could not see much because of the dust cloud kicked up by the cavalry. Wellesley had ridden too close to the gunners and was unhorsed, but the Company Cavalry reached him before he was hurt. Pistols, sabres and carbines killed the last of them. The redcoats, the sunlight glimmering their crossbelts a startling white and turning their bayonets to resemble spikes of light, marched north towards the town, now spoken as Assaye. The guns outside battered the red lines again, and only the infantry still in their compos offered any resistance. The Mahratta horsemen, bored with watching had fled north and west out of the reach of the Native cavalry. The gun smoke hung in the air and, mixed with the red dust, made still by no wind, was as thick as fog. There was just a little more than an hour left before the gathering dusk took hold, but Wellesley looked exultant.

'Our artillery now consists of Scindia's most splendid cannon, gentlemen,' he exclaimed to the handful of staff officers who watched the British and Company cavalry charge the enemy's left flank. They smiled and laughed. 'We'll offer our thanks with a pounding.' He chuckled and kicked his horse on so that the battalions could hear him. 'Forward! They won't stand, do you hear? They won't stand!'

The British artillery opened up and the roundshot drove deep into the Mahratta ranks, blowing great chunks from the mud walls and roof beams of the nearest houses. McKay could hear the screams of the dying enemy as the shadows lengthened. There was another blast of gunfire before the guns ceased for fear of hitting the marching infantry.

'There are breaches!' Harness called, red-faced, sweating and veins close to popping at his temples. 'And when the Lord, your God delivers them into your power for you to defeat, you must exterminate them. You must not make alliance with them or spare them. You must go in through the walls and finish off these heathens! Do you hear me? No quarter!' Harness screamed the last word and then fell forward onto his horse's neck without a sound. An Aide managed to hold onto one of the colonel's arms before getting assistance. Harness was brought down to a litter and carried away to the rear. McKay saw Harness's mouth twitching, but he looked unconscious.

'Mad, the poor bastard,' Culpepper muttered.

A great cry went up from the nearest battalions and McKay saw that the Mahratta lines were breaking apart like rotten wood.

'They're fleeing!'McKay could hardly believe his eyes. The great mass of men were retreating across the muddy banks of the River Juah, abandoning Assaye.

They had won.

Was this it? Was it all over now? His head felt light and the heart-thumping terror began to abate.

'The flanks are covered, so we'll be attacking Assaye now!' he heard Fernsby tell another officer. The lieutenant was bare-headed and as grimy as the rest of the men. McKay noticed his sword hand was shaking.

The sepoys and the 74th ran to the pock-marked walls where the 78th joined them. The vengeful Highlanders, blood up, scrambled up through the breech and into the narrow streets and alleys and yards and houses, shooting and bayoneting anything that moved as their officers tried to halt the slaughter. They whooped and screamed their terrifying banshee-like calls in the air that reeked of elephant dung and powder smoke.

McKay and Culpepper gave chase, but they found a discarded cask outside an abandoned house which contained arrack. They stopped and shared the liquor while anarchy descended before them.

'That was a bloody business,' Culpepper said, leaning back against the wall of the house. 'I suppose tomorrow, or the day after we'll have to give chase.'

'Aye,' McKay replied, sipping the harsh spirit.

'Christ, no rest for my poor feet.'

McKay smiled. 'It's not over yet. We'll follow them to the end.' Surely, he thought, there couldn't be another battle as bloody as this.

Assaye was theirs and as dusk fell and bats swooped, McKay, stained with dust and congealed blood, like a red devil risen from the earth, wandered back to the breach to stare out across the battered farmland where his dark eyes glistened with tears. Somewhere out there was a friend, and whether he was dead or not, he would find him.

The Plains Wolf

The rifle barrel slid over the mound of rocks. It was thirty inches in length and browned to prevent it from being seen by enemies. A calloused hand pulled back the dull-grey hammer to cock the weapon, its walnut stock was snug against the owner's right shoulder.

Smoke-coloured eyes swept down the rocky ravine to where, less than six hundred yards away, a squadron of cavalry trotted eastwards across the vista. The horsemen split into two groups where a glimmering stream forked. The rifle's muzzle traced the riders' course.

The horsemen were Lancers, Polish Uhlans, expert light cavalrymen, who wore dark-blue uniform with yellow facings and unique square-topped caps known as czapkas. The Lancers of the Vistula Legion were equipped with the weapon that gave them their name, curved steel swords and pistols. At present, they were carrying their long spears looped about their arms with the razor sharp points pointing towards the sky. Each lance had a small, swallow-tailed flag, known as a lance pennon, just below the spearhead, which was coloured red over white.

The first company galloped north towards the rolling hills where in the distance a grey ruin of an ancient tower crested a wood of dark pine trees. The horses' hooves frantically kicked dust into the air, smearing the sky like the haze of a grass fire.

The second company of around seventy men halted beside the tumbling waters and most dismounted to fill their canteens with fresh water. A score remained in the saddle and spread out in a ragged picquet line to warily watch the land for enemies. The rifle swivelled to where an officer dismounted, arched his back and gave it a rub with both hands. He then opened up his valise and spread a map on a piece of flat rock, with large stones held at the corners to keep it in place. Three other officers stooped as the man, bringing out a pipe, ran a gloved finger over an unknown section of the chart.

'Bastard,' Rifleman Arthur Cadoc muttered under his breath, because a Pole was calmly walking his chestnut horse directly towards the rocky outcrop where he lay concealed. The man was close enough for his freckles, bright-red moustache and a thin scar on his neck to be distinguished. He wore a black cloth cover over his cap and the chevrons on his sleeve denoted he was a senior NCO. Upon closer inspection his uniform and equipment were dust-stained and his horse white with sweat. He glanced up at the rocks, yawned and patted his mount's neck. The tired horse looked in good condition for it was known that the foreign units looked after their mounts better than their French counterparts which whipped and drove their beasts to bloody destruction. Cadoc could not smell the stink of saddle-sores, which often gave the French cavalry away. The Lance, nine feet and ten inches, looked imposing from this range.

The sun burned mercilessly and hot salty sweat dripped down onto his trigger-hand and spotted his faded-green sleeve. Cadoc watched the Pole through the rifle's fore sight. He was less than twenty feet away. The trooper ran a sleeve across his forehead and seemed momentarily transfixed to where a mound of yellow grass looked like a roof's thatch. He looked up as though his fascination had ended. A hawk made its sound and the Rifleman was half-tempted to look up to get a glimpse of the bird of prey, but kept his gaze upon the cavalryman. Lying down and facing forward always made Cadoc feel uneasy, because it could make him paranoid about what was happening behind. It was human nature after all. Which is why Riflemen always worked in pairs, so one man aimed and another watched out for enemies.

Coarse laughter split the still air. A trooper had been filling his canteen when he slipped in and his companions chuckled at his embarrassment. Foreign voices carried on the air and the Pole with the red moustache even twisted in his saddle to shout something. The hawk made its noise again and this time Cadoc knew the sound did not come from a bird.

Movement to the right. Bodies slithered down past the bridge in between the stream and bridge where the Poles weren't looking. More were gathering in a hollow south of the bridge. They were Spanish partisans, the irregular army that the French had not defeated. The Spanish armies were no more, the cities dominated by enemies, yet the countryside was ruled by the bands of guerrilleros. They waged a savage war and were the masters of hit and run tactics, raids and ambushes.

Cadoc watched the ambush unfold. He had been part of such tactics a few months ago, having been separated from the British Army at Corunna. During the battle he had been wounded and taken to a local doctor but woke from a fevered sleep to find that the army had sailed away and he was being tended to in secret. The doctor's daughter, Grazia, had stayed with him all through his recovery and by three months they were in love. She rode with a partisan group and Cadoc was soon employed as their spotter and marksman. But after months of raids and ambushes, the partisans had been caught by a powerful enemy and destroyed. Cadoc found what was left of Grazia in a smouldering barn. Her arms were still pinned behind her charred body and it was clear what they had done to her. He remembered falling to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. She had saved him from death and yet Cadoc punished himself because he had failed to protect her. With nothing else left to keep him there, he had drifted south where camping under star-filled skies, he vowed tearfully and angrily to continue to fight the French. In his dreams he saved her every night, in the day he replayed the image of her ravaged body.

The Pole yawned again and turned to see three brown-cloaked partisans slink towards the main party of Lancers. He could not believe his eyes and hesitated before opening his mouth to shout alarm when Cadoc shot him through the temple.

It was an impulsive decision. Cadoc had been prepared to let the cavalrymen ride away. He wasn't looking for trouble, but it had found him. The partisans were dangerous men. If they found him, they may simply cut his throat. However, by affiliating himself with them, he showed that perhaps they had found an ally; a foreign ally, but one on their side and that was a good enough reason to pull the trigger.

With one quick motion, he began to reload. He pulled out a waxed cartridge from his box which sat next to him, bit an end off with the ball, pulled the hammer back to half-cock, flipped open the frizzen - also called the steel - and poured a pinch of powder into the flash pan. Then, the rest all went down the muzzle with the paper to serve as wadding. He spat the ball down after that and drew his ramrod. He did all that without looking away from the enemy.

A voice called and a blast of musketry threw down a half-dozen Lancers from the vicinity of the small stone bridge. More firelocks coughed from the bank and men were hit by the heavy lead balls. A Pole turned his mount towards the nearest guerrilleros and charged them with his lance. A pistol fired from the bank, the ball shattered his arm and he wheeled away, the long weapon hanging limply from its straps. Another Pole, dismounted, unsheathed his sabre and ran at the bridge where two muskets flamed to send him backwards in a welter of blood.

The Poles were trying to form up as more ragged volleys tore into them from all sides. Men fell from their horses. Cadoc watched a dying Lancer throw his weapon like a javelin, the weapon struck the ground where it quivered. The partisans, perhaps numbering thirty, were encircling the horsemen. The officer with the pipe was directing his company when Cadoc's next bullet punched through his neck. The body slipped from the saddle onto the ground. A Pole called out, searching for his officer's killer. A riderless horse galloped past. A man screamed over and over the din of battle.

Cadoc was returning his ramrod into its hoops when the ground trembled and shook. Then either side of the hill mounted partisans swarmed into the Poles. They let their firearms off first and Lancers tumbled to the ground. But the cavalrymen fought back and Cadoc watched as the long spears found targets. A guerrillero arched as a lance plunged into his back. Another was knocked from his horse and got to his knees when a spear point took him through an eye. A Lancer lunged and the partisan cut with his sword and was surprised to find that he had parried the deadly spear. He sliced once more with his sword and the Pole screamed, face sheeted with blood.

A Spanish officer, with angular features, wearing a short red jacket and brown pantaloons, was carefully directing his men. He was ever fearful of the first company of Poles who had gone north. Accompanying him was a priest in brown robes who carried a musket and a sword.

A group of Lancers was forming up under an NCO who levelled his sword at the Spanish officer. They would kill the partisan leader and put an end to their ambush once and for all. A heart beat later Cadoc's Baker Rifle bullet lifted him clean out of the saddle. The red-coated officer saw the puff of smoke and stared up at the spur where the Rifleman began to reload again.

'You're welcome,' Cadoc said with ironic amusement.

The remaining Lancers retreated north and a knot wheeled close below Cadoc. Carbines and muskets found targets. A few lingered, the brave and the wounded. A Lancer cut his way through two partisans in the blink of an eye. A pistol fired but it went wide and he galloped to safety.

Cadoc watched the partisans begin to strip the dead and cut the throats of the wounded. Their blades flashed silver before turning red. A man grunted and screamed as a guerrillero found it amusing to kill him slowly rather than quickly. The Rifleman heard a nearby sound. A rasping voice followed by the strain of somebody climbing. He cocked the pistol he carried with him for close quarter work, along with his brass-handled sword-bayonet of twenty-three inches. Bloodied fingers clasped at the rocks to his right. A sweat-lined face appeared, the strain etched on his young desperate face. Peat-coloured eyes flickered with sudden alarm of seeing the Rifleman when he considered he had escaped the slaughter of his comrades below. He knew he could only do one thing and raised his hands awkwardly at the mercy of the green-clad soldier.

But Cadoc, seeing the image of Grazia's corpse in his mind, pulled the trigger and the recoil of the explosion jarred his arm. The bullet took the Pole in the head, jerking him backwards in a spray of blood and bone.

All Bonaparte's men must die.

The Lancers were gone, leaving the plain dotted with dead. The partisans were making quick work gathering arms and equipment. Cadoc saw the Spanish officer trot over to the hill with a half-dozen of his men. They looked fierce.

Cadoc put the used pistol in his pack, tied the cartridge box back to his belt and stood up slowly, the sun casting his silhouette down onto the guerrilleros. He held up a hand to signify that he was not a threat.

The Spanish officer was shielding his eyes from the sun's glare with a hand. 'Who are you?' The second time he asked in good English.

Cadoc wiped his mouth with a sleeve before speaking in English. 'Rifleman Cadoc, senõr.'

The man's eyebrows lifted. 'Rifleman?' He said it as though the term was unfamiliar to him.

Cadoc hefted the Baker rifle.

'You are English?'

'Welsh.'

The Spaniard shrugged as though that made no difference. 'What are you doing here?'

'Killing enemies, senõr,' Cadoc said with a slight touch of insolence.

The Spaniard laughed. He translated to his men who grinned back. 'You think we can't manage?'

Cadoc sensed the officer was studying him with an expression of bemusement etched with intrigue. 'No, I'm not saying that, senõr. I watched you from up here. You were in control.'

'What are you doing wandering in my country?' The tone was polite but firm. 'We usually kill stragglers thinking them nothing as thieves and deserters, but only after castrating them. Are you a deserter?'

Cadoc knew this mutilation was a way of spreading fear among the French. 'No, I was left behind at Corunna. I had been wounded, but soon recovered. Soon afterwards I rode with the partisan known as El Cazador.'

The patriot looked surprised at the man's renown. 'The hunter?'

'Aye, senõr,' Cadoc replied ruefully. 'That was until he was ambushed and killed.'

The Spaniard made the sign of the cross on his chest. 'That is grave news. We have heard of his deeds.' He went still for a moment. 'Tell me why you shot that man.' He jutted his head at the Pole killed with the pistol. Flies were already feeding on his blood. 'He was surrendering to you, was he not?'

The Welshman thought about that. 'I think it's better to kill an enemy when you can, otherwise you might miss a good opportunity.'

The Spaniard seemed to mull it over. 'You proved you can hit a target with your rifle. The way you fought was like a wolf; vicious and deadly. You have great skill. I can see it in you. I could do with a man like you. Even if you are a heathen.' The man chortled to show he was jesting. 'My name is Antonio Rai Herrero. I was a colonel in King Ferdinand's Army, but now I ride with my men. I seek out the invaders where I can and put them down like the dogs they are. Tell me, Rifleman, have you ever lost someone dear to you?' Cadoc nodded and Herrero stared at him for what seemed an age. 'I sense our paths are similar indeed. Do you believe in God?'

The question took Cadoc aback, but he knew he was in a deep-Catholic country. 'I was brought up as a Christian,' he said carefully. His mother and father were staunch believers, but he had no time for it.

'Maybe things aren't as bad as they seem.' Herrero allowed a smile to soften his face. 'What of your regiment? Your army? Will you not go back to them?'

'I heard of a great battle some weeks ago in Portugal.'

'A place called Oporto,' Herrero said. 'It was a great victory for you Inglés. I hear that your army marches to fight with Spain. You'll rejoin them?'

Cadoc did not know. He liked being free from the regimental constraints, but he missed his old friends. He did not know of their fate since Corunna. But a part of him considered he would be court-martialled as a deserter if he ever returned. Who would believe him? If this Spaniard was telling the truth, then perhaps one day he would return to his bellowed 95th Rifles. But for now he would kill the French in revenge for Grazia's death. It was all that mattered to him, all that he cared about.

'I will stay in Spain, senõr,' he said. 'As long as I have bullets and my rifle, I'll fight the French until my last breath.'

Herrero studied him for a moment and then, nodding to himself, he whistled and in a quick flurry of Spanish, a partisan brought over a dead Lancer's mount. 'I have a place for you. Together we will hunt down those who have hurt and taken away all those that we love.' He saw a flicker of worry cross Cadoc's face. 'I will not bind you, Rifleman. You are free to go at any time with my blessing. My men might think me touched in the mind for this, but I believe our paths were meant to cross. I think God, in all his infinite wisdom, made it so.'

In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Cadoc. It was strange how chance sometimes takes a hand. And why not go? There was safety in numbers and the Spaniard seemed an amiable fellow. His men were loyal and obedient too. He would likely be welcomed into the band where he was used to fighting in small groups, hitting the enemy hard and moving before it can retaliate. He had ridden with partisans before and understood their ways. He might not agree with some of them, especially torturing prisoners, but he had a feeling this war would not be over anytime soon and so, whether God had anything to do with this or not, he would ride again to war.

The wolf slipped his shoulder through the rifle's strap and smiled. He stepped down from the rocks and walked to his destiny.

Summer is Coming

'Jacques is a good man,' I say. 'He's a vielle culotte. A veteran of the wars. He fought at Jena, Friedland, and Wagram with me. And the battles here in this frozen hell of a devil-country: Smolensk and Borodino. Pah! He is a survivor.'

'I hear what you are saying,' says the man opposite me. A thick crust of ice covers the peak of his Dragoon helmet. More cover his huddled form underneath a patched horse blanket that sits on his shoulders knotted with twine around his neck like a cloak. He pulls at it with fingers split open from the bitter cold as though it chokes him.

'And there have been countless other battles,' I continue, wiping my face of the persistent flecks of snow. 'Places where men shit their breeches as they marched. Where men, brave men, puked blood and wept for their mothers and sweethearts as they died.'

