by Iain Gale
‘Forward, by the farmhouse, sire. At La Haye Sainte. With General Quiot.’
‘Go and find him. Tell him that I need him now. Tell him that I’m giving him the cavalry. The cuirassiers. Delort. The 14th Division. Milhaud. Tell Ney that he’s going to take Delort’s cuirassiers and drive the British off their hill. Tell him he’s going to win me the battle.’
TWENTY-THREE
The valley, 4 p.m. Ney
They moved across the field, from east to west, through the clamour of battle in their own bizarre silence. No cheers and huzzahs marked the stately progress of Napoleon’s cuirassiers, merely the jingle of their polished brass and leather harness, the hollow clank of empty scabbard against top-boot and the rhythmic clatter of thousands of steel breastplates. The ultimate shock troops, the Emperor’s ‘Gros Frères’, were on the move.
Each man stood almost two metres tall. Combined with his horse, weighed in at over 300 pounds. Black horsehair manes flew behind their gleaming helmets, and on their shoulders they wore the red epaulettes of the élite. Second in status only to the Garde, for twenty years the Imperial cuirassiers had struck fear into all the armies of Europe. And now Ney was about to lead them into battle.
The Emperor had sent word to him twenty minutes ago. Had pulled him out of the fight for La Haye Sainte, beside whose devastated orchard he had been urging on Quiot’s exhausted infantry. It was the key to the field. But how were they to take it? Napoleon’s orders, delivered in person by Bertrand, had been a little vague, but simple enough. He had admittedly been a little surprised, particularly after the series of rebukes he had suffered over the last three days.
He was, it seemed, to take Milhaud’s entire cavalry corps and press the Allied line to the left of La Haye Sainte. A grand cavalry charge which would clear the centre of the line ready for the artillery to move in at close range. And then, he presumed, would come the coup de grâce, delivered by the Garde with Napoleon at its head.
Not doubting the Emperor’s word, Ney had ridden straight to Delort, the closest to him of Milhaud’s two divisional commanders. But the general had not believed him. An unsupported cavalry attack? It was unthinkable. Suicide. Ney had shouted down his protestations. Had turned his horse and gone directly to Milhaud. He of course had not dared to doubt the marshal’s authority, and so here they all were, Delort included, riding at the head of the mightiest force of heavy cavalry assembled in Europe for three summers. Ney laughed. Turned to his aide-de-camp.
‘Well, Heymes. Here we go at last, old friend. Look around you. Have you seen the like? Not since the Moskowa, I’ll bet. And we can do it again.’
Heymes smiled. Nodded.
Ney swivelled to his left. ‘Eh, Rollin? Don’t you think so? We’ll make them run.’
‘Of course, sire. You will do it. No one else.’
Ney looked around. Searched for familiar faces in these awful, stomach-churning moments that always came in the calm before the attack. ‘Milhaud?’
The armour-clad cuirassier general drew closer. ‘Sire?’
‘Remember Eylau, Milhaud?’
‘Of course, sire.’
‘We did it then, Milhaud. Didn’t we? What a slaughter that day.’
They had done it then. He had done it. Done what he had always done best. Michel Ney, the young hussar. Marshal Michel Ney, Prince of the Moskowa, daring leader of the cavalry charge.
Peering through the smoke, he scanned the hill before them. Of the redcoats there was no sign whatsoever. The guns, with their blue-clad crews, were still firing at them from the forward slope, sending shots ploughing through the ranks of d’Erlon’s decimated infantry who had now re-formed on the ridge behind the grand battery. But their fire seemed to him as nothing compared to the cacophanous bombardment maintained by the hundreds of French cannon. Who would want to stand under that?
Perhaps Wellington really had gone. But if that were the case then surely he would have made some attempt to evacuate the château and the farm where the battle still raged. The good general would never abandon his troops. Particularly the Guards who garrisoned the château.
Ney rode in the centre of the line, at the front and centre of the 5th Cuirassiers, Armand Grobert’s men. Their ranks filled with the veterans of Austerlitz, Wagram, Borodino, Leipzig. They were brigaded with the 10th under Pierre Lahuberdière, similarly experienced. On their left rode the 6th and the 9th commanded by Baron Vial and over on the right the 13th Division with the 12th and 7th under Travers and Dubois’ 4th and 1st, not yet recovered from their efforts at helping to repulse the British heavy dragoons. Almost 3,000 men and horses, crossing the bloody field in column of march.
