Four Days in June

by Iain Gale

  Wellington was right. It was getting devilish hot. Too hot. He would have to find some other opportunity to make his peace with the Peer. To remain here or to advance any further was madness. De Lancey decided that they would leave. Return to their former position. He pulled his horse round. And it was then, from the corner of his left eye, that he noticed a brilliant flash away on the left to the front of the French line. Perhaps 200 yards distant. As the smoke cleared he was better able to trace the source of the now evident explosions. Although the farm was still held by the German Legion, the French had brought up a battery of horse artillery to just behind the orchard of La Haye Sainte and had started to open up at close range. Canister and ball. He turned his horse towards Scovell and March. Then, noticing Wellington and the staff closing fast upon them, shouted across to the Duke: ‘Your Grace. A battery. Close up, on our left. I think it would perhaps be prudent were we to withdraw.’

  Too late, he realized that his voice would not carry. Could not possibly be heard. He watched in horror as a canister case flew past his horse’s head and exploded directly in front of March, whose arm was shattered instantly by several of the small iron balls. The boy fell from his horse. De Lancey turned in the saddle towards the Allied line and had just begun to call for aid when, at the same moment, he felt a tremendous smack on his back as, for an instant, he imagined it might feel if one were to be hit with the flat of a cricket bat. He instinctively went to turn to the left. To find out what had happened. And as he did so … everything changed.

  For, rather than turning, he found himself falling. It seemed to be happening so slowly. He was aware of flying over the head of his horse – a curious and for a moment not entirely unpleasant sensation. In mid-air he became conscious too of a curious taste in his mouth. Warm. Sweet. Blood. A red mist invaded his vision. He was no longer looking at poor March now, but down the length of the Allied line. At the pretty silk flags fluttering; at soldiers turning like automatons, in succession of ranks, and moving back, according to the Peer’s orders, behind the ridge.

  And then something else flew across his line of sight. Half a horse. And a nameless, bloody thing in a blue coat that a few seconds ago had been the upper portion of Cornet Wilson.

  De Lancey’s head hit the ground with a sickening thud. And then. Pain. Suddenly too it seemed that the sky had become solid. For an instant he wondered where he was. Then understood. Not sky but earth. Mud. He was lying in mud. Face down. But where exactly? At home? In Scotland? Pain again.

  He remembered. The battle. But could hear nothing. Another pain now. More acute. In his lower back. He tried rising. Tried to move. Could not.

  He opened his eyes. Earth. Red earth; mud; stones; blood. Tried again to lift himself. Body so very heavy. To his surprise he managed to gain his feet. Now then. I shall just straighten up. And again he was falling. Falling. Damn. Damn. Bugger.

  He hit the ground. But the pain of the impact was nothing compared to that in his back. Tried again to move. Pointless. Opened his eyes. Saw … stones.

  He tried to move his right arm. Reach inside his pocket. Touch the stone. Her stone. Magdalene. Tried to say her name. Closed his eyes. Saw more stones. Rocks. Eternal stones. The cliff face at Dunglass. Waves lapping against the shore. Waves like pain. Pain like waves. Lapping. Crushing. Wave upon wave. Red-hot pain upon pain. Relentless. Timeless.

  And suddenly, with the imploding whoosh of a thousand oceans, sound re-entered his world. Awful sound. Screaming. Who the devil was that screaming? He tried to raise his head. To say something. Come on, man. Come on. Stop that noise. Noise like a serving girl tupped for the first time. Like a Spanish whore being raped. Who the hell was making that bloody noise? Then, horribly, recognized the voice as his own. The pain came crashing in again. Wave upon wave.

  He heard someone speak. Far away, above him: ‘Oh God. Good God, sir.’

  Another voice now. George Scovell. ‘It was en ricochet, d’you see. Bounced up from the ground. Caught him clean on the back.’

  Oh, he thought. Yes. I do see now. So is this how it is then? Is this how it begins? I am dying, am I not?

  He tried to signal but could not move his arm. Leave me here. Please leave me here to die. I will never leave you. Never leave. I will never leave here. This field. These stones. This earth.

