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CHAPTER 15
Waterloo - Sunday,
June 18, 1815
It was eight o'clock
in the morning when the Emperor met with his marshals at the
La Caillou farmhouse south of the village of Waterloo. The plan
he outlined was simple. He would bombard the Allied line at Mont
St. Jean while making a demonstration - a diversionary attack
- against the strong point at Château de Hougoumont. Then,
a couple of hours later would come a major thrust from d'Erlon's
corps from the right. If all went well, he would roll up Wellington's
army while dividing it from the Prussians. To prevent any interference
from Blücher, Marshall Grouchy was dispatched with 33,000
men to finish the pounding the French had delivered to the Prussians
two days before at Ligny (against the advice of Chief of Staff
Marshal Nicolas Soult).
The Emperor needed
a simple plan. Time was not on his side. Yes, his Army of the
North had won a great victory at Ligny. He expected that Blücher
would fall back, perhaps into Prussia. But in case the Field
Marshal proved stubborn, the Emperor had to destroy the English.
The battle at Quatre Bras, also on the 15th, was inconclusive,
he had to admit. Marshal Michel Ney, "the bravest of the
brave", had lost a great opportunity to smash Wellington.
The Anlgo-Dutch had retreated to Mont St. Jean, between the French
and Waterloo. The Emperor hoped that Wellington would try to
make a stand there - the longer this campaign took, the greater
the chance that either the Prussians would recover or the other
Coalition members would get involved.
The heavy rains
the night before had made the battlefield wet and soggy, and
therefore difficult to move artillery and horses about. He would
need time for the field to dry before he attacked and crushed
the combined English and Dutch forces opposite. The canons would
open fire at 1130, which was the signal to attack the English
right. d'Erlon would be unleashed at about 1300 (1:00 PM), under
the command of Ney. The Emperor was unhappy with Ney, but the
men loved him - and after all, he would be here to keep an eye
on him. The Defender of the Revolution asked for comments.
Some of the marshals
looked uneasy. General Honoré Reille spoke up: "I
must tell you, Sire, that I consider the English infantry to
be impregnable." Soult added, "Sire, in straight fight
the English infantry c'est le diable (are the very devil)!"
Where did this defeatist
talk come from? The Emperor shot back: "Soult - because
you have been beaten by Wellington, you consider him a great
general. And now I tell you that Wellington is a bad general,
that the English are bad troops, and ce sera l'affaire d'un
déjuner (this will be a picnic)!" There was silence
in the room. "Return to your troops - I will review them
directly. We open fire at 1130."
Colonel Brandon
couldn't understand it. There was Bonaparte wasting daylight
reviewing his troops. He could hear the cries of "Vive
l'Empereur" drifting from the French lines at La Belle
Alliance a mile south of Mont St. Jean. Wellington and the entire
staff had thought the French would strike at dawn. Some dawn
- cloudy and misty, he reflected. At least it isn't storming
as it did throughout the night.
Major - now brevet
Lt. Colonel - Denny rode up (the staff had suffered at Quatre
Bras). "Quite a noise they're making, Colonel."
"Yes."
Brandon lowered his voice. "How are the troops taking it?"
"Mixed. The
veterans are shrugging it off. Our green troops and the Dutch
are far more nervous. As for the KGL (King's German Legion),
they're so stoic it's hard to tell." Denny looked out at
the enemy again through the light mist. "There are a bloody
lot of them; that is for certain."
"Yes, but they
can't see us." Wellington had fallen back to Mont St. Jean
for two reasons. First, because it was the Iron Duke's type of
battlefield. He had scouted it only a year ago. The ridge along
the Mont St. Jean road offered the reverse slope he had used
to such great effect in the Peninsular War. Only a few of the
troops were visible to the enemy (and the enemy's canon fire)
- the majority were placed downhill of the summit. They would
be brought forward only at the last instant. Enemy infantry and
cavalry would be forced to march uphill against a withering fire.
Of course, it only worked in defense, and if the enemy does not
flank the position - that is, does not attack from the side.
And the troops would have to have the discipline to wait while
the enemy marched toward them, cannonballs falling about them.
The second reason
was that Field Marshal Blücher had pledged to march three
whole corps today to join up with Wellington if the Duke would
offer battle to the French. The question on all the staff's lips
was: When would the Prussians get here?
"The Prince
is certainly ready for battle," offered Denny.
"Hmm…"
The young Prince of Orange had almost led the Allied troops to
disaster on Friday at Quatre Bras - only the timely intervention
of Wellington had preserved the stalemate. But too many of the
Belgium-Dutch troops had already quit the field, and the remainders
were suspect. That was why the majority of the 17,000 troops
at Hal, far to the West under Dutch Prince Frederick and Sir
Charles Colville, were not British. Wellington needed all the
dependable troops he could get. Still, only a third of the 67,000
men he had were British - and only half of them had seen Peninsular
service.
Brandon was nervous
about leaving so many men at Hal - if Bonaparte attacked in force
they could never get here in time. Yet "Beau" was convinced
that the French would try to turn his right flank and cut the
Allies off from Antwerp and the Channel. Besides, 80,000 Prussians
were supposed to be coming in from the East. Too much depends
upon the Prussians, thought Brandon.