He was enveloped in a comforting smell of damp horse and fresh manure. They passed La Belle Alliance. The little inn was awash with staff officers and aides. Of the Emperor, though, Ney could see nothing. Perhaps he was resting. Back up the hill at Le Caillou. Moving on to the left wing, directly astride the road leading from the inn towards the ridge, they began to fan out into their designated attacking formations.
They would go in with maximum impact. Eight regimental columns, each with a frontage of between thirty and forty men, drawn up in two ranks. Invincible, irresistible and still absolutely, resolutely silent. Waiting to hear the word of command.
To his left Hougoumont burned ever brighter, columns of flame reaching up from her rooftops, thick black smoke belching from the windows. On the right stood La Haye Sainte, doggedly holding out. These were their markers. The left and right of their small world. And in between stretched the valley, funnelling them up the slope. Two dozen trumpet calls rang out, drawing the regiments into place. Swords drawn and tucked squarely into their shoulders, the troopers manoeuvered with balletic precision around the fluttering, eagle-topped guidons.
‘Walk forward.’
Ney looked over his left shoulder. The slowly moving line shimmered in the dim sunlight like a single rippling entity. Four hundred troopers, riding almost knee to knee. An endless wave of steel. In front of every squadron rode five officers. Why did the British never learn, he wondered. The only way to control your cavalry was to place at least half of the officers to the front. If only Wellington had done that with those brave men on the grey horses. Perhaps by now the day would have had a different story to tell.
They had advanced almost forty paces when the collective silence was suddenly broken. Eight colonels spoke almost in unison. ‘Advance. At the trot. Forward.’
From the eight regiments the commands rang out across the field. Slowly the great horses began to move into the valley. The first artillery rounds came smashing into the cuirassiers before they had crossed ten yards, carving channels of blood through their tall ranks, claiming man and horse alike. They closed up without need of an order. Their progress was horribly slow.
‘Canter.’
They moved on. Passed the shattered orchard to the east of Hougoumont. Ney saw puffs of white smoke as the British defenders loosed off sporadic shots at the passing cavalry. And there was something else. Looking down the line towards the château he noticed that the cavalry on the farthest left of the charge were not cuirassiers but dolman-clad chasseurs. The chasseurs of the Garde. What were the Garde cavalry doing with them? He had not ordered them to charge. Who had given the order? The Emperor? It must have been the Emperor himself. They would answer to no one else. Well then. They would go in together. This would really finish the British. And their German friends. He wondered whether the Garde lancers were with them too, but, caught up in the rhythm of the charge, could not turn to see. Thought, if I can just lead them into the enemy now. Can just push on. Can only make it to the hill.
‘Gallop.’
The ground was shaking. Their hooves beating a relentless thunder as close on 5,000 horsemen speeded up into the attack. Ney could feel his heart pounding, paying back the rhythm of the hoofbeats.
‘Heymes. Milhaud. Travers.’ He screamed their names. ‘With me now. For France. For the Empire.’
From the
guns to their front, the deadly rounds came crashing in, parting the wave of men. They were answered now, though, by a barrage of shots from their own artillery, stationed on the incline above the valley. The French cannonballs sailed high over Ney’s head, to vanish deep in the reverse of the Allied position. The cavalry made the foot of the slope at a canter and carried on at the same pace up the firmer ground of the hill.
Only 100 paces away from the crest. Buglers calling again now. Willing them forward. The shrill, insistent notes of the ‘charge à la sauvage’.
He looked to his right. Could see nothing but steel, steaming horses and the long, black horsehair manes of the cuirassiers’ helmets, flying in the wind.
And then they were silent no longer.
‘Vive l’Empéreur! Avancez!’
The cry was everywhere, not least on Ney’s own lips as, wild-eyed, grinning, he pushed his horse forward. The thick scent of sweat and gunpowder caught his nostrils. He shrieked, to no one in particular: ‘Follow me. Follow me, to glory. For France. For the Emperor.’