'I said I hear you.'

I gaze at the Dragoon's face; hollow and horrid-looking, like my own. Most of the men have thrown away their razors amongst other things to lighten their packs and so look wild. Eyebrows, moustaches and beards rigid with ice. Not even the flames can melt them. Still, it is nothing as frightening as the enemy's. The Cossacks are terrifying beasts with men's faces.

'You might hear me, but you aren't listening. There's a difference,' I say to him, my breath fogging the air between us. I am becoming irritated by his presence and his manner. 'You sit there with your sunken eyes, slack mouth and for all I know you could be listening to the howling of the wind.'

I stare at the other men crowding the fire. Same faces: defeated, starving and cold. Always so cold. One of them, wearing the remnants of a Grand Duchy of Berg regiment, cradles his head in his hands. Already given up. No fight left in him. Like so many others. I watch the firelight play across their faces. This campaign has taken years off our lives. Another soldier, a Saxon, by the colour of his uniform, is just staring into the flames. Not moving. No breath. He could have already expired. Especially with those eyes; unblinking dead eyes. Who would know? Who would care? The emperor, we affectionately nicknamed le patron: the boss, le tondu, the shaven one and le chapeau: the hat, has left Moscow and now the army is in full retreat back along the same route we have entered. We couldn't even gain a toehold in this hellhole. It is a landscape torched by the inhabitants as they have fled, spoiled, made barren, wasted and devoid of keeping an animal, let alone a man, alive. The emperor's fate is taking us along a cruel path, nonetheless, a path back to our beloved France. But some men have voiced their scorn of le tondu, for he has deserted us. Some men have taken that as a slight and left their ranks for good. These are dark days.

'Your friend may have fought well, but that doesn't stop a man from realising that he is merely a mortal,' the Dragoon replies, unmoved by my cantankerous tone. 'If the opportunity came up, he may well have absconded.'

'Not him,' I say, stubbornly, hawking up a gobbet of phlegm and spitting it into the fire.

'It's not unheard of,' he says. 'Men have mutinied and deserted for far less. Only this morning did I hear that a section of chasseurs deserted in the night.'

I shake my head and glower dour vexation. 'Likely they were hunted and killed by Cossacks. They're everywhere. Probably looking right at us now. Looking at your ugly mouth and thinking they had seen better-looking arseholes.' My words are intended to needle him, but the man grins the taunting away. He seems to like it or is perhaps stupid. After all, he's a cavalryman and the horses are the ones with the brains. But after months of campaigning, he is long dismounted. Horse dead from the weather, or disease, or battle.

'A whole section?'

I cock an eyebrow at the man's naivety. 'Of course. You think just a few Cossacks haunt us?' I lean closer to him and feel the fire's hot breath on my face. 'There are thousands of them. They ride parallel to our columns. We can't gather supplies because they attack. We don't have the horses to challenge them. You, of all people, should know that.' I cough and spit again. 'First the carriages and wagons were stripped of supplies and the mounts now drag our artillery pieces. Our cumbersome smithies and portable farrier forges were discarded early so there is a shortage of horse shoes. I have seen many poor beasts slip and fall, unable to get back up, and simply left to die. A colonel lost his horse down a hollow in the ground and decided to leave it behind. I saw a group of hungry men, bring their knives and bayonets to bear, pounce on the poor horse, and slit it open while it was still alive in the hope of devouring its liver. '

There is silence, and in that stillness I hear the screams of that dying creature. I shiver and try to think of something else.

'You can smell them first,' the Dragoon mutters. 'Horseflesh, smoke and filth. That's how you can tell they're close by.' He takes an exploratory sniff. 'Can't smell their stink now.'

Not yet, I think to myself, hugging the fur-lined cloak about my shoulders. But they'll come. They always do.

'There are some Lancers of ours over there,' croaks a man named Monnier, pointing a ragged gloved finger to where a dark smudge of pine trees looms barely a quarter of a mile away. He's an officer like me of a Légère Regiment. He was once tall, square-shouldered and handsome, but is now worn down by the campaign, starving, frozen and fading slowly to grey. 'I saw them earlier. Polish.' He begins to cough; a wracking spasm that lasts far longer than it should do.

'The best the emperor has,' I reply once he has finished. He has given orders that all the good remaining horses are to be transferred to the Imperial Garde. 'They will never give the Cossacks any ground, mark my words.'

It all goes quiet. I watch a snowflake turn gold by the fire, dizzy to the ground. We huddle around the fire; perhaps there are fifty shadows of once proud men, waiting for the order to march again. The snow falls and hisses on the flames. I look up to see the tiny flecks float in eerie, spectral silence. The moon is the only other source of illumination. It hangs in the sky like a pearl pendant, throwing shadows across blue-grey fields and casting the hills in soot-black silhouettes. There are other groups nearby, more fires dotted besides the thoroughfare eastwards. Scores of them. The army waits together for there is safety in numbers. Some of the lucky ones have camp kettles where melt-water serves as provisions. Those fortunate to have food eat well. Dried fish, salted meat, hard biscuit. The food of kings. Others have flour balls rolled with axle-grease to form dumplings for a foul watery stew. Berries, bark and some drink the remnants of coffee grounds or tea leaf dust. You can't taste it, but leave it to imagination. I have known a man trade all his worldly coin for a crust of stale bread. I can taste chicken in my mouth, but it has been weeks since I ate any. It is strange how the mind can play tricks when you are starving. The only thing eating or able to live is the lice. Avoir de la garnison. Everyone has a garrison of the little buggers, but they are simply too tired to do anything about it.

A man laughs manically somewhere and is immediately cursed by a number of others. Laughter. No sane man laughs at horror. Probably lost his wits. I have seen a man simply drop his musket and pack and wander off the road, and stumble into the blurry whiteness. Gone. Never seen again in the white-hell. The emperor's plan has nearly destroyed us. We marched into Russia cocksure and scenting victory. We achieved a modicum of success, in a country full of witless peasants, devils, torment, hunger, despair and death.

I have served him for nine years. But nothing came close to horror like this.

At Jena, I nearly lost an arm to a musket ball and at Wagram, a sword cut snatched away an ear and nearly split my skull like a hen's egg. But I survived and lived. Except that this is very different. I suffered not a scratch here when other men have died. Whole companies have been slaughtered by Russian guns. At Borodino, whole battalions died as one on that bloody field. Canister shot destroyed two files behind me, but I marched on to kill the gunners unscathed. Why have I lived? Fate? God? I do not know. What concerns me is that I will freeze to death and remain trapped here in this ghastly land. Silly, to think like that, but if I am to die I want it to be in a civilised country. I do not want my corpse violated by these savages.

Take me home, Jacques. I need you here, old friend. You can't be gone. You can't.

I hear whistling behind me and I twist to cast a look. It's just the wind. Webs of frost are glinting and glittering in the fields. Tufts of yellow thrust out from the snow like old bones. The tall grass is hard, dry and brittle. The winter is killing everything. I turn back to the flames, morose and numb.

'So where do you think your friend went?' A voice speaks forcefully and then speculatively. 'He's among us here?'

I turn to the Dragoon. 'I don't know. But Jacques is not a deserter. He would rather die than turn his beloved blue coat.'

The Dragoon laughs, showing tobacco-stained teeth. 'You are a stubborn little man.'

I smile, but I'm sure it comes out as a grimace. 'Loyal.'

'He's dead, you idiot,' a new voice says, loud and determined to be heard over the crackling of the wood and howling of the wind. It's spoken with an inflection of Italian.

I turn to my left where the speaker sits on his pack. His pantaloons are wrapped in rags, and a great tear up his arm to his shoulder exposes his green coat beneath the layers.

'Who asked for your opinion?' I 'm furious.

Assuming a mystified expression, the man shrugs. 'No one. It's a free world. I can say what I like.'

'What rank do you hold?'

The Italian drags his eyes to the left and right where I assume others are waiting and wondering what he will reply. He hesitates before speaking. 'Sous-lieutenant.'

I gasp with delight. I outrank him. 'You're nothing but a damned marche á regret,' I explode, calling him a nickname we professional soldiers call a unwilling marcher – a mere conscript. 'You sack of shit. The next time I want to hear and smell Cossack-fart, I'll ask you to speak again. Until that time, keep that conscript-licking hole still.'

The Italian is about to offer a riposte, thinks better of it, and casts his brown eyes to his feet instead.

The Dragoon chuckles. 'He has a point, though.'

I curse him and everyone. My friend Jacques Clary would never desert. He's a fighter. A winner. He has a beautiful Swiss wife and five children. He has a château and vineyards to go home to. He's not supposed to die here like this. He will grow old and die at home. No, he is alive. I am sure of it. I look up at the scores of blue-grey shadows. Men. The remnants of the emperor's Grande Armée. Not much left. Shells of men. Husks. But survivors all the same. My friend had to be out there somewhere. I will search for him, but alas, I am so fatigued I cannot move. Numb. I am sure that as soon as I move from the fire I will collapse and die. I try to think of good things. Nice things. Pleasant. Warm. We have a saying here that 'summer is coming'. Men, coated in ice, and the skin of their faces raw and bleeding from the constant wind, smile wistfully with hope of seeing hot climes again. Summer. So far away as to be a dream.

Yet, a dream worth pursuing.

'Jacques is a Frenchman. He would never dream of deserting.'

He is alive. He is not dead.

The Dragoon nods slowly as though he is having trouble digesting my words. 'I think perhaps, that you can't accept that he's dead, my friend.'

'There's no proof of it,' I retort hotly.

Dear God, do not let it be so.

'I hope he wasn't in that peasant's hut that was still burning a little way from here.'

I can still see and feel the heat in the air as the wood crackles and spits. Bright tongues of flame lick the air and thick grey smoke clogs the road where it swirls, eddies and whips away into the darkness. A tumbledown place baked and rotted by a century of Russian weather, gone in a moment. 'I hope not.' I say, seeing the blackened skeleton, twisting and dancing in the conflagration. It's a Frenchman who had stopped to make dough cakes with whatever he could find that was too much for the oven to take. I wonder why he didn't leave and instead let the fire consume him. Is it because he was intoxicated, or perhaps knowing that the food was all gone he could only curl up and surrender to his misery?

A soldier nearby struggles to get up from the ground, limbs frozen, and stumbles away trying to undo his pantaloons in time. A mere second later the air becomes foul with the stink of shit. Dysentery is rife. Poorly cooked food, diseased water and little food is having its effect on the men. The man grunts and then trudges back to his spot near the fire, shivering and pallid. By now the sick, who are unable to march, are being abandoned on the roadside or left in the remaining peasant huts.

A terrible fate for brave heroes of the empire.

'Poor bastard,' Monnier says and I wonder who he is talking about when I see that a man is being pushed away from one of the nearest fires; the remnants of a forsaken coach, like ours. He cannot find a space and no man gives his ground and so he sits miserably down a little way from the circle of men. He stares up at the night-dark sky, where cold stars twinkle, and then begins to sob.

'There are a lot more here who are poorer,' I say. 'Think of the wives and children who accompany us. Some are babies...' My voice falters and breaks because I remember what happened a few days ago. We stumbled across a collection of huts, abandoned by their owners, but Sergeant Aubin of my company found two little boys swaddled in their cot. I could not leave them to a terrible fate so begged the battalion's cook to bring them what little stew he could muster. But there was nothing and when I returned the hut was empty.

'Where are the two babies?' I had asked Aubin.

The sergeant, a veteran of the revolutionary years could not speak at first and I had to press him again. 'They're dead,' he blurted.

I blinked. Had I heard correctly?

'What?'

Tears poured down his face. 'I could not feed them. No one can and so I found a water butt, broke the ice with my bayonet and drowned the pair of them. I thought it a better end rather than what would surely happen.'

I staggered with the news. My heart thumped in my chest and my eyes were covered in black needles. A catch in my throat. I almost fell to the ground, faint, unable to breathe and nauseous. Aubin tried to help me up, but I struck him across the face. 'How could you?' I screamed at him again and again. I left him weeping and have not seen him since.

Child murderers. Is this what we have become?

As if reading my thoughts, the man who was turned away from the fire, pulls out a pistol and commits suicide. The shot rings out and no one turns around as if it is a common occurrence.

This is a land steeped in blood; not just French and Russian, but German, Polish, Italian, Neapolitan, Swiss, Dutch, Croatian, Spanish, Portuguese, Corsican and other states of the empire our emperor has liberated. Now there is nothing to show for all their sacrifice of life, but trails of corpses.

Some time passes. I hate sleeping with a loaded musket in case I move about and blow my own head off. As an officer I am supposed to just carry a pistol and a sword, but ever since Wagram I carry a long-arm. I draw the blanket tight across my body. I must have slept because when I try to open my eyes, I find I can't. They are sealed shut with ice. Panicking, I fight to peel the lids back, but to no avail. I shout but no one answers. Maybe they think I have died. My stomach knots. Then, an idea pops into my head. I pull down the stiffened scarf around my face, and spit into a hand, working the thick mixture into my ice-crusted eyes, until at last I can see.

It takes me a second to orient myself. Shapes and colours are blurred, but I am not dead and can see. I rub them again. The eastern sky is nothing but a sour light and it is still dark to the west. Figures trudge west. The army is marching again in the dreary light; walking with the rhythmic plod of the silent, cold and downcast. The fire has died down to dull embers. The Dragoon, Monnier and most others are gone and a handful of ice-sheeted shapes remain. The Saxon is blue. Waxen. He had not moved and died in the night.

It's time to leave. I am too tired to brush the fallen night-snow from my coat and lumber like an ungainly drunkard onto the busy highway. It's still snowing and a man can barely see fifteen paces in front. I don't know if my friend Jacques is still alive, but I hope he is. Summer is coming. There is hope.

I live in hope that I will see la belle France again. My beloved country. A mere soldier's hope, but it is all I have left in the world.

The Diabolical Circumstance of Captain Bartholomew Chivers

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Not so, a lead musket ball can penetrate any part of the human body. Ask any surgeon. No. Probably best not, because there are men who are born with no sight and no surgical skill whatsoever who can perform better battlefield surgery than the brandy-soaked excuses of humanity that call themselves doctors. I speak truthfully of such creatures. I should know. It was in a filthy little hut on the road north to Bilbao in the Year of Our Dearly Departed Lord, 1813 that I discovered just how inept our Army surgeons are.

'Are you sure you're qualified?' I had asked the man, who hovered over my naked thigh like a drunken vulture.

The surgeon, going by the name of Hamilton, or Hambledon or Haddington (and I don't think he knew – but I'll call him Hamilton to hurry this tale on) peered at the carbine wound, pursed his lips, sniffed, and drank from a small canteen that he procured from within the recesses of his blood-caked and rum-soaked shirt tails. He offered me a drink and I hastily declined. I might catch something nastier than the Frog Dragoon ball currently impacting my right leg.

'Luckily for you this won't take long,' Hamilton said, rancid-breath cascading over me like a dead man's cough. 'I'll have it out in no time and you'll be back in the saddle by Wednesday.'

'That's today,' I told him and he grinned at my displeasure. 'Can you not write me a note that I can provide my commanding officer with? I feel the need to have a little bit of a rest for the next few days.'

Hamilton shrugged, then his mouth split into a vulpine smile. 'I'm sorry. No paper and no quill.'

And no bloody compassion, I cursed inwardly. He probed for the ball again and I gasped in agony. Damn, I would have to ride again, strapped up this time too. The surgeon left the instrument in the wound while he searched for a pair of gore-crusted forceps.

'Any way don't you dandies have such paraphernalia on you?' he asked me. 'What are you? Dragoons?'

'Hussars!' I retorted angrily. 'The Prince of Wales' Own. Couldn't you tell from the busby I was wearing on my head? You can't miss it: it's covered in blood.'

Hamilton looked at my blue coat with yellow facings with rheumy eyes that had bags of skin underneath them like soft pouches. 'Do you have a head wound?' he asked.

'No,' I said. 'My cap fell onto poor Corporal Potts who had taken a Frenchie sabre wound.'

'Does he need to see me?'

I winced as the forceps closed around the lead ball. I watched blood trickle down my flesh and onto the dirty table I was sitting on. To make matters worse, a splinter was digging into my left buttock. 'I doubt it. He doesn't have a head.'

'Hussars, eh? German?'

I shot the man a malevolent look. 'No, I'm not from the Legion. I'm English through-and-through. Can't you tell?'

'I like the Germans,' Hamilton said, wiping sweat from his forehead that left a red stain. The King's German Legion were highly respected and disciplined horsemen. My English brothers were headstrong and sometimes wouldn't know authority even if it was branded into their foreheads.

'Oh?'

'They don't complain,' he said wryly.

I went to comment and white-hot pain seared up my leg. 'Christ Almighty.' I let out, unable to help myself.

'Apologies. I slipped.'

I was still grimacing from the pain. 'Damn it, man. Are you sure you know what you're doing? I've seen a farrier give a nag more care.'

Hamilton glared at me. 'I studied under John Hunter at London's Chelsea Hospital for many years. I know how to treat all manner of wounds and illnesses.' He paused in his current business to grab a sharp-looking knife from his collection. 'With this falciform knife, I can cut a leg off in under two minutes.'

Two minutes of sheer agony, I said to myself, thanking God I wouldn't lose my leg and, better still, thanking the Frenchman's luckless aim.

'I could bleed you.'

'I thought you were already doing that,' I responded with a citrus-sour smile.

Hamilton wiped his nose with a sleeve. 'I meant with the scarificator.'

'The what?'

'That,' he jerked his head at a box on the table. 'It is a very clever little device that is designed with one thing in purpose: to make the patient bleed. Blood-letting lets out the fevers that brandy and gunpowder can't achieve. It's very popular.'

