Flashman's Waterloo

by Robert Brightwell

  “Where are your guns?”

  “Back through the trees.” Glancing through the foliage I could see a line of guns and supporting wagons waiting in the shade. “No point in showing the enemy where our guns are until we are ready,” he continued. “Especially when they have been kind enough to put all of theirs out in the open.”

  “Is the attack starting, then?” I asked. I looked at my watch: it was half past one in the afternoon and there was still no sound of fighting from either our column or Napoleon’s to the east.

  “Soon,” the captain confirmed as he studied the terrain ahead through a glass. “The roads are chaotic, every junction clogged with wagons. Our guns were given priority, of course, but even so, we struggled to get our ammunition carts through.”

  “But is Reille’s corps now here?”

  “Some of it. One division is in Frasnes and another can be seen coming up the road. The rest will get here as soon as they get more cartridges.”

  A division consisted of around five thousand men, including infantry and artillery. Cavalry had a division of its own. One division would be outnumbered by the Dutch defenders of Quatre Bras, although it would probably be enough to beat them. But I remembered that Ney was worried about more Dutchmen hiding in the wood on the other side of the junction. I suspected that he would wait for the second division before starting the assault. My duty was to return to Frasnes so that I could carry messages for him, but once I was down among the crops I would be able to see little. He also had cavalry troopers and Heymès for messages. I thought I could justify staying a little longer. I could see how the attack unfolded from my vantage point and then go and report.

  Now, people can argue for hours over whether the British Guard regiments were better than the Imperial Guard, or if our heavy cavalry were more effective than the French cuirassier. But there is no debate about artillery, for the French was clearly better. Napoleon had started his career as an artillery officer and he never failed to make full use of his cannon. At Quatre Bras the Dutch and British artillery present stood no chance at all, for they were opposed by masters in their art.

  The start of the attack was signalled by a growing crackle of musketry from the area north of Frasnes. A wave of French skirmishers was driving in the Dutch outposts who had been dozing complacently all morning. Soon groups of the green-coated Dutch troops could be seen running pell-mell down the road towards Quatre Bras, pursued by loose lines of the French infantry with cavalry squadrons protecting their flanks. The allied gunners started firing then and that was the moment the Imperial Guard horse artillery had been waiting for. While their opponents were distracted with other targets, the captain I had been speaking to had his battery set up and ready to fire within about three minutes with another set of six guns set up just as speedily beyond his. Every one of the men who led the gun teams was a grizzled veteran. I watched how the one nearest me weighed both the ball and the sack of powder in his hand before it was loaded. Then he felt the temperature of the bronze barrel of his gun and carefully adjusted his aim.

  The guns fired within a few seconds of each other so that the fall of shot could be measured. I watched the allied battery just to the right of the buildings at the crossroads with my glass. A moment before they had been unaware of any enemy artillery and now balls were smashing all about them, some short, some over but a wheel went spinning away from an ammunition limber to show one hit. The next French salvo came quickly and was horribly accurate. One gun carriage was smashed to pieces; another gun lurched to one side as its wheel was shattered and men could be seen running for cover. The other enemy batteries visible fared no better. One tried to pull back and set up again on the far side of the crossroads but it did no good. Over the next half an hour they were all destroyed or driven out of effective range. In fact, allied artillery was to play no significant part in the battle for the rest of the day.

  As the Guard cannon fell silent we, at last, heard the sound of distant gunnery to the east, the direction of Napoleon’s men. Who was attacking who, we wondered, for if the Prussians had managed to combine their forces they outnumbered Napoleon’s column by two to one. The result at Quatre Bras, though, did not seem in doubt as French columns were now advancing into view as well as more artillery, some twenty guns that would now be unopposed to support the attack. Some of the French were heading towards the wood on the far side of the junction while others were forming up to attack a farm in front of it that the Dutch were reinforcing as a bastion to their defence. Not that it was likely to do them much good; more French troops were advancing on my side of the Brussels road into the tall crops of rye to outflank the defenders. It seemed only a matter of minutes before the Dutch defenders would be driven out of Quatre Bras. Certainly things looked safe enough, I thought, for me to finally report to the marshal.

  Chapter 29 – Friday 16 June 3p.m., Quatre Bras

  Finding Ney was no easy task, for as well as having no staff to speak of, he also had no headquarters. First of all I rode the track back to Frasnes, which stood on the outskirts of the battle area, but no one there knew where he was. A line regiment from Reille’s corps, some five hundred men, waited there unsure where they were needed. Their colonel had already gone in search of Ney, while the men had broken ranks and were queuing by the well or sitting under some trees. I took some water myself as by then it was baking hot. I could feel my uniform sticking to me down my back. At least it seemed the battle would not last long and then I could retire back into the shade.

