The Fields of Death r-4, page 68
part #4 of Revolution Series
They returned the greeting and touched the brims of their hats in salute. A figure at the rear of the press of officers edged his mount through and Arthur saw that it was General Mьffling. He trotted forward to Arthur’s side.
‘Sir, I have been looking for you this last half-hour. I have received a message from Marshal Blьcher, sent at seven this morning.’
Arthur composed himself before he responded. ‘Well?’
‘He promises to support you with at least two corps of his army. And he will lead them in person.’
Arthur felt a lightness of spirit fill his heart and he allowed himself a faint smile as he spoke to Mьffling. ‘I thank you, my friend. That is the very best of news.’
Arthur tugged on the reins and Copenhagen, his favourite mount, edged round to face the enemy, less than a mile away. As he surveyed the French, clearly massing for a frontal attack, Arthur realised quite how small the battlefield was. No more than three miles by two, within which the best part of two hundred thousand men were preparing to contest the ground. The French were manhandling the last of their guns into position, in the middle of their battle line.
‘There’s Napoleon, your grace,’ a voice called out.
Arthur glanced to his side. ‘I’ll thank you not to get carried away by your enthusiasm, de Lancey.’
His young quartermaster-general flushed. ‘I apologise, your grace.’ Arthur turned to gaze across the vale separating the two armies. Napoleon was clear to see, mounted once more on his snow-white horse, and escorted by a squadron of Polish lancers. As he made his way steadily between the massed formations of infantry his soldiers cheered wildly, some raising their shakos up in the air on the end of their muskets.
‘They put on quite a show,’ Uxbridge mused. ‘Doubt we’ll ever get the damned battle started at this rate.’
Arthur said nothing as he continued to watch his opponent. He was quite content for the French to waste time. Every minute that passed bought more time for Blьcher’s soldiers to reach the battlefield. Bonaparte seemed wholly unconcerned by the passage of time as he paraded through the formations of his army for the best part of an hour before returning to his command post beside the Brussels road. A few minutes later a signal gun boomed from close by the Emperor’s position.
There was a faint click as Somerset opened his fob watch. ‘I make it close on eleven thirty, your grace.’
Arthur nodded. ‘Note it down.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The battle has begun, gentlemen. To your positions!’
Before the sound of his last words had faded the air was split by a terrible roar as the massed batteries of French artillery opened fire.
Chapter 60
A mixture of shot and canister rained down on the allied positions and from his command post Arthur could gauge that the enemy’s fire was concentrated on the flanks of his army. Hougoumont in particular was being subjected to a pounding. Branches and leaves leaped from the small wood and the orchard that lay to the south and east of the chateau. Roof tiles exploded into fragments as a handful of French guns aimed too high. Through his telescope Arthur could see that the men defending the walled orchard had crouched down to take shelter from the bombardment. Even so, an occasional shot would smash a hole in the wall, sending lethal fragments of brick and flint flying through the air.
On either side of Arthur the allied guns were firing back at the enemy. The artillery was under strict orders not to engage in any counter-battery fire, and took aim on the massed formations of infantry and cavalry instead. As he had chosen to follow his usual tactic of keeping the bulk of his army on the reverse slope, Arthur knew that the French guns would not be the greatest danger on this day. The real test would come when Bonaparte launched his foot and horse against the allied line.
Even though the main weight of the French artillery was battering the flanks, the rest of the line was still being subjected to fire. The skirmishers were scattered amid the pale green corn and wheat across the allied front, rising to take aim and fire at their opposite numbers before ducking down again to reload. Every so often the crops around them would swirl as a ball, or a blast of canister, cut through the stalks, and one or more of Arthur’s men would be plucked from sight as they fell.
The drone of a shot passing close overhead caused some of his staff officers to flinch and Arthur looked round. ‘Steady, gentlemen.’
Glancing to his right he saw that one of his regiments, the Fifty-first Foot, was closer to the crest than was healthy, and even as he watched a roundshot hit the ground just in front of the flank company, smashing two men to bits as it bounced on.
‘Somerset, order that regiment to lie down.’
‘Yes, your grace.’
As Somerset galloped off, Arthur saw that his staff officers, over forty in all, were clustered together behind him. ‘Uxbridge, it strikes me that our generals are rather too thick on the ground.’
Uxbridge nodded. ‘I’m sure we make a tempting target.’
Turning Copenhagen, Arthur cupped a hand to his mouth to address his officers. ‘I’d be obliged if you gentlemen would disperse. I will ride to you if you are needed.’
As the staff broke off into smaller groups Arthur saw that more regiments were following the example of the Fifty-first and going to ground, where they would be far less exposed to enemy fire. Turning his attention back to the situation around Hougoumont, he could see a French division forming up in front of the woods, ready to attack the moment their artillery ceased bombarding the chateau and its walled garden. Once the French infantry moved forward the allied guns on the ridge would be unable to fire on them for fear of hitting their own men.
