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‘Gone,’ said Gideon tersely. ‘To get reinforcements, I hope.’
Randall nodded. ‘We have to keep the damned French at bay while the men get those guns away.’
‘I am with you, Brother. We’ll have to stop them here.’ Gideon drew his sword. ‘Semper laurifer!’
They brought their horses side by side in the entrance to the street, ready to prevent the French from passing them. In the square the hussars fought bravely, but every now and again a group of chasseurs would break away and surge towards the artillery. Randall and Gideon held them back while behind them the men worked swiftly, manoeuvring the gun carriages and horses. Randall fought mechanically, his mind racing. His dress sword handled well, although he had never used it in battle before. He had noticed that Gideon’s sword was not the usual curved sabre carried by a cavalry officer, but a straight blade. It took only a second, brief glance to tell him it was the Latymor sword. His blade, or rather, his grandfather’s. Randall blocked an attacking blow from a French chasseur and parried with a deadly thrust of his own. Had Mary somehow given it to Gideon? It made no sense. And why was Gideon commanding the artillery? Four more chasseurs were charging towards them: no time for anything now but to fight.
At last the guns were limbered up and retreating back the way they had come. And just in time, for the French chasseurs were making a dash for the street. Randall had lost sight of Gideon. He looked round to see his brother had dismounted to help a fallen bombardier to his feet. Randall shouted a warning as he saw Gideon’s horse trotting off behind the gun carriages. There was no time for more, the French charged upon Randall, who resisted furiously. The narrow street meant only a couple of chasseurs at a time could attack, but as quickly as he despatched one another would take his place. He held Pompey steady in the centre of the street and fought fiercely, but he could not keep them all back. At least two chasseurs swept past him, only to be brought down by Gideon who used his sword to deadly effect.
The French kept coming. Randall’s arm was tiring when he heard the clear, ringing sound of a bugle. Behind the remaining Frenchmen he saw the welcome sight of British cavalry bearing down upon them. His assailants turned to face this new threat and Randall allowed his aching arm to drop. The rain that had been threatening all day began to fall in a soft, silent drizzle.
Breathing heavily, Randall looked back to see the last of the gun carriages lumbering away into the distance. A couple of French horses followed them, their riders lying lifeless on the ground. He wheeled Pompey, looking for his brother. Gideon was kneeling on the road, his sword still in his hand, his head bowed. Randall threw himself from the saddle and ran up to him.
‘Easy, Gideon.’ He caught the boy as he keeled over, easing him on to the ground and keeping one arm around his shoulders as he ran a practised eye over his body. Randall’s mouth tightened into a thin line. Gideon’s left arm hung down uselessly, slashed almost to the bone, and dark stains were beginning to spread over his red coat, which was cut to shreds.
‘Did we save your guns, Justin?’
The words came out with difficulty, each word on a rasping breath.
‘Yes, we saved them, Gideon, thanks to you.’ Randall began to unfasten Gideon’s jacket, praying the sword wounds had not touched any vital organs.
‘Good. The men lost heart when Sheffield fell and Rawlins didn’t seem to know what to do.’ Gideon gave a faint laugh that ended in a gasp. ‘Not so easy as it seems, this soldiering.’
‘Indeed not. Try not to speak now.’ He eased open the tattered jacket. The shirt beneath it was crimson as Gideon’s life blood seeped away. Randall looked about him frantically. The artillery had disappeared and the cavalry had drawn the French back into the square to finish the fight. There was no one to come to his aid, but in his heart he knew from his brother’s rattling breath that he was beyond help.
‘It’s growing very dark,’ Gideon whispered.
‘It’s the rain,’ said Randall. ‘The clouds are very heavy.’
‘It did not work for me, your lucky charm.’ Gideon’s bloody right hand lifted the sword a few inches from the ground. ‘I took it. When I came to see you on Thursday. Hid it beneath my frock coat. Thought you’d not fight without it. Foolish of me, to think that.’
‘Yes. Damned foolish.’
Gideon dropped the sword and clutched at Randall’s sleeve. ‘I did it for Chalfont, Justin. Mama would never tell you, but she is getting old. She needs you to look after the estates now.’
‘I shall do so, Gideon. As soon as this is over.’ Randall felt the grip on his arm weaken and added urgently, ‘Stay with me, boy. We will get you to a doctor very soon.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ The voice was no more than a thread. ‘Damned bloody business, war.’
Randall did not reply. His throat felt thick and too clogged even to cough.
‘Justin, are you still there?’ Gideon’s eyes stared up sightlessly.
‘Yes. I am here.’
‘I didn’t do too badly, did I?’
‘You did well. I am proud of you, Brother.’
‘Good.’ The boy relaxed. Randall looked round again, cursing under his breath.
‘Where the devil is everyone?’
‘Too late for me.’ Gideon winced. ‘Tell Sarah I died well, Justin.’
Randall bit his lip, but even as he tried to find the words to reassure Gideon the life went out of the boy and his head dropped to one side, as if he had fallen asleep. There was a flash of lightning and thunder reverberated through the air. The drizzle turned to a downpour and washed the blood and grime from Gideon’s young face.
‘Don’t worry,’ Randall muttered. ‘I’ll tell her she can be very proud of you.’
