Four Days in June

by Iain Gale

  Ziethen did not rise to the bait, but remained set on the matter in hand.

  ‘Sir, I must find Marshal Blü cher. We must reinforce the right flank. Both St Amand and La Haye have fallen. We must retake the villages. If we do not we are lost. Our flank will be turned.’

  ‘Prince Blü cher is down in the valley.’ He gestured towards Ligny. ‘He is doing what he does best. Inspiring men to fight for their country. I am in command.’

  ‘Then, your Highness, you must decide. Have I your permission to send in a brigade of II Corps?’

  ‘Count von Ziethen, you are aware that I do not believe that Wellington will come to our aid. But you and I must agree that there is no point in our sacrificing the army. We cannot afford to risk being taken in the flank. Yes, the villages must be retaken. Do what you have to.’

  Ziethen called an aide. ‘Send this to II Corps.

  ‘To Herr General von Tippelskirch, 5th Infantry Brigade. By order of Count von Gneisenau, you will advance to the outskirts of the village of St Amand where you will reinforce General von Steinmetz. You will take the village and hold the position at all costs. Cavalry will be in support.’

  As Werner rode off to deliver the order, Ziethen looked again across the valley. Clouds of dense white smoke enveloped the battlefield, along the length of the stream. As ever more wounded emerged dazed and bloody from its depths, so further reinforcements were pressed forward out of sight, to plug the new gaps in the line.

  Howitzer shells were falling in the villages, in Ligny in particular, setting houses on fire. In the few brief lulls in the firing, Ziethen could hear the frenzied screams of the wounded trapped inside. He imagined them – boys mostly, dying so horribly in their first, their only battle.

  Another rider delivered a hand-written note from General Henckel. There was hand-to-hand fighting in the streets of Ligny. Every lane, even the gardens, was choked with the dead. And all the time it seemed that, inch by inch, the French were gaining ground. In the fields behind him, the greater part of II Corps stood in its positions on the forward slope, pinned down by the French artillery. Unable to reinforce the line.

  For an instant the smoke grew less dense and, noticing a gap, Ziethen rode 100 yards forward down the slope and put a telescope to his eye. Bizarrely, he was able see quite clearly. Down in Ligny a brigade of French infantry was moving in to the attack. He saw them break into a charge, some of them peeling away down a hollow track across which Jagow’s men had dropped felled trees, farm machinery, furniture, pews from the church. Faced by this tangle, the French came to a halt. For a moment. Then the press from behind, the sheer weight of numbers, began to push the front ranks forward, crushing them against the makeshift barricades, moving them by force of human bodies. Trampling over their own men, they reached the church. Without warning, as Ziethen continued to stare, from behind the walls of the churchyard, from the cover of tombstones and from windows, Jagow’s infantry opened up. Perhaps twenty score of French fell at once. He took the telescope away. Wiped the dusty lens, looked again. Saw yet another French column rush into the town and towards the church. This time they were met with bayonets.

  Ziethen gazed in unconcealed horror at the ferocity of the fighting. Men were firing into each other at close range. Blowing off pieces of their adversaries. Leaving smouldering black powder marks around the wounds. He saw French and Prussians alike fall by the score. Saw, quite clearly, a young Prussian grenadier use the butt of his musket to beat out the brains of a voltigeur before he too was cut down by the slashing sword of a French officer. Who in turn was shot point-blank through the mouth. A sergeant of chasseurs was beating the bloody head of an already dead Jäger rifleman against the wall of the burning church. Never, in twenty years of soldiering, could Ziethen remember witnessing such basic, primeval violence.

  For a moment the French appeared to falter. And then another officer, a full colonel, rode up and rallied them and, although he could hear nothing above the din of battle, Ziethen could see the blue-coated infantry shouting, mouthing oaths to the glory of their Emperor, before they disappeared into the madness of the mêlée.

  Drained, he dropped the glass from his eye. Stared in silence. If they continued to fight like this, surely the French would win against any odds. Gneisenau must commit the entire reserve. Bring them down now, never mind the cannon fire. Ziethen raised his telescope again. Swung it round to the left of Ligny and across the stream. A glint of brass caught his eye. Cannon barrel.

  He called to von Reiche. ‘Do you see that?’

