by Iain Gale
Freemantle looked aghast.
‘Impossible. British infantry commanded by Wellington would never run. Did you see any redcoats among them?’
‘Well, yes. Only a few. But there were definitely redcoats.’
‘Hanoverians, I’ll be bound. Deserters. Take my word for it, General von Ziethen. There is no retreat. Wellington will stand, I tell you. You must ride to our aid, General.’
‘I am sorry, Colonel Freemantle. It is decided. We march on Plancenoit. I am afraid that Lord Wellington will have to wait.’
Freemantle stared at him. ‘Then, sir, you have just lost us the battle.’ The Englishman saluted, turned his horse and, summoning his escort of German Legion hussars, cantered away down the tree-covered lane, towards the sound of the cannon.
His parting words hung in Ziethen’s mind. Sent a chill through his soul. ‘Lost us the battle’. He turned his own horse to the left, and began to trot down another lane of the crossroads, leading towards Plancenoit. He said nothing. Scharnhorst rode at his side. Orders shouted to their rear and the familiar jingle and clank of an army on the move indicated that the corps was following.
God, this was awful country. Great defiles cut through with tracks and lined to either side with impassable woods. At some places – crossing the Lasne – they had been forced into single file. How long, for God’s sake, would it take them to reach Plancenoit?
They had gone barely half a mile when a shout from the rear brought Ziethen to a halt. Turning in the saddle, he saw two horsemen approaching. Prussian staff officers. Von Reiche and with him Müffling, the fat liaison officer on Wellington’s staff. What did they want now? This would hold up his advance.
Von Reiche spoke first. ‘Sir. You must not continue on this route. We must turn back.’
Scharnhorst, glaring hard at Ziethen’s Chief of Staff, was the first to speak. ‘What is the meaning of this, Oberstlieutenant von Reiche? Feldmarschall Blücher’s orders state clearly that the First Corps must turn south. It is needed in the battle for Plancenoit.’
Von Reiche ignored him. Spoke directly to Ziethen. ‘Sir. You must listen to me. General Müffling has important news.’
Müffling mopped his brow. ‘General von Ziethen. You must turn about. You must ride to Wellington’s aid.’
Ziethen smiled. ‘My dear Müffling. All this time with the British army has turned your head. Captain von Scharnhorst assures me that it is already too late. Wellington is in retreat. Our only hope is to take Napoleon in the flank. At Plancenoit.’
Von Reiche spoke again. ‘That, sir, with the greatest respect, is where you, and Captain von Scharnhorst, are wrong. Wellington is not beaten. He is standing. His infantry has beaten off 15,000 French cavalry and destroyed an entire infantry corps. He is holding hard on to his hill. But, sir, he cannot hold it much longer. Unless you ride to help him. You are his only hope. You will win the battle. If not, if the First Corps does not go to the Duke’s aid, then I am afraid that the battle is lost. And with it Europe, and civilization.’
Scharnhorst’s face was quite white. He spoke calmly. Matter-of-fact. ‘General von Ziethen. May I remind you that if you do not obey my direct orders from the High Command you and Oberstlieutenant von Reiche will both be held personally responsible.’
Ziethen looked at him. Saw in his face the years of blind obedience. And, for once, felt uncertain. He was torn in two. His military training, everything he had been taught to believe in, told him that he must obey the orders. His instinct told him otherwise.
Ziethen unbuttoned his saddle-bag and took out his spyglass. Put it to his eye. Tried to train it towards the north, to find the Allied lines. It was almost impossible from here to make out anything through the smoke. He could see the farm – Papelotte – up on the hill, enveloped in smoke. Blue-coated figures thronged its walls. But French or Dutch? It was hard to tell. His mind was quickly made up by the appearance of a squadron of lancers. French. He saw them entering the farmyard. So the farm that had protected Wellington’s left was now in French hands. He swept the telescope further to his right and doing so could see, quite plainly, scores of green and blue-coated infantry, Nassauers and Dutch this time, in open retreat from the farm. Perhaps Scharnhorst was right. Perhaps the British had gone. He continued his sweep and then he saw it. A little further away along the ridge. A solid line of redcoats. Two lines now. More. A square. A battalion of Highlanders. It was as Freemantle had said. Wellington was still there. Holding on. They were right. This was the crucial moment. If the French now succeeded in pushing forward from the captured farm of Papelotte they would be able to just roll up Wellington’s line. And that would be an end to it. In that instant there was no longer any doubt in his mind. He closed the telescope. Put it away. Spoke quietly.
