Four Days in June

by Iain Gale

  THIRTEEN

  Quatre-Bras, 2.30 p.m. Napoleon

  The British had gone.

  The Emperor picked savagely at the loose skin of his right index finger, digging the sharp yet carefully manicured nail of his left thumb into the soft flesh until the pain made him wince. He didn’t need any spyglass to see beyond the road. Beyond the farm, to the eloquently empty fields. Beyond the hedgerows, across the road and to the left it was not hard to discern the blue coats and fur caps of the English Hussars. The rearguard. But of the rest of Wellington’s army, nothing now remained here.

  Save the dead. He turned from the view, frowned and stamped his foot with the frustration of a spoilt child. He slammed his right fist into the palm of his left hand. Gnawed at his lip, imagining, with rising fury, how it must have been. How, not believing his good fortune, Wellington must have moved his troops back with such care. Must have replaced each front-line battalion with another, until at length he had only a skeleton line facing the French. And then that too would have gone, melting into the landscape and away up the road to Brussels. And so, an entire army had slipped like dust through his fingers.

  And no one here had done a thing. He was surrounded by blind fools. And the greatest of them all was nowhere to be found. Where in Hell’s name was Ney?

  ‘Gourgaud. De la Bedoyere. Where is Marshal Ney? Someone find me Ney.’

  That had them scurrying. They sent an aide off down the road to Frasnes.

  Napoleon turned to look to his rear, to where the battlefield opened out into a little valley. Fewer corpses here than at Ligny, he thought. But the stench was equally unpleasant. He pulled the cologne-soaked handkerchief from his pocket. Pressed it to his nostrils. Inhaled. Tucked it away and tried, from the positions of the dead regiments, to piece together the progress of Ney’s battle. What had happened here? Where was the evidence of victory? He sat down at the small campaign table and chair that had been set for him at the side of the road. Around him the officers of the General Staff formed a circle of quiet discussion.

  He had arrived here half an hour ago. In silence, ascending the hill which carried the road from Marbais, still out of sight of the armies. Had been surprised by the lack of noise. No guns. No musketry. No clash of sabres. Over the crest he had found himself not, as he had imagined, in the midst of an attacking French army, but in a no man’s land between Ney’s troops to his left and on his right Allied cavalry. On closer inspection it became clear that his infantry were not marching to the fight, but sitting down to eat their lunch. It was the final act of a farcical morning whose progress was mocked by the weather. From a fine dawn it had grown overcast, with dark, almost black clouds, their hard, gunmetal edges defined against a clear sky. He felt them press down upon him, amplifying the overwhelming lethargy that had slowed his every step since waking. Lying in the little folding bed he had wondered at first whether somehow during the night he had become paralysed. For thirty minutes he had hardly been able to move. His sleep had been torture. In the darkest hours, clammy hands tearing at the bedsheets in spasms of agony, he had at length been obliged to summon Dr Larrey and his personal physician, Lameau.

  It seemed that the haemorrhoids in his anus had prolapsed. Were being strangulated. Perhaps, suggested Larrey, the Emperor would not object to a little soothing ointment? Some leeches? Hot towels?

  By morning, however, the pain had still not yet subsided, and only at nine had Napoleon been in a condition to board his coach for the field of battle. Although he had soon changed to a horse after the rutted road began to jolt his delicate body even more than a saddle.

  It had been a relief to walk the field with Grouchy. But all the time he was plagued by indecision. Should he take the bulk of the army after Blücher and end the Prussian threat forever? But that would leave Ney with Wellington. Did he attack Wellington himself? And if so, then how many men to send with Grouchy to hold Blücher? Above all he had to know what Wellington and Blücher intended. Reports were coming in that the Prussians were making for Liège. If that were so then they seemed to be abandoning Wellington. But was it true? Surely he must know? In the old days would have known instinctively. But this morning that seemed so very long ago.

  Would the Prussians turn and stand? Come to Wellington’s aid? Another report of Prussian troops seen at Gembloux suggested that this too was a possibility.

