I looked at that lined old face which had seen a lifetime of battles and charges. Even on the eve of the battles that would decide the future of his country, he just exuded a calm resolve. He saw me staring at him and smiled. Perhaps he sensed my natural cowardice or remembered the drinking of the night before, but he took out his pipe and reached forward and gripped me on the shoulder. “Drink won’t give you courage, lad, you stick close to Ney and you will not go far wrong. We know what we are fighting for and what would happen if we lose. We will win, lad, don’t you worry about that. Just do your duty by the emperor and all will be well.”
I staggered back through that camp feeling strangely stirred, not in the way the old soldier had intended. For he had convinced me that the odds were in favour of the French. As I walked through the rows of tents and saw the stands of muskets in neat rows and men queuing to sharpen swords and bayonets, you could not fail to be impressed with the quiet professionalism. I had some vague recollection of the night before which involved some former prisoners of war swearing that they would take revenge for their years in captivity.
The previous invasion of France by the allies just a year ago and the rule of King Louis had shown clearly the consequences of defeat. None of them would want to see their country pillaged and humiliated again. So instead of courage, I felt despondency. Even if the allies were prepared for the attack, it would be a tough-fought contest. But with Grant as Wellington’s eyes and ears, there was little chance of that. If caught unawares, the allies would be pushed apart and then their mostly inexperienced troops would be routed.
It turned out I was not the only one who was feeling depressed. For Ney had dined with the emperor and had still not been given a command. He had come back raging at Heymès that even traitors like General Bourmont, who had run out on him when he declared for the emperor, had been given brigades while he, a marshal of France was left idle. Ney was nowhere to be seen when I got back to the army’s headquarters and so I fortified myself with a vegetable broth so thick you could stand your spoon up in it. As I ate I stared out into the castle courtyard where men were preparing to leave. It had started raining again, the dark clouds matching the grey stonework and my mood.
I had just finished my lunch when I caught a flash of red in the courtyard. There was Heymès riding in on, of all things, a pony and trap.
“What the devil are you doing on that?” I asked when I reached him.
“The carriage will be too wide for the country lanes and there are no spare horses anywhere. Everything is being used to carry men or supplies up to the front.” The marshal looked similarly unimpressed when he saw his conveyance, but climbed aboard without comment. He seemed resigned to being a mere spectator to the coming contest, which was fine by me. I would much rather be with him brooding at the top of a hill, watching the action, than be dragged by him into the middle of it.
We joined the rest of the army following several paths leading north-east. There was barely room for two and our luggage in the trap. I had no wish to be jolted around again and so I led the pony by the bridle. The rain had increased now to a solid downpour and we were soon soaked through. We had to travel twelve miles to a small town called Beaumont near the border; the emperor did not want soldiers arriving there before late afternoon to reduce the likelihood of his army being spotted. Twelve miles on a normal summer’s day would be a comfortable half day’s walk. But when you have a hundred and twenty thousand men, horses and guns, ammunition wagons, limbers and all the other accoutrements of war travelling down narrow lanes in torrential rain, things are somewhat different. Infantry were ordered to keep off the roads and ranged several hundred yards in the fields on either side. Crops were trampled flat in the waterlogged ground as men searched for fresh earth where their feet would not sink down to their knees in the mud. Cavalry rode further out still and a sea of moving men and animals could be seen in all directions.
We followed down a lane in the middle of a line of guns. The cobbles slowly gave way to a mud track that was deeply rutted from previous vehicles. The cart was continually dropping in or climbing out of one of the furrows and I was glad I was not aboard. Ney sat their bare-headed, his plumed marshal’s hat put away before it became a waterlogged mess that would have made him look ridiculous. But the braid on his uniform showed his rank and more than once soldiers trudging past would cheer him. They would point him out sometimes shouting ‘There is the redhead,’ which was his nickname in the army. He would smile and raise his arm in salute and if anything took some comfort from their recognition
Every time we reached the bottom of a valley the mud would get too thick for vehicles to move easily. The gunners would put down planks and push and strain at their pieces to get them through the ooze. As we followed them Ney and Heymès were forced to dismount and join me in pushing the trap across. Ney did not hesitate to put his shoulder to the cart and invariably several of the passing soldiers would see him and slide down into the road to help.
