A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

Having given his orders, there was nothing for Randall to do but to watch how efficiently the men set to work. He had to give Major Bartlett his due, he had whipped his troop into shape and they were now a respected fighting force. Pity the man was such a hardened libertine. Perhaps he hadn’t yet met the right woman? Randall pulled himself up with a jolt. When had he begun to think that a man could change so drastically? He knew the answer, of course. It was Mary’s doing. How much he had to tell her, if he survived this hell. If she would listen.

Sooner than he dared hope the gun carriages were on the move, lumbering across the sodden fields and up the gentle slope to the ridge. Somewhere in his mind, a tiny part that was not focused on the ensuing conflict, he was aware of his pride in the Rogues. They had not let him down. Neither had Mary, but if this bloody slaughter continued he might not live to tell her so.

* * *

Flint and Bartlett joined him on the ridge as the men struggled to manoeuvre the heavy guns into position. All around them was the thunderous roar and thick, acrid smoke of battle. The raised road that ran along the ridge afforded them some protection, but beyond it lay an open plain and as the smoke drifted away they could see the dark mass of French cavalry on the far hill.

Flint gave a low whistle. ‘They’ll be upon us before we know it.’

As if to ram home his prediction a cannon ball whistled between them and thudded into the ground, splattering them with nothing more dangerous than mud. This time.

‘You’d better make sure you’re ready,’ was Randall’s curt reply.

He did not doubt his men or his officers. They would meet this challenge as they had met all the others. He wheeled about and rode back down the hill, chivvying the stragglers. Returning to the ridge, he took a quick survey of the squares on either side. They were under constant bombardment, shells

burst overhead and the squares shrank in size as the casualties mounted. The wounded were dragged inside the square, the dead pushed outside while the sergeants raced to and fro, ordering the remaining men to close up.

Men? They were boys, thought Randall, observing their pale, frightened faces. Untried, too, he suspected. His lips thinned. The duke’s orders had been for his men to retreat into the squares when the cavalry charged, but he knew that if the Rogues ran for cover it would start a mass panic. The squares would not hold. Many of the infantrymen were looking his way. He had seen the hope in their faces as the big guns were brought up. He prayed their presence could put some heart into the squares.

Bartlett’s division was the first to the ridge, but scarcely had they put their big gun into position than the cavalry were approaching at a trot. ‘They are coming,’ shouted Randall. ‘Steady now, lads.’

Flint’s nine-pounder was now ready for action and even Rawlins had brought his pieces up with commendable speed. Within seconds of each other the big guns fired their first rounds. Their canister shot skimmed low over the raised road and into the oncoming cavalry, mowing down the leaders. The first round slowed the densely packed mass to a walk. They picked their way over or around the fallen, but they kept coming. Randall recognised them as grenadiers à cheval: they were menacing enough in their plain blue uniforms and buff cross belts, but with their huge caps they looked like giants on horseback.

‘Dear lord, they’ll charge right over us,’ cried a voice somewhere behind Randall.

Bartlett’s snarling response was no surprise. ‘Not Randall’s Rogues, they won’t. Remember the motto—Always victorious!’

‘Aye,’ roared Randall, drawing his sword and raising it. ‘Semper Laurifer! Ready, Rogues...fire!’

His arm swept down, the blade glittering in a sudden shaft of sunlight. The deafening thunder of the guns shook the ground. Randall kept his sword in his hand, ready to fight to the death as the advancing cavalry charged towards them. His fingers tightened about the hilt. He felt rather than saw the hesitation in the approaching mass and at the last moment the leading riders wheeled away. But not all of them, some could not stop. Those with horses wounded and maddened out of control charged straight through the lines and on to the rear, making no effort to attack the gunners as they swept past.

Smoke enveloped everything. The Rogues were nothing more than ghostly shapes as they constantly reloaded. Again and again the guns spewed their deadly fire. When the smoke did lift momentarily Randall glanced across the road and saw that the French were swarming, but they were not advancing. He could see the columns at the rear pushing forward while those before them tried desperately to retreat and get away from the incessant barrage of round shot and canister that ripped through their ranks.

