The massive hooves of the horses flattened the stalks of grain into the muddy ground as the cuirassiers moved inexorably up the slope. Seeing the front line of the square waver, Michael moved swiftly forward from his position in the center of the square. "Stand firm!" he shouted. "Horses won't charge directly at a square, and we have more guns than they do. Hold your fire until I give the word. Then aim for the horses!"

The oncoming riders were within forty paces when Michael ordered, "Ready. Level. Fire!"

His front rank discharged their muskets in a deafening blast. There was a shriek of wounded horses and a weird, metallic rattle like hailstones as balls ricocheted from the steel breastplates. Half a dozen horses and their riders fell, forcing those behind to swerve to the sides.

As his first rank reloaded, Michael gave the order for the second rank to fire. The ragged salvo brought more attackers down. In spite of the furious efforts of the riders, the horses sheered away, flowing around the square, which brought them under fire from the muskets on the flanks.

The cavalrymen churned chaotically around the square, firing their pistols and being fired on in return. Finally seeing the futility of the maneuver, their commander ordered a retreat.

The horses were cantering down the slope when a fallen rider called desperately for help. One of his comrades wheeled and came back. As he caught his friend's hand to pull him onto his mount, two British soldiers raised their muskets and took aim.

"No!" Michael barked. "Don't kill a brave man for helping his friend!"

After a startled moment, the men nodded and lowered their weapons. Courage deserved respect even in the enemy.

During the lull that followed, Michael scanned the field with his spyglass. He could see little beyond the neighboring squares, but it sounded as if the French cavalry was attacking along a wide section of the allied lines.

A shout warned that the cuirassiers were returning. Michael said wryly, "Enjoy the cavalry charges, gentlemen. They're a lot less dangerous than the cannonade."

Laughter rippled around the square. This time the firing was steadier. A barrier of dead or wounded horses began to build around the square, making it harder for the riders to approach.

Michael was moving toward the left side of the square, which was under the heaviest fire, when a ball struck him in the left arm. The impact spun him around and knocked him to the ground.

Captain Graham rushed over to him. "Are you hurt, sir?"

Dazedly Michael pushed himself to a sitting position. A wave of pain almost caused him to black out. When he saw the alarmed expressions around him, he forced himself to his feet. "It's not serious," he said tightly. "Get someone over here to bandage it."

The regimental surgeon had been killed and his assistants seriously wounded, so a corporal who had been a barber was doing what he could for injuries. After tightly binding the wound and fashioning a sling, the corporal offered a canteen. "Have a drink of this, sir, but slowly."

Heeding the warning, Michael took a swallow from the canteen. It contained straight gin. His eyes watered, but the spirits certainly distracted him from the pain in his arm. "Thanks, Symms. Generous of you to share your medicine."

Symms grimaced as he closed the canteen. "Need to keep you fit, sir, 'cause we're running short of officers."

The cavalry withdrew while Michael was being tended. Though the 105th had stood fast, injuries were thinning the ranks. Michael gave the order for the square to close up, and prepared for the next attack.

Catherine went early to work in the hospital tent. In midafternoon, she took a short break, carrying a glass of water to Ian Kinlock's operating table. A canvas wall separated it from the pallets of the wounded men. He was also taking a break, so she handed him the water, saying, "Perhaps the armies haven't engaged yet, Ian. There's no sound of firing today."

He swallowed deeply, then shook his head. "Wind's from the wrong direction. Anything could be happening, and probably is."

They both fell silent. Nearby, a church bell rang. Catherine said soberly, "I'd forgotten that today is Sunday. A bad day for a battle."

"They're all bad days." He wiped the sweat from his face, then said to the orderlies, "Bring the next one."

Catherine returned to work, giving water and changing dressings. But though she had a smile and a soft word for everyone, part of her heart was with the men who were fighting, and perhaps dying, only a few miles away.

The cavalry attacks swirled in again and again, like waves breaking against the rocks. Michael had lost track of the number. Ten? Twelve? But the regiment had gained confidence. As the third assault had lumbered up the hill, he'd heard a North Country voice drawl, "Here come those damned fools again."