We reached Beaumont just before dark. The border was just a few miles further on and regiments were being directed to bivouac in woods or on slopes facing away from the enemy so that they would not be seen by British or Prussian patrols. Ney went to lodge in a house with Marshal Mortier, who commanded the Imperial Guard. The best that Heymès and I could manage was a loft above a stable, which we shared with a dozen other officers. We ate the last of the food that had been packed for us by Ney’s cook and settled down to try and rest. I was cold and wet and so sleep did not come easily. Some of the others sharing the stables had passed around a flask of brandy, but after the previous night, I could not stand the idea of spirits. As it had finally stopped raining I got up and took a walk through the town. It was surprisingly light and then I realised that the sky had a strange pink glow. Gazing out over the hills I could see thousands of flickering lights from the army’s camp-fires and these were reflecting on the low cloud. For all of the careful preparations, it was a clear sign to the allies that a huge force was nearby. Surely they could not miss that, some sentry must see it and report it.
I imagined messengers would at that moment be riding to Wellington and the Prussian commander to warn them of the attack. If the allies could combine in time they would have double the numbers of the French and twice as many guns. Napoleon would be forced to abandon his plan and a grateful Flashy could slide over the border and home.
Chapter 26 – Thursday 15th June
I did not get a lot of sleep that night and I was not the only one. There was a mood of tense excitement amongst my fellow officers in the stable. The first companies were due to start moving just after three in the morning and the emperor was to ride with the advance guard. One by one the officers slipped away from the company to join their men. Whispered calls of ‘Bonne chance’ followed them down the loft ladder as they disappeared into the darkness. The rest of us lay there listening to the quiet tramp of men down the street outside, the jingle of harnesses and an occasional shouted order. More men slipped away until Heymès and I were the only ones left. Dawn light began to creep into the loft through a narrow slit in the wall and I went over to it to look outside. While the rain had stopped, the wet ground had created a low mist. I watched the columns of blue-coated men march north-east until they became shadows in the fog before disappearing entirely.
I stood watching this ghostlike army for ages as it reappeared on a rise of ground half a mile away before dissolving again like a spectre into the gloom. Then in the far distance I heard the first cannon fire. It sounded like a single battery of guns opening up on some obstacle and I could imagine the emperor cursing that the element of surprise had now gone. Well, I thought, if the allies had somehow been blind to the signs of a huge army just over the border, they would know about them now. It looked like it would be a race: Would the emperor be able to drive his enemies apart or could they combine in time? I heard footsteps behind me and sensed Heymès at my shoulder watching the men march away.
“Everything
depends on them,” he murmured half to himself. “If we fail then the Revolution and everyone who has fought and given their lives since, will have died in vain.” I did not reply. Heymès was right but on the other hand, I wondered how many would have to die in the years of war that would inevitably follow if the French won.
We had our first stroke of luck that morning when we met Ney. As he had not been given a part to play in the attack, he had arranged for us to meet him at the leisurely hour of eight. We found him outside of Marshal Mortier’s quarters astride a fine charger and holding the reins of two others.
“Gifts from Mortier,” he announced and then in a lower voice he added, “he is laid low with sciatica and cannot leave his bed.”
“How unfortunate,” sympathised Heymès as he swung up in the saddle.
“Unfortunate for him,” agreed Ney as a smile played across his face. “But the emperor is now short of an experienced marshal.” He wheeled his horse around while calling over his shoulder, “We should catch up with the army.”
