It is not clear how aware Uxbridge was that the greater danger was looming farther to the east, on the other side of the main road, where the advancing French infantry had already occupied the chemin d’Ohain. The earl must have had the feeling that he was ordering a potentially decisive charge, and that it would have to be carried out in force without any economizing of his resources. Therefore, he spurred his horse across the cobblestone road and up to where a second brigade of heavy cavalry was deployed in reserve behind Picton’s infantry. Because of its three dragoon regiments, this cavalry force was known as the Union Brigade: One regiment was English (the First Dragoons or Royals), one Scottish (the Second Dragoons or Scots Grays), and one Irish (the Sixth Dragoons or Inniskillings). Lord Uxbridge rode up to the brigade commander, Sir William Ponsonby, and ordered him to prepare his troops to charge; then the earl rode back to the Household Brigade, determined—like the Hussar he had been and still remained, despite his forty-seven years—to lead the attack of the Guards cavalry himself.
The two brigades of heavy cavalry that were about to go into action constituted a powerful striking force. Their horses, whose tails were docked in accordance with British practice, were probably the best in the world at a time when all the continental armies were feeling the effect of the dreadful equine destruction occasioned by the wars of the last three years, beginning with the Russian campaign. Prussia, for example, where horse-breeding had never been very good in the first place, had come out of the defeat of 1806 impoverished and had sharply scaled back its expenditures on heavy cavalry; there was none at all attached to the army that had been entrusted to Blücher’s command. All the Prussian cavalry present at Waterloo was mounted and equipped according to the more modest light cavalry standards. Even the French cuirassiers were no longer mounted on the powerful animals that would have been required to maximize their force of impact, but rather on beasts of generally mediocre quality; furthermore, many French regiments at Waterloo were considerably under-strength, precisely because of the scarcity of adequate mounts. By contrast, Great Britain had always possessed excellent horses, along with the financial means to obtain more of them wherever they might be found. Captain Tomkinson of the Sixteenth Light Dragoons observed that during the Waterloo campaign the horses in his regiment—which were newly arrived from England, and at a time of year when horses normally reach peak physical condition—were in excellent form, and this must have held true to an even greater degree for the animals in the service of the heavy cavalry.
Although the British cavalry enjoyed the advantage of magnificent material, its technical capabilities were rather less striking. Lieutenant Waymouth of the Second Life Guards, who took part in the great charge of Somerset’s brigade, thought the swords issued to his men greatly inferior to those of the French cuirassiers, because the British weapon was a full six inches shorter; another officer described the sword used by the British cavalry as a “lumbering, clumsy, ill-contrived machine. It is too heavy, too short, and too broad.” But the major problem was the way of wielding this sword, as prescribed by British regulations, with the elbow bent and the point upraised. It was “the custom of our Service,” remarked Waymouth, “to carry the swords in a very bad position whilst charging, the French carrying theirs in a manner much less fatiguing, and also much better for attack or defence.” The fact is that the French cavalry had perfected its technique by dint of the experience gained in years and years of uninterrupted campaigning; the British cavalry was almost completely lacking in such experience.
To the defect of inexperience, the British officers added an educational background and a value system in which competence and professionalism did not receive pride of place. The most extreme case of contempt for danger coupled with irresponsibility was probably that of Colonel Lord Portarlington, commander of the Twenty-third Light Dragoons. The evening before the battle of Waterloo, Portarlington left his command without permission and went to Brussels; when he returned to the field late the following morning, he arrived too late to rejoin his regiment. Desperate, and realizing too late that he’d thrown away his honor, the colonel attached himself to another regiment, fought in its ranks the whole day, and had his horse killed under him; despite his efforts, however, his absence from the regiment he was supposed to command was unpardonable, and Portarlington was obliged to resign his commission.17
A marginal case, without a doubt; but let us consider another one. Major Thornhill of the Seventh Hussars, Lord Uxbridge’s old regiment, was chosen by the earl as one of his first aides-de-camp. Thornhill recalled that when he delivered Uxbridge’s order to charge to one of the regiments of the Household Brigade, the Royal Horse Guards or “Blues,” the commander of the regiment, Sir Robert Hill, “most kindly and courteously” invited him “to join them in the charge.” The major accepted the invitation without a second thought and accompanied the Blues as they charged down the slope; his horse was killed, and the fall stunned him so badly that he was unable to remember what happened afterward. Apparently, it had not occurred to him for an instant that, as Lord Uxbridge’s aide-de-camp, he should return at once to his commander, nor does the evidence suggest that it occurred to Sir Robert Hill, either. The concept of professionalism as we understand it today was as yet practically unknown, particularly among British cavalry officers; in its place was the code of honor, and that was deemed sufficient.
