The Three Colonels

by Jack Caldwell

  Caroline’s face became a stone mask as she rose and slowly followed Roberts out of the room. First Rebecca then the others followed. They beheld a short captain in a red coat conversing with Caroline in the vestibule.

  “Lady Buford? Captain Castlebaum at your service. I am charged with delivering this letter to you.” He held out an envelope.

  Caroline saw at once that the writing upon it was in her husband’s hand. Taking it with trembling hands, she willed herself not to tear it open on the spot. “Thank you, Captain. We are at tea. Would you care to join us?”

  “Thank you, no, madam. I must be off. Happy to have been of service to you.” The half-crown in Denny’s envelope with the directions would be reward enough.

  Caroline grasped his arm. “God bless you, Captain.”

  “It was an honor, my lady.” He bowed and left.

  Caroline turned and mumbled, “Pray excuse me,” as she made her way directly into the library. The other ladies followed at a discreet distance and stood silently outside the closed door. A few moments later, they were distressed to hear the sound of weeping from within. Ignoring propriety, the four entered the library to find Caroline softly crying on a sofa, the letter in one hand.

  Mother Buford reached her first and embraced her daughter. “Oh my dear, oh my love!” She could think of nothing else to say.

  Caroline hugged her tightly. “Oh, Mother! All is well, all is well.” She smiled through her tears.

  * * *

  Rosings Park

  Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson alighted from the de Bourgh carriage that had carried them back to Rosings from their short trip to Town. Anne walked up the front steps of her ancestral home with a new assurance. Rosings had always been the place she grew up; now it felt like home—her home.

  “Mrs. Parks,” Anne greeted the housekeeper. “How fares the house? Any mishaps during my absence?” She handed her traveling cloak to a footman as Mrs. Jenkinson saw to the luggage.

  “No, ma’am,” reported the housekeeper with a touch of pride. The tone of her voice betrayed the fact that to her mind, it was well worth fifteen years of dealing with Lady Catherine to see this confident young lady assuming her rightful place.

  Anne smiled as she handed her hat to the butler. “No trouble at all? Not even from my mother?” She began to remove her gloves.

  Mrs. Parks smiled in return. “No, ma’am. That would be difficult from where she is.”

  Anne turned slowly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why, you know—Bath.”

  Anne blinked. “I am afraid I do not comprehend your meaning. Am I to understand that Lady Catherine is not in residence?”

  Mrs. Parks was confused. “No, ma’am, but—”

  “Did you say she was in Bath?”

  “Miss de Bourgh, your mother said you were aware of her plans! She was very insistent—”

  “I know nothing of this!”

  Mrs. Parks’s hand went to her face. “Oh, dear!”

  Anne thought for a moment and then walked quickly to the parlor. Throwing open the door, she went directly to Lady Catherine’s writing desk. Sure enough, there was a letter for her.

  Dear Anne,

  I congratulate you on your ascension to the management of Rosings Park. I am sure you shall do your duty to your heritage, both as a Fitzwilliam and a de Bourgh.

  I have removed myself from a household that no longer needs nor desires my company. As Rosings Park is now forever taken from me, I shall secure myself a proper household as befits my station.

  Do not concern yourself on my behalf. Lady Metcalfe has provided lodgings for me and shall act as my companion in Bath. Already, General Tilney has agreed to call, and Lady Metcalfe is desirous to introduce a Sir Walter Elliot to my acquaintance. It may be that I shall quit the name de Bourgh in no short time after you do so.

  I insist that you write soon to acquaint me with your plans for your wedding so that I may guide you.

  Your loving mother,

  LADY CATHERINE de BOURGH

  Mrs. Jenkinson and Mrs. Parks watched in amazement as Anne doubled over in laughter. Instead of answering their entreaties, she handed them the letter. Mrs. Jenkinson started giggling as she read, but the housekeeper was aghast.

  “Ma’am, should I have a new team assembled for the carriage?”

  Anne looked up. “What—whatever for?”