'Taught you that at Chelsea, did they?'

Hamilton scratched his head. Flakes fell onto his shirt. 'That instrument has fourteen blades hidden below the lower surface. I can release them and use them depending on how much blood needs to be let out. I swear by it.'

And by the rum no doubt.

I stared at the box and shuddered.

'Would you like me to show you?'

'No, thank you,' I snapped impatiently. 'Just hurry up. I've picquet duty tonight, paperwork piling up and a reconnaissance on the morrow.'

The Hussars and all of Wellington's light cavalry were the ears and eyes of the army. There was also a great deal more pricks too. Oh, I was one for the ladies that was for sure. My picquet duty consisted of plenty of Spanish brandy followed by a reconnaissance of a certain girl by the name of Amada. All dark hair, brown eyes and a comely mouth that turned my head to smoke and that I couldn't ride my horse Bob until the arousal had passed. She was a daughter of a wealthy vineyard owner who also wanted to ship barrels of Olive Oil to England. I presented him with a box of cigars taken from a plundered Spanish coach outside of Madrid. Boney's French had thrown out some of the Spaniards refusing to leave their homes and this old señor had stayed until the last minute only to have his opulent coach clip a verge and tumble down a steep ravine. Still, he was lucky to survive. Except that he had been unlucky to find me going through his belongings. Ah well. The shock eventually killed him when a bash of my pommel to render him unconscious failed to do the task. I said to myself, Barty, it's them or you. So make sure it's them every time.

Money and an attractive wife was the stuff of dreams for one of King George's Hussars facing penury and loneliness. With typical courage, dash and adventure I serenaded her with a campaign of adoration. With a fine cut of cloth showing my manly legs, whiff of cigar smoke and a waggle of the customary moustache, she was butter in my hands. The siege had been successful. No causalities sustained. All I needed to do now is storm her breech.

I just had to survive Dr Hamilton's care first, which was like charging a French infantry square on a New Forest pony with a wooden sword.

'There you go,' the good doctor said, plucking the ball clean out with a pop-like sound. 'There's the little bugger.'

'Thank Christ for that,' I said, hissing with genuine relief.

'You should thank me,' Hamilton let out a laugh that could have been a cough. 'A .69 calibre ball. Here,' he said, tossing me the lead sphere, complete with blood.

'Thank you,' I said wincing. 'Perhaps I'll keep it and return it to its owner someday.'

'Good luck with that. Was it from a battle?'

'No, just some Crapauds testing our picquet line.'

Hamilton chuckled, wiped his hands on his apron and took another gulp of rum. 'There's a rumour that the French poison their bullets.' I gawked at him, forgetting the burning sensation searing my leg. He chuckled again. 'It ain't true. 'Pon my soul, it ain't true.'

After Hamilton had sewn up the grisly wound (more agony) and I had thanked him by tipping my last shilling, I limped outside where I was helped up into the saddle by my two closest chums: Captain Brook 'Brookie' Beauchamp and Lieutenant Edward Happer. Knavish rogues, the pair of them, but dashing fellows in the saddle. We had all won our spurs together at Sahagún, back in '08 when we routed Frog cavalry. I had joined the expedition to Egypt in '01, but missed the fighting entirely because I turned up late, which is another tale to be told. Anyway, at Sahagún, we gave the garlic-munchers a taste of English steel. A French general was captured and I even took a colonel prisoner in the pursuit which was a damned lucky thing, because General John 'God-damn-you-Jack' Slade had given us a speech before the battle. He was a man of breath-taking idiocy and had formed us up for battle only to start one of his long, tedious speeches. We could see the Frogs flee like foxes before the hounds and we nearly missed the hunt. We charged them and I caught one cowering behind a boulder. The colonel offered to give me francs worth thirty pounds if I let him go. I'd always been weak when it came to money. That little venture cleaned up my Mess bills, paid for a new pelisse, boots and the rest went on claret and whores. So what if one educated man went back to their ranks? I was damned lucky that day, and was now wistfully thinking it was about time another one came along.

I had run up a series of debts, bills and tabs and so forth since returning to Spain from nearly three years stationed back home. I borrowed from a very wealthy captain (by the name of Gaspar) of the 15th Hussars, a man of intolerable bad luck. So bad in fact that it was rumoured even Lord Uxbridge had bet that he would die before the army had left Spain. I borrowed a silly amount of guineas from this fellow over the period of a month in the hope that that would be the case and that my promissory note would be dissolved. But he still breathed and had sent two acquaintances to collect the money from my good person.

Except that I didn't have a single penny to my name.

Well, I did have one or two tucked away and at least a handful sewn into my uniform for emergencies. But this was not the point!

'Aren't you involved with Slade's cousin?' Brookie asked me as we returned to camp. 'A blonde bit of thigh, if you pardon my crudeness.'

'Yes,' I uttered gloomily and then sighed wearily.

Apollonia Bungard. Certainly a name that did not conjure a sweet angelic face, a crimson smudge of a mouth, or a heaving bosom of gigantic proportions. Dear Apollonia of Ainsley Manor and of 'Black Jack' Slade stock. I missed her dreadfully. After the terribleness of the retreat to Corunna in '09, (so hungry was I that I had to eat my own horse on the first day - I shall never forget you Stan!) the regiment quartered at Brighton for months. I was out for a stroll along the beach there, when I was introduced to her by Slade's ADC, a wet-behind-the-ears, cornet no less. I ushered the spotty whelk aside and stood gaping at her like some damned country idiot. Smitten. I thought that if there was anything possible to help recover from the retreat, then it was those tits. She seemed to like me too and I promised to visit her the next day. I suggested a picnic in the dunes. We went for a walk under a blue sky lined with lamb's wool clouds. It was hot (swelteringly hot enough for me to see beads of sweat drip down her chest crevice) and then a damned footpad tried to rob us no sooner as I'd opened the champagne. I chased the knave off and Apollonia threw herself onto me in gratitude. From that moment we fell in love. I returned to my quarters the next morning (more worn out than the retreat but with a smile wider than the Thames) and came across the footpad. I paid him a guinea as agreed.

A man has to make his own luck in the world.

'Well, couldn't she help you out? The family must be wealthy enough to pay the fellow off.'

'True, but I'm not married, Brookie, dear chap,' I replied, gloom turning to exasperation at my circumstance. I thought of Apollonia spread on the bed waiting for me. Naked and exposing her two milky-white love cushions and blonde fringe above her Netherlands like a fallen toupee. 'If I'd taken the plunge and asked her chinless father for his daughter's hand instead of her tits, my future would have been very different. I find myself in your company when perhaps I could now have my own manor of some description. Perchance, a thousand acres of fields and woods and meadows. A stream to go tumbling into on hot days. A kennel full of hounds. Stables.' I stopped and wiped the dream from my thoughts. 'I shall have to think of something soon.'

'Better be soon,' Happer said, 'because I hear Gaspar's sent Perdue and Marr.'

Brookie whistled with surprise.

A nerve below my eye twitched in alarm at the names. 'What?' I gasped.

'I'm afraid so,' Happer offered a sympathetic smile.

Captain Eli Perdue was a perverted duellist and a man prone to vein-bursting anger at the drop of a fur cap. I'd seen him personally reduce a colonel to tears for keeping his company back from the clash at Benavente. He was indifferent with those below his rank and aggressive with those above it. Perdue didn't care who he upset. He had survived a score of duels, his favourite weapon was not a pistol, but a horse-whip. He'd tanned more arses than a schoolmaster. And Rowley Marr was just a big thug in a fur-trimmed pelisse.

I collected myself and took Bob across a small bridge, Roman, so Brookie said, and into a small depression, which was fine because I was thoroughly depressed anyway. I owed one hundred and fifty guineas. Where was I to get the money from? And more importantly; how?

Perhaps there would be a battle soon and idled the journey back with vivid imagination of finding corpses with big fact purses strewn on the battlefield. There was always fighting in war. Battles were great set pieces. Better on the side-lines, of course. Health and safety and all that.

I remembered old Bernard Gauge, my mentor. He retired not long after I joined the regiment to run an inn on the Hampshire coast. I went to see him last year and he was still the same: half-blind, deaf and limped from when a roundshot had crushed a foot at Alexandria ending his long years with a horse between his legs. Now he had a wife to do that with. And she was a sprightly flame-haired little thing that said he didn't like to talk about his soldiering days, but the old coot brought down his sabre that hung above the fireplace and stoked the fuel with it. It was good to come back from the wars when so many hadn't, he had said. Some men came back with bits chopped off them and some didn't come back at all. A soldier's life, he had said, was like wealth and happiness at the bottom of a well. You had to climb down deep to find them. I remember taking back the peaty aroma of the whiskey, fire crackling and belly full of Mrs Gauge's famous meat and potato pie, thinking I would find that well one day. I sat back, and caught the old girl's eye and she winked at me. Not soon after I gave that bird a stuffing I can tell you as my old friend and mentor snoozed in his padded-chair.

Am I ashamed of my outrageous behaviour? No, not one bit. I am now nearly ninety years old. Ninety! I've outlived them all. Even the indestructible Iron Duke and finally the last Peninsular War banquet twenty years ago consisted of me and an artillery officer who was quite deaf. Then, it was just me. No, I never had an inkling for shame. I think my father beat it out of me. Perhaps, he beat whatever backbone I might have had too. I have no scruples, you see. No remorse (even at ninety) and so I grew up a rogue and a devil-may-care attitude that got me a rank of Lieutenant-General, four wives, medals and other honours (so many I can't remember). But that long ago day in June, '13, I was scared. My spine was tingling with fear at the thought of Perdue and Marr coming for me with violence.

Picquet duty that evening brought me to a stone tower used for sheltering from the harsh winters. It had once stood as some sort of gate house over a bridge, but the river had dried up, the bridge had almost crumbled away and remaining rafters home to bats. The walls were bare stone, with two narrow windows that let in little light. It was cold in there even on hot days.

Supper was hard bread and stringy bacon. The wine was sour and drunk in great quantities to make you forget where you were, so most of the time it was worth drinking. But the food... workhouses had a better menu. The damn commissariat ought to be flogged for their crimes. Where was the fresh food? Meat and grain? Perhaps that's why Perdue was so popular amongst those that liked to be terrorized, but enjoyed it more when others were terrorized. If Perdue had his way, he would have whipped the entire country having given half the chance. Which one? It wouldn't have mattered to the mad-flogger.

So there I was watching the long road north to Bilbao and south to a town called Vitoria with a troop of my men. Brookie had his command a quarter of a mile away.

I was gazing up at the moon, wondering where I was to find this money, when the forward picquets alerted me to a single rider approaching from our lines. He was dressed as a Light Dragoon, swathed in a long black cloak that gave his form a slight bulkiness so that he looked like a sack of wheat balancing in the saddle. The horseman walked further until moonlight cast its silver glow over his features and I jerked back with fright.

It was the devil in a cloak. He was smiling and he was coming for me.

Eli Perdue. The mad flogger.

'Good evening,' he said and repeated it when I hadn't found my voice.

'E-evening,' I stammered.

'Damned Frogs are down there.' He jutted his head towards Vitoria. He was still smiling, which looked like a corpse's rictus. His eyes were the blackest I had ever seen, like two orbs of jet peering out from a hollow face with a long sword blade of a nose and a wide maw of a mouth. His black side-whiskers looked like smudged ink and his chin blue-black with stubble.

'Y-yes.'

'Still, they haven't the spunk we have for a decent fight.'

I started to laugh, and stopped when I realised Perdue wasn't joining in. 'No,' I said, licking nervous lips. I couldn't see his famed horse-whip in the shadows.

'But they're everywhere. Even over there.'

I followed his eyes over to the hill to the left flank. There was no one in sight. 'There?' I ventured.

His eyes narrowed. 'Of course!' He sighed as though I was the one being idiotic. 'Invisible Dragoons.'

'I can't see any invisi-' I began, and stopped. I replayed what he had said. 'Invisible Dragoons?'

Perdue rubbed his chin which sounded like someone sawing a board. 'It's well known that the Corsican Wizard cloaks them with a spell taught to him by the Beys of Egypt. A lineage of powerful sorcerers – the Beys.'

I blinked and then blinked again. Mad. Utterly bat-shit mad.

'Are you here because of them?' I asked him hesitantly.
He glared menacingly and for a second I thought he would lash out. 'As if you didn't know, Chivers,' he retorted in a grave tone. 'I came for the money. And you damned well know it.'

I gulped and cleared my throat that was as dry as a spinster's tuzzy-muzzy. I patted my empty pockets. 'Listen, old boy, cash at the moment is a little like the Spanish Army: a bit threadbare and rather absent. I-'

He held up a hand and I instinctively ducked. 'I didn't come all this way to beat the debt out of you,' he said with a smile that indicated he would nevertheless enjoy that. 'Marr would not think twice to. And Gaspar probably wants you dead.'

'Only probably?'

'I'm here,' he continued, then paused for a few seconds to ogle the invisible enemy, 'for a favour.'

My eyes must have looked like eggs in the gathering twilight. 'Favour?'

He rubbed his face again. He seemed to like it. 'You scratch my back and I'll not stick a blade in yours.' He smiled, showing a lot of canine-like teeth.

My cowardly spine bent to him. 'How can I be of service?'

'My dear old Colonel, Sir Jupitus Fellowes, is in a bit of a quandary. He requires some assistance in a matter that is rather sensitive. I want you to accompany me and he'll explain the situation.'

'What does this have to do with me?' I said, the beginnings of panic screaming. 'I don't know the man.'

'It has nothing to do with you.'

I frowned and chose another route. 'So why choose me?'

Perdue fixed me a keen stare. 'Sir Fellowes needs help with a bit of bother.'

'Bother?'

'Yes, a task is required. And then I can guarantee that you will not owe the money to Gaspar, but will receive a boon instead.'

'A reward?'

He chortled. 'Yes.'

I thought about this carefully. 'Marr isn't going to be there, is he?'

It was Perdue's turn to frown. 'No. His company is with the baggage train. Why ask?'

'I'm just wondering whether both of you would be going with me?'

'You'll be doing this on your own. Now, what's your answer, Chivers? Me standing on your balls until you bleed, or you walk away with a fat purse?'

We reached the colonel's tent after an hour's ride. I'd left Happer in charge and promised to be back before the picquet change at three o'clock. A sallow-looking corporal led Bob away and Perdue led me inside the tent. It was lit by a lamp and the old colonel was slumped in his chair. The writing desk was too big and left little space for visitors. The inside smelt of canvass, crushed grass and old age.

'This is Captain Chivers, sir,' Perdue said loudly, which left a ringing sound in my ear.

Fellowes' chin rose up at me. He had ancient narrow eyes; a thin wisp of grey covered his head and his top lip like a cobweb, and veins throbbed at his forehead like angry worms under glass. 'Ah good,' he said, sounding relieved. 'The damned swellings have popped out again. I can't push them back inside now.' He stood up and I couldn't help notice that he was naked below the waist. 'It's damned uncomfortable, but with one push I feel confident of success-'

'No, no, sir,' Perdue interrupted and I was eternally grateful that he did. 'That is Surgeon Smithers. This is Captain Chivers. The one who can help you with the other matter.'

'My Gentleman Usher?'

'No, sir. That is Mrs Withers. This is to do with the other matter.'

Fellowes' eyes widened in comprehension as the crux of the matter finally got through that antique skull. 'Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, of course,' he said, rubbing a hand under his moustache. He sat carefully back into his chair, making a noise like a strangled fart. 'Please sit, captain.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'What I'm about to tell you is of a most sensitive nature that must not be spoken of outside of this tent, do you understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good man. Three days ago, we took a Frog officer prisoner. A very amiable chap if truth be told. I took to him and allowed full parole. He even cooked me a meal and I have to say it was utterly delicious. I even leant him five pounds to buy tobacco.'

'I'm not sure-' I started, but Fellowes continued.

'Any way this Frog called Choosey-'

'I think it's pronounced Chaucey, sir,' Perdue corrected.

'The devil with him and his poxed name!' Fellowes thumped a wrinkled fist onto the table, uttered a cry of agony and then nursed his limb. 'He damned well broke his parole and escaped! Took my sword with him and worst of all, he took my sweetheart! He stole her from me!'

I didn't know what to say. 'How did he escape, sir?'

Fellowes rubbed his wrist, then reached for a full port glass. 'Chaucey dressed himself up as a camp follower and walked out this afternoon.'

I thought about that. 'I thought the Frogs all had moustaches, sir?'

'So have half the Spanish women, it's proving tough for our boys to know who is who.'

'But surely they must have an idea of gender, sir?'

'Have you ever met Corporal Pyle? He has trouble working out which end of a horse has the head.' The colonel sighed. 'I heard about your little bit of strife from Perdue here and I thought I would offer you the reward money if you decide to help me out. I'll make it worth your while.'

'Aren't there other men who you could ask?'

'Yes,' Fellowes responded, 'but I needed a certain chap who has the edge. You've been in some tough fights and lived to tell the tale. I heard about Sahagún. You're just the man for the job.'

'I'm not so sure, sir.'

'You are brave.'

I nodded reluctantly.

'You speak Frog.'

I nodded with a little more enthusiasm. I felt it prudent early in my career to learn the language of the enemy, just in case I was ever captured, or had to bluff my way out of a predicament.

'You are skilled.'

Nod.

'You are broke.'

Nod-wait!

'Chivers, I need a willing soul to sneak behind enemy lines, find this rotter and rescue my dearest honeypot. I'm offering to pay your debt and recompense you with one hundred pounds.'

I almost fainted. 'One hundred pounds,' I said, staggering slightly.

