Flashman's Waterloo

by Robert Brightwell

  Grant gave a growl of rage by way of reply and yanked hard on my leash as he kicked his horse on up the slope towards the British line. I heard the sergeant organising a cart for the wounded men and then we were over the crest. It was my first view of the ground behind the British ridge since I had marched off it in one of Colborne’s squares. The transformation was an awful spectacle. Before the ground had been covered with a patchwork of British and allied squares. There had been dead and wounded aplenty then, but nothing as to how it was when I beheld it again now.

  The ground was carpeted with the dead – in some places you could see where the squares had stood under bombardment from the lines of corpses still at right angles. Then closer to the ridge top was a new tidemark of bodies where lines of troops must have stood to destroy the column I had seen approaching with the cuirassiers. There was an eerie silence too, for not a single British gun at this end of the ridge was firing. The reason was not hard to spot: every gun I could see on the ridge crest had been either abandoned or disabled. The only firing seemed to be coming from the centre of the allied line, but as I stared into the distance I realised that they were French guns rather than our own. Their soldiers, pushing up from La Haye Sainte farm, had created a huge gap in the allied defences.

  I must have stopped to gape at the transformation for the next thing I knew I was tugged off my feet and lay sprawled in the mud. That was when I really lost my temper. “For God’s sake, cut me loose, you bloody idiot. Where the devil do you think I can escape too?”

  “Knowing you,” snarled Grant, “back to your friends on the other side of the valley.”

  I got on my hands and knees and looked up into a row of curious faces. The 52nd regiment were on the extreme right of the line, their nearest ranks just twenty yards away. Several looked on in astonishment as a British colonel dragged a captain wearing their uniform through the mud.

  Then, over the heads of the soldiers, I saw two other figures on horseback. They had been studying the valley but now looked over their shoulders at this unexpected interruption. The familiar figure in the plain blue coat stared at me with an icy disdain before returning to his inspection of the enemy. But thankfully Colborne wheeled his horse around in my direction.

  “Colonel Grant, what on earth are you doing, sir?” he shouted as he approached.

  Grant gave me a look of triumph before replying. “I found this man masquerading as one of your officers. I have reason to believe that he is in league with the enemy and so he is under arrest.”

  Colborne reined his horse in beside us and spoke in a low urgent tone that the men standing nearby could not hear. “Have you lost your mind, sir? We are facing an attack from the Imperial Guard, fighting for our very survival and you think this is a time to undermine the morale of my men by literally dragging one of their officers through the mud?”

  “But he is not one of your officers, he is a—” insisted Grant, but he got no further.

  “I know very well who Major Flashman is,” Colborne hissed at him with barely suppressed fury. “I have had the honour of serving with him in Spain and Portugal and know him to be a brave and resourceful officer. He has also been attached to my regiment since the middle of this afternoon. Now I would be most obliged if you would cut him free so that he can return to his duties.” They might both have been colonels but Colborne had the seniority.

  Grant looked up in mute appeal to the man in the blue coat, but he still had his back to us and showed no intention of intervening. “I can tell you, sir,” Grant whispered to Colborne, “that this officer is not who he seems.” And with that he threw down the end of the rope attached to my wrists and spurred his horse away.

  “I do believe the man has gone quite mad,” I said getting to my feet and holding out my bound hands to one of Grant’s troopers who was approaching with a clasp knife. “But your tale of the Imperial Guard seems to have put him to flight.”

  “That was no tale,” murmured Colborne quietly as my bonds were released. “A French cavalryman rode over a short while ago to tell us that the emperor is personally to lead the Imperial Guard against us.”

  “But he can’t,” I gasped looking about me. “Or at least we cannot possibly hope to stop them. Why, there is hardly anyone left.” The largest contingent of men I could see was the 52nd. Being on the end of the ridge and perhaps the time spent on the facing slope had spared them from much of the bombardment. They still had well over eight hundred men left. The British Guards regiment was next along the line with barely five hundred men, but beyond them were a series of regiments that had been battered into near non-existence. Some were little more than company strength, with around a hundred men left still standing. Many of those had pulled well back from the ridge to escape the fire from the French in the centre.

