Hew Halkett was brought up in support of the Brunswickers on Maitland’s right; Du Plat was formed on the slope behind Hougoumont; and Adam’s brigade, forming line four deep, came up to fill the interval between the Brunswickers and Hougoumont. The brigade was met by the Duke in person, who pointed to the cloud of skirmishers assailing the left flank of the Guards defending the orchard, and briefly ordered them to: ‘Drive those fellows away!’
The artillery fire, which was mowing the ranks down, ceased, and the men, lying on the ground, were again ordered to form squares. The cavalry came riding over the crest as before, but this time it was seen that a considerable portion of their force was kept in compact order, and took no part in the attempt to break through the infantry squares. These horsemen were evidently formed to attack the Allied cavalry, but no sooner had the previous confusion of squadrons splitting and obliquing to right and left been repeated than the Allied cavalry, not waiting to be attacked, advanced to meet them and again drove them over the crest and down the slope.
The same tactics were repeated time after time, but with the same lack of success. The men forming the squares grew to welcome the cavalry attacks as a relief from the terrible cannonading that filled the intervals between them.
The Duke, who seemed to be everywhere at once, generally riding far ahead of the cortège that still galloped devotedly after him, was pale and abstracted, but gave no other sign of anxiety than the frequent sliding in and out of its socket of his telescope. If he saw a square wavering, he threw himself into it, regardless of all entreaties not to risk his life, and rallied it by the very fact of his presence.
‘Never mind! We’ll win this battle yet!’ he said, and his men believed him, and breathed more freely when they caught a glimpse of that low cocked hat and the cold eyes and bony nose beneath it. They did not love him, for he did not love them, but there was not a man serving under him who had not complete confidence in him.
‘Hard pounding, this, gentlemen,’ he said, when the cannonade was at its fiercest. ‘Let’s see who will pound the longest.’
When the foreign diplomats remonstrated with him, he said bluntly: ‘My Army and I know each other exactly, gentlemen. The men will do for me what they will do for no one else.’
Lord Uxbridge led two squadrons of the Household Brigade against a large body of cavalry advancing to attack the squares, and although he could not drive it back, he managed to hold it in check. Major Lloyd fell, mortally wounded, beside his battery. Sometimes the cuirassiers succeeded in cutting men off from the angles of the squares, but before they could escape to the rear, staff officers galloped after them and got them back to their positions. At times, the squares, growing smaller as the men fell in them, were lost to sight in the sea of horsemen all round them.
Between four and five o’clock, convinced at last that no flanking attack was contemplated on his right, the Duke sent to order Baron Chassé up from Braine-l’Alleud.
Staff officers were looking anxious; artillerymen, seeing little but masses of enemy cavalry swarming all over the position, waited in momentary expectation of receiving the order to retreat. The heat on the plateau was fast becoming unbearable. Reserves brought up from the rear felt themselves to be marching into a gigantic oven, and young soldiers, hearing for the first time the peculiar hum that filled the air, stared about them fearfully through the smoke, flinching as the shots hissed pass their heads, and asked nervously: ‘What makes that humming noise like bees?’
Colonel Audley, riding back from an errand to the right wing, had his second horse killed under him close to a troop of horse artillery, drawn up in the interval between two Brunswick squares, in a slight hollow below the brow of the position, north of Hougoumont. He sprang clear, but heard a voice call out: ‘Hi! Don’t mask my guns! Anything I can do for you, sir?’
‘You can give me a horse!’ replied the Colonel, trying to recover his breath. He looked into a lean, humorous face, shaded by the jut of a black, crested helmet, and asked: ‘Who are you?’
‘G Troop—Colonel Dickson’s, under the command of Captain Mercer—at your service!’
‘Oh yes! I know.’ The Colonel’s eyes travelled past him to a veritable bank of dead cuirassiers and horses, not twenty paces in front of his guns. He gave an awed whistle. ‘Good God!’
‘Yes, we’re having pretty hot work of it here,’ replied Mercer. A shell came whizzing over the crest, and fell in the mud not far from his troop, and lay there, its fuse spitting and hissing. He broke off to admonish his men, some of whom had flung themselves down on the ground. The shell burst at last, without, doing much damage; and the nonchalant Captain turned back to Colonel Audley, resuming, as though only a minor interruption had occurred: ‘—pretty hot work of it here. We wait till those steel-clad gentry come over the rise, and then we give ’em a dose of roundshot with a case over it. Terrible effect it has. I’ve seen a whole front rank come down from the effects of the case.’