The current attack was the worst. The cuirassiers had been circling for most of an hour, firing their pistols, brandishing their sabers, and doing their best to break the allied squares. They failed. Not only were they outgunned, but their horses continued to shy away from the British bayonets and muskets.

The 105th stood as firmly as if they were rooted to the soil. Wellington had taken heed of Michael's words the night of the ball and positioned the regiment between veterans. To the left was the British 73rd Infantry, to the right Hanoverians of the King's German Legion, who had fought with honor in the Peninsula. Michael's men had a fierce determination to prove themselves equals to their neighbors, and they were succeeding.

A ragged shout went up behind Michael. Hearing disaster in the cry, he whirled and saw a dying horse crash into one edge of the square. The beast screamed and fell thrashing, knocking down a swath of British soldiers and tearing a hole in the line.

Seeing their chance, other cuirassiers drove their horses toward the gap. Michael swore furiously, for the freak accident was virtually the only way that cavalry could break a square. Already the line was crumbling as panicky soldiers scrambled away from the massive charging horses.

He dashed forward to rally his men. When a terrified youth with a powder-blackened face tried to bolt past him, Michael struck him with the flat of his sword. "Stand and fight like a man, goddammit! Running is the quickest way to die!"

The terror in the boy's eyes abated and he turned back, raising his musket with trembling hands. The other surviving officers and several sergeants also moved in to prevent the square from collapsing. A vicious struggle began as the British tried to force back the French cavalrymen.

For Michael, time slowed, turning the hand-to-hand combat into an unearthly dance. The leisurely tempo meant he could see and exploit every enemy error. A damned nuisance that his left arm was unusable, but the lack did not seriously impede him. A cuirassier slashed at him wildly with his saber. Michael easily turned the stroke aside with his sword. In the same fluid, rising motion, he buried his blade in the precise center of the Frenchman's throat.

Without pause he wrenched his sword away and dodged a horse that was about to run him down. He dropped beneath the level of the rider's blade and severed the horse's right front tendon, crippling it. The rider was hurled to the ground and bayoneted by a burly Irish soldier.

A bellowing cuirassier drove straight for the company colors, determined to seize one. The six-foot flags were a regiment's heart and spirit, and losing one in battle would be an irreparable source of shame.

Seeing the danger, Tom Hussey and his two color sergeants rushed the Union Jack to safety. The guardians of the blue regimental flag were less fortunate. One sergeant was already down. The other raised the pike that was his badge of office. He was struck by a shot from the cuirassier's pistol before he could use the pike, leaving the ensign and his banner undefended.

The ensign, Gray, tried to protect the standard, but the Frenchman rode him down and seized the staff of the flag in one hand. With a hoarse shout of triumph, he spurred his mount to escape the square.

Blood rage swept through Michael at the sight. He dropped his sword and threw himself at the charging horse. His left arm was useless, but he managed to grab the staff with his right hand. The sharp yank almost dragged his arm from its socket. He hung on grimly, his weight slowing the cuirassier.

Seeing that Michael was utterly defenseless, the Frenchman jerked his saber up, slicing his assailant's ribs. He was preparing to deliver a lethal blow when the wounded color sergeant lurched to his feet and drove his pike through the armhole of the breastplate, spitting the Frenchman. Michael dizzily clung to the staff as the rider's body fell past him.

Chest heaving, he scanned the square and saw that the 105th's savage defense had closed the gap. Two cuirassiers were trapped inside. Neither survived to return to his own lines.

The wounded sergeant and bruised ensign reclaimed the color, leaving Michael to endure the bandaging of his ribs. Though he had not felt pain during the white heat of action, it exploded with full force when the danger had past.

His wounds were serious enough that no one would blame him if he retired from the field, but he daren't leave. No other officer had a fraction of his experience. Graham, next in line for command, was brave, but he had come from a county militia regiment and seen no fighting before today. If Michael did not stay, God only knew what would happen during the next crisis.