‘Müffling. Ride to Lord Wellington. Tell him that we’re coming. We’re all coming. First Corps. Five thousand men. We’ll be as quick as we possibly can. Tell him to hold on. At all costs.’
Against all he had been taught. Against his orders. Against his commanders and the Prussian military machine, Ziethen was marching to help the British.
Von Scharnhorst narrowed his eyes. Spoke equally softly. ‘In my opinion, General Ziethen, this is a very bad move. Bad for the army and bad for you. You are making a very serious mistake.’
Ziethen turned towards him. Looked him straight in the eye. ‘I do not need your opinion, Captain von Scharnhorst. This is my decision alone. I accept full responsibility. Unless you wish to be disciplined for insubordination, I strongly advise you to take yourself immediately back to General von Gneisenau. Tell him that I have gone to help Wellington. Tell him that I intend to defeat the French.’
As von Scharnhorst turned his horse and galloped off, Ziethen turned to von Reiche. Glimpsed the huge smile. Tried hard not to return it.
‘Oberstlieutenant von Reiche. Order the corps to about-turn. Inform the divisional commanders we’re taking the road to Mont St Jean. We’re going to save the Duke of Wellington.’
TWENTY-SIX
Near La Belle Alliance, 6.45 p.m. Napoleon
Standing in front of the little inn, he watched blank-faced as the remnants of his cavalry returned through the valley. Watched the broken men and the bleeding horses. Saw the torn and bloody uniforms, the shattered weapons, the staring eyes, and knew that, up there, beyond the crest of the ridge, the British still held on. They had not been routed. Were not even in retreat. Wellington had tricked him – had tricked Ney – into squandering the finest cavalry in the world on a madman’s dream of victory. The realization left a bitter taste. This was not as it should be. To be thus outwitted. This was not at all what he had planned. Napoleon bit his lip. Stared wide-eyed at the ground. What had Ney thought he was doing? It had been all too soon. Much too soon. He turned to Soult.
‘It was too soon, Soult. To attack like that with all the cavalry. Too soon. Don’t you agree? How did Ney think that such an action would achieve the results I ordered? What did he think he was at?’
The marshal, clearly aware that it had been Napoleon who had precipitated the attack, said nothing. ‘It’s just as it was at Jena, sire. Ney has compromised us again. He has concentrated everything on one flank. He must realize now that we have to face not one enemy, or one point, but so many at the same time.’
Napoleon glared at him. ‘Don’t ever tell me again about the Prussians. Don’t say the word. Grouchy will deal with them, I tell you. We still have enough time here to finish this business.’
He looked across to his left. To where, above the shattered trees, the burning mass of Hougoumont spoke of its agony. Thrusting out his arm, he pointed towards Jerome’s division entangled in its smoke-shrouded woods and orchards.
‘And as for that idiot.’
‘Idiot, sire?’
‘My brother, Soult. My brother, Prince Jerome. This is the second time in two days he has compromised France. Compromised me. What did he think he was doing, committing an entire corps to what was never … had
never been intended to be anything more than a diversionary attack? And what the hell was General Reille thinking? Could he not see what was happening? Surely he could have countermanded the order. He is the corps commander, is he not? Is he not? Not my dear brother.’
‘He is, sire.’
‘Well then, tell me what the hell he was doing? How could Reille allow Jerome to do that? How could you allow him to do it, Soult? A corps. How?’ He thought for a moment. ‘No. No, that was unfair of me. You could not have stopped him.’ Napoleon smiled, indulgently. Then frowned. ‘But what have they done? The fools. A corps wasted.’
As both men stared at the burning building, a carabinier, his armour dented with bullet-holes, rode past them along the chaussée, towards the rear. Napoleon noticed that the man’s right arm had been almost severed at the elbow. He was holding the bones together. Behind him came perhaps a dozen cuirassiers, on foot. Most were wounded, some blinded, one missing his nose. Only two wore helmets. All were without weapons. Seeing the Emperor, they managed a cheer. He acknowledged them. Nodded his head and then, blinking back tears, looked again at Hougoumont. How could the British still hold the château? What kind of men were there inside that burning hell? He crossed his hands behind his back. Picked at his thumb. Paced right and left. Spoke aloud. To no one.