Brandon observed
their position. The Anglo-Dutch line stretched three miles, from
Château de Hougoumont on the right eastward along the road
towards Wavre. The center was anchored by another strong point,
a farmhouse at La Haye Sainte, entrusted to crack KGL troops.
The left flank was left hanging, weak, because it was expected
that the Prussians would soon come. The heavy cavalry was stationed
in the center; the Light Dragoons were to the East. The French
were 1,300 yards to the South, on the ridge before La Belle Alliance.
A small battlefield that gave Bonaparte little room to maneuver.
Suddenly there were
gunshots from several groups of soldiers. "Never mind them,
Denny - some lads find it easier to clean their muskets by firing
them off. Come, let us rejoin the Duke."
George Wickham was
in the middle of a barrage of soldiers "cleaning" their
muskets, and his ears were ringing because of it. "Hewitt!
Tell those fools to at least point those muskets towards the
French!"
It had been a very
rough 72 hours for Wickham. Quatre Bras had been a fiasco. By
the time his forced-marched company had arrived, the battle was
over. His colonel, curious to see the enemy, had ridden up too
far and had gotten his fool head shot off. Ha! Darcy will
have to find another way to bedevil me now, thought Wickham,
before realizing that when it came to making life difficult for
him, Darcy was nothing but resourceful.
A quick rearranging
of officers had made George Wickham a brevet Major of Infantry,
in charge of a battalion. Captain Hewitt was now in charge of
his old company, and was not doing such a bad job of it. In fact,
being a major suited Wickham just fine. His job was to order
the captains about - they would have to deal with the
rank and file.
So Major George
Wickham and his new battalion marched back towards Brussels in
the pouring rain. They made camp at Mont St. Jean during the
worst of it but not everyone had tents. Wickham hated thunderstorms
and last night's had been a terror. The only thing that seemed
to be dry was the gunpowder. Which was a very good thing, he
considered as his eye scanned over the ridge opposite.
"Breakfast,
sir?" asked Hewitt as he held out a bowl of questionable
mush. At Wickham's look he added, "Might be the only meal
we get for awhile." Wickham took the proffered plate and
choked the gruel down.
As he ate, his eye
caught the sight of his commanding officer, Lt. General Sir Thomas
Picton riding by, still wearing his clothes from the Duchess
of Richmond's ball. Wickham recalled another incident from Friday:
As his men were
preparing to leave Quatre Bras, the newly-promoted major had
nearly bumbled into General Picton. To his amazement, Wickham
saw that the General was trying to hide the fact that he was
bleeding. "Sir," he had cried, "you are…"
"Shut your
goddamned mouth, Major!" ordered Picton in his usual gruff
manner. "Say nothing about this - you f***ing understand
me, sir?" He had stared Wickham right the eye.
Wickham had nodded.
Far be it from him to disobey such an order.
Major Wickham stirred
himself from his recollections - there was work to be done. Handing
the bowl to an aide, he cried, "Hewitt, prepare the men
for inspection!"
Hunsford, Kent
The Reverend William
Collins gravely intoned, "Let us turn to Psalm 144:
"Blessed
be the LORD my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and
my fingers to fight: my goodness, and my fortress; my high tower,
and my deliverer; my shield, and he in whom I trust; who subdueth
my people under me. "LORD, what is man, that thou takest
knowledge of him! Or the son of man, that thou makest account
of him!
"Man is
like to vanity: his days are as a shadow that passeth away.
"Bow thy
heavens, O LORD, and come down: touch the mountains, and they
shall smoke.
"Cast forth
lightning, and scatter them: shoot out thine arrows, and destroy
them.
"Send thine
hand from above; rid me, and deliver me out of great waters,
from the hand of strange children; whose mouth speaketh vanity,
and their right hand is a right hand of falsehood. "I will
sing a new song unto thee, O God: upon a psaltery and an instrument
of ten strings will I sing praises unto thee.
"It is he
that giveth salvation unto kings: who delivereth David his servant
from the hurtful sword. "Rid me, and deliver me from the
hand of strange children, whose mouth speaketh vanity, and their
right hand is a right hand of falsehood: that our sons may be
as plants grown up in their youth; that our daughters may be
as corner stones, polished after the similitude of a palace:
that our garners may be full, affording all manner of store;
that our sheep may bring forth thousands and ten thousands in
our streets: that our oxen may be strong to labor; that there
be no breaking in, nor going out; that there be no complaining
in our streets.
"Happy is
that people, that is in such a case: yea, happy is that people,
whose God is the LORD.
"And therefore,
let us all pray for our brave brothers, whither on land or sea,
who serve our most gracious Majesty George III - may the favor
of the Lord be with them. We ask this through Our Lord Jesus
Christ, who lives and reigns through the Holy Ghost, now and
forever. Amen."
An hour later, Lady
Anne, Lady Catherine and Mrs. Jenkinson were leaving the church.
To Lady Catherine's discomfort, Anne was making an effort to
speak to almost every family there. At one point a farming family
approached them.
"Good morning,
Mr. and Mrs. Clarke," greeted Anne.
