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| The fight at Hougoumont |
So, today I hit 26528 words. Since winning NaNo involves completing 50k words, I'm over halfway done with more than half of the month left! In honor of that, please enjoy an excerpt from the novel! (Please note that it's unedited, and parts are most obviously flawed. I offer it to show you a glimpse into the creatice process.)
Aiden Rowe, an Irish exile fighting for France at the Battle of Waterloo, repels British enemies along the walls of Hougoumont, finally repaying them for the murder of his parents years before:
I ducked again as yet another musket ball clipped the makeshift parapet. A infantryman next to me shoved me lower, swearing something about staff officers under his breath. Minutes before, he'd tackled me, saving me from a sharpshooter's deadly ball, so I didn't chastise him now.
"Bloody English," I said.
He grunted. "Whatever else they are, they're bloody good, and you'd best remember that sir. You can't stick your head around without asking for it to be shot off. Please be careful."
He grunted. "Whatever else they are, they're bloody good, and you'd best remember that sir. You can't stick your head around without asking for it to be shot off. Please be careful."
I smiled at the irony; officers were the ones supposed to mother their men. He seemed a nice fellow though, so I offered my hand. The other shook it, but his eyes kept shifting away from Hougomont's walls into the trees surrounding our newfound bastion. We'd captured the farmhouse but at a twofold terrible cost. First, we'd lost numerous men in the assault. Wellington, it turned out, had shifted the Coldstream Guards to defend the building. These men, crack troops every one of them, had fought and clawed against every attempt to dislodge them. By sheer willpower, and the aid of a couple of light artillery pieces, the gates to the farm had been bashed down.
We'd lost our share, but it was the British that suffered the most. I looked around. Blood coated the steps leading into the farm's courtyard, and bodies, some wounded and writhing, waited below. Of course, they were both French and English, but once our men had smashed their way through the defenses, no quarter was given. The effects of bloodbath that ensued lay about me now.
I'd gotten mixed up in the mess when the Emperor sent me to check on the progress of his brother. Even as I rode through the fields of death once more, Jerome Bonaparte was being carted away, his arm broken and bleeding from an errant shot. I'd reached the farm only just ahead of a renewed English assault to retake the farm. Violet and I had ducked inside, and my mare stamped around in the courtyard below; every hand was needed to defend the parapet. While my place was at the Emperor's side, to risk escape now was certain death. The English were swarming outside like sleighed lovers, and I'd do Napoleon no service if I was killed along the path back towards his vantage point.
Besides, the blood of my parents cried out for revenge.
Thanks to the new friend at my side, I'd been spared death. A little overeager, I'd raised my head above the courtyard's walls for only an instant. It had been enough to make me a target, and a quick shove was all that saved me from eternity.
"Here they come!" cried another voice down the wall. There was no more time for thought. Out of the blissful cover of trees surrounding the farm, men dashed, running pell-mell towards us.
A great roar of "Vive L'Empereur!" shook the very walls of Hougoumont before countless muskets split the air. For my part, I hoisted my own weapon, again raising myself above the wall. A burly sergeant, his arms clutching a makeshift ladder, was barreling forward like some enraged bull.
I, his matador, put him down.
Unfortunately for his comrades, his weight sagged forward, and the ladder was dropped. The thick man stumbled into the mud, blood dripping from his chest like falling tears, and the ladder fell beneath him. The other men, who'd helped shoulder the load moments before, were brought to a standstill. Their stillness brought their own ruin, as Frenchmen picked off these easy targets, cluttering the ground with their bodies.
"Well done sir!" My newfound friend clapped me on the back, a grim grin flowing along his face. "Those bastards won't be rising anytime-"
I had turned to look at him while he spoke, but the poor devil never finished. Midsentence, his face disintegrated into a scarlet wash, his head snapping backwards with an audible jerk. Lifeless, the man tumbled backwards and fell, his arms splayed, outstretched like a forgotten martyr. Although I could not help, I watched him plunge towards that sodden ground. Even as I stared, he disappeared into the mass of bodies that already lay within, never again to rise.
Duty, as always, prevented horror. If men were allowed to actually think, to philosophize during battle, there would few enough victories. Without pausing to mourn the man's death, I dropped powder into my musket, rammed the ball home, finished the loading process, and heaved the weapon upwards once more.
By now, the English had begun to climb the walls; others carried roughhewn ladders as well. Still more men battered at the farm's gate, their cries filling the air. Frenchmen had gone to meet them, and humanity was abandoned in the vicious hand to hand struggle. From my vantage point, I saw more than one man from either side sheath a bayonet before dropping to the soil.
"Help! Help me!" screamed a voice to my right. I snapped my eyes about, searching for the cry. I found it with a boy, his face too young, too pure for war. Doubtless, he'd only just been called up, a new batch of the Marie-Louises, the term for the boy soldiers which had filled the ranks since Russia. This poor lad had, like those at the gate, been wounded by the sharp steel of British bayonet. The offending enemy was clawing his way onto the parapet, his legs supported by one of the rickety ladders.
In his fury to gain purchase on the wall, the Englishman was dragging the wounded, terrified boy back. The lad was about to flung over the wall to be replaced by the enemy. Without thinking, I raised my weapon and danced a finger along the trigger. The recoil shook my arm, but the results were instant. The Englishman bellowed a cry of enraged pain before he disappeared back over the wall, collapsing downwards and dragging the ladder with him. Miraculously, he didn't managed to pull the wounded boy as well.
Instead, the lad collapsed, bleeding, onto the parapet. My heart racing, I sprinted over to him. Although my foot slipped through something, blood or grime I wasn't sure, I arrived without calamity. Even in the midst of battle, I knelt, my hands grabbing his shoulders.
He stared at me, his eyes flickering back and forth, his blood staining my coat. "Am I..." he gasped. I wouldn't answer him. Of course he was dying. In the midst of combat, I only held him. A boy, with no place on the battlefield, a boy hardly younger than myself lay in my arms. That was the only comfort I could offer, and when he did slip through that gate, disappearing into the eternity, all I could do was lay him down and shut his lightless eyes.
This was glory; this was conquest: the bleeding out of a child soldier.
Around me, men fought like animals over the parapet, and more than one soldier was flung from the heights into the melee below. My fingers moved on their own as I reloaded and shot yet another redcoat. Although I hated them for what they stood for, for what they'd done to my family, they were still men, and the swelling of their eyes at the moment of death was almost too much to bear.
