When the doctor arrived, he shook his head. “He is worse. I fear for Lord Kendall’s life. There is nothing more I can do.”
He stepped back before the blaze in Cecily’s eyes. “Lord Kendall is not going to die! If you cannot, we will make sure of that!”
The doctor left shortly thereafter, with dire reports of the wounded streaming into the city. He made a half promise he would return that evening, but Serena sensed he believed by nightfall his services would no longer be needed. Kendall would be beyond his help.
Wrapping her arms tightly around her shoulders, she shivered with deep foreboding. What she had feared was coming to pass; everything she held dear was at stake, and she was utterly powerless before it. All she could do was fight for Kendall’s life with every bit of strength and courage she and Cecily and Buckle could muster.
She went to the window to look toward where the battle even now must be raging. Matt was in the thick of it, she was certain of that. Deep inside her she sensed he was still alive; surely she would know if, if … She refused to even think the words. She must be strong for Matt. He was a soldier; now she must be one, too, facing this uncertainty and fear with the same kind of courage.
All that she could do for Matt was to send her thoughts and her love to be with him through his time of danger. And pray that they would have at least one more moment together so he would know how much she loved him.
By afternoon the infantry was in defeat. D’Erlon’s French infantry had swept across the Dutch-Belgian troops and forced them all the way back to the Forest of Soignes. Matt was sent, yet again, to Picton, demanding action from his lordship. He had already lost two horses and had his hat blown off, the bullet barely missing his right ear.
Picton rode to the front of his troops, waving his sword, and roared, “Charge.” The line started forward at a double pace. Picton turned to the left, calling to Kempt, “Rally the Highlanders!” At that moment he fell from his horse.
Matt rushed forward, but by the time he reached his old general, Picton was dead. Behind him he heard the charge sounded. Even in the midst of confusion it never ceased to amaze him. Ten notes climbed in threes to a long, insistent tone. Instinctively he mounted his horse and watched in amazement as the Scots Greys swept around him like a thunderbolt, crashing into the French, carrying all before them. But they did not respond to the rally. They kept going. Although they captured two eagles and fifteen guns, they were cut off and only a handful returned. Their leader, Sir William Ponsonby, was not among them, Matt mournfully reported to Wellington.
Too many had fallen for Wellington to mourn one more. His charger swept into the thick of the fighting, Matt keeping pace beside him should a message need to be sent. When leaders fell, other men took up the rally call and led. Matt had told Serena he was a soldier, but until today, he hadn’t truly known what that meant.
He could hear Wellington muttering Blücher’s name. If the general didn’t arrive soon with the Prussians, defeat was at hand. Finally they withdrew to a small rise and Wellington pulled out his glass to survey the field.
The heavy French cannonade made the men deaf with the sound. Matt wished he could no longer hear the pitiful cries of the wounded and dying all around him. Corpsmen tried to keep the field clear, but at times the fighting was so intense, it was virtually impossible. Wellington ordered a general reverse—only one hundred paces, it would be just enough to put them out of the reach of the cannon fire. Matt was sent to pass the word, and assure an orderly withdrawal. Before it was complete, a wave of French cavalry swept toward them.
“Prepare to receive cavalry!” Wellington roared, and the infantry formed into squares. Matt galloped down the lines shouting the order, tempering his resolve into steel. One of the final squares, already set into place, was Kendall’s. The new officer waved his shako and Matt responded with a fist raised high above his head.
An early evening fog settled in, pushing down the smoke so everything was seen through a peculiar gray-white swirl. Matt rode slung low over his horse toward the left flank, where Wellington had charged after seeing signs of confusion. Another rider galloped up, recklessly exposing his whole body, and reined his horse to a rearing halt.
“The Prussians are within sight,” Longford gasped.
Filthy, disheveled, a rag tied around a bloody wound on his thigh, all the bored mockery stripped away, he looked wonderful to Matt.
“Long, your leg!” Matt shouted over the din.
“It’s nothing.” He laughed. “The duke commanded me to hoodwink the gamesters, and I shall. Did you know your ear is bleeding all down your neck?”