"Good morn'
ta you, Lady Anne; an' ta to you, Lady Catherine," Mr. Clarke
said as he bowed, hat in hand. "I can't thank ya enough
for what you done for me an' my family; 'tis the savin' of us,
it is." To Lady Catherine's puzzlement, his comments were
directed at her. "If'n it wouldn't be too much of an imposition,
mightn't I ask you…my good wife - she's expectin' you see,
and it would be a great honor if would give your blessin' that
we might name her - if'n it be a girl - after your ladyship?"
Flabbergasted, Lady
Catherine could only nod.
"Thankee, your
ladyship. Would the Colonel object if'n we name him 'Richard'
if the baby be a boy, do ya think?"
Lady Anne smiled.
"He would be honored, sir."
The Clarkes expressed
their thanks again and left the party. Lady Catherine looked
at her daughter. "I…don't understand…the man seemed
to think that he was under some obligation to me…"
Anne gave her mother
a slight smile. "Richard let it be known throughout the
village that the actions he undertook were in your name,"
she said in a low voice.
"What?"
Lady Catherine looked about her. She saw that almost every face
had a grateful expression on it - directed at her. "You
mean that they all think I had something to do with all that?"
"Yes,"
replied Anne, with a hard look at her. "Richard has done
nothing to undercut your stature here at Hunsford."
It was only then
that Lady Catherine noticed they were not walking to their carriage.
"Anne, where are we going?"
"To dinner
- we dine at Hunsford Parsonage today." Before her mother
could protest she continued. "And not a word, Mama. You
must be on your best behavior - Charlotte has been looking forward
to this for so long. And you will like the Collins' children
- they are a delight, if a little bit noisy…"
Waterloo
Colonels Fitzwilliam
and Buford were seeing that their regiments were prepared. Their
position was on the extreme left wing, a mile and a half from
Wellington's position near the center of the line. They would
be the first to see the approach of their Prussian allies from
the East - if they ever got there.
As they saw to their
preparations, the two veterans could not help but to glance from
time-to-time at the heavy regiments nearby. Unlike the sober
and experienced Light Dragoons, the Union and Household Brigades
seemed light hearted and anxious for action. The men in those
units came from the heights of British Society - and acted like
it. Major General Sir William Ponsonby was riding among them,
speaking to his men and keeping up their spirits.
Major General Sir
John Vandeleur came riding up to Buford and Fitzwilliam. "How
goes it, gentlemen?"
"We'll be ready,
sir," replied Sir John.
"Well, hopefully
they'll not need us for some time." The Light Dragoons were
held in reserve.
Fitzwilliam lowered
his voice. "General…" He nodded his head at the
heavies.
"That's Uxbridge's
problem, Fitz. Let's just do our duty. Keep a sharp lookout on
the flank. Until later!" He spurred his horse into a trot
towards the rest of the 4th Cavalry Brigade.
At that moment the
French guns opened up. It was 1130 hours.
Delaford Parsonage,
Dorsetshire
It was a cloudy
after the rains of the day before. Marianne thought the long-planned
picnic would be canceled, but Elinor's children would not hear
of it. Therefore a compromise was reached. The adults from Delaford
Manor and Barton Cottage gathered at the Parsonage after services
and sat on chairs from the house upon a new stone patio recently
laid by Mr. Ferrars. In this manner the adults would remain dry
while the children proceeded to get as dirty as possible.
As an extra treat,
Marianne brought Princess that she might play with the Ferrars'
new greyhound puppy. Princess enjoyed meeting the youngster,
but proceeded to claim her usual spot at her mistress' feet.
The young male could not have that and proceeded to bark at the
older dog. Finally he swiped his paw at Princess, boxing her
ears, and with a yelp dashed away at full speed. With a growl,
Princess took off after him. The two ran and leaped across the
meadow, blurs of fawn and black, delighting the children.
"How do you
like your puppy, Edward?" asked Marianne.
"Well enough
- he's a jolly sort. But I can't get him to fetch if his life
depended on it!"
"Have you named
him yet?" she asked her sister.
Elinor's eyes sparkled
with mischief. "Well, since Edward is convinced he's touched
in the head, we've decided to name him…George!" All
three sisters dissolved in giggles, while Mrs. Dashwood looked
on with disapproval - she respected the monarchy far too much
to be comfortable with such jibs.
As she calmed down,
Marianne looked at her younger sister, Margaret. She had grown
into a lovely woman of eighteen - old enough for a serious conversation.
"Mother," she began, "have you received any letters
from Lt. Price?" As she expected, Margaret's face turned
bright red.
"It is strange
that you would bring that up, Marianne, for we received a letter
from the Lieutenant only a couple of days ago. He sends his regards
to you and the Colonel," answered Mrs. Dashwood.
Elinor glanced at
Marianne. "And did he mention anyone else?" she asked.
Mrs. Dashwood was
not the cleverest of women, but she was no fool; she understood
the direction of these questions. "As a matter of fact,
he did…"
"He asked about
me - is that what you want to know?" cried Margaret. "I
cannot see how that is any of your concern!"
"Margaret!"
snapped Mrs. Dashwood. "You will mind your words, young
lady!"
