The Twisted Sword

by Winston Graham

  Many of the English prepared to leave for Antwerp – those who had a means of transport.

  ‘You go,’ Cuby said to Grace Turner. ‘I shall stay.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  I

  The retreat went on throughout the day in pouring rain, with constant skirmishing, a few casualties, but no ferocious pitched battles like yesterday. On the whole the withdrawal if untidy was measured; and the French, as much impeded by the rain and the mud, advanced at about the same pace.

  Wellington, having been under constant fire yesterday and in truth having only narrowly escaped capture, dined equably with his staff at an inn called the Roi d’Espagne in Genappe. ‘Gentlemen, I advise you to relish this meal for I fancy it will be the last comfortable one we shall have until this business is over.’ Ross dined in a second room with Colonel Grant and a few others. He was wearing the jacket of a Coldstreamer, but the trousers had not been long enough, so a deceased Field Brigade officer of the King’s German Legion had provided the rest.

  Not that he looked much out of the way. All the officers were soaked in rain and plastered with mud and the bright dyes of their uniforms had run. Ross’s first mission was to take a hasty message to General Sir Thomas Picton, who had been in the thick of the battle yesterday and nursed two broken ribs and a grievance because he had been asked to retreat from the position he had just gained. After dinner Ross would have liked to inquire the whereabouts of the 52nd Oxfordshires but could not bring himself to do so. To be invited to join Wellington’s staff was a sufficient compliment without his presuming to ask to interrupt the battle to meet his son.

  At three the party moved off, following the bulk of the army through what might be called the Genappe gap. In their wake by a matter of two hours came the rearguards, among whom was the troop of Royal Horse Artillery and a company of 52nd Oxfordshires under Captain Poldark. Some fighting took place during the afternoon, and the Oxfordshires lost three men. The Roi d’Espagne, having served dinner to the British, served supper to the French.

  Retreat is always difficult and depressing; and the weather did all it could to make either movement or conflict impossible. All except the paved roads became seas of mud. Food was non-existent until the evening when they caught up with a few commissary wagons. Then they squatted round sputtering fires trying to eat and warm themselves. Mayor Cartaret, who had joined them after Genappe, with a second company under a Captain Allison, said they were lucky to have kept to the centre and made good time; other regiments on the left and right flanks had had to struggle through hilly villages and swamped fields, and some men had lost their boots in the glutinous mud. Rearguards, particularly to the east, had been constantly harassed by French snipers.

  This, he said to Jeremy, was as far as they would go today, and it was likely that here they would be expected to make a stand. On their left flank was the main Brussels road, on their right the big farmhouse of Hougoumont. All around them regiments were marching, taking up positions, buglers were blowing, cavalry trotting. Captain Mercer, with his six guns, each pulled by eight horses, his nine ammunition wagons, with six horses each, his baggage wagons, his mounted detachments, his mules and spare horses – over two hundred animals in all – had disappeared into a fold in the land farther back towards Mont-St-Jean.

  Jeremy gave the necessary orders to Lieutenants Bates and Underwood and set about consolidating their position so far as they could for the rest of this evening and the approaching night. They had halted in the middle of an enormous rye field, and the soil was so soft and so sodden with the rain that one was standing permanently in inches of mud. Every step had to be taken with an effort, hauling one’s foot out and putting it down into another part of the quagmire.

  In the distance now they could see the French closing in on them, until detachments of skirmishers in the van were less than a mile away. There they halted and began, it seemed, similar preparations to camp for the night. Some French artillery opened up, and occasionally a ball would pass uncomfortably near; but the main preoccupation was shelter from the weather. It was impossible for men to lie down, or they would almost have drowned; yet they could not stand up for twelve hours. The latest downpour had put out the fires, and there was nothing more to eat. Then Sergeant Evans – the old campaigner – began to gather up armfuls of the five-foot standing corn and rolled it together until it formed a thick mat. This he laid on the mud, then put his knapsack on top and sat on that cross-legged and covered his head with his blanket.

