The Three Colonels (27 page)

The office was deadly silent. Charleroi was only thirty miles away.

Over the next hours, the staff worked to verify the information. Soon information from riders sent by Blücher and the Prince of Orange corroborated the intelligence. By five, the duke began ordering his troops into position south and west of Brussels, but the staff still did not know whether the thrust at Charleroi was a feint or the main axis of Napoleon's attack. Until the picture was clearer, the duke could not advance.

“Sir,” asked an aide, “what about the Duchess of Richmond's ball?”

Brandon looked at his chief.

Wellington looked up. “Until we know for certain, there is no reason to panic. I do not feel that Bonaparte can advance so fast. Morale is important. Let the ball go ahead as planned.”

***

The Duchess of Richmond's ball was the social event of the season. Held in an impromptu ballroom in what used to be a coach maker's depot, the over two hundred invited guests included the Prince of Orange, the Duke of Brunswick, the Prince of Nassau, four earls, twenty-two colonels, and a total of fifty-five women, only about a dozen of whom were unmarried. The hall was done up in crimson, black, and gold with flowers everywhere. The music was gay, but the attendants were not, as concern over the rumors of a French advance were everywhere.

At about midnight, Wellington and his staff arrived. A young woman, Lady Georgiana Lennox, dashed to meet the duke.

“Sir,” she cried, “are the rumors true? Are the French here?”

Wellington's face was grave. “Yes, they are true. We are off tomorrow.” The room buzzed with alarm. Wellington walked over to a sofa to sit with Lady Dalrymple-Hamilton. Between chats with the woman, the duke would give the odd order to some senior officer.

“Come, Denny,” said Brandon, “let us get something to eat while we can.” Apparently, the Iron Duke felt the same, as he left the sofa for his meal.

As the men ate with all the room watching, a pale Prince of Orange approached the commander-in-chief. His whispered message had an extraordinary effect on the duke. A look of utter disbelief flashed across his aristocratic face and then faded.

For the next twenty minutes, Wellington ate and conversed with his fellows, showing no alarm. Finally, the duke rose and informed his host of his intention to retire for the night. As good-byes were exchanged, Brandon overheard his commander whisper in Lord Richmond's ear, “Do you have a good map in the house?”

Brandon and Denny followed their chief into the study, and the requested map was spread open before Wellington. He studied it hard, looking at the distance between the French border, Charleroi, Quatre Bras, and Brussels. Brandon knew he was using his extraordinary memory of the physical features of the countryside. Wellington looked up, shocked.

“Napoleon has
humbugged
me, by God! He has gained twenty-four hours' march on me!”

“But what are you going to do?” asked an incredulous Richmond.

Wellington looked at the map again. “I have ordered my army to concentrate at Quatre Bras, but we shall not stop him there. And if so, I must fight him
here
.”

His finger moved over the map and stabbed down just south of a small village called Waterloo.

Waterloo

At eight o'clock in the morning, the emperor met with his marshals at the La Caillou farmhouse south of the village of Waterloo that he used as his headquarters to plan the final destruction of the Allied army. The plan he outlined was simple.

He would bombard the Allied line at Mont St. Jean with cannon fire while making a demonstration—a diversionary attack—against the strong point at Château de Hougoumont. Then a few hours later, there would be a major thrust led by Marshal d'Erlon's corps from the right. If all went well, the French would roll up Wellington's army while dividing it from the Prussians. To prevent any interference from the Prussians, the emperor ordered Marshal Grouchy and his 33,000 men to find Field Marshal Blücher's army and finish the pounding the French had delivered two days before at Ligny.

The emperor needed a simple plan. Time was not on his side. Yes, his Army of the North had won a great victory at Ligny—so great, in fact, that he expected Blücher to fall back, perhaps into Prussia. However, in case the field marshal proved stubborn, the emperor had to destroy the English. The battle at Quatre Bras, also on the sixteenth, had been inconclusive. Marshal Michel Ney, his “bravest of the brave,” had lost a great opportunity to smash Wellington. The Anglo-Dutch had retreated to Mont St. Jean between the French and Waterloo.

The emperor was pleased that Wellington chose to make a stand here. He needed to crush his enemies now and did not want to burn weeks chasing his prey. The longer this campaign took, the greater the chance that either the Prussians would recover or the other Coalition members—the Austrians and the Russians—would become involved.

Heavy rains the night before had made the battlefield wet, soggy, and therefore difficult to move artillery and horses about. He would need time for the field to dry before he attacked and crushed the combined English and Dutch forces opposite. The cannons would open fire at 11:30 a.m., which was the signal to attack the English right. D'Erlon would be unleashed ninety minutes later to strike at the left under the command of Ney.

The emperor was unhappy with Ney over his failure on the sixteenth, but while his thinking might be questionable, Ney's courage was not, and the men loved him. The emperor would have to keep an eye on his cavalry commander.

The Defender of the Revolution asked for comments.

