Flashman's Waterloo (Adventures of Thomas Flashman Book 6)

by Robert Brightwell

  I knew that nobody defended a ridge like Wellington; I had stood beside him at Talavera and seem him defeat a larger French force. But that had been with experienced, well-drilled troops. Here, half his army was at best unproven and at worst some had sympathies with the French. Also for the first time in his career he was not facing a French general or marshal but the emperor. Napoleon’s soldiers boasted that with him at their head they had conquered a continent; it was not tactful to remind them that they had lost it as well. But even I had to acknowledge that he had generally only lost battles when faced with overwhelming numbers, or in the case of Russia, an overwhelming winter.

  This battle had been postponed until eleven that morning to allow time for the ground to dry out. The biggest advantage for the French was their cannon and on wet soft ground the guns would have dug themselves into the mud as they fired. As Marshal Ney’s aide, I was once again long overdue at his side. So, having eaten my fill, I reluctantly climbed on my horse and rode north. I arrived at the battlefield at nine-thirty that morning. There was very little to set it apart from many of the gently sloping valleys I had passed through the previous day. You will have probably already seen maps or charts of it, but essentially there were two shallow, roughly parallel ridges. The British were behind the north one while the French formed up on the southern ridge. Through the middle, running north to south was the main Brussels to Charleroi road and just in front of the British ridge on that road was a farm called La Haye Sainte. As I looked from the French ridge, standing near the road I could see the roofs of some more buildings nearer the French line to my left. This turned out to be the château of Hougoumont. A few flattened tracks in the crops were the only sign that an army had passed this way at all as hardly any British soldiers or guns were visible on the far side. Napoleon stood with his generals by a table with maps laid out on it and they discussed the coming battle in between staring at landmarks with their telescopes.

  I joined the group of staff officers standing behind them and learned that the British had garrisoned both the house and surrounding buildings at Hougoumont and the farm of La Haye Sainte, as bastions to break any advance. While we could not see the British line, French-speaking Dutch soldiers had deserted during the night and revealed that it extended a mile on either side of the road. We stood talking quietly as officers speculated when the main assault would start. Reille’s men could be seen marching up the road behind me and I knew some units of the Imperial Guard were marching behind them, so I did not think it would be soon. Of more concern to me was making sure that I was out of the way when the battle did commence.

  I had always promised myself that I would not fight my own countrymen but with a battle in the offing, this was going to require all my cunning. With the French likely to be victorious, I could not simply desert their army or hide. I would be missed and deserters faced arrest and imprisonment. I needed to keep my liberty to slip away later – surely I could find some nice safe courier duties for the marshal. I had managed it at Quatre Bras and I was sure I could do it again.

  The emperor and his generals talked for ages and I had my first inkling that something was not right when Napoleon called for a chair and sat down. He winced with pain as he did so and clutched his stomach. I wondered if his waistcoat buttons were straining a little bit more than normal around the pot belly. Perhaps he had tried that stew after all.

  My suspicion deepened a short while later when his white horse was summoned so that he could inspect his troops. The emperor walked gingerly to the stallion, whispering something to Ney as he did so. A nervous groom stood beside the mount with his hands ready to help boost the stout emperor into the saddle. Napoleon put out his foot and a moment later he was flying upwards with such speed that he nearly tumbled over the other side of his horse.

  “You imbecile!” he roared at the unfortunate man, who stared aghast at his furious monarch. The horse trotted on a few paces as Napoleon adjusted himself in the saddle but just as his staff began to close in around him, the emperor had second thoughts. He wheeled his horse around and returned to the hapless groom.

  “I am so sorry, Your Majesty…” the man began and fell to his knees, but the emperor smiled and waved him up again.

  “Stand, my boy, and give me your hand.” After the groom had shaken his hand I saw the emperor wince again and press his hand to his stomach before belching loudly. Ignoring this emission he continued quietly, “When you help a man my size, it must be done gently.” With that, he turned again and, gritting his teeth, galloped forward to the waiting ranks of his army.

  Despite the discomfort, the emperor rode nearly two miles, from his left wing to his right. It was in part a piece of showmanship to intimidate his enemies and I noticed a growing crowd of men appear on the British crest to watch. But there was no doubt about the effect his appearance had on his own men. They cheered and roared their acclaim, raising their hats on their bayonets and sword points and singing revolutionary songs as he rode away. Many of them might have spent the night soaking wet and shivering with cold in a field, but by then their clothes had dried in the wind and sporadic sunshine; most had brushed off the worst of the mud and they now stood tall, proud soldiers of France. They knew that one more victory over the very mixed force of British, German, Hanoverian, Nassau and Brunswick troops together with the French and Dutch-speaking Netherlanders, and they would stop any immediate threat of invasion to their homeland. Their families would be safe from the pillaging of foreign troops and the French ‘Republic’ would once again be secure. I just sat there feeling confused.

