by Iain Gale
Ney led his force towards the nearest square. The surprise was gone now. At thirty yards out the British opened up with a volley. To his left three men fell and two horses. The same and more over on the right. A score of cuirassiers trotted up to the square. Attempted to fire into it with their pistols. Another half-troop, led by a maddened sergeant, took a path between two squares, slashing down with their sabres on both sides and, although constantly losing men, rode away with as much calm dignity as if they were on exercise in the Bois de Boulogne. Ney watched, mesmerized for a moment, as one of the huge cavalrymen, seeing a gap in the line, reached in and deftly lopped off the head of a huge redcoat sergeant. Another man he saw set his horse before a square and cut down three men of its second rank with the considered precision of a butcher, before himself being taken down by a volley of close-range musketry that left his corpse scorched and smoking. Moving further down the slope towards the Allied second line, Ney found Delort lying under his horse, struggling to get free. A cuirassier reined up, jumped down and helped lift the dead beast aside, before being shot through the temple. The general had taken a musket ball in the upper leg. He struggled to his feet, helped by another cuirassier. Began to shout at Ney. ‘This is madness, Ney. Madness. I told you we’d all be killed. It’s madness. What are we doing? We need infantry. Where are the infantry?’
Ney just stared at him. Turned away. Sought out another square. Nassauers, this one. He trotted towards them. Shots flew past his head. Mere youngsters, mostly. Some barely older than his own eldest son. Putting aside the thought, he leaned down and cut viciously into their ranks with his sabre. Sliced halfway through a musket, severing all the fingers of its owner. But he could not reach any further, in beyond the bayonets. A bearskinned Nassau sergeant grabbed at his harness. Tried to pull him down on to the lethal steel skewers. Ney, used to the trick, twisted away. Then tried to make his horse rear in the air. To kick the kneeling front rank. He saw a green-coated officer take aim at him with a pistol. Turned away quickly and rode as fast as he could, feeling his horse slipping on the bloody cuirasses and bodies, alive and dead, beneath her hooves. Knew now that there was only one thing to do. They needed more men. Infantry. Cannon and infantry. And more cavalry.
He found one of Milhaud’s junior officers. ‘Press the attack. Don’t stop. I’m going to find Kellerman. Keep at them. Go on.’
Managing to extricate himself, Ney headed once again for the French lines. Had begun to ride down the slope when, advancing towards him, he saw a mass of cuirassiers in perfect order, and to their left two regiments of green-coated dragoons. The Emperor, it seemed, had second-guessed his thoughts. Not infantry then, but fresh cavalry at least. He spotted the corps commander with his staff. Galloped across.
‘Kellerman. Quickly. We need your men. Quick, man. France is counting on you.’
The general motioned to his officers and, as Ney watched, the regimental buglers began to sound the charge. He swung into rank, to join the advance, as the sea of cuirassiers and dragoons attempted to move faster now, through the quagmire of mud and corpses. Of the carabiniers there was as yet no sign. No matter. They would be a third wave. Better that way. On the right, passing the château, he could see the distinctive bearskins of the grenadiers à cheval of the Garde, and there too were the Empress Dragoons. So the Emperor had finally sent them in. Now, truly, there was a chance. He pushed his horse to the left, towards where the 11th Cuirassiers were moving up to a canter. Found their colonel.
‘All right, Courtier?’
‘Never better, sire.’
Milhaud’s battered squadrons were racing back through them now, and down the hill towards the rear. Ney shouted to them as they passed. ‘Regroup. Regroup in the valley. Form up. You must go again. Regroup. You must regroup.’
He dug his spurs deep into his horse’s sweating flanks. Waved his sword above his head. Moved to the very front of the charging cuirassiers. ‘Charge. With me, men of the 11th. Remember Jena. Leipzig. Remember the Moskowa. Charge with me. Look, I’m Ney. Charge to glory. Follow me to glory. For France. For the Emperor.’
