‘Sire, a message has arrived from Grouchy.’
‘Ah, at last. What does he say?’
‘He has determined that the bulk of the Prussian army had retired on Wavre, and not towards Liège.’
‘Wavre?’ Napoleon’s brow creased as he concentrated on the implications of this news. It seemed that there was some truth in the story told by the waiter in Genappe after all. If Blücher was at Wavre then he needed to be watched closely to ensure that the Prussians did not intervene in the day’s business. ‘Does Grouchy say what his intentions are?’
‘Yes, sire. He intends to follow them in order to prevent them from reaching Brussels, and joining Wellington.’
‘Good. That is the right thing.’
‘Shall I acknowledge his message, sire?’
‘What? No . . . No, it’s not necessary.’ Napoleon shook his head and then crossed the room to sit on a bench by the rain-streaked window. He leaned his head back against the plastered wall and shut his eyes.
The rain finally stopped just before dawn and as the first glimmer of light stretched across the landscape the sodden men of the Army of the North stirred from beneath their drenched blankets and coats and built up their fires with whatever wood was left. Then, huddled round the blaze, as they tried to get warm and let their uniforms dry out, they quickly ate some of their remaining rations before packing their kit and forming up in their companies.
At the army’s headquarters Napoleon was having breakfast with his staff. Despite the hardships and lack of sleep in recent days the mood around the Emperor was light-hearted. One of the allied armies had been beaten and now another would share its fate. The only issue to spoil Napoleon’s mood that morning was a report from General Drouot that the ground was too wet for the artillery to be moved forward to a position where they would have the enemy line in range. The wet ground would also lessen the impact of any artillery fire since the shot would not be able to ricochet off the ground and would simply bury itself in the muddy soil. Therefore Drouot requested that the attack be delayed until late in the morning. After brief consideration Napoleon consented. He had a clear superiority in artillery and it would make sense to use that to best effect.
‘Well, then,’ he announced. ‘It seems that the army will be at leisure this morning.’ A distant bell began to toll. ‘Of course, it is Sunday, the day of rest. Most propitious, this rain.’
His officers smiled. Even Soult, whose usual energetic demeanour had been somewhat dampened by the burdens of his new position as chief of staff, relaxed a little. He waited a moment and then coughed before he addressed the Emperor.
‘Sire, since the start of the engagement is to be delayed, might we recall Grouchy and put the result of the battle beyond doubt?’
‘Doubt?’ Napoleon was taken aback. ‘You doubt the outcome? Why, we have ninety chances in our favour and not ten against. We do not require Grouchy. Soult, just because you were beaten by Wellington does not make him a good general. If he was, then he would surely not have chosen such poor ground to defend. His difficulties are compounded by the poor quality of his troops. I tell you, this will be a brief battle, not much more effort for us than eating this breakfast.’
‘Truly, I hope so, sire.’
‘What about you, Reille?’ Napoleon turned to another of his commanders who had faced Wellington. ‘Do you share Soult’s anxieties about the quality of our opponents?’
Reille recognised the change in his master’s mood and answered cautiously. ‘Wellington knows how to defend, sire. Attacked from the front his troops are all but impregnable. However, we have the advantage in cavalry. If we manoeuvre on his flanks, then he must surely be defeated.’
‘Rubbish!’ Napoleon barked. ‘A frontal attack is all that is necessary to break his line. You shall see. And this we can achieve,’ he turned back to Soult, ‘without Grouchy.’
Soult bowed to his master’s will. ‘Very well, sire. But may I at least communucate with Grouchy your desire that he should close up on the Prussians at Wavre?’
‘As you will,’ Napoleon replied carelessly. ‘Tell him to keep pushing the Prussians back before him. Now then,’ he rose from his chair, ‘since there is time, I will inspect my soldiers. Soult, you will establish the command post at that inn . . .’ He clicked his fingers.
‘La Belle Alliance, sire?’
Napoleon nodded. ‘It will provide a fine view of the destruction of Wellington’s army.’
