The Battle Dance: Waterloo

Dying Valour

Whizzing shells ripped holes in the roof and walls, scattering tile and brick fragments. Sir Felix Pollard was unsure whether the fire had spread from the haystacks or the bursts of projectiles. Perhaps it was a bit of both. MacDonnell had put him in charge of the light guards in the roof. Nobody was to escape. Pollard inserted his body into the doorway leading to the staircase and held a musket before him. The musket was for anyone unwilling to obey MacDonnell. Wounded guardsmen groaned on the floor.

The light guards got nervous once the shell had smashed the roof and the men could see the afternoon scare full of smoke from the building they were trapped inside. They plainly felt like prisoners. A few roof tiles fell in and Pollard ordered everyone out of reach of the burning wood. Flames curled over rafters and smoke smarted their eyes. The men on the floor tried to crawl to the entrance. Men from every angle begged Pollard to let them go. His supporting guards clustered to him and he feared a mutiny. A near section of roof collapsed and the blaze advanced along the boards.

"The floor is about to sink beneath our feet!"

Pollard knew not which guard had given out this cry. He only knew it was true and he had to evacuate the roof before it was too late. He stepped aside of the door.

"Out!"

And out they ran, throwing injured men across their shoulders, two guards grabbing hands and feet before bearing the men down together.

"Everyone must move as many of these poor men as you are able!" Pollard commanded, smoky tears streaking his cheeks. "I won't go until all is out. No one will be left to this fire!"

Ensigns and petty officers helped hurry the guardsmen until almost every wounded man was gone. A crashing echoed in Pollard's ears and flames leaped around his head. He darted into the small chamber for the stair well. Screams mingled with the roar and he paused on the step to look back.The door frame was full of flame. Pollard paused no longer.

"Their artillery smashed in the south gates," Dashwood fumed. "Again."

"Did any of the enemy enter?"

"Oh, no, we slammed it shut before the devils could act." Dashwood winked, weary as he was. "Of course the boards are battered up now."

Pollard saw the swinging and loose fragments of timber, the bent nails, the disheveled stack of logs, and the guard mounted against another break inside. Cannon tumbled and they covered their heads as the gardener's house showered stones into the courtyard. The two officers dashed up and discovered a smoking wreck of what had once been the old man's parlour.

"We need a guard here," Pollard said.

"Pollard." It was Wyndham. "MacDonnell wants you."

"Where is the colonel?"

"Garden," Wyndham said. "I shall accompany you there."

The strong brick wall of the formal garden had protected its picturesque beauty from rickettsial. Roses bloomed in the beds and fruit trees shaded the turf walks. MacDonnell clambered off the parapet that ringed the wall.

"Wounded out of the buildings?"

"I'm not sure," Wyndham said. "Many might still be in the cowsheds."

In the glow the burning farmstead was providing Pollard could see the Lt-Colonel's scowl of concern.

"The French won't attack now. They expect us to roast to a crisp. I want most of our men employed in evacuating the flaming structures!"

"You had a service for me, sir?" Pollard said.

"Yes, yes. I want you to ride to Lord Wellington, inform him of our situation, the burning buildings and our needs. We don't have enough rounds if the French decide to revive their assaults."