Flashman's Waterloo

by Robert Brightwell

  More guns fired from the allied ridge and while they must have done some damage, I did not see it. We were well up the far side now and bugles called and the pace increased again. The men on either side drew their long heavy swords and I tugged furiously on mine. It had got stuck in the scabbard and I nearly elbowed the rider next to me in the face as I finally got it free. I did not intend to use it, but had learned from long experience that it is always useful to have a weapon handy. The gunners ahead were running from their artillery pieces now. I had thought that they had been brave in putting up a desperate rear-guard action as it was certain that they would be ridden down on the other side of the ridge. We were less than a hundred yards from the crest and a new bugle call rang out, the unmistakable demand for the charge.

  My mount sprang forward with the herd around us with little prompting from me. Swords were extended forward and men roared their challenges as with a final bound we cleared the road that ran along the ridge top and launched ourselves down the other side. As we crested the rise my eyes were set to the far horizon as that was where I expected to see the fleeing allied army. There were indeed men going into the woods, hundreds, possibly a thousand or two, but then my attention was taken by something far closer, as all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 39

  There have been a few times in my life when I have been really taken aback by an unexpected sight. A man-eating tiger appearing while I was taking a piss, a certain duke waiting for me in his daughter’s boudoir with a horsewhip and a Spanish regiment running in terror from a horse’s flatulence to name but a few. But nothing topped what greeted my eyes as my horse galloped over that ridge top. Instead of a broken army in defeat, the ground was covered by a patchwork of allied regiments, all formed up into square ready to receive cavalry.

  I did not know whether to cry with relief that I was not responsible for the destruction of the allied army; shriek with terror at the thought of riding the gauntlet between their bayonet-bristling ranks; or put my heels back, my head down and pray as I galloped through. In the event, I suspect I did all three.

  I was not the only one to be surprised, though, for there were shouts and yells from those around me. There was no thought of stopping the attack – we couldn’t even if we wanted to for there were ranks of horsemen sweeping up the slope behind us. We had to press on. As I glanced at the two nearest squares, however, they looked damn shaky. The front-facing ranks of both were trying to edge back, the expressions of the men horrified at the image of armoured death bearing down on them. The cuirassiers beat their metal chestplates with their sword hilts and roared their challenges to further intimidate the poor devils.

  I knew it would only take one square to break to create carnage, for the frightened men would fight and claw their way into the intact squares around them and the armoured horsemen would follow through any gap created. Once cavalry were inside a square it was invariably doomed and so the process of running survivors breaking other squares would continue. The nearest square was Dutch and the whole formation was trying to march backwards out of the way. Men going forwards were faster than those retreating backwards and already gaps were opening up in the sides. Beyond them was a square of British troops where the men in the facing side were arching towards its centre and tussling with those trying to push them back forward. I found out later that some of those were the survivors of the Lincolnshire regiment who had been destroyed by cuirassiers two days earlier. So it was no wonder they were terrified at seeing the same cavalry charging towards them again.

  It seemed only a matter of seconds before one or both of them would collapse into a huddle of frightened men and the troopers around me sensed it too. Then there were shouts of alarm and charging in on our right came a regiment of British cavalry. They hit the flank of my regiment and cuirassiers wheeled away to face this new threat, leaving the squares to the men coming up behind. The cuirassiers were heavier, armoured troopers but the British cavalry were on fresh, larger horses and within moments the air was ringing with the sound of steel on steel. I did not wait to see the outcome nor did I see if those two allied squares did break, although I heard conflicting accounts afterwards. Instead, as you would no doubt expect from your correspondent, I put my head down and made a run for it.

  The allied squares had been arranged in a chequerboard formation to avoid them firing on each other, with plenty of space between the corners. I charged down the gap between the two wavering squares. I had no real sense of a plan, only to get away from the fighting. I wanted to get through the allied line and perhaps continue on to the forest as that would give me a head start in the rout when Grouchy and his men arrived on the scene. I would, of course, need to shed my French uniform along the way. At least a score of cuirassiers followed me as we galloped down the channel. A few muskets fired from either side but they did no damage; I could hear officers shouting at their men to hold their fire. They must have been able to see the huge numbers of horsemen coming over the top of the ridge behind us and were saving their volleys for when they could not miss.

  There was a third square some two hundred yards ahead and they must have been less experienced, for swiftly the ranks disappeared behind a rolling ripple of flashes and gun smoke as some three hundred muskets shot their charges in our direction. The range was too long and I heard a couple of clangs as half-spent charges ricocheted off steel breastplates behind me. My mount stumbled a little and I saw that she had taken a ball in the shoulder but it could not have been more than a flesh wound as she was still galloping as strongly as before. The long ranks in front of me were furiously reloading, but I would be past before they could fire again. The cuirassiers behind were yelling as we bore down on the men in front, but if they thought I was going to lead them to the square’s destruction, well they were destined to be disappointed.

