Flashman's Waterloo

by Robert Brightwell

  I shook another man off who had tried to grab at me for support; I was not going to risk the same fate. It was every man for himself as we ran and I searched for some protection from the horsemen behind us. The rearmost French column had been given more warning of the horsemen’s approach and had not yet deployed the ‘drawers’. They managed to turn their ranks along the edge to form a rudimentary square and start edging back. They were firing their guns to keep both the horsemen away and other soldiers seeking the safety of their ranks. I knew there would be no shelter in that direction, for those men knew all too well that their survival rested on keeping their tight outer lines intact.

  I kept running down the slope, but there was much less gun smoke to hide in now. The grand battery had not fired for some minutes and was halfway through moving to its new position on the forward ridge. At best only a light mist covered the lower ground. There was more space now; men were spreading out as they ran and for the first time I glimpsed some horsemen, British dragoons on black horses wheeling in from my left. Two of them were heading in my direction and I watched as the lead man gave a massive swing that must have broken the skull of a running Frenchman. I changed direction to get a larger group of soldiers between me and the dragoons and tried to sprint even harder, my lungs burning with the effort. I thought I had got away but then one of the riders saw me and gave a cry of triumph.

  “Look, a colonel!” he yelled pointing his blood-stained sword in my direction.

  I knew I could not outrun them. As other men streamed past I held up my hands and shouted. “No, I’m British, my name is Major Flashman.”

  “Huh, you lying knave!” cried the trooper as he spurred his horse towards me and raised his sabre in the air.

  “I am a British spy,” I insisted. “Take me to Wellington and he will confirm it.” But the man just laughed. Many French, particularly if they had been prisoners of war, spoke excellent English. He evidently thought I was one of those and still he came on, giving his blade a practice swing to show me my fate.

  I had no choice but to draw my own sword. I had to defend myself, but to try to kill them would confirm their suspicions and I still did not want to kill one of my own. I had dodged riders before and at the last minute I threw myself to one side and rolled away.

  “I’m bloody British, you stupid bastards,” I roared as I got up but the second trooper was almost on me and I just got my own blade up in time to block his blow. The force of it with the momentum of the horse knocked me down again and now both horsemen were circling in for the kill.

  “No British spy marches in a French column. You are going to get what’s coming to you,” shouted the second man. As if things could not get any worse, over their shoulder I saw six more troopers charging in our direction. A fresh-faced ensign was at their head, who looked little older than my son. I stared around desperate for some refuge or help. Twenty yards away a score of Frenchmen had gathered into group with their bayonets out like a hedgehog to keep the horsemen at bay, but I would never make it to them in time.

  This was to be my fate, hacked to pieces by my own countrymen while mistaken for the enemy. If I thought there was one chance in a hundred of it working, I would have thrown my sword away and tried to surrender, but that would not serve here. The troopers had blood-spattered faces and uniforms; they had both been killing and had got a taste for it. They were laughing at me, rejoicing in their power over their fellow man. I thought for a brief moment that perhaps I could make a final appeal to their boy commander, but it did not look like I would get the chance. My assailants were coming at the trot from opposite sides, both grinning wolfishly. Then a high-pitched voice called across to them.

  “Twoopers, leave that wascal alone and fall in with me.”

  “But he is a colonel,” shouted one of my attackers.

  “And a lying bastard,” added the other.

  “Leave him,” piped the cornet. “We are capturing their guns.” The man in front of me reluctantly turned to follow his officer and I almost sagged to the ground with relief. It was a good job I didn’t, for then I heard an ominous click from the man behind.

  He had snatched up his carbine musket from the holster in his saddle, and having cocked the weapon he was in the act of putting it to his shoulder as I looked round. “I have never liked liars,” he said grinning, and then he pulled the trigger. He was only ten yards away, virtually point-blank range. I saw the movement of the hammer on the gun and the puff of smoke from the priming pan. There was no time to move or even brace myself for the awful impact of the ball. Then… nothing… The main charge had not fired. It was literally just a flash in the pan. With a snarl of rage the trooper rode his horse straight for me, swinging the carbine in the air like a club while his officer yelled at him to fall in. I got the blade up in the air, holding it with both hands, but several pounds of brass-hilted oak was too much for the cheap steel. The sword snapped and I felt the butt crack into the back of my head. The last thing I heard was the triumphal yell of the trooper as the ground came up to hit me.

  I don’t remember how I joined the group of men who had formed the hedgehog of bayonets, but my next memory is being half held up amongst them. There were dozens of similar groupings of various sizes across the valley now. They were edging their way south, and all were staring in incredulity at the British horsemen. For instead of rounding up and capturing hundreds of French soldiers, a thousand British heavy cavalry had launched themselves across the valley to capture the French grand battery. I saw a couple of officers and even a bugler riding after them and calling for them to return, but they might as well have barked at the moon. The horsemen swarmed on, slowing down as they reached the boggy valley floor, but then forcing their tired horses up the other side.

