Four Days in June

by Iain Gale

  ‘We need to regroup. Concentrate to our left. Order the reserve cavalry to ride to the English lines. Run the cannon, all three batteries, along the ridge and take up position as close as you can to Wellington’s flank. Let’s give these Frenchmen a last taste of Prussian roundshot.’

  Reiche smiled and saluted before whipping his horse into a gallop.

  Ziethen turned to his assistant Chief of Staff, von Dedenroth. ‘It’s not over yet. We’ve got a fight on our hands. Find Steinmetz. Send the fusilier battalions of the 12th and the 24th directly against Smohain. Clear it of the French. Then have him follow up with the musketeers. And be quick about it. There’s no time to lose. And Dedenroth, tell Major Laurens to let me know the moment he makes contact with the English. We’ve come this far. Let’s at least make sure they know we’re here.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Near La Belle Alliance, 8.30 p.m. Napoleon

  It was over.

  He watched the blue columns stream past him in retreat. The men cowering to hide their faces, lest they meet the gaze of their Emperor. On both sides of the inn and along the cobbled chaussée, his army hurried away from the battle. To his front, through the smoke and the rising mist that came with sunset, he could see the red-coated ranks advancing steadily down the hill. Moving at last off the ridge from which all day he had been trying to push them. Looking to his right, he saw more blue-coated infantry. His men. Lobau. The Young Garde. And behind them, almost on top of them, the oncoming black of the Prussian cavalry. Dark masses of hussars and lancers, and beyond them the thick columns of their infantry. From the ridge above the village, muzzle flashes announced that the German artillery had taken the high ground. He saw the cannonballs fly high over the field and land among the moving masses of the retreating 6th Corps.

  How, he wondered, had it come to this? His horse paced upon the stones, its hooves casting up splashes of muddy water. It had been the mud, yes, certainly the mud, in part. If only I could have started the battle two hours, even one hour earlier, he thought. Then I would have crushed Wellington. But he knew too that it was more than the mud. What use was it to have soldiers who fought like madmen, tooth and nail, for your honour, when you were surrounded by fools for generals? Soult. Jerome. Ney. And finally, that idiot Durutte.

  They had not been Grouchy’s men that Durutte had seen up by Papelotte, but Prussian imbeciles, firing in error upon their own Dutch allies. This was Ziethen’s corps, not Grouchy’s. Fresh to the battle, it had taken him completely by surprise. Once they had realized their error, the Prussians had turned and swept away all that remained of D’Erlon’s men like an unstoppable wave. Then they had smashed into Lobau’s left flank, driving a great scythe through the centre of the French line. Within minutes the right flank of Napoleon’s army had ceased to exist.

  Silently, bitterly, he cursed them: Durutte, Soult, Jerome, Ney.

  ‘Ney.’

  He spoke the word aloud. The generals looked at him, puzzled.

  Ney. ‘Le Rougeaud’. That ruddy-faced, red-haired war god.

  It was Ney’s fault. Of course. Ney and Grouchy. He had been betrayed. First by Ney at Quatre-Bras, and now by Grouchy. The army was full of traitors and turncoats. They had shown their true colours. Ney, though, would never betray him, surely? Yet what about his promise to King Louis? That ‘iron cage’. Had he meant it after all? Perhaps the whole thing, this whole campaign had been an elaborate bluff. A bluff to trick him, Napoleon, the greatest general who had ever lived, into losing. Had his enemies realized at last that having one, perhaps even two traitors among his own generals was the only way in which to defeat him? Perhaps there were other traitors, even now. He stole a nervous glance at the men who surrounded him. De la Bedoyere, Gourgaud, Bertrand, Soult.

  Soult. Yes. He certainly had been in the pay of the Bourbons. Perhaps Soult, then. His own Chief of Staff. And what of his predecessor, the indispensable Berthier? Berthier, whose brilliant administration had carried them through so many campaigns. How had Berthier come to fall to his death?

  He began to sweat. Put his hand in his pocket for his handkerchief. Failed to find it. Tried another. Looked for a page. Called into the throng. ‘Pierron. A handkerchief. Bring me a handkerchief.’

