Where the Light Falls(29)

The enemy leadership sensed the sudden vulnerability of the French right flank, and Austrian reinforcements now marched to that spot like a swollen river pounding a vulnerable dam.

André had to force himself to tear his focus from the carnage and turn back to the more immediate danger facing his own men. He ordered another round of fire, wiping the sweat from his face. Still, to the right, the enemy was funneling men toward the weakened stretch of the French line, endeavoring to pierce the space where so many bluecoats had fallen or fled.

“Steady, lads, never mind that,” André called out, noticing how many of his men, too, were watching that unraveling swath of their line. What had started as a small hole seemed to be widening, as a torrent of white-coated Austrians now overwhelmed the fissure.

“Company, reload!” André shouted, noticing how feeble his voice sounded amid the frantic elation of the enemy. How in God’s name would they stop that breach? André wondered. If the Prussians and Austrians broke through in large enough numbers, they would split the French infantry line and spill into the rear, wreaking havoc and causing a panic that would sap any hope of French victory.

“Company, fire!” André shouted, forcing his hoarse voice to rise up even as this disaster unfolded to his right.

And then André heard three quick trumpet blasts from behind, followed by a roar of cheers. André turned and saw a squadron of cuirassiers, the French heavy cavalry, racing toward the line, their thick-chested stallions thundering forward. At the front of the formation rode General Murat, the heavy-plate armor across his chest reflecting the sun and dazzling allies and enemies alike. He held his reins with one hand, directing his horse with his legs. With his sword lifted high above his head he cut a fierce silhouette against the cloudless sky. He reminded André of a hawk, riding in a determined arc, poised to descend upon its hapless prey. And then Murat’s sword was slashing and tearing into the line of enemy infantry, cutting down men who moments earlier believed they had broken the French right flank.

Now even André couldn’t help but watch, rapt, letting out a savage yell as he watched Murat and his horsemen reclaim the momentum of the battle, driving the Prussian and Austrian infantry back from the previously doomed right flank.

“Sir.” Sergeant Thibaud grabbed André’s shoulder, pointing at the Prussian infantry line opposite them. “The enemy is advancing, sir! Look!”

André turned to see for himself. Straight ahead, the Prussians had fixed bayonets and were marching forward in a phalanx of men, wood, and steel. The soldiers on both sides began to shout and scream now. The initial fear of death had subsided, and, fueled by bloodlust and the instinct to survive, their desire to kill the enemy had reached its fever pitch. Insults were being hurled from both sides, and André saw it was futile to try to quell the rage of his men. The best course was to harness that frenzied energy and determine the exact moment to unleash it.

“Company! Fix bayonets!” André shouted, his own hoarse voice sounding as mad as the rest of them now. “Company, advance!” André set the pace as he and his men began to march forward to meet the enemy.

Meanwhile, approaching them, the Prussians seemed to be growing taller. And their number seemed to have doubled. André, senses heightened, suddenly smelled the stench of hundreds of sweaty men to his left and his right. Around him, other French companies had begun their own marches forward toward the enemy, and the field would soon be roiling with dead and dying men.

“Company, halt!” André held his sword high. For a moment, there was a crackling, eerie silence as both sides faced each other.

“Vorwarts Marsch!” And then the enemy began to surge forward, running toward André’s men as they screamed at a bloodcurdling volume: “Schweine!”

“Hold positions, lads!” André yelled. His men bucked beside him now, faces grim as they prepared to repel this wave of screaming fighters barreling toward them. And then André lifted his sword, shouting over the wails of the approaching enemy. “Front rank, kneel!” His men obeyed, the front line dropping to their knees.

And then suddenly from behind André, the heavens opened with a terrible wrath, a percussion of noise ripping across the battlefield. The French artillery, which had momentarily fallen silent, now poured out a deadly hail of cannonballs. The advancing Prussian line caught this terrible assault of lead and fire, and scores of men began to convulse and fall to the ground. Clouds of dirt, grass, and smoke flew into the air along with bloody limbs and pieces of shredded uniform. The Prussians cried out in agony and terror, while, across from them, the French erupted in a mighty roar.