The men dashed to get into position, and as they did so, Wickham reflected that, if the Prussians were to come and help, now would be an excellent time for them to do so.
It was now 4:00 p.m.
Chapter 27
It was hell. There was no other word for it. George Wickham had died and gone to hell.
Horns blaring and flags flying, the French cavalry charged the center of the Allied line. Avoiding the fire from Hougoumont on the left and La Haye Sainte on the right, they rode in narrow columns up the muddy slope towards Mont St. Jean. The Allied artillerymen, especially the British and KGL, resolutely stood by their guns and poured shot and canister at the approaching horses until the last moment. Then they dashed to the safety of the nearby squares, protected by the muskets and bayonets of the infantry.
Like the waters of an incoming wave against a rocky shore, the cavalry poured over and around the line, the squares resisting the onslaught. Volley after volley issued from the Allied positions while French cuirassiers and lancers slashed at their tormentors. Finally, the human surge receded, leaving dead men and animals in its wake—and fewer and fewer redcoats standing each time. What heavy Allied cavalry remained harassed their counterparts during the withdrawal.
The artillerymen hastened to their guns. For some reason, the French failed to either spike them or carry them away. Reloading and reforming, the Allies prepared for the next assault, and then the same terrible sequence repeated itself.
Wellington and his staff rode constantly up and down the line, exhorting the men and filling in what gaps they could. When the enemy approached, they would join the artillerymen in the relative safety of the squares. Once, Wickham found himself standing next to Colonel Brandon during an attack.
For two hours, the attacks came and came. Wickham lost count after ten. The crack of muskets and the roar of cannon fire had deafened him. It was good fortune, for he could hardly make out the screams and moans of wounded men and horses. All about him were dead and dying British soldiers; they had no time to evacuate them to the rear. Every time Wickham caught his breath, the French charged again.
“Charge” was a relative term. As the battle wore on, the assaults were made at no more than a trot, as man and animal were pushed beyond the breaking point. On and on, the gallant enemy came. Again and again, the steadfast defenders sent them to their eternal reward. It was no longer war; it was suicide.
About an hour after the attacks commenced, the order was given to “Well-direct your fire.” In other words, shoot low at the horses. It amazed Wickham how difficult it was to carry out such an order. There seemed to be no hesitation in shooting the riders; why was it harder to kill animals than men?
Wickham recalled killing his first man—a charging officer of cuirassiers who was knocked off his horse by the ball from his pistol. By the time two hours passed, he had lost count of the number of men he dispatched by gun or sword. It could be twenty or twenty thousand.
After yet another assault began to fall back, an exhausted Wickham looked about him and saw there were more men down inside the square than not. He turned to speak to Hewitt just as a French trooper spurred his horse, leapt over the dead men before him, and got inside the square.
The next moments were a lifetime to Wickham, as he and the cavalryman fought desperately, but neither was able to land a telling blow. Then, Wickham suddenly found himself twisted around, vulnerable to the man’s sabre. Wickham could not turn in time. Terror seized him. The Frenchman’s sword raised high, and Wickham awaited the inevitable strike—and Hewitt fired his reloaded pistol into the back of the French trooper’s head. The cuirassier fell dead at Wickham’s feet. The terrified horse, now free of his burden, leapt back out of the square and raced headlong downhill.
Wickham enjoyed an instant of elation. He turned to thank Hewitt—and the captain received a musket ball in the belly. Hewitt’s blood spattered on Wickham’s uniform. He caught his wounded subordinate as Hewitt fell screaming.
“Peace, Hewitt, peace! I shall get you to a surgeon,” he lied through his teeth. It was impossible to leave the square.
After a few minutes, Hewitt quieted down, an unworldly calm coming over the captain. It gave Wickham the chance to look up to see if the French were coming again.
They were not. They were retreating.
“Major,” gasped Hewitt, still in Wickham’s arms, “I am all right. It… it does not hurt any more. That is g… good, is it not?”