‘What could I have done?’
He coughed. Took out the perfumed handkerchief. Closed his eyes. Opened them and saw Soult, smiling. He rubbed at his eyes. A voice by his elbow.
‘Sire?’
Pierron, the majordomo of the imperial headquarters, had come forward from Le Caillou in a little barouche with a hamper of provisions. He offered the Emperor a glass of Chambertin, cut with water, just as he liked it. Without a word, Napoleon waved it away. Turned to Soult.
‘The attack had started. You saw. We had no other option but to sustain it. That’s right? Yes? That’s right. I had to order Kellerman to charge. You see, Soult, don’t you? I had no choice.’
Soult said nothing.
An aide came galloping towards them from the valley floor, his face ecstatic. ‘Your Imperial Majesty. Sire. The farm has fallen. We have taken the farmhouse. La Haye Sainte is ours, sire. The English, the Germans, all the defenders are wiped out.’
Now they had a chance. A foothold close to the Allied line. Now if only he could punch through the centre of the line. It was weaker now. The British cannonballs were falling in fewer numbers. Wellington had been too caught up in repelling the cavalry. Had concentrated on his right. The centre was falling apart. He spun round on one foot, eyes darting at the huddle of staff who had been poring over Pierron’s welcome hamper. They snapped to attention.
‘Where’s Ney?’
‘At the farmhouse, sire. He’s taken the farm.’
‘Well, tell him to attack again. Bertrand, ride to Ney. Tell him to push home his victory. Attack the centre. Now. Go now.’ He turned to Soult and Gourgaud. ‘If Ney can break the centre, we can win. Wellington is weak. I know the Prussians. The Prussians are too occupied with Plancenoit. They want all the glory for themselves. They do not trust the British. They will not send anyone to help Wellington. He is abandoned, and now we have him. They do not trust him, Soult.’
‘Sire?’
‘The Prussians. They do not trust Wellington. You agree?’
‘Of course, sire.’
Ney would do it. He would break the centre, and they would win. The Prussians had not yet assembled sufficient men to take the field. They had only one corps. He turned to Soult. Excited. Flushed. He spoke in a rush.
‘Blücher has only one corps in the village. One corps. They cannot hold on with one corps. Lobau will match them. We can reinforce him. Keep the Prussians out while we finish Wellington.’
Ney would break the centre. Then the tables would really be turned on ‘Papa’ Blücher. He would be the one caught in the trap. Caught between him and Grouchy. He laughed. Clapped Soult on the back. ‘We’ve won. We’ve done it. Ney will smash the centre and I shall lead in the Garde.’
A horseman was approaching them from the east. A hussar. One of Marbot’s men. He reined in and dismounted. Saluted the Emperor. ‘Sire. I come from Plancenoit. The Prussians have brought up cannon. We are being cut down. General Lobau has occupied the churchyard, sire. His men are dug in. But he begs me to tell you that he cannot hold forever, sire. He implores you to send support to the village.’
Napoleon nodded. ‘Very well. Here it is. Flahault. Find General Duhesme. Have him take the Young Garde to Plancenoit. He must retake the village. Throw the Prussians out and hold both the village and the woods. Understand?’
That would stop them. Four thousand élite veterans. And Ney would smash the centre.
As he was congratulating himself on his foresight, Napoleon’s attention was caught by a figure in a vivid red hussar uniform who had dismounted ten paces away and was walking towards him. Heymes. Ney’s aide-de-camp.
‘So, Heymes. Have you triumphed already? How is the worker of miracles? Where is Ney?’
‘Sire. Marshal Ney is at La Haye Sainte. He asks me to inform you that he has weakened the centre of the Allied line with artillery fire from the farm and that the enemy are giving, sire. He has opened a gap. But he needs more men, sire. With more troops we will surely break them.’
Napoleon furrowed his brow. Shrugged. ‘More troops? Why does he need more troops. He has a corps, doesn’t he? D’Erlon’s corps. Isn’t that enough?’
‘General D’Erlon’s corps is unformed, sire. Marshal Ney has but one division. He needs more troops, sire.’