'What say you?' Fellowes' eyebrows, like two tuffs of frosted-grass, rose and there was a glint in his eyes. Desperation, heartbreak and loss. I recognised them all too well. My gaze swivelled to Perdue who seemed to growl at me like a loyal hound.

If I decided to leave now, I'd be shot down like a coward before I had cleared the tent's flaps. No one could outrun or outride a pistol ball from this range. Besides, even if I did survive, where could I run to?

'I'll go, sir,' I said.

The colonel looked relieved (like a full bladder suddenly allowed to vacate), arose in the chair again and walked around the desk towards me. He grasped my arms with his own thin pair. If he squeezed them I didn't notice. 'Thank you, Chivers. Perdue knows which way the bugger went. I will send a note to your commander to let him know of your mission. I know Tubbs from our days in Old Relish's Men's Club. And he owes me a favour. It's all rather hush-hush, so please keep this as tightly lipped as a virgin's tuzzy-muzzy. God speed to you.'

I couldn't bring my troop with me, for speed and stealth so asked Happer to send me his best. Communication must have broken down because he sent me three men who I wouldn't have sent on an errand to find the latrines. By 'best' he must have thought I had meant 'anything that's left'.

The three troopers met me south-west of our lines where in the gloom I could see campfires denoting the French lines. Perdue watched the men trot closer and groaned.

'Are you sure these are your best, Chivers?'

'No,' I replied honestly.

'Sir.' Sergeant Miracle, a Welshman with short-arms and a belly like a sack of eels, saluted smartly. He was punctual, precise and could expel wind at the command.

'Sergeant.'

'I've brought Corporal Birdwhistle and Trooper MacCaa, sir.'

Why? I asked myself. The corporal had a deeply pock-marked face, strange odour and half of his nose missing from a sabre cut. Trooper MacCaa was just Scottish.

'Which way did they go?' I asked Perdue.

He grinned at me like an executioner. 'A half mile away is an abandoned monastery. It sits between our lines and the Frogs. The kidnapper was spotted by my sergeant, but the Peer has sent forward picquet's and horse artillery, which has cut the devil off. You don't have much time. Watch out for Lancers and other enemy horsemen stalking the low ground. They're down there somewhere. Good luck and you'd better not come back empty-handed or think to renege on the deal. My horse-whip is oiled and ready.'

I hastened my men on as Perdue's threat ricocheted around my skull. I gazed at them and thought it was funny, except that no one would laugh. What on earth was I doing? Risking my life for money. Barty, old chap, you're in one pickle all right. If you don't come back with the goods, Perdue will make egg cups from your ball sacks.

I hurried on.

'Fnir?' Birdwhistle asked in his usual nasally voice. His deformity looked more hideous in the half-light.

'What is it?'

'Fnpain ifn an affnault to my fnenfnefn'.

I gaped at him. 'What?'

'I fnaid, Fnpain ifn an affnault to my fnenfnefn.'

I replayed the words out loud. 'Spain is an assault to my...' I faltered.

'Fnenfnefn.'

'Senses?' I guessed.

Birdwhistle nodded enthusiastically. 'Yefn, fnir.'

'Well, it can't be any worse than Portugal, Corporal. Now that was a squalid dump.' I turned to face him. 'I'm rather surprised you can smell anything at all?'

'My fnmell is more powerful than before, fnir,' Birdwhistle tapped his ravaged snout.

Except your own stink. The corporal had an odour that was akin to putrefaction, dung and stagnant ditch water. Even flies stayed away.

'Sae whit ur we daein' haur, sairrr?' MacCaa uttered and all of us looked at him until it registered.

'We're to rescue a lady and recapture a Crapaud officer who broke his parole. They were seen entering a monastery and trapped themselves between our lines and the Frogs.'

'Sounds dangerous, sir,' Sergeant Miracle said, sucking his teeth.

'Yes, it will be.'

MacCaa scratched his face. 'Ah bit th' place is crawlin' witht he dobber French, sairrr!'

'Yes, the enemy will be close by,' I said. 'Keep your eyes peeled and your sabres ready.'

'Yefn, fnir,' Birdwhistle nodded.

'What's in it fur us?'

I wasn't going to tell them of the reward, but I couldn't expect a man to risk his life for the sake of such a mission. It was life or death after all. I opened my mouth, hesitated, before considering that, as a bit of a bastard, I could expect a man to risk his life for my money – reward.

'The oath you swore when you enlisted will suffice,' I replied candidly to the Scotsman. 'The bounty you all took. You pledged your life for King George.'

'But we're nae daein' thes fur kin' George.'

I was open-mouthed. 'You can't say that about the king! How dare you!'

MacCaa's bony face twitched into something that matched incomprehension. He spoke slowly and carefully. 'No, sir. I was saying we're nae daein' thes fur kin' George. I was nae cursing the man.'

'Ah,' I said. 'Well, you did take his shilling.'

'I never met him!'

I rubbed my forehead. I was beginning to get a headache. 'It's a saying when you enlist.'

Birdwhistle's brow furrowed. 'Fnir, I never got paid a fnhilling?'

'A shilling?' MacCaa was exasperated. 'Jesus Christ an' aw th' saints, but Ah only received a body penny!'

'I never saw a shilling either.' Miracle added his woes to the pot. 'I had to fork out from my own money to pay for these boots. And they leak, boy.'

A chorus of angered breath echoed between the rocky gully we were riding down that wound its way down to the black shell of the monastery looming ahead. I quietened my men (cursing as I did) with a promise of the shilling owed to them once the mission was complete.

We tethered our mounts to an orange tree and split into two groups. I went left with MacCaa and Miracle and Birdwhistle covered the right flank. I walked noiselessly around the crumbling stonework, the shadows deepened and were not what they appeared. An owl hooted and I'm sure it was bats fluttering past my face. The pale moonlight revealed the doors had long disappeared, and the tracery strangled with weed at the glassless windows. Memories and ancient stone was what was only left of such a holy place. I tripped on a block of fallen stone, cursed God and hopped through the dark archway in the cloister. On the east side I saw two shapes and took them for Miracle and Birdwhistle.

One was holding a pistol to the other's head. It was not my men.

'There's th' lass an' th' Frenchie!' MacCaa hissed.

'Please help!' A voice yelled at me, beckoning me over. Common sense usually told me to back away first as it could be a trap. On this occasion it told me that the voice was actually from a man. 'Help!'

'Who is there?' I called out. 'Show yourself.'

'Oh God, please don't let me die!' said the man again as the figures moved in the dark.

'No one's going to do anything rash or stupid,' I said confidently, hesitated thinking of my men, then added, 'well mainly rash.'

The two figures moved into moonlight. The first was a French officer of the Chasseurs à Cheval. I recognised the cut and style of the uniform immediately. He was slightly bow-legged, wore a waxed moustache that was now fraying and in need of care, and was certainly behind the gate when they had handed out the chins. He was all neck and his Adam's apple went up and down his throat like a loose musket ball in a gun barrel. The other figure was dressed in an over-sized grey hooded cloak.

'Monsieur,' the Crapaud sank to his knees, begging in accented English. 'Help me.'

'Are you Colonel Chaucey, by any chance?'

'Oui,' he responded pathetically. He was clean-shaven, face red from the scraping and he smelt of lavender.

I gazed up at the mysterious figure still holding the pistol. 'And who are you, sir?'

The hood dropped and blue twinkling eyes peeped back at me.

I let out a befuddled gasp.

No, it couldn't be?

'Not who you're expecting?'

'No,' I croaked. 'What the deuce are you doing here?'

Apollonia just grinned and blew me a kiss. 'Darling,' she said, 'I've a long tale to tell.'

Frankly, I could just leave the story there, but this was only half the fun. I smile even to this day thinking of that moonlit night full of surprises.

'My dearest,' I said, taking her in my arms, 'I'm on a highly dangerous mission to rescue a woman taken prisoner by this man. She was last seen with...with...'

Apollonia smiled knowingly when I managed (at last, I shamefully have to admit) to grasp this rather simple premise. She led me away from the ears of the others. 'Yes, darling. I am Colonel Fellowes' sweetheart.'

'But...but...'

'I am also yours, too.'

'But...but...'

'I heard about your rotten bit of luck.'

Did everyone know? I watched Miracle and Birdwhistle appear. I turned to her embarrassed. 'How did you find me?'

'I just asked at General Slade's office,' she said, smiling sweetly. 'I thought that we could work something out.'

'What do you mean?'

'How about you return me to old Fellowes, collect the reward, give all the bravados in the army for the rescue and...?'

'Yes?'

'We'd still be together. Perhaps find other men who would do anything to bring back their girl?'

I stared and mentally applauded her of the grand scheme. 'You're not just a pretty face, are you?'

She grinned back and laughed.

'Did he harm you?' I asked her.

She shook her head. 'No, darling. I'm not his sort, if you understand me. In fact, I think I rather frightened him.'

Before I returned her back, I took her back to my quarters and in the single candlelit room we made passionate love. Sergeant Miracle guarded the Frog downstairs who seemed happy to be free of Apollonia. She had suggested to him of the escape and once free, had kept him here at the monastery against his will until I showed up.

'You are a clever duck,' I said, kissing her mouth tenderly.

'I have to protect my love,' she said. 'After all, you helped me when that rascal robbed us on Brighton beach.'

I smiled at the trick of my own doing. 'Well, I had to protect my lady from such brigands.'

She kissed me and giggled as I placed a hand down between her thighs. He skin was goose-pimpled.

'I've sent Chivers down your spine,' I said, and she laughed at my punning.

'I'd do anything for you.'

I kissed her and reached for the glass of Madeira on a small upturned wooden crate next to the cot. I sipped and put it back. 'There's one thing you can do for me.'

'What's that, my love?'

I smiled and rapped my knuckles on the crate.

'What are you doing?'

I shot her an earnest look. 'I was brought up to be very respectful. I always knock before entering,' I quipped, before we laughed out loud and made love again.

And that night the world turned and for one moment, it all made perfect sense.

Flowers of Toulouse

The mist was cold and tangible. It had crept low above the ground, hovering, and had now encircled the five British redcoats who stared west from a timber and earthen redoubt.

'Toulouse,' Major Waller muttered and to the rest of the men, he had been saying the name countless times. He was staring through his telescope in the hope of spotting the French lines outside the city, but the heights of Calvinet that offered sweeping views of the land below were today obscured by thick fog like fallen cloud.

'Sir,' Sergeant Harding replied, a tall dour man with muscled arms and legs. Despite the bleak and raw afternoon, he tipped his mildewed shako up a fraction to wipe his sweat-lined forehead with a buff-coloured sleeve. His red coat was stained and patched from wear and his boots and breeches were damp and muddied like those of the rest of the men.

'Toulouse,' Waller said again, which caused Harding to scowl at him.

Private Butterworth, a small man with yellow unequal teeth, shook his head, hawked and spat a gobbet of bright-green phlegm into the murkiness.

'Sir!' A voice behind spoke and the major looked over his shoulder at a form making swirls in the vapour as he approached.

'What is it, Lieutenant?' Waller asked.

'Private Hirst can hear voices at the rear, sir,' Robinson relayed the message back quickly, his voice wobbling as though he was nervous.

'So he said earlier and nothing,' Harding put in sourly.

'Is he certain?' Waller asked with a curious look.

'Yes, sir.'

Waller's eyes brightened. 'So the Frogs think they can turn our flank and sneak up on us, eh?'

'I think so, sir.'

Harding made a face that suggested this was folly.

Waller, seeing the expression and ignoring it, pursed his lips. 'Hold your position, Butterworth.' He turned to the eager Robinson. 'Show me.'

Waller, Robinson and Harding crept along the redoubts beaten-earth walkway to where a hollow-faced soldier waited with his musket on a slight rise in the grass above them. They waited and listened in the murk, but there was no sound.

'Hirst?' Waller demanded.

'I definitely heard them this time, sir,' the private said, colouring slightly. 'I could hear them over there.' He jutted his unshaven chin down at the valley floor.

'British? French? German? Spanish?'

'I couldn't tell, sir.'

Waller squinted, then brought his attention to Harding who shrugged. The NCOs face was pitted from a childhood disease and his leather-like skin was oddly grey. Mind you, everything appeared tinged grey from this weather.

Robinson cleared his throat. 'What do we do now, sir?'

Waller, in truth, didn't know. The 61st Foot, part of the 6th Division under Sir Henry Clinton, had marched with the rest of Wellington's army against the French under Marshal Jean-de-Dieu Soult, 1st Duke of Dalmatia, but nicknamed by the British as the Duke of Damnation. Lethal French artillery and columns of infantry had plucked many men of the regiment back into oblivion as they stormed the ridge. Waller had seen Lieutenant-Colonel Coghlan shot from his horse, as well as most of the regimental staff, and a great eruption of cannon-fire had separated the companies assaulting the eastern redoubts. Blood and guts and honour had won the fight, and Waller wasn't going to give up his small victory easily and so would not retreat. The guns had pounded the redcoats and in the lull, he had sent Privates' Millington and Hodge, to find out where the rest of the battalion was and orders from Brigade. But the two had not come back yet and that worried him. The thought of French counter-attacking and encompassing them was ever present.

'Sir,' Robinson hissed, raising a gloved finger. 'Listen.'

They craned and strained to hear a sound that wasn't their own making. Waller was about to berate the young officer when he caught a voice on the wind. He blinked. Then, there was nothing. Perhaps he had imagined it. The mist curled like ghostly tendrils over the grass. They stayed listening for some time, but it was quiet again. Waller rubbed his temples where a headache threatened the rest of the day. Victory would help as well as claret in the Mess tonight, he mused. Lots and lots of claret.

He and Harding walked back to where Butterworth guarded the west. 'Your thoughts, Sergeant?' Waller always looked to get an NCOs advice; after all, everyone knew they ran the battalion.

'Can I speak freely, sir?' Harding said, scratching at his dark side-whiskers.

Waller instantly stiffened, fearing disagreement or admonishment of some sorts. 'Of course,' he tried to sound open, but it came out warily.

'I think it's a mistake to stay here, sir,' the sergeant said. 'A grave mistake.'

Waller looked disappointed. 'I see.'

'We must go back to our lines, sir. I can't even hear the Frenchie guns now or their drums. And that tells me they've retreated.'

Waller nodded emphatically in that peculiar fashion where officers have listened to advice, but are still trying to work out how it affects them.

Harding, encouraged by his officers affirming motions, went further. 'Sir, how long have we been here?'

Waller bit his lower lip as he stared around. 'Two hours,' he hazarded a guess. 'Maybe three.'

'Do you have your timepiece, sir?'

'No,' Waller replied with regret. 'I lost the damned thing when the last barrage tore into us. Dropped it somewhere out there. Shame that. My father gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. He had hoped I would become an architect like him. 'You'll be the next John Gwynn' he used to tell me, but I was hopeless at design.' He gave a little laugh and then looked full of sorrow. 'I took the commission and it broke his heart. He died three months later. I've been thinking about him a lot of late.'

Harding's jaw clenched. 'I'm sorry, sir.'

They said nothing for a while, both men not willing to encroach on each other's past, particularly when it spoke of a family's anguish.

'You reckon two hours, sir?' the sergeant broke the silence.

'Yes.'

Harding sighed. 'Do you get the feeling that it's actually longer than that?'

Waller made a face and nodded reluctantly. 'Yes, I suppose so. I can't even see the sun or have any notion if it's still afternoon or evening. But who'd have thought to have a battle on an Easter Sunday, eh? Hardly appropriate and all that. Not likely to please Our lord, now is it?'

'If I know the scriptures, sir, it says that we'll rise from the graves. It's supposed to be a miracle.'

'Only if we are killed, Sergeant,' Waller said with a wry grin.

Harding leant in closer. 'It's all a bit strange, if you ask me.'

'What do you mean?'

'Here, sir. I think we've been here longer than a couple of hours. It's as though time is standing still.'

'Exactly how long do you think we've been here?'

Boots thumped on the ground. 'Sir!' It was Robinson.

Waller turned to him, irritation plain on his face at the interruption. 'What is it?'

'It's Hirst, sir. The French have got him!'

'What?' Waller exclaimed. 'Muskets ready!' he shouted at Harding and the watery-shape of Butterworth. He withdrew his sword. 'Where are the French? How many of them?'

'I didn't see them, sir,' Robinson's face was drained of colour and he looked absolutely petrified.

The major stopped. 'What the deuce are you babbling about?'

Robinson rubbed the facial twitch he seemed to have inherited before the day's battle. 'I was talking to him wondering whether to ask you if Hirst and I could scout eastwards and I turned around and he was gone, sir.'

Waller glanced at Harding to ascertain his thoughts, but the grizzled NCO was just as puzzled. 'Gone? What do you mean? Left his post?'

'That's not like Private Hirst, sir,' Harding commented.

Robinson shrugged and looked as though he was about to burst into tears.

'Sergeant, go and check,' Waller ordered and waited for Harding to be out of earshot. He rammed his sword home. 'Lieutenant,' he started angrily, then paused to let it not speak for him. 'You are new to the 61st. You have only held your lieutenancy for how long?'

'Thirteen days, sir.' Robinson tried to shake himself, as though making an effort to pull himself together after the shock, though the colour did not return to his face and the corners of his lips were tinged with blue.

Waller smiled. 'And how long were you an ensign?'

'A year, sir.'

'Regular?'

Robinson shook his head. 'Militia, sir.'

'This was your first battle, wasn't it?'

'Yes, sir.'

Waller patted the young officer on the shoulder. 'This battle is your baptism of fire and you've done admirably so far. Don't let a little wretched weather get the better of you. The men mustn't see any fear in their officers. It's not right. Not soldierly and all that. Now, Sergeant Harding will probably find Hirst taking a piss and that'll be the end of that. Our brigade is around here somewhere. Any moment now I expect an Aide to appear with new orders. Just take a deep breath and ...and...' he faltered.

