“But the cavalry have gone,” objected the captain. He was going to say more but I held up my hand to silence him and then spoke to him slowly as though to a dim-witted child.
“The gentleman you saw me ride in with, the one with all the medals on his chest who was yelling like a lunatic, that was Marshal Ney.” There was a murmur along the ranks at this for Ney’s fame had spread in the British army too. “While your men killed his horse,” I continued, “Ney is unhurt. He is not going to give up after one charge, he will be back. So get those dead horses wedged on their backs with their legs up in the air, so that they make a greater obstacle to the next charge.”
“Order the front rank forward, Sergeant,” agreed the captain reluctantly. “But they are to return immediately should the French cavalry reappear.” Evans went forward with the men and I remembered that I had more urgent business to conduct.
“Now, I really should meet your colonel and then report to Wellington.” But before I could say more we were interrupted by an angry shout and another man was pulled away from the rear rank as a new officer appeared.
“What the deuce is going on? Cummings, who gave you permission to break ranks and— Good God is that you, Flashman? What the devil are you doing here?” It was Colborne, my old brigade commander at Albuera, but I barely recognised him. He was thirty-seven then, four years older than me, but he looked like there was a decade difference. His features were drawn and haggard, but they brightened into a grin when he realised who I was.
The plummy officer I now knew as Cummings answered for me, still with a note of indignation in his voice. “He charged in with the French, sir!”
“I don’t doubt it,” laughed Colborne, “he often did things his own way as I recall. What is that hanging around your neck?”
I reached up and felt the familiar white enamel cross. I had forgotten it was there but I was glad I had not lost it. “That,” I said grinning, “is my Legion of Honour medal, awarded at the personal request of Napoleon.”
Colborne roared with laughter again. “I remember you going behind their lines before Busaco, but you seem to have excelled yourself this time. I take it you have news for Wellington?”
“Yes, we should talk privately.” I tried to keep my face neutral to avoid alarming those around us. Colborne nodded and then stepped forward out of the square and led me a score of paces on so that we could not be overheard. “There are columns of men coming from the east that will arrive behind the allied left flank,” I told him.
“Yes, we have seen them,” answered Colborne sounding unconcerned.
“It is Marshal Grouchy with thirty thousand men and a hundred guns,” I whispered urgently. “Wellington has to pull the allied line back or it will be outflanked and trapped.”
Instead of appearing alarmed at the news Colborne just smiled. “I don’t know who told you that. Those men are at least forty thousand Prussians coming to our aid.”
“No, they can’t be. The Prussian army has been on the run since Ligny and I have just heard the emperor himself announce to his generals that the distant columns are Grouchy and his command.”
Colborne put a hand on my shoulder and looked me firmly in the eye. “Wellington has told me that they are Prussians. I know that his liaison officers have been in contact with the Prussians since yesterday. So, Thomas, you know them both well. Who are you going to believe – Wellington or Napoleon?”
Well, that brought me up short and I took a moment to seriously consider the question. I knew that Wellington had misrepresented his ambitions when in India and I harboured dark suspicions that he had slept with my wife. He could be a haughty devil who often kept his cards close to his chest, but I could not see how describing a French force as Prussians would benefit him here. He was fighting a defensive battle, just looking to survive on the ridge. To mislead his army could only have disastrous consequences.
On the other hand, I thought about all the lies Napoleon had told when he had first landed in France. He had far fewer scruples and misleading his army would raise their morale for a final assault, so that the British would be beaten before the Prussians could intervene. Then other things fell into place too. Ney had asked if Napoleon had spoken to General Bernard when I told him that the distant force was Grouchy. He must have spoken to Bernard before the emperor and knew that Napoleon was lying. That was why he had launched the cavalry without infantry support. He knew that they had to win the battle without delay.
“Good God,” I breathed as I realised the implications. For this was no longer just a battle of survival for the allies: if we could hold out until the Prussians arrived, the French could be beaten.
Chapter 41
It is impossible to adequately describe the horror, tension and indeed, at times, the absurdity of the next two and a half hours in a few paragraphs. For that is how long we waited for the next significant event in that momentous day. Two and a half hours is the time it would take you to walk six or seven miles. Now instead of walking all that while, imagine yourself packed with others tightly in a square and under bombardment by French artillery and attack by their cavalry. Often the guns were firing blind and so death was an entirely random affair. A man running alone with a message could be torn to pieces just as easily as a soldier in the front rank of a square. Sometimes an explosive shell would bury itself in soft earth and merely shower those standing nearby with mud. On the other hand, a Highlander regiment near us had seventeen men killed or injured by a single ball that slashed its way across a corner of their square.
