Flashman's Waterloo (Adventures of Thomas Flashman Book 6)

by Robert Brightwell

  The moment of decision was fast approaching. I stared at Halkett’s men to my left: some were lying down like the 52nd behind me, but others were on their feet and already edging back. They must have been close enough to hear the roars of Vive l’Empereur! from the men approaching and I knew first-hand how that could chill the blood. British cavalry were trying to drive Halkett’s men back into position while behind them the Dutch soldiers silently watched and waited. I glanced to my right: the road to Mirbebraine was still clear, but I knew that it would quickly fill with panicking men once the line broke. Crowds of terrified British soldiers would attract French cavalry like bees to honey. There was broken scrub and bushes between the road and the forest and I decided that I would go there. With just an hour or two until nightfall I could hide out and pass as a French or English officer in the dark as circumstances required. Then I could get either a horse or into the woods.

  There was no thought then that the allied line could withstand this final onslaught. Ney led his men steadily up the hill, a hundred yards to the crest, then fifty, and all the while the men that were supposed to force him back down the slope were edging back themselves. He must have expected a fusillade from a line of redcoats as he crested the summit, but instead the plateau was empty. The faltering line of Halkett’s brigade was at least a hundred yards back and the marshal must have been sure of victory then. I saw him wave his sword in the air and urge his men forward and they gave a roar of victory as they swept on.

  Instead of disciplined crashing volleys by company, there was an extended ripple of fire across the whole of Halkett’s line. The men disappeared behind a bank of their own musket smoke but from my vantage point I could see that more than a few were not staying to reload. Rather than remain and continue the fight, they were trying to escape through the horsemen behind them. A volley from the front ranks of the Imperial Guard encouraged them on their way and then Ney released his men in a wild charge to clear the plateau once and for all.

  That’s it, then, I thought, for even if the British Guards could stop the second column they could not do so with the first column attacking their rear. It had been like watching a prize-fighter take on a child, with an entirely predictable outcome. It was time to go. I was up and edging my way west when I heard the cannon fire. For a moment I thought that they were French guns, but then I remembered the two batteries of horse artillery that I had seen the Dutch troops bring with them. The question now was: Who were they firing at?

  The whole area was obscured by smoke; I could see the Imperial Guard pushing forward into the maelstrom. They were shouting and yelling but other unseen voices were screaming and then the cannon roared again. I remembered all too well from D’Erlon’s attack the devastating effect of canister shot at short range into the packed ranks of a French column, but I still could not see what was happening. I ran back, springing over the prone figures behind me to get a better view. Then I saw the Dutchmen. They had angled their cannon to fire across the space in front of their long line of four ranks. The Imperial Guard were charging into this killing zone and as the twelve guns spat out their lethal cones of death I guessed that they were taking a terrible punishment. Still they came on, though. I saw their bearskins moving forward above the smoke and then the musket volleys began.

  General Chassé had drilled his men well. They fired by rank and by company so that there was a continuous stream of lead pouring into the men ahead of them. The smoke from their discharges now completely obscured my view of both the Dutch and the French. Then the Dutch cannons crashed again and I saw a man emerge from the smoke and run back towards the crest. He was wearing a bearskin of the Imperial Guard. Then came two more, then six and now a score of the guard were running back to the ridge, some having lost their weapons. Incredible as it seemed, the unbeaten Imperial Guard was retreating. I heard new orders shouted among the Dutch soldiers, and the volley firing stopped. I did not need to understand the language to guess that General Chassé, known as General Bayonet to friends and foe alike, was about to live up to his reputation. There was a roar as his men launched their charge and then hundreds of the Imperial Guard could be seen streaming back out of the smoke.

  “My God, did you see that?” I shouted at Colborne. He didn’t reply, instead he stared over my shoulder as though he had just seen a ghost. I whirled round. I was twenty yards back from the edge of the British ridge then and just in time to see a line of waving black objects appear at its crest: Bearskins of the Imperial Guard. The second column was arriving on the scene.

  At first glance, it looked as though only Wellington, mounted on his chestnut charger, was there to receive them. Then he was shouting something and waving his arm and as though from the bowels of the earth, long ranks of redcoats stood up in front of him from where they had been lying on the flattened crops. The first volleys crashed out. The British Guards were well drilled but their line was just two ranks deep and I knew that the five hundred men in it were outnumbered five to one by those in the column before them.

  The Imperial Guard, wearing their grey greatcoats, were still coming and at any moment would return fire and start to whittle down the line of defenders. There were no more reserve regiments behind the British Guards should they fail, Chassé’s men were still engaged with the first column. The 52nd, my new regiment, were the only sizeable force not fighting, but we were away to one side. I gave a silent prayer of thanks that for once I was in the right place.

  “I will check on the right-hand companies,” I shouted to Colborne, gesturing at those that were the furthest from the fighting. Once there I planned to keep on going but instead of trying to stop me Colborne grinned and slapped me on the back.

  “Good thinking, Flashman, they will have the furthest to go.” I stared at him in amazement. What the devil was the man talking about? Still, he hadn’t stopped me from running away, positively encouraged it in fact, and so I hurried along the line.