Wickham somehow knew it was not. “That is good, Hewitt. Hewitt? Hewitt? Oh, God! Hewitt! God damn it!”
Major Wickham carefully laid Captain Hewitt’s inert body on the ground, reached down to the pale face, and closed the unseeing eyes. Wickham took one deep, shuddering breath and looked up. He beheld dead and dying men all around him. There was an overpowering stench of powder and blood and excrement. Beyond was a sea of dead men and animals. Smoke and mist obscured the French lines.
But it was over. He could just make out the retreat of the cavalry towards La Haye Sainte.
A broken Wickham moved a few staggering steps and sat upon an upturned, empty ammunition box, his head in his hands. He was weary, bone-tired from fear and exertion. His ears deafened, and his mind was in a fog. His belly was empty, and his lips ached for water. Caked with mud, blood, and worse, he looked an unholy terror. His heart grieved for Hewitt, the loyal subordinate who had saved his life. He also felt relief—for he had survived and the battle was over. It had to be over.
It was nearly 6:00 in the evening.
* * *
Buford and Fitzwilliam watched the whole of the French cavalry assault upon the Allied line, aching to do something to relieve the strain upon the infantry, but it was not to be. Their mission was to protect the left flank and to watch for reinforcements.
“Sir!” cried one of the troopers. “There are men coming out of the woods there!”
The two colonels turned their telescopes to the east; they had been so preoccupied in observing the battle that they had forgotten their responsibility.
“I see them,” exclaimed Richard. “Can you make out the uniform, Buford?”
“No.” It was still light on this late June afternoon, but low clouds and smoke had washed the colors out of the world. “They look gray.”
“They are!” said his companion. “They are here—the Prussians are here!”
Buford swung his ’scope to the right. “We are not the only ones who have seen them.” Masses of French soldiers were marching across the ridge to engage their new enemy.
* * *
Wellington continued to ride along the Allied line, escorted by what was left of his staff. To a man, they were distraught at the carnage. The duke was well known to lament losses deeply. As they continued to assess the condition of their defenses, the Prussian liaison informed the duke that the Prussians were engaged with the right wing of the French army. Before the staff could celebrate the good news, disaster stared them in the face.
The squares in the middle of the line had suffered so badly that the proud companies had ceased to exist. Worse, the KGL, badly mauled and out of ammunition after a heroic four-hour stand at La Haye Sainte, had no choice but to quit the farmhouse and fall back to the Allied ridge. The center of the Allied line was wide open. Defeat was at hand, should Napoleon become aware of their weakness.
Wellington was quick to recognize the danger. “Denny! Ride to Lord Hill and have him reposition Second Corps to join up with our right wing! The rest of you—see to the condition of the squares and get all the German troops of the division that you can to the spot, and all the guns, too! I shall order the Brunswick troops to the spot and other troops besides. Ride!”
It was 6:30.
* * *
A hated sound floated across the battlefield one last time, forcing Wickham to look up again. He saw that on this occasion the trumpets heralded not cavalry but something far, far worse. Masses of French infantry began forming on the far ridge.
The s
potless uniforms on these men were different from any seen on the battlefield this day. The soldiers seemed gigantic, especially with their tall bearskin hats. The esprit de corps of these men was higher than any other French soldiers Wickham had engaged.
Horror seeped into Wickham’s barely functioning brain. He realized that there was only one unit in the French army to which those men could belong. They had to be the Emperor’s undefeated Imperial Guard. His crack division, they were only used when Napoleon was assured of victory; they always delivered the coup de grâce at the end of the battle. They were invincible—they were fearless—because they always won. No army had ever stood before them.
And they were forming before the center of the Allied line.
Slowly Wickham rose to his feet. What was left of his senses fled him. He was utterly broken by the hours of combat he had undergone. Thoughts of honor, glory, and duty were as dust to him. Even fear of the punishment for desertion could not register in his mind. Wickham’s only thoughts were for flight and survival.