  At length he had decided. He would split the army. Unorthodox? Maybe. It was something he had always, always argued against. But then he had not conquered Europe by being orthodox. He would split the army. Grouchy would take Gérard and Vandamme and part of Lobau’s VI Corps. Infantry, cavalry, artillery. Almost a third of his entire force. They would pursue Blücher. His army was already half beaten. They could not hope to destroy him, but could certainly prevent him from coming to Wellington’s rescue. He himself would go to Quatre-Bras and deal with Wellington there. That would be his headquarters.

  Surprisingly the normally subservient Grouchy had protested. Had had the temerity to object. He had told him. Had made it perfectly clear. Ordered him to pursue the Prussians. To keep at them. Keep his sabres up their arses. But now, this.

  Where in God’s name was Ney? At midday, shortly before setting off for the crossroads, he had sent a simple order to the marshal. ‘Attack the enemy at Quatre-Bras.’ What had he been doing? Why had he not attacked? Where was he? And where was Wellington? As if in answer the group of officers around him parted and two immaculate chasseurs à cheval of the Garde Imperiale appeared, preceded by their equally flawless officer. Each of the men had a tight hold of one of the arms of a struggling young woman.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘She’s English, sir. We captured her on the field, attempting to rob the dead. She was with the army before they left. Says that Wellington has retreated north.’

  She was disgustingly filthy, this English vivandière. But under that grime his seasoned eye could still discern a hint of youthful beauty. What was she? Nineteen? Twenty? Nice tits. Pretty mouth too.

  Napoleon smiled at her. A momentary rush of sexual arousal held his rising temper in check.

  Catching his gaze, she grimaced. He waved his hand and the chasseurs relaxed their grip.

  ‘Ask her where. Where’s he gone?’

  She spoke no French and her English – a broad Tyneside accent – was almost unintelligible. But eventually they got it. He’d gone north. Towards Brussels. Some of his men she thought were headed for Nivelles. She’d heard names of villages. Genappe, Waterloo, Mont St Jean. That was all she knew. Could she go now, because she was nursing a baby and it needed its milk?

  The Emperor smiled. Yes, nice tits. He waved his hand towards her captors. ‘Let her go. See that she is fed and give her a few sous. Gourgaud. See to it.’

  The staff closed around him again. Napoleon rose to his feet. Smashed his clenched fist down on the table. His face, which while the camp follower had been talking had remained quite blank, now a vision of rage. ‘What is it? What must I do?’ He growled the words from deep within. The aides and generals cowered before him. ‘When I rose this morning the British were here. I ordered Ney to the attack. I myself brought the reserve here to support him. And now this harlot tells me what none of you have the guts to say. They’ve gone. Gone? How can they have gone? And where is Ney? Shit! Shit! Shit!’ He slammed his hand down hard again making the little table jump. ‘Why am I surrounded by idiots? I came here expecting a battle. Expecting a victory. I find nothing but idlers and fools. Find me Ney.’

  Two officers left the group in search of the errant marshal. Napoleon rubbed his face hard into his hands. Ney is losing me this war, he thought. Has lost me three hours. How do I get back three hours? What magic can even I work that will turn back time? Three hours. That would be more than enough time for Wellington.

  He rose and pushed through the crowd to reach the road. Over on the other side of the chaussée he saw that the green-jacketed 7th Hussars had recently made camp. Their commandin
g officer was sitting on a tree stump, eating a sausage. Napoleon shouted to him.

  ‘Marbot. Come here.’

  The man rose. Saw his Emperor. Threw away the piece of meat and, still hatless, clutching his scabbard to his side, doubled with difficulty across the rye, which had been flattened by the recent battle to a slippery carpet of matting. ‘Sire?’

  ‘Marbot. Take your regiment and find Marshal Ney. Tell him to report at once to me here. At once. To me. At Quatre-Bras.’

  ‘Sire.’

  Leaving the colonel to goad his Hussars into action, Napoleon turned to d’Erlon. ‘France has been ruined, d’Erlon. Ney may have lost France for us. Go, my dear general. Place yourself at the head of your cavalry. Ride up this road and press the English hard. Do not allow them to regroup. Give them no respite. No quarter.’

  Then: ‘No. Wait. I’ll join you.’

  He turned back to the staff. ‘Gourgaud. Marchand. My horse.’

