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  "Thank you. It's very good of you to go to such lengths for people you've only known for a few weeks," she said with a hint of dryness.

  "It would be criminal to waste the space on the barge," he said piously. "With both of your husbands risking their lives for their country, it seems right to extend my protection to you."

  The next half hour passed in a flurry. When told she was going to Antwerp, Amy begged, "Please, Mama, let me stay. You've said often what a help I am."

  "You are, my love. But I will not be able to stop myself from worrying about what might happen to you." Catherine smiled ruefully. "I can't help it, I'm a mother. When you have children of your own, you will understand."

  Amy capitulated, with the stipulation that she be allowed to return as soon as it was safe.

  The pretty young nursemaid Elspeth McLeod also asked to stay. Knowing the girl wanted to be near Will Ferris, Anne agreed, taking Catherine's maid to help with the children.

  Exactly half an hour after Haldoran's offer, the travelers assembled in the front hall. Catherine hugged Amy fiercely, then turned to embrace Anne.

  Her friend said in a choked voice, "If the fortunes of war separate us, you know the address of Charles's mother in London. And if… if anything happens to you and Colin, I will raise Amy as if she were my own."

  "I know." Catherine swallowed hard. "And if necessary, I will nurse Charles as you would."

  Anne took a deep breath, then said calmly, "Time to go, everyone."

  Catherine watched out the window as the party hastened through the rain to the carriages. She was glad to see that Haldoran had several large, dangerous-looking male servants to protect the party.

  She watched until the carriages disappeared from sight. Then she turned from the window, tears trickling down her cheeks. She had never been separated from Amy before. "Damn Napoleon," she whispered. "God damn him to hell."

  Chapter 11

  One of the first military lessons Michael had learned was that an officer must always appear composed under fire. That was particularly true when hours of lethal French cannonading had already killed or wounded a quarter of his regiment, and more than half of the officers. The pummeling din and the clouds of black smoke were enough to unnerve even experienced soldiers.

  The regiment was formed into a hollow square for defense. Ranks of armed soldiers faced in all four directions while officers, supplies, and the wounded sheltered in the center of the formation. Less seriously injured men retired from the field, while the dead were ruthlessly thrown from the square to make room for the living. Michael strolled around inside the formation, talking to his men, offering what comfort he could to the wounded, and sharing an occasional wry joke.

  Trying not to inhale the acrid, slinging smoke too deeply, Michael walked to the center of the square where the two regimental flags, called the colors, were standing. By tradition, they were carried by the most junior officers in the regiment and guarded by experienced sergeants. The youngest ensign, Thomas Hussey, was only sixteen, so Michael kept a close eye on him.

  As he approached, a cannonball struck soggily near the colors. Luckily no one was hit. The ball rolled slowly across the soft ground. Tom Hussey handed his flag, the Union Jack, to one of the color sergeants. "Since the French have provided us with the means," he called gaily, "shall we have a game of football?"

  He ran toward the ball with the obvious intention of kicking it. Michael barked, "Don't touch that! A cannon-ball might look harmless, but it could take your foot off. I've seen it happen."

  The ensign skidded to a halt. "Thank you, sir." Face a little pale, he returned to his flag. Michael gave a faint, approving nod. Though green, the boy had the cheerful courage that would make him a good officer, if he survived.

  Michael raised his spyglass to see what little he could of the battle. His view consisted mostly of shoulder-high fields of rye. Earlier in the day, there had been a French infantry assault to the left. The rye and the fog like smoke obscured everything more than a few hundred feet away, so Michael had tracked the attack by the sounds of muskets, shouts, and marching music. The French had been beaten back, but he knew nothing beyond that.

  Another cannonball struck several men in the rear of the square. Captain Graham, the highest ranking uninjured officer after Michael, went to survey the damage. Expression grave, Tom Hussey said, "May I ask a question, Colonel Kenyon?"

  "Go ahead."

  "What is the point of standing here and being cut to pieces? There is no fighting in this section of the lines. Surely we could withdraw to a safe distance until needed."

