Elizabeth raised a single finger. ‘English. Plus whatever I picked up on this trip—mostly Italian.’
Lorraine smiled. ‘It is because you live on an island.’
And because we are arrogant and lazy, Elizabeth thought. She recalled cartoons in the English newspapers, with their pretentions of superiority, and their portrayal of foreigners as comical numskulls.
‘Shall we look inside the cathedral?’
‘Why not?’ Lorraine stood up. ‘We could say a prayer.’
‘For victory?’
‘Or for sanity.’
Elizabeth agreed, and took her arm as they left.
47
Sunday 18th June, 7.00 am
Darcy rode with Colonel Fitzwilliam along the edge of a cornfield, to the west of Waterloo. They had risen at dawn, after overnighting in Brussels, and taken a road due south for an hour. Heavy rain on Saturday evening left the ground so mired that the roads near Waterloo were blocked, obliging them to detour into the adjoining fields to avoid a queue of carts struggling through the mud. The rain stopped during their ride, but with mist rising from the sodden corn, visibility remained poor.
After discussion they had left Burgess in Brussels, with the Viscount’s servants; his instructions were to await news of the battle, and if the French won, to go immediately to Antwerp, ready to accompany Elizabeth by boat to England if the French advanced further north, or if Darcy for whatever reason was unable to join them.
The British had taken their stand on the north side of the Mont St Jean ridge, just below Waterloo. To reach them coming from the south, the French would have to march uphill through pastures and fields of rye. Three outposts near the top of this slope had been fortified. To the west was the chateau of Hougoumont, a large country house concealed by trees. In the centre stood a walled farmhouse called La Haye Sainte, adjoining the main road to Brussels, and hence a vital position. Finally, to the east, lay a hamlet where troops could easily be garrisoned. Darcy had memorised these locations the evening before, from a detailed local map, but for the 52nd regiment the key area was the reverse slope behind Hougoumont, for it was here, hidden from the advancing enemy, that they were encamped.
As they crossed another field, Darcy caught his first sight of their objective, a mass of tents looming out of the mist. He quivered with foreboding as they approached, and the reality of the situation hit home. The camp had been pitched near farm buildings at the foot of the slope, and included stores of food and weaponry, a field hospital, and improvised accommodation for camp followers.
They tethered their horses and walked to a cluster of tents, mounted side by side to enclose a large area. Inside, officers milled around talking, while others sat at folding tables writing messages. Colonel Fitzwilliam took an empty desk in a corner, and shifted two barrels for use as chairs.
‘Darce, I must leave now to confer with the Lieutenant General. For the next few hours we will probably be kicking our heels, so I suggest you look around, and introduce yourself to the surgeons and other duty officers.’
Darcy swallowed, reminded incongruously of his first day at Harrow.
To begin with, Darcy checked paperwork, which included names of the officers in the regiment and the men in each battalion. After the battle they would have to log the casualties, and prepare statistics for headquarters and letters for the families. He put the registers aside and walked to a hospital area where surgeons were setting out instruments amid stacks of blankets, stretchers, and bandaging.
Like the surgeons, Darcy wore a scarlet uniform with red piping; his cylindrical cap held a cockade—the black ribbon shaped into the wheel that marked medical staff. During the battle, his main duty was to organise convoys that would transport supplies to the dressing stations further up the ridge, and bring back wounded soldiers. He had not realised that these tasks would be left to an unofficial band of camp-followers, often wives and other relatives of the men. Another duty was to organise the transfer of seriously injured men to local villages or hospitals in Brussels; for this purpose, a motley collection of carriages and bullock carts was assembling beside the road, including some he had hired himself the previous day.
Strolling to the edge of the encampment he found a group out of uniform, mostly women, their small children running around the makeshift tents. One or two had set up stalls where soldiers queued to buy tobacco or brandy. Outside he spotted a man in gentleman’s attire, who was seated on a rock scribbling in a notebook.