  I was just judging whether turning left or right would take me past fewer squares, when more British cavalrymen came veering in from the right. They would soon be hopelessly outnumbered but before then they were determined to help defend the squares. They had been hidden by the musket smoke and I only just had time to get my sword up to parry a blow before some red-faced hussar was up alongside

  “Take that, you blaggard!” he roared as he nearly broke my wrist when my blade blocked a huge swinging stroke

  “Get off, you bloody fool, I am British,” I yelled back at him through gritted teeth.

  “What’s that?” The man stared astonished at being spoken to in English and hesitated a moment before getting his blade up again. Instead of goggling at me, the poor fool should have been checking over his shoulder, for that was where the cuirassier who had been riding alongside me came up. His heavy blade was swinging long before the hussar could hope to recover and a moment later I was covered in a fresh spray of blood from the British trooper.

  “Come on, Colonel, to the square,” shouted my new armoured friend and he spurred his mount on towards the ranks that were still shoving ramrods down their weapons. The air was full of the noise of battle. Cuirassiers and British hussars were still shouting and clashing blades all around me, while now more volleys rang out from the squares as the French horsemen swarmed about them.

  My erstwhile opponent was still sitting hunched in his saddle beside me, his sword dropped and a hand clasped over a deep wound in his side. He was staring at me as though still unable to comprehend what had happened. I had sworn to myself at the start of the day that I would not kill my countrymen, but I had left this one near defenceless. Staring about me I saw a gap open up in the melee and turned to ride through it. On impulse, I reached out and grabbed the bridle of the wounded British trooper and took him with me. A noble act of charity on my part? Perhaps, but I will be honest and say the fact he would serve as a shield against the nearest square, which, having now reloaded, was firing on all and sundry, also played a part in my thinking.

  I rode through the gap to my left between the squares, releasing the hussar near the British troops where he wo
uld block the aim of those closest to me and then rode into the open space beyond. I looked around to get my bearings and saw that if anything I had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. It was a bloody nightmare. I was surrounded by danger and people trying to get me killed. On both my flanks were the sides of squares, loaded and ready to fire, although mercifully with their aim blocked or judging me too small a target. Further to my right, I saw more British cavalry, while to my left none other than Marshal Ney was leading the best part of a regiment of cuirassiers directly towards the space I was riding into. Ahead and still some distance off were two more squares of British infantry.

  I swear to God that Ney was actually roaring with laughter as he went past. I think battle was a drug to him and while he had been robbed of an easy victory by the squares, he knew that if he could break just one, he would have a triumph that would be remembered for generations.

  “Come on, Moreau,” he shouted when he saw me. “Let’s get at them.” He angled his horse to ride alongside mine, which was the last thing I wanted. I had hoped to slip away to the back of the battle but now I had more cuirassiers coming up on my other side as we formed a phalanx aimed directly at the side of one of the largest squares.

  “Come on, ride straight at them,” yelled Ney, standing now in his stirrups and waving his sword above his head. His plumed hat had long gone, but his chest was adorned with decorations and gold braid. It was obvious he was a very senior officer in the front row and I knew that many of the muskets ahead would be aiming for the marshal. A lot would miss, which was very bad news for the poor fools like me riding alongside him. I was now properly hemmed in; we were riding knee to knee, with another rank of men directly behind. I could not turn or slow down; I was trapped in this charge until it smashed into the rows of men in red ahead.

  My mind was half frozen in terror although I have a vague recollection of muttering the Lord’s Prayer as my horse thundered along to what I was sure would be my death. Everyone knows that if a square stands steady it will defeat cavalry. Equally, anyone who knew him would also know that Marshal Ney does not lack courage to see a charge home.

  You can sense when some squares are likely to break, as I had with the first two I saw on coming over the crest. I stared in vain for any sign that the one ahead would do the decent thing and fall apart, but it looked rock steady. Not a gun fired as we closed in. Two hundred yards, one hundred and fifty, one hundred, still the guns were silent with their bayonets glistening in the sunshine. We were at less than eighty yards away when I finally heard the shouts for the rear rank to fire above the drumming of the horse’s hooves. The bravest of the brave stood in his stirrups again roaring a final challenge. In contrast I crouched down against my horse’s neck, wondering if its chestnut hide would be my last vision on earth.

  I flinched with my eyes tight shut as I heard the crash of the volley. Then I felt its impact. My horse screamed and reared up as though it had been struck by a gate. I had been trapped by a fallen horse before and was already tugging my boots from the stirrups. My mount was foundering, its back legs collapsing, and I looked for space to roll away but the horses on both sides had been hit too and were already crashing to the ground in a welter of flailing hooves. In the end I had no choice as Ney fell against me and grabbed hold of my arm and we both tumbled into the gap between our falling horses.

  “Christ on a stick,” I swore with relief to find myself still alive and unhurt while I ducked the flailing hoof from my dying horse. Something soft had broken my fall and as it grunted with discomfort I realised that I was sprawled across a marshal of France. “Are you hit, sir?” I asked starting to get up.