  “The line will advance,” roared Colborne above the din of battle and abruptly the whole formation I was walking along started moving forward. Did Colborne think that there was a third column coming, I wondered? I tried to remember if he had still been at the ridge crest with me when the Imperial Guard had been forming up. Yes, that must be it. The bloody fool was attacking a phantom enemy. There would be a few French skirmishers coming up the ridge, but our appearance would soon put paid to them and make it safer for me to slide out. Still, I can’t say I was pleased when I noticed a line of British cavalry following our advance, much as they had with Halkett’s men, presumably to deter anyone from going backwards.

  Then we were at the crest and I thought we would stop once Colborne had seen that no other attackers were coming. I could not stomach the thought of going into that accursed valley again. The French guns had stopped once the Imperial Guard had reached the top of the allied ridge to void hitting their own side, but if we were to show ourselves, we would get their full force. But Colborne was not stopping. Over the top we went and I glanced once more at the grim-faced cavalrymen that dogged our tracks. I still had no idea where we were going but then Colborne was shouting and waving and the line nearest him started to wheel to its left. It was only then that I realised what he intended. He was taking the 52nd to attack the flank of the Imperial Guard column so that it was assailed on two sides. That was why my end of the line had the furthest to travel. I looked up aghast for it meant that as we turned I would be furthest into the valley, probably surrounded by the enemy.

  God knows what my expression looked like to Colborne, but he was waving and grinning at me as he urged the men round. The renewed thunder of fire from the grand battery made shouting impossible, but Colborne pointed to an ensign running towards me down the line.

  I ducked as a shell from the French guns showered me with dirt. They were firing high to avoid hitting their own column, which meant that end of the 52nd nearest the enemy was hardly hit at all. But my end, the place I had thought would be safer, was now under a ferocious
bombardment.

  “Run, you lazy bastards,” I shouted at the men in front of me and they shambled into a faster step.

  “Keep the line straight,” called out a sergeant but I cut him off.

  “Never mind that, run or we will be a straight line of corpses.” The men in front of me grinned at their sergeant getting reprimanded and broke into a jog. “Come on, boys,” I yelled at the others, “the sooner we are closer to the column the sooner they cannot shell us.”

  A cannonball thudded into the turf where I had been standing just a few seconds before and I decided that it was time to break my golden rule. I pushed my way through the line and, waving my sword above my head, I sprinted out in front of them. The men cheered and ran after me, enjoying that rarest of sights: Flashy leading from the front.

  With the sergeant desperately yelling to keep them in some semblance of a line, my end of the 52nd ran pell-mell across the slope. We were set to bend around the back of the column; if you are going to attack the Imperial Guard, then shooting them from behind must surely be the safest way. Already one or two were nervously staring over their shoulders and I did not doubt that the rear rank would soon turn and face us. I was just judging that I might be wise to resume my traditional position behind the men, when someone tugged on my sleeve.

  “Mr Colborne’s respects, sir,” shouted the ensign I had seen earlier. He took a moment to gather his breath from sprinting after me. “But you are to pay particular attention to any horse artillery that might try to establish themselves on our flank.”

  There was a grim inevitability to the sight that greeted me as I looked over my shoulder. After the day I had experienced, I was pleasantly surprised that there were only three guns bouncing behind teams of horses as they charged up the slope towards us. They would want to get close to avoid hitting their own men and were already no more than three hundred yards away. We had to attack them before they could get set up or we would be torn apart.

  “My company,” I roared. “Down the hill and attack those guns.”

  The noise was deafening now. The French grand battery was still firing, while as I issued the order the first volleys were fired from the 52nd at the end of the line closest to the Imperial Guard. If any had heard my command, they ignored it. The sergeant was some distance off, still chivvying the men to try and keep the line straight. Another glance down the hill showed that the gun teams were already wheeling the horses round to point the cannon in our direction. There was no time to waste. I grabbed at the nearest man; he stared at me wild-eyed, whether with fear or the exhilaration of battle it was hard to say.

  “Down there, man,” I pointed at the gun teams. “We need to attack those guns or we will be done for.” He shook my arm off and for a moment I thought he would run on but as he stared down the slope the sense of what I was saying became obvious. He turned and shouted at his nearest mates and together they started down the hill. I ran after the rest of my command and saw the ensign was still at my elbow. “Get the men to attack those guns,” I shouted at him, pointing further up the line. I grabbed another man and used the flat of my sword to stop a third. I merely now had to point to what was already a dozen men running down the hill for them to understand. The ensign had grabbed another half dozen and as I watched the teams of horses being unhitched I realised that we had no more time.

  As a boy, I had run two hundred yards in half a minute and I would have to be even faster now. The gun crews could see men turning towards them and went through the motions of loading their guns with polished efficiency. Pounding down the hill I watched as men with powder charges rushed to the muzzles, swiftly followed by men holding rammers to push the charges home. I was still a hundred a fifty yards away when I saw them bringing the metal cans of musket balls, the canister shot itself.

