by Iain Gale
Yet again De Lancey had not slept well. Had still been working with the Duke at 2.30, writing orders and dispositions. They had received a message from Blücher an hour later, confirming that he would ride to their aid. The relief had been sufficient to persuade the Commander-in-Chief to take a few hours’ rest, and De Lancey had thought to follow suit. But twenty minutes later he was watching the sunrise through the window of his little room. Magdalene haunted his mind. What would befall her should he be killed, or worse, if he were maimed, blinded or paralysed?
Now, as then, he began to contemplate what this battle really meant.
If they did not carry the day then they would, as far as he could tell, be plunged into another twenty years of bloody war. Should he survive the battle, however, whatever the outcome, it would undoubtedly mean advancement – social and financial. And what would that mean for his young wife? On the whole, renewed war would bring advantage. But peace must be preferred. He fancied their life together in London. Perhaps in one of the new townhouses being built in the village of Chelsea. The air was pleasant there, it was said, and it was but a short ride to Whitehall. They would live with no great pomp. A few servants and rooms enough in which to entertain and live in content. Children. Yes, there would be children. They had spoken of it, and certainly he felt a yearning. But for now he was content with Magdalene.
Oh, let him come through unhurt. He muttered the words in silent prayer. Let this be the last battle. Surely now, he thought. Now the time had come to settle down to the business of peace. Perhaps they would win this battle and he would return to a desk at the Horse Guards and the chance to grow old and fat, ending his days a Major-General signing orders to send other young men to death and glory. For in that place alone the pen was mightier than the sword.
A gentle cough brought him back to the present. Miguel d’Alava was standing behind him, resplendent in the elaborate white and gold uniform of a general of the Spanish army. Boots slipping on the muddy bank, De Lancey walked to greet his friend.
‘Miguel. Here we are, as you predicted. And what now of our position?’
‘The Peer has chosen well, William. He hides his men. Forces Napoleon to guess where his strength lies.’
‘He is the master of the defensive position.’
‘Of course. And so he has positioned his infantry behind this ridge. Cavalry on the flanks and in the rear. And look how he puts the English, his finest troops, in the front line and sends the Belgians off to Hal.’
Of course d’Alava would have spotted that. And it did concern De Lancey. The men at Hal, Chasse’s Dutch and Belgians, were untried. And the last time any had been in battle they had fought for Napoleon. If the French did turn the Allied flank, could they be counted on not to run or to desert to the enemy? Would they really march to rescue the position rather than retreat to Brussels? Naturally, he had said nothing to Wellington, but surely, he thought, a more dependable force would have been a better choice. A brigade of British line infantry perhaps, or the German Legion. But then, of course, should Napoleon ignore that flank they would simply be a waste of valuable veteran manpower.
‘They are there for a reason, Miguel. Everything has its purpose.’
‘What then, my friend, is the purpose of those?’
The Spaniard was pointing to a nearby troop of the Royal Horse Artillery who were assembling what looked like a number of ‘A’ framed tent poles. De Lancey winced.
‘Ah. Yes. The rocket troop. You must remember them from Spain, Miguel. You know that they can be most effective against cavalry. The horses hate them.’
‘No more than do your own men, William. You know as well as I that there is no telling where those infernal things will land.’
‘You are quite wrong. It is such things as these and Shrapnel’s deadly shells that will win this war and many after. You are too set in your ways, Miguel. Warfare is changing. It is not as you would have it. Something more than songs and banners and trust in God.’
The Spaniard shrugged. Turned away. De Lancey sensed that he had caused offence.
‘Now, tell me. Have you inspected our strongpoints? There are but three.’
He passed d’Alava his spyglass.
‘Over there to the left, you see, we have the farms of Papelotte and La Haye. Here below us is the farm of La Haye Sainte, and over there I think you may just discern the woods of the château farm of Hougoumont. A considerable complex with a mansion house, high walls, orchards and a wood to its front. It is the cornerstone of our line.’
D’Alava scanned the field. ‘Yes. You are right. It is well chosen ground. Strong enough. But what of the human weaknesses, William? What of your allies? And what of the commanders? Where is our friend the Prince of Orange today?’