  He opened his eyes and discovered that somehow, magically, his world had become microscopic so that while above him everything was no more than a blur, down here on the earth all was crystal clear. He saw now, for the first time, every particle of earth, every tiny stone, every blade of grass with disarming clarity. Tiny insects on the ground. So many tiny specks. Men or insects? Men as insects. No more. Must remember to tell Magdalene’s father of his discovery. Man no bigger than an insect. The world spinning. Us clinging to it, lest we fall off. He had fallen off. Was trying now to cling to the earth. Grasped at it with his left hand. Desperate not to fall into oblivion.

  He heard a voice. ‘Look, your Grace. He’s still alive. He’s moving.’

  He tried to raise his head. Managed it briefly and fell back. Saw the legs of a horse. Black horse. Heard voices drifting in and out.

  ‘Help him, someone.’

  ‘Oh God. De Lancey. Poor chap.’

  Then Wellington’s voice. ‘I had known him since we were boys almost, you know. Poor, poor De Lancey.’

  So am I dead then? You speak of me as if I am dead. I am not dead. He tried to speak. Tasted more blood in his mouth.

  Blood and earth. Four men picked him up. Turned him over. He saw a face. George Scovell.

  ‘George?’

  He heard the word leave him. Scovell’s eyes brightened.

  ‘Sir William?’

  ‘George.’

  He could speak. At last.

  ‘It is mortal. I feel it, George. You must tell them to leave me. Let me die in peace.’

  ‘Nonsense, De Lancey. It is no more than a graze.’

  He tried to laugh. But only vomited. Puke and blood. Saw it lying in a pool on the road as the four redcoats lifted him on to a blanket. Saw beside it his papers. The orders of battle. The map. Letters. Must save them. Tried to speak. More pain now. Wave upon wave.

  They placed him gently into the tumbril. He was aware of the straw beside his lips. Tried to bite on it. Stop the pain.

  He was acutely aware of every movement as the men began to wheel the little cart along the road. Sensitive to the rise and fall of every cobblestone. So many fresh agonies. God, but his back was on fire. He clutched at the side of the filthy farm wagon. Spewed again. Tasted blood and vomit. So much blood. Where was he hit? His back, they’d said. His lungs? His kidneys? Spleen?

  After what seemed an eternity the ghastly motion stopped. De Lancey could see only the sky and the side of the wagon. Carefully they pulled him from his warm straw bed and, taking the strain of his weight, began to bear him in the blood-sodden blanket through an arched gateway.

  He managed to speak again: ‘Carry me gently, lads. I’m not dead yet.’

  He seemed to recognize this place. A farm. The casualty clearing station. Mont St Jean. Doctors here. Well, they would either mend or do for him.

  He tried to turn his head. Failed. Saw soldiers standing about clutching gaping, bloody wounds. Others were sitting on the ground. Some lying. He saw a few, faces numb with shock, nursing freshly bandaged stumps. As they bore him through the door of a barn he noticed, piled up against the wall, a pyramid of amputated limbs. Arms and legs, feet and hands. Some still wet. How many, he wondered? How many cripples have we made today? Knew that was probably the best he could hope for now. Poor cripple. Bent double. Paralysed. Useless. Not a man at all. He said her name out loud.

  ‘Magdalene.’

  He closed his eyes as they laid him on the stone floor. Moved his lips but spoke with no sound.

  Oh my darling. I am sorry to cause you such pain.

  Through the red mist in his head he saw their little church, its yard strewn with apple blossom.
The giggling girls in white. The laughing officers. And saw himself. Striding across to his bride. Laughing. Someone was talking to him.

  ‘Sir William, isnt it. Don’t worry, sir, we’ll soon have you fixed up.’

  He opened his eyes. Saw the surgeon, bloody hands, standing over him. Smiling.

  Fixed up? Fixed up into what? A twisted stump of humanity? A cripple? Oh, I am so sorry, Magdalene. What will we do? What can you do? I shall never leave you. But how shall I live with you? How can I? Yet how can I live without you?

  Slowly, each small movement bringing more pain, he inched his hand towards what had been his waistcoat pocket. To his surprise he found the stone; slick with his blood. And in the still shadows of the barn, surrounded by the gentle sobbing of the wounded, he felt the tears begin to chase each other down his cheeks. And then the pain came in again. Rolling in. Wave upon wave. Crashing against the rocks of his existence. And gently, silently, De Lancey allowed himself at last to slide into unconsciousness.

