Brandon glanced over at the young Prince of Orange. The hotheaded royal had almost led the Allied troops to disaster on Friday at Quatre Bras. Only the timely intervention of Wellington had preserved the stalemate. Too many of the Belgium-Dutch troops had already quit the field, and the remainders were suspect. That was the reason the majority of the 17,000 troops far to the west at the town of Hal were not British. Wellington needed all the dependable troops he could get his hands on. Still, only a third of the 67,000 men he had were British—and only half of those had seen Peninsular service.
Brandon was nervous about leaving so many men at Hal. If Bonaparte attacked in force, they could never get here in time. Yet “Beau” was convinced that the French would try to turn his right flank and cut the Allies off from Antwerp and the Channel. The duke brushed off complaints, reminding the staff that 80,000 Prussians were supposed to be coming in from the east.
Too much depends upon the Prussians, thought Brandon, as he reviewed their defensive position. The Anglo-Dutch line stretched three miles, from Château de Hougoumont on the right, eastward along the road towards Wavre. The center was anchored by a strong point, a farmhouse at La Haye Sainte, entrusted to crack KGL troops. The left flank was left weak because it was expected that the Prussians would soon come. The heavy cavalry was stationed in the center, and the light dragoons were on the left. The French were thirteen hundred yards to the south on the ridge before La Belle Alliance.
It was a small battlefield, which gave Bonaparte little room to maneuver.
Suddenly there were gunshots from several groups of soldiers, startling Denny.
“Never mind them,” advised Brandon. “Some lads find it easier to clean their muskets by firing them off. Come, let us rejoin the duke.”
* * *
George Wickham was in the middle of a barrage of soldiers “cleaning” their muskets, and his ears rang because of it. “Hewitt, tell those fools at least to point their muskets towards the French!”
The last seventy-two hours had been very demanding on Wickham. Quatre Bras had been a fiasco. By the time his force-marched company had arrived, the battle was over. His colonel, curious to see the enemy, had ridden too far ahead and had gotten his fool head shot off. Wickham at first rejoiced, delighted that he was finally free of Darcy’s tormenting agent, before remembering that, when it came to making life difficult for him, Darcy was incredibly resourceful.
A quick rearrangement of officers had made George Wickham a brevet major of infantry in charge of a battalion. Captain Hewitt was now in charge of his old company and was not doing a bad job of it. The rank of major suited Wickham just fine. His job was to order the captains about. It was his subordinates’ responsibility to deal with the rank and file.
The newly promoted Major Wickham and his new battalion marched back towards Brussels in the pouring rain. They made camp at Mont St. Jean during the worst of it, half his men without tents. Wickham hated thunderstorms, and last night’s had been a terror. The only thing that seemed to escape soaking was the gunpowder.
That was a very good thing, he considered, as his eye scanned the opposite ridge.
“Breakfast, sir?” asked Hewitt as he held out a bowl of questionable mush. At Wickham’s look, he added, “Sorry, but it might be the only meal we get for some time.”
Wickham took the proffered plate and choked the gruel down. As he ate, he caught sight of his commanding officer, Lt. General Sir Thomas Picton, riding by, still wearing his civilian clothes from the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. The officer’s appearance made Wickham recall another incident from Friday.
As his men were preparing to leave Quatre Bras, Wickham had nearly bumbled into General Picton. To his amazement, he saw that the general was trying to hide the fact that he was bleeding.
“Sir,” he had cried, “you are—”
“Shut your goddamned mouth, Major!” growled Picton in his usual course, profane manner. “Say nothing about this! You fucking understand me, sir?” He had stared Wickham right in the eye.
Wickham had nodded. Far be it from him to disobey such an order.
Major Wickham stirred himself from his recollections, for the enemy was opposite, and there was work to be done. Handing the bowl to an aide, he stood.
“Hewitt, prepare the men for inspection.”