Voices.

Like the sound of breath coming from behind his ears.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He couldn't detect which direction the voices were coming from. But he heard them. British?

'You hear them too, sir?'

Waller stared at him. 'Yes,' he whispered although he didn't know why. Why didn't he shout out? He rubbed his temples again knowing that he had to make sure they were friendly first. He looked at the dense mist, trying to see through it, but it was impossible to see anything more than twelve feet away. Like endless cannon-smoke, but there was no smell of rotten-eggs, the stink of burnt gunpowder. Harding was right. The impenetrable fog seemed to block out all other sounds. He couldn't hear artillery, or musketry or the bandsmen or men marching. But there were voices, inaudible, muffled, but nevertheless, there. There was another sound like metal scraping against stone, but it was barely audible.

Shadows moved and Waller felt a knot in his stomach tense, then release when he saw it was Harding.

'Hirst has gone, sir,' the NCO confirmed. He sounded angry at the desertion.

'No signs of the enemy?'

Harding shook his head. 'I had a good look around. Saw no signs of him. There are muddied footprints but they're from us.'

Waller noticed the NCOs left arm was slick with dark mud. 'What happened to you?'

Harding growled. 'I tripped over, sir.'

The major let out a laugh. 'Getting clumsy, Sergeant.'

'It was a hole in the ground, sir.' Harding's face was serious. 'With a body in it.'

Waller immediately went solemn. 'One of ours?'

The sergeant shrugged, then shook his head. 'Bones, sir.'

'You've hurt your eye too. Looks bloodshot.'

Harding shrugged again and he led the curious major to a patch of rocky scrub up on the crest. Waller saw the footprints in the mud and a dark pit. He peered into it and looked back at Harding.

It was empty.

The sergeant blinked and rubbed his bloodshot eye. 'There were bits of bones down in there, sir. I swear it. They were brown and old-looking.'

Waller's eyes surveyed the crest. 'There might be other pits. It's hard to tell. I'll go for a wander myself.' Harding, his face unreadable, seemed preoccupied with the bare earth before him.

The major climbed up the grass, threading through a series of lichen-boulders, ever careful of where the redoubt was. He could see footprints going up the grass. Some heavy and others more difficult to see. He guessed the heavy prints were Harding's. There were no signs of life anywhere. He wanted to shout out, but the silence was deeply oppressive. The swirls of mist were cool to the touch, and although it wasn't a wintry day, he found himself shivering and quickly returned. He slipped on the wet grass and let out a curse. He stood up carefully and wiped the mud from his coat tails. The 61st were known as 'The Silver Tailed Dandies', for their officers' scarlet coat tails were fashioned longer than any other regiments' and adorned with silver lace. Waller liked the nickname. The 28th Foot had the war-like 'Slashers', whilst the 47th were known as 'Wolfe's Own' after their distinctive service with General Wolfe at Quebec. Waller thought there was something resplendent and gentlemanly about his regiment's soubriquet.

He stepped through entangling gorse, yellow bus threatening to bloom, when he saw a patch of earth. It was another pit. He stooped over it and found there was a complete skeleton. Had to tell if it was male or female, but the body was small and on its side from the angle of the ribcage. A child or young woman? There were fragments of clothes, but they were tattered and very dirty. A shiver went up Waller's spine and he quickly returned to Harding.

'Found your skeleton, Sergeant,' he said. 'Up there all right.'

Harding looked at him slowly with a pained expression. 'No, sir. This was the hole where I fell in.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes, sir.'

Waller shrugged. 'Then, there is another.' He blew breath through his lips. 'I didn't see Hirst. Or picked up his trail. I wonder if he went to scout the foot of the heights. But if so why? He went against my express orders.'

Harding wasn't listening. 'Sir.'

'Yes?'

'Why were the bones exposed?'

Waller thought for a moment. 'The weather perhaps? Maybe someone dug them up. The French might have strange ideas on burials or something. A relative went looking and found it?'

'Them.'

'Pardon?'

'I said them, sir. There were bones here too. There were two skeletons. Two bodies.'

Waller's headache was nearing agony now. He hauled out his handkerchief and tipped a little water from his canteen into it. He then returned the bung and patted his head delicately. 'I'd better check on our lieutenant.' In truth, Waller wanted to be away from Harding. The man's demeanour was starting to unsettle him. He found Robinson gazing towards the west. 'Anything to report, Lieutenant?' Robinson did not turn around. 'I asked whether there was anything to report. Lieutenant!' Waller placed a hand on the young officer's shoulder and gave a savage haul.

Robinson was as pale as cartridge paper. His eyes wide with shock, mouth obscenely twisted.

'What is it?' Waller was taken aback. 'Speak!' Robinson did not stir and so Waller called Harding.

The tall NCOs boots thumped on the ground. Waller dipped his head at Robinson. Harding stared into Robinson's eyes, clicked calloused fingers, but still the officer did not speak.

'He looks scared witless, sir,' Harding said.

'This was his first battle,' Waller said softly. 'I suspect it's caught up with him.'

Harding grunted. He had seen men collapse with terror. He understood fear. The sergeant was not a religious man but he prayed to God to keep him safe this morning. Other men carried bibles and wore crucifixes, but all Harding had was hope. A soldier's hope, but it was all he had.

Robinson's lips peeled apart and a low groan erupted into the still air. He then said something but it was incomprehensible to the other two men.

'Robinson, old boy,' Waller took his arm and shook it gently. 'There, there. Steady now. What's all this about, eh?'

'Face,' Robinson said, eyes, still unblinking.

'Face?' Waller repeated, heart beat quickening uncomfortably.

'Out there.'

Waller followed his gaze into the depressing mist. He couldn't see a thing, yet the shadows seemed to lengthen. 'There's no one there.'

Robinson quivered. 'It got Butterworth.'

Harding instinctively pulled back the hammer of his musket to cock it and brought it waist height to challenge any foe as he walked towards the private's mist-veiled position. 'Butterworth! Private Butterworth!'

There was no reply and after an eerie moment, he returned to Waller. 'He's gone too, sir. Just like Hirst.'

Waller's temper snapped. He pushed Robinson away. 'What the hell is going on here? Do you take me for a penny fool?' he snarled at Harding.

'Sir?' The sergeant was nonplussed.

'I've a damned mind to put you all on a charge.'

Harding stepped closer, towering over the major. 'For what?'

Waller rubbed his temples. 'For playing this ridiculous game.' A soon as he said it, he knew he had overreacted and itself was a ludicrous statement.

'No one's playing any game, sir.'

'No,' Waller offered a meek smile. 'No, I must apologise. I don't know what came over me.' He blew out a lungful of breath and was suddenly conscious of their bleak predicament. 'What the devil is going on, Sergeant?'

For a brief moment they looked at each other, neither one apparently wanting to press the subject further.

Until Harding grunted and rubbed his bloodshot eye. 'I don't know, sir. But I suggest we leave this...place and head south, sir. Quickly now.'

Waller had wrestled with the idea of abandoning their victory, but things were different now. 'I agree.' He turned to Robinson. 'Can you walk?'

'Y-yes, sir,' Robinson stammered.

'Good. Let's leave.'

The three men clambered up the bank and then hurried past the gorse, rocks and pits along the ridges high plateau. There were no other sounds, apart from their exertions and even the mist seemed to be clearing. The sky was turning a pale yellow, sour, but still showed colour and Waller couldn't help but feel elated to be away.

'We'll soon be out of this damned fog,' Waller said, grinning. 'Clear from it once and for all and then we can see where our lads are.'

'They've probably already taken Toulouse, sir and are on their way to Paris,' Harding said which caused Waller to laugh.

'I hope they remember to leave a few bottles of wine for us.'

'Bottles, sir?' Harding replied. 'I was thinking crates!'

The two of them laughed and it was then that Waller noticed Robinson was missing. He stopped and looked back into the thin veils and called for him. There was nothing. He saw a form of sorts in the gloom. Stooped over something.

A voice, carried from somewhere, let out a cry, which immediately turned into sobbing. It was hard to decipher, but it sounded like Robinson.

'Sir,' Harding said in a low voice.

'Robinson! What are you doing?'

The form seemed to turn towards him, stare and stand to its full height. Even by the distance, it was obvious this was not their lieutenant.

'Who are you?' Waller's throat felt constricted and dry. He shivered and his bowels felt like water. The figure came at him and then it went but Waller felt a passage of wind brush past him, as though someone had walked past or through him.

Voices.

Strange, because they sounded near and yet at the same time distant. There was the sound of metal constantly scraping against stone again only this time louder.

'Can you hear them, sir?'

'Yes,' Waller licked arid lips.

'Let's go, sir!' Harding said with alarm.

Both men turned and ran as fast as they could. The voices were louder and Waller picked out a word. 'Shot', it had said in English.

Harding jumped a weather-worn boulder and landed on a flat piece of rock. Waller tried to copy, but slipped on loose stones and fell head first onto the grass. A second later the sergeant hauled him out with a strong arm. Waller edged past, but the NCO seemed rooted to the spot.

'What is it, Sergeant?'

Harding was peering down at the grass where a spot of earth showed. 'There, sir,' he said. 'Look!'

Waller stared down at the ground and could see something protruding from the damp soil. A tooth, No, teeth. The wind seemed to blow at the earth. A jawbone. The teeth were oddly white. A skull and with it an empty orbit, splintered as though from damage.

Harding slowly looked at Waller. His right socket was crimson with wet blood. It pooled and ran down his cheek.

Waller recoiled in cold horror, but could not do or say anything.

Harding opened his mouth to speak and then disappeared. One second there and the next vanished.

Waller looked around and then screamed. He went to move but his body felt as heavy as iron and his boots rooted to the spot as though trapped in a quagmire. Even under cannon fire his knees had never trembled or made his flesh creep. But this made his heart lurch and pound like a smith's hammers.

He stumbled away, his whole body tingling to the point of numbness. With all his strength, he leapt across the rocks, to drop down onto soft grass below. He rolled and picked himself up. He was shaking, and had lost his cocked hat, but he still did not stop. He felt sick, the headache threatened to make his head explode, but he just ran. Ran until the grass thickened and grew to his knees and he did not care where he went, only that it was far away from this nightmare.

The sun was now dazzling, so bright that he had to shield his eyes. East. He thought he had been fleeing south. He glanced nervously around, lungs burning and chest heaving. He cast a look over his shoulders, but there was no one there.

'He died...' A voice said and Waller jerked aside.

There was no one there. Grass and weeds blew in the soft wind. It was warming up as the sun touched the land.

'Who are you?' He demanded angrily, before breaking into an uncontrollable sob and falling to his knees.

No reply.

Waller wiped his face, tears fell onto the grass below his boots. What the hell was going on?

'At least he died quickly.' This time the voice was female.

Waller looked up and a blue-eyed girl wearing a curious item of cloth in her hair was digging at the ground next to him. She had a strong nose, freckled cheeks, a strange coat on despite the heat and long boots like riding wear, but they weren't anything he had ever seen before. She pushed a lock of blonde hair behind

He quickly realised she could not see him.

'This will be number five, Helen,' said a male voice to Waller's left. 'We need to mark it.'

A young man with brown hair wearing a black shirt with rolled sleeves, a strange green, yellow and brown patterned pantaloons and a metal implement was scraping at the earth.

'What are you digging? What's going on?' Waller asked them, but they could not hear him. He stood and stepped out from them.

There were other people who were walking and digging nearby in the pasture. A few were reading maps and writing on sheets of paper. Some wore gaudy hats that he had never seen before and jackets of bright yellow or orange. Beyond the diggers were two metal contraptions that looked like horse-less carriages. They had large wheels, and the machine's surface gleamed in the sun. There appeared to be someone inside one of them.

'Here,' Helen said rather excitedly. 'Look, a strand of the coat.'

Waller peered down at a collection of bones and clumps of dark mud.

'And some more here,' said the male. 'Defiantly a redcoat. Here. Look! There's a button.' He fingered the silver button flecked with mud, scraped with a thin instrument. '61st all right. Yeah. This is another of the Flowers.'

'The what?' Helen asked.

'The battalion suffered high casualties. There were so many red coats - particularly officers - on the field that the 61st were nicknamed the Flowers of Toulouse.'

Waller frowned and then gasped. Upon standing, a lance of pain seared through his skull. His knees buckled and he had to grasp his head with both hands to steady himself. He looked across as the two young people scraped at the skull in the ground. There was a large hole that had splintered the bone behind the left eye socket. Helen gently eased it to face her and Waller then saw a smaller hole opposite.

'Shot through the head. Entrance and the larger impact was the exit. At least he died quickly.'

Waller's eyes widened as he understood what he was looking at. The pain in his head was returning and he let out a howl of anguish as the world, for the last time, faded to black.

Lamentation

The weak sun hung above the distant tree line, teasing the remaining dew into drifting curtains of haze that mixed with the palls of smoke. It was a warm day, despite it being a winter month, but for Captain Charles Goddon, he was cold. So very cold.

It was 8th January, 1815, and he was dying.

Goddon succumbed to a coughing fit; a wracking motion that seared through his chest like liquid-fire. There was no pain on earth to equal the torment. He lay back, chest shuddering from the attack. Thick blood was congealing on his scarlet coat and had crusted his chin. He raised a hand to his mouth, wet from the marsh and stained with blood and mud. His fingers attempted to find the wound again, probing the huge rent in his coat. It was a perverse thought to touch it again, but he could not help it. He screamed. There it was. Ragged, soft, wet; the mark of a dying man. Sweat had broken out all over him. Goddon felt it trickle down his face, neck and back. Hands were clammy. Chills ran down his torso followed by waves of nausea. He waited for a spasm to drive the contents of his stomach up into his throat, but the sensation waned. He stiffened and groaned through gritted teeth. When the pain abated, he panted for a moment, then laid his head back on the tuft of long grass that acted as a pillow, watching the drifting fog and smoke-veiled sky.

The end was not long in coming.

Goddon was dreadfully thirsty. He knew he had a canteen, but it was trapped underneath his body. His mouth was dry as sand and his tongue swollen. It reminded him of his first day marching under a blisteringly hot Spanish sun. He had slaked his thirst not even a quarter of the march, and had nearly collapsed when the regiment had halted many miles later. He had learned a lesson then, a hard one, like most other new recruits had, for the heat was a killer.

Goddon's hand quivered as he lowered it to the damp ground. Cupping the water, he drew it slowly to his chapped lips, but the water spilled over his arm. He tried again, and was rewarded with a rank taste. It was terrible, but it was cool water all the same. And it would do until his time came to pass.

He was a captain in the 44th East Essex Regiment of Foot, a battalion with yellow facings and an excellent service record. Goddon had been with the second battalion at the Battle of Salamanca where they had taken a French Eagle and he was gazetted captain into the first for his heroism. What a proud moment of his life that was. Nothing since had ever come close, and now in the swamplands of Louisiana, he would die. A thickness came to his throat and tears pricked at his blue eyes. What a shame it was all over. Goddon understood that a soldier's life was a dangerous one, and that had been the reason for taking the commission in the first place, but when the time came, it was still a terrible shock.

'Emma,' he muttered, as his lids were getting heavy. 'Emma,' he said again.

She was his wife and now she would be weeping, because the British had retreated from the American guns that had shredded the lines with canister and grapeshot, and the loved ones would now know of the carnage left behind and howl in their misery. Willing himself back into the world, Goddon forced his sticky eyelids open and gazed blearily across the field strewn with tumbled red forms. It had been a slaughter. A battle which the British had confidently advanced through the cover of fog to take the city just after dawn, but the emplaced guns had torn great holes in the British ranks and the infantry protected by a series of defences fired murderous volleys, which the redcoats could not equal. The veterans of the Peninsular War, the redcoats that had marched and slogged through rain, hail, sun and snow to win Wellington his battles, were butchered in droves. That was where Goddon had fallen. A piece of grapeshot or a musket shot had now ended his life. The blow to his body had been like a prize-fighter's punch. He had been thrown backwards, the air knocked from his lungs. He had tried to stand, but his legs did not seem to work. He had steadied his body on his right knee, tilted forward and bracing himself against the ground with his right forearm. Whimpering from the pain, he called for a bandsman, but his pleas were not heard over the crashing din, and so had simply fallen onto his back.

Goddon twisted his head to see who was near him. He moaned softly from the effort. Ten feet away lay Sergeant Smart and Private Medway. There were many other bodies, but Goddon could not see their faces. The grapeshot burst from the enemy guns that had sung past with a discordant whine had cut off Smart's litany of battle in mid-sentence.

'Close up the ranks!' he had shouted, as Goddon's company began to drop from the gunfire. The wounded would be hauled away so that they would not trip the advancing men. 'Close up, you bastards! Remember Spain! We beat Boney's men then, and now we can beat these beef-witted Yanks! Close up-'

Goddon could still hear the sound of the balls tearing into the old sergeant's body, like hammer blows to a lump of meat. It made him cringe with horror. Smart had been a veteran of the Revolutionary Wars, and had seen the Peace of Amiens crumble, to then fight the Crapauds in Portugal and Spain. He was forty-five, had seen a lifetime of soldering, and was now dead as the new recruits around him.

Private Medway had been hit, but the injuries had not killed him at first. For what seemed like hours, the man had shrieked endlessly for his mother. He had been the joker of the company, always a jest and impish grin. It's what seemed to have gotten him through Spain, when other men had fallen into a melancholy cloud before battle. Even this morning, Medway had joked about the tea having tasted 'American', which meant bitter. His voice had finally changed to a whisper and died, tongue sticking obscenely from his open mouth. Flies buzzed about the bloated corpses, dotting faces and wounds black.

