The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  Quatre Bras, 3.00 p.m.

  The Prince of Orange greeted Arthur and Somerset with a cheery wave as they galloped up to his line. The ‘Young Frog’, as he was known to Arthur’s officers thanks to his bulging eyes and thick lips, had drawn his two brigades up on a rise half a mile in front of the crossroads. The rolling land surrounding Quatre Bras, and the high crops of rye, obscured the view of the allied troops, and that of the French to the south. So far it had worked in the allies’ favour, as the enemy could not have realised how few men stood before them. Otherwise, Arthur realised, they would have swept the two Dutch brigades aside.

  ‘My dear Duke!’ The Prince grinned. ‘A pleasure to see you, sir.’

  ‘And you too, your highness.’ Arthur touched the brim of his hat. ‘What is the situation here?’

  ‘Calm enough. The French had left us alone until an hour or so ago. Then we heard their drums. Since then, they have contented themselves with sending forward some skirmishers to take those farms.’The Prince turned and indicated two small clusters of buildings to the south. ‘They’re also fighting my light infantry in the woods, to our right there.’

  As Arthur and Somerset followed the direction indicated a fresh crackle of muffled musket fire sounded from the trees. In the distance the dull thunder of artillery at Ligny could be heard. The Prince cocked his head towards the east.‘I take it that Marshal Blücher has engaged the enemy?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Arthur agreed. ‘I spoke to him less than two hours ago, just as the battle began. Unless we are attacked first, it is my intention to march the army to his support.’

  ‘Bravo!’The Prince nodded. ‘The Corsican pig will soon be on the run, eh?’

  ‘That is my fervent hope, your highness. But first we must secure control of the crossroads.’

  They were interrupted by a fresh exchange of musket fire in the woods, far closer this time. Figures emerged from the treeline, running back towards the Prince of Orange’s position. Some had lost their hats, and others had abandoned their muskets. They disappeared into the rye and only the swirls of the tall stalks marked their passage. Behind them came the first of the French skirmishers, advancing out of the woods towards the right of the Dutch brigade. To the south, approaching through more of the crops, Arthur could make out another line of skirmishers, and behind them a shimmering mass of bayonets. A moment later the crested helmets of cuirassiers appeared to the left, working their way towards the vital Namur road that linked the two allied armies.

  ‘We are in some difficulty, your grace,’ said Somerset as he watched the enemy approach.

  ‘I have eyes,’ Arthur snapped. He turned in his saddle and stared up the road leading to Brussels. A British column was approaching, at its head the unmistakable figure of General Picton in his black coat and top hat, looking for all the world like an undertaker. ‘Ride to Picton. Tell him to send one of his officers back down the road. He is to tell every formation he encounters that they must march for Quatre Bras as swiftly as they can!’

  Without waiting to salute, Somerset spurred his horse into a gallop and raced towards the oncoming British soldiers. By the time he had returned to his commander Arthur was watching the steady progress of the French as they emerged from the wood and began to drive back the Dutch brigade on the right. On the left the French cavalry were forming a line to charge. Arthur could see the first of the Dutch troops beginning to waver as they saw the danger. Some of the men began to step back, disordering the line, and then the first abruptly turned and ran, dropping his musket and then wriggling out of the straps of his backpack as he fled. Arthur glanced back to see that Picton’s leading regiment, the Ninety-second, Highlanders, were deploying into a line a few hundred yards behind the Prince of Orange’s position. More regiments were advancing to extend the line, and over to the left another column, in the black uniforms of the Brunswickers, was striking out towards the left, to support the wavering Dutch.

  ‘This is going to be a close fight,’ Arthur muttered.

  ‘Oh, you need not worry, sir,’ the Prince of Orange responded cheerfully. ‘My men will stand their ground.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  The shrill cry of bugles sounded and an instant later the French cavalry advanced, crushing the rye stalks under them as they closed on the Dutch brigade. A few shots rang out as a handful of men were too nervous to wait for the order to fire, then more followed, and a long ragged volley consumed the Dutch soldiers in a bank of powder smoke. For a moment they could not see the approaching cavalry, but they could hear them well enough and feel the vibration of hooves through the ground beneath their boots. It proved too much for the inexperienced soldiers and the brigade broke, streaming back towards the crossroads.

