Four Days in June

by Iain Gale

  Leaving the woods and riding past the château and on up the hill they soon regained the Allied lines. As they rode past the Welch Fusiliers and the Guards the officers saluted with swords and the men presented their muskets. When they reached the 33rd, however, the Duke’s own old regiment, the men let out a cheer, throwing their caps high into the air. Their huzzahs were quickly taken up by the battered 69th and the German Legion. Other regiments began to join in. Even the Hanoverians.

  Wellington turned to De Lancey. ‘I don’t think that we should encourage that sort of thing, do you? I hate all that. That cheering. If you allow soldiers to express themselves thus they may on some other occasion hiss you instead of cheer.’ Nevertheless, he smiled back at the men as he passed and lifted his hat in recognition. Predictably, the cheering only became louder. Their path took them directly through the centre of the 73rd and, noticing a young ensign, barely more than sixteen, standing nervously with his regimental colour, Wellington waved his hat towards him.

  ‘Good morning, Charles. A fine morning, is it not? See that you stay with your colour sar’nt today. I have promised your dear mother you’ll come to no harm.’

  He turned back to De Lancey. ‘Well. I suppose it is better to be cheered than shot at. Ah. Here we are.’

  De Lancey turned to find what the Duke had seen, and caught his breath. There, on the opposite ridge, where two hours ago there had been a few brigades of men and horses, there now stood the entire French army. Could there be, he wondered, perhaps 100,000? Could Napoleon have contrived to assemble his entire force against them? It certainly seemed so. This was something very different from the French he had known in Spain. They were putting on a display of arms. Parading their martial might as he had never, in twenty years of soldiering, seen before. This was what happened when an Emperor led his men to war. The endless blue columns stretched back up and along the ridge like the blue and white stratae of some exotic rock face. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the smooth pebble slip between his fingers. Thought of Magdalene. Of Scotland. Of history and warriors long dead. Of Marmion.

  Shafts of sunlight began to pierce the cloud, catching the bronze eagles across the valley and the waving tricolour banners that fluttered beneath them. Surely, he thought, this is no modern battle. This is something much older. A clash of arms such as the ancients had seen. Or Henry at Agincourt.

  Spattered with splashes of brilliant colour – orange, crimson, pink, primrose and saffron, purple, emerald green, turquoise – the regiments and squadrons seemed to him for a moment to take on the character of a knightly warrior army. De Lancey unbuttoned his spyglass from its case and raised it to his eye. It was not only the colour that so astonished, but the texture. Glistening leather, sparkling brass, bronze and silver, gently waving crests and plumes of fur and feather.

  But this chivalric fantasy was short-lived. Bringing his glass to the line of the enemy ridge De Lancey saw the evil-looking guns. Hundreds of them. Enough, it seemed, perhaps to destroy the entire Allied army by their firepower alone. And now came the sounds to equal the spectacle. To drag him back to bloody reality. The ragged tap and patter of a thousand drums drifted across the valley, followed by the full orchestral strains of the regimental bands as they played again the familiar tunes from Spain. ‘Veillions salut à l’Empire’ the ‘Flag of Austerlitz’. For a moment, as spellbound as De Lancey, the entire staff stared at the unfolding splendour of their enemy.

  Somerset broke the silence. ‘The French, your Grace.’

  ‘So it would seem, Somerset. So it would seem. Gentlemen. To your positions. What time have you, Gordon?’

  ‘Thirty-five minutes after ten, your Grace.’

  ‘And nightfall is expected?’

  ‘At thirty minutes after nine o’clock this evening, your Grace. In eleven hours’ time.’

  ‘Then that is precisely how long we must survive. Unless old Blücher finds us first.’

  All along the line the men were at prayer as regimental chaplains conducted hasty drumhead services. De Lancey heard the parting imprecation from the padre of the 73rd: ‘… And may God take pity on our poor bodies.’ It sent a chill through his soul.