Margaret was only
a little humbled. "Yes, Mama."
Her older sisters
shared a look. "Margaret, I wish to take a turn in the garden,"
said Marianne as she rose. "Would you join me?"
Margaret looked
around. Her mother started to make some objection as to Marianne's
intrusion into her domain, but she was stilled by a look from
Mrs. Ferrars. Finding no support, Margaret joined her sister.
A few minutes later,
in the relative sanctity of Elinor's rose garden Marianne began
directly. "Margaret, do you have an understanding with William
Price?"
Margaret blushed
even deeper. "I…I do not take your meaning…"
"Oh, stop it!"
Marianne snapped. "Do not play childish games with me! I
asked you, adult to adult, of your attachment to Lt. Price, if
one exists. This is serious, sister."
She looked down.
"We have no understanding between us, except friendship,
Marianne."
Marianne breathed
out in relief. "That is well. Would I be wrong in deducing
that you wish for something more?"
In a small voice
her sister said, "No, you would not be wrong."
Marianne looked
kindly on her sister. "My dear Margaret, the reason I must
be so direct with you is that you have all of your sisters' bad
traits - you feel as deeply as I do and you are as closed-mouthed
about your feelings as Elinor."
She glanced up.
"I'm not as bad as Elinor…"
Marianne chuckled.
"Perhaps not. But we need to speak of this. Do you know
what you are about, Margaret?"
"I don't understand."
A pained expression
came over Marianne's face. "My love, I am a soldier's wife.
My dear husband is even now in Europe, preparing to face battle."
She stopped and seized her sister. "Christopher may not
return - do you understand this?"
Margaret's eyes
grew wide. "I…I…yes, I do…"
Her older sister
closed her eyes. "Good. The wife of a man in the King's
service must be ready to lose him to the service. I have learned
this the hard way. If you encourage Lt. Price's attentions, you
must face that reality as well. He is a sailor - the sea is his
home, upon a man-o-war. He can only win fortune and advancement
through action." Her eyes became hard. "By action I
mean fighting and killing. He may suffer grievous wounds - or
worse. A hurricane could sink his ship…"
"Stop it!"
Margaret cried. "Say no more!"
"I shall not
stop. You are choosing a hard road, Margaret. Lt. Price is a
fine man - he would make some woman a fine husband. But she must
be one that will support him in his profession. Are you that
woman? Are you willing to take the chance that you might lose
him to the sea? Think!"
Margaret looked
miserable. "I do not know…" She began to cry.
Marianne embraced
the girl. "Hush, my love. Shed no tears over an honest answer.
Truth can be hard and ugly sometimes, but it is the only path
to happiness. Lt. Price deserves nothing less." She tilted
her sister's head up. "Please think about what you want.
I love Christopher enough to risk losing him - for I would never
ask him to be anything but what he is. If you wish to travel
my road, you must do it with a full heart and open eyes."
Margaret looked
at her through her tears. "You mean…you don't object…?"
"No my love,
just as long as you know what you are doing."
Waterloo
The French had been
firing their canons for nearly two hours. However, the damage
they did was minimal. First, the soft, muddy ground plugged the
cannonballs, containing the explosion or preventing them from
skipping. Second, the reversed slope had protected the vast majority
of the troops - except for a few Dutch regiments that the Prince
had placed too far forward. Those units were taking a terrible
beating.
Lt. Colonel Denny
was puzzled as he watched the action around Hougoumont. The enemy
was using far too many troops for a demonstration but far too
few troops to take the château - especially as the veteran
Coldstream Guards made up the bulk of the defense. It would
take the whole of Napoleon's army to raze Hougoumont, and he
cannot do that, with us here ready to smash his flanks. What
is he about?
Suddenly, his attention
was drawn to the enemy ridge 1,300 yards away. A corps of infantry,
18,000 men strong, began to appear at the crest. It was obvious
to Wellington and his staff that this was the main attack. To
the sound of horns and the fluttering of battle standards the
host moved downhill in columns 200 men wide.
It was now 1330
hours.
"PERPARE TO
RECEIVE INFANTRY!" cried the Duke in his plain black uniform
as he spurred Copenhagen, his warhorse, along the line.
The troops had about
twenty minutes to form into two lines - one kneeling - and await
the horde. The Allied artillery began a merciless barrage of
ball and canister, tearing great holes in the formations. Denny,
watching with horrified fascination, noticed two things: first,
the wide columns, while impressive, gave the Allies easy targets
to shoot at; and second, there seemed to be a lack of French
artillery and cavalry support. Not that he would complain.
Now the Dutch and
British muskets opened up. The French, slugging uphill, were
being murdered, yet on and on they came. Suddenly, disaster -
a Dutch brigade suddenly broke and fled from their position.
Trying to maintain control officers rode among the troops, reminding
them of their duty, before general panic took hold. The Prince
was screaming after his fleeing men, but Denny felt some pity
for them - they had suffered greatly at Quatre Bras. Closer and
closer drew the French, now firing their muskets. English and
Dutch and Belgium and German men fell…
But at the moment
the huge force reached the summit of the hill, General Picton,
still in his civilian clothes, stood up from his hidden position,
sword in the air. "FIRE!" he screamed. The line disappeared
in a cloud of gunpowder. In an instant the smoke cleared and
Denny could see hundreds of French soldiers lying dead or wounded.
