Would he stand?

Lieutenant Thomas Browne closed his eyes. It helped take some of the sting out of them caused by the smoke of battle; he reopened them, still unable to see more than two feet in front of himself. He could hear though, the incessant beat of the drums, the chant of 'Vive l'Empereur' sung with gusto, but mostly he heard the guns, not just the Brown Bess’ of his own men or the higher pitched pops of the Baker Rifles from the skirmishers, but Napoleon’s Daughters too. The entire ensemble resulted in the smoke that now stung his eyes. He turned to face his men, standing two deep in lines. His men, it still sounded strange calling them that, the body of his captain wasn’t even cold yet. He was eighteen years old and in charge of veteran troops, all he could think about was would he stand? His heart was already pounding, beads of sweat glistened his brow, he sighed, he would soon find out.


“Leave that, Ensign Pascoe.” Thomas ordered, seeing the youngster reach out his foot to stop the slow moving cannon ball that trundled past them. Too late; the ensign made contact, severing the foot, he screamed out in pain. Mercifully the wound had been seared by the heat.

“Form square.” He heard the colonel order, though how he could hear the order over every other sound that battered his eardrums was beyond him, even while he was shouting the orders to his troops expecting them to do the same. He watched the red coated men, his men, form up with drill ground precision proudly.

His men moved without hesitation, the order for the square was only given when the threat of cavalry was near, it was better to provide the French gunners with bigger targets than to be caught in the open with their heavy cavalry “Bring him in the centre with us, damn foolish boy.” His irritation wasn’t directed toward the ensign but toward himself for not warning the boy sooner.

“You did your best, sir.” Colour Sergeant Johnston said quietly to him, as he knelt beside the boy. “They look so harmless rolling slowly like that.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Passed out from the pain, thankfully, sir.”

The next shell bounced over the front ranks, knelt with bayonets thrust up to repel cavalry. The three other ranks were not so fortunate, nor were those to the rear of the square. It ploughed through them, leaving shattered bodies in its wake. The remaining men closed ranks once more; there would be time to mourn friends later, when the killing had finished. Lieutenant Browne sighed in relief, that last shell had only just missed him and the young ensign's inert form.

“Here they come, sir.” Sergeant Johnson said, the sound of hooves hitting the soft, rain sodden ground, barely perceptible over the rest of the battle, but the smell of saddle rot carried over the acrid scent of spent gunpowder and bodies, that and the sudden silence of the cannons.

“Target the horses.” He ordered his men. Once the riders hit the ground they’d be hard pressed to get back up with their heavy breastplates on.

The charge was half-hearted; they’d not even brought spikes to scupper the small field guns that were interspersed between the squares. It was over in moments. In those moments though, another five of his men lay dead. A pistol shot stung the side of the lieutenant’s face; he could feel the blood trickle from the wound.

A horse whinnied in pain. Its rider, already dead, lay pinned beneath the animal that even now was struggling to rise, an endeavour hindered by both the sucking mud and the mangled limb that had once been its hind leg.

“Harris, put it out of its misery.” He ordered, not just for the sake of the beleaguered horse but for the moral of his own men who were becoming unnerved by the beasts pain filled cries. A single shot rang out, followed by a brief moments silence before the cannons began their bombardment afresh. A fresh hole appeared in the already tattered colours before crashing into the neighbouring square with devastating consequences. “Not as bad as Talavera.” Sergeant Johnson said with a grin, looking up at the flag he was now responsible for.

“You were there, Michael?” Thomas immediately regretted the question and the use of the man’s first name; it was a familiarity he didn’t feel he’d earned, despite his rank. He’d always been envious of those that had been old enough to go, he’d wanted to go as an ensign but his mother had refused to consider it and what his mother wanted she got. He was glad of it now, though the thought brought a blush of shame to his cheeks, causing the wound to bleed more.

“Aye, lad I was there. Was a lot worse than this, you stick with me, sir, I’ll see you right.” Colour Sergeant Michael Johnson said softly, thinking the youth’s blush was down to the use of his first name. He half expected his lieutenant to bawl him out for the informality, he’d seen it before when a ranker had over stepped that thin line between supportive and friendship.

Thomas laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder, a gesture that said more than words. Michael had helped him since his arrival at the company, seen to it that the men treated him with respect, a part of him knew it was because it was his duty, but there had been a genuine friendship that had developed from it, as much as was possible, given their respective ranks. The cannons fell silent again.

“Here we go again, sir.”

“Close ranks, second rank prepare to fire on my command.” The boy in a man’s uniform ordered, drawing his sword in a useless but much appreciated gesture. He sighed, yes he would stand. He knew that now, as once again the cavalry began to charge.

############ THE END ###########