As they reached the top of the hill another blizzard of shot flew into them. Again, as if by a miracle, Ney was unhurt, but through the smoke he was horribly aware of the devastation all around him. He watched as L’Heritier, leading his division, was touched by a cannonball which passed across his stomach and carried away the pommel of his saddle before bisecting the torso of his aide-de-camp. Weaving his way through the mêlée and the maddened, circling horses, Ney tried to move across to the right. Glimpsed Picquet, the dragoons’ commander, as he too was hit by a musket ball, and watched as he fell, slowly, leaning far back in the saddle, and was carried off into the centre of the fighting. Riding on along the left side of a square of Hanoverians, he was aware of a force of cavalry approaching fast from the rear of the Allied lines. A countercharge. Light blue uniforms. Hussars. Belgians? Dutch? He pulled his horse round to the left and found himself riding along the front of two squares of Nassauers who took pot-shots at him and straight towards a smaller group of Brunswickers. Avoiding them, he almost careered into the flank of another counter-charge. Dutch carabiniers this time. He swung away and found himself facing the French lines. Cantering through a battery of unmanned British cannon, he emerged at the top of the hill beside a square of British riflemen. God. Was there no end to their infernal squares? All around him Kellerman’s cuirassiers were stabbing with futile fury at the bayonets. Trying to force a passage into the ranks.
A lieutenant of the 8th rode up, bearing a tattered white standard emblazoned with the arms of Hanover.
‘Sire. Sire. We have taken a colour. May I have your permission to convey it to the Emperor?’
Ney grinned. Clapped the young officer on the back. ‘Of course, boy. Of course you must. Well done.’
He turned to Milhaud. ‘D’you see? We will win. We can do it. They are weakening.’
Where was Heymes? Dead? Probably. In his place Ney grabbed the arm of a passing cuirassier sous-lieutenant.
‘Quick. Ride to the Emperor. Go with that captured colour. Tell him the news. Tell him we’re winning.’
Ney looked back to the squares. Saw at once just how hollow his words were. The hopelessness of their position. Of course they were not winning. But how had it come to this? The finest cavalry in the world were being sacrificed. Broken against squares of steel. Yet what could he do but carry on? Perhaps just one last push might break some of the squares. And if one or two collapsed, then, their morale weakened, perhaps others would run. Perhaps. He would rally Milhaud again. Would find the carabiniers. He hurried on past the rifles, through a squadron of the 3rd Cuirassiers and into the flank of the attacking grenadiers à cheval, ‘the Gods’, who were attempting to engage a square of British light infantry. Ney spotted their commander, General Jamin, imprisoned within their tightly packed ranks, alongside his gaudy trumpeter. The huge man was standing high in his stirrups, screaming, his mouth wide open and his sword whistling around his head. And then quite suddenly he wasn’t there. Ney had no idea where he had gone. He just seemed to disappear into the crowd of humanity and horseflesh. Determined now to find the carabiniers, Ney turned past the grenadiers and rode along the tall hedges of the château’s orchard. At last Reille had moved up a battery to the edge of the compound and was sending roundshot over the heads of the cavalry deep into the infantry squares.
Just beyond the guns, taking cover in a slight dip in the ground, he found the carabiniers. Two regiments of them, pristine in their white and sky-blue tunics, bright red crests and shining, brass armour. The strutting peacocks of the heavy cavalry. Their commanders were deep in conversation. Were for a moment unaware of Ney’s arrival. Their ignorance was shortlived.
‘Blancard, Rogé? What the hell are you doing here? Who ordered you to stay here? What do you think you’re doing. Can’t you see? We’re attacking. Look, man. Look up there.’ He pointed, his arm shaking, up towards the ridge.
&nbs
p; ‘We were ordered, sire. General Kellerman specifically ordered us to remain here in reserve.’
‘And here, Blancard, here I speak for the Emperor. I am his orders. Come on. Come with me all of you. We have them beaten. Forward. For the honour of the eagles!’
Strangely, given the debris littered across the field, they seemed to reach the crest of the hill more easily than before. Or perhaps it was merely that he had grown used to it. Used to riding over the faces and shattered bodies of the dead and dying troopers. Ney spurred forward. All about him wounded, wide-eyed and unhorsed cuirassiers, chasseurs, red lancers and dragoons were trailing back towards the rear. An equal number of riderless horses, maddened by blood and destruction, galloped through their ranks in all directions. Ney spurred on his horse, the third of the day. Turned to Blancard.