Some of his marshals looked uneasy. General Honoré Reille spoke up. “I must tell you, Sire, that I consider the English infantry to be impregnable.”

Marshal Soult added, “Sire, in a straight fight, the English infantry are the very devil!”

Where did this defeatist talk come from? The emperor shot back, “Soult, because
you
have been beaten by Wellington, you consider him a great general. And now I tell you that Wellington is a bad general, the English are bad troops, and this will be a picnic!”

There was silence in the room.

The emperor dismissed his generals. “Return to your troops. I will review them directly. We open fire at 11:30.”

***

Colonel Brandon could not understand it. Bonaparte was wasting daylight reviewing his troops! He could hear the cries of “
Vive
l'Empereur!
” drifting from the French lines at La Belle Alliance, a mile south of Mont St. Jean. Wellington and the entire staff had thought the French would strike at dawn, but they had not.

It was not much of a dawn, he reflected, as he gazed at the cloudy and misty morn. There was the small comfort that it was not storming as it had throughout the night.

Denny rode up. Such was the suffering endured by the staff at Quatre Bras that Denny had received a brevet promotion to lieutenant colonel, but there was no time for a change of flashings.

“The Frenchies are making quite a noise, Colonel.”

“Yes.” Brandon lowered his voice. “How are the troops taking it?”

“Mixed. The veterans are shrugging it off. Our green troops and the Dutch are far more nervous. As for the King's German Legion, they are so stoic, I cannot tell.” Denny looked out at the enemy again through the light mist. “There are a bloody lot of them—that is for certain.”

“Yes, but they cannot see us.”

Wellington had made his stand here for two reasons: first, because Mont St. Jean was the Iron Duke's type of battlefield. He had scouted it a year ago, but every detail had been ingrained in his astonishing memory for terrain. The ridge along the Mont St. Jean road offered the reverse slope he had used to such great effect in the Peninsular War. Because the majority of his men were placed downhill of the summit, only a few of the troops were visible to the enemy—and the enemy's cannon fire. The troops would be brought forward only at the last instant. Enemy infantry and cavalry would be forced to march uphill against a withering fire. Of course, it only worked in defense and if the enemy did not flank the position. Iron discipline would be required of the troops to wait in place while the enemy marched toward them, cannonballs falling about.

The second reason was that Field Marshal Blücher had pledged to march three whole corps today to join up with Wellington if the Duke would offer battle to the French, giving the Allies overwhelming power.

The question on all the staff's lips was when would the Prussians arrive?

“The Prince is eager and ready for battle,” offered Denny.

Brandon glanced over at the young Prince of Orange. The hotheaded royal had almost led the Allied troops to disaster on Friday at Quatre Bras. Only the timely intervention of Wellington had preserved the stalemate. Too many of the Belgium-Dutch troops had already quit the field, and the remainders were suspect. That was the reason the majority of the 17,000 troops far to the west at the town of Hal were not British. Wellington needed all the dependable troops he could get his hands on. Still, only a third of the 67,000 men he had were British—and only half of those had seen Peninsular service.

Brandon was nervous about leaving so many men at Hal. If Bonaparte attacked in force, they could never get here in time. Yet “Beau” was convinced that the French would try to turn his right flank and cut the Allies off from Antwerp and the Channel. The duke brushed off complaints, reminding the staff that 80,000 Prussians were supposed to be coming in from the east.

Too
much
depends
upon
the
Prussians
, thought Brandon, as he reviewed their defensive position. The Anglo-Dutch line stretched three miles, from Château de Hougoumont on the right, eastward along the road towards Wavre. The center was anchored by a strong point, a farmhouse at La Haye Sainte, entrusted to crack KGL troops. The left flank was left weak because it was expected that the Prussians would soon come. The heavy cavalry was stationed in the center, and the light dragoons were on the left. The French were thirteen hundred yards to the south on the ridge before La Belle Alliance.

It was a small battlefield, which gave Bonaparte little room to maneuver.

Suddenly there were gunshots from several groups of soldiers, startling Denny.

“Never mind them,” advised Brandon. “Some lads find it easier to clean their muskets by firing them off. Come, let us rejoin the duke.”

***

George Wickham was in the middle of a barrage of soldiers “cleaning” their muskets, and his ears rang because of it. “Hewitt, tell those fools at least to point their muskets towards the French!”

The last seventy-two hours had been very demanding on Wickham. Quatre Bras had been a fiasco. By the time his force-marched company had arrived, the battle was over. His colonel, curious to see the enemy, had ridden too far ahead and had gotten his fool head shot off. Wickham at first rejoiced, delighted that he was finally free of Darcy's tormenting agent, before remembering that, when it came to making life difficult for him, Darcy was incredibly resourceful.

A quick rearrangement of officers had made George Wickham a brevet major of infantry in charge of a battalion. Captain Hewitt was now in charge of his old company and was not doing a bad job of it. The rank of major suited Wickham just fine. His job was to order the captains about. It was his subordinates' responsibility to deal with the rank and file.