‘Do you mean that you stand by your guns throughout?’
‘Take a look at those squares, sir,’ recommended Mercer, jerking his head towards the Brunswickers, who were lying on the ground to the right and left of his rear. ‘You can’t, at the moment, but if you care to wait you’ll see them form squares, huddled together like sheep. If we scuttled for safety among them, they’d break and run. They’re only children—not one above eighteen, I’ll swear. Gives ’em confidence to see us here.’
‘You’re a damned brave man!’ said the Colonel, taking the bridle of the trooper which a driver had led up.
‘Oh, we don’t give a button for the cavalry!’ replied Mercer. ‘The worst is this infernal cannonading. It plays the devil with us. We’ve been pestered by skirmishers, too, which is damned nuisance. Only way I can stop my fellows wasting their charges on them is to parade up and down the bank in front of my guns. That’s nervous work, if you like!’
‘I imagine it might be,’ said the Colonel, with a grin. ‘Don’t get your troop cut up too much, or his lordship won’t be pleased.’
‘The artillery won’t get any of the credit for this day’s work in any case, so what’s the odds?’ Mercer replied. ‘Fraser knows what we’re about. He was here a short time ago, very much upset from burying poor Ramsay.’
The Colonel had one foot in the stirrup, but he paused and said sharply: ‘Is Ramsay dead?’
‘Fraser buried him on the field not half an hour ago. Bolton’s gone too, I believe. Was Norman Ramsay a friend of yours, sir? Pride of our service, you know.’
‘Yes,’ replied Audley curtly, and hoisted himself into the saddle, wincing a little from the pain of his wounded thigh. ‘I must push on before your steel-clad gentry come up again. Good luck to you!’
‘The same to you, sir, and you’d better hurry. Cannonade’s slackening.’
The pause following the third onset of the cavalry was of longer duration than those which had preceded it. Ney had sent for reinforcements, and was reassembling his squadrons. To Milhaud’s and Lefebvre-Desnouttes’ original forty-three squadrons were now added both Kellermann’s divisions and thirteen squadrons of Count Guyot’s dragoons and Grenadiers à Cheval, making a grand total of seventy-seven squadrons. Not a foot of the ground, a third of a mile in width, lying between Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte, could be seen for the glittering mass of horsemen that covered it. It was an array to strike terror into the bravest heart. They advanced in columns of squadrons: gigantic carabiniers in white with gold breastplates; dragoons wearing tiger-skin helmets under their brass casques, and carrying long guns at their saddlebows; grenadiers in imperial blue, with towering bearskin shakos; steel-fronted cuirassiers; gay chasseurs; and white-plumed lancers, riding under the flutter of their own pennons. They did not advance with the brilliant dash of the British brigades, but at a purposeful trot. As they approached the Allied position the earth seemed to shake under them, and the sound of the horses’ hooves was like dull thunder, swelling in volume. Fifteen thousand of Napoleon’
s proudest horsemen were sent against the Allied infantry squares, to break through the Duke’s hard-held centre. They came over the crest in wave upon wave; riding up in the teeth of the guns until the entire plateau was a turbulent sea of bright, shifting colours, tossing plumes, and gleaming sabres. The fallen men and horses encumbering the ground hampered their advance, and once again the musketry fire from the front faces of the squares caused the squadrons to swerve off to right and left. Lancers, grenadiers, dragoons jostled one another in the press, their formation lost; but the tide swept on up to the second line of squares, and surrounded them. Some of the cavalry pushed right down the slope to the artillery wagons in the rear, and slew the drivers and horses, but though men were dropping all the time in the squares, the gaps were instantly filled, and when a square became disordered, the sharp command: ‘Close up!’ was obeyed before the Calvary could take advantage of the momentary confusion. For three-quarters of an hour the squares were almost swamped by the overwhelming hordes that pressed up to them, fell back again before the fire of the muskets, and rode round and round, striking with swords and sabres at the bayonets, discharging carbines, and making isolated dashes at the corners of the squares.
The French were driven off the plateau, when in hopeless confusion, by the charge of the Allied cavalry, but they retreated only to re-form. The cannonading burst forth again, and the sorely tried infantry, deafened by the roar of artillery, many of them wounded and all of them worn out by the grim struggle to keep their ranks closed, lay down on the torn ground, each man wondering in his heart what would be the end.