  There was no question about it. Artillery. He counted more than ten batteries. Heavy guns manned by men in peaked bearskins, being moved up towards Ligny. Bonaparte intended to reduce the village to rubble. And after that he would be free to swing those twelve-pounders around and enfilade either wing of the Prussian army.

  All they could hope for now, it seemed, was to hold out until nightfall brought an end to the fighting. Then perhaps the survivors might join with the English tomorrow.

  In the sky the storm clouds were gathering, steadily growing heavier. Where in God’s name, he wondered, was Wellington? And then, remembering his promise to Jagow, Ziethen set off, back up the hill, in search of the reinforcements.

  NINE

  Quatre-Bras, 3.45 p.m. Ney

  He sat on Mortier’s old horse, in the centre of the line, by the wood behind the little whitewashed farm, and stared at the pall of white smoke rising from the crossroads. Ney knew that he must work to calm himself. Wasn’t Aglaé always telling him so? He must control his temper. But, he reasoned, General Bachelu had been asking for it. Of course it was true that the high crops might conceal more of the enemy. There were always hidden dangers in battle. So why, he had asked him, had Bachelu ever become a soldier? Was he afraid? Ney had to admit it was a bit severe. More than that, it was unfair. Unjust. Ney bit his lip. Knew that the only reason he had treated the general so badly had been his own frustration. His orders from the Emperor had only arrived late in the morning, delivered in person by Charles de Flahaut. It was good to see the handsome young general. A reminder of happier times. Flahaut was the lover of Hortense de Beauharnais, the Emperor’s stepdaughter, and had been Aglaé’s favourite singing partner in so many concerts at their Paris home. Ney had always been a little jealous.

  It was a short message. Ney was to engage the English at once. Take the crossroads. But it had not taken him long to realize that, if he were to safeguard his flank, Bossu wood must also be secured. A frontal assault on the wood? Reille advised caution. Instead, Ney had decided to attack the Allied left. To make for the Namur/Nivelles road and to take it at the hamlet of Paradis. That done, he calculated, the Dutch would be forced to abandon the big wood to save their own flank. There would not be, as the Emperor had demanded, some daring coup de main. The only way to beat Wellington at this game, Ney knew, was to muster his men and simply press the Allies into the ground by weight of numbers. A mass attack in the old style. Of course the French would take casualties. But d’Erlon’s corps would be here soon to exploit the gap, and after that the way to Brussels would lie open. It was a brilliant plan. Worthy of the Emperor.

  It had, however, taken the remainder of the morning to manoeuvre into position. Twenty thousand men had moved from column of route to column of division and finally into column of attack. Twenty-four battalions, each of them with a frontage of sixty men and nine ranks deep. At length, it was not until 2 o’clock, far later than Ney had originally intended, that he had sent them in.

  Bachelu needn’t have worried. His division had simply walked through the handful of Dutch skirmishers. A thirty-gun cannonade had knocked out one Dutch battery in spectacular fashion, blowing up an ammunition caisson and sending men, parts of men and horses and shards of wood flying thirty feet into the air. True, Foy’s division over on the left had been harried by the remaining Dutch guns, but another barrage soon silenced them. Then Foy’s men had pushed into the edge of the wood, forcing back the Nassauer
s. Within an hour Ney had advanced 1,000 yards. On cue, Jerome’s division had arrived.

  Looking through a field-glass at the crossroads, Ney had also noted the arrival among the Dutch of fresh, green-coated troops. More Nassauers. Running, curiously, into position. It was of no consequence. What was important was to take the crossroads before Wellington was able to deploy his English.

  The central farm, Gemioncourt, was held in force. Ney moved quickly. Sent in four of Foy’s regiments to the assault, supported by Piré’s lancers. As they moved relentlessly forward, a rider approached the marshal from the direction of Paradis. A dust-covered captain of infantry.

  ‘Captain Letort, sire, of the 3rd Line. From Colonel Baron Vautrin. I have urgent news. The English, sire. They’re on the road. At Paradis and at the crossroads.’

  ‘Impossible, Captain. I can see no redcoats. Where are they?’ Ney peered through his telescope.

  ‘Not redcoats, sire. Riflemen. And believe me, they’re there. In the Bois de Cherris.’