  Wellington turned round to Müffling who, as the generals departed for their divisions, remained close behind him. ‘Müffling, my dear fellow. I am very much afraid that I shall have to ask you for one last time to take a message to Feld-Marshal Blücher. Inform him, if you will, that I should be much obliged if he would make his primary attack in the rear of La Belle Alliance, directly into the enemy flank. It would be most expedient also if a secondary action might support the left of my line, around the farm of Papelotte. And do tell him that I await his arrival with anticipation.’

  Müffling touched his hat in reply, but even as Wellington was making to ride away, his great round face already more flushed than ever, the Prussian spoke: ‘My Lord. I am afraid that I must tell you my true feelings on this matter. I see what you intend, of course. And I understand too that you are counting on the Prussians. But Hougoumont, my Lord Wellington. Do you really think it wise? So few men. Barely 1,500 against what from here would seem to be an entire corps of the French army. Your men will be overrun for sure, sir. Obliterated. Blücher will not have time to reach you. You will lose the battle. You would do well, my Lord, to reconsider.’

  Wellington smiled, nodded, then looked the fat Prussian straight in the eye. ‘Yes, Müffling. Quite so. I do appreciate your concern. But those are no ordinary men down there. Those are the Guards. And what is more, my friend, you do not know Macdonell.’

  SEVENTEEN

  La Belle Alliance, 10.40 a.m. Napoleon

  Napoleon sat astride Marengo on the Brussels road beside the little coaching inn of La Belle Alliance. He had already passed through the Garde and Lobau’s corps, and behind him the cheering seemed to be unstoppable. His spirits were higher now. The rain had gone, and with it the excruciating pain. Gone too were the troublesome generals.

  He pulled his horse towards the left of the front line and rode along its rear, between the massed columns of infantry and Kellerman’s heavy cavalry, drawn up in support.

  Sunshine bathed his army in glory. Dwarfed by the carabiniers in their virginally bright white coats and the seemingly endless ranks of the huge cuirassiers, he kept his face to the front, feigning indifference to the frantic cries of adulation which left the throat of every man. They were standing in their stirrups now, throwing their black-crested helmets high in the air, whirling the gleaming, razor-edged swords high above their heads. Behind them he could glimpse the leopardskin-draped helmets of the Garde dragoon regiment that bore the name of his dead wife and the towering forms of the ‘Invincibles’, the grenadiers à cheval, every one of them mounted on a huge black horse. He turned to Soult.

  ‘Magnificent. It is nothing less, Soult. Magnificent. This will shake the English and their friends, eh? And soon we shall honour them with a frontal assault. That will be the quickest way to finish this business. But first a bombardment from the grand battery of the like they’ve never seen. As soon as the army is in position the grand attack will commence to capture the village of Mont St Jean. D’Erlon and Ney will lead the way to victory, and we will push through the gap.’

  He turned to the other remaining members of staff who had not as yet joined their corps or divisions. ‘Gentlemen, if my orders are carried out to the letter, we shall all sleep in Brussels tonight.’

  They grinned. Soult spoke. Quietly.

  ‘You don’t suppose, sire, that Prince Jerome’s report might have had some truth in it? Sometimes serving girls are the best spies.’

  ‘Soult. My dear Soult. You know as well as I that what he heard last night was gossip. Or perhaps even a ruse by Wellington to trick us. The Prussians and the English cannot possibly link up for another two days. Particularly after Blücher has suffered such a defeat as at Ligny and given the fact that he is being pursued by a considerable body of troops under Marshal Grouchy. For my part
, I am only too happy that the English have decided to stay and fight here. I tell you, this battle will be the salvation of France and it will be celebrated in the annals of the world long after you and I are dead, Soult. Listen. This is how it will be. My artillery will fire. My cavalry will charge. Wellington will disclose his positions, and when I am quite certain where the English are I shall march straight at them at the head of my Garde.’

  They had come to the end of the long line now, to where Piré’s lancers formed the extremity of the left flank. Wheeling round to the right, Napoleon led the staff along the very front of the line. Past his brother’s division first. The light infantry in their sombre blue coats. He was suddenly aware of movement in the woods to his left. The dense coppice before the farm that he intended to be the focus of his supporting attack. De la Bedoyere appeared at his side, with Gourgaud and Bertrand. All looked worried.