  “You had better speak to Wellington,” said Colborne, gesturing at the man in the blue coat. I walked across the still soft turf, aware of the curious stares of the soldiers about me, many of whom had heard Grant’s outburst. I had last seen the duke when he was the ambassador in Paris. Since then I suspected that he had seduced my wife, while I had unintentionally misled him regarding the timing of the French attack. It was not an encounter that I relished.

  “Ah, Flashman.” Wellington looked down from his saddle at me as I approached. He looked tired and drawn. His calm and measured demeanour during a battle was one of his hallmarks, but the tension of the day must have been pushing him to breaking point. He gestured at the slope up which I had been dragged. “I had forgotten how you like to make an entrance.” He grinned and held out his hand. As he did so he looked me in the eye and I sensed that there was an unspoken agreement between us, that if I shook his hand we would both let things in the past rest. This was certainly not the time to stand on my dignity and so I shook his paw with a sense of relief.

  “Colborne tells me that they are to launch the Imperial Guard against us.” I glanced along the ridge to the east; there was still no sign of reinforcements. “If the Prussians are coming, they seem to have left it too late.”

  “The Prussians are here. They have started their own attack behind the French right flank at a place called Plancenoit. Over there, beyond the French batteries.” Wellington pointed in their direction. “Another Prussian division is to join our left flank, but it will be touch and go if they arrive before the Guard attack.”

  “But surely,” I protested, “you are not thinking of trying to defend this ridge against the Imperial Guard. You have hardly any men left and some that are here look unsteady. I have seen the Guard; they will not stop for anything.”

  “The 52nd will stand firm,” interrupted Colborne but Wellington waved us both to silence.

  “It is too late to retreat,” he said wearily. “I have called in the last of our reserves, so we must trust to the Prussians to arrive in time.” He tried to force a smile. “Anyway, we have all seen British lines beat French columns in the past. Who is to say that it will not happen again?” Wellington tried to look us both in the eye, but he could not hold our gaze. We all knew that this was no fresh British line of redcoats and it was certainly no ordinary column.

  We stared silently into the valley for a while, no one sure what to say. Even the French guns had quietened as though they sensed that there were fewer targets now over the ridge. Only the guns in the centre of the allied line kept up any rate of fire.

  “I doubt the emperor will lead the attack in person.” I spoke up to end the silence and even managed a weak grin. “Because I have poisoned him.”

  “You have done what?” asked Wellington astonished.

  “Poisoned him,” I repeated as casually as I could, as though I did such things every day. “Not fatally, but he has a terrible ache in the guts that has forced him to leave Marshal Ney to manage most of the battle.”

  “How in God’s name did you manage that?” asked Colborne.

  “I put poisonous mushrooms in his stew yesterday,” I told them. There was no need to reveal th
at it was by accident. After I had been fooled over the date of the attack I needed to rebuild my reputation.

  “Well I never…” started Wellington before roaring with laughter. “You never cease to surprise me, Flashman,” he said at last. “I had thought that the French attacks had lacked a certain imperial flair – that explains it.” But then he turned serious and glanced over his shoulder to check we were not being overheard. “But gentlemen, you must keep that information to yourselves. Whether we win or lose here today, it will not be to our benefit to have it known that the emperor was incapacitated.” He turned back to me. “Is there anything else that we need to know?”

  “Napoleon told his men that the Prussians seen on the horizon were Grouchy’s men. The soldiers that attack us will be expecting French reinforcements to arrive on their right and not fresh enemies; that is if the Prussians do arrive in time.”