The enemy artillery fire on Hougoumont gradually began to slacken and when the last of the guns ceased fire there was a brief pause before the French drums began to roll, beating an insistent rhythm, signalling the advance. The leading battalions of the division positioned in front of the chateau’s woods began to pace forward.
‘There are too few men defending Hougoumont, your grace,’ said Somerset. ‘They should be reinforced.’
Arthur shook his head. ‘They are adequate for the task.’
Somerset shot him an anxious look but Arthur did not react, and fixed his attention on the action beginning down the slope. The leading French formations disappeared from sight as they entered the trees and an uneven crackle of musketry followed as the British skirmishers fell back towards the chateau. A moment later the first of the enemy reached the garden wall and began to clamber over. The defenders, spread thinly along the wall, did their best to hold the perimeter, but were forced to give way as the French climbed over, or scrambled through the gaps smashed through the wall by artillery fire. The blue-coated attackers quickly spread out across the gardens and approached the chateau and its outbuildings. Sparks of fire and puffs of smoke erupted from windows and loopholes as the defenders opened fire on the French infantry pressing in from two sides.
The enemy had reached the chateau more quickly than Arthur had anticipated and he feared that Somerset might be right. Nudging his spurs in, he trotted over to the commander of a battery of howitzers of the Royal Horse Artillery that stood limbered up and ready to move.
‘Major Bull, isn’t it?’
The battery commander saluted. ‘Yes, your grace.’
‘I need the services of your battery. Follow me.’ Arthur turned and trotted down the slope towards the chateau. Bull and his howitzers followed, the gun carriages rumbling over the ground. Arthur drew up a hundred yards from the chateau. From the far side the din of the desperate struggle filled the air. ‘Have your howitzers fire over the chateau. We must take the pressure off the defenders. But be sure to get the range right, Major.’
‘Yes, your grace. I understand.’
Arthur watched as Bull’s men swiftly unlimbered the howitzers and loaded the fused iron spheres into the stubby barrels. Bull carefully ensured that each gun’s elevation was adjusted so that the shells’ trajectories would clear the chateau by a safe distance. The battery opened fire and Arthur looked up to follow the faint smears of the sputtering shells as they arced over the chateau towards the wood beyond, bursting amid the branches and blasting the attackers with small iron shards.
‘Very good,’ Arthur called out to Major Bull. ‘Remain here to support the chateau as long as you can.’ He turned and galloped back up to his vantage point to watch the attack. Hundreds of French soldiers were crowded about the chateau and its walled courtyard, but as far as Arthur could see, none had succeeded in gaining entry. The relentless fire from the defenders was cutting the enemy down in droves and bodies steadily piled up around the building. Further back, those still in the woods were being savaged by the howitzer shells. The attack raged for ten more minutes before Arthur saw the enemy begin to fall back, fading into the trees before they retreated over the field beyond the wood. The firing in the chateau ceased and a moment later Bull’s battery followed suit.
Arthur nodded with satisfaction. ‘First blood to us, I think.’
La Belle Alliance, 1.00 p.m.
‘What is Prince Jйrфme doing?’ Napoleon snapped as he watched fresh troops advancing towards Hougoumont from a second division. ‘He is only supposed to be making a feint against the chateau. He was supposed to force Wellington to draw on his reserves, not me.’
‘Sire, do you wish to order the Prince to cease his attack?’
Napoleon watched as the fresh wave began to enter the woods. A moment later the air above them was dotted with the white puffs of exploding shells. He shook his head. ‘No. Jйrфme may still force Wellington’s hand, and if the Duke does not take the bait then we shall take the chateau, and use it to harass the allied line.’
Once again, Hougoumont was shrouded in powder smoke as Napoleon’s men made their assault. He watched the ridge for any sign of movement and then pointed triumphantly as a column of redcoats doubled down the slope towards the chateau.‘There! I knew Wellington would have to send in more men.’
Soult watched for a moment and then said quietly, ‘I make that no more than four companies, sire. Prince Jйrфme has committed the best part of two divisions so far.’
Napoleon glared at him a moment and then turned his attention back to the battlefield. The smoke from the cannon of both sides was eddying above the landscape in dense clouds, threatening to blot out the view of the surrounding countryside. A sudden anxiety caused him to raise his telescope and sweep the horizon from the south round to the north-east. Fields, farmhouses and small woods glided past the eyepiece, and then a dark shadow just beyond the edge of a treeline caused Napoleon to stop. He blinked his eye and called one of the headquarters staff to stand in front of him so that he could use the man’s shoulder as a rest to steady the telescope. Soult, and a handful of others, had seen his worried expression and now turned in the same direction and scrutinised the dark line that was gradually emerging from the trees.
‘There is a column of soldiers over there,’ Napoleon announced. Then he lowered the telescope and hurried across to the map weighted down on a table outside the inn. He scanned the map and then stabbed his finger down. ‘The woods near Chapelle-St-Lambert.’
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 Blьcher 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.