  But the valet had gone, and the Emperor had to content himself with mopping his dripping forehead on his coat sleeve. The air was thick with heat. His mind was filled with visions of the dead and dying. Men running away from the battle. He could sense a force pressing in on him through the darkness, from all directions. Thousands of men, seething with hate. Aiming for him. Directly at him.

  His horse whinnied, smelling the fear that drifted across the battlefield. They were getting closer now. He heard new music. Not the Garde. A hymn. But not one he recognized. Tried to make out the distant words. Called over to Soult.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Prussians, sire. A hymn of victory. “Herr Gott die loben wir.” They’re thanking God.’

  He managed a broken smile. Well, then, of course it would be unfamiliar. A hymn to a Prussian victory? A hymn to the Prussian God. Where now, he wondered, was his God?

  A helmeted lancer came cantering by. Did not notice his Emperor, but yelled in the general direction of the group of officers. ‘The Prussians. We are betrayed. Save yourselves. The Prussians are coming.’

  Before anyone could detain him, the man was gone. Galloping up the crowded road – back to Charleroi and France.

  Napoleon found Bertrand at his side.

  ‘Sire. He’s right. It’s true. They’re here. Blücher is here. You must save yourself. For the future of France, I beg you, sire. Retire.’

  Napoleon stared at him. ‘The future of France? What future? What future has France now, do you suppose, my dear Bertrand?’

  Soult approached. ‘Sire, it is still possible. We have Grouchy. We do not know what has happened to him. He has 30,000 men, sire. And there’s the Army of the South. We could muster more men. But you must save yourself. Without you we are nothing. France is nothing.’

  Of course he was right. They still had Grouchy. And, more importantly, at least another 150,000 soldiers under arms. There was Suchet’s Army of the Alps, all 25,000 of them, just south of Lyons. Add to that Rapp’s seasoned veterans of the Army of the Rhine, another 25,000 men, even now marching on the Marne. The three observation corps of the Jura, Gironde and Var – totalling 35,000. And in the Loire General Lamarque with the 15,000 men of the Army of the West. There were also, he knew, 500 field guns in Paris, along with 36,000 men of the National Guard and another 80,000 volunteers under Davout. They would strip the royal arsenals again. Rearm the militia.

  Yes. It was possible. He must not despair. They could fortify Paris. Push back the Prussians. Drive a wedge between the British and the Austrians. Just as soon as he was back in Paris he would start to mobilize again. All possible units. Conscription. For the good of the nation. There must still be some boys left. A few young ‘Marie-Louises’ who would be proud to come to the aid of their Emperor as their brothers had done after the horrendous losses in Russia. He smiled. Clapped the marshal on the back.

  ‘Yes, Soult. I do believe that you are right. We can remobilize and rearm. Yes. It’s not too late. Come. All of you. We should ride for the border. Regroup.’

  They turned and trotted up the chaussée, the imperial escort of Garde chasseurs clearing their way with the flats of their sabres. The road was clogged with walking wounded and men of all regiments and all arms. Men without weapons, dazed and leaderless. Horseless cuirassiers who threw off their armour in order to run more quickly. Artillery drivers who had cut the traces of their harnesses and leapt on dray horses to gallop from the field. At Rossomme the Emperor’s party found the perfectly formed square of the First Grenadiers of the Garde. Standing to attention, precisely where he had left them. Their ranks parted and the imperial staff trotted in. Napoleon turned his horse and surveyed the scene again. Fires licked the evening skies as, to the west, Hougoumont burn
ed. Up on the ridge he could make out the glow of thousands of new campfires, as the Allies prepared to enjoy a rest that no Frenchman would know this night.

  Above the cacophany of the dying battle, another sound drifted to him on the evening breeze. A curiously thin drumming. A uniquely Prussian sound. The haunting hollowness of the Pomeranian drum.

  ‘They’re coming, Soult. D’you hear them? They’re coming for me.’

  ‘Sire, you cannot remain here. You must fall back again.’

  Quickly they left the square and galloped further up the road towards Le Caillou. The farmhouse was in chaos. Valets and imperial servants were loading private papers and as many of the Emperor’s possessions as they could carry into a single carriage. Beside him the First Garde chasseurs under Durring had formed a column of route and were preparing to accompany their Emperor on his journey back to France. De la Bedoyere found him.

