The Fields of Death r-4, page 71
part #4 of Revolution Series
The front ranks of the first two French squares halted, raised their muskets and quickly fired a volley. Bullets zipped past Arthur and Uxbridge and a dozen or so of Halkett’s men fell.
‘Take aim!’ Halkett held his sword aloft, and then swept it down as he bellowed, ‘Fire!’
From his saddle Arthur could see that the British volley was far more effective than the enemy’s, and the front rank of the two squares seemed to collapse en masse. He turned to Halkett and called out, ‘Charge your brigade! Now!’
Halkett nodded and repeated the order in a clear bellow. His men let out a roar as they advanced their bayonets and plunged through the smoke. Ahead of them the guardsmen stood their ground for an instant, uncertain and afraid, and then backed away.
‘They’re running! After ’em, lads!’ a sergeant called out.
A handful of the French veterans stood their ground, and were quickly cut down by Halkett’s infantry. The redcoats plunged down the slope, the guardsmen fleeing before them. Arthur touched his spurs into Copenhagen’s flanks and galloped along the line to Maitland’s brigade, lying down on the reverse slope. The next two squares of the Imperial Guard were just appearing over the crest and Arthur cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Now, Maitland! Now’s your time!’
Maitland nodded and gave the order. ‘The brigade will rise!’
In a few seconds some fourteen hundred men, in four ranks, appeared in front of the French guardsmen, who only a moment earlier had thought nothing stood between them and victory. The surprise and shock on their faces was unmistakable as they stumbled to a halt.
‘Take aim!’ Maitland ordered. ‘Fire!’
Arthur saw the deadly impact of the massed volley, and the charge of Maitland’s men did for these squares exactly what Halkett’s had for the first two. The Imperial Guard, the finest body of soldiers in Europe, broke and fled back down the slope. Maitland spurred his horse after his men and followed them a short distance down the slope, until he saw the last square to his right. Turning to the nearest companies, still bunched together as they headed down the slope, he halted them and formed a line facing the side of the last French square in front of the allied line. The redcoats quickly reloaded their weapons and took aim. Ahead, and to the other side of the square, more allied soldiers did the same. There was a moment’s stillness, then the first of the volleys crashed out. Others followed, and the French soldiers were felled in waves. The survivors stared in terror at the bodies around them and then turned and ran.
A cheer rose up from end to end along the allied line at the sight of the elite French infantry pouring down the slope. Arthur stared at the sight, not quite believing his eyes and not immediately grasping what it meant. It was Uxbridge who reacted first.
‘Boney’s beaten! By God, he’s beaten!’ He grasped Arthur’s arm. ‘Your grace!’
Before Arthur could reply the sound of a cannon ball passing close by filled the air with its drone, and he felt Uxbridge’s fingers suddenly dig into his sleeve.
‘I’m hit . . .’ Uxbridge looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘I’m hit.’
Arthur reached over and grabbed his shoulder to steady him. ‘You there!’ he called to a gun crew who had retreated to Maitland’s brigade. ‘Help me. Get this officer to the rear!’
The gunners eased Uxbridge down from his saddle and laid him on the ground. Arthur saw that his knee had been smashed by a roundshot and was now a bloody mess of bone and muscle. The artillery crew picked him up and Uxbridge let out a deep groan as they moved off. Arthur turned back towards the battle and looked down the slope. There were still four battalions of guardsmen formed up, but they were now slowly falling back, covering the retreat of their stricken comrades. Over to the right, the garrison of Hougoumont still held on as they fought to contain the fire that had broken out earlier. To the left, the French were abandoning La Haye Sainte and retreating down the road to Charleroi. Over to the east Arthur could clearly see the columns of Prussians pushing back the remnants of the Young Guard.
‘By God,’ he muttered to himself. ‘We’ve done it . . . We’ve won.’
Somerset came riding up, his face alight with excitement. ‘Your grace, d’you see? The French are broken. They’re retreating!’
