‘We endured nothing like this in Spain, your grace,’ said Somerset as they watched the bombardment to their right. Even though the French guns were targeting the stretch of the ridge between the two strongpoints of Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte, occasional shot smacked into the slope or whirred through the air close to Arthur and his small party of staff officers. Once there was a dull roar behind them, and Arthur turned to see a column of smoke swirling into the sky from the shattered remains of a handful of ammunition wagons, now ablaze as several dazed figures around the wreckage rose to their feet and staggered away from the flames. Scores more men and horses lay on the ground, unmoving.
‘Lucky shot with a howitzer,’ one of Arthur’s aides muttered.
‘Lucky?’ Somerset snorted.
The officers turned their attention back to the furious bombardment. It seemed to Arthur as if it had reached a climax. He turned to look at the men of the nearest regiment, one of those composed of new recruits fresh from their training battalion in England. There was no mistaking the fear in their expressions. Arthur knew that they had to be moved back, before their spirit failed.
‘Somerset, pass the word. The centre of the line will retire a hundred paces.’
‘A hundred paces? Yes, your grace.’
The aide spurred his horse away and conveyed the order to every unit defending the ground under fire from the French guns. One by one the battalions stood up and formed ranks before turning about and pacing back down the reverse slope, out of sight of the French gunners. Within quarter of an hour the only men still visible to the enemy were the gun crews. Some of the batteries, overcome by the exasperation of enduring losses without responding, ignored Wellington’s order not to engage in counter-battery fire and had started to blaze away.
There was no time to ride over to the gunners and berate them, as at that moment Arthur realised that the enemy bombardment was slackening. The last few guns fired and then the French crews reloaded their guns and closed up to them to create as much space between each gun as possible. The reason for this was at once obvious to Arthur, who spurred his horse forward, down the reverse slope towards the infantry regiments sheltering there.
‘Prepare to receive cavalry! Infantry will form square!’
The order was relayed from battalion to battalion and each of the lines of infantry steadily manoeuvred into blocks, three ranks deep. The front rank knelt, each man resting the butt of his musket against a boot so that the bayonets angled out to present a bristling line of steel points on each face of the formation. Soon the reverse slope was covered in a patchwork of red rectangles, loosely staggered like elongated squares of a chessboard. Arthur and his staff took their place in the middle of a battalion close to the ridge, and waited. Above them the British artillery fired away at the advancing cavalry as long as they dared, then abandoned their guns and rushed for the shelter of the nearest square, throwing themselves flat beneath the outstretched bayonets. A handful of crews had the presence of mind to remove a wheel from their guns and run it down the slope with them, leaving their gun immobilised.
‘Here they come,’ Somerset muttered as the ground shook beneath the impact of four thousand cavalry ascending the forward slope. The sharp notes of bugles sounded an increase in pace and then the first of the enemy appeared on the ridge, wearing the crested helmets of dragoons. They came on, sweeping past the abandoned guns, their front extending for a thousand yards, charging towards the squares in a deadly wave of gleaming swords and deadly lance points.
‘Hold your ground!’ the colonel of the battalion bellowed to his men. ‘For England!’
Arthur watched a squadron of cuirassiers swing towards the square, their gleaming breastplates shimmering as their mounts stretched their necks and galloped down the gentle slope.
‘Fire!’ the colonel shouted and the view of the enemy was obliterated by smoke. Arthur heard the thud of the bullets impacting on horseflesh, and the clatter as they struck the cuirassiers’ breastplates. The smoke eddied away revealing horses and men strewn across the flattened crops.
‘Fire at will!’ the colonel ordered.
On all sides now the first volleys blazed out and enemy cavalry tumbled to the ground. Then they were in amongst the squares, flowing between the rows of bayonets, like a wave crashing against rocks and forced to channel its flow between immovable obstacles. The most fearless of the cavalry steered their mounts up to the lines of bayonets and then attempted to lean out and slash their blades down at one of the kneeling men. But, almost to a man, they were shot out of their saddles before they could strike.