  The movement was infectious, and soon at least half the men were following suit, then almost all the rest. Jeremy slogged and stumbled round his company. He had previously given orders for the officers’ horses to be tethered to bayonets driven into the ground; all other arms to be piled and no man to leave his position. Satisfied that there was little more to do, he returned in the last of the daylight to a corner where Sanders had magically persuaded a small fire to burn and sat by it with his six officers, smoking and drinking gin and using the sodden rye stalks to cushion him against the worst of the trickling water.

  II

  It rained all night, and when the sickly daylight dawned the two armies faced each other across an undulating plain of Flanders mud. Ross, so far as he had slept at all, had slept dry; but some of the staff had been moving by 3 a.m. and among them, he suspected, the Duke.

  It was still raining but the sky was much lighter, and from his vantage point at Mont-St-Jean Ross could see something of the replacement for what must be the coming battle: British and Hanoverians and Belgian soldiers already in the positions they were to defend, if not yet ready to fight. The two first defensive positions were the inn at the fork of the roads called La Belle Alliance, and to its right the old farmhouse of Hougoumont, half hidden in its woods and apple trees; immediately behind them, astride the Brussels road, the smaller farmhouse of La Haye Sainte. About six the rain stopped and a hot sun came out.

  Colquhoun Grant, coming across to where Ross was standing, said: ‘A message from Blücher at last. The old man is alive, thank God, and has promised two divisions by this afternoon. Pray Heaven the roads dry up, for otherwise they will never cover the distance in the time.’

  Ross said: ‘Perhaps the issue will be decided by then.’

  ‘They’re massing behind Placenoit . . . The Duke wants to see you, my dear feller. I am off to Waterloo with a message, so I hope to be back within the hour.’

  When Ross got into the front room of the inn Wellington was just finishing writing a despatch. There were nine senior officers in the room with him and Ross made his way politely forward, bending his head to avoid the beams.

  Three men at the table. Sir William de Lancey said: ‘I am sure you would wish to know the whereabouts of your two relatives, Poldark. The 95th Rifles are positioned at La Haye Sainte in a gravel pit, supporting the King’s German Legion. The 52nd Oxfordshires are positioned in a large cornfield this side of the Château de Hougoumont, with the Foot Guards on their right flank.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Before that,’ said the Duke, spreading the paper and folding it, ‘I want you to take this message to Prince Frederick of the Netherlands. I would prefer you to deliver it personally into his hands, but give it to no one less senior than Lieutenant-General Stedman.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Ross said as he was handed the paper.

  Wellington rubbed his nose. ‘The young prince, you will find, is eager for action and will not take kindly to being instructed to stay out of the present battle. If he expostulates with you, tell him that although I am expecting a frontal attack, Bonaparte may still try to turn my flank and capture Brussels. That would be a disaster it will be his duty to prevent.’

  The Duke got up and led the way out of the inn, followed at a respectful distance by the rest. He was not in any full uniform but wore a blue coat and cape with white breeches and highly polished boots. His horse was waiting for him and he mounted it and led the way to inspect his troops. At th
e sight of him men began to cheer, but he smiled coolly and waved them to silence. There would – there might – be time to cheer later.

  ‘Where is Prince Frederick?’ Ross asked Fitzroy Somerset.

  ‘At Halle. Take the lane to Braine l’Alleud and from there you can turn up the road from Nivelles. You will travel faster than trying to cut across country in this quagmire.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘About ten miles.’

  ‘My God, it will take me all morning! I shall miss the battle!’

  ‘Don’t worry, my friend. If I know the French they will not attack until they have breakfasted. Even then, they may pause a while longer for the ground to dry.’