  "We are needed-to do exactly what we are doing," Michael said soberly. "If we weren't here, Napoleon's men would drive right through and the battle would be lost. The cavalry may race back and forth across a battlefield, but it is the infantry that takes possession." He kicked the soft earth. "As long as one member of the 105th lives, this is British soil. The death of our fellows is tragic, but it isn't meaningless."

  The ensign nodded slowly. "I see, sir."

  Though his explanation was true, this long and bloody day was a vivid reminder of why Michael preferred the swift, fluid combat of the Rifle Brigade. It felt better to be a moving target than a stationary one. He wondered how Kenneth and the 95th were faring. They were probably spending the day skirmishing with the French between the lines. He envied them.

  He began ambling around the square again. He was talking with a lieutenant when he realized that he could hear his own voice. The ceaseless thunder of artillery had made speech and thought almost impossible. Now the cannon had stopped shelling their section of the lines. Knowing what that meant, Michael called, "Prepare for attack! They've stopped the artillery so they won't hit their own men."

  Numbed soldiers came sharply alert. Sergeants barked at their men, firming the lines with curses and exhortations to check the loading of muskets. The air quivered with tension, for this could be the regiment's first taste of face-to-face combat.

  At first the straining eyes of the regiment saw only ghostly shapes moving forward through the veils of smoke. Then a line of horsemen emerged, the misty figures gradually taking the shape of French cuirassiers. Their gleaming steel helmets and breastplates made them seem eerily like medieval knights. Large men on large horses, they were the heavy cavalry, designed to crush all opposition, and they were heading directly at the 105th and the two neighboring squares.

  The massive hooves of the horses flattened the stalks of grain into the muddy ground as the cuirassiers moved inexorably up the slope. Seeing the front line of the square waver, Michael moved swiftly forward from his position in the center of the square. "Stand firm!" he shouted. "Horses won't charge directly at a square, and we have more guns than they do. Hold your fire until I give the word. Then aim for the horses!"

  The oncoming riders were within forty paces when Michael ordered, "Ready. Level. Fire!"

  His front rank discharged their muskets in a deafening blast. There was a shriek of wounded horses and a weird, metallic rattle like hailstones as balls ricocheted from the steel breastplates. Half a dozen horses and their riders fell, forcing those behind to swerve to the sides.

  As his first rank reloaded, Michael gave the order for the second rank to fire. The ragged salvo brought more attackers down. In spite of the furious efforts of the riders, the horses sheered away, flowing around the square, which brought them under fire from the muskets on the flanks.

  The cavalrymen churned chaotically around the square, firing their pistols and being fired on in return. Finally seeing the futility of the maneuver, their commander ordered a retreat.

  The horses were cantering down the slope when a fallen rider called desperately for help. One of his comrades wheeled and came back. As he caught his friend's hand to pull him onto his mount, two British soldiers raised their muskets and took aim.

  "No!" Michael barked. "Don't kill a brave man for helping his friend!"

  After a startled moment, the men nodded and l
owered their weapons. Courage deserved respect even in the enemy.

  During the lull that followed, Michael scanned the field with his spyglass. He could see little beyond the neighboring squares, but it sounded as if the French cavalry was attacking along a wide section of the allied lines.

  A shout warned that the cuirassiers were returning. Michael said wryly, "Enjoy the cavalry charges, gentlemen. They're a lot less dangerous than the cannonade."

  Laughter rippled around the square. This time the firing was steadier. A barrier of dead or wounded horses began to build around the square, making it harder for the riders to approach.

  Michael was moving toward the left side of the square, which was under the heaviest fire, when a ball struck him in the left arm. The impact spun him around and knocked him to the ground.

  Captain Graham rushed over to him. "Are you hurt, sir?"

  Dazedly Michael pushed himself to a sitting position. A wave of pain almost caused him to black out. When he saw the alarmed expressions around him, he forced himself to his feet. "It's not serious," he said tightly. "Get someone over here to bandage it."