The newly promoted Major Wickham and his new battalion marched back towards Brussels in the pouring rain. They made camp at Mont St. Jean during the worst of it, half his men without tents. Wickham hated thunderstorms, and last night's had been a terror. The only thing that seemed to escape soaking was the gunpowder.

That was a very good thing, he considered, as his eye scanned the opposite ridge.

“Breakfast, sir?” asked Hewitt as he held out a bowl of questionable mush. At Wickham's look, he added, “Sorry, but it might be the only meal we get for some time.”

Wickham took the proffered plate and choked the gruel down. As he ate, he caught sight of his commanding officer, Lt. General Sir Thomas Picton, riding by, still wearing his civilian clothes from the Duchess of Richmond's ball. The officer's appearance made Wickham recall another incident from Friday.

As his men were preparing to leave Quatre Bras, Wickham had nearly bumbled into General Picton. To his amazement, he saw that the general was trying to hide the fact that he was bleeding.

“Sir,” he had cried, “you are—”

“Shut your goddamned mouth, Major!” growled Picton in his usual course, profane manner. “Say nothing about this! You fucking understand me, sir?” He had stared Wickham right in the eye.

Wickham had nodded. Far be it from him to disobey such an order.

Major Wickham stirred himself from his recollections, for the enemy was opposite, and there was work to be done. Handing the bowl to an aide, he stood.

“Hewitt, prepare the men for inspection.”

***

Colonels Fitzwilliam and Buford prepared their regiments for battle. Their position was on the extreme left wing, a mile and a half from the center of the line. They would be the first to see the approach of their Prussian allies from the east—if they ever got there.

As they saw to their preparations, the two veterans could not help but glance from time to time at the heavy regiments nearby. Unlike the sober and experienced Light Dragoons, the Union and Household Brigades seemed lighthearted and anxious for action. The men in those units came from the heights of British society—and acted like it. Major General Sir William Ponsonby was riding among them, speaking to his men and keeping up their spirits.

Major General Sir John Vandeleur rode up. “How are preparations going, gentlemen?”

“We will be ready, sir,” replied Buford.

“Well, hopefully they will not need us for some time.” The Light Dragoons were held in reserve.

Fitzwilliam lowered his voice. “General…” He gestured with his head at the heavy cavalry.

Vandeleur dismissed his concerns with a shrug. “That is Uxbridge's problem, Fitz. Let us keep our mind on our duty. Keep a sharp lookout on the flank. Until later!” He spurred his horse into a trot towards the rest of the 4th Cavalry Brigade.

At that moment, the French cannons opened up, and the troops manning the Allied guns dashed to respond in kind. It was 11:30 a.m.

***

Dorsetshire

Although the grass was damp, Elinor insisted that the planned picnic on the grounds of the parsonage proceed as scheduled, for Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret had made the short trip from Barton Cottage; she would not disappoint them, and Edward would not disappoint
her
. The blanket spread and Joy merrily occupied by her grandmother, uncle, and aunt, Marianne took the opportunity to take a turn in Elinor's garden with Margaret. The youngest of the Dashwood sisters had grown into a lovely woman of eighteen, old enough for a serious conversation—one that was sorely needed if what Marianne had learned recently about her sister was true.

Marianne began directly, once they were out of earshot amongst the blooms. “Margaret, do you have an understanding with Lt. Price?” Lieutenant William Price was a naval officer Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret had met while visiting friends. The officer had now returned to his ship.

Margaret colored. “What? I do not know what you mean.”

“Oh, stop it!” Marianne demanded. “Do not play childish games with me! I know he is exchanging letters with Mama, but I believe his interest in Barton lies elsewhere. I asked you, adult to adult, of your attachment to Lt. Price if one exists. This is serious, Sister.”

She looked down. “We have no understanding between us except friendship.”

Marianne breathed out in relief. “That is well. Would I be wrong in deducing that you wish for something more?”

In a small voice, her sister said, “No, you would not be wrong.”

Marianne looked kindly on her sister. “Do you know what you are about, Meg?”

“I do not take your meaning.”

A pained expression came over Marianne's face. “My love, I am a soldier's wife. My dear husband is even now in Europe, preparing to face battle.” She stopped and seized her sister's hand. “Christopher may not return. Do you understand this?”

Margaret's eyes grew wide. “I… yes, I do.”

“Good. The wife of a man in the king's service must be ready to lose him to that service. I have learned this the hard way. If you encourage Lt. Price's attentions, you must face that reality as well. He is a sailor; the sea is his home, upon a man-o'-war. He can only win fortune and advancement through action.” Her eyes became hard. “By action I mean fighting and killing. He may suffer grievous wounds—or worse. A hurricane could sink his ship—”

“Stop it!” Margaret cried. “Say no more!”

Marianne was relentless. “I shall not stop! You are choosing a hard road, Margaret. Lt. Price is a fine man. He would make some woman a fine husband, but she must be one who will support him in his profession. Are you that woman? Are you willing to take the chance that you might lose him to the sea? Think!”