Chapter Four, The First Last Stand

There were maybe a hundred or so men assembled there, once the initial scramble to discover what was going on had subsided.  Their rugged, dirty faces were all turned to look in our direction, and no wonder!  A rare sight we must have looked – Lord George Paget, with all his power and authority, hoisting up one side of what essentially appeared to be a dead body, so feebly I hung there.  And on my other side, the recovering Lieutenant Harvey, looking on the whole not very much better than I did.  Indeed, we must have appeared a very peculiar spectacle!  Then George Paget spoke out, his great voice booming in through the crowd.  “Those who stand here today, every one of you has, I know, seen and experienced more horrors and hardships than probably any other man in England who was not here.  You all saw friends fall to those guns and blades, and you all saw the corpses lining the valley, felt Death hovering in the air!  So I know you will understand, gentlemen, how delighted, nay, ecstatic it makes me feel to be able to present to you this day a miracle!  You all know Lieutenant Harvey here, and it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to his comrade-in-arms and, I am sure, close friend, George Montgomery!  An extraordinary man, with an even more unbelievable tale – but it is all-too true!  Now I will allow him to tell it to you, if he feels able, for I’m sure he’ll tell it much better than I could.”  I nodded at the curious men who were eyeing me up sceptically, cleared my throat, and began.  I told the story from beginning to end, pausing for the gasps of shock and cheers at my alleged disregard for my own safety, but letting slip every now and then how fragile my state truly was, drawing moans of sympathy and admiring glances from the men as I continued my narration through a barrage of coughing and wheezing, my leg frequently giving way beneath me with each increasingly excruciating bout of pain.

By the end of my account, I was exhausted, both in body and in soul.  It had been an emotional turmoil, reliving every horror and agony that I had felt that day, my body aching at the memory of each knock, my mind recoiling at the images that poured forth, so powerfully that it was all I could do to remain in the present, clinging to William and Lord George ever more tightly, as if to save myself from drowning in the tide of memories that threatened at any moment to overwhelm me.  But at last I fell silent, and the crowd sat there in hushed awe, watching me with what I suppose you would describe as a kind of reverence.  One man raised a hand after a moment had passed, and called out: “How old are you, son?”  “Seventeen,” came my reply.  This triggered a round of murmuring amongst the other men, and though I only caught a few words, I believe I understood the gist of what they were saying.  “Just seventeen?” asked another man, or perhaps it was the same one.  “Why, then you’re barely more than a boy!”

“A boy he may appear, but I assure you that it was a man who saved my life on that battlefield!” This was William, his voice surprisingly strong as he spoke over the crowd.  “This is a man, gentlemen, who we can be truly proud of – one who can stand tall and say with pride that he stood firm and defended England’s honour!”