  The French bugles sounded the charge and the cuirassiers let out a roar as they spurred their big horses on. They swept through the dispersing smoke, swords and breastplates gleaming in the sunlight, and then slashed left and right as they cut down the fleeing Dutch soldiers. A short distance beyond, Arthur saw the Brunswickers halt and try to deploy, but they were thrown into confusion as the Dutch rushed amongst them, swiftly followed by the French cavalry, and then the Brunswickers were fleeing as well.

  ‘Your grace!’ Somerset shouted a warning and pointed as one of the cuirassier squadrons began its charge down the length of the remaining Dutch brigade. Arthur saw the danger and called to the Prince of Orange. ‘Your highness, follow me!’

  The three officers turned their mounts and spurred them down the rise towards the line formed by Picton’s division. The remaining Dutch troops, caught between the infantry emerging from the wood and the cavalry charging their flank, turned and ran. The air was filled with the sound of horses’ screams and the irregular pop of muskets as Arthur urged his mount on. Ahead lay the Highlanders, two deep, front rank kneeling as they advanced their bayonets to receive the cavalry charge. With an icy stab of realisation, Arthur saw that he and the others were in immediate danger of being impaled on those bayonets.

  Cupping his hand to his mouth he bellowed as loudly as he could, ‘Ninety-second! Lie down!’

  Even though the order was not in the manual, the nearest men had sufficient presence of mind to throw themselves flat, and the horses of the three officers leaped over the Highlanders. As Arthur reined in and turned his mount round the men rose to their feet to face the oncoming cuirassiers.

  ‘Hold your fire until I give the order!’Arthur shouted, ignoring Picton’s angry expression at his commander’s presumption. ‘Wait . . .Wait . . .’

  The men held their muskets tightly into their shoulders, stilling their breath in anticipation. The enemy, having cut down the Dutch, now pounded on towards the redcoats, so close that their savage expressions were clearly visible. At no more than thirty yards Arthur shouted the order. ‘Fire!’

  The volley crashed out and from the saddle Arthur saw the leading Frenchmen and their mounts pitch forward in a tangle of arms, legs and horseflesh. Those behind had to swerve aside or rein in and the impetus of the charge was broken. A second volley cut down another score of cuirassiers and then they turned and cantered away, back towards the rise where the Dutch brigades had once stood.

  Arthur glanced round and saw that the arrival of fresh troops had stabilised the allies’ position and the French cavalry were in retreat. But already another danger was evident as the first French guns unlimbered to his front. Within fifteen minutes the first cannon balls were pounding the allied line.

  For the next two hours the French made several more attacks. But all the time more allied units and guns were arriving from the direction of Brussels and gradually the battle swung in Arthur’s favour. In the approaching dusk the allied line pressed forward, retaking the ridge and farmhouses while the light infantry cleared the French skirmishers out of the woods. As night fell the final shots were fired and then the battlefield was quiet, save for the groans and cries of the wounded.

  While more formations continued to arrive, including his headqua
rters staff, Arthur was growing increasingly concerned by the lack of news from Ligny. The last report from the Prussian headquarters, received at five o’clock, had informed him that Blücher’s men were holding their positions.

  ‘In that case,’ Arthur told his aide, ‘we shall be in an advantageous position tomorrow. Once we combine with Blücher we are sure to overwhelm the enemy.’

  ‘Assuming Blücher has held them off.’

  ‘Of course. But we must be certain.’ Arthur called over one of his staff officers. ‘Colonel Gordon! Over here, if you please!’

  The colonel trotted over as Arthur mentally composed his orders before he spoke. ‘You have a fresh horse?’

  ‘Yes, your grace.’

  ‘Then I want you to ride to Marshal Blücher’s headquarters at Sombreffe, north of Ligny. Tell him that we have the crossroads and by dawn the army will be here in sufficient strength to march to join him. Also, I would appreciate a report on his engagement today.’

  ‘Yes, your grace.’