‘Good morning.’ Darcy bowed and introduced himself. ‘I was co-opted at the last minute as an adjutant.’
‘James Herrick.’ The man slipped a pencil into the spine of the notebook. ‘I work for the Times of London. Have you news from the front?’
‘No. You?’
‘We had a report half an hour ago that Wellington is visiting our positions at the front, after staying up most of the night writing letters to other commanders. He is relying on the Prussians to protect our left flank, while the Dutch help us hold the right. The problem is whether the Prussians will arrive in time. Luckily Bonaparte is not yet marching. Our spies say he slept in a house three miles away, and is still there.’
‘I will leave you to your work.’
They nodded to one another and Darcy moved on.
Two hours later, Darcy was back at his desk when the artillery opened fire. He had met some of the officers, and accompanied one up a path to the nearest dressing station, even venturing to the crest of the ridge where they saw British infantry garrisoned inside the walls of the chateau of Hougoumont, and several lines of reinforcement behind. In the distance, in the clearing mist, he could just make out a vast mass of dark blue as the French armies began their advance.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned from headquarters with the news that the right and centre were now firm, allowing a retreat seawards if necessary, but the left flank would remain weak until the Prussians arrived. It was expected that Bonaparte would attack down the centre, so as to separate the British from the Prussians and control the main road into Brussels.
The explosions of cannon were shockingly loud, but still distant. The men remained calm, but a buzz went round when news came of a French advance towards the chateau. Darcy joined a group of officers discussing the significance of this move. Why attack Wellington’s right flank instead of the centre? Was it the main target, or was this a diversion?
There was a collective gasp as a thunderous roar came from nearby.
‘Our guns,’ Colonel Fitzwilliam shouted. ‘The French infantry must be in range.’
The deafening clatter continued, making it difficult to speak or even think. An officer grabbed Darcy’s arm.
‘Can you help? An overturned cart is blocking the path to the dressing station.’
‘Shall I go?’ Colonel Fitzwilliam shouted.
‘You are needed here,’ Darcy shouted back.
Darcy rounded up a dozen camp followers and rode ahead up the track. Just a hundred yards from the dressing station, a bullock cart had hit a deep rut in the mud and twisted on its side, spilling three wounded men who now lay at the verge. Two soldiers and a local driver had unyoked the ox, but were struggling to shift the cart. When Darcy added his weight, the cart moved a little, then fell back. He told them to save their energy, and attended to the men. All had musket wounds, roughly bandaged. One man with a head injury was unconscious; one had taken a ball in his ribs; the other, in his shoulder.
There were cries from below as camp followers joined them, and cheerfully swarmed around the cart. A massive heave not only righted the cart but nearly tipped it over the other way. The soldiers carefully reloaded their comrades, while Darcy inspected the rut which had caused the accident.
‘Stop!’ He ran down the hill, yelling at the retreating camp followers. ‘Come here!’
They trooped back, and he counted six men, two boys, and five women, one of them pregnant.
‘We must repair the path!’ He jumped over a ditch into the adjoi
ning field, and scooped up an armful of clay and stones from the border. ‘Pack the hole until it is level and firm.’
The boys caught on, and set to work with enthusiasm. Striding downhill, Darcy noticed other spots where the track would become impassable. They should have thought of this before! But there was still time. He snapped off posts from a rotting fence and dug them into the roadside to mark ruts that needed filling.
48
Sunday 18th June, 6.00 pm
Darcy stumbled into the officers’ tent, breathless from another sortie to the forward dressing station. He spotted his cousin buckling on his sabre and went to meet him.
‘News?’
‘The first and second waves have done their best. Now it’s our turn.’
‘What are your orders?’
‘The French have almost gained La Haye Sainte farmhouse and are advancing up the centre. We are to form squares ready to attack from the flank.’
Darcy slapped his arm lightly. ‘Good luck, cuz.’
‘You look dead beat. Get a drink and sit down.’
