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The Path of the Hawk

Balboa Press

1

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 turned.

2

Wiltshire is a province of Canterbury, the diocese of Salisbury to the far west of London. North and west was Gloucestershire, to the west Somersetshire and Dorset shire and to the east, Hampshire. It is the county of things mythical in proportion, Sarnum, Stonehenge, The White Lion, King Arthur, and Merlin is said to be buried near, the place of early Saxon hunting grounds and forests and where Alfred fought the Danes. The village of Chippenham was said to be a gift, bequeathed from King Alfred to his daughter Elfrida. It was also where Robert found himself with a slip of paper in his hand and of the address of one Mary Hawkins on a cold Christmas day.

3

The beauty of the girl that answered the door even nonplussed Robert. "I'm sorry," she said, "We have no vacancies. We are full over Christmas."

"Yes! I see," he said, referring to the sign that hung from the boarding house, "It's not that......Mary?" The girl eyed him curiously.

"Mary Hawkins? Are you she?"

"I am. And what business may that be of you?"

"I'm...."

"You're Robert," she said, "Yes! You're Robert."

"I am! I knew....."

"Henry Cole off course."

"Yes!" he said, his hands clutching his hat.

"Who is it dear?" a voice called out almost melodic.

"A friend of Henry Cole. From Waterloo." A beaming friendly face appeared behind Mary, obvious to see where some of her beauty had come from at least. "Well bring him in dear. Don't let him stand there and catch his death. Bring him in."

"I'm just passing through and thought I'd pay my regards for Henry."

"Well you'll pay them in here young man. We can't have a fine soldier boy passing by without at least a cup of tea and our heartfelt thanks. Come in. Mary! Make the boy feel welcome. Make the tea."

He sat on a chair, fireside. Its warmth started to ease the feeling of weariness around the bones.

"Take your coat?" Mary asked. Robert slipped it off and for the first time Mary noticed the scarring on the side of the head and the neck.

"Look at you," Mary's mother said, "Skin and bones."

"Army cooking," Robert said in defense.

"And they say it marches on its stomach. You won't be leaving her until there's some broth and homemade scones inside you."

"But...."

"No buts my man."

"It's Christmas!"

"All the more reason to be charitable isn't it?" A cup of warm tea was soon placed in his hands.

"So you came straight here?"

"No not really! I took Henry's belongings to his parents."

"That would have been an interesting meeting."

"Yes!"

"Oh! A diplomat as well."

"So what reception did Sir Henry and Lady Cole gives you? Bet you didn't score a cup of tea there!"

"Mother let up on the poor man," Mary said, "Forgive her! She gets a little ..."

"Yes? What dear?"

"Lovable! I was going to say lovable."

"They were strange to say the least. Perhaps strange is not the word. Aloof! Distant!"

"That's them to a tee," her mother continued, "Sometimes I think that young Henry was born to the wrong side of the blanket in that household."

"Mother!"

"All right! I'm going."

"Good," Mary said playfully.

"And of course you'll stay for dinner?" It was a statement not a question.

"I can't....."

"Course you can. It'll be too late to travel on anyhow soon and I won't have you sleeping in a cold empty room this Christmas night...."

"Please I want to be no trouble."

"The only trouble there will be if you decide to leave here young man."

"Mother!"

"All right! I'm going. Excuse me, dinner to prepare."

Robert took a sip of tea and relaxed in the softness of the chair and the warmth of a roaring fire. But his eyes kept returning to Mary. The silence was a most serene peacefulness after the barrage.

"I'm sorry for your loss." She looked up a little surprised.

"Henry I mean."

"Oh yes," she said, "We had been close for years. Now tell me about yourself Robert Porter."

4

"And you are from?"

"Herefordshire."

"Then you've still a ways to go. You will stay here we insist," Mary said.

"But you are full?"

"Not full enough to find a space for a friend. You can have my bed if need be...." Robert was quite stunned by this. "I'll be sleepin' in Mother's room on the couch."