When the squadrons came over the crest again, Colonel Audley was nearly caught among them. He was mounted on his last horse, the Earl of Worth’s Rufus, and owed his preservation to the hunter’s pace. He snatched out his sword when he saw the cavalry bearing down upon him, threw off a lance by his right side, and clapping his spurs into Rufus’s flanks, galloped for his life. One of Maitland’s squares opened its files to receive them, and he rode into the middle of it and the files closed behind him.
‘Hallo, Audley!’ drawled a tall Major, who was having sticking-plaster put on a sabre cut. ‘That was a near thing, wasn’t it?’
‘Too damned near for my taste!’ replied Audley, sliding out of the saddle and looping Rufus’s bridge over his arm. He eased his wounded leg, with a grimace. ‘See anything of the Duke, Stuart?’
‘Not quite lately. He went off towards the Brunswickers, I think. Some of those fellows seem to revel in this sort of thing.’
‘The younger ones don’t like it.’
The surgeon, having finished his work on the Major’s arm, bustled away, and the Major, drawing his tunic on again, said, with a grave look: ‘What do you make of it?’
Audley returned the look. ‘Pretty black.’
The Major nodded. He buttoned up his coat, and said: ‘We don’t see much of it here, you know. Nothing but smoke and this damned cavalry. One of the artillery fellows who took cover in our square during the last charge said he thought it was all over with us.’
‘Not it! We shall win through!’
‘Oh, not a doubt! But damme, if ever I saw anything like this cavalry affair! Look at them, riding round and round! Makes you feel giddy to watch them.’ He glanced round the square, and sighed. ‘God, my poor regiment!’ He saw a slight stir taking place in one of the ranks, and hurried off towards the wall of red shouting: ‘Close up, there! Stand fast, my lads! We’ll soon have them over the hill!’
The inside of the square was like a hospital, with wounded men lying all over the ground among the ammunition boxes and the débris of accoutrements. Those of the doctors attached to the regiment who had not gone to the rear were busy with bandages and sticking plaster, but there was very little they could do to ease the sufferings of the worse cases. From time to time, a man fell in the ranks, and crawled between the legs of his comrades into the square. The dead lay among the living, some with limbs twisted in a last agony, and sightless eyes glaring up at the chasing clouds; others as though asleep, their eyelids mercifully closed, and their heads pillowed on their arms.
Almost at Audley’s feet, a boy lay in a sticky pool of his own blood. He looked very young; there was a faint smile on his dead lips, and one hand lay palm upwards on the ground, the fingers curling inwards in an oddly pathetic gesture. Audley was looking down at him when he heard his name feebly called. He turned his head and saw Lord Harry Alastair not far from him, lying on the ground, propped up by knapsacks.
He stepped over the dead boy at his feet, and went to Harry, and dropped on his knee beside him. ‘Harry! Are you badly hurt?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think I can be,’ Harry replied, with the ghost of a smile. ‘Only I don’t seem able to move my legs. As a matter of fact, I can’t feel anything below my waist.’
The Colonel had seen death too many times not recognise it now in Harry’s drawn face and clouding eyes. He took one of the boy’s hands and held it, saying gently: ‘That’s famous. We must get you to the rear as soon as these hordes of cavalry have drawn off.’
‘I’m so tired!’ Harry said, with a long sigh. ‘Is George safe?’
‘I hope so. I don’t really know, old fellow.’
‘Give him my love, if you see him.’ He closed his eyes, but opened them again after a minute or two, and said: ‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. The worst fight I ever was in.’
‘Well, I’m glad I was in it, anyway. To tell you the truth, I haven’t liked it as much as I thought I should. It’s seeing one’s friends go, one after the other, and being so hellish frightened oneself.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you think we can hold out, Charles?’
‘Yes, of course we can, and we will.’
‘By Jove, it’ll be grand if we beat Boney after all!’ Harry said drowsily. A doctor bent over a man lying beside him. The Colonel said urgently: ‘Can’t you get this boy to the rear when the cavalry draws off again?’
A cursory glance was cast at Harry. ‘Waste of time,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve enough on my hands with those I can save.’
