‘Are my dancing days over?’ That was the first thought that had passed through his mind as the musket ball tore into his thigh. He couldn’t stop his horse as it galloped alongside the others of the Household Brigade. They’d thundered down the slope with their sabres drawn, across the sunken road and as the smoke and the haze cleared they saw and and attacked the flank of the advancing French Corps.
The charge had lost its momentum as they engaged the enemy, who had quickly formed themselves into defensive squares to fend off the cavalry, and opened up with volley fire, and it was then when he was hit. As the adrenaline wore off and the shock set in, Lord Valentine Day, eldest son of the Earl of Luxborough, Lieutenant in the Second Squadron, The 1st Life Guards, dropped his reins and slumped forward in his saddle.
It was at that moment when the French Lancers hit them from their left side and the cavalry charge now descended into absolute chaos. The thunder of the hooves, the noise of the guns, the beating of the French drums, the screams from the wounded, now combined with the smoke from the artillery and muskets now obscuring the visibility on the battlefield, and all added to the absolute confusion, and the men and horses of the Household Cavalry Brigade just milled around, now easy prey to the enemy’s guns and Lancers.
The French squares were on their right, the charging enemy lancers to their left, and with the advancing British Columns tight behind, and the French guns in front of them, the Cavalry Brigade had little room to manoeuvre or even retreat, but to survive, retreat they must.
One of the troopers, a sergeant from his own Cavalry squadron grabbed his reins and now attempted to lead Valentine’s horse away from the battlefield and help the wounded officer back to the British line. As the trooper steadied his horse and handed back his reins, he simply said to Valentine Day, ‘My Lord, hold the reigns tight in your left hand your sabre in the right,’ and pointing northward, the trooper said ‘just head for the ridge behind that nearest farm,’ and smacking the horse’s rump he sent the wounded Valentine Day on his way back towards the British lines.
Lord Valentine Day had purchased his first Commission when he was 16 and now aged 22 he was a seasoned veteran, and had fought with Wellington in the Peninsular Campaign; and now his Regiment had followed the Duke to this battlefield, here at Mont-Saint-Jean, just outside Brussels.
Three nights ago he had danced throughout the night at the Duchess of Richmond’s Ball and as one of England’s most eligible bachelors there had been no shortage of dance partners, and ‘Oh he so loved to dance,’ and the Duchess’ ball before today’s battle had been absolute heaven, and he had laughed and danced the night away.
At a canter his horse took him safely back to the British Lines, joining other retreating members of the Brigade, and throughout this last ride his main thoughts were ‘will I lose my leg, will I be able to ride, and are my dancing days truly over?’
Lieutenant The Lord Valentine Day arrived at the ridge where Wellington’s troops were arrayed before him on the reverse slope, and his horse now followed the lines of those wounded troops heading back towards the Field Hospital based at the Coaching Inn of Mont-Saint-Jean.
The Inn was crowded with the dead, the dying, and the wounded; and Lord Valentine with help and with some difficulty finally dismounted, and lying outside the Inn patiently waited to be seen; the sounds of the battle, the booming of the cannon, the rattle of musket fire all seemed to be getting very, very close.
One of the many Regimental Bandsmen who were looking after and tending to the wounded, give him a mug of Rum and Laudanum to ease the pain, and Lord Valentine continued to patiently wait, the pain of his wound somewhat eased by the rum mixture.
After a delay the attending surgeon who finally examined him and then forcefully probed his wound, said, ‘It’ll do My Lord, by God it’ll do; a simple through and through musket ball wound, looks worse than it is, happily no bones broken,’ and added with a grin ‘no need to cut the leg off, well not today anyway,’ as Lord Valentine asked ‘will I be able to dance again?’
The surgeon replied with a wry smile, ‘don’t you worry My Lord you’ll live to fight and ride, and of course dance another day.’
Smiling to himself, Valentine took a further mixture of the Rum and Laudanum for his pain and drifted off to sleep. He awoke with a start, dusk was falling and the battlefield was now strangely quiet, there were no sounds of canon or musket fire, no thunder of hooves from the repeated Cavalry charges; and just then a trooper from his cavalry squadron who had ridden up to the Inn and now recognising Lord Valentine leaned down from his horse saying, ‘My Lord The Colonel, His Grace the Earl presents his compliments and wishes to inform you that the Duke has prevailed, the French are defeated, Boney has fled, and our game is now done.’
About the author
henry is a retired surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group. He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site
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