‘The Prince rides with the Peer, Miguel, as you well know. And his brother has been, erm, honoured with command of the force at Hal.’
Both men smiled.
‘Safely out of your way, you mean.’ D’Alava laughed. Handed back the spyglass.
As the two men looked to their front, directly below them in the orchard of the farmhouse, they noticed an officer of British horse artillery, distinguished by his gold-braided navy-blue pelisse and extravagantly crested Tarleton helmet, smoking a cigar amid the remains of what appeared to have been a very merry breakfast party. As they watched he mounted his horse and, still puffing at the stub of his cigar, rode sharply up to their right on to the crest of the ridge. There, perfectly silhouetted against the sky, making himself a prime target for any bored French skirmisher, he took his time to make his own appreciation of the scene.
The Spaniard spoke.
‘That, I believe, is a perfect example of what is called British phlegm.’
‘We like to set the men a good example.’
‘You like to die with honour.’
De Lancey snapped shut the telescope, replaced it in his saddle-bag, untethered his own horse and both men mounted up. He was in the process of leaning over to talk to d’Alava when a commotion from behind made him turn round. A group of officers was riding towards them in uniforms of heraldic splendour. At their front and centre rode Wellington, clad in contrast to the rest of that brilliant company, as was De Lancey, in a simple, plain blue riding coat. The Peer’s only decoration was worn on his hat. Four cockades, the colours of the allies in whose armies he carried the rank of Field Marshal: the black of Britain and Hanover, the orange of the United Netherlands, the white of Spain and Portugal’s green. De Lancey noticed Picton beside the Duke, matching his asceticism in the much-derided civilian frock coat and old round hat. He was holding an umbrella.
The Peer was making a final tour of his army, collecting his officers as he went. Gordon rode closest to him, followed by young George Lennox and George Scovell. Then came Barnes, the fire-eating Adjutant-General, his high forehead betraying no hint of that infamous temper. After him was Fitzroy Somerset, his beak a miniature version of the Peer’s own proboscis, and beside him the ever-affable George Cathcart and the rotund, black-coated figure of Blücher’s exhausted liaison officer, General Müffling. Lord Uxbridge, commander of the cavalry and pro bono second-in-command, came next with his aide, Will Thornhill, and the commanders of the four brigades of Anglo-German cavalry, William Ponsonby, Edward Somerset, brother of Fitzroy, John Vandeleur and Hussey Vivian. With them rode their equivalent in the infantry: Daddy Hill, Generals Cooke, Alten and Clinton, and the Dutchmen Perponcher and Rebecque. And last came the Prince of Orange, clad as usual in his distinctive black pelisse.
Wellington spoke. ‘Yes. This will do very nicely. Well done, De Lancey. Gentlemen. I shall make my headquarters at this elm. Mark it well. Although do not be surprised if you do not find me here. I shall be with the army. Now, De Lancey, guide me through the dispositions.’
‘Your Grace, you will see that I have followed your directions to the letter. Over on the right you have the brigade of Guards under General Cooke; the light companies detached to Hougoumont and with them the
Second Nassauers. Behind them I have placed the 23rd and to their rear General Adam’s brigade with the light infantry and the German Legion, with the Brunswickers directly behind them. Next to them are General Halkett’s men. Your old friends the 33rd and the 69th. Closest to us we have Colonel Ompteda’s German troops, whose second light regiment has found the garrison of the farm, and between them and General Halkett lie the bulk of the Hanoverian militia. You will see, sir, that directly behind us is the Household Brigade and across the chaussée from them the Greys, the Royals and the Inniskillings. I have taken the step of placing General van Merlen’s cavalry slightly to the rear of our own horse. I thought it prudent. They were somewhat mauled at Quatre-Bras.’
The Allies, Nassauers and Brunswickers, and the Hanoverian militia, had performed well in the fight at the crossroads, but De Lancey knew that like him the Peer remained unconvinced. He had placed most of them on his right, safely behind a strong front line of British regulars and the German Legion.
