The failure of the first attack was plainly within the expectations of Archduke Charles of Austria. Judging from the French army’s unruffled composure and the tight, methodical posture of its squares, three hundred light cavalry could not possibly shake a defensive system built on several thousand infantry. Yet the loss of nearly a third of their strength in a mere probing assault was enough to force the Austrian commander to take the situation in earnest.

  Major Hans, who had led the action, had not even gone to have his wounds cleaned before he delivered his report to General Charles of Austria and Colonel Horton.

  “I have to say, the French defense has no obvious flaw,” he said. “Each infantry regiment formed three hollow squares that supported one another, and the non-combat elements—wagons included—were placed inside the squares… No matter which direction we attacked from, we ran into the same sweeping fire… Our losses were heavy. Ninety-one of our brothers did not come back…”

  By the end, tears had gathered in the major’s eyes, and his throat was nearly too tight for sound.

  General Charles of Austria had at first glanced at him with indifference. Only when he noticed the bloodstains on the man’s arms and thighs, and saw that the epaulette and fringe on his left shoulder had been shot away, did his expression soften; he motioned for Hans to withdraw and recover.

  “Wait, Hans,” Colonel Horton asked. “Are you certain the French have no artillery?”

  The major shook his head, his tone firm. “No. If they had opened fire, I doubt I would have made it back. We couldn’t get close enough to observe the squares at range, but I’m sure there are no gun positions. Still… something is odd. Their baggage wagons seem too numerous, and most of them are scattered at the corners of the squares.”

  “Go to the surgeon at once—thank you, Major,” the Austrian commander said with a nod. He had the answer he wanted: the French had brought no guns.

  That fact alone removed the greatest hazard in a second assault. The French infantry’s forest of bayonets might look unbreakable, but it was chiefly lethal to light cavalry that lacked any means to force an entry. For cuirassiers, it was different: more than half their horses had been trained to crash through obstacles. If heavy cavalry could smash open a few gaps in the squares, the French would break (and lancers could achieve much the same effect). Losses were inevitable, of course. No battle was ever effortless.

  Before long, Archduke Charles of Austria summoned all squadron captains of the cuirassier regiment to assign the attack. Over with the hussars, Colonel Horton called in a brown-skinned, scar-faced Second Lieutenant and questioned him about the action that had just retaken the church tower.

  “Nothing to it,” Marcus said carelessly. “It went smoothly. Those cowardly Frenchmen saw us coming, fired two shots, and ran. They didn’t even give us the chance to cross blades.”

  “No abnormalities around the position?” the colonel asked, still uneasy.

  “No,” the Second Lieutenant replied. “But I left Verlot and Rolf in the tower. If anything happens, they’ll hang the warning flag. Sir—one more thing: if the enemy is too numerous and they can’t break out, I’ve authorized the two of them to surrender.”

  Colonel Horton nodded and said nothing further.

  “Colonel,” a messenger ran up, “the attack begins in two minutes. The General orders your hussars to follow behind the Guards. Once the heavy cavalry breaks a passage through the bayonets, you and your regiment are to ride in without hesitation. Understood?”

  The hussar colonel glanced at the messenger and ignored the man’s swaggering air. Instead, he had Marcus summoned again and assigned him an unusually special task.

  “Sir… there’s no need for this, is there?” Marcus gaped. “The General will have me chopped to pieces.”

  “Stop talking and carry out your orders,” Colonel Horton snapped. “Or I’ll shoot you on the spot. The uniform, weapons, and helmet are in the cornfield. Go—Lieutenant.”

  As he said it, he promoted him by one rank.

  …

  On the other side, the consolidated reports from the squares reached Moncey, who glanced at them and tossed them aside. He turned to Suchet.

  “Are the gunners ready?”

  “They’re in position,” the staff officer replied. “As you ordered, we’ve cancelled the first round of solid shot. The guns are loaded, and the reserve is prepared, with canister for close range. Once the enemy cavalry attacks, we only need to pull the green camouflage netting off the pieces and light the fuses.”

  “And Colonel Nansouty?”

  “No word. Since the fighting began, he and his cavalry have vanished into the woods. The last message said he would attack at the most suitable moment. In a way, it’s for the best—at least the Austrian scouts in the church tower can’t spot them.”

  Moncey gave a brief grunt and did not press further. He needed to inspect the first two squares before the next wave began. Though Moncey’s wife’s family had ties of kinship with Nansouty, he had never truly respected the foppish young man. If André had not personally appointed Colonel Nansouty as the cavalry commander, Moncey would have sent that show-off hussar to climb the Ardennes plateau for sport.

  All right. That was only a fit of temper.