Goddon thought of his company, the regiment, wondering dimly what any of them were doing here. Why slaughter each other over this piece of ground? What was to be gained by taking the city? What was so urgent and pressing about this damnable place that men blew each other to bloody rags to possess it?

What of his dear brother officers? Pemberton? Hooper? Rawlings? They were his brothers of the blade. They had all seen and got through Spain together. Hooper had been shot in the leg during the battle of Talavera, but miraculously had astounded the surgeon by refusing to have it amputated and was walking again within three weeks. Pemberton had diced with death too. Shot through the body at Vitoria, but was back in the Grenadiers within a month. Even Rawlings had survived a fever that had seen bigger and stronger men succumb. Goddon, with a heavy heart, hoped they still lived. The regiment had taken high casualties. It was a thing of nightmare. So many brave souls of that campaign, all gone in an instant.

He shivered and his teeth chattered. So cold.

His thoughts returned to Emma again. 'Come back to me, Charles,' she had said before the regiment was called to form up in the early hours. Her brown eyes had been bright with tears. 'I fear the worst. I always do when I'm at my most happiest. I can't stop you from doing your duty, but don't do anything foolish. You might have been lucky at Salamanca, but there is something different about this place. I hate it. I long for home. Remember me. Remember this,' she had said, unbuttoning her dress to expose the deep line of her milky-white breasts. 'Come back alive, my love.'

Goddon closed his eyes. Emma. He began to weep plaintively. If only you were here with me in my final moments, he pleaded.

There were still the occasional splutter of musketry and thump of the cannon, but the noise was distant. Groans and feeble cries for aid came from all around. A roiling cloud of dirty smoke smothered the sky like oppressive rain clouds.

His eyelids wanted to join and weariness pressed against his will like a warm coat and he succumbed.

A sudden roar of artillery burst across the battlefield, waking him to a sharp intake of breath. His vision was blurred. The land appeared misty. Phantoms seemed to hover above and about the corpses.

He blotted his half-closed eyes with a dirty sleeve. One was picking its way over to him. Goddon tried to move and screeches of outrage jangled along every nerve in his body. He gasped and when he looked again, the ghastly figures had gone. What the devil were they? Or perhaps they were just a figment of his imagination. A tremor went up his side and he gritted his teeth until it passed.

He lowered his head back and his eyes searched the clouds that sailed past. It reminded him of his boyhood in Chelmsford, lying upon the banks of the River Can, staring up at the clouds, trying to find shapes. Good days. Happy days with his best friend Christopher. He'd not seen him in years. Goddon couldn't help but slip into melancholy. His legs felt cold and unresponsive. He couldn't move them. From the inert way they lay he wondered if he was paralysed, or if this was merely his body's perception enforcing stillness before the final heartbeat.

A voice called. He went still, cocked his head and listened. Had someone called his name? Then it came again, clearer this time. Female. He looked out on the littered and churned-up plain once more. A form moved there, though not a soldier. It was a woman, a woman dressed in a pastel-yellow dress with a grey shawl pinned over a white blouse. She shifted in and out of focus. He had to blink several times to clear his vision.

He couldn't believe his eyes.

Emma. She was here! She had come looking for me.

He watched her slender form, as she bent over a body to turn the face up to view, then gently let it go back to the cold earth. She was looking for him amongst the dead. Touching them with her long fingers with a sad benediction.

'Emma,' Goddon croaked, before his voice was distorted with emotion. 'I'm here, my love.'

She moved on to the next body. She hadn't heard him.

Fearing that she might leave, he gathered himself, and emitted a terrible cry. She straightened. Her traversing eyes came to rest upon him. He drifted unconscious, but when his eyes flickered open she was kneeling beside him.

'Emma . . .' His voice broke into piteous sobs.

'I'm here,' she said, caressing his face. 'I've found you. They said I wouldn't, but I have. Oh God. You are hit.'

'I'm dying,' Goddon said, tears making trails through the grime on his face. 'I'm sorry to leave you, my love. You mean the world to me. I'm so sorry. I wrote you a letter this morning. It's in my coat pocket.' He coughed and cried out in pain. 'It's-it's a little blood-stained.'

Emma soothed him and clutched his hand in hers, gripping them tightly. 'Are you thirsty?' Goddon nodded and then cool water descended his parched mouth. It was so good, but he gulped and half-choked. 'Steady, my love. Take it easy.' She relaxed the canteen's rim from his mouth.

'I haven't much time,' Goddon told her with mournful eyes. 'I have a will and my possessions which can be accounted for will be auctioned by the regiment. You will receive a good proportion. My pension-'

'Hush, my love,' she said. 'Don't talk of such things. Lie still now.'

'No,' he said, and hot liquid dispersed in his mouth. He could taste the copper-tang. 'I want to tell you that you made me exceedingly happy. I am the proudest man in Christendom. Tell our child, that I loved them. That I died doing my duty and...' Tears spilled down his cheeks. 'I wish I could have seen their face. Boy or girl. Known their name at least.'

'Child,' Emma said, as though she was pondering it. She paused before speaking. 'If it's a boy, he will take your name. And if it's a girl, we'll name her after your mother.'

Goddon smiled, his mouth twitched. 'I wish I could have heard them call my name. I wish I had told you every day that I love you. I never said it enough. I'm sorry, my dearest...I'm...'

A languor slowly crept through his body. His wound was now a distant ache, hardly noticeable now. He relaxed, feeling joyfully buoyant and scarcely held to earth, free of all concerns and entanglements as never before. Nothing seemed to matter. The past, present and future drifted away to dissolve into the air.

Goddon's vision became fuzzy. Inky blotches began growing here and there, spreading outward the way fire ate dry kindling. They merged and as darkness enclosed him, he felt his wife's hand touch his face and close his eyelids.

'Emma...' he murmured, and then was still.

*****

The American soldier felt the abrupt sag in the redcoat's body and knew he had died. He gently let the body fall back, studying the pale, handsome face, blemished by spatters of blood, and criss-crossed by tear tracks running through the grime on his cheeks.

'He ain't marching no more,' the soldier said, and a companion with stood over the corpse.

'He got much on him?'

The soldier, a regular of the 7th Infantry Regiment, tilted the peak of his black cap, and wiped his brow of sweat with a blue sleeve. 'He thought I was his wife.'

His companion laughed. 'Jesus, Twist, she must've been some ugly bitch.'

Samuel Twist let a smile crease his face, blackened by powder-smoke. 'No more handsome than the hog you sleep with, Young. Yours can find truffles in the dark.'

His friend gave a lop-sided grin at the riposte. 'Are you going to search him?'

Twist didn't know what to do. Somehow it didn't feel right. The flesh around his jaw tightened. He let go a sigh. 'I wonder what his name was. He said he was going to be a father and that he was sad he would never see them. A shame that.'

Young stared back at the long lines of Chalmette, and eight miles behind was New Orleans. The plain was littered with British bodies. They were piled high at the redoubts and just feet from the earth and log defences. Motionless like child's toys tossed upon the field. A huge cotton bale, used to shield one of the batteries, was on fire. He watched the great plume of smoke touch the heavens. 'It's a shame the redcoats attacked so naïvely,' he said, with an exasperated look. 'Their damned generals ought to be tried as murderers. Good for us, though. They just came on and on. No stopping them until our shot found them so cleanly. A whole host of mothers, sons, brothers, and fathers all dead out here.'

'It's a shame that he will never know his child,' Twist said stubbornly.

Young hawked and spat. 'Yeah, well, they came and we ain't asked them to. They got what was coming. They got a licking like I ain't seen or heard of before. Swine-brained fools. This day is for America and for Jackson,' he said proudly, then turned harshly to Twist. 'Are you going to check his pockets? There are plenty of our boys coming this way who'll strip the dead before you can whistle 'The Liberty Song'. Besides, the dead are beginning to stink.'

Twist opened up the coat, blood sticking the tailored waistcoat shut. He tried more forcefully until the cloth parted. He found a handful of coins and a silver locket. Inside, was a miniature of a girl with golden hair. He gulped at the catch in his throat. She was the sort of girl who could easily break a man's heart. Twist would do anything to get back to a beauty like that. He showed Young the painting.

'No wonder he was so upset,' he grunted with approval. 'I'd be weeping to lose her too.'

Twist ogled her face. 'A pretty thing. I wonder where she is.'

'You'll never find out, Twist,' Young said. 'In the enemy camp? Home in England? Who cares? Now let's hurry up. It's time to go.'

Twist pursed his lips. He sighed heavily, looked at the officer's face one last time, before stuffing the coins and the locket into his pockets.

The two soldiers walked away, disappearing across the battlefield like phantoms in a land of smoke.

Enemy at the Gates

Lieutenant-Colonel James Macdonell, the commanding officer of the 2nd Battalion, Coldsteam Guards, heard the cannon fire and took his gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. He flipped open the worn lid. It was half-past eleven, seven hours after reveille. A second shot boomed and then finally a third; its noise seemed to echo with menace. He knew what it meant. A flock of birds flew overhead, furiously protesting at the noise. Perhaps they knew what was about to happen too, he mused. He took a deep breath, surmising the event.

Three shots: the opening salvoes of battle.

'So it begins,' said one of the sergeants to no one in particular.

'Indeed it does, Sergeant Harker.' Macdonell twisted in his saddle to stare across the kitchen garden; a narrow strip of ruined vegetables that ran west of the château d'Hougoumont. He looked down at the NCO. 'They're practically on our doorstep. Glad though, aren't you? I can't stand the wait.'

William Harker, a hulking man with arms and legs the size of howitzer barrels, and a face slashed by a French bayonet, grinned back. 'Very true, sir. The quicker we beat them, the quicker we can go back to proper soldiering.'

Macdonell laughed. 'This is soldering. This is what we're paid to do.'

The colonel was a brute of a man too. He was six feet three, sat tall in the saddle, straight-backed, and his stature was increased by his tall false-fronted black shako and gilt epaulettes at his shoulders. He wore a dazzling uniform of the British Guards. His cap was adorned with gold and crimson cords, shining brass plate of the Garter Star and immaculate red and white plume. His white breeches were pristine and at his left hip, hung a long, straight-bladed sword held in a black leather scabbard. Macdonell was a professional soldier and had fought for King George for twenty-one years, having joined a Highland regiment aged sixteen. He had fought the Mahrattas in India. Received the Army Gold Medal for his actions at Maida, and had served throughout Portugal and the Netherlands.

And now he looked up from the manured garden to the well-maintained white-painted château, with its high red-brick walls, farm buildings, chapel and quarters, and back to the elaborate formal gardens. In French, the name meant 'gum hill', which Macdonell supposed was from resin taken from the pine trees here to make turpentine. The grass and shrubs sparkled with morning dew and the air was already muggy.

A great shout went out, the sound of thousands of voices. It came from the enemy lines, and Macdonell imagined that his command would be soon surrounded by a sea of French blue.

But he was ready for them. He had arrived the evening before and had walked every foot of the farm, noting strengths and weaknesses. The southern entrance, closest to the French, had been barricaded with lengths of timber, masonry, barrels and an old carriage. Fire-steps and loopholes in and along the walls had been completed just before dawn. Guardsmen, on the château's second floor, watched from the windows. There was an orchard behind the formal gardens to the west and a thick pine wood to the south, all garrisoned by Nassau troops and Hanoverian Jaegers. Germans, the lot of them and good soldiers. His own Light Company was concealed along a line of hedges where they watched the western flank for enemies that might sneak around out of sight of the British batteries on the ridge to the north. Macdonell worried that the French might make a run for this flank, which led to the farmhouse's north gate. It was open because its gravel path led to the only route of supply. If things got bad, he would have to close the gate and bar it shut. Ammunition would likely run out, but the Guards would use the bayonet and anything else to do their duty.

It had poured in great sheets of water yesterday and throughout the night. The Guards had found whatever shelter they could and so the ground was sodden and churned from hooves and boots. At least the Crapauds had suffered too, he reflected. Now the ground was like a quagmire, mud that sucked at boots and hindered advance. Puddles everywhere. Cobbles shone. From the tree line to the farm, there was open ground and it was here Macdonell hoped to hold off the enemy. There were twelve hundred men in and around the stronghold about to face Boney's veterans. It would have to do, even so the Scotsman shivered in fear.

He returned to his company to check up on them. The Light Bobs were plucky men, rogues to a man and as hard as nails. His eyes went over familiar faces: Sergeant Thompson, the Graham brothers, Guardsmen Cole, Patterson and Croft. They stood to attention, but he waved them down.

'As you were, my lads. Corporal Graham, I can see you straining to get a better view of the enemy. Your time will come.'

'Yes, sir,' the young Irish NCO said with a grin. A patch of elbow was visible and dirt was ingrained in his fingers. 'I was just having a wager with my brother on who would spot them first.'

'How much, Corporal?'

'A shilling, sir.'

Macdonell pursed his lips and extended a large hand.

'Sir?' Graham made a quizzical face.

Macdonell smiled. 'I'll have that honour, so pay up now or I'll come for it later.'

The men laughed.

Suddenly French round shot slashed through the trees, tearing leafy boughs in their descent. The great iron balls churned great furrows, sending clods of earth into the air. The Guards could feel the missiles hit the ground.

'The ball has started, gentlemen,' Macdonell said calmly. 'Prepare to lead the dames on a dance.' The men grinned. 'Make ready.'

Artillery from the French batteries hammered the valley air. Roundshot and shell, fired over the swarming French infantry and at the château. Shells were fired by expert gunners and the missiles exploded over the heads of the defenders. Macdonell heard a staccato of musketry, which increased to deafen the ears. Hundreds were firing and the colonel knew they would have a fight on their hands. Red hot casing rained down on the gardens, like heavy rain. Already, one or two Hanoverian riflemen and green-jacketed Nassauers were appearing from the wood. Wounded men, Macdonell considered, not cowards.

The artillery strikes continued, but much without incident. A fragment of stone had sliced a Guardsman's knuckles and another was bruised from a fallen brick. Macdonell watched a shell's trajectory arc over the dark treetops and explode in a dirty cloud above the intricate garden. Casing flecked the ground and bits of brickwork were pocked by the one missile. The musketry abated, because men were taking aim to fire.

He could hear voices now in the woods. He craned to hear them. French voices giving commands, not German. The sharp snap of branches and twigs and boots thudding on the brushwood revealed they were getting closer.

'Here they come, sir,' Graham said, his mouth set grim.

Macdonell heard a ragged battle cry. 'Vive l'empereur!'

The wounded men were joined by tight phalanxes spilling back to the walls and orchard. Big Nassauers, Grenadiers in green wearing thick busbies. Riflemen wearing grey coats were edging back. They fired in good order, but then ran for cover as the first French troops appeared at the darkened edge of the wood. Green and grey bodies tumbled onto the grass. Some twitched and limped away, others were still.

'Here they come,' Harker said, in his gravelly voice. 'Poor sods didn't stand a chance against real soldiers.'

Macdonell said nothing of the slight against the Germans, even though he strongly disagreed. A few Guardsmen stepped out of line to gape at the enemy. 'Stand to!' he snapped, and the men obediently resumed their posts.

A sudden cascade of volley fire from the hedge to his right revealed that the French were trying to outflank them. But the Guards stationed in the château saw them, and the enemy skirmishers died from British musketry that cracked and banged from the windows and from loopholes made in the roof.

The Highlander saw that the infantry were supported by cavalry: lancers. 'The damned Crapauds are testing us, Sergeant,' he said to Harker. 'This isn't their main attack.'

Harker, his shako covered with an oilskin, rubbed his broad unshaven chin. 'But the Frog pieces are playing merry hell, sir. Permission to retire?'

The French batteries were firing frantically now. 'Agreed,' Macdonell nodded sagely. 'I want men at the kitchen garden as long as possible. Keep the enemy back for as long as they can, then retire inside the walls.'

'Yes, sir.'

Macdonell ran to the north gate along the better track which curved into the farm, and into the yard which had an attractive covered well with a dovecot. The château stood on a slight rise. To the right was the large barn and a cowshed. Sporadic musket fire pounded across the yard towards the French.

'Sir,' a young officer appeared from a door which joined a wall to split the walled farm in two. It was Ensign Henry Gooch. He was the youngest officer here, gaunt-featured and pretended to shave. 'The French have penetrated the field down by the garden. The Germans are holding them back, sir. For now.'

Macdonell hurried to the north gate, climbed onto one of the new fire steps and traversed the land. He could hear a fusillade to his left. To the right of the approach road that snaked up towards the ridge's crest, redcoats were marching towards the farm. Reinforcements, the colonel guessed. Wellington had seen the attack and was now strengthening the garrison.

Ensign James Hervey shot through the door, adjusting his cap. 'Sir!' he said urgently.

'What is it?'

'The French are on our right flank, sir. They are pressing the Germans hard.'

Macdonell gawked down at the grass but could see nothing over the wall. His mind was racing. 'Our boys to withdraw to the north gate,' he said and stepped off the platform. 'Fall back now if you please.'

'Sir!' Hervey ran through the entrance, sword tangling his legs.

'Harker. Once Mister Hervey and our boys are through, close these gates.'

'Sir.'

Macdonell moved away, hesitated, and then gave another command. 'Bar them, if you please.'

He calmly walked through the door and into the courtyard where there were more sheds and farm buildings. The Hanoverians and Nassauers were being driven out of the woods. It wouldn't be long before all that was left was the farm to defend. But that was all right as long as the defenders kept the enemy back and the walls remained intact. He checked on the southern defences, then went into the farmhouse to climb the steps to the second floor. He gazed out of the windows, checking west, south and east.