"NOW - CHARGE!" Picton ran forward at the head of the
entire 5th Division, continuing to yell, "CHARGE! CHARGE!
HURRAH!" Denny had never seen anything like it. A great
din went up from the line. Officers and men dashed at the enemy
with swords and bayonets, screaming. "CHARGE!..."
At that moment,
Picton was shot though the head.
As he fell, his
men swept over him, engaging the French with bayonets. For long
minutes - a lifetime it seemed to the participants - the soldiers
grappled with each other in a macabre dance of death. The French
assault wavered…
Lord Uxbridge saw
his moment. "CAVALRY - CHARGE!"
It really wasn't
much of a charge. The heavy Household and Union Brigades simply
entered the fray at the walk though the Allied lines. Sabers
flashing, they plunged in and cut and killed hundreds of French
soldiers while other cavalrymen swept away the French cuirassiers
guarding their flank. One unit, the Scots Greys, was able to
seize an eagle standard, the mark of a French Regiment. As closely
engaged as they were, they did not fear French canon fire, as
the enemy could not shoot without killing their own. The enemy
fell back in disorder…
Buford and Fitzwilliam
were watching the action with their telescopes. To their professional
eyes, Uxbridge had attacked at exactly the right moment. The
shock of being hit by 2,500 sabers had completely undone the
French. Their endless assault broke the enemy's spirit. Now it
was time for the heavy cavalry to withdraw…
"Buford,"
said Richard, "something is wrong…they are not withdrawing.
Are they not blowing Recall?"
"Aye, but the
heavies aren't listening…"
"But they'll
be cut to pieces!" Richard lowered his glass. "Turn
back, you fools!"
Uxbridge and Ponsonby
rode desperately to recall the troopers, but it was for naught.
Blood was in their nostrils - were they not the greatest cavalry
on Earth? To Paris! They would win this battle on their own!
Death to Bonaparte! Free of the French soldiers, both living
and dead, they galloped towards the French guns, led by the Scots
Greys. Soon they were upon the guns…
Colonel Brandon,
at the center, turned from observing the line of what was to
prove to be 3,000 prisoners being taken to the rear to watch
the cavalry attack, the sound of Recall floating over the din.
All his years of experience came back to him in a flash. He saw
what was going to happen and acted without another thought. With
a "By your leave…" shouted at the Duke, Brandon
dashed forward and downhill. He rode to and fore, screaming recall
at the members of the Household Brigade - the Union Brigade was
already far uphill on the opposite slope…
Richard and Sir
John watched in horror as the French cavalry counterattacked.
The cuirassiers with their swords and the lancers with their
lances fell upon the exhausted British horsemen. They tried to
maneuver, they tried to fight - but numbers and fresh animals
told the tale. It was a slaughter. By the time the last man who
would return demounted in rage and regret again behind the Allied
line, over a thousand of their comrades, including the valiant
Ponsonby, were lost. For all intents and purposes, the Allies
had no heavy cavalry left.
It was now 1500
hours.
Major Wickham moved
his troops forward as Wellington committed his reserves. Taking
up his position in the line he was shocked at the carnage before
him. Everywhere there were dead and wounded soldiers: French,
Dutch and English alike. Downhill, about 500 yards away, he saw
the farmhouse of La Haye Sainte under heavy attack. But he wasn't
being shot at, and for that he was grateful.
He saw a group of
men respectfully bearing the body of General Picton to the rear.
Wickham fought the lump that grew in his throat.
An aide to Wellington
rode up, interrupting his thoughts. "Major," he called
out. "Get those wounded men to the rear!"
"Yes sir. Hewitt!
Form a party and recover the wounded." It was understood
by all that no one talked of recovering French wounded
- they would have to fend for themselves until the fighting was
over.
For the next half
hour various parties worked hard to carry the broken bodies to
the dubious comfort of the surgeons' tents. Teams swarmed over
the ridge of the hill, hoping the odd cannonball would miss.
At about 1530 the firing seemed to intensify. Wickham, while
a novice at war, understood what that was about. "Recall
the recovery teams - NOW!" he ordered.
At the signal, the
men began returning to the line in some haste. Wickham noticed
renewed fighting at the farmhouse. I am glad I am not down
there, he thought.
Some minutes later
the French battle horns sounded again - but the tone this time
was different. Wickham looked up and saw an awesome sight - 5,000
cavalry charging down the French slope - right at Wickham's position.
"FORM SQUARE!"
he screamed. "PREPARE TO RECEIVE CAVALRY!"
The men dashed to
get in position, and as they did so, Wickham reflected that if
the Prussians were to come, now would be an excellent time to
do so.
It was now 1600
hours.
London
Roberts gave the
Sunday afternoon newspaper to Abigail with a worried look. She
took one glance at the headline and dashed upstairs in search
of her mistress. She found her in her rooms, looking out the
window, a letter from Sir John in her hand.
"Lady Caroline!"
she cried. "There has been a battle…on Friday…look…"
She thrust the paper at her.