We had barely left the confines of the village when he reined up and gestured for us to do the same. “Listen!” he called and we sat there straining our ears. Then I heard it. More cannon fire, further away this time as either the wind or fog distorted the sound. But it was the steady crash of cannon, the sound of a full-scale engagement. “It has started!” he shouted and I don’t think I had ever seen him look as happy. He was like a young boy with a new pony. “Come on!” he shouted, spurring his horse in the direction of the guns.
I knew that the first objective of the attack was to capture the city of Charleroi. It was fifteen miles away over hilly wooded country that was saturated from the recent rain. Charleroi was also the other side of the river Sambre, which was thirty yards wide at that point. There was a big stone bridge at Charleroi but according to the map Ney showed me there were two other bridges a few miles either side of it and the French planned to cross all of them so that they could outflank the allies in Charleroi if necessary. The city was defended by the Prussians and I wondered if they had mined the bridges so that they could be destroyed to stop any attack. When I mentioned this to Ney he just laughed.
“I doubt it,” he scoffed. “They would not want to risk their destruction when they plan to use the bridges themselves to invade France.”
We were glad of the horses now as they enabled us to leave the road and ride across the fields on either side. Most of the guns had been put on the road first to support the attack, but the narrow lanes were now jammed with ammunition and supply carts. They struggled up some of the wooded hills and often got bogged down in the valley bottoms. The River Sambre protected the left flank of the army and a few regiments peeled away from the main force to guard the few crossing points that led to the area garrisoned by the British, but there was no sound from that direction to indicate that the redcoats knew we were here. We continued in the direction of Charleroi. The mist was burning off and after all the rain of recent days, it promised to be a hot dry day.
By mid-morning we saw our first prisoners, around fifty dejected Prussians sitting under guard beside the main road. A short while later the cannons stopped firing and then at noon we saw the reason why. Coming into view around a bend was the stone bridge leading into Charleroi. It was intact and full of French soldiers marching unopposed into the city.
The first French objective had been taken. Ney trotted forward beaming in delight, his decorations glinting in the bright sunlight. Even though we had taken no part in the attack, the soldiers nearby cheered him, often with cries ‘Go the redhead!’ as he went past. It had been a clever and well thought out attack, calculated to minimise French casualties. Bonaparte had waited for his two flanking columns to cross the bridges on either side of the town before he showed himself and some of his Imperial Guard on the approaches to the stone bridge leading into Charleroi. The Prussians had rushed to defend the bridge as a bottleneck to stop the French assault. They must have expected the French to storm the town but the soldiers in blue did no such thing. Instead, French artillery bombarded the exposed Prussians while the French, including the emperor, stayed in cover. The Prussians must have sent troops to guard the two bridges on either side of the town but they were ambushed by French forces that were now stealthily approaching the rear of the Prussian positions. Suddenly the Prussians inside the town realised that they were about to be encircled and fled. Bonaparte was offered the lunch that had been prepared for the Prussian commander.
The good people of Charleroi all spoke French and thought of themselves as French. They had been treated as second-class citizens by their new Dutch-speaking Netherlands government and so they welcomed the French as liberators rather than invaders. They offered food and wine to the soldiers as they passed, but the men had to eat whatever was offered on the move. Officers urged them on for while they had already done a day’s march and captured a key border city, their enemy was in confusion and the emperor wanted to capitalise on their early success. Napoleon had already ridden out of Charleroi to view the pursuit of the enemy. There was the sound of distant sporadic fire as Prussian units desperately tried to extricate themselves from the unexpected French advance and regroup.
As the emperor had already left the city, its citizens concentrated their attention on Ney, the most senior and renowned of the officers they could see. Having been ignored and spurned for so many months, he clearly relished the recognition.
“We have the Prussians on the run already,” he boasted to the people. “They will not stop running until they reach Berlin.” There was cheering at that for the Prussians had not been popular in the town. Then the mayor insisted that we share some lunch with them. Whether it was part of the meal prepared for the Prussian commander I could not say, but it was served on abandoned regimental silver plates covered in Teutonic script and crests.