Wickham fell back to a horse standing by. Only the grime on his face hid the paleness of his features. To the sergeant holding the reins he shouted, “I am going back for some reinforcements and more ammunition! Stand by your position!” He leapt upon the horse and headed to the rear.
The sergeant was confused, for they had just received a delivery of gunpowder.
* * *
“Brandon,” ordered Wellington, “ride to Vandeleur’s position! He is to reposition the majority of his horse to the center! Quickly!”
Brandon rode to the east and soon came upon General Vandeleur and his men riding towards him. Clearly, the general had anticipated the duke’s command.
“Brandon, well met!” called out the general as his brigades continued onward.
“I see you have read the duke’s mind, sir!”
“Yes.” The general gave Brandon an appraising look. “Do you ride, Brandon?”
“I would be honored, sir.”
“Good—take Buford’s and Fitzwilliam’s regiments and protect our left flank! And watch out for our Prussian allies!” With that, the general rode after his men. By this order, Vandeleur had just placed Brandon in command of an ad-hoc brigade.
Brandon was soon among his friends and informed them of their mission. “Fitz, you and I shall attack the French flank. Buford, you shall have the left and engage the enemy cavalry. Form the men!”
“Aye, Brigadier!” responded Richard. As Brandon was now senior colonel in charge of a brigade, Richard acknowledged his new role. The two regiments began to get into position.
* * *
His message to Lord Hill delivered, Denny dashed back to Wellington’s position when he saw a lone rider heading to the rear. Suspecting a deserter, he flicked his reins and moved to intercept the man.
“Halt!” he ordered as he pulled in front of the rider, his hand upon his pistol grip. “What… Wickham?”
“Denny!” cried a wide-eyed Wickham. “I… I was looking for reinforcements! We have been terribly cut up and—”
“Yes, we know, George!” said Denny, releasing his pistol. “Second Corps is moving to fill in the gaps! And, George, the Prussians are here! They are engaging from the east!”
“But do you know who is coming?”
Denny could well hear the terror in his friend’s voice and attempted to calm him. “Yes, it is the Imperial Guard.” He moved closer to Wickham. “George, if we can hold Bonaparte here by the nose, the Prussians will kick him in the arse. We will defeat him in detail, but only if the line holds—it must! Everything depends upon it. We are concentrating all of our forces here. Wellington is moving in not only Second Corps but the Light Cavalry as well. We will be right here with you, George. We can do it!”
Just then, the sound of horses caught their attention. Vandeleur and Vivian’s men began appearing behind the Allied line. Their mission was twofold: to reinforce the center and to prevent any desertions.
At the sight of the horsemen, all the life seemed to go out of Wickham’s countenance. He stared at nothing for a moment, bowed his head, and then in a flat voice he replied, “I must return to my men, Denny.” He turned his horse and started slowly back up the ridge.
“Of course, of course. Keep your spirits up, George! Until later—bonne chance!” cried Denny.
Wickham stopped and turned his face to his friend. His visage caused Denny to start.
“Good-bye, Denny.”
Wickham spurred his horse forward and loped up the ridge.
Denny could not move for several moments, for the expression on Wickham’s face had shaken him to his core. It was as if he had beheld a man already dead.
* * *
The emperor rode his gray horse forward, escorting his five-thousand-man-strong Imperial Guard towards the Allied line. He stopped before the ruined farmhouse at La Haye Sainte and took the salute of his most faithful soldiers. “Vive l’Empereur” rang out repeatedly as they filed by. With a grim look on his face, he waved at his troops.
His confident carriage belied his inner turmoil. He had risked everything to defeat the English before the Prussians entered the battle, but Grouchy, d’Erlon, and Ney had failed him—Ney most of all. He recalled his response to Ney’s demand for reinforcements during his stupid cavalry attacks: “Troops? Where do you want me to get them from? Do you want me to make them?”
Now the Prussians had arrived. Grouchy, whom he had just raised to marshal, had failed to engage Blücher and keep him occupied. Failure and incompetence were all about him.