  ‘Sire. If you intend to ride to Charleroi it would be wise to take a remount. Take a fresh horse.’

  Reluctantly, Napoleon dismounted from Desirée, handed her to a servant and grasped the saddle of a troop horse of the chasseurs, offered him by the page, Gudin. As he was about to place his foot into the stirrup, his eye was caught by something beneath his feet. Something of value. The imperial travelling library had been dropped on the cobbles and its leather-bound volumes on war, diplomacy and philosophy were being trampled into the mud. One book, he noticed, Caesar on war, lay open. He picked it up. Its pages were bent back at a passage warning of the dangers of forming up in a defensive position with a wood to your rear. Napoleon let it fall, smiled and heaved himself up with difficulty on to the unfamiliar, nervous troop horse. He should not be riding. Should be in his carriage. The pain was beginning again. His body was on fire. He stared for one last time back towards the ridge. Perhaps it was the Prussians who were to blame. Perhaps if they had not diverted him. Ney had taken the cavalry too early. An hour too soon. If only he had stopped that. If only he had delayed. Then a grand push with the cavalry and directly behind them the Garde. Not as it had happened. This was not the way. And this was not the way that it would end. He would rise again.

  The men continued to stream past him. He spoke out loud, but to no one in particular. ‘Have we any news of Grouchy?’

  ‘None, sire.’

  ‘De la Bedoyere, send someone to find Grouchy. Tell him that we’re pulling back. Tell him he must take care not to be caught between the Allied armies. Gourgaud, have the artillery fire one more round. Then abandon the guns.’

  He turned. ‘Petit, order a general retreat. But you remain here with the grenadiers. Form a rearguard. We shall regroup at ... Genappe. We shall halt the Prussians there. If not there, then at Philippeville.’ Thinking, he bit his lower lip. Looked at Gourgaud, who was staring at him with a look of incredulity. Scowled. ‘Well? What are you looking at? What are you waiting for? Get on with it.’

  With difficulty he turned the unseasoned horse to face south along the chaussée, moved his aching buttocks along the saddle and prepared for what he knew in his heart was likely to be a very long ride. Then, as an afterthought, he turned back to Petit, his eyes wide. Staring. His words were taut, terse, bitter.

  ‘Petit. If you should happen to see him, inform Marshal Ney that I shall be waiting for him in Paris. This is not the end, you know. We may have lost this battle, but we keep on with the war. Be sure to tell him that, Petit. This is not the end. The war starts here.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Before Hougoumont, 9.30 p.m. Macdonell

  The redcoats moved through the woods with careful step, in a futile attempt to stop their feet treading on the bodies of dead Frenchmen which formed a new and ghastly undergrowth. Between the trees lay shapes, indistinct in the twilight, which had once been living men – or parts of men. There were dead horses, too, shot from beneath their officers. And everywhere lay discarded weapons, clothes, packs and scraps of paper. Most of the trees had been splintered by cannon shot and it was proving difficult to push between the sagging boughs without snagging upon a branch. Curses in a dozen different English accents rang out across the darkness. A few shots greeted them. A handful of French skirmishers attempting to cover their retreat. For retreat it was. It was a good hour since the Allied army had begun to pour down the hill after the Garde. Macdonell had watched them go and yet had bided his time before requesting Colonel Woodford’s permission to take a party out into the woods. They had been preceded by the Hanoverians and the Brunswickers who, with perhaps rather more ardour than Macdonell might himself have exercised, had finally routed, killed or in a few, rare cases taken prisoner the scattered survivors of the French corps whose battle had become a personal struggle with the defenders of the château.

  He had almost made it through the trees now. At the southern boundary of the great wood they began to pass abandoned cannon, their dead gunners slumped over shattered carriages. And then, quite abruptly, the tree stumps fell away and ahead of Macdonell and his men stretched the rolling plain which only a few hours before had served as a parade ground for the flower of France’s military might. Now the fields were littered with motionless lumps. Bodies lay as far as his eye could see. Shots still rang out. Cannon mostly, but with an intermittent crackle of musketry from far across the valley which suggested that gradually any remaining pockets of resistance were being extinguished. Far away in the distance he could hear the unmistakable sound of an army in pursuit.