As Arthur watched he nodded with satisfaction. His men were holding firm, and as long as they did, the French cavalry would be sacrificed to no purpose. The only anxiety Arthur had was that while his infantry was preoccupied, Bonaparte might be ordering up infantry and artillery to support the attack. If that happened then there was little that could be done to save the allied army. Threatened by cavalry they would be forced to remain in square, and thus provide perfect targets for the enemy’s cannon.
His train of thought was broken as one of his aides was thrown to the side by the impact of a bullet. With a groan the young officer fell from his saddle.
‘Get him to the dressing station!’ Somerset ordered a passing drummer boy, and the wounded officer was dragged away, towards the colours where the other members of the battalion’s band were treating the injured.
Some of the Frenchmen had realised the futility of trying to break into the squares and had sheathed their blades and taken out their horse pistols to fire at the infantry who had defied their initial charge. The last of the volleys had been fired and now the air was filled with a constant crackle as individual soldiers reloaded and fired. The smoke hanging over the squares was soon as dense as the thickest London fog and the enemy horsemen were little more than shadows. The bloom of muzzle flashes lit up the smoke all around, and above the sound of gunfire Arthur could hear the desperate cries of officers of both sides encouraging their men, as well as the cries of the wounded and the terrified whinnies of crippled horses.
For fully twenty minutes the enemy cavalry attempted to break into the squares, but each time one of Wellington’s men fell the body was dragged inside the square and the gap closed up and the formation remained as impregnable as before. Then Arthur was aware that the fire was fading away, and a voice cried out,‘They’re going! The Frogs are on the run, boys!’
A cheer went up, and spread from square to square. Arthur gestured to his staff to follow and trotted out of the square that had sheltered him, the infantry moving aside to let him by. He cupped a hand to his mouth and called out, ‘Gunners to your pieces!’
Passing out of the smoke, he rode forward a short distance to gauge the situation. A handful of the enemy were still retreating over the ridge, and those who had lost their mounts struggled across the churned field, hampered by their heavy boots and cumbersome breastplates. Hundreds more were sprawled on the ground with their mounts, many writhing feebly as they groaned. The artillery crews paid them no attention as they dashed forward and manned the waiting guns. Not one of the guns appeared to have been spiked, Arthur noticed in surprise. A foolish oversight on the part of the enemy, and one for which they would pay dearly. He headed across the slope to join the battery of Captain Sandham. His nine-pounders and howitzer were in action as Arthur rode up and acknowledged his salute.
‘Pound ’em, Sandham.’
‘I will, your grace,’ the captain grinned.
Two hundred yards away, the French officers were struggling to rally their troops and Arthur recognised Marshal Ney wildly haranguing the men before him. Suddenly the marshal’s horse lurched as a roundshot smashed into its neck. The animal collapsed beneath Ney, but as Arthur watched he calmly rose from his saddle and strode a few paces to the nearest horse, took its reins and ordered the rider to get down. Once in the saddle of his new mount Ney continued his impassioned address.
‘They’re coming
again!’ Mercer yelled.
‘Get back to the squares,’ Arthur ordered. ‘You too, Somerset.’
Sandham’s crews fired their last rounds and made off. Arthur waited a moment longer, then reached for his telescope and trained it on smoke rising up from a village away to the east, no more than two miles from where he stood. There was fighting there, and there could be only one explanation for it - the first of the Prussians had reached the battlefield. A French bugle sounded the advance and Arthur snapped his telescope shut and turned Copenhagen back towards the squares dimly visible in the slowly dissipating smoke.
The next charge suffered the same fate as the first and then the attacks became piecemeal as each enemy regiment broke off, rallied and came back again. During the intervals between the attacks, the French artillery opened fire and the shot arced over the ridge before plunging into the densely packed squares, causing far more casualties than the cavalry attacks. Arthur rode from square to square to show his presence and encourage his men.