  “So that you may go to Bath to collect Lady Catherine.”

  Anne could not stop laughing but put her hand out. “No, I do not think so. I think Mother can handle this on her own.”

  * * *

  Brussels

  “You want me to send another letter?” Denny cried.

  “Yes, if you would be so kind,” Sir John replied. He had just received Caroline’s express and had to respond quickly.

  Denny was conflicted; he wanted to say no, and he had the right to do so, but the look in Colonel Buford’s eyes convinced him. “All right—but this is the last time, sir.”

  “I understand, thankee,” he said as he handed over the envelope and the required half-crown.

  * * *

  Paris

  After a farewell dinner with his family, the emperor walked down the steps of the Palais des Tuileries to his waiting carriage at half past three in the afternoon. Unlike the events that had occurred earlier in the month when he tried to raise morale and faith in his leadership with the people, this leave-taking was without imperial pomp. He wore the blue infantry coat with red epaulettes of a grenadier, adding only his Legion sash. After saying good-bye to his brother Joseph who had been left in command of the city, he set off to join his Armée du Nord with his aides-de-camp, ordnance officers, and four hundred imperial guardsmen.

  He had also secreted over one million francs’ worth of diamonds in the coach, just in case.

  And so, with protection, wealth, and his lucky star, the emperor set out to secure his throne with one last mighty victory.

  * * *

  Rosings Park

  Anne helped her extremely subdued mother out of the hired coach that had brought her from Bath. She offered the use of her arm and helped Lady Catherine up the front steps into the house. With no greeting to or from the staff, the two women walked slowly up the stairs to the older woman’s suite of rooms. Once there, Anne instructed that Lady Catherine’s luggage not be brought upstairs until requested and then entered the sitting area behind her mother.

  Lady Catherine sat down with a huff. “Well, I suppose you should be saying, ‘I told you so.’”

  Anne pulled a chair close to her and sat down. “No, Mama.”

  “Sir Walter Elliot, indeed! Of what could Lady Metcalfe have been thinking? The man is a dolt! Never have I seen a man so vain! And the way he looked at me; you would think I had grown two heads! I have always been celebrated for my youthful appearance.” She looked at her daughter. “It is certain that you inherited your lovely complexion from me, my dear,” she said as she caressed her face. “Yes, you have turned out very well indeed.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  “And General Tilney—why the way he looked at me! It is certain what he desired.” She leaned close. “My money.”

  Anne patted her hand. “You have had a narrow escape.”

  “I have indeed. Thank goodness for my unerring judgment of character.” Lady Catherine sighed.

  “Are you tired, Mama?”

  “A little. Bath is no easy distance. Perhaps we may talk later… about improvements to the dowager house?”

  Anne kissed her mother. “As you wish.”

  * * *

  Brussels

  Buford and Fitzwilliam were sharing dinner together at the boardinghouse, perhaps for the last time. Rumors of the French crossing into Belgium had been circulating around the camp for days. It did not help that Wellington had placed the army under a form of alert; certain units were moving as they ate.

  “Brandon says nothing?” asked Buford.

  “No, and Denny, nei
ther. What good is it to have friends at headquarters if they will tell you nothing?”

  Buford grunted. “You and Denny have reconciled, I take it?”

  “Yes, he is a good sort of fellow, in his way,” Fitzwilliam allowed.

  “Even though he is friends with Wickham?” Buford goaded him.

  Richard’s eyes were on his plate. “I suppose I cannot hold that against him. After all, I eat with you.”

  It took a full glass of wine to relieve Sir John after he choked on his food.

  Later over port, Fitzwilliam asked, “Are you going to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball?”

  Buford looked down. “I think I have attended all the balls I am going to during this campaign, Fitz. You?”

  “No, I have a feeling I need to be close to my regiment.”

  “Yes, I feel it too.”

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Colonel Brandon and Major Denny were conferring with the other ADCs regarding the rumors of a French invasion of the United Netherlands, as the polyglot Holland and Belgium were known, when the door burst open at about three o’clock. A sweaty and dusty Prussian officer, who had obviously ridden hard, walked in the room.