  The regimental surgeon had been killed and his assistants seriously wounded, so a corporal who had been a barber was doing what he could for injuries. After tightly binding the wound and fashioning a sling, the corporal offered a canteen. "Have a drink of this, sir, but slowly."

  Heeding the warning, Michael took a swallow from the canteen. It contained straight gin. His eyes watered, but the spirits certainly distracted him from the pain in his arm. "Thanks, Symms. Generous of you to share your medicine."

  Symms grimaced as he closed the canteen. "Need to keep you fit, sir, 'cause we're running short of officers."

  The cavalry withdrew while Michael was being tended. Though the 105th had stood fast, injuries were thinning the ranks. Michael gave the order for the square to close up, and prepared for the next attack.

  Catherine went early to work in the hospital tent. In midafternoon, she took a short break, carrying a glass of water to Ian Kinlock's operating table. A canvas wall separated it from the pallets of the wounded men. He was also taking a break, so she handed him the water, saying, "Perhaps the armies haven't engaged yet, Ian. There's no sound of firing today."

  He swallowed deeply, then shook his head. "Wind's from the wrong direction. Anything could be happening, and probably is."

  They both fell silent. Nearby, a church bell rang. Catherine said soberly, "I'd forgotten that today is Sunday. A bad day for a battle."

  "They're all bad days." He wiped the sweat from his face, then said to the orderlies, "Bring the next one."

  Catherine returned to work, giving water and changing dressings. But though she had a smile and a soft word for everyone, part of her heart was with the men who were fighting, and perhaps dying, only a few miles away.

  The cavalry attacks swirled in again and again, like waves breaking against the rocks. Michael had lost track of the number. Ten? Twelve? But the regiment had gained confidence. As the third assault had lumbered up the hill, he'd heard a North Country voice drawl, "Here come those damned fools again."

  The current attack was the worst. The cuirassiers had been circling for most of an hour, firing their pistols, brandishing their sabers, and doing their best to break the allied squares. They failed. Not only were they outgunned, but their horses continued to shy away from the British bayonets and muskets.

  The 105th stood as firmly as if they were rooted to the soil. Wellington had taken heed of Michael's words the night of the ball and positioned the regiment between veterans. To the left was the British 73rd Infantry, to the right Hanoverians of the King's German Legion, who had fought with honor in the Peninsula. Michael's men had a fierce determination to prove themselves equals to their neighbors, and they were succeeding.

  A ragged shout went up behind Michael. Hearing disaster in the cry, he whirled and saw a dying horse crash into one edge of the square. The beast screamed and fell thrashing, knocking down a swath of British soldiers and tearing a hole in the line.

  Seeing their chance, other cuirassiers drove their horses toward the gap. Michael swore furiously, for the freak accident was virtually the only way that cavalry could break a square. Already the line was crumbling as panicky soldiers scrambled away from the massive charging horses.

  He dashed forward to rally his men. When a terrified youth with a powder-blackened face tried to bolt past him, Michael struck him with the flat of his sword. "Stand and fight like a man, goddammit! Running is the quickest way to die!"

  The terror in the boy's eyes abated and he turned back, raising his musket with trembling hands. The other surviving officers and several sergeants also moved in to prevent the square from collapsing. A vicious struggle began as the British tried to force back the French cavalrymen.

  For Michael, time slowed, turning the hand-to-hand combat into an unearthly dance. The leisurely tempo meant he could see and exploit every enemy error. A damned nuisance that his left arm was unusable, but the lack did not seriously impede him. A cuirassier slashed at him wildly with his saber. Michael easily turned the stroke aside with his sword. In the same fluid, rising motion, he buried his blade in the precise center of the Frenchman's throat.

  Without pause he wrenched his sword away and dodged a horse that was about to run him down. He dropped beneath the level of the rider's blade and severed the horse's right front tendon, crippling it. The rider was hurled to the ground and bayoneted by a burly Irish soldier.

  A bellowing cuirassier drove straight for the company colors, determined to seize one. The six-foot flags were a regiment's heart and spirit, and losing one in battle would be an irreparable source of shame.