  While Ross waited for his horse to be fetched he gulped a hurried breakfast, staring out through the window at the patchwork of fields and small woods and undulating slopes, all darkened with the movements of men, particularly the French, who were massing in glittering columns less than a mile away. Steel helmets, tiger-skin turbans, blue coats faced with scarlet, green and crimson plumed headgear, pennants fluttering, all the pageant and panoply of the greatest army in the world. It was a menacing sight. From here Ross could see La Haye Sainte, but Hougoumont was out of view in a fold of the hills. It looked as if Geoffrey Charles and Jeremy would both be in the forefront of any conflict which developed. The sooner he was off, the sooner back. Once he had discharged this task he would make straight for Hougoumont. After all, he was under no one’s command.

  As he left, with the sun blazing down now, fusillades of shots were heard all along Wellington’s lines. They were not directed at the enemy, but the troops were drying their muskets and rifles, the easiest way being to discharge a shot out of the barrel before cleaning it.

  III

  At 11.30, on a halcyon summer morning which seemed already to have forgotten the torrents of yesterday, the battle for Brussels began with a tremendous cannonade from the French guns. The Allied gunners presently replied, and soon the lovely morning was devastated and the sun obscured by black smoke from the guns. Then four battalions of French infantry, preceded by clouds of skirmishers, attacked the farmhouse of Hougoumont and after a bitter fight captured the road south of the house. Without possession of Hougoumont the French could not move up the shallow valley that it dominated and envelop the British right.

  They reached virtually the walls of the old house but were driven back with heavy losses by four companies of British Guards under Lord Soltoun. Attack and counterattack went on for three hours, each side committing more and more troops to taking, or holding, a position which was on the right of the main battle area but which more and more was seen as vital to the outcome of the day.

  Then, centrally in the two-mile front, the French advanced under Marshal Ney; preceded again by a great cannonade from eighty of Napoleon’s finest guns. At 1.30 sixteen thousand soldiers marched across the blackened burning valley and up towards La Haye Sainte. They came on in stately unhurried masses, two hundred men wide by twenty-four deep, to the dreaded sound of the drummers, rum-a-dum-dum, rum-a-dum-dum, a beat which had struck fear into the hearts of all the armies of Europe. The Dutch-Belgians were driven out of La Haye and Papelotte, with almost all their officers killed. La Haye Sainte, though not captured, was isolated, and the 95th Rifles, under Major Geoffrey Charles Poldark, were forced out of their gravel pit and driven to retire towards Mont-St-Jean. A counterattack by fourteen hundred Scottish infantry against eight thousand French would have been overwhelmed had not Wellington ordered two brigades of heavy cavalry to their rescue. Life Guards and King’s Dragoons took part in an irresistible charge which cut through first the massed infantry and then the French cuirassiers and drove everything before them until the French were fleeing on all sides. But impelled by the contagious frenzy of the fight, the two great cavalry regiments ignored the bugle calls to halt and drove deeply into enemy lines where they were themselves surrounded, counter-attacked and cut to pieces. In a single action Wellington lost a quarter of his cavalry.

  The bombardment continued, with the weight of gunnery much favouring the French. Three forms of missile were used: first, the solid round shot, an iron ball which bounced and ricochetted and could plough a great trough of death and maiming among a group of soldiers; if it missed them then eventually it came harmlessly to rest; second, the hollow round shot filled with explosive and with a sputtering fuse: these could be picked up and hurled away if the fuse was not too short, but if you guessed wrong you knew no more about it; third, the canister or grape shot, used at close quarters, which burst when fired, spraying the area with pieces of broken metal. Cannon-fire was never accurate but a concentration of it on a concentration of men made certain of heavy casualties. The sound overhead was like the humming of great hornets, blasting the ground and people wherever they landed.

  One after another of Wellington’s aides went down. General Picton was killed and Sir William Ponsonby. The bitter fight for Hougoumont continued all through the stifling afternoon. Men coughed in the acrid smoke, sometimes lost their way, fired ever more inaccurately through the drifting smoke. Everywhere as far as one could see the fields were strewn with dead and dying men and horses, knapsacks, muskets, broken cannon wheels.