"No! No! I insist. The floor would do grandly thanks. After all that time in the Army even a floor is a welcome relief." And so Robert started to tell his story, one he had to repeat over dinner when Mary's father returned from his work where he supervised stone and quarry cutters.

"I met Henry just after I enlisted. They gave us a musket each and took us to a musketry range. He was crack shot. Said he used to go hunting a lot. I was pretty terrible to start with. He just sided up next to me and said "Looks as if you'll need someone to watch over you to keep your head from being blown off."

I just grinned at him and said "Lousy I may be. But I can see the shot coming and I know when to duck so I keep my head."

"Well I definitely need you then. Henry," he said in introduction, "Henry Cole." And so a friendship developed. He shot so well they were going to shift him out to the sharp shooters and then he started missing them.

"The targets!" the officer barked at him.

"Oh! Those wooden things. I was aiming at the turkeys in the bush." I told them how he talked about the Hawkins.

"We were great friends," Mary's mother interjected, "We lived on their estate. Harold here was supervising the building of the castle and the family home; I was a governess, teaching young Henry. Mary and he were such great mates!"

"So what happened to you....at Waterloo?"

"After Henry died, the battle, I had no will to fight. Oh I marched with them, advanced and shot and did what was required but the scale of death that followed the charge I was quite ill."

"And you were wounded young man?" Harold asked.

"A lance to the side where I am scarred, a shrapnel shot from French artillery some time after Henry died. It struck me here..." he pointed to his head, "And down here." He pulled the collar away from his neck.

"And here it is December and you have only just arrived home?"

"My wounds weren't as bad as many and then they found out that I, or that my father is a coachbuilder. There were so many damaged carriages, gun mountings that needed repair I was co-opted into the Engineers. I stayed on for a number of months fixing, repairing......They were dubious of the Prussians still. I think they thought they may try to take revenge upon the French and rape the country side. Wellington kept vigil upon them and wanted as many cannon and transport wagons available as he could get. And now here I am!"

"So are you heading back to Herefordshire did you say? To your father's business?"

"To Herefordshire yes, to see the family. But my parents now have a Coach station.....36 stables, coaches and he repairs what he can for the locals."

"Well then what is it for you?" Mary asked.

"Honestly I don't know. I was offered a position in a gun powder shot mill but I want nothing to do with war or anything like that."

"Well whatever you do I'm sure it'll be for the best. Now who's for dessert?" Mother asked.

5

As was the way, the gentlemen retired to a drawing room, the women toiling on the dinner's aftermath. "Care for a brandy?"

"No thanks Sir if you don't mind?" Robert answered Harold.

"Not at all. All the more for me hey? Not a drinker?"

"Only the once Sir."

"Please call me Harold. Keep your Sirs for the Coles."

"All right Si.... Harold."

"Even Harry, it matters not. The drink?"

"Only imbibed the once. After that day at Waterloo. Sarge ... Sergeant Grummond appeared with what he called the countryside's finest. Maybe it was. It hardly was the palette of experience."

"And?"

"The more I drank to forget, the more I remembered, the more I was sick, during and the day after so I bit the bullet so to speak." Harold held the glass all the time in readiness before a quietly spoken "Quite so!" He held the glass aloft. "Here's to memories best forgotten" The glass emptied into his lips and ahhhed a sigh of satisfaction.

"A brandy! My nightly piece of joy," he said, "The navy has their rum but we Wiltshire men Robert, and the Moonrakers have our brandy. You've heard the term have you?"

"Aye!"

"Happened not far from here you know. Smugglers bringing in illicit contraband brandy are alerted that the Excise men are neigh. Panic? Did they not? No siree! We ain't so stupid. Dump it all into the pond and when the Excise men arrive they asked what they were doing? Standing there they were, rakes in hand, running them through the water.

"Why raking the cheese?" they say and point to the moon's reflection upon the pond. The officials just shook their head and went away thinking what fools they were. Beats prison. Here's to the Moonrakers my boy. We ain't so stupid."

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Excerpted from The Path of the Hawk by Jeff Townsend. Copyright © 2014 Jeff Townsend. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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