Sergeant Pierre survived. Although he had charged at the very front with his lance and was a member of the Death Platoon, luck had been on his side: he had speared two enemies in succession during the charge, then abandoned his lance amid the enemy ranks and swung his bastard sword, leading the cavalry out of the encirclement.
"Charge, charge, charge!"
The old captain, Bertrand, who had also survived, shouted feverishly. Once again, he charged at the front, kicking his exhausted horse hard in the belly, wringing the last reserves of life from the mount he had always cherished as he raced toward the trench a few hundred paces ahead.
They drew closer. A dense barrage of gunfire erupted ahead, and gunsmoke rose to blot out the sky.
Pierre could feel clammy cold sweat trickling down the lining of his padded coat.
This was their second full-speed charge. He could feel weakness in the strides of his beloved horse, which had just carried him through the enemy ranks. Enemy dish-shaped steel helmets bobbed behind the trench, and the volleys of flintlocks sounded like the millstones of hell grinding bones to dust.
"Heads down!"
Bertrand's hoarse shout was torn apart by bullets.
The cavalryman to Pierre's left suddenly toppled backward like a snapped flagpole, while his horse galloped on with an empty saddle.
He could smell fresh blood drifting through the gunsmoke, mixed with the sour stink of horse dung that assaulted his nostrils. The web of his right hand had torn during the previous charge, and gripping his sword now felt like clutching a red-hot iron rod.
Exhausted though it was, Pierre's beloved horse seemed to recognize the danger and still raced forward as fast as lightning.
The barbed wire had been drawn aside only halfway before the work stopped,