  Within moments Desirée, the little grey Arabian mare, was picking her way through the corpses and the abandoned weapons. They were cuirassiers mainly here, he noticed. Men from the brother regiments of the armoured giants on black horses who now followed him up the cobbled highway from the crossroads. Shafts of sunlight began to penetrate the gloom. He quickened the pace from trot to canter. Mounting the crest of a plateau he was met by the sight, perhaps 1,000 yards away, of a troop of enemy horse artillery. Saw the guns spit flame and smoke. And in the same instant, with a thunderclap and a lightning flash, the heavens opened. The British roundshot landed far short of their target. Bounced towards the French and carried on with less force before nevertheless still finding some unfortunate victim in the rear. The rain, though, came down like canister fire. Within a few minutes the ground on both sides of the road had become a muddy quagmire. The cavalry began to slow its pace and to cluster unsteadily towards the roadside. Looking behind him Napoleon could see that the infantry had stopped altogether.

  Well then. That settled any chance he might have had of surrounding the British rearguard. He could not use cavalry over fields like this. Could only pursue on the road. He looked about him. Saw men up to their knees in mud. Cannon and wagons sinking into the filth.

  He wiped his dripping face with both hands. Allowed them to linger there. Pulled at his cheeks and rubbed his eyes. A clamour of hooves and the jingle of horse harness back along the road made him look up. Marbot. Someone had found Ney. The red-headed marshal greeted him with a friendly smile. It soon vanished. Napoleon spoke. Quietly at first.

  ‘You ignored my order to attack. Tell me why?’

  ‘I … sire. My letter. I sent you a letter not four hours ago. I have carried out your orders to the mark. I have been waiting for you, for the reinforcements, before attacking.’

  The Emperor began to raise his voice. ‘Attacking? Attacking what? Attacking whom? Look over there and tell me what you see. Who were you going to attack? The English have gone. Wellington has gone.’

  As if to qualify his words another salvo of cannon fire came rolling in. Around them the horses shied.

  ‘Sire. I was waiting.’

  ‘Waiting? Waiting for me? You have been waiting for me?’

  ‘I had the entire British army before me. What could I do?’

  Napoleon stared at him. Looked away. Turned back. Quiet again. ‘Excuse me. I do beg your pardon. I had assumed that you were Ney. The hero of Elchingen. The last Frenchman on Russian soil. The Bravest of the Brave. But I must be mistaken. For if you are Ney then you are not the man whom I used to know.’

  He paused. Then: ‘You fool, Ney. Didn’t you even think to send out a patrol? Didn’t you even think to try to find out what Wellington was doing?’

  Ney’s face was growing redder by the moment. ‘I … I was waiting for you, sire.’

  Without a word, Napoleon turned his horse. Rode away from the crimson-faced marshal. Nothing for it now but to lead them himself. Lead the pursuit from the front. As he had done in the early days.

  With his bodyguard of chasseurs following close behind, he placed himself at the head of the column. Already his grey coat was heavy with water and the familiar hat was beginning to lose its shape. It was vital now to do something to impress the men. He cantered. A mistake. Great God, the pain in his arse. Carrying on, regardless of the pain, he ground his teeth and gripped hard on the leather of the reins. At length he reached a company of horse artillery. His arrival took its commander, a young, ruddy-faced captain, completely by surprise.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Captain Bourgeois, your Imperial Highness.’

  ‘Well, Bourgeois, come with me. And bring your guns.’

  Napoleon turned and rode faster, still in excruciating pain, just ahead of Bourgeois and the limbered guns which careered up the road behind him, past the Guard, past d’Erlon’s infantry, on the heels of Jacquinot’s green-coated lancers. He pulled up on the brow of another hill. In the distance, at perhaps 800 yards, he could see again quite clearly the British guns, also limbered up now and with them a sizeable body of British light cavalry. Before a valet could help him, he was off his horse and stumbling into the mud. Quickly he recovered. Straightened his coat as he walked. Found the captain, already unlimbering. ‘Quite right, Bourgeois. That will do well. Unlimber here. And quickly now. I need rapid fire in the direction of that cavalry. There. Look. Range. Seven hundred and … eighty yards. Minimum elevation. Fire as you will. Let them know we’re coming, Bourgeois.’