Mont-St-Jean, 10.00 a.m.
Arthur had joined his army soon after dawn and ridden along its length, to make sure that his men were in position and prepared for the coming battle. As he passed by the men cheered him and Arthur, true to the cool demeanour he had imposed on himself for many years now, occasionally favoured them with a curt nod. There was a constant crackle of muskets as the men fired into the air to clear the barrels of any moisture or grit washed in by the previous night’s deluge. The rain had also had another peculiar effect that amused the men. The dye from their jackets had run and the white cross belts were stained red. Arthur hoped it wasn’t an omen.
He had decided to ensure that his right flank was where his main strength would lie, in case Bonaparte attempted to hook round the army’s position. The left, in the direction of Blücher, was far less formidable, and Arthur knew that he was taking a gamble on the timely arrival of his ally. The artillery had been sited along the crest of the ridge, where it could pound the French columns as they advanced to attack. Behind them, sheltered by the reverse slope, the infantry waited in a staggered line while much of the cavalry was massed behind the centre. A handful of farms lay scattered across the front of the allied line and these had been fortified, ready to act as strongpoints to break up the enemy’s assaults. On the right was the small country estate of Hougoumont where Arthur had placed the Foot Guards, the cream of his infantry, and in front of the centre, on the road to Brussels, stood the large farmhouse of La Haye Sainte, defended by a battalion of the King’s German Legion.
Arthur completed his inspection of his battle line and joined his staff officers on the ridge a short distance above the chateau and grounds of Hougoumont. ‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ he called out cheerfully.
They returned the greeting and touched the brims of their hats in salute. A figure at the rear of the press of officers edged his mount through and Arthur saw that it was General Müffling. He trotted forward to Arthur’s side.
‘Sir, I have been looking for you this last half-hour. I have received a message from Marshal Blücher, sent at seven this morning.’
Arthur composed himself before he responded. ‘Well?’
‘He promises to support you with at least two corps of his army. And he will lead them in person.’
Arthur felt a lightness of spirit fill his heart and he allowed himself a faint smile as he spoke to Müffling. ‘I thank you, my friend. That is the very best of news.’
Arthur tugged on the reins and Copenhagen, his favourite mount, edged round to face the enemy, less than a mile away. As he surveyed the French, clearly massing for a frontal attack, Arthur realised quite how small the battlefield was. No more than three miles by two, within which the best part of two hundred thousand men were preparing to contest the ground. The French were manhandling the last of their guns into position, in the middle of their battle line.
‘There’s Napoleon, your grace,’ a voice called out.
Arthur glanced to his side. ‘I’ll thank you not to get carried away by your enthusiasm, de Lancey.’
His young quartermaster-general flushed. ‘I apologise, your grace.’ Arthur turned to gaze across the vale separating the two armies. Napoleon was clear to see, mounted once more on his snow-white horse, and escorted by a squadron of Polish lancers. As he made his way steadily between the massed formations of infantry his soldiers cheered wildly, some raising their shakos up in the air on the end of their muskets.
‘They put on quite a show,’ Uxbridge mused. ‘Doubt we’ll ever get the dam
ned battle started at this rate.’
Arthur said nothing as he continued to watch his opponent. He was quite content for the French to waste time. Every minute that passed bought more time for Blücher’s soldiers to reach the battlefield. Bonaparte seemed wholly unconcerned by the passage of time as he paraded through the formations of his army for the best part of an hour before returning to his command post beside the Brussels road. A few minutes later a signal gun boomed from close by the Emperor’s position.
There was a faint click as Somerset opened his fob watch. ‘I make it close on eleven thirty, your grace.’
Arthur nodded. ‘Note it down.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The battle has begun, gentlemen. To your positions!’
Before the sound of his last words had faded the air was split by a terrible roar as the massed batteries of French artillery opened fire.
