But a day later and a few miles away from the Charleroi debacle a slow, low drum roll was heard. It kept eerie beat and lent even greater menace to a dark line of advancing French infantry. The British held fast to the top of a small ridge at Quatre-Bras. From his vantage atop Scimitar, Fitzwilliam stood in his stirrups and could see the feet of British soldiers in front of him begin to shift in anticipation of the clash only minutes away. Scimitar began his own skittish dance and jigged in place. Fitzwilliam leaned down and patted the horse’s neck, speaking to him in murmuring reassurance.

For most soldiers, this was the moment of greatest dread: that of the brief, agonising wait with the enemy in sight, but not near enough to engage. These few minutes of delay were crucial that day, for the half-dozen cannons that would be their only true means of defence had only just arrived and were creaking far too slowly into position. The massive column of Napoleon’s army began their assent of the hill. Scimitar danced in place again.

Fitzwilliam’s company had endeavoured with feverish haste to shore up the allied line at this point. And as always, as if as much by an unseemly evil intuition as military astuteness, Napoleon’s generals seemed to know just where to drive their wedge to breach the enemy position. Covering this weak spot was only a brief and miserly triumph for the allied. As the weakest link, it was there that they would bear the brunt of the assault of this particular battle. The French artillery behind their troops was now within a half mile and Fitzwilliam could hear the first salvos that landed short of the British line.

Finally, theirs could respond and did, but only sporadically, for the ammunition had arrived tardy of the cannons.

Their own volleys were falling short of the French and Fitzwilliam could see the men make scurried correction to the lay of the cannons. He eyed one cannon specifically and watched the rhythm closely as it was loaded, primed, aimed, then fired. The power of the shot lifted the heavy gun upward, then hard backward with the percussion, as even the cannoneers cringed away. Hastily it was loaded, primed, aimed, and fired once more. Fitzwilliam made a mental calculation. First, one blast was shot off a minute, then two, then, blessedly, three. Their own cannons up to speed bestowed precious little time for self-congratulation, for they were immediately assaulted by incoming fire. The assault decimated their tightly packed ranks, mangling both bodies and equipment.

By the time the enemy had been engaged, the single shot had been expended from every soldier’s rifle, and the bayonet rendered the weapon an unwieldy sword. Howbeit Fitzwilliam knew himself to be a particularly conspicuous target atop Scimitar and wearing the plumed hat of regimental leader, he had not drawn the most jeopardous undertaking. That fell to the lead infantrymen. It was they who had the poor prospect and unjust duty of meeting, bayonet to bayonet, the first of Napoleon’s finest. These demonically hungry and worse, foolhardy, French soldiers were not ordered, but chose, to bloody themselves upon British knives.

As these frontiersmen began to bludgeon and stab, the cannon fire yet crossing landed upon enemy and defender without discrimination (victory being more urgent than economy in this particular battle). At one time Napoleon’s weighty army would have deployed right through a position as slim as theirs, but politics and desertion had taken away what leverage greater numbers afforded the French.

This fight was a face-to-face encounter and the blood that splattered from it was an odious and unseemly repetition of the earlier rain. Had not every soldier’s ears been deafened by the cacophony of arms, the screams of agony and rage would have been indiscernible of origin.

The first waves of French were repelled by the incline as much as military might, but the sight of these ferocious troops falling back lured some amongst the allied to move forward to crush them. But that was not the battle plan. They held and waited to be assaulted again. When it came, the next movement of French troops had again to fight the incline, but were now also hindered by the obstacle of dead bodies and abandoned equipment already fallen victim to the fight.

The French cannons volleyed yet into the British and Belgian troops, yet the second attempt by Napoleon’s army took even greater toll upon both sides. Three British cannons had been silenced, hence, the throat-razing sting of gunpowder that filled every man’s lungs came mostly from below.

Seeing the artillery might fight victory for them, the French cavalry poised at the side chosen for encounter. It was what Fitzwilliam had come to France to find. As ranking officer, all eyes were upon him. It would be at his signal, and not before, that they would draw their swords. A few horses shuddered, reflecting the anxiousness of their riders, not a good sign when coolness in the face of a charge meant all.

“Steady, lads. Show no hurry,” Fitzwilliam called out in a low, reassuring voice.

With that admonition, he drew his sword and held it first high, thereupon rested it upon his shoulder. The order was followed with such precision, the blades of three hundred men made but a single sound as they were drawn. It was Scimitar who took the first step into battle; the regiment followed suit, first into a barely contained trot, from thence, a slow canter.

As they rode their horses shoulder to shoulder, the regiment of horse soldiers awaited the bellowing of the one word that would send them to their destiny. When it was sounded, it was Fitzwilliam who issued the command.

Every cavalryman raised his sword high above his head, and as each kicked their horses into a hard run, they stood forward in their stirrups and pointed their sabres toward the enemy.

“Charge!”