  Patriotism is a funny thing. I have known many people who have given their lives to save some scrap of cloth representing their regiment or their country. Well, you can wipe your arse on any flag I have marched under and see what good it will do you. I had no wish to see the French king back on his throne and, if I was honest, I did not really give a fig about many of the assorted foreigners that were hiding beyond the opposite ridge. There were more than a few British soldiers I did not trouble about either; if a French skirmisher had put a ball through Colquhoun Grant’s pompous head, I would have happily bought the man a drink. But there were some I did care about. I suspected that Campbell, my closest friend who I had served with in India, Spain and Canada might be over there. There would certainly be others like him, for whom I had gone to great lengths to hide the fact that I was terrified when we had fought together. Now, through a twist of fate, I found myself among their enemies, a force that was likely to destroy them.

  The French certainly had the guns to do it. As I watched a huge ‘grand battery’ was being put together on a ridge to the right of the road. It was half a mile in front of the allied line and angled to cover the British left and centre. Even those troops well behind the ridge would be comfortably in range. But while I watched its formation, an artillery officer told me that once the attack was underway they planned to move the guns two hundred yards further forward, on another ridge, where they could provide even more devastating fire. There must have been nearly eighty guns in this huge battery, but there were many more scattered along the French line. I had already seen how well they would be served.

  There was little I could do to change the course of events now and I resolved just to keep my head down and survive the day. Tomorrow could take care of itself. But then I discovered that I may already have made a difference to how the battle would be fought.

  After his procession along the line of his soldiers, the emperor returned to his original vantage point. The ride did not seem to have done him any good. He face looked grey and the bouncing on his saddle had clearly shaken his guts further. As he dismounted he passed wind loudly, startling his horse, which skittered to one side until the unfortunate groom had it back under control. The emperor started to walk slowly back to his table and chair while the other senior generals who had ridden along behind him reined up nearby. One of them was Ney and he spotted me standing in the crowd.

  “Colonel Moreau
, where the devil have you been? I was expecting you to report to me yesterday.” Like the swots at school, the other officers shrank back from me as I was reprimanded. I noticed Napoleon pause in his journey and glance across at me and I inwardly cursed Ney for once again bringing me to his attention.

  “I am sorry, Marshal. My horse went lame and I could not get another one.”

  Ney gave a brief nod of satisfaction. “Well, I hope you have a sturdy mount today as I will have work for you.”

  At this, the emperor stopped and turned to face all of us. His eyes roved over the group and, perhaps it was my imagination, but they seemed to linger a fraction longer on my features compared to the rest. “Gentlemen,” he spoke at last. “I have drawn up our battle plan, but as I am feeling a little indisposed, Marshal Ney will command the attack.” He paused again before adding, “France is in your hands, but I know I can rely on you to do your duty.”

  For the first time I felt a flicker of hope for the allied cause. Only a flicker, mind, for the weight of advantage still lay overwhelmingly with the French. I could not think of a better defensive general than Wellington. On the other hand, at Quatre Bras I had seen first-hand that while Ney was undoubtedly brave, he had little strategic acumen. Ney was hot-headed and reactionary, while Wellington was cold and calculating.

  I could not help but think back to those little mushrooms I had found the previous day. Were they the cause of the emperor’s indisposition, and if so would they give the British general an advantage? The best I thought that the allies could hope for was an effective fighting withdrawal. Marshal Grouchy was supposed to be between the British and any remnant of the Prussian army still fit to fight, but perhaps they could re-join in Brussels after all. In fact, as I looked at the British ridge I began to wonder how many allied troops were actually still there. Perhaps even then most were pouring down the Brussels road.

  Chapter 35

  We found out that the British were still there soon enough for the attack finally started at eleven. A signal gun sounded and then five seconds later every single French cannon fired together. It was a trick the emperor liked to use to awe his enemies and I can tell you that even on the French side of the valley, it was pretty awe-inspiring. Lines of explosions and bursts of mud could be seen along the British ridge. In that first salvo I noticed that a British gun was disabled while the crew of two more were frantically pulling their weapon back down the far slope out of sight. Then as the guns reloaded I heard a new sound from my left: musketry. The French were attacking the château of Hougoumont. I watched as thousands of little blue-coated figures charged towards the trees and gardens that surrounded the buildings. The place lay in a dip in the ground and I could just make out some roof tops but even they were soon obscured by smoke as the guns fired again.

  I had expected Ney to be good to his word of keeping us busy, but in fact, for the first two hours of the battle we did very little. The emperor sat nearby at his table surrounded by his staff officers. There was also a small group of Imperial Guard soldiers, who kept away a number of local civilians who had come to the battle to wish him well. He was still in pain and occasionally walked gingerly alone into a nearby farm building. One can only guess at the purpose, but I suspect he was using it as a latrine.