  Wellington was about to reply when there were shouts of alarm behind us. I twisted around and for a moment I thought that the ‘imperial flair’ had caught us out after all. For there, marching towards us from our rear, was what appeared to be a column of blue-coated French infantry. As troops hurriedly turned to face them and muskets swung up into the firing position, a British cavalry officer galloped forward shouting, “Don’t shoot, they are Dutch.”

  “General Chassé’s men,” murmured Wellington quietly. He turned to Colborne. “Keep your eye on Chassé. He fought for the French against us in Spain. I doubt his troops are reliable, that is why I have kept them in reserve until now. Many are French-speaking Dutch who would probably welcome the chance to change sides.”

  Just what we need at this moment of crisis, I thought: an ally that is as likely to stick a bayonet in your back as fight alongside you. But aloud I said, “They march smartly enough,” for they were coming on in a determined manner and I noticed bringing some horse artillery with them.

  “Oh yes,” agreed Wellington sardonically. “General Chassé is famous for his bayonet charges. It is just that until now they have been directed against men dressed in red.” The new arrivals gradually formed up behind the Guards regiment and the miscellany of regimental survivors forming a line to their left. This included over a hundred survivors of the Lincolnshire regiment that I had now seen charged twice by cuirassier. Most of these had formed up well back from the crest of the ridge and the Dutch made their own line of four ranks behind them. There were over three thousand of these blue-coated reinforcements, more than the rest of the allied defenders on this end of the ridge put together. I was glad that they were not behind the 52nd, as if they did change sides the defenders would be trapped between them and the Imperial Guard.

  Already I was gazing longingly at the road back to Mirbebraine. I cursed Grant: if it had not been for him I would have been safely into the forest by now. Instead, I was stuck back on the allied ridge awaiting an attack by probably the best infantry in the world. Wellington rode off along the crest to encourage his men. Every few minutes he could be seen scanning the eastern horizon and then staring at his watch, clearly hoping that the Prussians or nightfall would arrive before another enemy attack.

  He was to be disappointed, for if anything the evening got a little brighter as the clouds started to break up and shafts of evening sunlight illuminated patches of the valley. One of these areas was where the French ridge crossed the road that ran through the middle of the battlefield. There, just after eight, we got our first glimpse of the Imperial Guard. The forward units came over the far crest already formed up into hollow squares, to protect themselves from any cavalry. For most regiments to move in square was a slow and ungainly process, the lines wavering as they crossed rough terrain and obstacles. But watching as they came down the slope, their lines remained ruler straight. I knew by instinct that the first three squares to appear were regiments of the Old Guard. You could almost sense their pride and determination from a mile away as they started their descent into the valley. Any lingering doubt was dispelled by the single rider on a white horse who rode alongside them.

  “Is that the emperor?” asked Colborne.

  “Yes,” I replied, “and those men beside him are the toughest veterans you are ever likely to meet.” Beyond those first squares came more regiments, but marching in column rather than square. They were, I guessed, regiments of the Middle and Young Guard. Batteries of horse artillery were being driven between each column. To my alarm, they were veering off the road and heading in our direction.

  All of the French artillery had stopped now, even the French skirmishers held their fire, while any British guns still able to fire were waiting for the enemy to get closer. The silence across the battlefield made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It was a moment of suspense before the final act in a play. For I guessed that everyone who looked at the scene knew that, one way or another, the immediate future of the new French empire was about to be resolved. Even the chatter in the ranks behind me died away. The lines of the 52nd were some yards back from the crest, but while they could not see into the valley, even they sensed something significant was happening. Looking over my shoulder I saw them nudge each other and lick their lips nervously as they steeled themselves for whatever came at them next.

  Then a band struck up from somewhere in the French formation and thousands of voices burst into the same song I had heard at Gossalie days before. It was becoming more like a review than the closing stage of a battle and it sent shivers down my spine.

  “What are they singing?” asked Colborne.

  “It is an old revolutionary song,” I told him. “It is about liberating countries from tyrants and despots and washing the streets with the blood of freedom.”