Darcy scooped a mug of tea from an urn and sat on the straw, leaning his back against a barrel. From the next tent came screams as surgeons performed their gruesome work. Attacks against Hougoumont had continued the whole day, yet miraculously it had held. On one occasion French infantry had broken through a gate into the courtyard, only to be trapped and cut down when British soldiers swarmed to the breach and re-secured it.
But the main battle had shifted to the centre. In early afternoon, a massive infantry attack up the Brussels road threatened La Haye Sainte. This was repulsed temporarily when British cavalry charged over the ridge and down the hill. But the French reformed, and responded two hours later with a cavalry charge of their own. Wave after wave attacked; the British could only defend and hope that the Prussians would get past the French in the east, and come to their aid.
Among the departing officers, the mood was sombre. Despite heroic resistance by the troops at the front, the battle was almost lost. During the next hour the French would probably overrun the British centre, after which there would be a rout.
There was no more news, but judging from the numbers of wounded, the fighting was still intense. Carts moved in convoys up and down the slope, and as the path dried out, fewer repairs to the road were needed.
‘Sir!’ Darcy saw the Times correspondent Mr Herrick approaching. ‘May I accompany you on this run?’
Darcy pointed to a pile of stretchers. ‘Give me a hand with these.’
The journalist pocketed his notebook and they finished loading the cart.
Darcy yelled, ‘Have you a horse?’
‘At the back.’
‘Catch us up.’
Darcy mounted, and rode ahead of the convoy to ensure the path was clear. At the dressing station, twenty men waited. Carefully he helped load three soldiers with grapeshot wounds.
Herrick arrived at his side. ‘Can we go further up?’
‘Too risky.’
Darcy was on the point of remounting when a woman ran screaming towards him. ‘Sir! Help!’
He recognised the pregnant wife who had helped repair the road. ‘What is it?’
‘My Harold.’ She pointed to the crest. ‘Hit by cannon. Left ’im at the top.’
Darcy called out to Herrick. ‘Here’s your chance!’
They grabbed a stretcher, and followed the woman along the border of a field. Half a mile to their left, above the farmhouse of La Haye Sainte, Darcy saw a British position apparently abandoned, only a handful of men still standing. Hundreds of bodies lay in the long grass, victims, he assumed, of French artillery.
He tasted bile, and thought for a moment he would be sick, but managed to choke it back and press on. They passed a clump of bushes, climbed a steep bank of rough grass, and suddenly the whole valley spread before them.
Herrick gasped as they looked down on Armageddon.
Peering through the smoke, Darcy strove to take in the scene. The French had taken La Haye Sainte and were climbing towards the abandoned ridge. Below him, west of Hougoumont, squares of British infantry were waiting.
‘They are ours!’ Herrick shouted. ‘The 52nd.’
Darcy looked again, but at this distance there would be no way of making out his cousin.
Herrick pointed past the chateau. ‘The French are deploying the Imperial Guard!’
There was firing on their left, and Darcy swivelled to witness an astonishing sight. In the field he had presumed abandoned, the bodies in the long grass suddenly came to life, leapt up, and discharged lethal fire into the French infantry cresting the ridge.
He grasped Herrick’s arm, and pointed. ‘Look!’
The French were retreating, taking heavy casualties as they stumbled in shock down the hill. Herrick glanced at the carnage, but pulled away, intent on the massed ranks in dark blue further back.
The French infantry attacking the ridge had reformed near the farm buildings, and Darcy switched his gaze to the Imperial Guard, which had veered west as if aiming to break through nearer the chateau.
‘My God, they’re coming our way!’ Herrick shouted.
Darcy turned, looking for the woman. ‘Let’s go!’
They spotted her waving frantically, having located her husband. Darcy sprinted across the ridge to her side, and with Herrick’s help lifted the man on to the stretcher. The ball had struck a glancing blow on the chest, leaving him with crushed ribs and probable damage to the lungs.