  “Where is the duke?” he cried in German. “Die Französisch sind hier! Der Französisch haben Charleroi genommen!”

  Wellington walked out of his office. “What was that, sir?”

  The officer repeated in English, “The French are here! The French have taken Charleroi!”

  The office was deadly silent. Charleroi was only thirty miles away.

  Over the next hours, the staff worked to verify the information. Soon information from riders sent by Blücher and the Prince of Orange corroborated the intelligence. By five, the duke began ordering his troops into position south and west of Brussels, but the staff still did not know whether the thrust at Charleroi was a feint or the main axis of Napoleon’s attack. Until the picture was clearer, the duke could not advance.

  “Sir,” asked an aide, “what about the Duchess of Richmond’s ball?”

  Brandon looked at his chief.

  Wellington looked up. “Until we know for certain, there is no reason to panic. I do not feel that Bonaparte can advance so fast. Morale is important. Let the ball go ahead as planned.”

  * * *

  The Duchess of Richmond’s ball was the social event of the season. Held in an impromptu ballroom in what used to be a coach maker’s depot, the over two hundred invited guests included the Prince of Orange, the Duke of Brunswick, the Prince of Nassau, four earls, twenty-two colonels, and a total of fifty-five women, only about a dozen of whom were unmarried. The hall was done up in crimson, black, and gold with flowers everywhere. The music was gay, but the attendants were not, as concern over the rumors of a French advance were everywhere.

  At about midnight, Wellington and his staff arrived. A young woman, Lady Georgiana Lennox, dashed to meet the duke.

  “Sir,” she cried, “are the rumors true? Are the French here?”

  Wellington’s face was grave. “Yes, they are true. We are off tomorrow.” The room buzzed with alarm. Wellington walked over to a sofa to sit with Lady Dalrymple-Hamilton. Between chats with the woman, the duke would give the odd order to some senior officer.

  “Come, Denny,” said Brandon, “let us get something to eat while we can.” Apparently, the Iron Duke felt the same, as he left the sofa for his meal.

  As the men ate with all the room watching, a pale Prince of Orange approached the commander-in-chief. His whispered message had an extraordinary effect on the duke. A look of utter disbelief flashed across his aristocratic face and then faded.

  For the next twenty minutes, Wellington ate and conversed with his fellows, showing no alarm. Finally, the duke rose and informed his host of his intention to retire for the night. As good-byes were exchanged, Brandon overheard his commander whisper in Lord Richmond’s ear, “Do you have a good map in the house?”

  Brandon and Denny followed their chief into the study, and the requested map was spread open before Wellington. He studied it hard, looking at the distance between the French border, Charleroi, Quatre Bras, and Brussels. Brandon knew he was using his extraordinary memory of the physical features of the countryside. Wellington looked up, shocked.

  “Napoleon has humbugged me, by God! He has gained twenty-four hours’ march on me!”

  “But what are you going to do?” asked an incredulous Richmond.

  Wellington looked at the map again. “I have ordered my army to concentrate at Quatre Bras, but we shall not stop him there. And if so, I must fight him here.”

  His finger moved over the map and stabbed down just south of a small village called Waterloo.

  Chapter 26

  Waterloo

  At eight o’clock in the morning, the emperor met with his marshals at the La Caillou farmhouse south of the village of Waterloo that he used as his headquarters to plan the final destruction of the Allied army. The plan he outlined was simple.

  He would bombard the Allied line at Mont St. Jean with cannon fire while making a demonstration—a diversionary attack—against the strong point at Château de Hougoumont. Then a few hours later, there would be a major thrust led by Marshal d’Erlon’s corps from the right. If all went well, the French would roll up Wellington’s army while dividing it from the Prussians. To prevent any interference from the Prussians, the emperor ordered Marshal Grouchy and his 33,000 men to find Field Marshal Blücher’s army and finish the pounding the French had delivered two days before at Ligny.