This was the time when the allied army was almost destroyed. Not in a big attack, but whittled away in little groups, its flesh and its nerves frayed to breaking point. Previously during French bombardments, most of the men had been able to lie down and stay spread out in line. But that was impossible now with French horsemen just below the crest of the ridge. Not that we minded French cavalry any more, in fact men cheered their arrival and even goaded them to stay longer. For when the cuirassiers and others rode amongst us we knew that for a short while the guns would stop. And the cavalry did keep coming, five, six maybe seven times, I lost count; and each time the outcome was the same. They would charge, we would fire a volley and they would peel away, leaving a few dead and wounded. I remember seeing Ney again at one point; he was easily recognisable with his gold braid and red hair. He was on foot, presumably having lost another horse from under him, and beating an abandoned British cannon with his sword blade in frustration as another charge failed.
The final charges were almost a farce as by then we were running short of ammunition and so orders were given to fire only if the cavalry closed within thirty yards, point-blank range for a musket. Weary horsemen had long since learned that to charge was invariably fatal and pointless. So thousands of French cavalry galloped in virtual silence around a dozen allied squares, searching in vain for a sign of weakness.
Colborne commanded the largest infantry battalion in the allied line. The 52nd regiment with over a thousand officers and men, formed a tempting target for horsemen and gunners alike. They had been in the reserve for the first part of the battle and so had missed the worst of the morning’s bombardment, but they were getting more than their fair share now. Colborne had them divide up into two smaller squares, to match many of those around us. Then, like two giant red crabs, the squares moved slowly across the battlefield until they were behind the ridge above the château of Hougoumont. It had been a hazardous business, stopping for cavalry charges and moving around areas that French gunners favoured with shot.
Colborne had asked me if I still wanted to report to Wellington but I did not think that there was a lot of point. The news I thought I had was false and he might still be blaming me for my assurance that the French would not attack until July. What I really wanted to do was run for the distant woods, out of range of the French guns and beyond their cavalry charges, but I did not dare. My return to the British ranks had hardly been discrete and now Sergeant Evans was loudl
y regaling his comrades with some of my earlier exploits.
My absence would be noted and I would be ruined if it was discovered that I had abandoned the army without good cause. Colborne was also another of those brave and capable men who was deluded into thinking that I was cut from the same cloth. Like Cochrane and Campbell before him, he viewed me as a ‘brother in arms’ and as with the others, I took a perverse pride in having his respect. So while every fibre of my being was urging me to run, I forced myself to stand tall and act as cool as be-damned. Mind you, even I nearly lost my nerve when Colborne told me where we were going.
“Wellington wants us over on the forward slope of the ridge near the sunken road that leads down to the château. We are to protect the supply line to Hougoumont that runs down that track.”
How I have kept my sanity in this kind of situation is beyond me. For I desperately wanted to shake him by the lapels and scream that this was madness and that in full view of the French guns we would all be cut to pieces. It would have done no good, of course, and cost me my hard won reputation. No, instead a gentleman is expected to remain unconcerned, whatever the danger. So I took a deep breath to steady myself, swatted away a couple of flies exploring the blood on my shirt and mentioned casually, “Their guns will give us a hot time of it.”
“Yes, it is likely to be vexing,” agreed Colborne with a monumental level of understatement. “But we must keep the line open.”
If there had been anything left in my guts for my nerves to churn I would have been making butter as we came over the top of the allied ridge. My mouth was dry and I had my hands clenched together to stop them shaking. The grand battery was just half a mile away and I imagined every single gun adjusting its aim in our direction, with Napoleon offering a hatful of gold to anyone who could blow my head off.
It was my first view of Hougoumont, such as you could see it through the trees and smoke. The fighting had been continuous there since eleven that morning and it looked like several of the buildings were on fire. Between us and the château, more cuirassiers milled about at the valley bottom along with some French skirmishers. One of the 52nd’s squares went to the left and stopped next to a swathe of tall rye that had not yet been flattened during the course of the battle. It would obscure their exact position from the guns but it would not stop a shell. The other square veered right towards the sunken road. There was a slight rise in the ground that gave it some protection and so I chose to join that one.
I have already described the carnage that results from artillery shelling infantry forced to remain in square and so I shall not dwell too long on it here. It had been a gruesome affair when I had watched it at Quatre Bras with the gunners, but at the receiving end, it was infinitely worse. In the event, only a few guns switched their aim to us but it was enough. There was a constant rumble of gunfire and so you could not tell when guns were firing at you. Instead, with no warning at all, a man standing near you would just be plucked away by an unseen hand and smashed to bloody ruin. It was the randomness of it that left you twitching in barely concealed terror. Most of the guns were still firing on the troops over the ridge, so things were no safer there either. Only the wounded, who were carried away to a ditch by the sunken road, had any degree of safety.
One advantage of being on the forward slope was that we had a good view of the French attack on La Haye Sainte. Even someone as stubborn as Ney had finally realised that the cavalry charges were unlikely to succeed and so he had switched his attention to the farm. That was why most of the French guns had remained focussed on the British centre, around La Haye Sainte, rather than on the only British troops they could see. We watched the huge attack columns form up on the French side of the valley and march across up the British slope. The farm itself lay in a dip a quarter of a mile away so we could not see it, but we heard the increase in musketry and then distant cheers. No French were seen running back into the valley and as French guns were moved forward towards the farm our suspicions were confirmed that it had fallen. Napoleon’s men now had a strong bastion right in front of the centre of the British line.