Arthur could not restrain himself a moment longer. The strain and anxiety of the terrible contest was lifted from him and he felt a wave of elation course through his body. Somerset was grinning at him.
‘What are your orders, your grace?’
Arthur took off his hat and waved it above his head, in the direction of the enemy. ‘Give the order to every man you can find - general pursuit.’
As the word spread swiftly through the ranks of the men who had held the ridge all day the army swept forward, infantry mixed with cavalry as they chased after the French. Arthur rode with them and at his approach his men cheered him for all they were worth. The French spilled out across the landscape as they desperately tried to escape, abandoning their guns, caissons and wagons along with their wounded. Arthur searched for sign of Bonaparte, but the Emperor’s distinctive white horse was nowhere to be seen. He reined in briefly at La Belle Alliance, where men from one of the Dutch cavalry regiments were busy ransacking what was left of the French headquarters in the gathering dusk. A hundred yards further down the road he came upon the first of the Prussian soldiers. They were busy bayoneting wounded Frenchmen and glanced up at him suspiciously until they realised from his beaming smile that he could hardly be an enemy. A short distance further on he saw a cluster of Prussian officers on horseback. At their head was a stiff-backed, elderly man with a fabulous growth of silvery hair on his cheeks.
‘Marshal Blьcher!’ Arthur called out at once, raising his hand.
The Prussian officers turned towards him and as he reined in Blьcher recognised Arthur in turn, edged his mount over and embraced him. Neither man spoke the other’s language, and Blьcher blurted out, ‘Mein lieber Kamerad! ’ And then, in a guttural accent, ‘Quelle affaire!’
Arthur laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Bonaparte is beaten. Once and for all.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘But it was a damned close run thing!’
The pursuit continued after nightfall. Arthur’s troops were too exhausted to go far and gradually abandoned the task to the Prussians. A pale moon rose over the battlefield and cast a ghostly silver-grey hue over the fields of death where the bodies of tens of thousands lay stiffening in the cool air. The ride along the road back to Waterloo filled Arthur with a numbing sense of unreality. The air over this same ground had earlier been filled with the deafening roar of guns, the crack of muskets and the rhythmic signals of bugles and drums.
It was quiet now, but far from silent. Many of the wounded lay groaning, crying out or simply talking to themselves. Some babbled incoherently, driven mad by pain or the trauma of the day’s experiences. Here and there small parties of soldiers searched for wounded survivors of their regiments to carry back to the dressing stations behind the ridge and in the village of Waterloo. The defenders of Hougoumont had emerged from their strongpoint and left the fire in the barns to burn itself out, the flames still casting a glow across the bodies piled around the house and gardens.
Arthur shivered as he reached the shattered limbs of the elm tree on the ridge. He looked back across the battlefield one last time and then spurred Copenhagen into a trot as he made for the inn that served as his headquarters at Waterloo. Somerset had arrived shortly before him and could not hide his relief that his commander was unhurt. Supper had been prepared by the innkeeper and the headquarters servants had laid the table for Arthur and his staff officers with the best silverware and china. He sat down at the head of the table, and Somerset took the seat to his left.
‘Where are the others?’ Arthur asked. ‘My aides?’
‘They will be along directly,’ Somerset replied, then frowned. ‘At least, some will, I’m sure.’
Weariness had set into every bone in Arthur’s body and he managed to eat little of the cold meat and bread that was put in front of him. Servants came and went and a few officers arrived with messages, which Somerset took and read, only handing on the most important to Arthur. Midnight came, but no more of his staff officers returned to headquarters. Arthur turned to Somerset.
‘Thank God I do not know how it feels to lose a battle, but few things can be more painful than to win at the cost of so many fine officers, and friends.’
‘Yes, your grace.’ Somerset nodded. ‘It is a hard thing to take.’
‘I must sleep,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘Then I will write my report. England must know the result. Wake me at the third hour.’
Somerset nodded.
Arthur rose stiffly from his seat and winced. He stood for a moment, staring at the empty places along the table and feeling a terrible emptiness within him. ‘I pray that I have fought my last battle.’