Yet the emperor still believed in his lucky star. With the fall of La Haye Sainte, the center of the English line was wide open. He could see no troops opposite. Once he split the Allied line, he would force Wellington off the field. He would then turn his attention fully upon the Prussians, a force he had already beaten two days before.
The emperor looked again at the English lines, not five hundred meters away. He saw some enemy troops moving about, but nowhere near enough to stop his Invincibles. With a nod to his still marching men, he turned his horse and rode back towards his headquarters at La Belle Alliance, already planning his assault on Blücher. Victory would be his.
It was 7:00 p.m.
* * *
The sergeant looked over as Major Wickham returned to the front lines. “Sir, are there any reinforcements coming?”
Wickham slowly dismounted and entered the pit of death that was supposed to be a square of British infantry. “I understand that Second Corps is moving to link up with the line,” he started in a flat voice. He looked about at the men, lying prone. They were no longer in square; they had again formed lines, as to prepare to receive infantry. “I see we have a few Germans amongst us.”
“Yes, sir. The duke himself brought them. He has ordered the men to lie down. We should only fire at the last moment.”
“Good idea. I suppose we should join them.” They moved a few bodies out of the way and sat on boxes.
“Major, those Frenchies. Are they—?”
“The Imperial Guard? Yes.”
“Sir, are the Prussians here yet? The duke said—”
“Only God knows, sergeant,” replied Wickham. The two grew silent; there was nothing left to say.
The French trumpets reverberated again, along with the strange sound of fife and drums; the marching band was advancing as well. More and more cannonballs fell around the lines. Wickham and his men turned to watch Armageddon approach slowly up the hill.
* * *
Brevet Brigadier Brandon and his brigade watched the Imperial Guard move slowly up the rise toward the center of the Allied line about a mile distant from their position. The little bit of woods protected the cavalry from French artillery fire, for the French could not hit what they could not see.
The three colonels of cavalry watched the climax of the battle, waiting the order to engage, immersed in their own thoughts:
Buford: Too often in my life, I have thought only of mysel
f. Now this is my chance to redeem myself—to prove myself worthy of my king, my uniform, my men, my friends—and especially my Caroline. God help me, but this is the only way to wash myself clean of my sins—through the blood of my enemies. I shall earn my place by your side, my beloved!
Fitzwilliam: The French are moving in a rather narrow column. Must take care, but there is an opportunity here. If we can hit them at just the right time, we can cause no little disruption to their plans. Hit and run and circle back behind them. That is the idea. Must keep the men focused.
Brandon: What am I doing here? Marianne was right—I am too old for these sorts of games. Oh my love, what I would give to be at Delaford now with you and Joy! But there is only one road home, and it is before me, through those men there—through Paris. I swore to you, my Marianne, that I should return to you—and I shall. God help any Frenchman who dares to stand between me and home!
Suddenly British troops, hidden from sight along the path, seemed to appear from nowhere. The cloud of musket fire was as good a signal as any for Brandon. Wearing a borrowed Light Dragoon blue coat—something Fitzwilliam had good-naturedly insisted upon—the brigadier placed his hand upon the hilt of his sabre.
“Draw swords!” he called out as he pulled his sabre free. Immediately, eight hundred hands drew eight hundred sabres from their scabbards. The metal flashed in the fading daylight as the swords were first held up, as if to salute the enemy, before coming to rest upon the troopers’ shoulders.
Brandon spurred his horse forward at a walk, not looking to see if the brigade would follow. As a man they all did so, moving slowly out of the woods in a wedge formation.
Down and across the ridge the brigade advanced, the three colonels with but one last thought in their minds: Redemption! Victory! Home!
First at a trot, then a canter, the brigade moved towards the battle, dodging fallen men and animals, cannonballs splashing mud about the field. Finally, Brandon lowered his sword, pointed it towards the enemy, and shouted, “SOUND THE CHARGE!”
The Three Colonels Page 29