‘Charge. Sound the charge. We have them.’
Picking their way over the mounds of dead cuirassiers, the 800 carabiniers were barely able to manage a trot. Yet the British held their fire. Ney brought them to thirty paces from the square. Recognized the men as foot guards. Waited for the impact. Twenty paces. Fifteen. At twelve paces the redcoats opened up. The leading squadron of the carabiniers, men and horses, just seemed to melt away. Ney closed his eyes for an instant. Blinked them open. Shook his head. Then, still unhurt, led in the second line. Incensed by their impotence, he cut down blindly, three times. Sensed that his blade had touched flesh, metal. But did not look to see the maimed, the dead. At last his sword stuck fast in something. He turned away. How, he wondered, does this happen? How can we be beaten? Are they so very good? So much better than us? How can they hold out? How do they do it? Faces flashed past him. Expressions of horror and hate. Seeing the marshal without a sword, a cuirassier officer offered his own. Ney took it. Felt whole again. Prepared to return to the fight, but, swept round now by the force of his own men, found himself once again heading towards the French lines.
As he passed the most advanced of the Allied squares, a wall of musketry opened up against the French flank and he felt his horse begin to drop to the ground. Holding tight to the new sword, he threw himself away from her. Must not be trapped. Rolling to safety through the mud, he found himself lying beneath an abandoned British gun. Abandoned but not disabled. Ney pulled himself up by its wheel spokes. Dead British gunners lay all around him, along with redcoated infantry killed earlier in the day and his own cavalry. One man, a British regular by the look of him, lay, eyes wild, staring, propped against the wheel of the cannon, where he had evidently dragged himself to die. A few yards away to his left a cuirassier with a gaping hole straight through his breastplate – canister – moaned and gurgled blood as his life ebbed away. Ney looked about for something to drive into the cannon’s touch hole. A spike. A simple nail would do. Anything that could stop the gun from firing at them again when a fresh crew emerged from the shelter of the squares, as he knew they surely would. There had to be something here. Something. Ney knelt on the ground. Desperately scrabbled about in the earth, raked at it with his hands. At length he picked up a bayonet. Stood up. Attempted to jam the length of steel into the cannon’s touch hole. Shouted at it. ‘In. Get in, God damn you. In. Get in.’ But the socket of the blade merely rasped hard against his hand, cutting open his palm. He wiped away the blood. Tried again. ‘Shit. Shit. Get in. Damn. Damn. Bugger it.’
Unable to force the blade to stay in the gaping touch hole, he hurled the useless weapon down the hill. Looking at the ground again he saw the hilt of his sword. The blade had snapped in the fall from his horse. Ney picked it up. Leaned against the heavy bronze barrel. Noticed the royal cipher of King George. Slowly, deliberately, he began to smash the pommel of the sword hard down against the gun, increasing the force until his hand started to ache and the blood ran freely between his fingers.
‘Sire. Are you all right? Sire?’
Ney looked up. It was Rollin, miraculously still alive and still mounted, leaning down towards him. He was holding the reins of another horse, a tall black charger. The mount, he realized, of a cuirassier officer, of the 5th.
‘Rollin. You’re alive?’
‘Yes, sire. And Heymes. A fresh horse, sire?’
Ney said nothing. Looked back at the gun. Shut his eyes. Dropped the shattered sword and buried his head in his hands. When he raised it again and at last found the words, they came through a mask of bitter tears.
‘Rollin. We have to regroup. Find Milhaud. General Kellerman. Tell them we’re going to re-form. Tell them to find as many of their men as they can. Tell them … tell them we’re going in again.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Hougoumont, 5 p.m. Macdonell
Standing fifty yards away, despite the drifting smoke, he could see the hands as they reached in through the holes in the long, red-brick wall. Clawing, desperate, they closed around the barrels of the guards’ muskets, some of them red hot from incessant firing, and naturally, as they did so, most let go. But some held on. Braving the searing heat, attempting to wrench the weapons away from their owners. Eventually, though, their hands burnt and bloody, even the most determined fell away. Occasionally the point of a bayonet was poked through the gap, only to be beaten back by the defenders, who were working in pairs now, two men to a hole, the one loading while the other fired.
