The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  Napoleon was still for a moment. Despite what Grouchy said, the prospect of the destruction of Blücher was too alluring and too valuable to dismiss. ‘I will give General Pajol a little longer to confirm the location of the main body of Blücher’s army. If there is no definite sighting, then we shall move on Wellington. Breakfast is over, gentlemen. Marshal Grouchy, you and I will ride to your command. I wish to congratulate your men on their efforts yesterday, while we wait for word of Blücher.’

  For the next three hours Napoleon, Grouchy and a cavalry escort toured the battlefield. There were still thousands of bodies littering the ground about the villages where the fighting had been hardest. On the slopes lay the lines of the Prussian units torn to pieces by French artillery, and further up the scattered corpses of those who had been cut down by the cavalry charges with which the battle had concluded. Many of the French regiments had suffered grievously in the opening attacks, and Napoleon was careful to offer the survivors his praise, and hand out promotions and the promise of reward once the campaign was over. At his side, Grouchy did his best not to fret and surreptitiously checked his pocket watch whenever he could. Eventually he could bear it no more.

  ‘Sire, it is almost eleven, and no further word from Pajol. You must decide.’

  ‘Damn Pajol,’ Napoleon muttered. ‘What is he playing at? Why doesn’t he report?’

  ‘We have to assume he has not found the Prussians, sire.’ Grouchy leaned towards him and spoke in a low urgent tone.‘For pity’s sake, sire. We must act now.’

  Napoleon stared at him for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well. Take your men and pursue Blücher. Keep your sword in his back. Meanwhile I will use Ney and the reserve to deal with Wellington.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’ Grouchy bowed his head with a relieved expression. ‘I will set out at once.’

  Napoleon nodded his consent and then abruptly turned his horse back in the direction of headquarters and spurred it into a gallop. The decision was made and now he must strike at Wellington as swiftly as possible, before the Duke could retreat out of danger. He returned to Soult just long enough to give the order for the reserve to move on Quatre Bras and then rode towards the crossroads to join Marshal Ney and his men.

  The day was warm and the air quite still. To the east the sky was obscured by a dull haze. Directly above him only a handful of clouds floated serenely across the lush green of the Belgian countryside. Yet it was the very peacefulness that concerned Napoleon as he urged his mount on. There was no sound of cannon fire from the direction of Quatre Bras. If Wellington was still there then surely he should be hotly engaged by Ney’s forces?

  As the road crested a rise Napoleon saw the sprawling camp of the left wing of his army. There was no sign of any formation ready to advance and do battle. Ahead, astride the crossroads, he could see the thin red blocks of Wellington’s army, interspersed with artillery batteries as they stood ready to defend their position. Beyond, in the distance, he could see more columns, moving in the direction of Brussels. Napoleon felt his stomach knot in fury as he beheld the scene, and he dug his spurs in sharply as he galloped on.

  A mile later the road passed through an infantry regiment. The men were sitting quietly around their camp fires where pots of stew simmered, suspended beneath the iron cooking tripods. The pounding of hooves drew the attention of the closest men and they sprang to their feet as they recognised the Emperor, but the first cheers died in their throats as Napoleon reined in and shouted at them.‘What the hell is this? What are you doing here? To arms, you fools!You there!’ Napoleon thrust his finger towards the nearest sergeant.‘Find your colonel. You tell him the Emperor wants this regiment formed up and ready to march in ten minutes. If it isn’t I’ll have him shot. And pass the word on to other units!’

  ‘Yes, sire!’The sergeant saluted stiffly then turned to bellow orders to his men. Napoleon rode on, ignoring the other regiments he galloped through as he sought out Ney’s headquarters. By the time he reached the farm a mile south of the crossroads his mount was blown, and its flanks heaved like bellows as Napoleon climbed down from the saddle and walked stiffly to confront Marshal Ney.

  ‘Why are you not attacking the enemy?’ he snapped.

  Ney’s face flushed red, and he opened his mouth to respond angrily, but controlled his temper just enough to growl back,‘I have not had any fresh orders to attack, sire. Not since I sent you my report of yesterday’s action.’