  I knew then that we weren’t going to make it, but there was no cover to hide behind. To stop meant certain death and so I ran on hoping for some kind of miracle. Then I saw the officer in charge of the half battery – it was none other than the captain I had spent the best part of the day with at Quatre Bras. I remembered all too well how deadly accurate his men were. He was busy overseeing the aiming of the guns, they were being angled so that the cone of fire would hit us and not the column of the Imperial Guard.

  As the canister was pushed in the barrels we were still over a hundred yards off, but if the men did not shoot now they would be swept away before they reached the guns.

  “Fire,” I yelled at the men around me, “aim for the gunners.”

  Half a dozen of them fired wildly while still running and the shots could have gone anywhere. I could have wept at the waste when my life was at stake. The rest, however, either dropped to a kneeling position or stood, but at least they were taking more careful aim. I ran to one side to keep out of their line of fire, cursing that I had not thought to pick up a musket myself from the ridge top. A crackle of shots rang out and two of the men with ramrods fell along with another gunner beyond.

  The artillery captain rushed forward to the nearest gun and picked up the fallen rammer himself. He was raising it to the muzzle when in desperation to delay him I shouted in French, “Don’t shoot, it is me, we are working for the emperor.”

  He looked over his shoulder at hearing his native tongue and as he caught sight of me he hesitated. He must have recognised me for I saw his mouth open in surprise and then there was the crack from the musket of one of my kneeling men and the captain fell back against his gun before toppling to the ground.

  “Aim for the third gun,” I shouted, for the uninjured man on that was just withdrawing the rammer and then it would be ready to fire. But when I looked across at the men, they were either still charging towards the guns or trying desperately to reload. We were too late; men around the cannon were springing back to escape its recoil and, throwing myself to the ground, I shouted at the men to get down too.

  Once again there was that awful whistling sound, I pressed myself into the soft earth and felt something tug at my right boot. Miraculously I was unhurt, but screaming from nearby indicated that others were not as fortunate. Then I heard more shouting ahead of me and, gingerly raising my head, I saw that many of the men who had run on had somehow escaped the hail of shot. A bloody smear in front of the gun showed that one man must have been torn apart by the lead balls, but as the gun was angled to avoid the column it missed all those charging from that direction.

  I was up in a moment. There was a desperate fight now around the guns, as redcoats stabbed with bayonets while the French gunners swung their rammers and tools to hold them off. More muskets fired and then the gunners were falling back, running for cover among the approaching skirmishers. There were still two guns almost ready to fire and I knew just what to do with them.

  “Quick, you men,” I was gasping for breath after my run. “Pick up those rammers and push those charges home.” Realising my intentions, grinning redcoats ran to do my bidding, while others put their shoulders to the wheels of the cannon and slowly started to turn them.

  After a few grunts of exertion, the barrels were facing the rear of the huge column. It was a vast target that would be impossible to miss and I knew all too well the devastation the guns would cause. But so did the skirmishers, who were charging up the hill to stop us. There was a clang as a musket ball hit one of the guns and a soldier swore loudly as a ball struck his arm. Others were reloading or kneeling to aim down the slope at our new assailants. I glanced over my shoulder to see that the rest of the 52nd were now firing their volleys into the second Imperial Guard column and a cloud of gun smoke at its head indicated that it was still contesting the ground with the British Guards to its front. At any moment one side or another would break and then it would all be over. There was not a second to lose.

  Checking the breeches of the guns I saw that the quills of priming powder had already been inserted. All I needed was a piece of slow match to fire them. I found that beside a French gunner who was clutching a bayonet wound to th
e belly. As I bent to pick it up the man standing next to me screamed and fell clutching his leg. The French skirmishers were closing in fast.

  “Stand back!” I yelled and touched the match to the priming tube of the first gun. The cannon crashed back and a plume of smoke obscured my view of the column. I remember a splinter flying from one of the wooden wheels as it was hit by a skirmisher’s ball and then I was over to the next gun. I touched the glowing match to the tube. There was a slight ‘ffft’ noise as the quill of finely ground powder took the flame to the charge and then the second gun roared out.

  Something struck me then, to this day I am not sure what; a spent ball, probably, but I found myself lying on the ground with a stinging pain in my shoulder. There was no blood but I did not have the energy to get back up. I remember lying there, suddenly feeling exhausted. As I think anyone with an ounce of humanity would agree, I had suffered a trying few days and I simply could not summon the strength to do more. You have done all you could, I thought and if it was not enough, well, I was done for.

  I lay there and watched as more of the 52nd ran down the hill to protect the cannon. As the smoke cleared I saw two huge swathes of dead and wounded men at the back of the column where the canister had struck them. Men were screaming and for those in the centre of this mass of men, it must have sounded as though their front, left and rear were being assailed simultaneously. I remembered all too well what it was like to be in the middle of a column like that, unable to see what was going on. Perhaps they knew that the first column had already been defeated and they could only imagine what was being inflicted on their own outer ranks. Then there was a cheer from the ridge and I guessed that the British Guards were preparing to go in with the bayonets.