Wellington smiled. Turned to the Spaniard. ‘You see, d’Alava, what De Lancey and I have done to render the army more effective. We have placed the raw troops among the veterans; the novices with the old salts. We have sandwiched farm boys between Spanish heroes. And should I suspect any trouble, we have the Hussars and the dragoons to push them back into the line. I will have no malingerers here today. We shall need every man we have. Pray continue.’
De Lancey resumed. ‘If you look to the left, your Grace, you will find General Picton’s brigade, the First of Foot, the Highlanders and beyond them the Hanoverians of Best and Vincke. The light cavalry under Generals Vivian and Vandeleur protects our flank, General Lambert is hastening up in support from Waterloo and the Dutch and the Nassauers are down there in the two farms, as you ordered.’
‘Very good, De Lancey. Very good. That will do, I think.’
Without another word Wellington reined his horse round and led the company off along the ridge road to the right of the line. The battalions had deployed in ‘column of companies’. Ten companies of some sixty men formed two ranks deep, the files standing a mere twenty-one inches apart, captains to the front of each company, sergeants and subalterns to the rear. They passed sergeants busy dressing their lines, officers brushing and preening, lost in contemplation or writing hasty last notes to loved ones back home. De Lancey himself had written a similar letter the previous evening and given it to Alexander Abercromby, his deputy, who had given his own note to De Lancey. There was no need for words. It was the old routine. What every soldier who could write scribbled before a battle. De Lancey wondered how many such notes had been written that morning and how many would be needed before the day was done. He looked at the faces of the men as they passed by.
Although they were redcoats mostly, he did not recognize their features as distinctively British. For the truth was that for most part they were not, but Hanoverians. Regulars and conscripts who gazed at this passing parade of pomp with blank indifference. It was only when Wellington arrived at the 73rd and the 30th, who were positioned directly in their path, astride the ridge-top road, that the sight of the Duke’s figure drew smiles and scattered cheers. Next in line, the Guards: First, Coldstream and Scots, although somewhat battered after a battle and two days’ marching, still made a passable and notably silent attempt at a ‘present-arms’ worthy of Horse Guards.
And then, barely five minutes after having left the elm, they were descending an incline, curving round to face the French. De Lancey saw the red-brick walls, gate and dark slate rooftops of Hougoumont. The Peer, he knew, had already visited the château that morning. The fact that it had been his first destination on reaching the field had made him realize at once the importance his commander placed on refusing it to the French.
As they entered through its north gate Wellington turned to him. ‘You know whom I have placed in command here, William?’
‘Colonel Macdonell, sir.’
‘Yes. Macdonell. D’ye think he’ll manage it? Can he hold this place for us?’
‘If anyone can, he will, sir. He’ll have hot work, though.’
‘We’ll all have hot work, William, before this day is out.’
It was in truth a good choice, thought De Lancey. And he had meant what he said. He knew the big Highlander well. They had served together in the 17th Light Dragoons on his return from India. December 1798. Macdonell, hungry for action, had been already three years with the regiment, transferred from the old 101st Foot. He had been rewarded with postings to Grenada and fierce fighting against the Maroons in the West Indies. De Lancey’s uncle had been colonel of the 17th and his cousin John a major. He remembered Macdonell as an unlikely captain of dragoons. A giant on horseback. Remembered too the genteel society of Canterbury. The pretty young women at all those soirées, routs and assemblies. And all that interminable fencing practice. Macdonell’s height had made him a formidable opponent.
He recognized the same Scotsman as the towering red-coated officer who approached him now with long-legged strides across the teeming courtyard.
Macdonell knew him too: ‘Colonel De Lancey. I hear much of you. A knighthood. A bride. And she a Scot. You are a lucky man.’
‘Thank you, Colonel. I am indeed fortunate. And through my dear wife I have developed a sincere love for your countrymen that quite outdoes the respect and admiration with which I had learned to regard them in Spain. But you have a fight on your hands here today. Be sure, Macdonell, the Peer is depending upon you. All England is depending upon you. Scotland too.’