  ‘Then off you go. You may find me here when you return.’

  Colonel Gordon disappeared into the night, galloping along the road to Sombreffe, and Arthur stretched his shoulders for a moment before settling down by one of the camp fires of the Ninety-second to await his return. The long hours of the night passed without incident as more soldiers arrived at the crossroads and were led to their positions by staff officers. At first Arthur’s spirits were high. It had been touch and go the previous afternoon, but his men had bested the enemy. Even if Blücher had not won at Ligny, he would be near enough for the armies to combine in the coming day. However, there was no sign of Gordon during the night, and as the first light appeared on the horizon a building sense of foreboding began to gnaw at Arthur’s heart. The sun rose, bathing the rolling landscape in a warm rosy hue. From the south came the faint sounds of trumpets as the French stirred, but there was no attempt to renew the previous day’s fighting.

  Finally, at half past seven, Colonel Gordon returned. His horse was blown, its bridle covered in foam, and Gordon’s face looked gaunt as he dismounted and strode up towards Arthur.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘If you please, your grace, might we speak out of earshot of the others?’

  Arthur frowned, but paced a short distance away from the headquarters staff, who exchanged a mixture of curious and anxious expressions.

  ‘Blücher was defeated yesterday, your grace.’ Gordon spoke softly. ‘Many of his formations were routed. The rest were forced to retreat.’

  ‘I see.’ Arthur felt his heart sink as he digested the news. ‘Then I take it he is no longer at Sombreffe.’

  ‘No, your grace. He has pulled his army back to Wavre. That’s why it took me so long to find them.’

  ‘Wavre?’ Arthur was momentarily stunned. ‘But that’s nearly twenty miles from here. By God, we are undone,’ he continued in a hushed tone as the full implication of the news struck home. Blücher was powerless to intervene if the French attacked Arthur’s army at Quatre Bras. Taking a deep breath, Arthur patted Gordon on the shoulder. ‘My thanks to you. I suppose in England they will say we have been licked. I can’t help it; as the Prussians have gone back, we must go too.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Find yourself some refreshment. But first, send General Müffling to me.’

  ‘Yes, your grace.’

  While he waited for the Prussian liaison officer Arthur glanced to the south and east, as if expecting to see the leading formations of the French army already advancing to attack him and seal their victory.

  Müffling came up, hurriedly fastening his jacket buttons. ‘You sent for me?’

  ‘Yes. It seems that your countrymen were defeated yesterday.’

  The Prussian’s jaw sagged in dismay. ‘I had not heard.’

  ‘That is because we were not told,’ Arthur responded coldly.‘Blücher has retreated to Wavre. Yes, Wavre. More than a day’s march from here. And his chief of staff did not think to inform us of his reverse at Ligny. For what reason, I wonder? A suspicious mind might conclude that we had been left here, unaware, in order to cover the Prussian retreat.’

  Müffling froze and then shook his head.‘That is an ignoble suggestion, your grace.’

  ‘Perhaps. And if I am mistaken, then I apologise,’ Arthur replied flatly. ‘But the fact remains, my army is in an exposed position. I will have to withdraw. I want you to ride to Blücher at once. Tell him that I will fall back to a position parallel with his at Wavre.’ Arthur closed his eyes and imagined the map of the surrounding landscape. He nodded. ‘Tell Blücher I will make my stand at Mont-St-Jean, if he can promise me the support of at least one of his army corps.’

  ‘Mont-St-Jean?’

  ‘The ridge across the road to Brussels. Just before the village of Waterloo.’

  ‘I know it.’

  Arthur clasped his hand. ‘If I am defeated by Bonaparte then I fear that England may never forgive Prussia. In that event the coalition will fail, and the shadow of Bonaparte will descend upon Europe once again.’

  Müffling nodded.‘I understand. I will do whatever I can to persuade Marshal Blücher.’

  Chapter 58

  Ligny, 7.00 a.m., 17 June 1815

  Napoleon was at breakfast when the first report came in from General Pajol. He had taken his cavalry forward at first light to scout for the Prussians and discover in which direction they had retreated. Pajol’s officer informed the Emperor that a large body of the Prussians had been spotted on the road to Liège. There were signs that some more of the enemy had headed in the direction of Wavre, but Napoleon dismissed that. If Blücher was retreating, then he would be sure to fall back on his supply lines and make for Liège.