Chapter 60
A mixture of shot and canister rained down on the allied positions and from his command post Arthur could gauge that the enemy’s fire was concentrated on the flanks of his army. Hougoumont in particular was being subjected to a pounding. Branches and leaves leaped from the small wood and the orchard that lay to the south and east of the chateau. Roof tiles exploded into fragments as a handful of French guns aimed too high. Through his telescope Arthur could see that the men defending the walled orchard had crouched down to take shelter from the bombardment. Even so, an occasional shot would smash a hole in the wall, sending lethal fragments of brick and flint flying through the air.
On either side of Arthur the allied guns were firing back at the enemy. The artillery was under strict orders not to engage in any counter-battery fire, and took aim on the massed formations of infantry and cavalry instead. As he had chosen to follow his usual tactic of keeping the bulk of his army on the reverse slope, Arthur knew that the French guns would not be the greatest danger on this day. The real test would come when Bonaparte launched his foot and horse against the allied line.
Even though the main weight of the French artillery was battering the flanks, the rest of the line was still being subjected to fire. The skirmishers were scattered amid the pale green corn and wheat across the allied front, rising to take aim and fire at their opposite numbers before ducking down again to reload. Every so often the crops around them would swirl as a ball, or a blast of canister, cut through the stalks, and one or more of Arthur’s men would be plucked from sight as they fell.
The drone of a shot passing close overhead caused some of his staff officers to flinch and Arthur looked round. ‘Steady, gentlemen.’
Glancing to his right he saw that one of his regiments, the Fifty-first Foot, was closer to the crest than was healthy, and even as he watched a roundshot hit the ground just in front of the flank company, smashing two men to bits as it bounced on.
‘Somerset, order that regiment to lie down.’
‘Yes, your grace.’
As Somerset galloped off, Arthur saw that his staff officers, over forty in all, were clustered together behind him. ‘Uxbridge, it strikes me that our generals are rather too thick on the ground.’
Uxbridge nodded. ‘I’m sure we make a tempting target.’
Turning Copenhagen, Arthur cupped a hand to his mouth to address his officers. ‘I’d be obliged if you gentlemen would disperse. I will ride to you if you are needed.’
As the staff broke off into smaller groups Arthur saw that more regiments were following the example of the Fifty-first and going to ground, where they would be far less exposed to enemy fire. Turning his attention back to the situation around Hougoumont, he could see a French division forming up in front of the woods, ready to attack the moment their artillery ceased bombarding the chateau and its walled garden. Once the French infantry moved forward the allied guns on the ridge would be unable to fire on them for fear of hitting their own men.
The enemy artillery fire on Hougoumont gradually began to slacken and when the last of the guns ceased fire there was a brief pause before the French drums began to roll, beating an insistent rhythm, signalling the advance. The leading battalions of the division positioned in front of the chateau’s woods began to pace forward.
‘There are too few men defending Hougoumont, your grace,’ said Somerset. ‘They should be reinforced.’
Arthur shook his head. ‘They are adequate for the task.’
Somerset shot him an anxious look but Arthur did not react, and fixed his attention on the action beginning down the slope. The leading French formations disappeared from sight as they entered the trees and an uneven crackle of musketry followed as the British skirmishers fell back towards the chateau. A moment later the first of the enemy reached the garden wall and began to clamber over. The defenders, spread thinly along the wall, did their best to hold the perimeter, but were forced to give way as the French climbed over, or scrambled through the gaps smashed through the wall by artillery fire. The blue-coated attackers quickly spread out across the gardens and approached the chateau and its outbuildings. Sparks of fire and puffs of smoke erupted from windows and loopholes as the defenders opened fire on the French infantry pressing in from two sides.
The enemy had reached the chateau more quickly than Arthur had anticipated and he feared that Somerset might be right. Nudging his spurs in, he trotted over to the commander of a battery of howitzers of the Royal Horse Artillery that stood limbered up and ready to move.
‘Major Bull, isn’t it?’
The battery commander saluted. ‘Yes, your grace.’