‘Lord Wellington has no cause to worry, Colonel. My men are ready for all the French can throw at them.’
They were joined by Wellington. ‘Ah, Macdonell. You have done well. No less than I expected. The defences look sound. But mark what I said to you earlier this morning. Yours will be the first position to be attacked. You must defend it to the last extremity. To the very last man. The last round. All depends upon you, Colonel. Do I make myself plain?’
‘Quite plain, your Grace. You may depend upon the Guards. We shall not let them through.’
‘You must hold the château to the last extremity, Macdonell. The last extremity.’
He turned to De Lancey. ‘De Lancey, have the Nassauers move out of the woods now and into the château buildings. Macdonell, take the Coldstream’s light company and join with the 3rd Guards on the west side of the garden. You are our right flank. That’s where they’ll try first. Hold them there as long as you can and then fall back within the walls. Do not risk lives. Be prudent. You cannot afford to lose a single man.’
Macdonell nodded. ‘Your Grace.’
Wellington turned away and, followed by the staff, returned to where the horses were held by a Coldstream corporal. Having mounted, the small group rode out of the gate, but instead of returning whence they had come, up towards the Allied lines, the Commander-in-Chief surprised De Lancey by turning his horse to the left and trotting round the side of the great barn, towards the French. Fitzroy Somerset, his face riven with anxiety, rode to his side.
‘Your Grace. D’you think this wise? You are well known, sir. The French have voltigeurs beyond the woods. Perhaps in the trees. It would be rash.’
‘Nonsense. The woods are ours, Somerset. The Nassauers have yet to leave them. Correct, De Lancey?’
‘Quite correct, your Grace.’
‘You see, Somerset. Not all my officers share your skittishness. I intend to take a look for myself.’
They arrived at the end of the wall. Ahead of them, beyond a large haystack, a dense wood stretched away towards the French lines. To their left rose the tall gatehouse and south gate of the château. Already Macdonell’s men were beginning to file past them to take up their new positions.
De Lancey could see what the Duke had done. He had in effect divided the château complex into three independently defended sectors; one on the right under Macdonell, the buildings under the Nassauers and with them the woods containing their light and grenadier com
panies and some 200 picked Hanoverian marksmen. On the left the great orchard was held by the light companies of the First Guards under Lord Saltoun, another amiable Scot, who he knew held land close to that of Magdalene’s parents at Dunglass.
‘D’you see there, De Lancey?’ Wellington raised his arm to point through the woods towards the French position, and as he did so a shot rang out. The ball scudded past De Lancey’s face and perilously close to Wellington’s. A French marksman. So Somerset’s fears had not been groundless. They were firing at the Duke. A look of alarm crossed the Duke’s face. But only for an instant. Then from the undergrowth a figure appeared, the muzzle of his musket still smoking. He was dressed not in blue but green and wore on his head a huge, red-trimmed bearskin hat. A Nassau grenadier. He was followed by an officer, similarly clad. The latter turned to De Lancey. Spoke in impeccable but clipped and halting English.
‘I am most sorry, your honour. This man is very nervous. The affair at Quatre-Bras was his first battle. He took your friend for a French officer.’
De Lancey raised his eyebrows. Wellington smiled. The Dutch officer, suddenly realizing at whom his trigger-happy private had loosed off a round, coloured and began to stammer.
‘Oh. God. I … Oh my good God. Your majesty. Please forgive me. I didn’t realize. Sir. I …’
Wellington waved his comments away. Addressed his companions. ‘A simple mistake. My coat, d’you see. Blue. Fellow took me for a Frenchman.’ And touched by the absurdity of such a thought, he laughed the extraordinary guffaw, unique to him, that some said resembled a horse with the croup. It was taken up, with less gusto, by the staff. Though not by Somerset.
It had the necessary effect upon the poor Nassau officer, who smiled, saluted briskly and, calling the shaken private to him, turned and trotted back into the wood.
Wellington took off his hat. Mopped his brow. ‘By God, De Lancey. And they expect me to win a battle with men like that.’