  ‘Orders? You do not need orders when you can see for yourself the need for action!’ Napoleon clenched his hands tightly. ‘Dear God, Wellington is all that stands between us and victory and you sit here on your arse and give him every opportunity to escape. Are you mad, Ney?’

  ‘No, sire.’

  ‘Then you must be a fool.’ Before Ney could respond to the insult Napoleon continued bitterly,‘Form your men up to attack. We can only hope that we can still catch Wellington before he slips away. Get to it, Ney. There is not a moment to waste!’ Napoleon turned away from his marshal, and found that he was facing General d’Erlon.

  ‘France has been ruined,’ Napoleon said bitterly. ‘Go, General. Place yourself at the head of your cavalry and make ready to pursue the enemy’s rearguard.’

  It took nearly an hour for Ney’s forces to prepare for battle. In that time the haze had spread across the land and now dark clouds were closing up on the crossroads. The air felt hot and clammy and made Napoleon’s mood worse. He could only watch helplessly as, one by one, the regiments of Wellington’s line pulled back and joined the retreat.

  Quatre Bras, 2.30 p.m.

  ‘Looks like we’re in for quite a storm,’ Uxbridge commented as he looked up at the dark clouds edging overhead.

  Arthur nodded absent-mindedly. His attention was fixed on ground to the south of the crossroads. He had been expecting the French to renew their attack all morning, and yet nothing had happened. The army had started to withdraw towards Mont-St-Jean long before midday and now only the rearguard remained. Uxbridge’s cavalry, together with Mercer’s horse artillery and the rocket batteries, were all that stood between the crossroads and the enemy. At last, a few minutes earlier, he had heard the sound of bugles coming from the direction of the French and the men of the rearguard waited in tense expectation for first sight of the enemy.

  A sudden breeze had picked up, swirling through the heads of the remaining clumps of rye in the fields that had been trampled the day before. The wind was cool and refreshing after the close stillness of the morning and early afternoon. A shadow engulfed the rearguard’s position and swallowed them up in its gloom. Then Arthur felt the first drop of rain strike his cheek.

  ‘Now we’re for it,’ Uxbridge muttered. ‘Après ça, le déluge.’

  ‘Very funny,’ Arthur commented. ‘But I suspect we’re in for a storm of a different kind any minute.’ Half a mile to the south there was a rise in the land where the Prince of Orange’s brigade had been mauled. The ground there and beyond was still bathed in brilliant sunshine. As Arthur watched, a lone figure on a white horse galloped on to the rise and halted to survey the British position. The grey coat and bulky bicorne hat were unmistakable and he heard Uxbridge take a sharp breath beside him.

  ‘By God, that’s him!’ Uxbridge exclaimed. ‘That’s Boney.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Arthur replied, struck by the drama of the vision before him. The contrast in light made the French Emperor seem much closer than he really was. Arthur watched as Bonaparte scrutinised the rearguard and then looked, it seemed, directly at Arthur, though he knew he must be virtually indistinguishable from his men in the gloom. More horsemen appeared, in gold-embroidered uniforms, and halted just behind Bonaparte as they too surveyed the silent men defending the crossroads.

  ‘Your grace!’ a voice called out, and Arthur turned to see Captain Mercer waving a hand to attract his attention.

  ‘What is it?’

  Mercer pointed towards the distant horsemen. ‘I believe they might be in range for case shot,
your grace. May I have your permission to fire?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Uxbridge eagerly. ‘Strike him down and the war is as good as over.’

  Arthur stared at his enemy. Uxbridge was right. But there was the danger that Bonaparte’s death might well turn him into a martyr and provoke his men into a furious desire for revenge. He shook his head.

  ‘Save your powder to cover the retreat.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Do as I order, Captain!’

  Mercer turned away from his commander with a shrug and stared towards the enemy. Arthur was aware of a dull rumble and then he saw the flicker of red and white pennants as a squadron of enemy lancers appeared a short distance to the Emperor’s right. More lancers appeared, and then cuirassiers, as the rise filled with horsemen. At that moment there was a dazzling burst of white, followed instantly by a metallic crash of thunder, and the horses started in panic. Raindrops, small and hard like fowlshot, lashed down from the sky. The darkness abruptly engulfed the French cavalry and swept on as the storm burst over the countryside.