  In truth, Moncey did acknowledge Nansouty’s ability to handle cavalry; otherwise, at the last officers’ meeting, Moncey would not have been the first to vote for Nansouty’s promotion to Colonel of cavalry. Of course, everyone else voted the same way—after all, he was the younger brother of the commander’s mistress. One year earlier, Nansouty’s sister, a Comtesse, had borne André a son. In consequence, the commander had transferred several fine estates outside Bordeaux into that bastard child’s name.

  …

  About ten minutes after the first assault, General Charles of Austria decided to lead the cuirassiers and light cavalry in person, launching a powerful offensive meant to smash the French infantry squares in a single blow.

  The heavy cavalry uniform Marcus now wore had been left to bake under the sun for more than three hours. He had shed his hussar dress and become, instead, a man in a cuirass and steel helmet. The heat was unbearable; there was not a dry patch anywhere on him. He rummaged in his saddlebags for his waterskin, found it already limp and empty, and angrily flung it to the ground.

  Beneath him, his red mare seemed oddly fascinated by the imposing mounts around her. From time to time she stamped the turf with her forehoof, then rubbed her neck against a nearby stallion. Now and then, she let out an impatient whinny, as if complaining that her new rider had suddenly grown much heavier and was more than she had bargained for.

  It could not be helped. Colonel Horton had remembered the cuirassier equipment, but forgotten to swap Marcus onto a proper heavy cavalry horse. By the time he realized it, it was too late. An officer inspecting equipment and ranks noticed Marcus’s mount and meant to scold him, but when he saw the ugly scar on the Lieutenant’s face, he silently stepped aside.

  Lieutenant Marcus had been placed in the fifth rank of the cuirassiers, which would at least spare him the first sweep of French musketry. Soon the first two ranks stirred. Marcus rose in the stirrups and looked ahead: General Charles of Austria, attended by an escort, was riding to the very front of the Guards cavalry. Noble and standard side by side, he delivered a final exhortation to the regiment.

  Archduke Charles of Austria spoke with fervor. “Gentlemen—one month ago, we swept away the shameless French who invaded the Holy Roman Empire. Today, we will carry forward that same glory. Will you follow my steps to win a great victory, and the supreme honor that comes with it?”

  “We will!” “We will!” “Long live the General!” “Long live the Archduke!”

  Cheers surged from all sides toward the young prince.

  As the shouting ebbed, General Charles of Austria raised his sabre; the trumpets sounded at once, and the officers relayed the order to advance. Along a front nearly one kilometer long, Austrian cavalry rolled forward like a tide. The young prince of the House of Habsburg led from the front; twelve hundred cuirassiers thundered ahead, with eight hundred hussars following behind.

  From the start, Marcus was swept along in the charge. The heavy armor jolted with every stride, making the former light cavalry officer miserable, as if his shoulder blades were being crushed. Whether one minute passed or two he could not tell. When the final trumpet sounded for the shock, Marcus instinctively pressed his spurs into his mount’s flanks. The mare lurched into a wild sprint; within moments he had overtaken several ranks and ridden up into the first line, nearly abreast of General Charles of Austria.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Across the field, the blue sea had reset its formation. The front two ranks of French infantry crouched with bayonets raised; the rear ranks lifted their muskets to aim. At one corner of the foremost square, a wagon that looked like baggage—covered in green netting—was suddenly scraped at an edge, revealing a black, gaping muzzle that grinned straight at the oncoming white-coated horsemen.

  “Damn it—we’ve been fooled. The French have at least ten guns inside their squares.” Marcus, in the front line, noticed at once. He had no time to think. Following Colonel Horton’s earlier instructions, he carefully edged toward General Charles of Austria and pressed in, forcing the commander to slow to avoid collision.

  In moments, Marcus and General Charles of Austria had dropped from the first line to the last rank of the cuirassiers. Soon even the hussars behind them surged past. As Colonel Horton galloped by Marcus and the prince, he left them with one final, unforgettable smile.

  “Marcus—what are you doing?” Archduke Charles of Austria finally hauled on the reins, bringing his horse to a stop. He raised his sabre in fury, ready to cut down the Lieutenant.

  Marcus sprang off the saddle, wrenched off his helmet, tore away the already ill-fastened cuirass, and pointed toward the French square where gun teams were stripping the camouflage netting from the pieces. He spat out the dreadful truth. “General—that is a trap. Canister!”

  Before the words had finished leaving his mouth, smoke blossomed along the French front. The dull crash of cannon followed. At less than three hundred meters from the squares, the first line of Austrian heavy cavalry was smashed head-on by a ten-gun salvo. Canister tore through men in clusters; flesh flew, and bodies piled.