‘I need the services of your battery. Follow me.’ Arthur turned and trotted down the slope towards the chateau. Bull and his howitzers followed, the gun carriages rumbling over the ground. Arthur drew up a hundred yards from the chateau. From the far side the din of the desperate struggle filled the air. ‘Have your howitzers fire over the chateau. We must take the pressure off the defenders. But be sure to get the range right, Major.’
‘Yes, your grace. I understand.’
Arthur watched as Bull’s men swiftly unlimbered the howitzers and loaded the fused iron spheres into the stubby barrels. Bull carefully ensured that each gun’s elevation was adjusted so that the shells’ trajectories would clear the chateau by a safe distance. The battery opened fire and Arthur looked up to follow the faint smears of the sputtering shells as they arced over the chateau towards the wood beyond, bursting amid the branches and blasting the attackers with small iron shards.
‘Very good,’ Arthur called out to Major Bull. ‘Remain here to support the chateau as long as you can.’ He turned and galloped back up to his vantage point to watch the attack. Hundreds of French soldiers were crowded about the chateau and its walled courtyard, but as far as Arthur could see, none had succeeded in gaining entry. The relentless fire from the defenders was cutting the enemy down in droves and bodies steadily piled up around the building. Further back, those still in the woods were being savaged by the howitzer shells. The attack raged for ten more minutes before Arthur saw the enemy begin to fall back, fading into the trees before they retreated over the field beyond the wood. The firing in the chateau ceased and a moment later Bull’s battery followed suit.
Arthur nodded with satisfaction. ‘First blood to us, I think.’
La Belle Alliance, 1.00 p.m.
‘What is Prince Jérôme doing?’ Napoleon snapped as he watched fresh troops advancing towards Hougoumont from a second division. ‘He is only supposed to be making a feint against the chateau. He was supposed to force Wellington to draw on his reserves, not me.’
‘Sire, do you wish to order the Prince to cease his attack?’
Napoleon watched as the fresh wave began to enter the woods. A moment later the air above them was dotted with the white puffs of exploding shells. He shook his head. ‘No. Jérôme may still force Wellington’s hand, and if the Duke does not take the bait then we shall take the chateau, and use it to harass the allied line.’
Once again, Hougoumont was shrouded in powder smoke as Napoleon’s men made their
assault. He watched the ridge for any sign of movement and then pointed triumphantly as a column of redcoats doubled down the slope towards the chateau.‘There! I knew Wellington would have to send in more men.’
Soult watched for a moment and then said quietly, ‘I make that no more than four companies, sire. Prince Jérôme has committed the best part of two divisions so far.’
Napoleon glared at him a moment and then turned his attention back to the battlefield. The smoke from the cannon of both sides was eddying above the landscape in dense clouds, threatening to blot out the view of the surrounding countryside. A sudden anxiety caused him to raise his telescope and sweep the horizon from the south round to the north-east. Fields, farmhouses and small woods glided past the eyepiece, and then a dark shadow just beyond the edge of a treeline caused Napoleon to stop. He blinked his eye and called one of the headquarters staff to stand in front of him so that he could use the man’s shoulder as a rest to steady the telescope. Soult, and a handful of others, had seen his worried expression and now turned in the same direction and scrutinised the dark line that was gradually emerging from the trees.
‘There is a column of soldiers over there,’ Napoleon announced. Then he lowered the telescope and hurried across to the map weighted down on a table outside the inn. He scanned the map and then stabbed his finger down. ‘The woods near Chapelle-St-Lambert.’
Soult exchanged a worried look with the other staff officers gathered about the map. One of them swallowed and asked, ‘Could it be Grouchy? Marching to the sound of the guns?’
Napoleon shook his head. The distant column was coming from the direction of Wavre. ‘Prussians. There is no doubt about it.’
There was a brief silence as the staff officers digested the information and then Soult raised his telescope towards the distant woods and spoke quietly. ‘I can see more columns, sire.’
The Fields of Death Page 68
