Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
The Fields of Death (94 page)
Soult exchanged a worried look with the other staff officers gathered about the map. One of them swallowed and asked, ‘Could it be Grouchy? Marching to the sound of the guns?’
Napoleon shook his head. The distant column was coming from the direction of Wavre. ‘Prussians. There is no doubt about it.’
There was a brief silence as the staff officers digested the information and then Soult raised his telescope towards the distant woods and spoke quietly. ‘I can see more columns, sire.’
Napoleon stroked his chin. ‘The Prussians are still two hours’ march from the battlefield. They cannot support Wellington for a while yet. There is time enough to win the day.’
‘And what of Grouchy, sire?’ asked Soult. ‘Shall I send for him?’
‘By all means.’ Napoleon shrugged, as he considered the last known position of Grouchy’s thirty thousand men: advancing towards Wavre from the south.‘Though I fear that he is too far away to intervene, even if he were to wheel towards us at once.’
Nevertheless Soult hurriedly wrote the order and thrust it into the hand of one of his aides. ‘There. Take that to Marshal Grouchy. Tell him that the fate of France in is the balance.’
As the officer swung himself up into his saddle and spurred away Napoleon sighed. ‘The fate of France will be decided by those who are already on the field, Soult.’ Turning his attention back to the ridge in front of the French battle line Napoleon pointed to the stretch of the slope to the right of the Brussels road.‘We cannot delay the main attack any longer. Soult, tell d’Erlon to prepare his corps to advance. It is time to see if these Englishmen you are so afraid of can really stand before our columns.’
Chapter 61
The Ridge of Mont-St-Jean, 1.30 p.m.
The massed guns of the French had been firing for the last half-hour, tearing up the hedge that ran along the road stretching across the ridge. The British skirmishers had lain down and pressed themselves into the earth as roundshot whirred overhead and canister hissed through the rye stalks like a sudden squall. Just in front of the ridge, spread out in line across the slope, were the Dutch soldiers of Bylandt’s brigade. Arthur had not ordered them to withdraw to the reverse slope for fear that Bonaparte might think that the allied centre was retreating, cut short his bombardment and order his infantry forward. The brigade would have to be sacrificed to buy time. Word had reached Arthur that the Prussians had been sighted, but would not reach the battlefield for some hours yet. Arthur’s heart was heavy as he watched the Dutchmen stand their ground and endure terrible punishment as the French guns tore bloody gaps in their ranks again and again.
Beside him, Somerset watched the sickening slaughter and turned to his commander. ‘Your grace, I beg you, allow me to recall Bylandt.’
‘No. They must stand and take it.’
Somerset shook his head. ‘They will not endure it much longer. No men could.’
‘They must. We must snatch at every chance for delay, until Blücher arrives.’
The French fire began to slacken and in less than a minute the last of the guns had fallen silent.
‘What now?’ Somerset wondered. ‘Cavalry or infantry?’
His question was answered by the faint rattle of drums. Arthur trotted forward towards the large elm tree that grew close to the junction of the Brussels highway and the lesser road running across the ridge. Below, perhaps six hundred yards away, a dense bank of powder smoke obscured the French on the other side of the valley. The surviving British skirmishers were cautiously rising to their feet and peering into the smoke. Behind them the remains of Bylandt’s brigade closed up and advanced ten paces to clear the shattered bodies and limbs of their fallen comrades.
Arthur strained his eyes, trying to penetrate the smoke as the sounds of the French drums drew closer. Then he saw the first of them, dim figures edging through the smoke as the skirmishers advanced ahead of the main columns. As they emerged into clear sight Arthur saw that the line stretched from in front of La Haye Sainte to his right for over half a mile across the battlefield towards the farmhouses of La Haie and Papelotte on the left.
‘This is no feint, Somerset,’ Arthur decided.‘They mean to break our centre at one stroke. From the frontage, I would think Bonaparte is sending three divisions against us.’ He looked to his left, where the men of Picton’s division were standing in battalion columns on the reverse slope. ‘Three to our one. Not good odds.’