As Macdonell watched, he saw, to his astonishment, one of the Frenchmen vault from his comrade’s shoulders, and, one of his feet connecting with the top of the wall, spring over the heads of the defenders to drop behind them on the grass. A hand flung his musket after him and, as the man grasped it, Macdonell saw that more of the attackers were attempting the same stunt, with varying degrees of success. Some of the defenders, alerted to this new danger, turned from their firing posts at the wall and in doing so momentarily exposed themselves to fire from outside. Unopposed now, French muskets poked in through the holes. Fired. He saw several of the guards go down.
He rushed towards them, bareheaded, slipping on the sodden grass and gravel, all that remained of the once elegant garden. ‘To me. Form on me. Stop them. You men at the wall. Back to your stations. Don’t let them over the wall.’
From left and right guardsmen ran to his call. Ten, fifteen, a score of them now, men of all three regiments, running with him, towards the intruders. He spotted a familiar face.
‘Sar’nt Miller.’
‘Sir.’
‘With me.’
Quickly they closed upon the small group of intrepid Frenchmen, the half a dozen who had followed their athletic comrade into the formal garden and were now standing back to back against a section of the wall.
‘Make ready.’ Miller barked the command.
At twenty paces the guardsmen halted, raised their loaded weapons. The French, waiting for them, let loose a desultory volley. Two of the guards fell wounded.
‘Fire.’
There was no contest. As the smoke cleared, Macdonell saw that only one Frenchman remained standing. Hands above his head, he called for quarter. Two of his comrades lay moaning on the ground. The others were dead.
‘Take him prisoner. And help the wounded.’
From the left a great cheer announced a counter-attack through the orchard. It was Hepburn’s men, who a quarter of an hour ago had been pushed back to the sunken lane by this latest French attack. They were pouring through the trees now. Bayonets gleaming, they smashed into the front and right flank of the French, hurling them back through the orchard and against the thick hedge that marked its boundary with the lane. It took barely three minutes.
Macdonell relaxed. ‘Hold your fire. Stand down.’ He turned to Miller. ‘But keep watch, Miller. They’re sure to come again.’
He turned and, feeling his boot hit something soft, looked down and found himself staring at the body of a Frenchman. One of the storming party. He glanced at the shako. Third regiment of the line. Good soldiers, these. No parade ground dummies, for all their Emperor’s pomp, but simple foot-sloggers. Plain bloody infantry. You could not fail to
admire the devotion of these Frenchmen. Very different from Britain’s infantry. Not the Guards, of course. Nor the Highlanders. But the bulk of Wellington’s army – listed for gin. The French flocked to their Emperor out of pure adoration. It puzzled him still, after so many years. How a nation could have cut off its king’s head, only to take as its new leader a despotic guttersnipe a thousand times more powerful and ruthless. What had the Revolution been about? What had they wanted? How had it come to this? He was more aware than ever now that, were they to prevail today, this battle would represent not only the end of Napoleon, but the death of a process that had begun back in 1789, on the streets of Paris. He looked down at the shako again. The corpse grinned back at him. Who had he been, he wondered? Had he known anything of the principles of the Revolution. The Rights of Man? The Jacobins? No. This man had been seduced, like so many thousand others, by something far more dangerous. By the concept of imperial glory. The sweetness of sacrifice. The honour of a hero’s death. Honour, yes, of course. They all fought for honour. But glory? Macdonell looked around the garden. Saw the reality of glory lying dead in its ruins.
Walking to the north end of the wall, he pushed his way through a gap in the adjoining hedge and entered the orchard. Fragments of apple and cherry trees, blasted from their trunks by shellfire, lay strewn across the grass, the fallen fruit ground into sticky mush. Beside the cherries lay the dead. Frenchmen, mostly. He walked across the orchard past guardsmen helping wounded friends. He pushed back the hair from his sweating brow and was trying to recall where he might have lost his shako, when he was suddenly aware of another rhythm added to the thrum of the battle. A strange change in the earth. It was vibrating. Something was happening beyond the trees. Hurrying now, Macdonell crossed the last few yards. Found himself standing beside a sergeant of the 3rd. Both men froze. Stopped dead by the sight before them.