This handicap became more glaring in direct proportion to the number of units engaged, since it was precisely in the coordination of units and in the prudent management of reserves that the officers’ lack of training made itself felt. “Our officers of cavalry have acquired a trick of galloping at every thing,” Wellington complained. “They never consider the situation, never think of manoeuvring before an enemy, and never keep back or provide for a reserve.” As for skill in maneuver, the British cavalry was so inferior to the enemy that whatever physical advantage the British enjoyed was canceled out; in the duke’s view, though one British cavalry squadron could hold its own against two French squadrons, it was best for the British to avoid encounters when the opposing forces consisted of four squadrons each. The enemy was of the same opinion; though expressing due respect for the magnificent horses of the British and the fearlessness of their officers, General Foy maintained that for all practical purposes, the French cavalry was superior to theirs. As we shall see, the final outcome of the great charge ordered by Uxbridge did nothing to refute these judgments, even though the action was, on the whole, an astonishing success and in all probability saved Wellington from defeat.
Taken together, the two cavalry brigades that Uxbridge was preparing to set in motion counted around two thousand sabers. This figure is lower than the one attested to by the rolls, but based on the accounts of officers who took part in the battle the number of men actually present was much inferior to the number that appeared on paper. Moreover, in the case of the cavalry, the measure of forces actually available was not provided by the number of men but by the number of horses, which was usually even lower. On the rolls, the Sixteenth Light Dragoons numbered 31 officers and 402 men, but Captain Tomkinson affirmed that the regiment landed in the Netherlands with 330 horses, of which only 320 remained on the morning of the Battle of Waterloo; this means that no more than three-quarters of the men can have really taken part in the fighting. In April, when the first units had just begun to disembark in Belgium, the minister had informed Wellington that, after the reductions in strength decided at the end of the preceding war, the cavalry regiments could not allow themselves more than 360 horses each, and they would not have been able to increase that figure in such a short time. Therefore, every British cavalry brigade should be estimated as having contained about a thousand sabers at the most, even though the rolls yield numbers a good 20 or 30 percent higher.
Be that as it may, two thousand sabers added up to a considerable force, capable in some circumstances of deciding the outcome of a battle. Somerset’s and Ponsonby’s brigades comprised nineteen squa
drons in all, of which no more than three were held in reserve, a decision that violated every rule of prudence. The squadron was, for all intents and purposes, the cavalry’s principal tactical unit, and each included more than a hundred horses; when it was in line and waiting for the order to charge, it occupied a front of at least fifty yards. If collisions and injuries were to be avoided, horses could hardly be kept shoulder to shoulder at a trot, and so this front was destined to widen considerably when the riders spurred their mounts forward. For entire squadrons as for individual cavalrymen, a certain amount of space was indispensable. Taking these distances into account, we can conclude that the charge of the two brigades covered a front at least a mile wide; and given that the width of the entire battlefield was not above two and a half miles, such a charge must have made a huge impact.
