The Very First Damned Thing (3 page)

More French forces burst through the hedge behind which they had been concealed and fell upon them. Caught in a deadly crossfire, their attempt to retreat in good order was abandoned. Officers screamed their orders. Sustaining even heavier losses, the Highlanders were routed.

Silence filled the pod. Three people could not look away. Mrs Green gripped the edge of the console.

‘I had no idea,' whispered Mr Brown. ‘This is … unbelievable.'

‘I knew Wellington described the battle as “a damned close-run thing”,' said Mr Black, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away, ‘but I had no idea they came so close to defeat. Look, the entire centre is beginning to give way. This is a disaster. Is there some way I can get a close up? Focus on that part of the battle?'

‘Allow me,' said Dr Bairstow, leaning over his shoulder.

Without warning, faces filled the screen. Real faces, running with blood. Eyes white in smoke-blackened faces. Mouths open, although whether in ferocity or terror was hard to see. Three people jerked back. Someone drew in their breath with a sharp hiss.

‘Re-form. Re-form your lines, for God's sake,' croaked Mr Brown.

‘They will,' said Mr Black. ‘This is the 92
^nd
. The Highlanders. They have been ordered to hold and hold they will. The few that are left.' He stared at the slaughter on the screen.

‘Surely,' whispered Mrs Green. ‘They cannot withstand much more. They must give way.'

Mr Brown stared at the screen. ‘If the farmhouse at La Haye Sainte falls …'

‘You know that it will not,' murmured Dr Bairstow.

‘How can you say that, man? Look at them. They're being cut to pieces. There can surely be no way back from …'

Unseen bugles sounded.

‘What's happening?' said Mr Brown.

‘There! There! See! General Picton's men are on the move. Here we go. My God, this is it. I can hardly believe … Look. Look there.'

From behind the top of the rise, there appeared a row of heads.

The heads became men.

Who, in turn, became mounted men.

The Scots Greys were on the move.

This was no desperate charge. There was no headlong gallop to engage the enemy. The ground was too broken, too uneven. Mud, bodies, even crops rendered a charge impractical.

The Scots Greys advanced at a walk, swords drawn, passing quietly through the still-retreating Highlanders. The horses, snorting with the smell of blood in their nostrils, picked their way over the fallen, held in hard by their riders.

Voices shouted new commands. The Highlanders rallied. Turning to face the enemy once more, they settled their bonnets firmly over their eyes and brought up their weapons. There were so few of them left that they could, legitimately, have fallen back to nurse their wounds. They did not.

Every Highlander who could seized a stirrup with one hand and took a tight grip on his rifle with the other. More bugles sounded and the pod was filled with voices shouting, ‘Scotland Forever!'

The scarlet-coated Scots Greys picked up the pace to a fast walk, emerging through the dust and smoke to confront the enemy like a vision from hell.

The French 45
^th
Regiment of the Line, still struggling to reform their square, looked up to see their death approaching. An unstoppable wave of giant white horses, all bared teeth and iron hooves, bearing down upon them. Each horse was bloodied to the knees, eyes wild with battle fury and ridden by an enormous, red-coated man, sword drawn and murder in his eyes.

Still clinging to the stirrups, the remnants of the Highlanders re-entered the fray. Slow, stately, and unstoppable, they bore down on the frantically struggling French forces.

In vain did the French officers scream new orders. There was no time. The enemy was already upon them. In desperation, many of them ran about, physically pushing their men into place. A regimental square, once formed, is well-nigh invincible to cavalry. A square in disorder is a sitting target.

The Scots Greys rode them down, forcing their way into the very heart of the French ranks. Men disappeared under horses' hooves. Those who by some miracle had managed to remain on their feet were cut down in an instant. The cavalry had a huge advantage over the infantry. Even standing on tiptoe and lunging with their bayonets at full thrust, the infantry could not reach the riders. Confused and milling around in complete disorder, they were hacked to pieces by the Scots Guards' sabres and trampled into the ground by their horses.

It was over within minutes. The entire square was destroyed.

On the screen, a lone rider broke into a canter, pulling away from his comrades.

‘There!' cried Mr Black. ‘Look! That must be Charles Ewart. Quick! Quick! I want to see.'