  Arthur cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘This will serve us well. Uxbridge, give the order to withdraw. Horse artillery first, then the rockets and then your cavalry.’

  ‘Yes, your grace.’

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ said Arthur. ‘Find me at Waterloo.’

  Tugging on his reins, Arthur turned his horse and urged it into a canter as he rode up to the crossroads and joined the road leading to Brussels. The rain was already pooling on the surface of the road and glistening amid the grass on either side. If the downpour continued for any length of time it would turn the ground into a muddy morass, Arthur realised. So much the better, as it would surely hinder any pursuit that the enemy attempted. The flat thuds of Mercer’s battery caused him to turn back one last time and a moment later the first of the rockets hissed through the storm and burst over the enemy cavalry. Arthur watched a moment longer, and then spurred his horse down the road to re-join his army.

  Chapter 59

  Le Caillou, 9.00 p.m., 17 June 1815

  The storm continued without let-up for the rest of the afternoon and on into the night, swiftly turning the surface of every road and track into thick mud that sucked at the boots, hooves and wheels of the Army of the North. Napoleon had continued his pursuit of the enemy at the head of Ney’s cavalry. The afternoon had been spent in a series of running skirmishes as the British mounted a staggered retreat to protect their guns, and slow down the French. As dusk fell, Napoleon had reached the farmhouse and called a brief halt while the long tail of his army struggled to catch up. When the first elements of the imperial headquarters arrived and started to prepare the Emperor’s quarters, Napoleon gathered some cavalry together and continued a short distance down the road. Ahead lay the dark mass of a low ridge. Napoleon squinted into the downpour and turned to the cavalry commander at his side.

  ‘Milhaud. It is imperative that we know if Wellington has halted for the night, or if he is using the cover of darkness to continue his retreat. Take your men forward and see what you can find.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’ General Milhaud saluted and then called out for his men to advance. Napoleon and his escort waited at the side of the road as the dark figures of the mounted column splashed by and disappeared into the night. There was no sound for nearly ten minutes, then all at once a bright flare of light appeared on the ridge, followed by the boom of a gun. More jets of flame stabbed out along a line bestriding the road and Napoleon nodded with grim satisfaction. Wellington was there all right. Close enough to be forced to stand his ground and fight in the morning. Napoleon turned his horse back and returned to the farmhouse. The headquarters servants were still preparing the accommodation, so he rested on some straw spread in a wide trough in one of the barns as he waited.

  His fury at Ney had hardly abated. The opportunity to force a battle on Wellington at the crossroads had been lost, and now the arrival of the storm had hampered the army’s attempt to close up on their enemy. The men were exhausted, and strung out along the road towards Quatre Bras. It would be many hours before they caught up with the vanguard, ready to continue the pursuit once the storm had passed.

  Napoleon knew that some measure of the blame attached to him as well. Too many hours had passed that morning before he had grasped the need to move on Wellington’s army. Exhaustion had played its part. He had not slept properly for many days and the normal heightened alertness of his mind was dulled. But there was something else, he mused. He had been so certain of his assumptions that Blücher had deserted his allies, and that Ney would have taken Quatre Bras. That was an error of judgement. The breathless speed with which he had recovered power in France, together with the hysterical joy that had greeted his return, had made him feel invulnerable and infallible. Today had been a rude reminder of a commander’s need to constantly adapt to circumstances.

  As soon as the farmhouse had been prepared for the Emperor and his staff, Napoleon summoned his senior officers. Over the next hour, the marshals and generals of division arrived, in drenched coats and splattered with mud. There was only one room in the farmhouse large enough to accommodate them all and most of the officers had to stand as they crowded about the Emperor, who was himself perched on a stool.