  “No, just winded… Get down, you fool.” Ney reached up and pulled me back down towards him. He was just in time, for inches over my head went the steel-shod hooves of another horse as the second line of cuirassiers continued the attack. There was the crash of a further volley and a moment later a third rider crashed down beside us. He gave a groan as he landed on my horse’s legs but two musket ball holes in his breastplate showed he was unlikely to get up again. I raised my head more gingerly now and saw that the next rank of cuirassiers was shearing off to the left. There was now an impenetrable pile of dead and wounded men and horses blocking their attack. I rolled off the marshal and gave a sigh of relief. Ney, though, was in no mood for resting.

  “Come on, Moreau, we need to get some loose horses and renew the attack.” He was already up on his feet, not even sparing a glance at the ranks of armed men behind him as he pointed to a cuirassier galloping past. “You there, grab that horse and bring it to me.” With that he was off, waving an acknowledgement to my shout that I would be right with him.

  Of course I did not move a muscle to go to his aid, for it had occurred to me that the inside of the robust British square might well be the safest place for Flashy. I would be safe from arrest by Napoleon and could warn them of Grouchy’s army coming down on their flank. A square could retreat safely to the woods behind the allied position and then conduct a fighting withdrawal to disembark at Antwerp. The French would probably let most of them go and concentrate on taking Brussels and securing the rest of the country. The tricky bit would be getting inside the square without getting my head blown off by one side or the other.

  For a while I stayed crouched down beside Ney’s dead horse. Hundreds more French cavalry of every description galloped past the square and while they did not attempt another attack on my side of it, I heard charges going in against the other faces and the answering volleys. Shouted orders to reload after every attack confirmed that the square still stood. Across the slope the French cavalry washed around the other squares like waves against the rocks, and made as much progress in destroying them. Eventually, though, the horsemen began to give up, disappearing back over the crest like a receding tide.

  Chapter 40

  The battlefield grew eerily quiet. No guns were firing; men stood silently in their ranks waiting to see what would happen next and the only sound I heard was the pained gasping of a wounded cuirassier nearby. It was time to make my presence known. I tore off my French uniform coat. I had lost my shako helmet in the charge – for all I know it could have been shot off my head. My white shirt and trousers were blood stained but did not mark me out as a Frenchman. I gingerly put my head up above the flanks of the horse. The square was fifty yards off, its men standing at rest but vigilant and one immediately pointed me out to his comrades.

  “Don’t shoot,” I shouted. “I am a British officer.”

  “I did not see any British cavalry amongst that lot, sir,” called out a voice and several others added their agreement

  “It will be another of those frogs claiming he is a royalist now he has been licked,” shouted another.

  “No, I am British,” I repeated. “I am Major Thomas Flashman and General Wellington sent me to spy on the French. If you take me to him he will confirm it. I have urgent news for the general.”

  “A Major Flashman?” queried a plummy voice. “I happen to be familiar with most officers under the general’s command and I certainly do not recall your unusual name.”

  I stood up. There was little point in hiding now that I had announced myself and I was fairly sure I would not be shot on sight. Arrested, perhaps, if I could not convince this blockhead of an officer who seemed to be taking charge of the situation, but not shot. “Then I can tell, sir,” I started feeling an anger build in me, “that you did not serve at Assaye, Talavera, Busaco, Torres Vedras, Albuera and Badajoz; as the men who had fought in those campaigns would know me.”

  “I say,” retorted the plummy voice indignantly. “I fought in Spain for two years.” I could see the man now, a red-faced captain who had pushed his way into the rear rank to look at me. He was about to say something else but someone behind the ranks must have tugged on his sleeve for he turned irritably to the new arrival and asked, “What is it?”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” came a new voice, “but I am recognisant of this offi
cer.”

  I knew of only one man who could mangle the English language in such a manner. “Sergeant Evans?” I asked.

  “The very same, sir,” replied a beaming Evans as he replaced another man in the rear rank. “He was my company captain at Albuera, sir,” Evans explained to the plummy officer standing beside him. Then before the officer could object any further Evans added, “The colonel knows him well too, sir.”

  “Well in that case,” said the officer huffily, “you can advance and join us, sir.”

  I stepped through the pile of dead men and horses which was all that was left of the earlier attack. As I walked up to the square I glanced down the ranks. They were not my old regiment, the Buffs, but my battalion had been largely destroyed at Albuera and the survivors distributed to other units. These men looked steady enough; some stared at me with curiosity while others were looking at the broken men and animals in front of them and doubtless wondering what loot lay just out of their reach. I turned and looked across the slope behind the British ridge. Smoke from volleys had drifted away and it was my first opportunity to take a leisurely view of the scene. There must have been at least a dozen infantry squares visible, perhaps twenty thousand men, scattered over an area of half a mile. The only cavalry I could see now were a few British survivors of the encounter with the French. I returned my attention to the captain. “If you have half the experience you claim, you should have some men out retrieving the wounded and arranging the dead into a rampart to help defend the square.”