  The axis of the action had changed now from north–south to east–west as from the left the Prussians poured on in their tens of thousands, rolling up the battlefield like a giant map, driving what remained of the French army fleeing before them. The crowds of blue-coated infantry were running pell-mell through the valley and close to the wood, their weapons and packs discarded in their haste to find safety.

  They didn’t have a chance. Macdonell and his men watched as a small group of maybe thirty men, leaderless and bewildered, turned to face their pursuers, the black-coated Prussian Hussars, their shakos proudly emblazoned with a white-metal skull and crossbones. Some of the Frenchmen raised their hands in surrender above their heads. Others sank to their knees. Prayed for salvation. It made no difference. He continued to stare, fascinated, as the cavalry closed in on them. Saw the great silver sabres rise up in the air and whistle down fast upon the defenceless men, their razor-sharp blades sliding effortlessly through flesh and cloth. He heard the screams and watched the Frenchmen die. From his right a motley group of French cavalry – cuirassiers, chasseurs and lancers – galloped towards the scene, swords raised, shouting obscenities. The Prussians, their horses splashing in puddles of French blood, left their butchery and turned calmly to face this new and equally useless gesture. The French, exhausted and outpaced on winded horses, made easy sport for the vengeful Hussars. Again he saw the blades rise and fall. Watched as one of the Germans turned his horse with a single expert tug on the reins, swung his sword high and severed both the weapon and the hand that held it from his opponent’s right arm before recovering his blade with ease, to place the point at the wounded man’s throat and push it hard through his neck. From deep within the mêlée he saw a cuirassier’s helmet flyupand through the air with the trooper’s head still inside it, while the man’s horse set off back across the field, the headless torso still upright in the saddle.

  It was quickly over. As the Hussars continued to ride around, slashing down to make sure of their work, Macdonell turned away, unable to watch any more. Surely now, he thought, the killing could stop. Now at least, dear God, he prayed, give us this one night of peace. Ahead of him and across to the left the entire French army was in headlong rout. There was no need to stay here any longer. His job was done. Turning back into the wood, he found Sergeant Miller.

  ‘Bloody business, sir. If I may say so.’

  ‘Bloody, Miller. Yes. Bloody enough by any reckoning. But we were victorious.’

  ‘We were that, sir. I reckon as any man that fought here today and
has lived to tell it will count himself lucky, sir. I know that I do. Wouldn’t have missed it. Not for all your Spanish scraps, sir. We’ve finished with Boney now, I reckon.’

  Macdonell looked into Miller’s grinning face. Saw the honesty smiling through the soot and sweat.

  ‘Yes, Miller. I do believe we have.’

  He paused. Frowned, looked out at the battlefield and spoke again: ‘Immortality, Miller. D’you know what that is? That’s what you and I and the rest of them have achieved today. Immortality. A story to tell to your grandchildren.’

  The sergeant looked bemused. ‘Right you are, sir.’

  Macdonell looked again towards the south, at the retreating army and the dark landscape with its piles of dead and dying men. Occasional shapes moved among them now. Dots of light that marked a hundred lanterns. The looters had come. There were few things uglier, he thought, than the killing fields after a battle.

  ‘You may take the men back through the woods now, Miller. They’ll need a rest.’

  They entered the château by the south gate, its double doors wide open now. Inside, amid the carnage and desolation, the victors sat in groups huddled around fires that sprang from within the embers of the buildings. Some were eating. Sausage, cheese, flat bread and hard biscuit. Anything they could find, most of it plundered from within the knapsacks of dead Frenchmen. Macdonell noticed one soldier, a private of the 3rd Guards, sitting by what appeared to be a full mess tin of stew which had congealed beneath a glistening film of fat.

  ‘No appetite?’

  The soldier struggled to his feet. Attempted to salute. Macdonell nodded.

  ‘No, sir. That is, I was going to eat, sir. There’s a fine fire burning by the barn, sir. And the meat’s cooked nice. It’s just that. Well. It is the fire, sir. Doesn’t really make you feel very hungry.’