The advancing Spanish army looked huge as it advanced across the low fields and dykes of the United Provinces. The army of France, along with her small contingent of local allies, had to stop the Spaniards here or they would have a clear run straight to the border and the Low Countries would once again be under foreign rulership. Cannons belched smoke and fire, and the first roundshot began to throw men down in the opening salvoes of the battle. An hour later, the situation was nowhere near as clear-cut. The Frontier Brigade was holding the centre as the Second Brigade attempted to outflank the enemy to the left, with a confused cavalry skirmish swirling on the right. The Spanish, however, had found a weakness in the line and a column of troops was threatening to break through and split the two major French Brigades as Major d'Alembert looked on from the brigade reserve position. He turned to his men and addressed them: "Here's your chance, mes braves! If the dagoes break through here, the day could well be lost. The first and second Frontier Regiments are having a bad time, and we are going to save the day again! For God, Le Roi and France!" With that, he spurred his horse forward into a walk and, followed by his men, advanced on the Spanish flank. ******************************* Clouds of choking, yellowish smoke still floated across the battlefield as the soldiers rejoined their units, powder-blackened faces showing tired grins of relief that they, at least, had survived. The officers watched the last of the Spaniards retire from the field, scattering back in retreat towards their garrisoned town some ten miles behind the lines. Captain d'Emsay swigged water from his canteen, then paled as he saw the party of sergeants walking slowly out of the haze carrying a body on a makeshift stretcher. "Ah, mon Dieu, non!" he muttered, closing his eyes for a moment as if to deny the evidence, then he flung himself down from his saddle and ran over to the approaching men with their burden. Looking down at the face of his commanding officer, he took in the pallour of the Major's complexion as well as the neat hole in his chest, surrounded by a slowly spreading wet stain. D'Alembert looked up and smiled through crimson-stained teeth, tiny bubbles of blood frothing at his lips with each laboured breath. "Did we win, Theo?" he asked croakily. "Oui, Michel. We won. The battalion broke that column as if it were made of finest crystal, and as they scattered they took the rest of the Spanish with them. We own the field, sir, and the General sends his regards and would like to congratulate you himself," replied d'Emsay. The reply fell on deaf ears, however; the Major's eyes were already glazed over, having gone on to receive his reward from a higher power than a mere general or king. One of the sergeants carrying the body spoke up: "It was his duelling wound, sir. He was fighting from horseback and got dragged down by three soldiers. Pricked one of them as easy as you like with his sword, but when he lunged at the second, his leg gave way and he fell over. Dago shot him, neat as a rabbit while he was trying to get up again. Cursed shame." d'Emsay wiped his eyes and sighed, "May France rue this day, for she has lost a truly brave and skilful man. I had better write to the Colonel, letting him know what has happened. And just as I was getting used to Major d'Alembert! It is true what they say about the brave dying young..."