* * *
Colonels Fitzwilliam and Buford prepared their regiments for battle. Their position was on the extreme left wing, a mile and a half from the center of the line. They would be the first to see the approach of their Prussian allies from the east—if they ever got there.
As they saw to their preparations, the two veterans could not help but glance from time to time at the heavy regiments nearby. Unlike the sober and experienced Light Dragoons, the Union and Household Brigades seemed lighthearted and anxious for action. The men in those units came from the heights of British society—and acted like it. Major General Sir William Ponsonby was riding among them, speaking to his men and keeping up their spirits.
Major General Sir John Vandeleur rode up. “How are preparations going, gentlemen?”
“We will be ready, sir,” replied Buford.
“Well, hopefully they will not need us for some time.” The Light Dragoons were held in reserve.
Fitzwilliam lowered his voice. “General…” He gestured with his head at the heavy cavalry.
Vandeleur dismissed his concerns with a shrug. “That is Uxbridge’s problem, Fitz. Let us keep our mind on our duty. Keep a sharp lookout on the flank. Until later!” He spurred his horse into a trot towards the rest of the 4th Cavalry Brigade.
At that moment, the French cannons opened up, and the troops manning the Allied guns dashed to respond in kind. It was 11:30 a.m.
* * *
Dorsetshire
Although the grass was damp, Elinor insisted that the planned picnic on the grounds of the parsonage proceed as scheduled, for Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret had made the short trip from Barton Cottage; she would not disappoint them, and Edward would not disappoint her. The blanket spread and Joy merrily occupied by her grandmother, uncle, and aunt, Marianne took the opportunity to take a turn in Elinor’s garden with Margaret. The youngest of the Dashwood sisters had grown into a lovely woman of eighteen, old enough for a serious conversation—one that was sorely needed if what Marianne had learned recently about her sister was true.
Marianne began directly, once they were out of earshot amongst the blooms. “Margaret, do you have an understanding with Lt. Price?” Lieutenant William Price was a naval officer Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret had met while visiting friends. The officer had now returned to his ship.
Margaret colored. “What? I do not know what you mean.”
“Oh, stop it!” Marianne demanded. “Do not play childish games with me! I know he is exchanging letters with Mama, but I believe his interest in Barton lies elsewhere. I asked you, adult to adult, of your attachment to Lt. Price if one exists. This is serious, Sister.”
She looked down. “We have no understanding between us except friendship.”
Marianne breathed out in relief. “That is well. Would I be wrong in deducing that you wish for something more?”
In a small voice, her sister said, “No, you would not be wrong.”
Marianne looked kindly on her sister. “Do you know what you are about, Meg?”
“I do not take your meaning.”
A pained expression came over Marianne’s face. “My love, I am a soldier’s wife. My dear husband is even now in Europe, preparing to face battle.” She stopped and seized her sister’s hand. “Christopher may not return. Do you understand this?”
Margaret’s eyes grew wide. “I… yes, I do.”
“Good. The wife of a man in the king’s service must be ready to lose him to that service. I have learned this the hard way. If you encourage Lt. Price’s attentions, you must face that reality as well. He is a sailor; the sea is his home, upon a man-o’-war. He can only win fortune and advancement through actio
n.” Her eyes became hard. “By action I mean fighting and killing. He may suffer grievous wounds—or worse. A hurricane could sink his ship—”
“Stop it!” Margaret cried. “Say no more!”
Marianne was relentless. “I shall not stop! You are choosing a hard road, Margaret. Lt. Price is a fine man. He would make some woman a fine husband, but she must be one who will support him in his profession. Are you that woman? Are you willing to take the chance that you might lose him to the sea? Think!”
Margaret looked miserable. “I do not know.” She began to cry.
Marianne embraced the girl. “Hush, my love. Shed no tears over an honest answer. Truth can be hard and ugly sometimes, but it is the only path to happiness. Lt. Price deserves nothing less.” She tilted her sister’s head up. “Please think about what you want. I love Christopher enough to risk losing him, for I would never ask him to be anything but what he is. I will support you whatever your choice is. But, if you wish to travel my road, you must do it with a full heart and open eyes.”