As Ney and the rest of us tucked into mutton and drank a chilled white wine, I did my best to appear to be enjoying the moment. Digestion was not helped by a large portrait of some starchy matron glaring down at us. We were told that this was the wife of one of the Prussian officers. From her look of scorn, it was as though she could see what we had done to her husband’s army. One of the town officials borrowed a pistol and, to the delight of many, shot the picture. But as the tension in the canvas was relaxed she managed to look even angrier. I had some sympathy for the woman in the portrait. I had the feeling that if she had been here in person the Prussians might have been more vigilant to the possibility of attack.
I was astounded at how easy it had been. How had Grant and the others failed to notice an army of over a hundred and twenty thousand men marching up to the border? How had they missed the glowing sky from the camp-fires? Surely they had some spies and agents that they could rely on? The emperor had used his cunning to take the town easily and now he was on the plains beyond, he had more room to manoeuvre. He had the Prussians running like a disorganised rabble and he was determined to push them as far as he could.
At least a handful of the French were also running, though, for as we dined news came in that General Bourmont, the man who had abandoned Ney, had now also run out on his emperor. Bourmont and his entire staff had defected to the Prussians at the start of the attack. As an aside, I heard much later that the French general was not well received by the Prussians. Blucher, the Prussian commander, refused to see him. On being told that Bourmont was now an ally as he wore the white Bourbon cockade he replied scornfully, “A shit stays a shit whatever colour cockade he wears.”
I could have made a run for the fast-receding allied lines myself, but I remembered my drunken resolution to keep my head down. To change sides halfway through a battle was the most dangerous thing. You were likely to be shot at by both sides, especially when one side is in headlong retreat and confusion. There must be, I assured myself, dozens of men now riding to Brussels with news of the attack. One more would not make a difference. I was also all too aware that if the allied rout continued and I wa
s captured I could expect no mercy. Half the army had seen me riding up with Ney. While other captured British officers would be treated as honourable prisoners, all I could expect was a wall and a firing squad.
At least that was what I tried to tell myself. I knew I could provide a huge amount of detail on the French army and their plans, which would be invaluable to Wellington. But to return to the allied lines meant that I would also have to admit that I had been duped. My well-intentioned message containing the wrong dates of a French attack were one of the reasons that the British were not watching the border as closely as they should. We had been listening out for sounds of gunfire from the north, from British positions, and there had been none. If I was to return to the allies now I would be ruined and humiliated, Grant would see to that for certain. Far better to stay with the French and hope that they would be beaten in the end. Then I could claim to have played a part in their downfall.
The start of a new distant cannonade reminded us that it was time to get on the move again. Ney asked for the whereabouts of the emperor and was told he was on the summit of a hill on the outskirts of town. There he could watch his army pass by and try to make out the disposition of the Prussians. One of his aides told us that he had also taken the opportunity for a short mid-battle nap, as I suppose you can do when you have fought as many battles as Bonaparte. He was awake when we got to him, though, talking to a civilian wearing dust-covered clothes. The stranger’s hard-ridden horse was being doused in water by a couple of cavalry troopers. There was a cluster of staff officers standing a few yards behind the emperor and Heymès and I headed to join them while Ney strode on to join Napoleon.
“Ah good day, Ney,” Bonaparte called when he saw the marshal walking towards him. “I am very pleased to see you. Come, let me show you what is happening.” With that he dismissed the civilian, who stepped back towards our group, while the emperor led Ney a few paces to stand at the edge of the bluff. I edged a bit further forward so that I could eavesdrop on their conversation. Napoleon was pointing out the cobbled road that led from Charleroi to Brussels. Even from where I was standing, I could see that columns of French troops were marching along this route to a town three miles off. The noise of the bombardment was coming from that direction and the town was wreathed in smoke. “That is Gossalie,” said the emperor, raising his voice above the noise. “Some of the Prussians are making a stand there.” He turned to Ney and smiled. “Would you do me a service, Marshal?”
Flashman's Waterloo (Adventures of Thomas Flashman Book 6) Page 22