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The ground was already a mass of bodies. "Step up!" the sergeant called. No one moved but you could hear the swallow of dry throats next to you. "Step up men!" he bellowed. The sultriness of the June 18th afternoon was made worse by the billowing clouds of smoke that wreathed as far as he could see, capturing all the stain and sweat of collective man. Red brick uniforms lay in all manner of death moments but not as many as the blue of the French Infantry on the slope of Mont St. Jean. The sergeant grabbed one man by the uniform and was about to yell his order again but two men stepped forward. Robert Porter and Henry Cole had just looked at one another briefly, no more than a glance and both knew what had to be done. The sergeant stopped what he was doing and looked at the men, his face blackened from his carbine. He just nodded perceptibly as the two took up their positions. Others followed suit and soon they were ready.

Ney's infantry assault had failed. The 19 000 men that came towards them so grandly, to the rolling drums and the voices of "Veil-lons au salut de l'Empire' were a beaten army. The dense columns advanced like a sea down the sodden slopes and farmhouses of La Haye Sainte. Robert couldn't understand it. No cavalry, the French artillery silent, who were these people to advance into all these guns like this?

"I've pissed myself," Henry said to him, his more educated clip almost deserting him on this occasion.

"I think I've shit meself," Robert replied.

"Well let's make the laundry detail worth it shall we?"

Such a brigade of fire then was unleashed by Lt. Gen. Sir Thomas Picton's division was awesome and deafening, tearing huge holes in the advancement. On its ceasefire, the cavalry of Maj. Gen. Ponsonby Union Brigade had no reservation about joining the fray. Confusion followed and whole French battalions broke and ran.

The British cavalry intoxicated with the thrill of battle and the running French charged after them right into the batteries of French guns and French cavalry. Then the counter began the onslaught. It was rain of the worst storm, round shot falling on men all around. One man fell next to Robert, his head half gone, another fell in front, and his neck a bloodied mess. It was enough to demoralize many an army but not on this day. It was only a matter of time, of holding on. The Prussians would soon be here. And then the orders came to square off. Twenty squares formed in time to receive the order, "Prepare to receive cavalry!"

Each square boasted four ranks, the first two with fixed bayonets. Maj. Gen. Count Edouard Jean Baptiste Milhaud's 1V Cavalry Corps cuirassiers came with their strong chargers through the rye fields, wielding heavy swords. Their reputation had preceded them with victories against the Russians and Prussians. With a victory over Ponsonby's troops the calls went out, "Les Anglais sont fait pour!" But yell as they might, the advance of over a mile, uphill over sodden ground took its toll on both men and horses. Their right flank lost men from marksmen placed in the ridge top fortified farm houses, firing at the horses as well as men for they knew that the heavy breast plates they wore, shot bounced off them in the past. Cannon round shot plowed lanes of fallen like a wave over 5 000 men, shredding men and maiming horses. Shrapnel burst overhead, splintering into its hundreds of deadly bursts upon them, slowed the pace of the charge to barely a trot as the squares waited and waited.

"Not yet men! Hold steady!" Sweat poured off Robert, dripping over the stock of his musket, his hands wet and clammy around the trigger.

"Vive l' Empereur!" Closer and closer they came. The first volley of fire was devastating. It seemed like half the enemy dropped. But still they came to only ten yards away before wheeling away, content to attack the corners of the squares. A horse broke its way into the square before Robert and Henry stood. Its hooves kicked and trampled held bayonets in its flesh holding it at bay. The carbine the French rider fired claimed another redcoat as did his French X 111 Cuirassier sabre that ran through the man to the side. Finally a British musket shot brought the rider down, the brave bloodied horse falling with him. Suddenly the men all turned away, retiring, en passant.

Robert and Henry fixed their bayonets as the second wave launched itself at them. "Lancers!" someone said just above a whisper. They hit with the intensity of a huge wave upon a rock, men and steed charging into the square assembly formation. A lance impaled the man beside Robert, his own musket fire bringing down the man who filled his sights near point blank. Another lance flew over Robert's head, the attacker propelling himself like a spear. He had no idea what transpired with Henry, he was too busy with self-preservation. Suddenly a hand tugged at him, dragging him to the side as another horse that had broken through from the side charged to escape his redcoat corral.

"Thanks boyo!" Robert said from his position atop his friend. He pushed himself up with his hands and then wondered why his friend was not following him up. He could see another charger coming this way and quickly his hand grasped the musket before him and he held it out in protection. He turned his body just enough for the lance's thrust to miss his body, yet it cut and rip through his coat and slashed him across his side below his ribs. His bayonet however was more successful, finding a spot under the Frenchman's breastplate, the man seemingly running into Robert's weapon rather by any of Robert's skill. The impact jolted the man and backwards from his horse he fell. Robert looked around for any other immediate danger but the attackers had fled their square, the Hussars and Light Dragoons of Maj. Gen. Sir Colquhoun Grant's brigade and the Carabineers of the Netherlands dashing forward to take on the foe. He glanced at his friend who still hadn't moved when he heard a groan. It was the Frenchman. Robert knelt to him. "Me tuer s'il vous plait!" Then in English, "Kill me please!" The man couldn't get up from the ground. "Merci bon ami!" The Frenchman used his last energies to remove his breastplate. "Coeur!" He thumped his heart. "Pour un Francais!"

Robert rammed the bayonet into the Frenchman as he called "Adieu Nanette Momet!" As he turned he saw his sergeant was watching. Many of the men had broken ranks and charged after the retreating Frenchmen. Robert turned and bent to the ground where Henry Cole lay. He rolled him over, the side underneath red with blood. There was no pulse but Robert already knew that from the eyes, the face. His hand went inside to the wad of letters, now blood soaked on one side and holed and burnt where he had placed them next to his heart. Robert took them and stood up. Much of them were useless but there was enough of one to later give him the address and the name of the girl he spoke so much of. His friend then just one of the men who covered the killing ground, bodies that lay in various positions, mutilated in every conceivable way. Tormented horses kicked and rolled trying to regain their feet, with pleading neighs. Cuirassiers lay on the ground like turned turtles, armour weighing them down with their heavy boots. Some redcoats moved amongst them, already starting to strip the dead of their valuable, of mementos. Gunshots rang randomly as guns were put to the head of men and horses. Ney's attack had failed. The battle of Waterloo was still not over but you could sense the tide had...