Our only hope now was the swift arrival of the Prussians, but there was no sign of the lazy sausage-eating bastards.
“I don’t understand it,” I told Colborne as we scanned the eastern horizon in vain for any sign of our allies. “It was just after three this afternoon when I saw columns of troops coming over the horizon. They should have been here ages ago.”
Colborne looked at his watch. “It is just after six. Perhaps Grouchy did catch up with them or Napoleon sent some other troops to block their approach.”
“Or they stopped for lunch,” I offered, “or simply ran away after the pasting they got the other day. Some of their volunteer regiments would not have relished marching to the sound of the guns a second time.”
“No, no I can’t believe that,” insisted Colborne. “They will come.” He paused as he considered the alternative and added quietly, “They have to or we are done for.”
Well, that is just the kind of comforting reassurance from a commanding officer you don’t need. I have slid out on some pretty desperate last stands in my time and if anyone thinks that they are getting Flashy fighting to the last man, well they are in for a disappointment. It was obvious that the British could not hold out for much longer now. Even as we watched, more French skirmishers were pushing forward up towards La Haye Sainte. The battle had already been raging for seven hours and there were still at least another three hours of daylight. Without help we could not survive that long and when the line finally broke it would be every man for himself.
I had no intention of waiting that long. By then the roads and tracks would be jammed with men, guns and horses trying to escape, with harrying French cavalry adding to the panic. I planned to get a head start as I had more to fear than most from recapture by the French. We were on the British right, which meant the western end of the line. I would need to travel west to reach the coast and so I began to study the terrain, looking for the best escape routes that would give me cover from the pursing French. All I needed was some pretext I could use to run out on my comrades with a degree of respectability. After all, a few of them would escape and others would be returned as prisoners; I could not have them blackening my name.
Some eager missionary told me in Africa a while back that if a devout Christian seeks, the Good Lord will provide. Well, I was seeking then and he did indeed deliver the goods, although probably not in a way that the pious little Bible-thumper would have approved of. Dammit, even I would have preferred almost any other way.
A few moments before, Sergeant Evans had called out to a young ensign as a cannon ball rolled over the turf beside him. The lad had been putting his boot out to stop it, but Evans and I had both seen people lose their foot doing that. Such balls carry with them considerable force. Then as a messenger rode up with a note for Colborne there was another thud of a ball pitching close to the square. There had been so many that I no longer flinched. Men in the front ranks opposite the impact threw themselves out of the way, but the snapping sound of bones and yells of pain from behind me revealed that some had been less fortunate. I turned to see two men writhing on their backs, each with one leg a bloody ruin. One of them was Evans; he had been standing behind the first man hit and so had not seen the flight of the ball.
I rushed over to my old comrade. “Evans, are you all right? No, of course you are not, but don’t worry we will get you sorted.”
“Bit more than a scratch this tim,e sir.” Evans spoke calmly, gazing down at what was left of his limb in dazed disbelief. It was bleeding heavily and another soldier quickly passed a cord around his thigh as a tourniquet. I looked around for something to tighten the loop. There was nothing suitable on the ground but then I remembered the ramrod in my pistol.
“Here, use this,” I said passing it to the soldier, who immediately started to twist the string. Evans gasped in pain as it bit into his flesh but at least it would stem the bleedin
g. I gazed down at my old friend, initially with compassion but then, guiltily, another thought occurred. This was the perfect opportunity to help me slip away from the army.
I turned back to Colborne. “If you don’t mind I will stay with Evans for a while when he is taken down to the ditch with the other wounded. You may recall he looked after me when I was wounded at Albuera – I would just like to make sure he is comfortable.”
“Yes of course,” replied Colborne looking up from the note that had just been delivered to him. “But don’t be too long, Flashman,” he called waving the paper. “We have just been ordered to withdraw back over the ridge.
“No, I will come as soon as I can,” I agreed realising that it would now be even easier to slip away. Once his wound was dressed as best as it could be in the circumstances, Evans was laid on his blanket and four soldiers, one at each corner, helped to carry him down to the ditch by the sunken road. I went with them and inwardly sighed with relief as we started down the reverse slope which gave us protection from the French bombardment. As I looked over my shoulder, Colborne had started moving his squares back up towards the crest of the allied ridge.
There were already at least twenty broken bodies lying by the side of the track to Hougoumont. Some were missing arms or legs; there were two with head wounds and others appeared to have been hit in the chest with musket balls or shell splinters. At least three were dead already and for several it looked like only a matter of time. A corporal, whose arm now ended at the elbow, was moving about getting water into a canteen from the small stream running at the bottom of the ditch and passing it to those that wanted it. The rest of them lay still, with just the odd gasp or whimper of pain to show that they were alive.
Flashman's Waterloo (Adventures of Thomas Flashman Book 6) Page 34