‘If Picton breaks, then the enemy will cut our army in two, your grace.’
Arthur nodded, and then gestured towards the cavalry reserve. ‘Ride to Uxbridge. He is to order his cavalry to make ready to charge.’
Somerset wheeled his horse and galloped away and Arthur turned back towards the enemy. There was a steady crackle of muskets as the skirmishers began their one-sided duel. The outnumbered British fired and fell back before the onslaught. Here and there, a red-coated figure was struck down and stumbled out of sight. The French columns continued their inexorable advance: one great mass of men who toiled up the muddy slope towards the ridge. They continued to emerge from the smoke, rank after rank, seemingly without end, and Arthur gazed upon the spectacle with a cold heart. It was a magnificent sight, he thought, more than ten thousand men boldly advancing to do battle. Magnificent, but those fine regiments must be destroyed.
The British artillery crews on the ridge took aim on the French line and opened fire, over the heads of the skirmishers, so that the roundshot plunged down amid the rear ranks, sweeping away files of ten or fifteen men at a time. The air was filled with the crash of cannon and the concussion shook the very air about Arthur. As he sat in his saddle and watched, the allied officers recalled their skirmishers and the men trotted back up to the ridge and through the gaps in the hedge to re-join their regiments. Only Bylandt’s brigade stood before the oncoming mass. The persistent rattle of the drums was accompanied by the cries of the French officers as they urged their men on, and the soldiers cheered for their Emperor in a deafening roar.
The British guns were now firing canister directly into the face of the columns, felling groups of men in an instant, but the gaps closed up and they continued forward relentlessly. At fifty paces, Bylandt gave the order for his men to make ready. Their muskets came up and a moment later the order to fire was lost in the crash of their volley. Directly before them the leading rank shimmered under the impact and men crumpled to the ground. Those following quickened their pace, but before they could close the distance the Dutch troops, shaken by the terrible losses they had already endured, gave way, falling back through the hedge. Their officers did their best to rally them on the far side, and for a moment most of them stayed with their colours and began to reload. There was no attempt to fire a volley and individual soldiers shot at the enemy as soon as their muskets were ready, then turned and fled after their comrades.
Arthur ignored them as they ran past his position. A moment later the last of the gun crews in front of the oncoming columns discharged their cannon and trotted back to safety through the gaps between the regiments of Picton’s division.
Somerset had passed the orders on to Uxbridge and came galloping back to his commander’s side. ‘Your grace! You must move back; the French are almost upon us.’
Arthur nodded and turned Copenhagen away, and the two riders trotted towards the rear of Picton’s division. A hundred yards away Picton spied his commander and raised his top hat in greeting before turning his attention to his men and bellowing an order to his Highlanders. ‘The Ninety-second will advance! All in front of you have given way. Be brave, my boys! Forward!’ He drew his sword and waved it above his head.
The leading ranks of the French columns had reached the hedge and now some of the battalions halted to fire, while others pressed through the hedge and halted a short distance the other side. Arthur could not help holding his breath as the French muskets came up and a voice called out, ‘
Tirez!
’
Tirez!
’
Flashes lit up the line and the volley tore through the Highlanders running forward to engage the enemy. As scores of kilted figures tumbled down, the line staggered and almost came to a halt. Picton spurred his horse forward and called to his officers. ‘Rally! Rally the Highlanders!’
At that moment his head snapped backwards. His fingers spasmed and the blade fell to the ground. As the horse trotted on, Picton slumped to one side and fell from his saddle, rolled across the trampled grass and lay still.
‘Good God,’ Arthur muttered. ‘Poor Picton.’
A groan passed through the ranks as they became aware of their commander’s death, and then the Highlanders let out an angry roar and plunged towards the waiting French. It was a valiant charge, but Arthur knew that the weight of numbers was on the enemy’s side and that Picton’s men could not hold the centre of the allied line unaided.