Napoleon’s eyes widened. He tensed. Clenched his fists together and crossed them behind the shabby grey coat. ‘More troops? How can he ask for more troops? Where, my dear colonel, do you suggest I get them from?’ He laughed. Scowled. Pushed his face uncomfortably close to Heymes. ‘Do you want me to make them? Look around. What do you see? More troops? Can you really see more troops?’
‘But sire, with only a few more men we can advance from the farm. We can smash the centre. The moment is here.’
Napoleon raised his voice. ‘The moment is here? Who are you to tell me “the moment is here”? The moment is here when I make it, and I have not yet decided when that will be. When I do so I shall order in more men. And only then.’ But Napoleon knew it to be true.
Heymes did not move.
Soult broke the silence: ‘You still have the Old Garde, sire.’
Napoleon looked at him in disbelief. ‘What? Commit the Garde? Commit my masse de décision? Place them in the hands of Ney? After what has just happened up there? Are you mad?’
He turned away. This would not have happened at Eylau. At Borodino. They would not have asked him before. Would never have had the temerity. What was happening? He had to rest.
‘Pierron. Find me a chair.’
The valet came rushing forward. Arranged the folding chair. Napoleon sat. Placed his feet on a drum and, with Heymes still standing in incredulous silence beside Soult, closed his eyes.
The shellfire brought him to his senses. Soult and Gourgaud stood before him. Of Heymes there was no sign. How long had he been here? Had he been asleep? Another artillery round came crashing into the inn, passing through the roof, sending the red tiles flying. Soult spoke.
‘Sire. It would be wise to take cover.’
Napoleon ignored him. Watched with no concern for his personal safety as more cannonballs came thundering in. Noticed they were coming from the right. Not British, but Prussian guns. Blücher. But how had he come so close? What about Duhesme’s men?
‘Sire. You must take cover. Shelter, sire. I beg you.’
Napoleon waved him away. Stood up. ‘The men must know that I’m still here. Without me there is no army. Who’s that?’ He had spotted a courier. A lieutenant of lancers, standing close to the wall of the inn. He beckoned the man to him. ‘Yes? What news?’
The young man saluted.
‘Sire. Plancenoit has fallen The Young Garde has
been pushed back, sire. Out of the village. They are re-forming. General Duhesme requests –’
Napoleon cut him off. ‘I know what General Duhesme wants. And he shall have it. Soult, deploy the Old and Middle Gardes. Two regiments only. General Pelet will take the 2nd Grenadiers, General Morand the 2nd Chasseurs. They will retake Plancenoit. You hear? They must recapture the village. At all costs. But they are to do so without firing a single shot. They will recapture it à la baïonnette. Understand? Not a shot.’
That would really give the Prussians something to think about. He knew that the Germans would run at the mere sight of his Garde. There would be no need to fire. When they saw those bearskins they would assume that behind them were all 10,000 men of the Garde. Two battalions would be sufficient to create the right impression. Quicker that way, too. And they would inspire the Young Garde and Lobau’s men. Very soon his right flank would be restored. But what of Ney? He looked for a familiar face.
‘Gourgaud. What is Ney doing? Where is he? Why isn’t he here?’
‘He’s attacking, sire. By the farmhouse.’
Napoleon pulled out his spyglass. Rested it on Gourgaud’s shoulder. Tried to see through the smoke to the farm. What was he doing? What men did he have? Should he have given him the Garde?
Flahault, the handsome aide-de-camp, rode up. He was grinning. ‘Sire. General Durutte reports that the redcoats engaging him at Papelotte are being attacked in the rear. The Hanoverians are being attacked in the rear, sire. It can only be Grouchy. Grouchy is here.’
Napoleon nodded, sagely. So Grouchy had done it. Now surely the right flank was secure. Perhaps now the moment had come. Perhaps it was the time to go to Ney’s side. But not with any infantry. He, Napoleon, would take the men of his Old Garde straight into Wellington’s centre. It was the moment.
‘De la Bedoyere, Gourgaud, send runners. Broadcast the news. Let my army know. Grouchy is here. Grouchy has come across from Wavre. He is attacking the British in the rear. Go on. Tell them. Tell everyone. We are winning the battle. Flahault, find General Drouot. Tell him to bring the nine remaining battalions of my Garde. Here. Right here. And Flahault. Tell him to keep them in formation.’