Dr Bairstow adjusted the controls and the cameras zoomed in. A sergeant brandishing a sabre was urging his horse through the French lines, hacking about him like a lunatic. Soldiers fell away on both sides.

‘He's after their Eagle. They'll make him an officer for this. Go on, man. Go on.'

A tiny group of men encircled the battle standard, defending it to the death.

One brave Frenchman closed in and a slash from Ewart took him through the head.

From nowhere, a lancer flung his lance at the red-coated sergeant who parried it with his sword, all the time urging his horse towards the Eagle.

‘Look out!'

Another French soldier coolly knelt, took aim, and fired. At that range, he could not miss, but he somehow did. His bad aim cost him his life. Before he could reload, Ewart was upon him. Struggling to his feet, the French soldier stood his ground, stabbing wildly with his bayonet. His thrust was parried by Ewart, who, in one movement, cut him down and reached out for the battle standard.

‘Go on, man. Go on.'

With his horse's momentum carrying him forwards, Ewart dropped his reins, stood in his stirrups, and seized the standard with one hand, thrusting at the bearer with the other. The man fell backwards. The Eagle was won.

A mighty roar went up as, sword in one hand and brandishing the captured Eagle in the other, Ewart turned and galloped back towards his own lines.

Inside the pod, three people suddenly realised they had been holding their breath.

‘Look,' said Mrs Green suddenly, ‘this isn't right, surely? What is happening?'

The tides of fortune can turn in the blink of an eye and now it was the turn of the Scots Greys to find themselves in trouble.

They watched the screen as the troopers, now free from obstacles, picked up speed and charged headlong towards General Durutte's infantry, who, unlike their unfortunate colleagues in the 45
^th
, had had the time to form their square. Disorganised and out of control, the Scots Guards swept ineffectively around the outside, unable to penetrate the square and incurring heavy losses. Men and horses crashed to the ground under a hail of gunfire.

Mr Black pointed. ‘Their commander, Colonel Hamilton, will urge them on to engage the French artillery. See, there they go.'

In silence, they watched a small group peel away and thunder up the facing slope to engage a field battery of French cannon. Their success, however, was their undoing.

Mr Black sighed. ‘As Wellington himself said, “The British cavalry never knows when to stop,” and he was right. Watch.'

On the screen, the Scots Greys, their horses blown, and unable to rally, were taking heavy fire. The French cavalry, in a frenzy of revenge and retribution, fell upon them. The fighting was vicious and bloody. Colonel Hamilton was seen briefly, wounded in both arms and holding the reins in his teeth, attempting to lead his men back to safety. The French cavalry, ‘The 4
^th
Lancers, I think, but I am not sure,' murmured Mr Black, closed in.

Dr Bairstow, his objective gained, turned the cameras away, pulling back from the slaughter and muting the sound. Once again, tiny figures silently filled the screen.

‘The Scots Greys were three hundred and ninety men strong,' said Mr Black, quietly. ‘One hundred and two men died. Another ninety-eight were wounded.'

‘True,' said Dr Bairstow, ‘but by engaging the infantry and forcing them to turn to receive their attack, they caused them to be exposed to the Royal Dragoons who will rout them. Yes, things fell apart, but the centre held. And now will begin the attack on La Haye Sainte.'

Again, the screen was filled with cotton-wool puffs of cannon smoke. Occasionally, the pod trembled.

‘Should we raise our shields?' asked Mr Brown, anxiously.

Dr Bairstow withdrew his gaze from the screen and regarded him with polite incomprehension. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Our shields. We do have shields, don't we?'

‘I must confess I'm not entirely sure to what you are referring. Do you perhaps mean some kind of force field?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Something that would prevent us being blown to pieces by stray cannon shot?'

‘Yes, that's it.'

‘No, we don't have anything like that.'

‘We don't? But what happens if we're hit? What keeps us safe?'

Dr Bairstow shrugged. ‘A combination of sturdy construction, a very carefully calculated landing site, and the erratic protection of the god of historians.'

‘I wonder,' said Mr Brown, diffidently. ‘Would it be possible to go outside?'

Mr Black and Mrs Green turned astonished eyes upon him.