Margaret looked at her through her tears. “You mean, you do not object?”
“No, my love, just as long as you are aware of what you are doing.”
* * *
The French fired their cannons for nearly two hours, but the damage done was minimal. First, the soft, muddy ground plugged the cannonballs, containing the explosion and preventing them from skipping. Second, the reversed slope had protected the vast majority of the troops—all but a few Dutch regiments that the prince had placed too far forward. Those units were taking a terrible beating.
Denny was puzzled as he observed the action around Hougoumont. The French had attacked the outpost, but they seemed to go about all wrong. The enemy was using far too many troops for a demonstration but far too few troops to take the château. It would take the whole of Napoleon’s army to raze Hougoumont, especially as the veteran Coldstream Guards made up the bulk of the defense. It would be madness to try to take the château with Wellington ready to smash his flanks.
The French movements made no military sense, but Denny knew Bonaparte’s reputation as a genius. Did the tyrant know something that had escaped the duke’s attention? Was the Corsican preparing to spring some unforeseen trap? Where was the immediate threat?
Suddenly, Denny’s attention was drawn to the enemy ridge thirteen hundred yards away. An entire corps of infantry, 18,000 men strong, began to appear at the crest. To the sound of horns and the fluttering of battle standards, the host moved downhill in columns two hundred men wide. It was obviously the main attack.
It was now 1:30 in the afternoon.
“Prepare to receive infantry!” the duke cried repeatedly in his plain black uniform as he spurred his warhorse, Copenhagen, along the line.
The troops had about twenty minutes to form into two lines—one kneeling—and await the horde. The Allied artillery redoubled their efforts, their merciless barrage of ball and canister tearing great holes in the French formations.
Denny, watching with horrified fascination, noticed two things. First, the wide columns, while impressive, gave the Allies easy targets at which to shoot. Second, there seemed to be a lack of French artillery and cavalry support. Denny could not complain about this state of affairs.
Now the Dutch and British muskets opened up. The French, slogging uphill, were being murdered, yet on and on they came.
Unexpectedly, there was disaster—a Dutch brigade suddenly broke and fled their position. Trying to maintain control, officers rode among the troops, reminding them of their duty before general panic took hold. The prince himself was screaming after his fleeing men, exposing himself to enemy fire. Denny felt some pity for the Dutch, for they had suffered greatly at Quatre Bras due to bad leadership from their generals.
Closer and closer drew the French, now firing their muskets. English, Dutch, Belgian, and German troops fell.
However, at the moment the huge force reached the summit of the hill, General Picton, still in his civilian clothes, stood up, sword in the air. The 5th Division rose from their hidden positions, muskets aimed.
“FIRE!” the general screamed. The line disappeared in a cloud of gunpowder. In an instant, the smoke cleared and Denny could see hundreds of French soldiers lying dead or wounded.
“Now charge!” Picton ran forward at the head of his entire division, continuing to yell, “Charge! Charge! Hurrah!”
Denny had never seen anything like it. A great cheer went up from the line. Officers and men dashed at the enemy with swords and bayonets, screaming.
“Charge—!”
At that moment, General Picton was shot through the head.
As he fell, his men swept over him, engaging the French with bayonets. For long minutes—a lifetime it seemed to the participants—the soldiers grappled with each other in a macabre dance of death. The French assault wavered.
Lord Uxbridge saw his moment. “Cavalry, charge!”
Denny could not call it much of a charge. The heavy Household and Union brigades simply entered the fray at a walk through the Allied lines. Sabres flashing, they plunged in and cut and killed hundreds of French soldiers while other cavalrymen swept away the French cuirassiers guarding the enemy flank. The redoubtable Scots Greys were able to seize an eagle standard, the mark of a French regiment. As closely engaged as they were, the men did not fear French cannon fire, as the enemy could not shoot without killing their own.
Denny watched the enemy fall back in disorder.