  Ney, on the other hand, strolled up and down, apparently without a care in the world. This seemed strange for after a while it became apparent that the attack at Hougoumont was failing. To my dismay, I saw that there were plenty of British soldiers hidden behind the ridge, as a good number of them were pouring over its top and down a lane to reinforce the garrison at the château. While the lane was mostly hidden in a dip, it was clear that thousands of allied troops were moving, men dressed in red and green and even some artillery and cavalry to support the defence. Well, that disproved my theory that the British position was really a near empty rear-guard and I remember feeling quite depressed at the thought. I knew Wellington was no fool, so why on earth was he making a stand here? I became even more disheartened a few minutes later.

  “Are we sending more men to support the attack at Hougoumont?” I asked Ney. He had kept glancing across in that direction and must have noticed the British reinforcements, but instead of showing any concern he was strangely satisfied with the outcome.

  “Perhaps, but we have plenty of time.”

  “But isn’t the attack failing?”

  Ney looked at me and grinned. “Moreau, you should have more faith in the emperor and me. The attack has not even begun yet, but don’t worry, when it does I will make sure you get to see it.”

  “I am sorry, sir, I don’t understand.”

  Ney looked pleased with himself and was evidently keen to show off their cunning. He put his arm around my shoulders and guided me a few steps closer to the emperor and the high point of ground he stood on. Then he turned to face the British ridge. “We know the allied line is weak with lots of inexperienced men. If he hopes to keep them, Wellington must have put some of his best soldiers in that farm,” he was pointing La Haye Sainte, “and Hougoumont. Am I right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I could only agree with his logic.

  “By attacking the château we force him to send more of his best men to its defence, which will weaken his line further. Now we pound that weakened line with our guns. You must have been under artillery fire. Can you imagine how frightened inexperienced troops will be as balls from guns they cannot see, whip over the top of the crest and smash through the ranks they are standing in?”

  I could easily imagine it. I had sat on my horse terrified at Talavera, as French cannonballs smashed all about me. Wellington had ordered his men to lie down then, which reduced casualties considerably and I wondered if he was doing the same now. It would save some, but the guns would still do terrible damage. “Then when their weakened line has been battered by our guns,” Ney continued, “if they have not already broken, they will see this marching towards them.” As he spoke, he twisted me around so that I was staring over what had been my right shoulder. There before me, hidden from the allies by the southern ridge, several huge columns were being formed up. There must have been at least ten thousand men.

  “Good God,” I breathed for at that moment it seemed certain that the French would win. That certainty only hardened over time. The signal gun to start the battle had been fired at eleven. By one o’clock the British line had been under constant fire for two hours while battle still raged around Hougoumont, with yet more men sent for its defence. Having nothing to do, I counted the number of guns in the grand battery and calculated their rate of fire and estimated that some two thousand balls and shells an hour were being fired at the British line. That was just from the grand battery, which was about a third of the guns the French had. How on earth could anyone withstand such an onslaught? At Talavera I had only put up with it for a few minutes and I had been desperate to move.

  There had been hardly any return fire from the British guns and a good number had been destroyed in the bombardment. Ney confidently announced that they must be short of ammunition and were saving their guns and fire. It was hard to see the British ridge now for the valley was full of cannon smoke that only drifted slowly in the light breeze. Then just after one o’clock came the moment I had been dreading. Ney scribbled a note and handed it to me.

  “Take that to General D’Erlon,” he ordered pointing at where the huge columns had formed. Then he slapped me on the back and added, “God I envy you, for it will be a wonderful sight to watch them run. But the emperor will expect me to stay here. Go on, man.”

  I tried to conjure a look of enthusiasm. “It will be a historic moment,” I assured him and with regret I rather suspected it would be. As I swung up into the saddle another voice called out.

  “Colonel Moreau.” I turned and saw that the emperor had raised himself from his chair and was studying me closely. He stood silent for a moment and I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle with alarm, but then he gestured down the slope toward
s the waiting columns. “Tell General D’Erlon that I know he will not let me down.” There was a smirk from several officers standing behind Napoleon, who evidently thought the emperor was reminding D’Erlon of his failure to support the Ligny attack aid two days ago. But I simply threw up a salute and replied, “Yes sire,” before spurring my horse down the slope. The sooner I was away from those searching eyes the better.

  As I galloped towards the waiting blocks of blue-coated soldiers I could not help but remember all the times I had seen French columns attack before. It had never ended well for the French, but this time I was destined to be among them. At Talavera and Busaco the French had outnumbered our forces and come on in huge columns. On both occasions thin lines of redcoats had met them and destroyed them with volley fire. While all the British muskets in a line could be brought to bear on a column, only the outer French ranks could fire, which gave the British the advantage. At Busaco the French had tried to counter this by having the outer edges of the column move forward like the wings of a bird. But the British line had curved around the column head so that the men in these wings had advanced into a devastating fire, which pushed them back.

  Heaven knew what state the allied troops were in behind the opposite ridge after two hours of the heaviest bombardment I had ever seen. The ridge itself would have given some protection but the gunners had their balls and shells bouncing down the far side of it. Even if the men were lying down, hundreds if not thousands must have been killed.