The Colonel said no more. Harry seemed to be dropping asleep. Audley stayed holding his hand, but looked up at a mounted officer of the Royal Staff Corps who was standing close by. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Our cavalry’s coming up. By God, in the very nick of time too! I think Grant must have brought back his fellows from the Nivelles road. Yes, by Jove, those are the 13th Light Dragoons! Oh, well done! Go at them, you devils, go at them!’
His excitement seemed to rouse Harry. He opened his eyes, and said faintly: ‘Are we winning?’
‘Yes, Grant’s brigade is driving the French off the plateau.’
‘Oh, splendid!’ He smiled. ‘I say, you won’t be able to call me a Johnny Newcome any longer, will you?’
‘No, that I shan’t.’
Harry relapsed into silence. Outside the dogged square Grant’s light dragoons had formed, and charged the confused mass of French cavalry, hurling it back from the plateau and pursuing it right the way down the slope to the low ground near the orchard of Hougoumont. In a short while, the plateau, which had seethed with steel helmets, copper crests, towering white plumes, and heavy bearskin shakos, was swept bare of all but Allied troops, mounds of French dead and wounded, and riderless horses, some of them wandering aimlessly about with blood streaming from their wounds, some neighing piteously from the ground where they lay, others quietly cropping the trampled grass.
The Colonel bent over Lord Harry. ‘I must go, Harry.’
‘Must you?’ Harry’s voice was growing fainter. ‘I wish you could stay. I don’t feel quite the thing, you know.’
‘I can’t stay. God knows I would, but I must get back to the Duke.’
‘Of course. I was forgetting. I shall see you later, I daresay.’
‘Yes, later,’ the Colonel said, a little unsteadily. ‘Goodbye, old fellow!’ He presse
d Harry’s hand, laid it gently down, and rose to his feet. His horse stood waiting, snorting uneasily. He mounted, saluted Harry, who raised a wavering hand in return, and rode away to find the Duke.
Twenty-Four
The cavalry attacks were abating at last, but under cover of them renewed attempts were being made on La Haye Sainte. Again and again Major Baring sent to his brigade demanding more ammunition. One wagon never reached the farm; another was found to contain cartridges belonging to the Baker rifles used by the 95th, which were of the wrong calibre for the German rifles.
Colonel Audley arrived at the centre, immediately west of the Charleroi chaussée, in time to witness Uxbridge leading the gallant remnant of the Household Brigade against a column of French infantry, covered by cavalry, advancing upon the farm. Their numbers were so diminished that they could make little impression, and were forced to retire. Uxbridge, his hussar dress spattered with mud and soaked with sweat, went flying past to bring up Trip’s Carabiniers, a powerful body of heavy cavalry, nine squadrons strong, who were drawn up behind Kielmansegg’s brigade. He placed himself at their head, gave them the order to charge, and rode forward, only to be stopped by Horace Seymour snatching at his bridle and bellowing: ‘They don’t follow you, sir!’
Uxbridge checked, and rode back, ordering the reluctant Carabiniers with a flood of eloquence to follow the example of the shattered Household Brigade. Nothing could avail, however: the squadrons would not attend to him, but began to retire, seeping a part of the 3rd Hussars of the legion before them. Old Arendtschildt’s voice could be heard above the bursting shells, raised in a fury of invective; the German hussars, scattered by the sheer weight of the Carabiniers, were only restrained from engaging with their Dutch allies by the exertions of their officers, who rode among them, calling them to order, and re-forming them as the Carabiniers passed through to the rear. The stolid Germans, roused to rage by their forced rout, rallied, and charged down upon the French about La Haye Sainte. They were driven back by the cuirassiers supporting the infantry column; and the Hanoverian regiment, the Cumberland Hussars, which had been brought up, began to retire. Captain Seymour, despatched by Uxbridge to stop this retreat, thundered down upon them, a giant of a man on a huge charger, and grabbed at the commanding officer’s bridle, roaring at them to get his men together, and bring them up again. The Hanoverian colonel, who seemed dead to all feeling of shame, replied in a confused way that he could not trust his men: they were appalled by the repulse of the Household Troops; their horses were their own property; he did not think they would risk them in a charge against such overwhelming odds. He almost cringed under the menace of the English giant who loomed over him, pouring insults on his head, but he would do nothing to stop the retreat. Seymour abandoning him, appealed to his next in command to supersede him, to any officer who had courage enough to rally his troops and lead them to the charge. It was useless: he galloped back to his chief, reporting failure.
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