  “A cheery ditty, then,” laughed Colborne. “Perhaps I should start the lads up with a chorus of that song about the pig herder’s daughter to balance things out. Hello, what’s this? Are they stopping?”

  The squares of the Old Guard had indeed come to a halt on the valley floor, just before the incline up to La Haye Sainte farm. Napoleon rode his horse between them, acknowledging their cheers as the remaining columns approached. There was a hatless marshal with red hair at the head of the following columns, who I was sure was Ney. He led them past the Old Guard and then started to re-organise them to form two new huge columns. All the while the soldiers were singing and the band playing as though they were on the parade ground. It was a piece of theatre designed to awe their enemies, and I can say that it worked for me. Each new column must have contained at least 2,500 men, but to my immense relief, they were angled to attack closer to the centre of the allied line.

  “I pity the poor devils that are going to face them,” I muttered to Colborne as we both looked along the line at the troops that would have that dubious honour. The leading French column was aimed at the rag-tag survivors of various regiments I had seen earlier. They were being pushed and shoved together into rough ranks. They looked more nervous than a virgin bride on her wedding night. They did not know the men around them, they probably did not trust the suspiciously French-looking troops and bayonets behind them and while they could not see the Imperial Guard forming up in their direction, they could certainly hear them.

  “That is what is left of Halkett’s brigade,” murmured Colborne. “They have been in the thick of it all day.” But then he gestured to the second large column that seemed to be aimed at the line between us and Halkett’s men. “They should attack the position held by the British Guards Brigade. It will be our Guards against theirs.”

  We both sat there silently considering the odds. All the tenets of war had shown that a well-drilled line firing volleys of musketry can defeat a column of infantry. We had seen it happen many times before, relentless disciplined fire forcing the French ranks to a standstill and then a headlong retreat. There may only be some six hundred men left in total from the four regiments in Halkett’s Brigade, but that might be enough if they could maintain their order. On the other hand, these were no ordinary French infantry. They were
the Imperial Guard, men who claimed that they had never been stopped. The emperor saved them to deliver the death blow in a battle, as he had at Ligny just two days before. I would not have given a farthing for a guinea that Halkett’s men would stand at that moment. I suspect that Colborne was of the same mind for he suddenly swore and exclaimed, “Where are those damned Prussians?” Wherever they were, it was too late, for at that moment a signal gun fired and the attack began.

  Chapter 44

  Within a few seconds, every gun in the French batteries renewed their bombardment of the allied ridge, concentrating their fire on the ground that the Imperial Guard was to cross. Even though the guns had been firing for most of the day, the contrast with the earlier silence made this shelling seem even more devastating. There is something terrible about being fired on and not being able to hit back and the crash of shell and ball around the ridge reminded all of the horrors of the earlier fire. The British troops to our left were already lying down to reduce the likelihood of being hit while Colborne yelled in my ear above the din to stay where I was while he ran back to his own men. I took the opportunity to crouch down too although few shells were coming in my direction.

  While the three hollow squares of the Old Guard remained in the valley, the two giant columns of the Young and Middle Guard had already started their march up the slope. The one nearer the road was leading and, riding a horse in front of the foremost ranks, was Ney. He was virtually daring the British gunners to shoot him down, although from what I could see, precious few British gunners had ammunition or serviceable guns to take up the challenge.

  On the Imperial Guard came, like an unstoppable machine it followed Ney steadily up the slope. While the sound of cannon almost drowned it out, you could just hear the beat of the drums marking time. As they got closer at least one British gun did open fire and I saw a swathe of their front rank go down to a burst of canister. Two mounted officers fell but Ney was unhurt and in a moment the ranks had closed up as though the wounded men had not existed. The column did not come alone; there were Imperial Guard horse artillery teams on either side and they swiftly opened a counter fire on any British gun that showed itself. Behind the first column, the second was now also moving and beyond that, just about any Frenchman left alive in the valley was on the march towards the allied line.