  Having slaked my thirst I pointed my horse towards Quatre Bras and galloped off down the cobbled road. While not entirely comfortable with the prospect, there was little choice but to follow the sound of the guns and hope that the fighting was over by the time I got there. A few wounded men, some supported by comrades, were coming the other way and I saw a handful of corpses. Most of those were Dutch and I guessed that there were many more hidden by the tall rye and wheat growing on either side of the highway. A lieutenant I passed going back to Frasnes with a wounded arm told me that the marshal was leading the assault on the big farmhouse I had seen the Dutch preparing to defend. It was no more than a third of a mile in front of the junction and when I had last seen it the building and surrounding yards had been packed with men wearing green. Well, if anyone thought I was going to get involved in a reckless storming of the farm against entrenched defenders they could think again and so I approached with caution. If the battle was still underway I could have hidden in the tall crops until it was over – the long grasses really were a shirker’s delight.

  But when I crested the last undulating slope before the farmhouse I saw that it was already in French hands. An artillery battery was being set up beside it to blast down the road at the scattering of buildings at the junction. There were plenty of Dutch dead around the farm but an officer there told me that many more had panicked and fled when they realised that the French were encircling it and they would be trapped. He also informed me that once the Dutch stronghold had been taken, the marshal had ridden on to lead the men clearing the wood on the western side of the Brussels road. A continuous crackle of musketry from that direction indicated that progress was being made there too and so I rode in that direction. I paused crossing the road and stared down at the crossroads – it was perfectly safe as the enemy still had no artillery that could reach me. I could see the distant Dutchmen running about, the French guns were battering the buildings; some were on fire with a plume of smoke rising into the air. I silently thanked my stars that I had stayed with the French, for Prince William’s command was doomed. Then I set my horse towards the woods that ran virtually up to the Nivelles to Ligny road.

  I had to leave my horse where the trees got too thick to ride through and found Ney half an hour later. At first I thought he had been wounded, but the blood was someone else’s and he looked happier than a drunk in a distillery.

  “We will have the place in a few minutes,” he declared while wiping his bloodstained sword on hi
s sash. “Then we will help crush the Prussians. Here, look at this.” He fished in his pocket and brought out a crumpled note, which he passed to me. It was from Marshal Soult and it spelt the death knell for the allied army. The emperor had trapped the Prussians and ‘caught them with their trousers down,’ Napoleon’s chief of staff boasted. They were already being attacked on two sides. Ney was ordered to take his force from Quatre Bras down the road to Ligny where he was to fall on the Prussian right rear flank. Such an encirclement, it was promised, would guarantee an overwhelming victory such that not a single enemy cannon would escape.

  “That is excellent news, sir,” I said passing the message back, while inwardly my heart lurched. For with the Prussians destroyed the entire French army could concentrate on the British and Dutch force and, based on recent events, that did not bode well. There was a burst of particularly heavy musket fire ahead and Ney’s head snapped up like a glutton hearing the dinner bell.

  “Come on, Moreau, let’s not keep the emperor waiting.” With that, he was pushing off through the trees towards the sound of battle, with me following somewhat reluctantly in his wake. We had barely covered twenty yards when there was the sound of distant cheering and shouting. A few moments later and the Dutch skirmishers in front of us were falling back and running through the trees. “Follow them!” shouted Ney. “Don’t let them settle again.” We broke into a run, the men around us yelling in triumph, but I remembered that the original cheering had come from our right. That was where the last of the Dutch were and from what I had seen they had little to celebrate. The mystery was solved as I reached the edge of the trees. For there, a line of French infantry stood, all staring across the Nivelles road and over the crops towards the road coming from Brussels. There we could see pieces of yellow and red cloth, hung from poles moving towards us.

  I did not need a telescope to recognise the colours of British regiments when I saw them. The crops might have hidden the men, but not the flags that served as their rallying points, which were already unfurled as the soldiers were going straight into battle. I tried to count them, at least half a dozen regiments, perhaps five thousand men. It might give the allies a numerical advantage for now, but Ney had the remaining two divisions of Reille’s corps joining the battle piecemeal, which would see the battle swing back to him, with D’Erlon’s corps of another twenty thousand still on the road behind.

  I thought Ney might have been dismayed for it would be difficult to march to his emperor’s assistance now, but instead, he looked delighted.

  “At last, a worthwhile enemy.” He slapped me on the back, “Do you know Wellington, the emperor and I are all the same age?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I replied, puzzled at the significance.

  “We will leave the emperor to beat the Prussians and I will be beat the British. There will be more of them coming, but we will deal with them as they arrive. They have no artillery or cavalry with them. Go and report to the emperor that we are now facing the whole British army here and that he will have to beat the Prussians without us.”

  Already the first British troops were reaching the crossroads. Green-jacketed riflemen were in the vanguard and they wheeled left in their half-run, half-march pace to line the southern edge of the Ligny road.

  “What about the regiment at Frasnes? Where do you want those?” I had to shout above an increase in noise as French artillery batteries found new targets among the approaching troops.

  “Send them to the right flank,” Ney shouted in my ear. “The British are strengthening their left and I will leave men here to defend the woods.” I ran back through the trees, glad to be getting away from the front line. A crackle of musketry steadily increased behind. I found my horse tied where I had left it at the edge of the forest near the recently captured farm. As I glanced back towards the junction I saw a flash of familiar red uniforms emerging from the Brussels road. I was damned if I was going to fight my own countrymen, but just as I was about to swing myself up into the saddle another colour caught my eye.