  God knows how they thought they would hold the guns against the entire French army, but the gunners were not waiting to find out. Most were streaming back to the safety of French regiments, several of which were forming square. Having checked that no more horsemen were in our vicinity, my group of soldiers broke and ran to join another, to make a larger formation. I was half dragged between two men and when we arrived a musket was pressed into my hand so that I could play my part.

  “Those horsemen will be coming back in a minute,” someone shouted, “so keep the sides straight.” We were in a small square of perhaps a hundred men, with two ranks of a dozen on each side. By chance, I was pushed into the side that faced south and watched as the British cavalry captured the guns. They milled about shouting and waving their swords in the air as though they had won the battle all by themselves. They might have killed a few gunners and horses but I did not see one of them dismount to spike or disable a cannon. Then there was the sound of more bugles.

  I don’t know whether it was Ney or Napoleon, but the French counter attack was timed to perfection. They waited for the British heavy cavalry to complete their charge to the top of the ridge and then they launched thousands of their lighter, fresh lancers against them. The British troopers saw them coming before we did and with shouts of alarm they launched their tired beasts back down the slope towards us. But their horses were blown and could barely manage more than a trot, especially as they reached the boggy ground. Few of them got that far for the lancers in their green uniforms and brass helmets, with their nine-foot lances, swarmed over the crest after them, like ravening wolves after an old stag.

  Cavalry hate being attacked by lancers as their swords offer little defence against the much longer steel-tipped lance. I remember one old trooper telling me that he had killed one by pushing aside the point and slashing as they swept past. He was either lucky or a liar, for as I had discovered years before, lancers do not hunt alone. Pay attention to just one and you will soon find a steel lance point plunged in your back. The lancers broke up into packs and started to hunt down their prey. It was a slaughter. A few of the dragoons managed to get off a shot with their carbines but I only saw one Frenchman get hit. As they reached the valley floor the British
horsemen faced a new obstacle: dozens of formations of returning French troops like mine, in no mood to be merciful.

  We were splashing our way through the muddy ooze at the bottom of the slope when six dragoons tried to get between us and another formation nearby. Two were wounded and slumped over their saddles and a third was walking, his exhausted mount still slipping in the mud. Every one of our group had nearly been killed by these horsemen and had lost comrades to them and now the call went up to halt and take aim. I had already looked and seen that they did not include the men who had attacked me. If the one who had tried to shoot me had been there, I will be honest and say that British or not, I would have tried to return the favour. But instead, as I cocked my weapon, I also swept the powder from the pan so it would not fire. Volleys crashed out from both my group and the one on the other side of the troopers. When the smoke had cleared, only the tired horse was still standing.

  With lancers providing protection, thousands of us streamed back up the French ridge. We passed another group of British corpses and men went across to loot them. I was about to walk past when I noticed that one of them was the young cornet who had inadvertently saved me. His body had been pierced by at least four lances and in death he looked even younger than in life, although I guessed he had to be at least sixteen.

  “You poor bastard,” I muttered as I leaned over him. He had undoubtedly been brave, probably feeling that sense of immortality that young men do, but he had been woefully let down by his commanders. Infantry officers often claimed that the brains of the cavalry command lay in their horses rather than the riders. They were often titled young men who treated war like a hunt, chasing an enemy for miles away from a battle and leaving the poor bloody foot soldiers exposed to enemy attack. They had really surpassed themselves this time, though. Without the tools to disable the guns, their mad charge was always going to be futile and end in disaster. They could have saved themselves and secured thousands of prisoners, but instead, most of them now lay dead in the valley.

  The boy’s pockets had already been torn open by those searching for money but he still had his sword in his hand. It was not valuable, which was why it had been left, but it did have a ‘Sheffield Steel’ stamp on the blade. So I picked it up and gave it a few practice strokes. It was heavy but well balanced. I had bought the cheap French blade when I had first kitted myself out with my French uniform. Back then I had been sure that I would never have to use it so had spurned the suggestion of a better quality weapon. I was not going to make that mistake again. After a final cut through the air, I slid the new sword into my scabbard. It was not a perfect fit, but it would do.

  By the time we passed the new forward position of the grand battery, the first guns were already firing again and most of the others would be doing so shortly. I remember staring back at the British ridge; it looked exactly as it had before. They had lost most of their heavy cavalry while the French had well over a thousand infantry killed or taken prisoner. But the British still held La Haye Sainte farm and both armies were exactly where they had started; with just a carpet of corpses in the valley to show that there had been a battle at all.

  I might have re-armed myself but that did not mean I had any intention of participating further in this battle. I had never wanted to fight the British and I swore by all that was holy that I was not going to do so again. D’Erlon’s attack on the allied position had started at around one-thirty in the afternoon and I know I was sitting back on the French ridge by three, as I remember checking my watch then. I had found a place to sit with other wounded men on the high ground where the grand battery had been originally sited. This, I decided, was where I would shirk my way through the rest of the battle.

  You don’t survive as many campaigns as I have without the ability to hole up out of the way sometimes and let others do some of the fighting. It helped that I was covered in blood and gore, which looked like it could have been mine. I took care to ease myself slowly onto the soft earth to give the impression of being injured like so many of those about me. Twice ambulance men came and offered to take me away on their well-sprung carts, but I nobly waved them away to those more in need. The last thing I needed was them cleaning me up and finding no wound at all. It wasn’t all a sham, though, for my head still throbbed, a situation not helped by having the grand battery firing away in front.