There were French everywhere. Blue shapes in their thousands coming from the smog of battle. Banks of dirty-white musket smoke ringed the trees and gardens. Macdonell tried to see where they were aiming for, but it was hard to tell. The French were just coming on in lines of men. An officer on horseback with his greatcoat tied over one shoulder was waving men on with his sword. Most men were wearing their coats, grey, brown and blue, but the yellow and red plumes of the infantry that ran, knelt and rushed, revealed they were the Voltigeurs. The name meant vaulters, or jumpers, and the smallest and most agile men were recruited. Macdonell watched the plumes bob, and their sabre-briquets thump against thighs as they dashed forward to the wall.

The Guardsmen saw them and the French were thrown backwards. The officers and NCOs sent the next lines forward and again they were all killed. The Guards were giving no ground. The officer on horseback decided to lead the next wave, to inspire verve and courage, and Macdonell thought him a very fine man. The French came on and the Scotsman was not shocked to see the officer tumble to the ground, blood blooming on his breeches and coat. The horse, unscathed by the hail of musketry, bolted eastwards towards the orchard. A sergeant ran forward to pull the officer back to the trees, but a bullet took the NCO between the eyes and he just buckled onto the grass. A wounded man crawled and another was propelled onto his back, shaking like a landed fish. Bullets hit the château's walls. French marksmen were trying to pick off the defenders.

'Keep your heads down,' Macdonell ordered his guardsmen. 'Stay away from the windows. Load and fire out of sight.' It was an unnecessary request, but he was fearful of fatalities that could be easily prevented.

He stared back at the clearing, which was filling with enemy bodies. The lines were moving slowly now because they had to thread their way through the dead. Musket smoke was clouding the space and yet the defenders' fire was unremitting and more bodies tumbled with every step. Macdonell felt very proud of his men. They were doing their duty and skill and this was why Wellington gave him the command; he wanted the best. They had to hold onto this farm, otherwise the allied centre would be compromised. They would hold, he vowed, until the very last.

Macdonell decided to check on the southern defences, so walked downstairs into the courtyard. A ball hit the windowsill with a loud crack where he had just been gazing out of, splintering wood. Men jogged past him in all directions. The walls were thick with defenders firing, the air rent with English and German shouts and musket-fire. Wounded in red and green were streaming to the stables where Dr William Whymper and his assistants were busy. Men ducked and changed positions, the NCOs were distributing ammunition and pulling wounded men away to fill them with reserves. Both would run out soon, Macdonell uttered to himself. They had to hold off until relief would come.

'How are our lads outside, Sergeant?' he asked Harker.

Captain Henry Wyndham appeared at the gateway with his men. All had blackened faces and panted heavily.

A roundshot crashed into the cowshed, showering splinters of wood onto the straw-lined floor. Another made an ear-splitting thud as it slammed into the wall of the barn.

'My God, they're rather fierce this morning,' he said, wiping his brow. He was a gallant officer, lots of humour and was well-liked by all. 'Any tea?' he said with a lop-sided grin.

'Are you the last in, Henry?' Macdonell enquired.

'Yes, sir.'

The colonel turned to Harker. 'Close the gates, Sergeant. I think now is a good time. I want a score manning them, though. Reinforcements are coming and I want to keep this free of the Crapauds.'

'Sir!'

'Look out!' Guardsman Cole shouted, before a musket ball took him cleanly through an eye.

Macdonell watched as the body tumbled to the cobblestones. 'Close the gates! Close them!' he bellowed as the sound of the enemy came from the other side of the wall. The gates juddered and shook.

Harker ran to them and with Thompson's help, lifted the great locking bar and dropped it into the dull iron lugs. In an eye-blink, an axe blade sheared through the bar through the gap in the doors, and French infantry burst into the courtyard. Muskets exploded throwing down Patterson and Croft.

Macdonell withdrew his sword. 'Push them back!'

Guardsmen surged forward as perhaps forty Frenchmen ran to exploit the chaos. A pistol fired and a Scots Guards officer went down. Bayonets lunged and blood splashed the ground.

The attackers were led by a giant of a man, a lieutenant with black hair tied back and he was giving orders whilst hefting a sapeur's axe. Thompson knocked a Frenchman onto his backside and stabbed down with his bayonet, feeling the blade's tip hit the stone cobbles. Macdonell watched in horror as the giant, shouldered a man aside, to disembowel Thompson. The French took up positions, firing into the men at the barn and along the fire steps.

A French roundshot slammed into the side of the château in an explosion of brick and debris. A howitzer shell exploded above two Guardsmen who were running past a dung heap next to the barn, killing them both instantly in a maelstrom of blood, bone and fragmented iron. The remnants of a haystack in the farmyard was on fire, spilling dirty smoke into the already acrid air and loose sheets from a newspaper were whirling across the yard like tumbleweed.

'Kill the bastards!' Macdonell waved more men toward the blue press of enemies. This was not the time for hesitation or indecision.

His sword flashed across a Frenchman's pale throat, taking the edge as far back as the man's spine. Macdonell parried a bayonet thrust and drove his sword point up into the man's belly, twisted and shoved the bluecoat away. A musket fired close to his ear and the next foe was hurled backwards. His boots slipped on gore. Suddenly there were redcoats at his side. The farrier had honed his sword blade to a wicked edge in the early hours and needed to be for there were more enemies to kill. He felt unstoppable. He withdrew his bloodied blade and chopped down through a grey-haired sergeant's shako until he felt the steel bite into his skull. Blood erupted from the man's nose, and his eyes rolled up to his ruined crown. Macdonell let the body fall away. A bayonet sliced at him, he ducked, and then reached out to grip the barrel, screaming in Gaelic as his sword pierced the man's liver. The giant smashed aside a Guardsman and Macdonell was screaming for the man to face him. But the French were joined by more men, hard-looking Grenadiers and Carabiniers, wearing bearskins, and the courtyard was flooding with the enemy. The press of men moved like a tide encroaching a shoreline.

Macdonell knew the gates had to be quickly shut, otherwise the French would not be stopped. He searched for another locking bar. There was a great piece of timber stacked against the wall. It would do.

'Guards! To me! To me!' he shouted.

They followed him. A Frenchman was shot through the body by the well, his musket skidded across the cobbles. A Guardsman tripped on a body and a bayonet lunged into his back. A Voltigeur saw Macdonell, levelled his musket and pulled the trigger. The bullet went wide, plucking at the epaulette as it passed.

Powder smoke clogged the yard, making it hard to breath. There was the sound of metal on metal, metal on wood. Every so often a gasp or scream went up. Macdonell saw a shape run at him and lowered his sword. It was Gooch. They ran to the beam, but a French officer saw them and charged with his slim epée. The Highlander brought his own sword to bear and battered the man down to his knees. He punched him in the throat, stamped on his sword hand, and kicked the weapon away.

'The beam!' Macdonell snapped at Gooch.

The young officer had gone as white as cartridge paper. He'd never seen the colonel in action, or had imagined the Highlander's incredible strength. It had taken just seconds. 'S-sir,' he stammered.

Harker was in hand-to-hand combat with a bearded Grenadier. A chasseur saw the two officers and raised his musket. The big sergeant thumped his fist onto his foe's head and reached out to grab the skirmisher's pack, pulling his off balance as the muzzle flared. The ball smacked harmlessly into the château's brickwork. The Frenchman turned to club the sergeant down, but Macdonell was on him like a terrier on a rat. The blade sliced through his body to stick out obscenely from his chest.

'Push them back! Push!' He screamed tugging the long blade free.

Harker, Wyndham and Gooch had their shoulders to the gates, pushing back the panels as Graham, Hervey and Macdonell, who had sheathed his sword, lifted the beam towards the closing gap.

'I want bayonets!' Macdonell screamed.

A dozen Guardsmen advanced on the gate and the Frenchmen shrank back from the long blades.

'Come on, you bastards!' Graham bellowed. 'Let's show the Frogs what real men are made of!'

The right panel moved and Gooch and Wyndham slid back on the damp cobbles.

'Dear God!' the captain exclaimed.

A burly Guardsman from the 3rd slammed into the gate and it moved backwards again. Veins stuck out on his neck with the exertion. Graham kicked a musket away as the weapon fired to send a ball into the barn's roof. Muskets flashed and a Guardsman gasped. A sword blade sliced at Macdonell. He could not do anything, but ignore it and hope it would miss him. Another musket banged and he was momentarily deafened. He had no idea if it had found anyone, because he had to get the bar into position.

'Push them!' he shouted, feeling the strain in his arms. He had lost his shako. 'For God's sake, push them!'

'Come on, boys! That's the way!' Graham said.

Slowly the gates went back. It seemed to take ages. A bayonet raked his forearm. A Guardsman thrust his blade beside Macdonell and into a Frenchman's groin. He fell back writhing and screaming. Musket balls hammered the wood. Boots kicked and fists pounded. The doors movement stalled.

'Push!' Macdonell roared, fearing they had failed. More Guards ran to the gates and then the beam was falling into its place. 'Heave! Heave!'

Then, it was done and Macdonell slumped against the gate, panting and sweating. Men were jamming bits of wood in the spaces of the locking bar, and rolling more barrels of unripe fruit to add to its defence.

'We did it!' Gooch said, wiping his brow. 'My God, sir, we did it.'

Macdonell grimaced. 'It's not over yet.'

The French inside the farm were now trapped and those that knew that fought desperately. A sergeant ran towards the house where he bayoneted a Guardsman coming down the stairs. A British corporal, leg bandaged, tripped the enemy up at the foot of the steps with his crudely made crutch. He promptly sat on the man, calling over a Guardsman who killed the enemy with a bayonet thrust. A Frenchman ran through the walled doorway as was seen by two Nassauers who shot him before he could turn towards the chapel. The giant was hacking and slashing at the redcoats towards the farmhouse and a half-dozen Frenchman tried to enter the building but Guardsmen shot at them from the north facing windows, sending the enemy down in gouts of blood.

A French shell exploded above the farmhouse blasting slate tiles apart to expose thick roof beams. A French marksman found a redcoat leaning out the windows and shot him dead. The body hung over the windowsill, blood dripped slowly down the brickwork. A roundshot crashed through the château's roof, sending splinters of wood and clouds of debris up into the air.

'Now kill the last of them!' Macdonell's great booming voice echoed over the chaos.

A French drummer boy tripped and crawled to the well, where he sat with his hands over his ears as the redcoats hunted his countrymen down. A Carabinier, driven towards the cowsheds, threw down his musket to surrender, but two bayonets drove him screaming and writhing onto the ground until he was still. There was no time to give quarter for the Guardsmen were needed to defend the walls and the redcoats charged into the final knot of Frenchmen. The yard echoed with the sound of hand-to-hand fighting.

Macdonell saw the axe-blade, turned red, chop down and fury drove him towards the impudent enemy officer. A French chasseur officer stamped his foot forward to send the blade at the Highlander's heart, but Macdonell had seen the attack, dodged and rammed his hilt into the man's face, feeling bone break. A bayonet scraped his wrist, but Macdonell, face sheeted with blood, stabbed the enemy and then suddenly only the giant remained.

He snarled at Macdonell and spat curses at him through big yellow teeth. The Scotsman could smell his foul breath. He brought the axe down in the hope of splitting the colonel in two, but his left knee buckled, followed by a stab of pain. Harker had driven his bayonet into the lieutenant's leg to hamstring him. The giant back cut the axe, but Harker parried with his musket and slammed the butt into the giant's mouth splintering teeth. Macdonell lunged and his broad blade found the enemy's heart.

'It's over,' he said, pulling three Guardsmen back who were enthusiastically bayonetting the twitching and bleeding corpse. 'There's nothing more to do here. Back to your posts.'

'They're all dead, sir,' Wyndham said, cleaning his blade with a Frenchman's sleeve with the air of someone who has life thoroughly worked out. 'Well, except the drummer boy over there.'

Macdonell saw the boy, barely a teenager, and ordered a corporal to give him wine and escort him to the chapel out of harm's way.

'My, that was hot work, but we did it, sir.' Gooch, blood-smeared like the rest of the guards, was grinning.

Hervey slapped his shoulders. 'We certainly did. Extra ration of rum for the lads, sir?'

'Let's make that two,' Macdonell said and the men laughed and cheered.

'God knows how we managed to close the gate,' Gooch said in wonder.

Harker hawked and spat onto his bloodied blade and wiped it on the giant's ragged coat. 'No other men except the Guards could have done that, sir.'

Macdonell was not a religious man, but he whispered a silent prayer in thanks for that achievement.

He gazed up and around the château as work parties of the Coldstreamers and Scots Guards were dragging the dead French to the sheds and the British wounded were being led to Dr Whymper. The haystack and parts of the farmhouse were on fire. More French volleys split the air outside and hammered against the walls and suddenly it was even louder. He strode to the fire steps and peeped over the brickwork to see the column of British Guard reinforcements tearing great holes in the French attackers who were being pushed back beyond the orchard leaving many bodies behind. Then, in the lull, the Guards turned towards the gate and Macdonell knew that Wellington must have foreseen another attack looming and more men and ammunition were being sent.

There was much to be done, but Macdonell was ready for the enemy. They would come, but By God, he was ready.

The Bravest of the Brave

Ney watched the Old Garde from the shattered trunks of the farmhouse's orchard. The Garde marched up the valley rise, slow, like the inevitable flow of lava; creeping, majestic and unstoppable.

'Here they come, sire!' Colonel Pierre-Agathe Heymes, Ney's aide-de-camp, uttered excitedly. He was wearing a red Hussar jacket with corn-flower blue breeches. 'My God, what a sight.'

Marshal Michel Ney, 1st Duc d'Elchingen and 1st Prince de La Moskowa, grinned. Ahead of the Garde, the battalions of huge bearskin capped Grenadiers and Chasseurs, rode the greatest man Ney had ever known.

Napoleon Bonaparte.

The emperor surged forward of the Imperial General Staff, and for a moment a shaft of sunlight hit him and his grey Arab, Marengo, illuminating them in soft light. It only lasted a second before the roiling clouds of battle-smoke darkened the world monochrome, but it was enough to make all who saw gasp in reverence.

'The battle is over, sire,' Heymes said, smile threatening to slice his head in to two. 'We've won. We've won!'Ney's smile vanished and he said nothing. His heart banged in his chest. The emperor would have sent the Garde only when he was sure of victory, but Ney knew this was Napoleon's last gamble. A ruse to trick his men in the dying evening's light that they had won the battle. Marshal Grouchy had reached them on the right flank and Wellington's patchwork army was doomed. A triumph to match the bitter killing fields of Borodino, Wagram and Austerlitz. But the mass of dark coats swarming towards the flank was not Grouchy and his Corps. It was the Prussians and Napoleon knew that. The Garde were to snatch victory before it was too late.

Too late, a voice echoed in Ney's head. This is all too late.

On the right were the weary survivors of d'Erlon's corps. Men who had fought hard all day, as though they had wanted to make up for their absence at Quatre Bras and Ligny two days ago. Incompetence had kept the corps from attending either battle. Marching and counter-marching on the Nivelles-Namur road. Ney bristled. It had not been his fault, but he felt slighted. Napoleon had distanced himself from the cavalryman, knowing that if d'Erlon had engaged in either battle the outcome of the campaign might very well be different. Ney gazed up at La Haie Sainte; the farmhouse was battered and pock-marked by shot. Hundreds of bodies lay beneath the blood-stained walls, nearly two divisions had fallen so that the farm could be taken. The green-clad Germans put up a very stubborn defence, but were annihilated. A ragged tricolour hung from the rafters. Victory, he thought, at such a cost. To the west, beyond the burning Château d'Hougoumont, the evening sun glimmered the world gold. A great lance of it sparkled through the great clouds of acrid, throat-clogging stink of powder smoke and burning timber. The château was now a blackened shell, flames rose from the ground, flickering like orange tendrils of some Hellish world.

'What time is it, Heymes?' Ney's watch had been damaged in the massed cavalry charge and where he lost his fourth mount of the day. British musketry had withered Ney's cavalry upon the allied-held ridge. Bullets had plucked at him, some a hair's breadth from his face. A ball had snatched an epaulette away, another had shot through his left boot, luckily causing no injury and another had shattered his gold watch. He still wore it clipped to his waistcoat, but it was beyond repair.

'Twenty-five to eight, sire.'

Too late, the voice said again. Ney closed his eyes.

Heymes opened his mouth, but his words were drowned out by a thunderous artillery barrage coming from the ridge line.

'What did you say, Heymes?'

'I said they're playing the emperor's march, are they not, sire?'

La Marche des bonnets á poil – the march of the bearskin's. Ney closed his eyes as the sound made the hairs on the back of his neck stand rigidly. He felt his skin prickle with goose-bumps.

Ney had heard it so many times before. The Garde had always prevailed, and yet, he could not shake the anxiety from his mind. It was like a skirmisher fire plaguing a column. It was always there, relentless, but he could not do anything to shake it off. He stared up past the ruined farm, to the powder-wreathed ridge. He would join the Garde and their inexorable march to smash apart Wellington's ailing lines. Ney had seen the lines falter earlier, had begged the emperor for more men, but had been rebuked. Now Wellington would suffer the might of the Garde. It was the last battle.

'Grouchy is here!' an aide shouted, horse galloping towards Ney. 'Marshal Grouchy, sire! We must attack!'

Liar, thought Ney. It was the emperor's last bid to raise morale to gather the fighting spirit of his army. One surge up the ridge. Glory awaited those who dared to come.

Too late.

Ney massaged his tense neck muscles with a grimy hand. 'Heymes, my mount,' he called and immediately the aide brought forth his fifth horse. He climbed up into the saddle. He could hear the litanies called by the sergeants to keep the files in perfect order. There were flashes of light on the gilded bronze Eagles, on the bayonet-tipped muskets and on plates and finery. Such glamour. The way of the soldier. Soon there would be screaming, blood and dying. Ney was a veteran of war. Seen everything that there was to offer. Nothing shocked him.