  TWENTY-TWO

  La Belle Alliance, 3.45 p.m. Napoleon

  The attack had failed. Of that there was no doubt. As the smoke cleared, Napoleon was able to see quite clearly that the farmhouse was still in the hands of the British. Peering through the drifting grey and white clouds, his eyes dwelt on the empty field, littered with the corpses of men and horses. To the left the château was in flames. That was good. Soon the British would be driven out and then, with the flank secured, Reille’s men could begin to sweep up Wellington’s line. The heavy cavalry too were only waiting for the command. The struggle had drawn in most of Reille’s corps. Every division save that of Bachelu. And what of it? If that was what it took to collapse the Allied flank, then let it be so.

  The right wing, though, was more worrying. D’Erlon’s men he knew had not yet recovered from their mauling by the British cavalry. Two eagles lost. And again only one division, Quiot’s, was left unscathed. And now, led by Ney in a lightning attack, that too had been beaten back from the farm. La Haye Sainte. The centre of the Allied line and the key to Wellington’s position. He noticed though that the marshal had succeeded in placing, for a while at least, a battery of horse artillery on the left of the farmhouse. That must have hurt the British sorely. But it had been forced to withdraw with the infantry. If only there was some way of keeping his guns up there at close range. He turned his head upwards to the sky. Closed his eyes. Then opened them. Perhaps it could be done. He turned to Soult. Smiled.

  ‘They were very brave, those men on grey horses, eh? Very brave. They did well, Soult, don’t you think? Very well. But we cut them to pieces all the same. Did you see it? I believe that we’ve seen off the best of his cavalry. He’s left himself wide open, you know. Quite exposed.’

  He looked across to his right. Over there, somewhere to the east, beyond the woods, the Prussians were coming. He knew it for certain now. Had sent Lobau’s corps, 10,000 men, thirty cannon, to engage them. With orders to fall back on Plancenoit, to defend the village house by house. That at least would buy him enough time to win against this arrogant Englishman. He had sent a despatch to Grouchy an hour earlier ordering him to march to their aid. If the marshal moved with sufficient speed he might even catch von Bülow’s Prussians in the rear on the march as he attempted to join Wellington. He turned back to Soult. And as he did so a salvo of shots from a British battery on the ridge came screaming in dangerously close to the Imperial entourage. It landed beside the tethered horses, just at the moment that the Garde artillery general Jean Desvaux de Saint Maurice rode up. Soult’s horse shied as one of the cannonballs flew over its mane and a split second later another roundshot hit St Maurice at waist height, cutting him in half. His severed torso toppled to the ground. But his legs, still gripping the saddle, were carried away by his panic-stricken yet miraculously unharmed horse towards the centre of the battlefield. One of the junior aides threw up.

  For a moment Napoleon, who had turned towards the noise, gazed, wide-eyed, at the bloody remains of his artillery commander. He fumbled in his pocket for the scented handkerchief. Held it to his nose. Looked away.

  Gourgaud spoke: ‘Moline. Clear up that mess. Quickly.’

  Within seconds all trace of the unfortunate general had been removed. Recovering his composure, the Emperor tucked away his handkerchief and scanned the Allied position before him. He must attack without delay. A bold frontal assault with cavalry would take Wellington completely by surprise.

  It was not, of course what he would have chosen to do when a younger man. The sensible thing to do now would be to regroup. To wait for Grouchy’s 30,000 reinforcements. But there was no time. Blücher, part of his army at least, he knew now must be in the woods to his right. How long until he came? One hour? Less? D’Erlon’s corps had been decimated. Two thousand men taken prisoner; herded into the British lines. God knew how many more lay out on the field dead and dying. He had been forced too to order d’Erlon to release further infantrymen to replace the massacred gunners of the grand battery. Had to keep up the bombardment. Must give the British no relief. There was still a good chance. Still a chance. He paced up and down. Bit his lip. Crossed his hands behind his back and ground the fingers together tightly. At least he was feeling better now. The pain in his arse had gone. Dr Lameau’s miraculous ointment. But still the tiredness would not lift. He rubbed at his eyes.