Then he smiled bleakly at Somerset and crossed the room to one of the wooden pallets that had been covered with straw-filled mattresses to serve as beds. He was too tired to take off his boots and eased himself down, lying on his back. His eyes ached terribly, and he closed them for a moment, and was deeply asleep shortly afterwards, his snores filling the room.
‘Your grace, wake up.’
Arthur stirred, blinking his eyes open. Somerset was leaning over him.
‘What time is it?’
‘Just past midnight, your grace.’
Arthur sighed. ‘I was to be woken at three.’
‘Yes, but we have a visitor, your grace.’ Somerset turned and gestured to a figure standing just inside the door of the inn. By the light of the lantern hanging above the table Arthur saw that he was wearing the uniform of a French officer. Arthur swung his legs over the side of the makeshift bed and stared at the man. He was tall and thin, some years older than Arthur and dark-featured. A bloody rag was tied around his head.
‘Who the devil are you?’
‘Colonel Chaumert, of the Imperial Guard, your grace.’ The Frenchman bowed his head.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I have a message for you.’ He glanced at Somerset.‘It is for your ears only.’
Arthur rubbed his jaw. ‘Leave us.’
Somerset hesitated. ‘Are you certain, your grace?’
‘What harm could befall me now?’
Somerset shrugged, and then left the room, shooting a warning glance at the Frenchman as he went through the door and closed it behind him.
‘Now then.’ Arthur gazed directly at Colonel Chaumert. ‘Explain yourself.’
Chapter 64
On the road to Charleroi, 4 a.m., 19 June 1815
‘You must understand that this meeting must remain a secret,’ Chaumert said as they passed by the company of guardsmen blocking the road.
‘If the meeting serves no purpose I have no intention of ever admitting to it,’ Arthur replied coldly.
‘Good,’ the French officer nodded as the small column of riders passed through the moonlit countryside.
Despite the defeat a number of units of the Army of the North had remained intact and had been avoided by the Prussian pursuit, who had preferred easier pickings. Arthur and his small escort of Life Guards had ridden with Chaumert as far as Genappe, and then Arthur had continued with the colonel and a squadron of lancers to the final destination, following side roads to avoid the French soldiers fleeing towards the frontier. Now they turned off the road on to a narrow lane, at the end of which was a small farm. A carriage sat in the farmyard. By the light of the moon, Arthur could see a perimeter of sentries surrounding the building. Chaumert reined in and slipped down from his saddle. He tethered his horse to a post outside the door and looked up at Arthur.
‘He’s waiting inside.’
Arthur hesitated. He wondered if he should have heeded Somerset’s advice not to leave his headquarters with the French colonel. But there was little to fear, and something might yet be salvaged for the good of all by his agreeing to come. He dismounted and handed the reins to Chaumert. Then he lifted the latch and entered the farmhouse. A small fire glowed in the hearth of the main room and by its flickering light Arthur could see the dim figure sitting on a stool to one side. He turned at the sound of Arthur’s footsteps.
‘Good evening, my dear Duke,’ Napoleon said without a smile. ‘I should say that it is a very good evening for you. I congratulate you on your victory.’
Arthur stared at him from the shadows by the door, and replied, in French, ‘There has been too great a loss of life for me to accept any congratulations.’
‘For the moment, yes. But in time the dead are forgotten and such a victory is remembered for ever.’ Napoleon waited for a response, and when it did not come he gestured towards a plain wooden chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. ‘Come and sit.’
Arthur crossed the room and eased himself down. Napoleon’s features were dimly visible by the light of the fire: heavy jowls and sunken eyes beneath a broad brow and short, dark hair.
‘Your officer said that you wanted to discuss surrender terms.’
‘That is what I said, but I have other reasons.’ Napoleon stared at Arthur curiously for an instant.
‘I am not interested in them,’ Arthur replied. ‘I am here to discuss surrender, or I leave at once.’
‘Very well, we will discuss surrender. But first, let me say how kind the years have been to you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Arthur asked suspiciously.