‘Heads up, lads, they will not break us! . . . Just a while longer, now . . . The Prussians are coming!’
The men took heart from his words and shouted their scorn at the enemy as they returned again and again, stopping their tired mounts within pistol range and hurriedly discharging their weapons before trotting away to reload. As the smoke cleared before the face of one of his squares Arthur saw a French officer standing by one of the abandoned guns venting his enraged frustration by raining frenzied sword blows on its barrel.
At length Ney must have realised the futility of attacking without the proper support. Shortly before six o’clock the sound of drums was heard on the reverse slope and Arthur muttered to Somerset, ‘This is what I feared. Come, we must act at once!’ He galloped over to the brigades commanded by General Maitland and General Pack and pointed towards the right of the line, the ridge above Hougoumont.
‘I need your fellows there at once. They are to form line.’
‘Line, your grace?’ Maitland looked anxious. ‘With cavalry present?’
‘It’s not cavalry that is the danger now. Lead your men forward directly.’
The two brigades doubled across the slope as the gun crews hurried back to their weapons and reloaded with canister. From the crest of the ridge Arthur was not surprised to see that the enemy cavalry had pulled back to allow their infantry to advance. They came on as before, in dense formations that quickly fell prey to the allied guns raking the slope with canister, and those that approached the ridge were suddenly caught in the flank by the volleys of the two brigades that had been ordered forward. Leaving hundreds of their comrades strewn amid the bodies of horses and riders left from the cavalry attacks, the rest fell back towards the French lines.
Arthur took stock of the situation. His squares, though unbroken, had suffered heavy casualties from the enemy’s artillery. The battalions of his Dutch allies were badly shaken and their officers and sergeants now stood to the rear ready to pounce on any man who fell out of line and thrust him back into position. Already one of his cavalry units, the Cumberland hussars, composed of inexperienced gentlemen, had turned away and was disappearing in the direction of Brussels.
‘We’ll not survive another such attack,’ Arthur muttered soberly. ‘In any case, look there.’
He pointed towards La Haye Sainte and his aides followed the direction indicated. A handful of men, the survivors of the garrison, were trotting back towards the ridge above the farmhouse. Emerging from the buildings behind them came the first of the French soldiers, cheering as they fired shots at their retreating enemy. The men of the King’s German Legion did not stop to fire back.
‘They’re running for it,’ an aide said coldly.
‘Their ammunition must be exhausted,’ Somerset suggested. ‘They had to quit the farmhouse, or die there.’
‘It might have been better if they did,’ Arthur responded. ‘Anything to delay Bonaparte.’
The officers were silent for a moment as they watched a figure appear on the roof of La Haye Sainte’s stables, waving a tricolour from side to side in triumph. As Arthur stared at the fallen strongpoint, and the French forces gathering behind it, he knew that Bonaparte was preparing for one last assault on the allied line. Arthur’s reserves had been thrown into the battle. The men that remained had been under fire since noon.
‘What shall we do, your grace?’ asked Somerset. ‘Shall I order a fresh brigade to retake La Haye Sainte?’
‘Yes, we must do that. It will be a bloody business but we can’t afford to lose the farmhouse. If it remains in French hands then all we can do is hold the ridge, or die where we stand.’
‘If we fail to retake it, what are your orders?’
‘There are no more orders,’ Arthur replied flatly. He stared towards the east where the first gloom of dusk was gathering on the horizon, partially obscured by the smoke of battle from the direction of the village of Plancenoit.‘The night must come,’ he said softly.‘Or Blücher.’
Chapter 63
La Belle Alliance, 6.30 p.m.
‘Ney has taken the farmhouse!’ Soult exclaimed. ‘Sire, we have La Haye Sainte. Look.’
Soult pointed to the French flag waving above the barn. Ney had already ordered some guns forward and they had begun to scourge the redcoats on the crest of the ridge, less than three hundred paces away. Soult held out Ney’s scribbled report. ‘He asks for reinforcements, sire. Wellington is beaten. One more attack and the day is ours, he says.’