  Soult spoke: ‘Sire. It would be sensible to withdraw. If we were simply to pull back the infantry behind the cavalry. Form a screen. Use Lobeau as a rearguard. We might summon Marshal Grouchy and consolidate. Then we could attack again. But now, sire, the men are exhausted. The ground. We cannot move. And the Prussians …’

  ‘The Prussians? Why do you worry so about the Prussians, Soult? They are exhausted. We beat them at Ligny. They do not want a fight. Lobeau will deal with them. And we have the Garde. I do not have time to consolidate. And we will do it, Soult. Look there. The farmhouse will soon be ours. The château too. See how it burns. They cannot hold on much longer. Now is the time to attack. When they are at their weakest. Look up there. On the ridge. What do you see? Wellington is pulling his men back. He needs time to reorganize. We are tearing holes in him with our cannon. All that we need to do now is to attack in force and those holes will open wider. And then we will have him, Soult. We need to reinforce the front line.’

  He paused. Frowned. ‘Order the Young Garde to move across to the right. They will take up position on the forward slope in the space formerly held by d’Erlon.’

  The Chief of Staff summoned a messenger. Gave him a hastily scribbled order.

  Napoleon continued. Caught up now in his own rhetoric. ‘Remember Eylau, Soult? Does anything similar strike you about this battle? There by mid-afternoon we had lost one corps. It looked hopeless. And what did I do?’ He used his hands to demonstrate. ‘While you were holding the left, here, I sent Murat into the centre with 10,000 cavalry. The entire reserve – cuirassiers, dragoons – and behind them all the cavalry of the Garde. You remember, Bertrand, Gourgaud? De la Bedoyere?’

  ‘I was not there, sire.’

  ‘Mm? Yes. Of course. But you remember, Soult? What happened?’ He punched a fist into his palm. ‘We smashed the centre of the line. Split the Russian army in two. Took how many colours? Fifteen? Twenty?’

  ‘Sixteen, sire.’

  ‘Sixteen. Sixteen Russian colours to hang on the walls of the Tuileries. Cavalry, Soult. Cavalry. And we can do it again. Wellington cannot match us. We have broken his dragoons and his infantry are exhausted.’

  ‘But they will form square, sire. It would be madness. In Spain we –.’

  Napoleon raised his eyebrows. Raised his hands in mock supplication. Mimicked his Chief of Staff in high falsetto. ‘In Spain we were defeated, sire. The British infantry, sire. We couldn’t break their squares, sire.’ He resumed his normal tone. ‘Spain, Soult? This is not Spain. I was not with you in Spain. At Eylau we smashed the squares. Remember? We carried them before us. Why are you so afrai
d now? Is it Wellington? He’s not a god, you know. He’s only a man. I tell you we will smash his infantry today just as we smashed the Russians at Eylau.’ He crossed his hands behind his back. ‘Find General Milhaud. Tell him I need his cuirassiers. Now. All eight regiments. Three thousand men. The entire corps. He is going to have the honour of destroying Wellington’s army. He will lead my army over that hill, to victory. To Brussels.’

  Yes. Brussels was the key. He closed his eyes and without warning the pain began again. He ground his hands tighter together. No. Not now. Not when I most need to be here. When I must be able to command. Please, no. One last chance. Do not let me be sick.

  But he knew it to be useless. The pain had already begun to grow in intensity, clawing at his insides with sickening regularity. He must divert his thoughts. Brussels. Brussels was the key to the campaign. To the war. Take Brussels and the coalition collapses. The war is over. He would defeat Wellington and take Brussels. He tried to picture how the attack would be. A frontal attack with cavalry. Old style. With the cuirassiers. An unstoppable wave of horsemen that would sweep up the hill and carry everything before them. Milhaud could do it. One division would do. Delort’s men. Second strongest in the army. Fresh to the fight. Of course Milhaud himself should go with them. Lead them in. Or maybe …

  Napoleon placed his forehead in his intertwined fingers and slowly pulled his hands down over his face. He opened his eyes. No. Not only Milhaud. The blow would be delivered by the one man, next to Murat, who was truly capable of leading such a charge. The man whose example in Russia had earned him the title, Prince de la Moskowa. Napoleon summoned de la Bedoyere.

  ‘Where’s Ney?’