  Into the mud he went, pursued by the floundering staff. Walked up to where a corporal was busy traversing one of the cannon.

  ‘Come on, come on, man. They’re the British, can’t you see? Fire at them.’

  And so the Emperor moved on. Through the rain, from gun to gun. Aligning each of them himself with an expert’s eye. He was back at Toulon again. Back with the guns. Young.

  Grouchy would take care of the Prussians. Now, at last, he was determined to meet this Wellington on his own terms. He knew that Blücher would not be in time to help this great British general. Knew it. Soon they would see who was master of the battlefield. Now, for just this one last time, he appealed to Dame Fortune to smile on him. Soon, he promised her. Soon there would be peace. But first, there was Wellington.

  FOURTEEN

  Above Hougoumont, 7 p.m. Macdonell

  Rain and mud. Nothing but rain and mud. They had come to this place late in the afternoon. An exhausted column of red-coated infantry. All day long they had covered the army’s retreat. For, whatever the Peer’s plans, it was as a retreat, Macdonell had no doubt, that their current situation would be reported. Even now in Paris, he supposed, freshly printed bills were being pasted on the walls, proclaiming the news of Wellington’s defeat.

  Macdonell ran his hand across the stubble on his chin and, as his men appeared otherwise occupied, permitted himself an indulgent scratch just below the whiskers. He would make sure that he shaved before the coming battle. There had not been a moment to do so that morning. He had been awoken by Smith as usual at 5.30. But no sooner was he half-dressed than the order had come to stand to arms. For four hours the men had stood in line while, to their front, the French did nothing. Did not even break camp. Indeed, from what Macdonell could see they had done no more than cook and eat their breakfast.

  And there they had left them. Without a shot being fired in anger, Wellington’s army had finally moved off at around 10 o’clock, but it had been another four hours before the tail of the huge Allied force, Macdonell’s light companies among them, had finally begun to leave the bloody battlefield around the crossroads. At last they had been told to halt.

  They were the final element of the brigade to arrive, here in Wellington’s chosen position. But where exactly? On the right of the line, he knew, and on rising ground. Macdonell peered down at his feet. Within the thick, red-brown mud he could make out the crushed remains of a harvest of young beans, churned by the wheels, hooves and feet of the division now encamped abo
ve them on this long hill. Directly to his left, so he understood from one of his corporals, stood Peregrine Maitland’s 1st Guards. The main body of the brigade was encamped behind him. Now perhaps, he thought, there would be a brief moment of respite. He stood a little distance away from his men. Alone. Close to a hedge, slightly out of earshot of a group of quietly spoken junior officers and farther still from the party of sergeants from the brigade’s two light companies, who stood talking and laughing, away from the other ranks.

  A few of the men had begun to make campfires and now were working in pairs, pitching their blankets as makeshift tents. This was unique to the Guards. Two ordinary regulation blankets, but each sewn with a button and loop so that they could be buttoned together and pitched on bayonets, making a reasonable field billet. The old sweats hadn’t bothered. Macdonell’s fellow Peninsular veterans knew the man they liked to call ‘old Nosey’ too well to be caught out. Had learned too many times how the Duke had an irritating habit of making you move just when you’d got settled. So they’d held off from erecting or improvising any form of shelter for the night and were sitting on their packs in the downpour; smoking, chatting, laughing. Macdonell envied them their simple, fatalistic good humour. They were here to do a job. And to do it well enough to be proud to talk of it at the end of the day. Should they be killed or maimed? That was merely an anticipated though unlonged-for possibility of their profession. They sat on the sodden ground and drank their strong tea and lit their temperamental, damp pipes. And laughed.

  And all the while the water continued to run in clear streams from the peaks of their oilskin-covered shakos and clung to the tufted wool of the white-fringed epaulette wings which marked them out as men of the élite companies. One man, despite the rain, pulled from his pack a tin whistle and struck up an air. A few of the others joined in. The lyrics Macdonell could not make out, but it was a pleasant, infectious little jig. Irish, he thought. He began to tap his foot, but his reverie was soon interrupted by the arrival of a horseman.