  With their speed already at its limit, the rear ranks could not turn away or rein in. They had no choice but to drive on. Their only hope was that the French reload would be slow—that they could cross the two hundred meters of killing ground, crush the infantry, and then hack the gunners down to the last man.

  This time the prayer was useless. God did not stand with the Austrians. The French gunners, flawless in efficiency, fired at a rate of two rounds a minute. Before the cuirassiers even reached the bayonets, three volleys of canister had been loosed. The unprotected heavy cavalry suffered a devastating blow: in the first three ranks, most were killed or wounded. Survivors had to pick their way over obstacles—bloody heaps of men and horses’ entrails and broken bone mashed into a glistening mire. A single misstep could catch a hoof, or send a horse sliding and throwing its rider into the grass.

  After the cuirassiers endured the triple baptism of canister, they met yet another wall—rank upon rank of musket balls. Before the smoke had cleared, Poquelin saw a shot take a cuirassier in the neck. The man screamed and toppled from the saddle, only to have his chest crushed by a runaway horse and die beyond any saving. Another cavalryman was hit in the eye socket; he howled as he fell, but his ankle remained caught in the stirrup. The horse bolted on, dragging him until his body became a shredded smear of blood and flesh, until…

  When the cuirassiers closed to within one hundred meters, Poquelin, in the second rank of the square, fired his first shot and did not reload. At the Sergeant Major’s command, the first two ranks crouched and jammed their musket butts into small holes prepared in the ground. Hands gripped the barrels; shoulders and heads lowered. Poquelin braced his shoulders against those of two comrades, forming a wall of bayonets and flesh.

  Suddenly Berni in the front rank turned his head and smiled, calming the visibly tense Poquelin. “Don’t be nervous, mate. Don’t worry—I’ll go to hell with you.”

  Poquelin wanted to shoot back a retort, but the words climbed to his throat and died there. The Austrian cuirassiers were already slamming toward him.

  After three rounds of canister and two rounds of musket fire, the more than seven hundred surviving Austrian heavy cavalrymen were no longer a dense wedge; the charge had been torn apart. They forgot their craving for victory and even their grief for fallen comrades. Only hatred remained—hot, blind, and full.

  They shouted to one another, flailed their sabres, yanked their reins tight, and drove forward without restraint, hurling themselves into the forest of bayonets. At least three hundred horses, faithful to their riders’ last call, ran with them toward the blue sea of death.

  At the instant the Austrian horses were about to pass over his head, Poquelin shut his eyes. He felt the same brutal impact that struck Berni in front of him. His raised bayonet, once it ripped through a horse’s soft belly, was jolted free of his hands and fell into the grass.

  When Poquelin opened his eyes again, his palm was split and bleeding. Berni—the man who had been joking with him ten seconds earlier—was curled in the grass before him, motionless. Poquelin crawled over despite the pain and saw that Berni’s skull had been punched open by an iron hoof; brains and gore were splattered everywhere.

  There was no time to mourn. Kohler shoved Poquelin’s dropped musket back into his arms. The Dutchman in the rear rank stepped up as well, crouching to Poquelin’s left. They pressed close, shoulder to shoulder, and the line—broken by the charge—knit itself tight again. At the Sergeant Major’s shout, the men raised their bayonets once more. In a matter of seconds, the forest of steel was ready to receive another collision.

  Under the frenzy of the heavy cavalry shock, the first and second ranks suffered losses beyond description. In Poquelin’s company, nearly half the men were put out of action at that moment, and several breaches were torn open along the faces of the two hollow squares. But the price paid by the infantry was not meaningless.

  More than one hundred cuirassiers did manage to burst into the interior of the hollow squares. Yet their horses were terribly injured, or else brought to a halt by the crush and the obstacles, their momentum bled away. French grenadier companies that had been held back surged forward—some to fill the gaps, others to encircle the cavalrymen who had penetrated and to engage them in a close, chaotic fight.

  Strong-built grenadiers swung their bayonets like knives meant for meat, stabbing at riders from below. Arms, thighs, faces, backs—each thrust opened a fresh hole of blood. Before long, the grass within the squares was littered with the remains of more than a hundred Austrian horsemen and their mounts, while the earth drank greedily at the blood of war’s offerings.

  Because the French squares restored their bayonet line so quickly, the cuirassiers’ suicidal assault did not open more opportunity for the hussars behind. Riders beat their mounts and forced them on, but horses untrained for shock still refused to throw themselves into that glittering forest. Some screamed and bucked, hurling their riders down as living targets. Others simply ignored the reins and veered away by instinct, avoiding the terrible steel.