And so the British dragoons, who until that moment had been stretched out on the ground among their horses to reduce the damage from the cannonballs that fell among them from time to time, climbed into their saddles at the bugle call. Following the familiar orders of their officers, they lined up two ranks deep by platoons, one squadron after another, noisily drew their swords from their scabbards, and set off at a walk, advancing toward the smoke and the firing. Their state of mind must have resembled that described by all those who have lived through such an experience: the exciting sensation that now the game is on, it’s do or die, joined with the feeling of power and almost of invincibility that a rider feels when he’s in the saddle and his mount begins to pick up speed. Lord Uxbridge, in his Hussar’s uniform, rode ahead of the Household Brigade. Only much later did it occur to him that perhaps, as commander in chief of the Allied cavalry, he would have done better to remain behind and oversee the handling of his reserves.
On the other side of the main road, Sir William Ponsonby was preparing to order the Union Brigade to move out, and meanwhile he was thinking about his beautiful charger, a magnificent animal too expensive for Ponsonby to risk getting him killed, considering that the War Ministry would reimburse him only twenty pounds sterling, the standard price, which represented barely a fraction of the horse’s real value. Sir William had been concerned about this matter for some days; only the night before last, he’d tried to purchase another horse, but he and the owner—an infantry colonel wounded at Quatre Bras—had been unable to agree on the price. The prospect of risking his precious purebred was troubling Ponsonby more than ever, so he decided to take his servant’s horse, a hack of little value, and send its rider to the rear. While absorbed in these cogitations, he perhaps forgot to notify the colonel of the Scots Grays that his regiment was to remain in reserve, in accordance with the dispositions made that morning; or perhaps the idea of not taking part in the grand charge was simply too much for this colonel and his officers. In any case, when Sir William gave the sign, the Grays spurred their mounts ahead with the others, and the Union Brigade advanced in a single line, without leaving so much as a squadron in reserve.
When they came to within a hundred yards of the chemin d’Ohain, the brigade halted to allow the retreating infantry to reach safety by passing through the intervals between squadrons. In order to choose the most opportune moment to signal the attack, Ponsonby rode up to a vantage point on the crest of the ridge. The French artillery continued to pound the ridge, and a cannonball that passed too close spooked Sir William’s nag; the sudden movement caused the general’s cloak, which he was wearing thrown over his shoulders but not fastened, to slide to the ground. Ponsonby saw that the moment he was waiting for had come—the enemy infantry was engaged in crossing the sunken road, which in that sector ran a little below the crest—but he hated to lose his cloak, so he ordered his aide-de-camp, Major De Lacy Evans, to give the signal while he dismounted and collected the item. De Lacy Evans took off his hat and waved it, ordering the charge, and the brigade began to move.
While the Inniskillings were beginning to gather speed, many of them saw a man on horseback in civilian clothes waving his hat, too, and shouting, “Now’s your chance!” Next to him, likewise on horseback, a boy with one arm in a sling and a bandaged head stood upright in his stirrups, thoroughly excited. The man shaking his hat was His Grace, the Duke of Richmond, who although he possessed the rank of general had been assigned no command in Wellington’s army. Nevertheless, he had come to Waterloo to observe the battle, in which three of his sons were serving as aides-de-camp. The boy beside him was Lord William Pitt Lennox, at fifteen the youngest of the three, a cornet in the Blues and aide-de-camp to Sir Peregrine Maitland. A few days before, the teenager had fallen from his horse, breaking his arm, cracking his head, and losing the sight in one eye; but when he learned that Maitland’s other aide-de-camp, the eighteen-year-old Lord Hay, had been killed at Quatre Bras, young Lord Lennox had insisted on returning to service, thus demonstrating his adherence to the English aristocracy’s code of honor.
That morning, therefore, the boy had presented himself to Sir Peregrine with his slung arm, his bandaged eye, and his cracked skull; but since the general would not permit him to serve in his present state, the fifteen-year-old had resigned himself to watching the battle at his father’s side. Whenever the duke, heedless of the bullets that were whistling all around, stopped to converse with one general or another, Lord William had all he could do to steady his frightened horse, which seemed on the point of bolting off and perhaps carrying him into the midst of the French; but he felt immense pride when his father turned to him and said, “I’m glad to see you stand fire so well.” Then the cavalry began to move forward, and the boy remained there, tingling with excitement, standing straight up in his stirrups to see what would happen.