‘You don’t remember?’ Napoleon’s brow rose a fraction. ‘Ah, but I do. I never forget . . . Angers. The School of Equitation. Twenty-nine years ago. You played the violin.’
Arthur felt his blood turn cold. Though his mind was tired he recalled the happiest year of his youth, spent away from his mother, and brothers whose academic ability far outshone his own. A year when he had been released from the burden of his family to enjoy the company of his peers, under the kind patronage of the school’s aristocratic director. The Comte de Pignarole had perished in the Revolution. Arthur recalled a day when the school had entertained some young officers from a French artillery regiment. As the memory crept back he looked searchingly at Napoleon.
‘I see that you do remember.’A smile flickered on the weary features. ‘The world has changed so much since then, eh? And we have changed with it, and become great men.’
‘As I recall, we did not have much in common that day,’ said Arthur. ‘There was a disagreement.’
‘That’s right. You were all for the rights of the aristocrat, and I argued for the rights of the common man.’
‘And now you are a tyrant, and I am the one fighting to restore liberty.’
‘Liberty?’ Napoleon sneered.‘You want to restore the Bourbons, and they want to restore the corruption and privilege that drove the people to revolution in the first place. You mark my words, the Bourbons will not last. None of the ruling houses of Europe will survive. The Revolution opened people’s eyes. It will take some nations longer than others, but revolution will come to them all.’
‘I am not here to listen to this,’ Arthur interrupted. ‘We will talk of surrender, or I leave now. What are your terms?’
Napoleon stared coldly at him. ‘I am not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner.’
Arthur shrugged.
‘Whatever the outcome of today’s battle, I am still Emperor of France.’
‘Your title means nothing now. Your army is crushed, and the people of France will not forgive you for leading them to defeat again.’
‘I have other armies. Grouchy is still in the field. I can retreat on Paris, gather my soldiers to me and make a stand.’
‘There is no hope of resisting the coalition,’ Arthur said wearily. ‘It is over.’
‘There is always hope,’ Napoleon replied vehemently. ‘When I was exiled to Elba you all thought I was finished, admit it! And yet I came back. It took me less than a month to have France back in my grip. What is to stop me doing it again?’
‘There will be no Elba this time. You have been declared an outlaw. If the Prussians take you prisoner then you will be shot. I doubt if the Austrians or the Russians will be inclined to be any more merciful.’
‘And what of England? Would my oldest enemy do the same?’
‘I cannot speak for my government, but I would prefer not to see another ruler torn from his throne and executed like a common criminal. It disturbs the natural order of things. So, perhaps I should state my terms first.’ Arthur lowered his head for a moment to order his thoughts. ‘Tell your soldiers to surrender. Every man in your service. Then declare your unconditional abdication. In exchange, I will take you into custody. I offer you no guarantees for your protection. I will abide by whatever decision my government makes concerning your fate.’ Arthur looked up. ‘Those are my terms.’
Napoleon was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘Those terms would not dignify a dog. What can I do but refuse and fight on?’
‘With what? You have nothing to fight with, except a dwindling number of followers who only want a glorious end. I have seen enough of war to know that it has little glory. It is an ugly, cruel thing, and it would be better to put it behind us as soon as we can.’
‘Yet you have known no other life but that of a soldier at war,’ Napoleon said shrewdly. ‘Do you really think you can be comfortable with peace?’
‘I do not know,’ Arthur replied. ‘But I do know that I no longer want to live in a state of war. I feel that with all my heart. I ask you . . . I beg you, put an end to this conflict now. Spare the lives of your people. Spare the lives of your enemies. Take this chance to be remembered for having done the right thing when you could still choose to. Agree to that and I will do all that is in my power to find you a respectable place of exile in which to end your days. It will not be Elba. Make no mistake, it will be a prison, and you will be closely guarded. If you refuse then you must take your chances with England’s allies.’ Arthur looked at the Emperor earnestly, hoping that he would see the futility of continued resistance.
