It's raining.
Rather hard, he thinks absently, because his fringe is plastered to his forehead, and his hair is thick and heavy with rainwater, and slick enough that the scarf holding back his hair is nearly slipping out.
French rains have never been like British rains; he knows this because the enemy soldiers always look so confused out there, seeing the grey clouds already beginning to brighten and the sky slowly swelling back into its lustrous blue. They are holding their swords, dripping with watery French blood, and their faces depict a stunned silence as they stare at the lightening heavens.
God is on his side today, he thinks, just as the cavalry comes to his rescue.