* * *
Buford and Fitzwilliam watched the action with their telescopes. To their professional eyes, Uxbridge had attacked at exactly the right moment. The shock of being hit by twenty-five hundred sabres had completely undone the French. The endless assault by the heavy cavalry broke the enemy’s spirit. Now it was time for the cavalry troops to withdraw.
“Buford,” said Richard, his eye glued to his telescope, “something is wrong. They are not withdrawing. Are they not sounding Recall?”
“Aye, but the troopers are not listening.”
“But they will be cut to pieces!” Richard lowered his glass. “Turn back, you fools!”
The commanders of the heavy cavalry well understood the danger. Uxbridge and Ponsonby rode desperately to recall their troopers, but it was for naught. Blood was in the men’s nostrils. Were they not the greatest cavalry on Earth? To a man, they cried, “To Paris! Death to Bonaparte!” They would win this battle on their own!
Free of the French soldiers, both living and dead, the cavalry troops galloped towards the French cannons, led by the Scots Greys. Soon they were upon the guns.
* * *
Colonel Brandon, at the center, turned from observing the line of what would prove to be three thousand prisoners being taken to the rear to watch the cavalry attack, the sound of Recall floating over the din. One glance at the tactical situation and all his years of experience came back to him in a flash. He saw what was going to happen and acted without another thought.
With a “By your leave!” shouted at the duke, Brandon dashed forward and downhill. He rode to and fore, screaming Recall at the members of the Household Brigade.
The Union Brigade was already far uphill on the opposite slope.
* * *
Richard and Buford watched in horror as the enemy cavalry counterattacked. The French cuirassiers with their swords and the lancers with their lances fell upon the exhausted British dragoons. The British tried to maneuver, they tried to fight, but numbers and fresh animals told the tale. It was a slaughter. By the time the remainder of the Household and Union brigades returned demounted in rage and regret to the Allied line, over a thousand of their comrades, including the valiant Ponsonby, were lost. For all intents and purposes, the Allies had no heavy cavalry left.
It was now 3:00.
* * *
London
Roberts gave the Sunday afternoon newspaper to Abigail with a worried look. She took one glance at the headline and dashed upstairs in search of her mistre
ss. She found her in her rooms, looking wistfully out the window, a letter from Sir John in her hand.
“Lady Buford!” Abigail cried. “There has been a battle on Friday. Look!” She thrust the paper at her.
Caroline snatched the newspaper from the maid, the letter dropping to the floor.
“John! Oh, John!”
* * *
Major Wickham moved his troops forward as Wellington committed his reserves. Taking up a position in the line, he was shocked at the carnage before him. Everywhere there were dead and wounded soldiers—French, Dutch, and English alike. Downhill about five hundred yards away, he saw the La Haye Sainte farmhouse under heavy attack; however, no one was shooting at Wickham, and for that he was grateful.
Wickham watched a group of men respectfully carry the body of General Picton to the rear and fought the lump that grew in his throat.
An aide to Wellington rode up, interrupting his thoughts. “Major,” he called out, “get those wounded men to the rear!”
“Yes, sir. Hewitt, form a party and recover the wounded.” It was understood by all that no one spoke of recovering French wounded; they would have to fend for themselves until the fighting was over.
For the next half hour, various parties labored to carry the broken bodies to the dubious comfort of the surgeons’ tents. Teams swarmed over the ridge of the hill, hoping the odd cannonball would miss. At about 3:30, the cannon fire seemed to intensify. Wickham, while a novice at war, understood what that was about.
“Recall the recovery teams—hurry!” he ordered.
At the signal, the men began returning to the line in some haste. Wickham noticed renewed fighting at the farmhouse. He thanked his lucky stars he was not down there.
Some minutes later, the French battle horns sounded again, but the tone this time was different. Wickham looked up and saw an awesome sight—five thousand cavalry charging down the French slope, right at Wickham’s position.
“Form square!” he screamed. “Prepare to receive cavalry!”
The Three Colonels Page 28