Mounting the lower slope, some of the horsemen pushed on in textbook style. The front rank held their sabres forward, arm fully extended, the great, flat, four-foot blade pointed straight at head height, tip inclined slightly downwards. Behind, the second rank held their swords high in the air, over their heads. The regular, well-dressed lines had long since gone and the officers had fallen back in line with the men. But for Ney it was as good a charge as he had ever seen, the short width of the front maintaining a semblance of the packed formation. And so it was that, carried forward by the impetus of their attack, at the canter, they crashed over the top of the hill. The Allied artillery were sending shells up now, shrapnel. All along the line men were hurled from the saddle, cut to ribbons by iron fragments, while smaller pieces came down like pattering hail on their breastplates and helmets.
Ney was not certain exactly what he had expected to see as they crested the ridge. The Allies in retreat? He had never really thought so. But nothing had prepared him for what met them. The cannon he knew would be there but not, he had thought, in such force. As the French closed on them, at twenty yards they opened up and the cuirassiers were hurled back by the hammer-blow force of the grape and canister shot, double-loaded. He watched them go down in scores. Before every Allied gun, with each discharge of canister, four or five cuirassiers collapsed upon one another, men and horses killed together; a single heap of mangled flesh. Their job done, the gunners deserted their cannons and ran for the rear.
It was only a moment before Ney saw what they were running to. Riding beyond the smoke, it became instantly clear to him that the entire Allied army had pulled back 100 yards. It was arrayed before them in a series of thirteen perfectly formed hollow squares and oblongs, set in chequerboard pattern, some composed, to judge from the many standards and drums assembled in their centres, of two regiments. The infantry stood in three ranks, the nearest kneeling down, bayonets fixed, pointing upwards. And most of them were redcoats. No, he thought. This was not Eylau. But something very different. Something deadly. He knew, though, that there was no alternative for the French cavalry but to charge straight at the serried ranks of steel.
Across the hilltop, as the cavalry moved in, disciplined volleys began to erupt from the rear two ranks of each of the Allied formations. Around him Ney saw comrades topple from the saddle; shot horses throwing their armoured riders before collapsing themselves. Milhaud went down, his horse shot from under him. The cuirassiers barely had time to switch from a canter to a gallop before they impacted on the first of the squares.
Ney tried to bark a command. ‘Shoot at them. Use your pistols. For God’s sake shoot them.’
But he knew in his heart that, at least for this moment, God had forsaken them.
He saw a huge cuirassier launch himself against a square of redcoats, only to receive a bayonet thrust from the ground, deep into his horse’s stomach. The animal reared and threw the cavalryman who, once on the ground, was helpless to raise himself. The man scrabbled around. Tried to find his carbine. Grasped his sword. Attempted to rise. Fell again. All around him Ney saw similar stories unfolding.
He rode through a gap between two of the squares of redcoats, caught up in the irresistible flow of the attack. Glancing momentarily to his right, he saw quite clearly for an instant, in the centre of one of the squares, the unmistakable figure of Wellington, in his distinctive blue coat and simple black hat. Such was his surprise that, hesitating momentarily, Ney found himself again being carried bodily along by the force of the other horsemen. Sweeping round the rear face of the square, caught in the crossfire, he glimpsed yet more squares formed up below them, on the reverse slope of the ridge. Black Brunswickers, three battalions of them. And beyond them a vast body of light cavalry, British Hussars and light dragoons, poised to deliver a counter-attack.
Oh God, he thought. This is no retreat. We have played into Wellington’s hands. This is exactly what he hoped that I would do. Riding on, over to the left, he saw two more columns. Infantry – Dutch, by the look of them, advancing to strengthen the Allied right wing.
There, in the rear of the enemy’s front line, only five paces away from Ney, Travers fell from his horse, as three shots penetrated his breastplate at point-blank range. Colonel Thurot of the 12th led a troop against a side of the square. Threw himself on to it. Three bayonets sank deep into his horse’s chest, bringing it down on the men below. Thrown, Thurot struggled to his feet. Ney lost sight of him. And then once again the marshal was being pushed around the edge of the square and back towards the French lines. They must regroup. Must attack again. It was the only way to win now, of that he was certain. By smashing these squares. He knew it to be possible. Hadn’t he done it himself before? It was their only hope.