Dr Bairstow smile faintly. ‘Not that I wish to appear selfish in any way, sir, but should anything happen to you then my chances of getting this project off the ground would be severely jeopardised.'

Mr Brown, who against all the laws of nature appeared to have shed at least twenty years in the last twenty minutes, grinned like a naughty boy. ‘My dear sir, to paraphrase, I invite you to consider the implications to your project of
not
letting us out for a better look.'

‘Mr Brown, I suspect you may be a closet historian.'

Another bombardment shook the pod and Mrs Green, still watching the screen, pointed. ‘Look. Who are they? Are they French? They're coming this way.'

Three figures appeared out of nowhere. They were running very fast as explosions were peppering the ground all around them. They appeared to be wearing modern body armour and helmets. One of them, either in an attempt to avoid the bombardment or through disorientation, was zigzagging wildly. The other two seemed to be attempting to keep him on track. They were heading for the pod.

‘Who are they?'

Dr Bairstow sighed. ‘I suppose it was inevitable.'

They watched as the three figures ran, ducking and weaving, to the pod. Someone thumped on the door.

‘Could you let us in, please?'

‘They're very polite. Who are they? What do we do?'

Dr Bairstow smiled faintly. ‘They're historians and I suggest we let them in before they have the door off its hinges.'

Two men and one woman tumbled into the pod. Which was now distinctly overcrowded.

‘Bloody bollocking hell,' said the woman, pulling off a helmet, and displaying the worst case of helmet hair ever. ‘That last bombardment started early. I'm going to have a word or two with the professor when we get back.'

‘Good afternoon.'

The three newcomers froze, staring alternately at the original occupants and then at each other in some consternation.

‘Quite,' said Dr Bairstow. ‘I am not familiar with any of you – yet – but your discretion would be appreciated.'

‘Of course … sir.'

‘Report.'

‘Er … Maxwell and Bashford, sir. Historians. Markham providing security.'

Dr Bairstow passed her some water. ‘How interesting. You bring security guards with you on assignments?'

She passed the water to Bashford. ‘We have to, sir. God knows what they'd get up to if we left them behind on their own.'

Markham grinned amiably. ‘Don't you believe it, sir. No one in their right minds would let the History Department out by themselves.' He took a large swig of water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘That's better. Thank you very much.'

Dr Bairstow regarded the third member of the trio with some concern. ‘Mr … Bashford appears to have incurred some sort of injury. Shrapnel?'

‘He fell over, sir. And it's Bashford. He could concuss himself on a ball of cotton wool. Frankly, if he spends much more time in a semi-conscious stupor then … the Boss … is going to stop paying him altogether.'

Markham, who had been beaming at a stony-faced Major Guthrie, said suddenly, ‘Don't see why he shouldn't, actually. He barely pays
me
. Why should I suffer alone?'

Dr Bairstow said gently, ‘Really? That seems most unfair. Why would that be?'

‘Bloody Deductions from Wages to Pay for Damages Incurred forms, sir. Bane of my life. And a completely necessary and fair system of reimbursement, of course, as I frequently maintain.'

‘Deductions from Wages forms,' said Dr Bairstow quietly. ‘How very … innovative. And are they frequently implemented?'

‘Distressingly frequently, sir.'

‘Well stop bloody breaking things, then,' said Bashford, blinking fuzzily at him.

‘I don't. It's not my fault that …'

Dr Bairstow cleared his throat, interrupting what was threatening to become a vigorous, though possibly irrelevant, debate.

‘Can we assume that you are here for the same purpose as we are?'

‘Er …'

‘You may speak freely.'

‘Recording and documenting, sir, yes.'

‘And not dying?'

She wiped her face. ‘Well, no thanks to Professor Rapson, sir. We were told we'd have more than enough time after the Scots Greys' charge to get into position to watch Marshall Ney having a pop at La Haye Sainte. As it turned out, however, not quite. We're pretty sure the professor doesn't measure time in quite the same way as everyone else.' She took another swallow of water. ‘Anyway, thanks for the respite, sir. We should be getting a shift on. We're supposed to be covering Wellington's infantry forming squares in preparation for the attack.'