  ‘It is my intention to attack Wellington tomorrow. He has chosen the very worst of positions to defend. Behind him lies the forest of Soignes. If his army breaks, they will not be able to retreat and we shall annihilate them. The opportunity we lost earlier today will be set right.’ He shot a cool glance at Ney and the Marshal pursed his lips angrily. ‘It is therefore vital that as many of our men as possible are in place before dawn. I have no time for excuses, gentlemen. You will do whatever you must to ensure that your formations reach the field in time. Questions?’

  ‘Sire.’ D’Erlon raised his hand. ‘Will Grouchy be close enough to take part in the battle?’

  ‘I don’t know. I am still waiting for him to report his progress. We must assume that he will not reach us in time to intervene. That need not concern us. We are strong enough to carry the day.’

  ‘And what of the Prussians?’ asked Prince Jérôme. ‘There is a danger that they might intervene, sire.’

  ‘Not if Grouchy contains them. Besides, as far as we know, their line of retreat will take them away from Wellington. I think we can discount the prospect of the Prussians’ causing us any difficulties.’

  Jérôme shook his head. ‘I am not so certain, sire.’

  ‘Really?’ Napoleon raised his eyebrows as he looked at his younger brother. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Two hours ago I had a meal at an inn at Genappe. A waiter told me an interesting story. He claimed that Wellington and his staff ate there this afternoon. He overheard one of the staff officers say that Blücher was at Wavre, and that he might move to support Wellington tomorrow.’

  The other officers stirred at this news. Napoleon was silent until they settled down again. ‘I thank you for that intelligence, Jérôme. But let us wait for Grouchy’s report. Then we shall know for certain.’

  ‘What if the waiter was telling the truth, sire?’ Jérôme persisted.

  ‘I don’t see how Blücher can present any danger, as long as Grouchy is forcing him back, away from Wellington.’ Napoleon waved his hand dismissively. ‘Blücher is of no concern to us. All that matters is the army waiting for us at Mont-St-Jean.’

  Waterloo, 10.00 p.m.

  Colonel Frazer was standing stiffly before his commander in chief, trying not to show any expression as he endured the tirade.

  ‘It is bad enough having to contain the foolihardiness of my cavalry without my artillery blasting away at every shadow they see in the darkness,’ Arthur said bitterly.

  ‘Begging your pardon, your grace, but it wasn’t shadows my boys were shooting at. It was Frog cavalry.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn. It’s the job of the vedettes and the pickets to deal with such things. Not the damned artillery. Now Bonaparte knows whe
re your batteries are sited, thanks to your gunners’ overeagerness. I’ve a damned good mind to break every sergeant back to private over this, d’you hear?’ Arthur leaned across his table, bearing his weight on his knuckles, and tried to moderate his tone.‘Now then, Frazer, you will have to see to it that the guns are repositioned. Perhaps a little hard work in the rain and the mud might help to clear the heads of your men, eh?’

  ‘Yes, your grace. I’ll give the order at once.’

  ‘I’d rather you oversaw the repositioning in person.’

  ‘Yes, your grace. Will that be all?’

  Arthur nodded and his senior artillery officer turned smartly and marched to the door of the cottage. The sentry opened the door for him and Frazer disappeared into the rain. Once the door was closed, Arthur eased himself back down into his chair and gently rubbed his eyes. There was little doubt that Bonaparte knew that his army was in position on the ridge. Uxbridge’s cavalry patrols reported that more French troops were massing opposite the ridge with every passing hour. There was no question of further retreat. The position at Mont-St-Jean was the last decent defensive ground before Brussels, and there Arthur must stand and fight. His best hope was that Blücher would respond to his request and send some portion of his army to support Arthur. As yet there had been no answer.

  Le Caillou, 4.00 a.m., 18 June

  Napoleon stamped the mud from his boots as he handed the oilskin cape to a servant. He had just returned from a visit to his outposts to try to see if there was any sign that the enemy were withdrawing. The ridge was quiet and the sentries patrolling in front of the allied army were clearly visible against the dull hue of a multitude of camp fires burning on the reverse slope. Reassured that Wellington remained in position, Napoleon had returned to his headquarters. As he entered the dining room of the farmhouse Soult approached him.