  Gourgaud spoke. ‘Sire. Do you not think that you are perhaps a little too close to the enemy? There are light infantry, sharpshooters in those woods. One shot alone would do, sire. You must move back.’

  ‘I have survived such shots till now. Let me be, Gourgaud. My army must see me.’

  Mustn’t show fear. He pulled away from them and continued along the front. Clear of the woods now. Saw Reille and his staff ahead. Gestured recognition to him with a just perceptible nod of his head and the bare glimmer of a smile. The man was a fool.

  Their breakfast conference at the farmhouse had been a farce. What had Reille thought he was doing, daring to suggest to him, the Emperor, that we should move around the British right flank? He himself had already decided that the only way to beat Wellington was by a direct attack to the front. Reille was jumpy. Unnerved to be confronted by his great Peninsular demon. So he had placed him here quite deliberately. Out of trouble on the left flank. A supporting action against Hougoumont. Nothing more. And his hot-headed brother would be contained there too. The real action would happen on the right. D’Erlon would lead the way, with Ney doing what he did best, shouting the men forward into battle.

  The Imperial party crossed the Brussels road and from the corner of his eye, though without turning his head, Napoleon formed an impression of a line of redcoats drawn up on the opposite slope. Not many. A single line, perhaps eight battalions strong. There was some activity in the little white farm in the centre. But mostly what he saw on the slopes were cannon. Wellington was playing a game of hide-and-seek. Well, if that was what he wanted, let it be so. He would draw this monster out. There would be a flank attack. But not as Reille had envisaged. A feint attack that would draw down Wellington’s reserves from behind the ridge from the moment battle commenced and weaken his centre ready for the push. He turned to the right. Saw the mercurial, red-haired marshal next to Soult.

  ‘Ney, Soult. We will not begin on the right after all. The assault will commence on the left. But it will be merely a diversionary attack. Look at his line. Tell me what you see? Well?’

  ‘There are not many men, sire.’

  ‘Quite. Not many men. He shows me nothing. But you and I know that behind that ridge he has an army. I need to draw in his reserves. Make him think we are going for his flank and weaken his centre. Then you go, Ney. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Well, note it then. Write it down.’

  Soult handed Ney the orders dictated to him by the Emperor an hour earlier. Ney unbuttoned his saddle-bag. Found a pencil. Wrote with care a note against Soult’s handwriting: ‘Count d’Erlon will see that the attack will now commence by the left instead of the right. Inform General Reille of this.’

  ‘We will not actually intend to take Hougoumont. We will merely use an apparent concentration of our forces there to pin down Wellington’s flank. Make him nervous. Make him commit his reserves to the château. And then we will make it the centre of a great wheel. Down here. On the left.’ Napoleon swept his right hand upwards, through the air. ‘We will be a moving spoke of that wheel, advancing from the right and sweeping the English away along their ridge.’

  They had crossed the road again and regained the line, moving slowly along the front of the right wing. Fourteen regiments drawn up in two battalion lines, each nine ranks deep. As battalion succeeded battalion the tricolour-hung eagles were dipped on the Emperor’s approach. This was how it should be. The cheering now was thunderous. The entire army drunk with his presence.

  Napoleon laughed. Turned to Soult and Ney. ‘I told you earlier that there were ninety chances in our favour and ten against. I say it again, Wellington is a bad general. The English are bad soldiers. We will settle this matter by lunchtime.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so, sire.’

  Reaching the end of the line he decided not to descend into the valley where Jacquinot’s light cavalry guarded the right flank. Turned right and as he did so could not fail to notice just on the crest of the ridge a mass of red-coated horsemen, forming up as if on a parade ground. How steadily they took the ground. How smoothly. Grey horses. He half-turned to the staff. ‘Who are those beautiful horsemen?’

  This time de la Bedoyere had the answer. ‘They’re Scottish dragoons, sire. We have not fought against them before. But it is said that they are among the finest horsemen in Europe. Their regiment fought under Marlborough.’

  ‘Indeed? They are certainly fine horsemen. And brave too, I have no doubt. But believe me, de la Bedoyere, in half an hour I will have cut them to pieces.’

