Almost in unison the telescopes of the Duke’s staff officers swept to the right of the field, racing past the patches of smoke to focus on the four battalions of Halkett’s brigade which stood in front of the wood. The brigade was obscured by cannon smoke, but there were enough rifts in the dirty screen to show that something had gone terribly wrong. “Oh, Christ.” The voice spoke helplessly from the Duke’s entourage. There was a moment’s silence, and then again. “Oh, Christ.” ”
“Sir?” Rebecque handed the Prince his telescope and pointed towards Gemioncourt farm. “There, sir.”
The Prince trained the heavy glass. Thousands of horsemen had appeared from the dead ground and now, in four long lines, swept either side of the farm. Dust spurted from the road as the horsemen crashed across. The enemy cavalry was trotting, but, even as the Prince watched, he saw them spur into a canter. The Cuirassiers had their heavy straight swords drawn. Long horsehair plumes tossed and waved from the steel brightness of their helmets. A Cuirassier was hit by a British roundshot and the Prince involuntarily jumped as, magnified in his lens, the steel clad horseman seemed to explode in blood and metal. The Lancers and Hussars, cantering behind, divided to pass the butcher’s mess left on the ground.
“They’re going for Halkett’s brigade, sir,” Rebecque warned.
“Then tell Halkett to form square!” The Prince’s voice was suddenly high-pitched, almost sobbing. “They’ve got to form square, Rebecque!” he shouted, spraying Rebecque with spittle. “Tell them to form square!”
“It’s too late, sir. It’s too late.” The French were already closer to the infantry brigade than any of the Prince’s staff. There was no time to send any orders. There was no time to do anything now, except watch.
“But they’ve got to form square!” the Prince screamed like a spoilt child.
Too late.
The French cavalry was led by Kellerman, brave Kellerman, hero of Marengo, and veteran of a thousand charges. In most of those charges he had led his men steadily forward, not going from the canter to the gallop till he was just a few yards from the enemy, for only by such discipline could he guarantee that his horsemen would crash in an unbroken line against the enemy.
But this evening he knew that every second’s delay would give the redcoats a chance to form square and that once they were in square his horsemen were beaten. A horse would not charge a formed square with its four ranks bristling with muskets spitting fire and bright with bayonets. The horses would swerve round the square, receiving yet more fire from its flanks, and Kellerman had already lost too many men to the British squares this day.
But these redcoats were in line. They could be attacked from their flank, from their front and from behind, and they must not be given time to change formation and thus Kellerman abandoned the discipline of a slow methodical advance and instead shouted at his trumpeters to sound the full charge. Damn the unbroken line hitting home together; instead Kellerman would release his killers to a bloody gallop and loose them to the slaughter.
“Charge!”
Now it was a race between Cuirassiers, Hussars and Lancers. The Cuirassiers raked their horse’s flanks and let their heavy horses run free. The Lancers dropped their points and screamed their war cries. The sound of the charge was like a thousand demented drummers as the hooves beat the earth and churned up a mass of blood and soil and straw that flecked the sky behind the four charging lines, which slowly unravelled as the faster horses raced ahead. A cannon-ball screamed between the horses, ploughed a furrow and disappeared southwards. A Lancer swerved round a dead skirmisher. The Lancer’s gloved hand was tight on his weapon’s grip which was made from cord lashed about the long ash staff. The lance’s blade was a smooth spike of polished steel, nine inches long and sharpened like a needle. A shell erupted harmlessly in front of the leading horsemen; the smoke of its explosion whipping back past the galloping killers. A red-plumed trumpeter played mad wild notes. Ahead, beyond the Cuirassiers, the redcoats seemed frozen in terror. This was a ride to death, to a triumph, to the glory of the best and most lethal cavalry in all the world.