All For a Bit of Colored Ribbon

The morning of June 18, 1815, broke damp and heavy with the scent of churned mud and spent gunpowder. South of the quiet village of Waterloo, Belgium, two great ridges faced one another across a narrow valley, each bristling with men and iron. The ground, soaked by a night of rain, sucked at boots and wheels alike. The air hung with tension. The clouds were lifting, but thunder of a different kind would soon follow. On one side stood Napoleon Bonaparte, the Emperor returned from exile, mounted on a gray stallion and wrapped in the weight of old glory. On the other, the Duke of Wellington’s lines stood silent behind the rise, hidden from sight, dug into the earth like an English bulldog waiting for the right moment to bite. Cannons sat in mud, cavalry readied their sabers, and infantry braced to hold or die. The Battle of Waterloo was about to begin. By the end of the day, Europe would change forever.