Caroline snatched
the newspaper from the maid, the letter dropping to the floor.
John!
Waterloo
It was hell. There
was no other word for it. George Wickham had died and gone to
hell.
Horns blaring and
flags flying the French Cavalry charged at the center of the
Allied line. Avoiding the fire from Hougoumont on the left and
La Haye Sainte on the right, they rode in narrow columns up the
muddy slope towards Mont St. Jean. The Allied artillerymen, especially
the British and KGL, resolutely stood by their guns, pouring
shot and canister at the approaching horses until the last moment.
Then they would dash to the safety of the nearby squares, protected
by the muskets and bayonets of the infantry.
Like the waters
of an incoming wave against a rocky shore the cavalry would pour
over and around the line, the squares resisting the onslaught.
Volley after volley would issue from the Allied positions, while
French cuirassiers and lancers would slash at their tormentors.
Finally the human surge would recede, leaving dead men and animals
in its wake - and fewer and fewer redcoats standing each time.
What heavy Allied cavalry remained would harass their counterparts
during the withdrawal.
The artillerymen
would then return to their guns - for some reason the French
did not spike them or carry them away. Reloading and reforming
the Allies would prepare for the next assault, and then the same
terrible sequence would repeat itself.
Wellington and his
staff rode constantly up and down the line, exhorting the men
and filling in what gaps they could. When the enemy would again
approach they would join the artillerymen in the relative safety
of the squares. Once, Wickham found himself standing next to
Colonel Brandon during an attack.
For two hours the
attacks came and came - Wickham lost count after ten. The crack
of muskets and the roar of canon fire had deafened him; it was
good fortune - he could hardly make out the screams and moans
of wounded men and horses. All about him were dead and dying
British soldiers - they had no time to evacuate them to the rear.
Every time he caught his breath the French would charge again.
"Charge"
was a relative term - the last few assaults were made at no more
than a trot, as man and animal were pushed beyond the breaking
point. On and on the gallant enemy came - again and again the
steadfast British sent them to their Eternal Reward. It was no
longer war - it was suicide.
About an hour after
the attacks commenced, the order was given to "well-direct
your fire" - in other words, shoot low at the horses.
Wickham was amazed how difficult it was to carry out such an
order. There seemed to be no hesitation in shooting the riders
- why was it harder to kill animals than men? Wickham recalled
killing his first man - a charging officer of cuirassiers who
was knocked off his horse by the ball from his pistol. By the
time two hours passed he had lost count of the number of men
he dispatched by gun or sword - it could be twenty or twenty
thousand.
One time a French
trooper had actually gotten inside the square - his horse leapt
over the dead men before him. Wickham fought desperately with
the cavalryman, but it was hard to land a telling blow. Wickham
found himself turned around, vulnerable to the man's saber, when
Captain Hewitt was able to fire his reloaded pistol into the
back of the French trooper's head.
There was no time
for thanksgiving - the French regrouped and charged again…
After one late assault
fell back, an exhausted Wickham looked about him - there were
more men down inside the square than not. He turned to Hewitt
just as the captain received a musket ball in the belly. His
blood spattered on Wickham's uniform. He caught his wounded subordinate
as he fell screaming.
"Peace, Hewitt,
peace! I shall get you to a surgeon," he lied through his
teeth - there was no way he could leave his command.
After a few minutes
Hewitt quieted down, an unworldly calm coming over the captain.
It gave Wickham the chance to look up, to see if the French were
coming again. They were not. Was it over?
"Major,"
gasped Hewitt, still in Wickham's arms, "I'm alright - it
doesn't hurt any more - that's good, isn't it…?"
Wickham somehow
knew it wasn't. "That is good, Hewittt - Hewitt? Hewitt?
Oh God…Hewitt…"
Major Wickham carefully
laid Captain Hewitt's body on the ground and reached over to
close the eyes on the pale face. He looked up to see dead and
dying men all around him. There was an overpowering stench of
powder and blood and excrement. Beyond was a sea of dead men
and animals, smoke and mist obscuring the French lines. But it
was over - he could just make out the retreat of the cavalry
towards La Haye Sainte.
Wickham moved a
few staggering steps to sit upon an empty ammunition box, his
head in his hands. He was weary, bone-tired from fear and exertion.
His ears were still deafened and mind was in a fog. His belly
was empty and his lips ached for water. Caked with mud and blood
and worse, he looked an unholy terror. His heart grieved for
Hewitt. He also felt relief - for he had survived and the battle
was over. It had to be over.
It was 1800 hours
Buford and Fitzwilliam
watched the whole of the French cavalry assault upon the Allied
line, aching to do something to relieve the strain upon the infantry.
But it was not to be - their mission was to protect the left
flank and to watch for…
"Sir!"
cried one of the troopers. "There are men coming out of
the woods there!"
The two colonels
turned their telescopes to the East - they had been so involved
in observing the battle they had forgotten their responsibility.
"I see them…can you make out the uniform, Buford?"
asked Richard.
"No."
It was still light in this late June afternoon, but low clouds
and smoke had washed the colors out of the world. "They
look grey…"
"They are!"
said his companion. "They are here - the Prussians are here!"