  Seeing the danger, Tom Hussey and his two color sergeants rushed the Union Jack to safety. The guardians of the blue regimental flag were less fortunate. One sergeant was already down. The other raised the pike that was his badge of office. He was struck by a shot from the cuirassier's pistol before he could use the pike, leaving the ensign and his banner undefended.

  The ensign, Gray, tried to protect the standard, but the Frenchman rode him down and seized the staff of the flag in one hand. With a hoarse shout of triumph, he spurred his mount to escape the square.

  Blood rage swept through Michael at the sight. He dropped his sword and threw himself at the charging horse. His left arm was useless, but he managed to grab the staff with his right hand. The sharp yank almost dragged his arm from its socket. He hung on grimly, his weight slowing the cuirassier.

  Seeing that Michael was utterly defenseless, the Frenchman jerked his saber up, slicing his assailant's ribs. He was preparing to deliver a lethal blow when the wounded color sergeant lurched to his feet and drove his pike through the armhole of the breastplate, spitting the Frenchman. Michael dizzily clung to the staff as the rider's body fell past him.

  Chest heaving, he scanned the square and saw that the 105th's savage defense had closed the gap. Two cuirassiers were trapped inside. Neither survived to return to his own lines.

  The wounded sergeant and bruised ensign reclaimed the color, leaving Michael to endure the bandaging of his ribs. Though he had not felt pain during the white heat of action, it exploded with full force when the danger had past.

  His wounds were serious enough that no one would blame him if he retired from the field, but he daren't leave. No other officer had a fraction of his experience. Graham, next in line for command, was brave, but he had come from a county militia regiment and seen no fighting before today. If Michael did not stay, God only knew what would happen during the next crisis.

  Though gin was no substitute for blood, a few mouthfuls did dull the pain.

  A cockney voice yelled, "Blimey! Here comes Old Hookey!"

  A cheer went up. Michael returned the gin canteen and turned to see Wellington and an aide racing toward his square, pursued by a dozen French lancers. The square opened to admit the duke and his companion, then closed again. A volley of musket balls drov
e off the lancers.

  Wellington was famous for always being where the fighting was fiercest. Unperturbed by the nearness of his escape, he pulled up his horse. "Good show here, Kenyon."

  Michael forced himself to stand straight. "The regiment has done itself proud, sir. How goes the battle?"

  The duke shook his head. "We're taking a pounding. Blucher swore he'd come, but the rain turned the roads to mud, so God knows when we'll see him. If the Prussians don't get here soon…" His voice broke off. "I must be on my way. Stand steady, Kenyon."

  As Wellington prepared to leave, a soldier yelled, "When can we go at the frogs, sir?"

  The duke smiled faintly. "Don't worry, lads, you'll have your chance at them." Then he cantered out of the square toward the beleaguered Chateau de Hougoumont, where the Guards had been fighting the French all day in a vicious battle-within-a-battle.

  It was early evening, Michael supposed, but time had lost all meaning. Hard to believe that two days before, he had been waltzing with Catherine in a room full of light and elegance.

  As he waited for the next attack, he tried to remember what it was like to have her in his arms. But detail was impossible to recall. The only thing he could conjure up was the warmth in her aqua eyes, and the bittersweet joy of holding her close.

  The menacing beat of French drums began the signal for an infantry attack. Michael's lips thinned. He raised his spyglass, balancing it awkwardly with his good hand. Through the heavy smoke, he saw a vast French column advancing toward the allied lines. Luckily it would hit to the right of the 105th, so his tired men would have time to recover.

  A bandage on his thigh, Captain Graham limped up. "May I borrow the spyglass, sir?"

  Michael passed it over. The captain muttered an obscenity as he identified the red plumes and high bearskin hats. "So Boney is finally sending in his Imperial Guard."

  "Precisely. They've never failed in an attack, and after spending the day in reserve, they're as fresh as if they were on parade in a park," Michael said grimly.