  The green jackets of a newly arrived regiment of Dutch cavalry could also be seen at the crossroads. They were already attracting fire from our skirmishers and guns, but instead of giving them time to form up to make an attack, someone sent them charging up the road towards Frasnes in an unformed mass. They thundered along attracting a barrage of fire from French troops on both sides of the highway. Wounded troopers and horses fell away, often trampled on by those behind. I shrank back into the trees as they went past me. The cannon by the farm opposite had brought down at least a score of them at virtually point-blank range and the rest were running in panic with no room to rally or turn. Whoever was in command at the crossroads had just wasted their only cavalry, but for them, the situation was about to get even worse.

  As the Dutch horsemen reached the end of the trees they found waiting for them a French cavalry regiment, properly formed up into line and perfectly placed to charge their flank. There was the briefest of mêlées before the Dutch were heading back the way they had come, and that was when I realised that the Dutch were still wearing the uniforms that they had worn in the French army. For mixed in amongst them and dressed almost identically were the French troopers. I dare say that some of the French soldiers lining the road fired on their countrymen before they realised that there were far more horsemen coming back down the road that went up.

  But the confusion was far worse for the Anglo–Dutch troops at the crossroads. They did not realise that enemy cavalry was amongst them until it was too late. I watched through my glass as the column of British redcoats I had seen was scattered in all directions with sabres rising and falling over the stragglers. Then the French troopers turned to their right to ride along the Ligny road, getting behind the allied line of defence.

  I hurried back to Frasnes to pass on the orders to the infantry colonel and another who had also arrived in the village with his regiment. They marched off down the road while I considered the prospect of riding to Napoleon with news of the British arrival. I had no wish to remind him of my presence again and besides, Ney’s message meant that the emperor’s carefully laid plans for a decisive victory would be thwarted. Generals never like to have their schemes undone and invariably take their frustration out on the unfortunate messenger. I needed someone to do the dirty work for me. Just then I spotted a flash of scarlet galloping along the road from Gossalie and I knew my problem was solved.

  “Three more regiments should be here within half an hour,” Heymès called as he reined in at the village square. “Where is the marshal?”

  “I will tell him,” I replied. “He wants you to ride to the emperor to inform him that we are now facing the whole British army at Quatre Bras and so we will not be able to assist him with the Prussians.”

  “Why are you not taking the message?” asked Heymès suspiciously.

  “Oh,” I tried to look embarrassed. “He is angry with me for not being at his side this morning. He thinks it is an honour I do not deserve.”

  As I expected, Heymès straightened in his saddle and looked pleased with himself. “It is certainly an honour to report to the emperor. Make sure you tell the marshal about the reinforcements.” And with that the stuffed shirt wheeled his horse around to gallop the four miles from Frasnes to Napoleon’s headquarters.

  I had no intention of going back into the fray. Instead, having watered myself and my mount I walked the horse slowly up the hill to the Imperial Guard artillery battery. From there, I thought, I would have a much clearer idea of how the battle was going.

  I am pretty sure that it was Prince William who was in charge of the defence of Quatre Bras then, for even blindfolded and mounting one of his society trollops at the same time, Wellington would not have made such a hash of it. They were only saved from utter destruction by the fact that Ney had no overall strategy either. As soon as a new regiment came down the road from Frasnes he would just throw them into the thickest part of the action.

  There was no tho
ught of building a reserve for a sudden push, or turning a flank. He was like a small boy in a snowball fight, throwing in ammunition as soon as it was made. To be fair he was often in the thickest part of the fighting himself, but that meant that he was unable to step back and view weaknesses in the enemy deployment to exploit. Fortunately for the allies, this also meant that it was near impossible and time consuming for messengers from Napoleon to find him too.

  Now that they had British reinforcements, the Dutch troops made an attempt to recapture the fortress-like farm I had been at in front of the crossroads. They were bloodily repulsed. In the meantime, the British started to advance across the fields from the Ligny road. It was like the game of blind man’s bluff I had ‘played’ with the Dutch patrol earlier, but on a massive scale. From the higher ground of the French battery I had a clearer view than those fighting and watched as the crops were flattened in great swathes as regiments moved to and fro. I watched one French regiment routed as it marched across a clover field. We could see that another formation of troops was marching through the tall rye towards them. As the last stems were trampled flat a battalion of kilted Highlanders was revealed. They charged without a moment’s hesitation and the French troops, caught unawares, reeled away and started to run back towards the French lines. The Highlanders pursued them and the whole yelling mass tumbled from the clover field into a crop of wheat. The artillery was banging away, sending balls whipping through the men in kilts. But then the Highlanders were ambushed in their turn by a French regiment coming the other way and it was their turn to fall back. The cannon fell silent for a few moments as the men fought together, and that is when I heard the worst noise known to man. Looking back down the hill to the clover field the fight had started in, I saw a lone bagpiper torturing his instrument to make some wailing din that was presumably meant to rally his regiment.