The Brunswickers on the left are scattered. Cleeves and Lloyd have been forced to abandon their guns: the British artillery is silenced and the chasseurs of Michel hold the extreme edge of the upland, and turn a deadly fusillade upon Colin Halkett's brigade already attacked by Milhaud and his guards and now severely shaken.
"See the English General!" cries Duchaud to his cuirassiers, "he is between two fires. He cannot escape."
No! he cannot but he seizes the colours of the 33rd whose young lieutenant has just fallen, and who threaten to yield under the devastating cross-fire: he brandishes the tattered colours, high up above his head--as high as he can hold them--he calls to his men to rally, and then falls grievously wounded.
But his guards have rallied. They stand firm now, and Duchaud, chewing his grey moustache, murmurs his appreciation of so gallant a foe.
"That side will win," he mutters, "who can best keep on killing."
Maitland's brigade of guards had been crouching in the corn--crouching--waiting for the order to charge--red-coated lions in the ripening corn--ready to spring at the word.
And Death the harvester in chief stands by with his scythe ready for the mowing.
It is Maitland and his gallant brigade of guards--out of the corn they rise and front the three battalions of Michel's chasseurs who were the first to reach the highest point of the hill. They fire and Death with his scythe has laid three hundred low. The tricolour flag is riddled with grapeshot and Général Michel has fallen.
Then indeed the mighty wave of steel can advance no longer: for it is confronted with an impenetrable wall--a wall of living, palpitating, heroic men--men who for hours have stood their ground and fought for the honour of Britain and of her flag--men who with set teeth and grim determination were ready to sell their lives dearly if lives were to be sold--men in fact who have had their orders to hold out to the last man and who are going to obey those orders now.
"Up, guards, and at them," and surprised, bewildered, staggered, the chasseurs pause: three hundred of their comrades lie dead or dying on the ground. They pause: their ranks are broken: with his last dying sigh brave Général Michel tries to rally them. But he breathes his last ere he succeeds: his second in command loses his head. He should have ordered a bayonet charge--sudden, swift and sure--against that red wall that rushes at them with such staggering power: but he too tries to rally his men, to reform their ranks--how can they re-form as for parade under the deadly fire of the British guards?