From behind came the call of a trumpet, three blasts ending in a long, higher pitch, again and again. Uxbridge had ordered his heavy cavalry to attack. Two brigades edged forward. There was too little space to launch into a gallop and they could only trot through the gaps in Picton’s division as the infantry hurriedly closed up to let the horsemen by, cheering their mounted comrades on. The horsemen cantered forward, into the massed ranks of the French infantry, hacking and slashing with their heavy blades. For a moment the enemy’s nerve held, but as more British cavalry flowed round their flanks and loomed above them like giants in the thick smoke, their courage left them. The leading ranks turned and pressed into those behind, desperate to escape the swishing sword blades, and the panic communicated itself through the entire formation in moments. Thousands of infantry turned back down the slope and ran, desperately wriggling out of their cumbersome packs as they sought to escape.
‘By God, that was well timed!’ Somerset said as he rose up in his saddle and cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Ride, men! Ride! Run ’em into the ground!’
Arthur turned to frown at him, about to tell his subordinate to show some restraint, when he caught sight of Uxbridge dashing past, sword drawn and urging his men on at the top of his voice. Then Uxbridge’s’s mount leaped a low stretch of hedge and thundered down the slope in pursuit of the enemy.
On the ridge the battered lines of Picton’s division re-formed their line and Arthur let out a low sigh. The centre had survived the first great test of the battle.
La Belle Alliance, 2.30 p.m.
Napoleon stared in silence at the fleeing mass, borne towards him like confetti. Surging forward through the fleeing figures were the riders of Wellington’s cavalry, closing up on the line of cannon stretching across the middle of the battlefield. The gunners dared not fire for fear of slaughtering their own men and could only watch in dread as the danger swept down the slope towards them. As the first of the British horsemen reached the guns some of the crews tried to defend themselves, using ramrods, handspikes and short swords. It was a brief, unequal struggle and the gunners were quickly driven away from their cannon, hurrying back to find shelter amid the limbers and under caissons. The horsemen pursued them, sabreing any man who came within reach. They also slashed at the tendons of the draught horses to disable them, and the helpless animals collapsed in their traces, whinnying in agony and terror.
Around the Emperor, his staff officers watched the cavalry charge aghast. Only a short time earlier, it had seemed that nothing could stop d’Erlon’s corps from smashing its way through the heart of the allied army. Now all three divisions were scattered and the slope was covered with thousands of bodies.
‘Sire, what are your orders?’ asked Soult. ‘Should we move the headquarters to safety?’
‘There is no need,’ Napoleon said wearily. ‘The counter-stroke is already under way. Look there.’ He gestured to their right where General Jacquinot’s cavalry had emerged from the broken ground on the east of the battlefield. The force was made up of cuirassiers and lancers and they swiftly deployed to charge into the flank of the British cavalry, many of whom were still engrossed in the destruction of d’Erlon’s men and the artillery train behind the grand battery, and so carried away by their exuberant spirits that they failed to realise the danger, or respond to the desperate recall signal sounding from the top of the ridge.
When his men were ready, Jacquinot led the charge himself, steadily building the pace until he unleashed his cavalry a short distance from the enemy. The charge crashed through the British horsemen, who were cut down as they struggled to meet the attack. Their horses were blown, and many who gave up the fight and turned back towards the ridge to try to escape were overtaken and killed.
Napoleon watched with grim satisfaction as his cavalry avenged their comrades, riding down and killing one enemy after another and leaving their bodies in the mud alongside those of d’Erlon’s men. Both sides had suffered a bloody reverse, Napoleon reflected, but the allies still held the ridge, as well as the strongpoints that lay before it.
‘We can only win this battle if we break Wellington’s centre,’ he announced. He looked towards Hougoumont, shrouded by smoke, not all of which was caused by the furious exchange of musket fire. A billowing column was rising into the sky from amongst the buildings, and flames glittered along the roof of a barn. With luck the fire might spread and force the defenders to fall back. That left the smaller farmhouse of La Haye Sainte, directly in front of Wellington’s centre. Napoleon had observed the withering fire that had been poured into the flank of d’Erlon’s division by the defenders of the farm. Clearly, La Haye Sainte must be taken, if any attack on the ridge was to have a chance of success. He turned to Soult.
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