Buford swung his
'scope to the right. "We're not the only ones that have
seen them…" Masses of French solders were marching
across the ridge to engage their new enemy.
Wellington and what
was left of his staff continued to ride along the Allied line.
To a man they were distraught at the carnage. As they continued
to assess the condition of their defenses, the Prussian liaison
informed the Duke that the Prussians had finally engaged the
right wing of the French army. Before they could celebrate the
good news, disaster stared them in the face.
The squares in the
middle of the line had suffered such loses that the proud companies
had ceased to exist. And there was worse - after a heroic four-hour
stand, the KGL, badly mauled and out of ammunition, had no choice
but to quit La Haye Sainte and fall back to the Allied ridge.
The center of the Allied line was wide open. Defeat was at hand,
should Napoleon become aware of their weakness.
Wellington was quick
to recognize the danger. "Denny! Ride to Lord Hill and have
him reposition Second Corps to join up with our right wing! The
rest of you - see to the condition of the squares and get all
the German troops of the division to the spot that you can, and
all the guns, too. I shall order the Brunswick Troops to the
spot, and other troops besides. Ride!"
It was 1830 hours.
A hated sound floated
across the battlefield one last time. Wickham looked up again.
On this occasion the trumpets heralded not cavalry but something
far worse - masses of infantry began forming on the French ridge.
The spotless uniforms
on these men were different. They all seemed very large, especially
with their tall bearskin hats. The esprit de corps of
these men seemed higher than any other French soldiers Wickham
had yet seen.
There was only one
unit in the French army that these men could belong to - the
Emperor's undefeated Imperial Guard. His crack division, they
were only used when Napoleon was assured of victory - they always
delivered the coup de grace at the end of the battle.
They were invincible, they were fearless, because they always
won. No army had ever stood before them.
And they were forming
before the center of the Allied line.
Slowly Wickham rose
to his feet. What was left of his senses fled him. Wickham was
utterly broken by the hours of combat he had just undergone.
Thoughts of honor, glory, and duty were as dust to him. Even
the fear of the punishment for desertion could not register in
his mind. His only thoughts were for flight and survival.
Wickham fell back
to a horse standing by. Only the grime on his face hid the paleness
of his features. To the sergeant holding the reins he shouted,
"I'm going back for some reinforcements and more ammunition!
Stand by your position!" He leapt upon the horse and headed
to the rear.
The sergeant was
confused. They had just received a delivery of gunpowder…
"Brandon!"
ordered Wellington. "Ride to Vandeleur's position - he is
to reposition the majority of his horse to the center! Quickly!"
Brandon rode to
the east and soon came upon General Vandeleur and his men riding
towards him - clearly, the general had anticipated the Duke's
command. "Brandon - well met!" called out the general
as his brigades continued onward.
"I see you
have read the Duke's mind, sir!"
"Yes…do
you ride, Brandon?"
"I would be
honored to, sir."
"Good - take
Buford's and Fitzwilliam's regiments and protect our left flank!
And watch out for our Prussian allies!" With that, the general
rode after his men. By this order, Vandeleur had just placed
Brandon in command of an ad-hoc brigade.
Christopher was
soon among his friends and informed them of their mission. "Fitz,
you and I shall attack the French flank. Buford, you shall have
the left, watching for any attacks from the French cavalry. Form
the men!"
"Aye, Brigadier!"
responded Richard. A senior colonel in charge of a brigade was
often known as a Brigadier. The two regiments began to get into
position…
Lt. Colonel Denny
was dashing back to the center of the line when he saw a lone
rider heading to the rear. With a flick of his reins he moved
to intercept the man. "Halt!" he ordered as he pulled
in front of the rider, his hand upon his sword. "W…Wickahm?"
"Denny!"
cried Wickham. "I…I was looking for reinforcements…we've
been terribly cut up…"
"Yes, we know,
George," said Denny, releasing his sword. "Second Corps
is moving to fill in the gaps. And, George - the Prussians are
here! They are engaging from the East!"
"But Denny…do
you know who is coming?"
Denny lowered his
voice. "Yes, George - it is the Imperial Guard." He
moved closer to the major. "George, if we can hold Bonaparte
here by the nose, the Prussians will kick him in the arse. We
will defeat him in detail. But only if the line holds - it must!
Everything depends on it. We are concentrating all of our forces
here - Wellington is moving in not only Second Corps but the
Light Cavalry as well. We will be right here with you, George.
We can do it!"
Just then, the sound
of horses caught their attention. Vandeleur and Vivian's men
began appearing behind the Allied line. Their mission was two-fold:
to reinforce the center and to prevent any desertions.
All the life seemed
to go out of Wickham's body. In a flat voice he replied, "I
must return to my men, Denny." He turned his horse and started
slowly back up the ridge.
"Of course,
of course. Until later, George - bon chance!" cried
Denny.
Wickham stopped
and turned his face to his friend - his visage caused Denny to
start. "Goodbye, Denny." He spurred his horse forward
and loped up the ridge.
Denny couldn't move
for several moments. The expression on Wickham's face had shaken
him to his core. It was as if he had beheld a man already dead.