  The emperor needed a simple plan. Time was not on his side. Yes, his Army of the North had won a great victory at Ligny—so great, in fact, that he expected Blücher to fall back, perhaps into Prussia. However, in case the field marshal proved stubborn, the emperor had to destroy the English. The battle at Quatre Bras, also on the sixteenth, had been inconclusive. Marshal Michel Ney, his “bravest of the brave,” had lost a great opportunity to smash Wellington. The Anglo-Dutch had retreated to Mont St. Jean between the French and Waterloo.

  The emperor was pleased that Wellington chose to make a stand here. He needed to crush his enemies now and did not want to burn weeks chasing his prey. The longer this campaign took, the greater the chance that either the Prussians would recover or the other Coalition members—the Austrians and the Russians—would become involved.

  Heavy rains the night before had made the battlefield wet, soggy, and therefore difficult to move artillery and horses about. He would need time for the field to dry before he attacked and crushed the combined English and Dutch forces opposite. The cannons would open fire at 11:30 a.m., which was the signal to attack the English right. D’Erlon would be unleashed ninety minutes later to strike at the left under the command of Ney.

  The emperor was unhappy with Ney over his failure on the sixteenth, but while his thinking might be questionable, Ney’s courage was not, and the men loved him. The emperor would have to keep an eye on his cavalry commander.

  The Defender of the Revolution asked for comments.

  Some of his marshals looked uneasy. General Honoré Reille spoke up. “I must tell you, Sire, that I consider the English infantry to be impregnable.”

  Marshal Soult added, “Sire, in a straight fight, the English infantry are the very devil!”

  Where did this defeatist talk come from? The emperor shot back, “Soult, because you have been beaten by Wellington, you consider him a great general. And now I tell you that Wellington is a bad general, the English are bad troops, and this will be a picnic!”

  There was silence in the room.

  The emperor dismissed his generals. “Return to your troops. I will review them directly. We open fire at 11:30.”

  * * *

  Colonel Brandon could not understand it. Bonaparte was wasting daylight reviewing his troops! He could hear the cries of “Vive l’Empereur!” drifting from the French lines at La Belle Alliance, a mile south of Mont St. Jean. Wellington and the entire staff had thought the Fren
ch would strike at dawn, but they had not.

  It was not much of a dawn, he reflected, as he gazed at the cloudy and misty morn. There was the small comfort that it was not storming as it had throughout the night.

  Denny rode up. Such was the suffering endured by the staff at Quatre Bras that Denny had received a brevet promotion to lieutenant colonel, but there was no time for a change of flashings.

  “The Frenchies are making quite a noise, Colonel.”

  “Yes.” Brandon lowered his voice. “How are the troops taking it?”

  “Mixed. The veterans are shrugging it off. Our green troops and the Dutch are far more nervous. As for the King’s German Legion, they are so stoic, I cannot tell.” Denny looked out at the enemy again through the light mist. “There are a bloody lot of them—that is for certain.”

  “Yes, but they cannot see us.”

  Wellington had made his stand here for two reasons: first, because Mont St. Jean was the Iron Duke’s type of battlefield. He had scouted it a year ago, but every detail had been ingrained in his astonishing memory for terrain. The ridge along the Mont St. Jean road offered the reverse slope he had used to such great effect in the Peninsular War. Because the majority of his men were placed downhill of the summit, only a few of the troops were visible to the enemy—and the enemy’s cannon fire. The troops would be brought forward only at the last instant. Enemy infantry and cavalry would be forced to march uphill against a withering fire. Of course, it only worked in defense and if the enemy did not flank the position. Iron discipline would be required of the troops to wait in place while the enemy marched toward them, cannonballs falling about.

  The second reason was that Field Marshal Blücher had pledged to march three whole corps today to join up with Wellington if the Duke would offer battle to the French, giving the Allies overwhelming power.

  The question on all the staff’s lips was when would the Prussians arrive?

  “The Prince is eager and ready for battle,” offered Denny.