by Iain Gale
‘Now, sir. Rum, Sar’nt. Colonel’s orders. Half rations. That barrel there. By the well. Start with those men. In sixes. Number off.’
The sergeant saluted and walked across to a group of wounded. ‘All right, you lovely boys. It’s your lucky day. Odd numbers first. Colonel Macdonell’s orders. Rum ration. And you’d better come and get it quick before the Frenchies have it out of you. And it’s all we have. Better make the most of it.’
Macdonell watched as a corporal broached the barrel with his bayonet and lowered in his own tin cup, from which he then filled the men’s. They formed before him six at a time, while others took their place at the walls. Miller stood to one side, watching to see that equal measures were served. Still there was nothing to suggest that another attack was about to be unleashed, although from time to time a shell burst over the compound, causing the small queue to duck in unison. One man, Cotterill, did not move from his position by the north wall. Miller called across to him, raising his voice above the din.
‘Cotterill. Come and get yer rum, lad.’
‘No thanks, Sarge. Never did like the stuff.’
Robert Jones, an old Peninsular sweat, sidled up to Miller, innocent-eyed. ‘I’ll have his, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, Jones. I do believe you would. Half-rations, the colonel said. Not double. Now get back to the wall.’
Macdonell smirked and walked back to Woodford, who was still standing, staring silently at the body of his horse. ‘Sir, the French appear to be taking a rest. I wondered whether I should have a look in the orchard. See what the rest of the brigade was up to.’
The colonel smiled, bemusedly. ‘Damn shame. Damn fine horse. Yes. Very well, Macdonell. Best take an escort. Damn shame.’
Calling to him the six guardsmen he had just seen at the rum barrel, Macdonell led them through the garden gate and across what had once been a lawn, now strewn with bodies. Making their way through the remains of the formal garden, the little party turned obliquely to the north and ran in a diagonal towards the orchard wall. To the south Macdonell could hear the sounds of renewed fighting. Another small attack. There was no time to lose or they would be cut off in here. They were near the wall now. He clambered on to a fire step. Tried to look through the trees. Turned to a corporal.
‘Robinson. It’s no good. I can’t see a damn thing. Come with me. The rest of you, wait here.’
Skirting the wall, the two men advanced deep into the orchard. The dead lay everywhere. French, mostly, but here and there a lifeless body in a red or a green jacket told of the ferocity of the fighting. Cannonfire had shorn the trees of their branches, as if cut back by some demonic gardener, and by the time they were half way across not only could Macdonell see the reassuring ranks of Hepburn’s and Saltoun’s redcoats formed up fifty yards to his left and preparing it seemed to move back into the orchard, but he also found that he had a relatively unobscured view directly into the bottom of the valley.
He stopped and squinted. Robinson waited behind him. Macdonell looked hard through the drifting smoke. He wasn’t quite sure what he expected to see. More French cavalry, perhaps? Though that seemed unlikely, given the recent carnage. Another massive flanking attack, perhaps, from the light infantry who had been their opponents throughout this endless day? He prayed not. Perhaps, please God, he might see the Prussians. Here at last, sweeping across the field, driving all before them. Surely Blücher must come soon?
He peered into the dusk. Searching for hope or for some new horror. Nothing, he thought, would surprise him now. But there he was wrong. For what met his gaze stopped him dead.
TWENTY-NINE
The valley, 7.30 p.m. Ney
He saw them come. A dark blue mass. Felt the weight of their numbers. The Garde. Five battalions, three of chasseurs, with their distinctive black bearskins, two of grenadiers, their own bearskin hats fronted by curved copper plates embossed with the imperial eagle. At the head of each battalion rode no less than a general. Old friends. Friant, Poret, Harlet, Michel, Mallet, Henrion. Behind them three more battalions in a second line of attack. And in front of them all, surrounded by the blue, red and gold of the Imperial General Staff, rode the Emperor.
They came on in column, muskets shouldered straight, bayonets fixed. Each battalion of around 600 men. And between each of them came two horse-drawn cannons with bearskinned gunners resplendent in their own still recognizable red, blue and gold. On his right Ney could see what was left of Donzelot’s men, and next to them the battered ranks of Bachelu’s division. Most of what now remained of d’Erlon’s corps. Men who had already done so much that day and in the days before. In all he supposed there were 10,000. Ney stood with Heymes beside the ruined orchard of La Haye Sainte, surrounded by the bloody remains of the two divisions who had died taking the farm where the tricolour now flapped triumphantly, and together they waited for the Garde.