  I settled myself up against an ammunition box, accepted a flask of water and watched the battle as I might have spectated on a game of cricket. It was a shame that they did not have vendors selling food too as I was starving. The French guns were soon firing as strongly as ever. A few gun crews had been killed by the cavalry but they were replaced by new guns and crews from the Imperial Guard artillery and so I suspected that the fire was even more accurate. From their forward position they were also able to see further over the British ridge, particularly where it plateaued out on a stretch west of the road. The British troops there were horribly exposed to the fire and one by one the units I could see moved back. Between the noise of the cannon, there was a steady crackle of fire from the valley and before it refilled with smoke I could see French skirmishers moving between the unflattened crops as they harried the enemy, particularly around La Haye Sainte farm.

  It seemed that Ney and Napoleon were content to pound the allies into submission with their vastly superior gunnery. There was no rush to order another major assault, although judging from the distant smoke, fighting was continuing around the château of Hougoumont. The reason for this apparent lethargy appeared on the north-eastern horizon nearly an hour after I began my period of repose. An artillery officer spotted them first and soon word spread around the ridge: ‘Grouchy is coming’. I raised my own glass and sure enough, columns of troops could be seen marching to the battle. Whether Napoleon had recalled them or Grouchy had simply marched towards the sound of the guns like any good general, I did not know or care. But I did know that twenty-five thousand French infantry, five thousand cavalry and nearly a hundred guns arriving behind Wellington’s left flank would spell the death knell of the allied army. The battle was effectively over, for as soon as he saw this new force approaching, Wellington would have to withdraw or he would be utterly destroyed.

  In fact I felt so confident that the battle was over that I thought it was safe to show myself once more. After an hour in their vicinity with a headache, I was also keen to get further away from the guns. So I staggered to my feet and soon commandeered a captured British cavalry horse that was cropping grass by the side of the road. Having Grouchy’s men fall on Wellington’s flank was as masterstroke, I reflected as I trotted south along the cobbled highway. Perhaps the emperor had planned it as soon as he saw Wellington making a stand; it would fit his reputation as a master strategist. Wellington’s defence had been doomed from the outset and I tried to feel sorry about that, but all I really felt was relief.

  This dammed battle would soon be over and I convinced myself that this was the best outcome for the allies, well, the British at least. Instead of being ground down further by the steady bombardment, they would have to withdraw. The British would head to Antwerp and from there disembark to England. I doubted the emperor would pursue them hard for he wanted a peace and a new government in England. A humiliating withdrawal would serve his purpose, but a massacre would stiffen British resolve against him.

  Chapter 37

  There were at least fifty senior officers milling around the little farm that the emperor was using as his headquarters. Soult was there in his marshal’s uniform stiff with braid, while around him were a riot of coloured uniforms of every description and probably enough ostrich feathers sewn into hats to re-plume an entire bird. A few yards in front of this gathering sat the emperor in his plain green artillery uniform, talking to a mud-spattered colonel. I realised that as well as his age, Napoleon had something else in common with his opponent: Wellington also dressed plainly, in a blue coat, for battle, so that he stood out amongst the peacocks of his staff. I pushed through
the crowd of officers, searching for Ney, but he was not there. It was then that I heard the first whispered speculation amongst the staff that the approaching troops might not be Grouchy after all.

  “I tell you, Donzelot thinks that they are Prussians and I have not seen any messengers arrive from Grouchy for hours,” muttered an artillery major.

  “But the Prussians will take days to recover after Ligny,” insisted a cavalry officer. “They scattered in all directions. And anyway, Grouchy was ordered to stay between the emperor and the Prussians, to be his shield. To get past him there would have had to have been a battle and we would have heard it.”

  “Well we will know in a minute,” announced the major, who nodded his head towards the emperor. “He is talking to General Bernard who has ridden out to see for himself.”

  I had been about to press on to find Ney, but at this I decided to linger a moment. In the very unlikely event that the new arrivals were Prussians, it would cast an entirely different light on things and it would be information that Ney would need to know.

  Bernard, who had been leaning over the emperor’s table and pointing out positions on the map, now straightened up and saluted his emperor. Without even a glance at the watching staff officers, he strode away towards where a cavalry trooper was holding the reigns of a dozen horses. The emperor sat for over a minute, staring at his map, and occasionally he would look up and survey a particular part of the field. An air of suspense grew in all of us watching, especially when he picked up his glass to focus on the growing columns of troops on the horizon. At length he gestured to a valet, who rushed forward and gripped an arm to help the emperor get to his feet. Napoleon winced in pain as he did so and slowly turned to face his staff. There was a hushed silence now and an almost imperceptible leaning forward, as in the public gallery of a courtroom when the verdict is about to be announced. Bonaparte watched us for a moment, his face expressionless. Then he forced a smile through the pain. “It is Grouchy,” he announced.