* * *

Randall’s ears continued to ring long after the firing ceased and the enemy had withdrawn. He heard the cheers going up from the much-reduced infantry squares, but the jubilation was short-lived. Skirmishers filled the void left by the cavalry and opened fire on the ridge. Again the slight rise of the road protected them from the worst of the assault, but some of the shots found their mark. The sergeants were once again working to keep the shrinking squares intact while Randall’s more experienced troops prepared their guns, giving no more attention to the musket shot flying about them than they would to a swarm of troublesome insects. Occasionally a man would go down and his comrades would carry him quickly to the rear. Randall knew they were itching to retaliate, but they couldn’t waste ammunition when the cavalry would be returning any minute. Nevertheless the skirmishers continued to irritate and, having recovered from that first cavalry charge, his men were growing restless. He turned Pompey and urged him up on to the road, where he trotted along in front of his men. Foolish, perhaps, to put himself on show, but he knew the old saying, ‘The nearer the target, the safer you are.’ Pompey snorted but never flinched, too old a campaigner to be disturbed by the brattle of muskets. Shots whistled past, one ripped through his sleeve, grazing the arm and another was so close he felt the air move against his cheek, but he continued to ride. His phlegmatic demeanour had its effect on the Rogues.

The cavalry was moving again, even before the sniping ceased. Randall’s keen eyes followed the skirmishers as they slipped away. The grass and crops had been flattened by the cavalry charge and it was easier now to follow their retreat. He watched them making for an old barn in the distance. It was within range of his guns. Maybe he’d have Rawlins turn his nine-pounder in that direction. But that was for later. Now there was a much more urgent problem.

‘Here they come again, my lads,’ called Randall. ‘Hold your fire, don’t waste your shot.’

‘As if we would,’ shouted one of the bombardiers. ‘Don’t you know yer bleedin’ Rogues by now, Colonel?’

Randall’s lips twitched, but he kept his face straight and his eyes on the approaching cavalry. They came on in a steady, solid mass, so many that the rear columns stretched out of sight. Amidst the smoke and roar of the battlefield, Randall was struck by the silence of the advance, no shouts, no cries, they moved forward with a steady determination. The ground reverberated beneath the hoofs of their horses, like the distant, continuous rumble of thunder, ominous and deadly, coming ever closer. An unstoppable force.

Randall looked back at the Rogues. They stood ready by the guns, port fires spitting and glowing behind the wheels. He glanced at the infantry squares. They, too, were standing firm, their eyes fixed on the Rogues. Hell and damnation, thought Randall, if we break, so will they.

The enemy were so close Randall could see the detail on the leading officer’s uniform, the single row of gilt buttons running down the centre of his chest, yet still he kept his sword raised. Experience told him the first salvo could mean the difference between victory and defeat. The tension was palpable. The ground shook with the oncoming charge; his men were braced, tense and ready for action.

Eighty yards, seventy. Then, when the deadly mass was no more than sixty yards away, he dropped his arm and the guns roared their defiance. They belched flame and smoke as the deadly volley flew at the enemy. The first rank of cavalry fell immediately, slowing the advance, while the shot continued to punch through the column, spreading mayhem. Yet the charge was not halted, they were pushing on, slow but inexorable. The Rogues reloaded with steady, trained efficiency and the guns roared again and again while the squares kept up a constant barrage of fire against the oncoming enemy.

Bodies of horses and men littered the ground but still the French pressed on, leaping over the dead only to fall at the guns’ muzzles. Randall rode forward to intercept one grenadier who was charging towards the gunners. He despatched the man speedily and wheeled about looking for another assailant. The attack was growing less frenzied. Many of the cavalry were retreating, the rear column peeling away rather than face the deadly salvos. At last Randall gave the order to cease firing.

As soon as the cavalry withdrew it was replaced with artillery fire, the enemy guns soon finding their range and raining down shot and shells on the Rogues. Randall galloped quickly along the lines, assessing the damage as the smoke cleared. He brought his horse to a stand by Bartlett’s guns and was about to speak when a shell whistled in and exploded.

Everything went black. The noise and heat faded away. The darkness became a comfortable cocoon and he wanted to give himself up to it. He felt Mary’s arms about his neck, heard her soft whisper.

I believe in you, Randall.