To his left, beyond Hougoumont, the setting sun appeared at last from behind the cloud which had hidden it throughout the day. But its rays were obscured and diffused by the clouds of acrid, sulphurous smoke which hung about the field, while from the blazing château sheets of flame rose to meet it in the sky. It was a vision of hell. What time must it be? He had lost his watch up there on the ridge, among the cavalry. He supposed it might be shortly after seven o’clock.
He heard their music now. A band was playing. The full band of the Old Garde grenadiers and chasseurs – 150 men-as if they were on parade at Fontainebleau. Playing the triumphant marches of the Carrousel. He caught ‘La Victoire est à nous’, from Grétry’s Egyptian opera, a favourite of Napoleon’s. Hard to make it out in the noise. As they came closer it became another melody, a tune written so long ago it seemed in another world. The Emperor’s own march for the Garde: ‘La Marche des bonnets à poil’.
As the Garde advanced towards him Ney began to think forward, to what would now happen. How he would join them. Would take them up the hill. Guide them in. To victory – or to nemesis. He deliberately slowed his breathing. Must slow himself down now, regain composure. Relax the pounding heart that seemed to be about to burst from his chest. Ney spat on his hands and rubbed at his face. They came away black with soot and gunpowder. He wiped them on his breeches and attempted to fasten his tunic with the one remaining gold button. To at least make himself look like a Marshal of France about to receive command of the Garde from his Emperor. He half closed his eyes and attempted, for one last time before what he knew must come, to put his mind far away from this place of death. To Aglaé and his boys. To the orchard at Coudreaux. To the cherry trees. To his garden. To Aglaé. The roses. The boys. They will be proud of me. I will die a Marshal of France. I only wish … one more time. He saw their smiles. Felt his hands running through their hair. Muttered their names. Mostly he thought of Aglaé. Was she thinking of him? Even with the din of battle and the march of the Garde, he caught echoes of Mozart drifting into his mind.
‘Lá ci da-rem la ma-no, la mi di-rai di si.’
Could she somehow see him standing here, in this charnel house? Could she ever know what he had seen? No. Don’t think it. You must never think of that. He opened his eyes. There was Heymes. Dependable Heymes, in his bright red uniform. Remarkably unhurt. Smiling. Telling him something.
‘Sire. You are to take the Garde, sire. The Emperor’s orders.’
‘Heymes.’
‘Sire?’
‘How’s your girl?’
‘Suzanne? She’s fine, sire. Just fine.’
‘Will you tell her about all this? Anything of this?’
‘No, sire. It’s magnificent, isn’t it? But I do not think …’
‘No. You’re right. This is only for us. There is no place for love here, and love should never know anything of this.’
No place for love. Only one love here. Glory. France. Death. Love for all three boiling up inside him now. About to overflow. Even amid the constant crash of the guns, he could hear the music. Louder now. Closer. He felt the tread of their steps. Sa
w the gleam of the gilded bronze eagles, the flash of the sulphurous evening sun on the bayonets. Saw Mallet turn to an aide at his side, mouth open in a grin, before turning his horse away to his own command. The aide was laughing. Some coarse joke. Wonder what. Whores, drink, money? He knew Mallet’s tastes. Ney looked at the Emperor, grim-faced, almost enveloped by his staff. The drab grey figure. From his side a horseman broke away. It was de la Bedoyere. He too was smiling. Laughing.
‘Sire. The Emperor begs to inform you that Marshal Grouchy has arrived on your right. Grouchy is here, sire. Grouchy.’ Ecstatic, de la Bedoyere galloped his chestnut mare across the front of the entire army, towards the remnants of d’Erlon’s corps, bare-headed now, shouting to the officers. Ney heard his cries diminish.
‘It’s Grouchy. Grouchy is here. It’s Grouchy. He’s here.’
It was, Ney knew now, a lie. Napoleon’s final ruse. A desperate attempt to raise morale. He was tricking his own men. To the marshal the reality was only too evident. Looking to the east Ney could certainly discern the black shapes of masses of men, marching it seemed directly for him. But also, in front of them, came masses of civilians, camp followers and French officers and men, all of them making their way, apparently, away from these newly arrived French reinforcements. Colonel Levasseur rode up.