  Of course. Those running, green-coated infantry who had reinforced the Dutch skirmishers. Not Nassauers at all, but English riflemen. Raising his glass again, Ney tried to make them out, but the smoke was now too dense. He swung the telescope round to his left and instantly knew the report to be right. There in the middle distance, behind the thin hedge which flanked the road, was a line of red. Redcoats, their black shakos ranged in four ranks, under fluttering regimental colours – one dark blue, the other the cross of the British Union flag. Beyond them he saw others. Men in skirts. Highlanders.

  Now Ney began to sense the danger. Now at last he had to acknowledge that this was no Dutch provincial general facing him out there across this shallow valley. This was Wellington, the master of concealment. For all Bachelu’s fears, the cover of the crops did not concern him so much as what lay beyond. Who knew what troops the English commander had now behind the crossroads? This could be Bussaco again and, if he were to be honest, Ney knew that somewhere out of sight, probably on the slight reverse slope to his rear, Wellington was massing a considerable body of infantry.

  He turned to Reille, sitting silently on his horse, a few paces behind him. ‘The English, Reille. Wellington. You remember Bussaco? No, no. Of course. You weren’t there.’

  ‘Sire.’

  The general was quiet. But Ney remembered Bussaco. Foy too. Would never forget it. Five years ago. The early morning mist lifting over a wooded hillside. His own VI Corps advancing in two massive columns, into what he had assured them was a retreating enemy. Advancing under light cannon fire to the crest of the hill. And then the shock. The two English battalions that had appeared from nowhere, delivering volley after unforgiving volley into their ranks. Sending the survivors hurtling down the slope in panic. Coming after them with the bayonet. There had been riflemen there too. Short swords screwed to the barrels of their guns. By 8 a.m. it had all been over. After Bussaco nothing had been the same. Wellington.

  ‘You see, Reille.’ Ney was suddenly animated. ‘At this moment Wellington will be manoeuvring his men out of sight. Behind that slope. Well, we are wise to his game, Reille. And we still outnumber him.’

  Even as he spoke a great cheer went up from the centre of the line. Foy’s men had taken Gemioncourt.

  As they emerged into the open ground on the other side, however, Ney saw a mass of cavalry move across the field towards the right. Sky-blue hussar uniforms and what looked strangely like green-clad French chasseurs. Dutch cavalry. They spurred headlong into Foy’s emerging infantry, managing to ride many down before they were able to form rallying squares. Within minutes, though, he could discern on the left the distinctive helmets of their own lancers. They took the Dutch in the flank, causing havoc. Men pulled back on their horses, tried to run. Turned, only to meet more lancers behind them. The Dutch Hussars and light dragoons wheeled about in disorder. Tried to find a way out. And then they were all streaming back up the road, the lancers hard after them. He saw more Dutchmen fall. Taken not by lance but by musketry. Mistaken by the redcoats, he realized with grim amusement, as they had been at first by him, for French. Rollin rode up.

  ‘Sire. Prince Jerome has advanced into Bossu wood, on a line with the farm, sire, as you ordered.’

  ‘Good, Rollin. That’s fine. Fine. Any news of d’Erlon?’

  ‘None, sire. But we know that he has left Jumet.’

  Ney grunted. Where was I Corps? Jumet? D’Erlon was not even at Gosselies. Still, despite the presence of the English, things were going well. Jerome it seemed had taken almost half of the wood without firing a shot. Was ready to attack. Ney rode towards the left of the line, trailing in his wake his string of officers. As he approached Bossu wood, scattered shots began to ring out from the Allied skirmish line. He ignored them. Until one caught his horse square in the neck. It crumpled beneath him, trapping a booted leg.

  ‘Rollin, Heymes. Get me out. Help me.’

  The two aides dismounted and rushed to Ney. Pulled him from beneath the dying animal. A fresh horse was brought up, the second he had purchased from the stricken Mortier.

  Winded, bruised, Ney paused briefly before mounting, then continued towards the wood. He must take Bossu wood. Take the wood and he would be able to turn Wellington’s flank.

  ‘What troops oppose us in the wood, Heymes? Do we know?’

  ‘As far as we can tell, sire, just the Belgians. We have seen only blue coats, sire. No red.’

  What was Wellington playing at? He had positioned his veteran English units on his left flank, and left only the half-trained, skittish Dutch militia to defend this key position. Foolish. He had made a fundamental mistake. And Ney would make sure that it was fatal.