The Emperor rode
his grey horse forward, escorting his 5,000-man strong Imperial
Guard towards the Allied line. He stopped before the ruined farmhouse
at La Haye Sainte and took the salute of his most faithful men.
"Vive l'Empereur" rang out again and again as
they filed by. With a grim look on his face he waved at his troops.
His confidant carriage
belied his inner turmoil. He had risked everything to defeat
the English before the Prussians would enter the battle. But
Grouchy, d'Erlon and Ney had failed him, Ney most of all. He
recalled his response to Ney's request for reinforcements during
his stupid cavalry attacks: "Troops? Where do you want
me to get them from? Do you want me to make them?"
Now the Prussians
were here. Grouchy, whom he had just raised to Marshal, had failed
to engage Blücher and keep him occupied. Failure, incompetence
was all about him.
Yet the Emperor
still believed in his lucky star. With the fall of La Haye Sainte
the center of the English line was wide open. He could see no
troops opposite. If he could split the Allied line, he would
force Wellington off the field and turn his attention fully upon
the Prussians who he had defeated before, not two days ago.
The Emperor looked
again at the English lines, not five hundred meters away. He
saw some activity but nowhere near enough troops to stop his
Invincibles. With a nod to his still marching men, he turned
his horse and rode towards his headquarters at La Belle Alliance,
already planning his assault on Blücher. Victory would be
his.
It was 1900 hours.
The sergeant looked
up as Major Wickham returned to the front lines. "Sir, are
there any reinforcements coming?"
Wickham slowly dismounted
and entered the pit of death that was supposed to be a square
of British infantry. "I understand that Second Corps is
moving to link up with the line," he started in a flat voice.
He looked about at the men, lying prone. They were no longer
in square; they had again formed lines, as to prepare to receive
infantry. "I see we have a few Germans amongst us."
"Yes sir. Wellington
himself brought them. He has ordered the men to lie down. We
should only fire at the last moment."
"Good idea.
I suppose we should join them." They moved a few bodies
out of the way and sat on boxes.
"Major, those
Frenchies…are they…?"
"The Imperial
Guard? Yes."
"Sir, are the
Prussians here yet? The Duke said…"
"Only God knows,
Sergeant," replied Wickham. The two grew silent - there
was nothing left to say.
The French trumpets
reverberated again, along with the strange sound of fife and
drums - the marching band was advancing as well. Cannonballs
began to fall around the lines. Wickham and his men turned to
watch Armageddon approach slowly up the hill.
Brevet Brigadier
Christopher Brandon and his brigade watched the Imperial Guard
move slowly up the rise toward the center of the Allied line
about a mile distant from their position. The little bit of woods
protected the cavalry from the French artillery fire - the French
couldn't hit what they couldn't see.
The three colonels
of cavalry watched the climax of the battle, waiting the order
to engage, immersed in their own thoughts:
John Buford: Too
often in my life I have thought only of myself. Now this is my
chance to redeem myself - to prove myself worthy of my King,
my uniform, my men, my friends - and especially my Caroline.
God help me, but this is the only way to wash myself clean of
my sins - through the blood of my enemies. I shall earn my place
by your side, my beloved!
Richard Fitzwilliam:
Hmmm, the French are moving in a rather narrow column…must
take care, but there is an opportunity here. If we can hit them
at just the right time, we can cause no little disruption to
their plans. Hit and run and circle back behind them…that's
the idea. Have to keep the men focused…
Christopher Brandon:
What the hell am I doing here? Marianne was right…I am
too old for these sorts of games. Oh, my love, what I would give
to be at Delaford now, with you and Joy! But there is only one
road home, and it is before me, through those men there - through
Paris. I swore to you my Marianne that I should return to you
- and I shall. God help any Frenchman that dares to stand between
me and home!
Suddenly, British
troops seemed to appear from nowhere - they were hidden from
sight along the path the Guard chose to approach the Allies.
The cloud of musket fire was as good a signal as any for Brandon.
Wearing a borrowed Light Dragoon blue coat (Fitzwilliam had jokingly
insisted upon it) he placed his hand upon the hilt of his saber.
"DRAW SWORDS!"
he called out as he pulled his saber free. Immediately, eight
hundred hands drew eight hundred sabers from their scabbards.
The metal flashed in the fading daylight as the swords were first
held up, as if to salute the enemy, before coming to rest upon
the troopers' shoulders.
Brandon spurred
his horse forward at a walk, not looking to see if the brigade
would follow. As a man they all did so, moving slowly out of
the woods in a wedge formation.
Down and across
the ridge the brigade advanced, the three colonels with but one
last thought in their minds:
Buford: Redemption!
Fitzwilliam: Victory!
Brandon: Home!
First at a trot
then a cantor, the brigade moved towards the battle, dodging
fallen men and animals, cannonballs splashing mud about the field.
Finally, Brandon lowered his sword, pointed it towards the enemy
and screamed, "SOUND THE CHARGE!"
Trumpets blaring
and regimental flags flapping, a roar arose from eight hundred
throats as the men rose in their saddles and leaned over their
galloping mounts' necks, sabers gleaming in the sunset. Mud flying
everywhere, Brandon's Brigade rode towards Destiny.
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