‘What is happening, sire? Do I ride to Grouchy? What are we to think?’
Ney closed his eyes and stroked his forehead. ‘You stand, Colonel. You stand with the men.’
Perplexed, the colonel turned his horse and rode back to the staff. Ney began to get ready. Heymes had brought him a new horse, his fifth of the day, its leopardskin shabraque proclaiming it to have recently belonged to a, now presumably dead, officer of Garde chasseurs à cheval. Ney climbed into the saddle. From the battalions he could hear the cries now of the officers and sergeants as they formed their men ready for the attack. With one beautiful movement – parade-ground precision – the columns became eight open squares, each one 150 men wide on each side, three ranks deep, with drummers in the centre. They were going in alone. Without skirmishers. Without cavalry. Napoleon approached him. Reined in. For an instant, the two men stared at one another. Knew what must be done. Knew what would happen.
‘Ney. You must take them. You must lead them.’
‘Of course, sire.’
He wanted to say something. One last thing at this last moment. One last word to explain everything. Love. Glory. France. You. Just once. Now.
‘They insist, Ney.’ Napoleon gestured to the staff. ‘I … I have been ordered. I have been commanded, Ney. Not to go with them. With you.’
He gazed at Ney with rheumy eyes. Uncertain, this master of men. The man who had defined the concept of glory. Forbidden now to lead his children to that glory and to death. Unable to savour that fatal inevitability. Ney wanted suddenly to touch him. Went to bend forward. One last word. One moment.
‘You must do it, Ney. Take them. Take the Garde.’
And then it was too late. For anything. Napoleon turned Marengo and rode back towards the lines, his staff closing again around him. Ney was silent. He watched the Emperor go and reined his own horse in at the head of the column. Stood high in his stirrups. Drew his sword. Raised it in the air. Turned to the waiting blue ranks. Smiled.
‘Follow me.’
Heymes was up with him. Grinning. Together they rode to join Friant.
‘Ney. Did we lay down a cannonade? I was away from the brigade. Did you see anything? You know what they have there? Did you see? You must have seen when you were up with the cavalry. What do you think? Are we ready?’
Ney did not reply. Turned his head. Shouted – to the air, with measured interval.
‘For France. For Glory. For the Emperor.’
On the crescendo of his command, his horse reared and, using its forward movement, he led the advance up the now familiar slope. The gentle slope. The killing ground of crop fields, turned to mire by rain and cannonballs and the fresh harvest of human flotsam. Around him commands rang out and the drumbeat grew in volume. Ney looked straight ahead. Steadied his nervous mount as it shied and stumbled over the heaps of dead. Sensed the ranks part slightly as they avoided a pile of corpses. And now he felt it once again. That familiar emptiness in the pit of his stomach that always came with the first advance into fire. Old feeling. Good feeling. Tight chest. Mouth dry. So dry. He licked his lips. Tasted the gunpowder. Swallowed. Looked at Heymes. Smiled. Saw a corporal of grenadiers cross himself.
At 500 yards out he saw the flash of the guns. The balls screamed in fast and high. He looked straight ahead. Don’t look to left and right. Old wisdom. Eyes on the smoking enemy. Ignore the falling bodies of your men. He heard their cries. Felt the rush of air as the first flood of canister hit the blue wall and swept away three ranks. They did not falter.
‘Steady. Keep steady.’
The sergeants were controlling the rolling tide of the great blue mass. A hail of shot took his own horse from under him and, as he landed, it collapsed on top of him, blood gushing, frothing, screaming in agony. Unhurt, Ney pushed his way out from under the dying animal, scrambled to his feet, grabbed his sword and began to march at the head of the nearest column. He looked around to see who was still with him. Friant and Poret, both also on foot now, and behind them the 3rd Grenadiers. Still intact. Still coming. Close up. Keep together.