He thought of his wife Aglaé and his four sons. Duty called as always. He would die here today. He knew it. It was fate. He did not regret joining his old master, but he regretted not being able to hold Aglaé again. One last time. To feel her body against his. To hold his four boys and play with them. They loved climbing up onto his back, pretending to be cavalrymen and Ney being the horse. He smiled at that. They would grow up without him and his smile vanished as a prick of tears stung his eyes. He was glad they were spared the ghastly sights and the battlefield's smell of blood, shit and putrefaction. This was no place for the innocent, only for the wicked.

Aglaé could bring out the man in him and lock the monster away.

He clenched a fist. Better to die on the battlefield than in Royalist hands. He was a soldier and deserved a soldier's death. There would be no peacetime.

Ney rode to meet the emperor, who watched his approach grim-faced and without any recognition.

Napoleon's eyes flicked up to the ridge. 'You must lead the Garde, Ney. You must lead them.'

'Sire,' Ney nodded.

'Up to the ridge and destroy what is left of Wellington's centre. I cannot go, but I offer you that honour.'

'Thank you, sire.'

Napoleon's eyes were serious. 'The Sepoy General will not stand. The British are badly led and they fear our assaults. Glory awaits you, Ney. Take it. Seize it.'

Too late.

Ney's ruddy and sweaty face turned to the staff. They looked at him in a mixture of intrigue, suspicion and awe. 'I will, sire. I'll break them apart like rotten wood.' He looked back to Napoleon, but the emperor tugged Marengo's reins and rode back to the lines. Ney, hatless and decorated coat almost hanging from his frame, kicked his horse to the front of the nine battalions that were beginning the climb up the valley slope.

'Forward! For glory, for France and for the emperor!'

Les Grognards, the grumblers, cheered and the ground shook under their feet.

'Vive l'empereur!'

His new horse was well-behaved. Good temperament. Ney noticed its mane was caked with dried blood, obviously from the previous owner. Its hooves sucked at the mire, which had once been crop fields, churned and battered by the Grand Battery. Roundshot was slick with mud and gore. Blue-coated bodies were scattered, some unnaturally together. As though the shot had killed them where they had stood. Then, there were bodies in red and green and black. Wellington's patchwork army. Ney looked up at the crest. The British were behind the reverse slope, beyond the dense clouds of smoke. Their muskets would be waiting for him. Would this be another Bussaco? Ney had been humiliated, shocked and defeated by Wellington's men who had stopped the French advance by murderous volley fire. Five years on he remembered the sound of the clockwork musketry dealt by experienced soldiers. Masséna had shrugged and considered one English battalion would be overrun, but Ney had watched the French tumble down the ridge, bloodied and pursued by bayonet-tipped warriors. The emperor scorned the English as bad troops. But Ney decided Napoleon had not fought them before.

Ney glanced over his shoulder, there was no need to speak. No words would come anyway. The blue ranks marched solidly on. A Grenadier had his eyes closed, mouth moving in prayer. Ney looked to Heymes who offered a wan smile.

'What is it?' Ney asked him.

'I think you should fall back, sire,' Heymes said. It had sounded like a plea.

A smile twitched on Ney's face. 'I must lead the Garde. It is the emperor's wish.'

Perhaps this would be the moment to prove himself, Ney considered. For not taking the crossroads and marching to his aide at Ligny. Or perhaps because of the massed cavalry attack in the day, which had utterly failed. Perhaps this was retribution and the emperor wanted him to die at the head of the Garde. There was no other he trusted or perhaps wanted dead. Either way, it was an honour to lead the Immortals.

He stole a glance at Hougoumont. 'I want two battalions to block that château and protect the flank. Send the furthest two. Act as a reserve.'

Heymes nodded. 'Yes, sire.'

The slope was not steep and the Garde began their climb to glory. Ney could not see any troops, just a few mounted officers and a handful of guns at the top of the ridge.

Ney wiped his face, his blue sleeve was dark with sweat. 'Not far now, Heymes,' he said on his ADC's return. 'Keep close to me.'

'I will, sire.'

Then, the British guns opened fire. The ridge flared brightly, clouds of acrid smoke pumped out and the grass and remaining crops were flattened by the blasts of canister. Balls whipped and whistled as they struck the veterans of the Grande Armée. Ney heard the butcher's sound of lead punching into flesh. Men gasped and screamed around him, but he was unhurt.

'Vive l'empereur!'

The drums beat the march. Its sound was menacing.

Ney watched the ridge line, eyes staring at the smoke where bright flashes indicated the field pieces. Another blast and Ney's mount was struck in the head. Blood misted and Ney kicked his boots free of the dying animal. The ground was churned to mud and he sank. He half-stumbled, but walked on.

'Take my horse, sire.' Heymes returned and offered the Marshal his reins.

'I'll walk the rest,' Ney said over his shoulder. The horse jerked and its eyes rolled white. Blood showed at its lips. 'It's not too far and besides the men can still see me.' He turned to the ranks that the sergeants had kept in perfect formation. One or two men dropped as they advanced, but the rear and middle ranks were pushed into the gaps to the column which seemed to soak up the damage. 'You bastards can hear me, can't you?'

'They hear you, sire,' General Friant replied. He crossed to Ney's side. 'We'll batter these stubborn bastards into submission. My men won't stop. I'll march all the way to Brussels and my cock will be in a duchess' cunt by sundown.'

Ney laughed. Dear Friant. An old soldier from the Revolutionary days. 'We'll all be enjoying what Brussels has to offer, you rogue. Wine and women, eh?'

Friant grinned, knowing that Ney was not one for adultery, but was enjoying the familiarity. 'Wine and women, sire.'

There were bodies of cuirassiers everywhere now. Bullet holes and scorch marks on the breast plates. The armoured horsemen, les gros frères, had died trying to capture the English guns. He had to pick his way through the bodies. The blue ranks split into two, then three because of the uneven ground. Even so, the battalions were struggling to keep cohesion.

'Close the ranks,' he found himself saying, then realised that the order was not needed. He scowled at his aide. 'Where the hell is our artillery?'

Heymes twisted in the saddle and pointed. 'There, sire.' A ball nicked the side of his red shako.

'Direct attack on the centre of the line. Now,' Ney ordered, as the black-clad German Brunswickers and a green-coated line sent out skirmishers to meet them. The fire bit into the Garde, but it had little effect. Why should it? Does the eagle fear the mouse? Ney smiled and cursed the enemy as they ran away like frightened children. Most were boys from the plough. Not soldiers. This was unfair of Napoleon to send his elite against them. Then, the crimson coats faced them. English soldiers, cool under fire and muskets levelled. Proper men. Veterans from Portugal and Spain. The line fogged white and suddenly the Garde's front rank was jerked back by a thunderous volley that sent shock waves through the air. The Garde halted and returned fire, their own long muskets mule-kicked back into shoulders. Ney thought he saw dozens fall in the red ranks. What he needed was cavalry. One troop of Carabiniers or cuirassiers and the red line would be chopped into offal. But the flower of the French cavalry was no more.

'Vive l'empereur!'

The redcoats poured fire again at pistol range and this time, Ney noticed that the column inched back.

'No!' he barked. 'Stand!' The English advanced and Ney grabbed the nearest officer and pointed his broken sabre at the enemy. He had slammed it over a British field gun in frustration during the afternoon's cavalry charge because the French had not spiked the guns and could not penetrate the red-coated bayonet-walls. 'You bastards stand! For France! For the emperor! Advance!'

'Look, sire!' the moustached officer exclaimed. He was wearing a surtout with a greatcoat rolled over one shoulder.

Ney saw the redcoats turn and march back up the hill. He laughed and the Garde resumed its march.

They were the immortal undefeated Garde. Victory was a sweet as ripe fruit.

'Vive l'empereur!'

'They don't have the men! We'll beat them! We'll be in Brussels tomorrow! Think of the women!'

I'll have to do it with just the Garde, Ney uttered to himself. There was no one else. The infantry was thinned, bloodied and bone-weary. The cavalry had been destroyed three hours earlier. The field was full of twitching and tangled bodies. Red meat, steaming, bleeding, a butcher's yard of horror. The wounded called from the earth. Some were trapped under the weight of their breastplates, their mounts and some under the piles of their comrades. The finest cavalry that the world had ever seen was not gone. How could the emperor replace them? Veterans of the Prussian, Russian and Austrian wars. Europe had been tamed by them, and now on a sodden Belgian valley they had been slaughtered. It was enough to choke him with bitterness.

The emperor was watching, Ney reflected. Watching the attack. Hoping as much as any Frenchman that this final assault would win the day. It had to.

'Onward!'

French voices shouted and Ney saw that men in blue from the enemy lines were rushing down to meet them. Dutch and Belgian troops. They did not wait, merely charged with French-made muskets and bayonets. Ney saw an officer on horseback desperately trying to form them, but the men were overcome with fury.

The Garde stumbled and faltered. Then the great phalanx slowly edged backwards. Ney went back as the men formed square. Musket shot removed the hat from the officer to his side. It was General Michel.

'Hold!' Michel was bellowing, face contorted with frustration and anger at the delay. 'Hold!' And dropped as a bullet took him in the temple.

A big man screamed and fell back, blood pouring from his shattered jaw. Another was pulling a friend into the hollow square, with one arm as the other had been snatched away with canister shot. Both Ney noticed, wore the Légion d'Honneur. Muskets fired and the world was nothing but flame and smoke.

'Make ready!' A calm voice shouted over the din. It sounded like General Cambronne. 'Aim! Fire!'

The Grenadiers and Chasseurs' line exploded with musketry that tore into the charging Dutch and Belgians. Ney could not see what damage had been inflicted, but as the powder bank lifted, the enemy were streaming back over the crest.

'Form line!'

Canister raked the front ranks, pulling men down, so the formation was cumbersome. Sergeants hauled at corpses, pushed men into some sort of order. A Chasseur was babbling with pain. An officer crawled and vomited blood.

'Cheer, you bastards!' Ney shouted. 'Let them know you're coming for them!'

It was then that Ney knew the attack was over. Hundreds of redcoats emerged from the very ground in front of them. Sodden and grimy, but Ney saw the sparkle on the gold and silver finery, the brilliant white pipe-clay belts, the shako plates, buttons, barrels glinted. The officers were straight-backed, smartly dressed gentlemen. British Guards. The corners of Ney's mouth lifted. This time with admiration. Wellington had held them back from the attack and now the Garde faced Britain's finest. They looked unbeatable, undaunted and fearsome. Wellington had beaten him again. Ney knew it. Accepted it. And he raised what was left of his sabre in the air as though he was signalling his own death.

'Aglaé!' he said, voice thick with emotion. 'I love you!'

Ney stared at the redcoats, and time slowed. Voices became low, actions slower. He thought he could see the hammers strike with each pull of the trigger.

Everything turned white-grey and the Garde were hurled backwards. Blood sheeted Ney's face, but none of it was his. He saw and heard the men fall. It was as if a giant invisible scythe had swept the veterans away. Ney had felt bullets pass him, his coat tails were plucked and his scabbard dented by the volley, but he still lived.

He stumbled over the men, hands clasped, but he threw them off. 'Up! Up, you bastards!' he shouted. 'Soldiers, you are not done yet! You will send your Eagles up there! For the glory of France!' He made his way to a solid square of Grenadiers. They left him pass through their ranks. 'We go up there!' he urged. 'To victory!'

The square edged forwards towards the line. Ney thought once the square moved, the others would join in, drawn by their confidence. They had to move, otherwise they were dead men, huddling together until the bullets found them. Ney licked his dry lips. Was it fight or flight? Men from the rear were brought up. There was still time.

Suddenly, the square's left flank shuddered and a bandsman next to him folded over his instrument. A man wailed and another staggered. A horse whinnied. Ney's ears pricked at the sound of rhythmic volley fire. The Marshal strained to see over the Grenadiers' shoulders. Through the smoky air that seemed to choke and scratch his skin, were the redcoats. Green plumes adorned their tall caps revealing them to be a light infantry regiment. Goddamn the bastards! The battalion had somehow descended the slope and wheeled in line and now the heavy fire flayed the Garde, flensing men at the front and left flank. Ney watched men drop in whole files. It was never-ending, and by the time the first company had reloaded, it would fire again and work down the line, loading with absolute precision until it was time to fire again. Hours of training had honed the redcoats into clockwork killers.

'Close up!' the NCOs shouted desperately.

'Dress the ranks! Make ready!' An officer rapped out the command, blood streaming from a wound to his neck.

'Present!' Ney couldn't help himself. The officer nodded to him, accepting his command. The Marshal took a deep breath. 'Fire!'

The muskets spat flame and smashed into the redcoats. Men died, some still in the act of reloading. Ney saw a ramrod cartwheel in the air. An officer was unhorsed.

'Reload!'

Withering fire through down much of the left flank and when Ney's head lifted, the redcoats were advancing through their own powder-fog. The Garde could take no more, and the last square fractured like a brittle sword. Officers he knew were killed. Men he remembered from Russia; men who had shared the cold, hunger and fear to cover the rear-guard. All gone and now the blue ranks fell back down the slope, over the bodies as more and more musketry drove into them. The drums beat La Grenadiére, the regimental call to rally. A few obedient men stopped, turned and formed, but they were simply too few to make a difference.

Then, there was music. Ney stopped, ears deafened by the chaos, but he recognised the tune. The ridge was streaming with redcoats like a broken wine cask. The bloody fields were flooding with the British. Cavalry charged down, slashing their wickedly sharp sabres into the heads and unprotected backs, and Ney remembered the Cossacks charging out of the snow and mists to take a man's life. Sometimes two or three in one go. And now the hungry blades took the veterans in their dozens.

A man was shouting. 'Back! Every man for himself!'

Ney had the urge to cut the bastard down. Except that hot tears flooded the Marshal's face to mix with the blood and sweat. The Garde streamed back towards La Haie Sainte, wide-eyed, packs and muskets dropped to make their flight easier. Ney was disgusted. He reached the valley floor where the dead were starting to reek. His boots slipped in the quagmire. There were bodies everywhere, not an inch of ground unspoiled; some of the wounded were being trampled into the mire.

His mind was numbing with so many questions. Where was Napoleon? Had the Prussians arrived? Where was Grouchy? Why had the Garde failed? He would not return to Paris. He would be tried as a traitor. Not a patriot. Not a soldier. A turncoat.

A tremor went up his arm. Panic? No, he was calm, but angry at failure.

'Heymes?'

'Here, sire,' answered the indispensable aide.

A line regiment stood like an island in the sea of chaos in the valley's floor. The infantry wore their great coats and looked like mud-smeared sacks of potatoes.

'Who are you?' Ney asked in wonder.

'The 95th Line, sire,' a black-haired officer called, hatless and with a bandage around his head. Ney saw the Eagle held by a young officer; a porte-aigle, but flanked by two burly sergeants behind him. It would do.

It would have to.

Ney knew of the regiment. It had a proud history. 'You fought at Jena, did you not?'

'Yes, sire. We were with you at Friedland too.'

'So you were,' Ney said, nodding at the memory, and smiling warmly. 'I remember. Then, you know me. You know what I can achieve.'

'Yes, sire.'

The Marshal's coat was filthy and his white breeches were ripped and bloodied. 'Good. I want you to follow me,' he said calmly, 'we're going up there to make a stand.'

'Sire?' the officer, bright-eyed and intelligent, rubbed the black stubble on his chin.

'Come and I will show you how a Marshal of France dies,' Ney whipped his splintered sabre in the air. 'We go now. For the emperor! Forward!'

The 95th obeyed, but they stood no chance, and Ney watched them die like heroes as the redcoats swarmed down the hill. Bayonets glistened and the points ripped into the French. They managed to fire a ragged volley into the enemy, but they were outnumbered, overwhelmed and Ney ordered the survivors to retreat. It was a foolhardy decision to attack, but his head felt like it was made of wool. His limbs ached. Fatigued to the point where he could barely walk.

I have to go on. I must.

He clambered up to the walls of the farmhouse and saw the last squares of the Garde. The tricolour flapped in the wind, and the Eagles still gleamed, drawing him to them like a beacon. A surge of energy drove him on. Heymes, stunned by the Garde's destruction, followed mutely behind.

Inside the square was like a charnel house and hospital. Dozens of wounded lay, some unable to get up. There were bodies underfoot.

'The Prussians are here, sire,' a voice croaked. It was Friant and he was badly wounded. He tried to hide it by straightening, but Ney saw the action.

'We must get you to a surgeon.'

'I'll live,' Friant said quickly, lips compressed. 'It wasn't Grouchy. They've taken Plancenoit. We were lied to. The emperor...he...he...'

Tears pricked at the corners of Ney's eyes as Friant faltered. 'I know,' he replied sotto voce. Even as they spoke, the whole allied line was advancing. The blue ranks were still dying from musketry and artillery fire. The square was thinning with every second. He ran a hand through his hair that was flecked with mud and dried blood.

It's over.

The battle was lost. Friends and comrades from years past. All dead or dying on this damp field. The men were running away in droves, battalions scattering like flocks of sheep from wild dogs. Men were shouting and screaming. It was a terrible sight to see. The army shattered like a brittle sword. Worse still is that he still lived to see it all. He would remember this defeat and that was pure agony, like a lance straight to the heart. For how long, he did not know.

The Garde was dead, and with it the emperor's dream. Glory. France. All gone in the land of flame and smoke.

A tear splashed his cheeks as Ney tossed his shattered sword onto the ground and walked away to join the fleeing horde.