  He was riding downhill now, across the right flank of Milhaud’s 3,000-strong division of cuirassiers. They continued on towards the main road, along the front of the Garde light cavalry, the green-coated chasseurs first, their officers preening on the finest horses in the army. The cheering was louder than ever. He tightened his fist with emotion. Finally they passed the red lancers. As the grey coat and white horse moved along their line, the Dutchmen cheered just as loudly for their Emperor as had their French comrades. He wondered how many of their countrymen, those men in blue up there in Wellington’s lines, still felt themselves to be soldiers in the French army, as they had been until last year. Wondered how many would change sides during the battle. How many would turn and run.

  ‘You see, Ney, the effect I have on soldiers. When the battle begins I tell you one quarter of Wellington’s army will run away and as many again will desert and fight again for me.’

  Beyond the next crossroads, just before the roadside inn of Rossomme, midway between La Belle Alliance and Le Caillou, the staff of the Imperial household were awaiting his arrival. Napoleon pulled up Marengo and dismounted, his chest tight as he climbed to the top of the green mound. He sat down heavily in the armchair that had been brought out from the inn. The ground around it had been strewn with straw to prevent him slipping on the mud, and to the left a party of engineers was constructing a ramp to enable aides and couriers to deliver and collect despatches.

  No sooner had he sat down than Napoleon got up again and walked across to the campaign table to which had been pinned his map. He looked straight ahead towards the Allied lines. Reached into his coat and found the eyeglass, opened it and surveyed the field he had just left. Here he was three quarters of a mile away from the front line and a good thirty feet higher. Surely it was a good vantage point. Why then could he still see no more of the enemy? He reached inside his coat. Withdrew his snuff-box, reached for a pinch and, uncharacteristically, inhaled. He sneezed and, as he did so, over to the right a church bell tolled. Napoleon looked up at Soult, who alone of the staff remained with him. The others, as was customary, sat, some ten paces to the rear.

  ‘Plancenoit, sire. Eleven o’clock. Mass.’

  Napoleon pulled out his handkerchief. Mopped his brow. Grasped the table with both hands. Spoke, without turning from the map. ‘Is the grand battery in place, as I directed?’

  Soult replied. ‘Almost all the cannon, sire.’

  ‘What is almost? Fifty? More?’

  ‘Very nearly all eighty, sire.’

  ‘Send
word to St Maurice. Fifteen minutes more. Tell him that is all he has to get his guns in place. Fifteen minutes before he must open fire. And Soult.’ He pointed to his right. ‘Send someone to find out what Marbot’s Hussars have found in those woods. I want to know what’s happening to the east. Remember, fifteen minutes. That’s all, Soult. We have already delayed this affair far too long.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Hougoumont, 11.30 a.m. Macdonell

  He heard the cannon fire, but saw neither the ball, nor the smoke. It was followed by another shot and a third. The opening salvoes of a battle.

  In their wake came a great noise. A sound like rolling thunder, yet quite unmistakably human. It was a cheer. But a cheer like none that he had heard in twenty years of soldiering.

  Seventy thousand men were cheering their Emperor.

  Macdonell, mounted on the grey mare, had taken up the new position as ordered, outside the walls to the west of the château in a narrow strip of kitchen garden, among downtrodden strings of vegetables. The light company of the 3rd Guards he had placed obliquely, along the line of the garden hedge, overlooking a field of ripe corn. From there they could mark the flank and that worrying little valley that skirted the west side of the farm and which could offer any attacking force considerable cover from the guns on the ridge. His own light company, the Coldstream, would face the French head on as they broke from the side of the wood. But he had decided already that should it grow too hot he would move them into the walls. He knew that he could not afford to lose a single man.

  The horse kicked and splashed her hoof impatiently into the thick clay which had channelled the night’s water into dark puddles. At least the weather was in their favour. The rain would have made a hell of the ground for their attackers. Through such sticky, cloying mud they would now be able to advance at only half their normal pace. Under fire all the way, and moving out of the reassuring cover. Since early in the morning two companies of Nassauers, some 200 men under a Captain Büsgen, had occupied the château. They also held the formal garden, the great orchard and the wood, where they had been joined now by light troops from three Hanoverian regiments.