Ney realized that he had been carried far over to the left. Close to where the chasseurs of the Garde had closed with the Allied line and were riding helplessly round and round two squares of Brunswick infantry.
As Ney approached he saw an officer and five chasseurs fall like dolls, taken with the same volley.
He passed the Red Lancers of the Garde on his left. So they too had joined the fight. Saw Colbert leading his men in, his left arm, wounded at Quatre-Bras, tied up in a sling.
Ney called over to him. Tried to make himself heard. ‘Colbert. Colbert.’
The colonel saw him, smiled, nodded, shrugged in resignation and turned back into the mêlée.
Their three-metre-long lances had given Colbert’s men an initial advantage, allowing them to stab down over the hedge of bayonets. But now, having left the weapons in the bodies of the dead Allied infantry, most had changed to swords and, caught up against two squares of the British Guards, were receiving volley after disciplined volley. He watched as three of the furious lancers hurled their weapons like javelins into the square before drawing sabres and going to meet their deaths, impaled on the line of steel.
It was useless. Slaughter. The sweat pouring off him, Ney tried to push through the milling throng. To regain the French lines. Perhaps if he could bring in more men. Kellerman’s cuirassiers and dragoons. Men and horses fresh to the fight. The carabiniers too.
He rode back down the slope, and as he did so he was aware of roundshot flying past him from the rear. How could this be? Surely they had taken the Allied cannon? Had they not disabled them? Driven a spike into the touch-hole? Confirming his fears, a shell burst close by, sending a large fragment into his horse’s stomach. The animal reared for an instant and then plunged down upon its front legs, throwing Ney over its head. He hit the ground hard. Sat up. Shook his head. Reached to find his sword. Two cuirassiers dismounted. Helped him to his feet. One gave him his own horse. All around them cannonballs were ploughing into the mud, finding targets among the regrouping cavalrymen. It must be true, he thought. As soon as the cavalry left the ridge, the British gunners were coming out of their squares and retrieving their cannon. Firing again. They had to spike those guns. And pe
rhaps they could move a battery of horse artillery up to the slope. Then there would be a real chance of success. Above all they must attack again. As Ney began to mount, Milhaud came cantering up on a fresh horse, his black bicorn hat riddled with bullet holes, his breastplate dented and muddy.
‘Sire, are you hurt? Your breeches.’
Ney looked down. Saw that the right thigh of his breeches had been slightly torn in the fall. He had lost a gold button too, from his filthy coat.
‘It’s nothing. I’m fine. But, Milhaud. We must try again.’
‘Yes, sire. But it’s murder up there. Where is the artillery? We need artillery.’
‘It’s coming. I’ve requested it. The Emperor knows what you’re doing. He’s very proud of us. He’s sending the guns.’
Well. Why not lie if it helped? For all Ney knew there were cannon on their way.
He moved to the foot of the slope, where the bewildered, frustrated cuirassiers were attempting to re-form. Made out one regiment from their bright orange collar facings, the 5th, their numbers horribly depleted. Five hundred men, three squadrons, reduced now to perhaps half that number. Their commanding officer was still with them. Charles Grobert, his face covered in blood. Beside them, similarly dazed, stood all that was left of the 10th, and next to them the 6th. Both units seemed to lack officers, for now at least. Hatless, Ney made sure that they could see his red hair. Shouted: ‘That’s it. Regroup. Reform your squadrons. Follow me. I’m Ney. Marshal of France. Come with me. Regroup.’
Finding himself at the head of a ragged group of perhaps 300 cuirassiers of various units, he called out to a wounded captain, the highest ranking officer, save Grobert, that he could see. ‘Come on. We’re going in again. Follow me.’ And then to the rest of the men: ‘Avancez! For France. Here. Up this hill. Charge with me now. Charge for the keys of freedom.’
They managed a ragged cheer. Began to advance up the slope against the storm of fire from the Allied artillery. But the guns ceased as they neared the crest and again they saw the gunners taking cover. Two of the British artillerymen attempted, too late, to feign death beneath their gun carriage. They were cut down by three cuirassiers.