  At three o’clock the French cannons, having been dragged forward again, resumed at closer range and with greater intensity. Wellington, expecting Blücher’s relieving divisions on his left flank, was not aware that the Prussians, bogged down in mud, were advancing to join him at the rate of only a mile an hour.

  In the next ninety minutes four great French cavalry attacks were delivered against the British right centre, nearly five thousand horsemen in the first, over ten thousand in the third. Quarter was scarcely ever given or asked. Again and again they attacked the British squares and again and again were driven off, with bitter losses on both sides. Inside the squares were the bloodstained dead and dying, outside the French dead piled up so much that they became a protection and a barrier.

  Napoleon withdrew his brother Jerome from leading the endless attacks on Hougoumont and instead ordered howitzers forward. These set the large house and most of the barns on fire, including the one where the British wounded were lying. These were all burned to death, but the remaining defenders retreated into the chapel and the gardener’s house, from which they continued to shoot down the French as they attempted to capture them.

  IV

  The two companies of the 52nd, defending rising ground to the left of Hougoumont, had suffered badly, Jeremy’s the lesser of the two. But both had borne the brunt of the repeated attacks on the British right. In squares the infantry stood, often kept in shape by the long staves of the sergeants, repelling one attack after another. When the cuirassiers failed they came under fire from grape shot. This ploughed lanes through the squares, and the French cavalry charged up to take advantage of the openings. But before they could do so the squares closed again across the dead and dying men, resolutely firing and bringing down the horsemen.

  Most of the time Jeremy sat on his horse, where he could see a little more and could direct operations. The bullets droned around him and one cut his sleeve but, surprising himself, he felt no particular fear: it was as if there was some overriding demand upon his mind and heart. But then, in the early afternoon in the middle of a fierce attack, he saw a sharpshooter taking deliberate aim at him from a distance of not more than twenty yards. His mouth went dry and his hands became rigid, but he forced himself not to dismount. The man fired, and missed. Almost at once he was cut down by Ensign Peters.

  About 2 p.m. the Duke came up out of the smoke and consulted with Major Cartaret, but while he was so doing another attack developed and he had to ride into the centre of the square for protection. The situation at Hougoumont was desperate. The farmhouse was surrounded by an entire French division, yet still the firing went on. It was all hand to hand now, sword, bayonet, musket-butt, axe, kill and be killed, no orders needed; just fight to the death.

  Soon
after the Duke had left, the artillery found a better range on the 52nd Oxfordshires. John Peters was cut in half by a cannon-ball, and almost immediately afterwards a huge shell landed just in front of Jeremy. His horse reared and saved his life but at the expense of its own. Seventeen other men were killed or wounded by the blast.

  About three there was a brief lull, even in the attacks on Hougoumont. Since early morning the 52nd had had nothing to eat or drink, but now some wagons came up with a cask of water and a tub of gin. All the men rushed for the water, but most took a swig of gin after and then hastened back to the line.

  At four the Duke returned, his entourage reduced to one aide but himself miraculously unwounded. Jeremy was with his commanding officer when Wellington rode up.

  ‘Well, Cartaret, how do you get on?’

  ‘As you see, my lord. We are badly cut about and have been in action all day. A relief even for an hour would be a godsend.’

  The Duke made a wry face. ‘God may send it, Colonel, but alas I cannot. We are stretched to the limits, as you can see. All our reserves are committed.’

  Cartaret rubbed a spot of blood off his hand. ‘Well then, my lord, we must stand until the last man falls.’

  Soon after he had gone, erect and calm on his horse among the hail of shot and shell, the French cavalry launched another attack, but this time the Life Guards swept out from the rear and met them in a head-on clash. It was like a giant blacksmith’s shop, Jeremy thought, the clanking of steel against steel, horses snorting and whinnying and falling. Close to the defensive square one guardsman struck his opponent with such force that head and helmet went flying, and the horse leapt away with the headless rider still sitting upright and the blood spurting from the arteries.