  Napoleon nodded with satisfaction as he dismissed the messenger and turned his attention back to his breakfast. He had been joined by Grouchy, Soult and some of the headquarters officers. Despite heavy losses, the victory of the previous day had left the Emperor in a good mood, and his subordinates were grateful for that.

  ‘All is proceeding according to plan,’ Napoleon declared as he cut into a rasher of bacon. ‘The Prussians are on the run, and Ney controls the crossroads at Quatre Bras. Wellington and his rabble will be withdrawing towards Brussels.’ He popped a large piece of meat into his mouth, chewed quickly and swallowed. ‘We have driven the enemy apart and it only remains to complete their destruction.’ He smiled at his officers. ‘This may go down in history as the swiftest campaign I have ever fought. Think on that, gentlemen. In years to come you will be sure to tell the tale to your grandchildren, eh?’

  Soult and some of the others chuckled, but Grouchy’s expression remained sombre.

  ‘What is it, Grouchy?’ Napoleon frowned. ‘Why the long face?’

  ‘Sire, we should have launched our pursuit of Blücher last night. If we had, then his army would have been scattered. As it is, we have lost contact with the Prussians. They could be anywhere. Rallying even as as we sit here and eat.’

  ‘You heard the report. Pajol saw them on the road to Liège.’

  ‘He saw some Prussians. They could be deserters. I’m not convinced that our cavalry have located the main body of the Prussian army. Sire, we have to find them.’

  A fresh knock at the door interrupted Grouchy. A junior officer entered and handed a slip of paper to Soult. The chief of staff read through it quickly and then cleared his throat. ‘From Ney, sire.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He, er, says that he was not able to complete the capture of the crossroads yesterday. Wellington is still holding the position.’

  Napoleon lowered his knife and fork and licked his lips as he considered this new information. What was Wellington playing at? He must know that his ally had been heavily defeated.

  Soult leaned forward with an excited gleam in his eyes. ‘Sire, the reserve could reach Quarte Bras in a matter of hours. If Ney can pin Wellington to the crossroads, then we can force him to give battle.’

  ‘Wellington will not f
ight. He will retreat. In fact, I would be surprised if he had not already abandoned the position. He is not so foolish as to try to remain there now that Blücher cannot support him.’ Napoleon drummed his fingers lightly on the table as he considered the situation. Then he looked up. ‘As I see it, there are two possible courses of action. First, we leave Ney to keep Wellington occupied, and press on with the rest of the army to find Blücher and complete the destruction of his army. Second, Grouchy pursues Blücher with the right wing of the army, while Ney and the reserve take on Wellington. What are your thoughts?’

  His officers were silent for a moment and then Soult spoke up. ‘Sire, as we have lost contact with the Prussians any pursuit that we mount now entails the risk of marching in the wrong direction. If Blücher is making for Liège and we follow him, then we will have to extend our supply lines. If Wellington manages to elude Ney then he could cut our communications.’

  ‘If. If. If!’ Napoleon shook his head and continued acidly.‘Thank you for your advice, Soult.’

  ‘Soult is right to point out uncertainties, sire,’ said Grouchy. ‘We should have remained in contact with the Prussians and destroyed them at the second attempt. Now it is too late. We know where Wellington is, so we must strike at him, as soon as possible.’

  Napoleon was angered by the slight on his judgement, yet there was truth in Grouchy’s words. It made sense to fall on Wellington. Yet there were other considerations. ‘Wellington’s army is still intact, whereas Blücher’s is battered and in retreat. Blücher was always the bigger threat. If the Prussians are annihilated then we will only have to face the weaker of the two allied armies.’ Napoleon stared at Grouchy.

  Grouchy gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath before he responded as calmly as he could. ‘You are right, of course, sire. But the longer we spend looking for Blücher, the greater his chance to rally his troops and co-ordinate his efforts with Wellington. Whatever we do, we must do it quickly.’