The shot was getting denser now. Like hailstones. Beside him a mustachioed grenadier fell to the ground, clutching his side, blood pumping through useless fingers, desperate to keep in the life. Yelling curses, keeping their ranks, the big men made their way over the piles of dead. Such an assortment of uniforms, thought Ney, looking around him. Fabulous. Glorious. Here, judging by their green feathers, were the Hanoverians he had seen cut down by Dubois’ men earlier that day. And not far from them lay the bodies of the cuirassiers themselves, shattered a few hours later in their futile charge at the British guns. Quickly, he began to realize that the columns were not keeping to their allotted routes. That only his own and that of the 4th Grenadiers still marched as ordered. The others were veering towards the left. Towards the strongpoint of Wellington’s army. Into the vortex. At 100 yards out from the Allied lines the French horse artillery unlimbered and quickly opened fire. Through the smoke Ney saw the red coats appear to thin. He looked around. Heymes had gone. He had not noticed it. Did not know when. Friant was down now, blood pouring from a mangled hand; stumbling, being helped to the rear. But the general was still smiling. Still shouting: ‘All is well. All is well.’
Ney looked to his left. Saw the beginnings of hesitation. ‘Dress your ranks.’
His words rang out. Instinct. A hundred battles. Officers echoed the command and the great blue mass closed the gaps – the horrid gashes of red which seconds earlier had been men. Harlet rode up to him. He was holding his side, traces of red showing through his fingers.
‘This is the stuff, Ney. Eh? We’ll have him now. This stinking Spanish hero.’
Ney gestured behind him. ‘We are marching, dear Harlet, at the head of the finest infantry in the world. What can stop us?’
He wondered himself. Knew that there was a chance – if they made it to the crest. If Wellington had made mistakes. If they had managed to find a weakness in his line. If they could concentrate in one place. There was a chance. The drums had changed their beat now. The ‘Grenardière’, the Guards’ own, distinctive, insistent rhythm of the assault:
Patapata patapata patapata panpan.
Patapata patapata pan.
Now he remembered again. Bussaco. How he had argued then against a frontal assault on the ridge. Then the final yards into the attack and the line of redcoats coming up from behind the crest. The terrible fire, ten paces out, of that single battalion of British light infantry. The shattered blue columns tumbling back down the hill. The bayonets. The terrible screams echoing, echoing to reach him across the valley.
He was at a hedge now – shattered remains of a hedge. Crosse
d it, and then they were only a few yards from them. He understood now exactly what was going to happen. On his right, facing Donzelot, Ney saw ranks of the black-clad Brunswickers. Black and yellow and blue, death’s-head badges gleaming. Levelled muskets. Then they saw the Garde. Began to inch away from the advancing masses. Young men, he thought. And beyond them he saw green coats. Same patchwork army. A Nassau battalion. But a single volley of flame and smoke had Donzelot’s exhausted men in flight. Ney saw the green ranks rush forward in pursuit, shouting wildly, then stop and turn and themselves retreat as they saw that beyond Donzelot’s dazed battalions stood two squadrons of French cuirassiers.
His own juggernaut column of veterans continued its ordered advance. Halted by command yards before the right-hand square of a red-coated brigade. Waited for what they knew would come. Seemed to brace themselves as one. Raised their loaded muskets and as they did so took the fire of a well-ordered volley. British, he thought. Veterans themselves, most likely. Good troops. Good men. Spanish War veterans. Perhaps he had met them before. And then all around him the world exploded in flame and white smoke, as the grenadiers returned their fire. He saw men in red go down. Saw their comrades stand. Close up. Reloading now, as his own column did the same, seconds behind. Could see their officer now, standing close to his men. Coolly elegant in all this mud and blackness. Young man. Half his own age. Saw the colour, ragged green square, flapping. The ensign in his teens. His eldest boy’s age. White face. Ashen white. Sergeant holding him steady. The flash and smoke again. Around him men doubled over. And then again the reply. Saw the colour tumble. Glimpsed the ensign’s bloody face. No face. Saw the flag rise up. To his right a company of French guardsmen had charged home into a British battery.
Ney saw the gunners go down, bayoneted as they fought desperately with ramrods, sticks, buckets. Their helmeted officer fired a pistol and was spitted on his horse by a giant of a grenadier. Open mouth, horror-stricken eyes, as he pushed at the long piece of steel, trying to deny its presence, deep inside his body. His scream was high and never-ending. My God. We are winning, Ney thought. We will do it. Napoleon will do it. Has timed it right. How could he have doubted? It was Eylau again – when the prospect of defeat in the morning had been turned by the evening, with Murat’s great cavalry charge and his own sweeping offensive, into one of the Emperor’s greatest victories. It was masterly. Wellington was beaten. There was nothing left before them. Brussels would be theirs. Ney looked behind him. Lines of men. Grim-faced. The finest soldiers in the finest army in all the world.