  The Austrian cavalrymen trying to work around the French flanks met their greatest misfortune. As Moncey had hoped, they plunged into the death corridor between the squares, where they were scythed by cannon and musketry from the flanks and rear. They fought bravely and rode superbly, but after the struggle they faltered and fell back, leaving heaps of dead and wounded among the bayonets and across the grass.

  Colonel Horton was among the few hussars who forced their way inside. His superb riding, and the limitless loyalty of his horse, carried him around the grenadiers’ attempts to block him. When he reached a French gun position, his fury twisted his face. He swung his sabre and cut down two gunners, then trampled a third who had been carrying ammunition.

  His luck ended there. As he drove toward a second piece, a bullet struck the Austrian deputy cavalry commander low in the left abdomen. Blood gushed from the torn wound and streamed down his thigh. Almost at once, French grenadiers’ bayonets found his arm and back; he and his sabre fell together into the grass.

  “Stop!” an officer shouted, halting several grenadiers before they could continue. He ran over and knelt beside the dying colonel, examining the wounds. Within seconds he shook his head and gave up: the bayonet wound in the back had reached the heart.

  “Do you have any last words?” the French officer asked in German.

  “Thank you… My home is 43 Imperial Street, Brussels. Please…” The colonel did not finish. Blood loss stole his consciousness; life slipped away.

  Two minutes later, the French officer searched the breast pocket that the Austrian colonel’s bloody right hand had been clutching. He found a fine gilt pocket watch. When he opened it, he saw a portrait inside: a young woman holding an infant. The Frenchman sighed. He wrapped the bloodied watch in a clean white handkerchief, wrote a note in pencil—“Send to 43 Imperial Street, Brussels”—and added that it was the last possession of a brave hussar colonel.

  In fact, at the instant Colonel Horton burst into the hollow square, two French cavalry regiments that had been concealed near the battlefield struck in from left and right under Colonel Nansouty’s command. Five minutes later, three thousand French cavalrymen had cut off the Austrian horsemen’s line of advance and their route of retreat.

  Already shattered while charging the French squares, the Austrian cuirassiers abandoned all meaningless resistance. Under the orders of the surviving officers, they began to lay down their weapons and surrender. Their horses were exhausted as well—unable to sustain even ten seconds of further flight. The hussars were lighter and more agile; perhaps a third of them, by sheer riding skill, hacked their way out through the encirclement.

  After witnessing the heavy cavalry charge fail in slaughter, Lieutenant Marcus suddenly struck General Charles of Austria down to the ground and, with the help of several hussars left behind, dragged the unconscious Habsburg prince away. Before the French cavalry net could fully close, they slipped into the dense cornfield and disappeared.

  All of it was seen by the French cavalry commander. Colonel Nansouty even restrained his men from pursuing. The reason lay in a direct order from André, both commander and, in effect, Nansouty’s brother-in-law: no pursuit, no harm to the Austrian commander—Archduke Charles of Austria was to be given a clear path to escape.

  It was not that André feared disrupting the course of history. The campaign record of the Army of the North had already been mangled beyond recognition by his hand. Rather, André calculated that if Archduke Charles of Austria were captured, the Habsburg prince might be sent to Paris and end beneath a republican guillotine.

  And André did not wish, either, for the capture of Archduke Charles of Austria to focus the wrath of the Austrian Netherlands and the Prusso-French Coalition entirely upon the Army of the North, thereby altering the future battlefield André had labored to shape. That, in truth, was the decisive point—one he could not state openly to anyone.

  …

  When Colonel Nansouty’s brigade sounded its charge, the infantrymen inside the squares felt, for their part, that the fighting was nearly over. The moment no Austrian riders could be seen on horseback, the men erupted in cheers—shouting not only for victory, but in gratitude that they had survived.

  Poquelin lay limp beside the warm belly of a dead horse, staring as stretcher-bearers carried away the bodies of Berni and the Dutchman. The Dutchman had been shot through the heart by a cavalry pistol and dropped without a sound. Kohler, the bastard, had come through the battle without a scratch.

  Now the cheerful bastard was rummaging through enemy dead with great enthusiasm. Before long he had dragged eight helmets from Austrian Royal Guards cavalrymen, five pistols, three sabres, and two saddles, piling them in front of Poquelin and making his immobile friend “guard” them.

  …

  “Congratulations, Commander,” Suchet said, almost giddy with excitement. “You’ve won a great victory.”

  Moncey merely smiled. He wanted to preserve the composure of a man in command, but the arm tucked inside his uniform—trembling uncontrollably—had already betrayed what he truly felt.