‘Name?’ Darcy asked, to check he was responsive.
‘Corporal Dunne.’ The wheezing voice was barely audible.
‘We’ll have you to a doctor in no time.’
With a final glance at the battlefield, Darcy saw the 52nd wheel round to approach the Guard on their flank, under cover of the trees around the chateau. Tearing himself away, he took the front of the stretcher, and with Herrick’s help hastened back to the dressing station.
The convoy had left. They set Corporal Dunne beside a regimental surgeon, who had a quick look at the wound and waved them down the slope.
‘Can you do nothing?’ Darcy demanded.
‘Surgery won’t help. Get him to a bed where his wife can look after him.’
It would be simplest to leave Dunne for the next convoy, but the thought of abandoning him to a bullock cart, where his broken ribs would be horribly jarred, was unbearable.
‘Shall we take him now, Mr Herrick? We can pick up the horses later.’
At the camp, duty officers were organising further transfers of the wounded to the village of Merbe Braine, where they would be attended by local doctors and women. Mrs Dunne, after running beside them all the way, bent over her husband while getting her breath back. His condition had worsened; he lay inert with his eyes closed, only the rise and fall of his chest signalling life. Darcy was about to leave when Mrs Dunne double-backed with a screech.
‘Oh my God! Me waters!’
Darcy stared at her. ‘Pardon?’
‘The babe, bless it. It’s coming.’
Darcy called out to a surgeon. ‘We have a lady here in childbirth.’
‘Too busy.’ The man pointed towards the area where the camp followers had set their tents. ‘Take her to the women.’
Darcy returned to Mrs Dunne. ‘Can you walk?’
‘I’m not leaving Harold.’
‘Stay here, with the women. We’ll take your husband to the village, and you can join him later.’
‘No. I’m coming with you!’
Darcy looked at Herrick, who had remained to observe the drama. Having left so many injured men at the field hospital, it was disproportionate to devote so much effort to this couple, yet he felt impelled to carry the task through.
‘Herrick! Let’s carry the corporal to a carriage at the back.’ Darcy looked at Mrs Dunne, and sighed. ‘All right. Come if you must.’
49
Monday 19th June
In the Duchesse de Beaufort’s parlour, Elizabeth
sat quietly beside Lorraine de Crécy. After staying up half the night talking they were subdued, and having breakfasted, there was nothing to do anyway but wait.
The previous day had been the most fearful of her life—worse even than abduction by the Carandinis. From mid-morning until evening, the rumble of cannon had been constant; if it could be heard 30 miles away, what must it be like on the battlefield? A note from Darcy confirmed that he would be helping behind the lines, and would send news as soon as possible. At church she met army wives also waiting and hoping; one had lost her brother at Quatre Bras and was anxious for her husband; others had arranged to flee Antwerp by boat.
Late on Sunday they had heard shouting in the streets as a report spread that the French had been forced back and routed. The Vicomte gave it little credence, pointing out that contrary rumours had been circulating all day.
Excited voices rang out from the hall, and the Duchess looked into the parlour. ‘Lorraine, Miss Bennet, please join us in the salon. Captain Marshall from the 52nd has called with a message for the Vicomte, and the news is good. Quickly now!’
Elizabeth’s heart jumped—they are safe, please let it be that they are safe—and she ran after Lorraine to the living room where a stocky red-coated young man was addressing the Viscount.
‘… seemed all was up,’ he was saying, ‘but as the Imperial Guard advanced to break through our centre, the Prussians arrived to defend our left flank, while the 52nd lined up on the other side and poured fire into the Guard. The Chasseurs resisted of course. It is said they have never retreated in their history. But eventually they ran, and our lads raced after them. On seeing this, the other French forces panicked and also scattered.’
‘Wonderful!’ The Vicomte clapped his hands. ‘And what of our friend Colonel Fitzwilliam?’
‘I heard he was at a village near Waterloo called Merbe Braine. Wounded, but should recover.’
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