  Reaching the flank of Jerome’s column he rode between the trees, his new horse nervously picking its way through the undergrowth. Reckless in the face of enemy skirmishers and much to the concern of the staff, he removed his hat and waved it in the air so that the men could see his face. His voice rang clear through the wood.

  ‘The Emperor will reward any man who will advance.’

  It was the old slogan. The words of Austerlitz and Wagram. Ney repeated them over and over again, circling his hat in the air as he rode the length of Jerome’s extended front line of cheering, blue-coated light infantry. He turned and rode back to rejoin his staff. Reining in towards Jerome, Ney caught a glint of something on his right, deep in the wood. Looking again, he saw a body of men crouching in the scrub, perhaps 200 yards away. Enemy skirmishers. But instead of blue coats they wore black. Brunswickers. Germans. What an assembly was this army. Brunswickers. A little better though, he presumed, than the Belgians. It would be harder to clear the wood. And, as Jerome sent his division crashing into the trees, Ney realized that he had now committed his entire force. There was no reserve. Where was d’Erlon? He swore.

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘Nothing, Rollin. Nothing. I see that the Duke’s German friends have come to help the Belgians. Where is d’Erlon?’

  ‘We believe him to be just south of here, sire. Perhaps near Frasnes.’

  He was about to ask more precisely where, when an orderly rode up with a despatch from Napoleon. It was timed at 2 p.m. Written by Soult.

  Attack whatever force is before you. After driving it back you will turn in our direction to bring about the envelopment of those enemy troops which I have already mentioned to you.

  ‘Those enemy troops’. The Prussians, he presumed. So the Emperor had decided to crush Blü cher first before turning on Wellington. Here then was a very different plan from that which he had first understood. Nevertheless it was the Emperor’s. It would work. The only way to honour it now though, Ney saw, was to take the crossroads. And to do it quickly. He continued to traverse the field from west to east. His right flank was looking increasingly vulnerable.

  The redcoats whom he had seen earlier, lining the road, seemed to be here in greater force. And, as he watched, that worrying red line began to move forward, through the shoulder-hig
h rye. Close to the shallow stream which ran to the lake it stopped and, with an enviable precision, sent a volley crashing into the head of Bachelu’s columns. As the French staggered to recover, the redcoats followed up with a bayonet charge. Slowly, Bachelu’s men gave fire and pulled back, leaving the ground to the English.

  Ney, seeing an opportunity, called to an aide. Pointed towards the redcoats. ‘Have Maréchal de Camp Pellitier train his artillery fire on that English line. And order General Piré to move his 6th Lancers up towards it. They should take with them Captain Gronnier’s horse artillery. Tell him to unlimber at … 200 yards.’

  That would break them. The threat of cavalry would force the English, and that Highland regiment he had noticed, into square. Then the artillery would cut them to pieces. He looked over to the wood. A stream of blue-coated fugitives fleeing towards the Allied lines indicated that the Belgians and Dutch had begun to crack. The black Brunswickers had also left the trees and were advancing purposefully towards Gemioncourt. As Dutch reinforcements moved into the wood to relieve their beleaguered countrymen, Jerome’s light infantry seized their chance and, rushing forward and with a great cry of ‘Vive l’Empéreur’, took the vacant ground.

  At precisely that moment the remaining battalion of Jerome’s infantry, positioned at the near edge of the wood, opened fire on the exposed Brunswickers. Ney saw that Pellitier had also now, on his own initiative, brought his cannon to bear on them. From the rear of the Brunswick corps a detachment of black-uniformed cavalry appeared, led by a senior officer, his rank evident from the staff who hovered around him. They rode straight for Jerome’s men, but before they were able to make contact another volley rang out. The black-coated officer went down, followed by a score of his hussars.

  Looking again to his right, Ney observed the lancers going about their bloody business. To his dismay the Highlanders had not formed square and he saw the lethal spear-points of the cavalry break in among them. There would be no need now for artillery. Seeing the carnage, the other redcoat battalion had already begun to retire, back to their starting position. As Ney looked on, Gronnier’s horse artillery came galloping full pelt across the field before him and, with a speed and precision worthy of a Sunday afternoon review, unlimbered their four six-pounders and went into action against the Brunswick troops – with canister. A minute later the men in black were running pell-mell back towards the crossroads.