‘Ney says so?’ Napoleon sneered. The ground around the farmhouse was carpeted with French bodies, as was the slope between the farmhouse and the end of the walled garden of Hougoumont. ‘The proof of Marshal Ney’s wisdom lies there for all to see. He has squandered our entire force of cavalry on his useless attacks. And then thrown Foy’s division away. So you’ll understand why I might begin to question the good marshal’s judgement.’
Soult looked across the valley to the ridge, where spouts of earth leaped into the air as more of the French guns resumed their fire on the allied line. ‘Perhaps Ney is right this time, sire. He needs more men.’
‘More men?’ Napoleon threw his hands up bitterly. ‘Where do you expect me to get them from? Do you want me to make some?’
Soult closed his mouth and looked down, enduring his master’s wrath.
‘Ney has undone us. Just as he did at Jena. Besides, we have other matters to deal with.’ Napoleon turned to the map table and indicated the eastern half of the battlefield. Lobau’s corps had attacked the head of the Prussian column and been forced to fall back, giving up the village of Plancenoit. Napoleon had immediately sent in the Young Guard to drive the Prussians out. Shortly before Ney had taken the farmhouse, news arrived that Plancenoit was once more in Prussian hands, no more than a thousand paces from the road to Charleroi. Unless Blücher’s soldiers could be halted, there was a danger that the Army of the North would be surrounded. Only the six battalions of the Middle Guard and eight of the Old Guard, eight thousand men in all, remained in the army’s reserve.
‘We must stop the Prussians first,’ Napoleon announced. ‘Keep two battalions of the Guard back as a final reserve. Send the rest to form a line in front of Plancenoit. Have them form square in case the Prussians send cavalry forward. Then order two battalions of the Old Guard to retake the village.’
‘Two battalions?’ Soult shook his head. ‘Duhesme estimated that there were over ten battalions facing him at the village.’
‘That may be, but two is all I can spare. They know what is at stake and they will do their duty. See to it.’
Soult nodded reluctantly and dictated the order to one of his aides. As the officer rode off, down the road beside which the finest soldiers of the army stood waiting, Napoleon examined the map again. The recapture of Plancenoit would give him a reprieve only. If it was done, then there might still be time to beat Wellington. If he was routed then the remnants of the French army could wheel east and hold the Prussians at bay while
Grouchy marched on their rear during the night. Napoleon felt a nervous sickness in his stomach at the great peril that threatened to engulf him. He tried to thrust it from his mind, turning away from the map and clenching his hands together behind his back as he stared towards Plancenoit.
Within half an hour of the order the sound of firing from the village intensified and Napoleon and his staff waited anxiously for news of the outcome. They were not kept long as one of Duhesme’s officers came galloping up. He reined in and bowed his head to Napoleon.‘Sire, I have the honour to report that the Old Guard have driven the Prussians back. Plancenoit is back in our hands.’
‘Very well.’ Napoleon turned to Soult. ‘Recall the reserves and have them formed up to the right of the inn. We have one last chance to finish Welligton. There.’ He pointed to the ridge, where the cavalry had charged earlier. The artillery that Ney had brought forward had annihilated two brigades of Dutch troops sent forward to retake the farmhouse of La Haye Sainte, and were now tearing into the nearest British formations.
‘Order every available man forward,’ Napoleon ordered. ‘Turn every gun on to the enemy.’
The weary men of d’Erlon’s corps and those of General Reille who had rallied to their standards cheered the nine battalions of the Guard that had been ordered to advance. With drums beating the veterans stepped out proudly, the grenadiers in their tall bearskins leading the way, while four batteries of horse guns followed the formation. Napoleon strode to his horse and a groom helped him up into the saddle. Taking the reins he spurred his mount into a trot and made his way down the road before cutting across to take up position ahead of the Guard. His heart filled with a defiant pride as he approached the bottom of the vale and began the approach to the ridge.
The Fields of Death Page 70