The Very First Damned Thing Read Free Page B

must, that these were not pages in a History book, or even prints on an office wall. These were real people – struggling, striving, and dying. Here was fear and pain and mutilation and death.
    Under heavy fire, the Highlanders were retreating over the bodies of the fallen.
    â€˜And not a moment too soon,’ murmured Mr Black.
    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.
    â€˜I had no idea,’ whispered Mr Brown. ‘This is … unbelievable.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Re-form. Re-form your lines, for God’s sake,’ croaked Mr Brown.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 …’
    â€˜You know that it will not,’ murmured Dr Bairstow.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜What’s happening?’ said Mr Brown.
    â€˜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,