THIRTY - SEVEN
THE CHARGE OF THE HOUSEHOLD BRIGADE
The terrain over which Lord Edward Somerset’s brigade was advancing was not ideal ground for a cavalry charge. The squadrons had to descend a gradual slope, muddy and slippery, ascend the opposite slope to the crest of the ridge, and there get past the complex obstacle presented by the sunken road and the thick bushes that bordered it. Since the chemin d’Ohain was too wide to leap over, the horses would have to go down one side of the lane and up the other, passing through the thorny bushes twice. Even before they could reach the hedge, the cavalry had to move through the Allied infantry; as soon as the foot soldiers heard the bugles and the horses’ hooves behind them, they tried to open lanes for the cavalry to pass. According to Lord Uxbridge’s personal account, under such conditions the cavalry could not charge at a gallop, sweeping down en masse like an avalanche, but rather came on in a succession of more or less isolated squadrons, which barely managed to reorder their line and go into a trot before falling one by one upon the enemy. “The ground was dreadfully broken,” Uxbridge remembered, “and upon a very active horse I was much put to it to descend it. Towards the bottom of the slope I found our Infantry mostly in line, but getting into squares to receive the Enemy’s Cavalry, and making intervals for us as our Squadrons presented themselves. Thus we passed through the Infantry as fast and as well as we could (but necessarily not with exact regularity), when, again forming, we instantly charged.”
In spite of the difficulty of the terrain, the charge was admirably timed. Crabbé’s cuirassiers were still scattered about the slippery slope, not having had time to reorder their ranks after their charge, and small groups of them were starting to cross the main road. This in itself presented a formidable obstacle, running as it did between two steep banks, each higher than a man. The French had no hope of resisting the sudden attack; caught between the charging British, who fell upon their left and rear, and the enclosure of La Haye Sainte, which barred the way on their right, they spurred their horses forward, trying to reach the main road. But the passage was so narrow and the road so deeply embanked that many of them were struck down before they could cross it, while others tumbled down the slope, clogging the roadway with a tangled mass of dead and dying horses and men.18 Captain Kelly of the First Life Guards, a noted swordsman, cha
rged the colonel of the First Cuirassiers, felled him with a rain of saber blows, and then dismounted to rip off his victim’s epaulets, which he kept as a trophy. Kelly remained convinced that he had killed this officer, but in fact the colonel was only stunned. His name was Michel Ordener, and at barely twenty-eight years old he was already a veteran of eight campaigns and a count of the empire. He returned to action shortly afterward, survived the battle, and died in 1862.
Pursuing the cuirassiers, part of the British cavalry came in their turn to the top of the bank that sloped down to the main road. Some of the riders descended into what was by now a shambles of dying men and horses and continued the massacre of the fleeing enemy. Other British cavalry would perhaps have halted before the obstacle presented by the road, but the French skirmishers posted in the kitchen garden at La Haye Sainte, in the sandpit, and on the little knoll behind it started firing on the British with deadly precision, so that their only choice was to push forward. Several hundred cavalry got across the road as best they could, mounted the opposite bank, and clashed with the cuirassiers who had crossed the road a few minutes earlier. The encounter, a saber fight, was brief and exceedingly violent; one of the combatants was Corporal Shaw of the Second Life Guards, the famous boxer. Shaw was one of the best-known men in an army that knew how to appreciate the pugilistic sport. For a man of his enormous stature, he also excelled at wielding his saber, and he was feeling especially bellicose, having swallowed a vast quantity of brandy that morning. Surrounded by French cuirassiers, he was seen slashing and hacking so rapidly that he unsaddled one after another, felling no fewer than nine, or at least that is what was said after the battle. But as he fought, a cuirassier withdrew a little distance from the melee, raised the short carbine issued to all cavalry troopers, took careful aim, and shot Shaw off his horse. The boxer dragged himself to the wall of La Haye Sainte, where he died from loss of blood.19
The Battle Page 18
