The Three Colonels (28 page)

Margaret looked miserable. “I do not know.” She began to cry.

Marianne embraced the girl. “Hush, my love. Shed no tears over an honest answer. Truth can be hard and ugly sometimes, but it is the only path to happiness. Lt. Price deserves nothing less.” She tilted her sister's head up. “Please think about what you want. I love Christopher enough to risk losing him, for I would never ask him to be anything but what he is. I will support you whatever your choice is. But, if you wish to travel my road, you must do it with a full heart and open eyes.”

Margaret looked at her through her tears. “You mean, you do not object?”

“No, my love, just as long as you are aware of what you are doing.”

***

The French fired their cannons for nearly two hours, but the damage done was minimal. First, the soft, muddy ground plugged the cannonballs, containing the explosion and preventing them from skipping. Second, the reversed slope had protected the vast majority of the troops—all but a few Dutch regiments that the prince had placed too far forward.
Those
units were taking a terrible beating.

Denny was puzzled as he observed the action around Hougoumont. The French had attacked the outpost, but they seemed to go about all wrong. The enemy was using far too many troops for a demonstration but far too few troops to take the château. It would take the whole of Napoleon's army to raze Hougoumont, especially as the veteran Coldstream Guards made up the bulk of the defense. It would be madness to try to take the château with Wellington ready to smash his flanks.

The French movements made no military sense, but Denny knew Bonaparte's reputation as a genius. Did the tyrant know something that had escaped the duke's attention? Was the Corsican preparing to spring some unforeseen trap? Where was the immediate threat?

Suddenly, Denny's attention was drawn to the enemy ridge thirteen hundred yards away. An entire corps of infantry, 18,000 men strong, began to appear at the crest. To the sound of horns and the fluttering of battle standards, the host moved downhill in columns two hundred men wide. It was obviously the main attack.

It was now 1:30 in the afternoon.

“Prepare to receive infantry!” the duke cried repeatedly in his plain black uniform as he spurred his warhorse, Copenhagen, along the line.

The troops had about twenty minutes to form into two lines—one kneeling—and await the horde. The Allied artillery redoubled their efforts, their merciless barrage of ball and canister tearing great holes in the French formations.

Denny, watching with horrified fascination, noticed two things. First, the wide columns, while impressive, gave the Allies easy targets at which to shoot. Second, there seemed to be a lack of French artillery and cavalry support. Denny could not complain about this state of affairs.

Now the Dutch and British muskets opened up. The French, slogging uphill, were being murdered, yet on and on they came.

Unexpectedly, there was disaster—a Dutch brigade suddenly broke and fled their position. Trying to maintain control, officers rode among the troops, reminding them of their duty before general panic took hold. The prince himself was screaming after his fleeing men, exposing himself to enemy fire. Denny felt some pity for the Dutch, for they had suffered greatly at Quatre Bras due to bad leadership from their generals.

Closer and closer drew the French, now firing their muskets. English, Dutch, Belgian, and German troops fell.

However, at the moment the huge force reached the summit of the hill, General Picton, still in his civilian clothes, stood up, sword in the air. The 5th Division rose from their hidden positions, muskets aimed.

“FIRE!” the general screamed. The line disappeared in a cloud of gunpowder. In an instant, the smoke cleared and Denny could see hundreds of French soldiers lying dead or wounded.

“Now charge!” Picton ran forward at the head of his entire division, continuing to yell, “Charge! Charge! Hurrah!”

Denny had never seen anything like it. A great cheer went up from the line. Officers and men dashed at the enemy with swords and bayonets, screaming.

“Charge—!”

At that moment, General Picton was shot through the head.

As he fell, his men swept over him, engaging the French with bayonets. For long minutes—a lifetime it seemed to the participants—the soldiers grappled with each other in a macabre dance of death. The French assault wavered.

Lord Uxbridge saw his moment. “Cavalry, charge!”

Denny could not call it much of a charge. The heavy Household and Union brigades simply entered the fray at a walk through the Allied lines. Sabres flashing, they plunged in and cut and killed hundreds of French soldiers while other cavalrymen swept away the French cuirassiers guarding the enemy flank. The redoubtable Scots Greys were able to seize an eagle standard, the mark of a French regiment. As closely engaged as they were, the men did not fear French cannon fire, as the enemy could not shoot without killing their own.

Denny watched the enemy fall back in disorder.

***

Buford and Fitzwilliam watched the action with their telescopes. To their professional eyes, Uxbridge had attacked at exactly the right moment. The shock of being hit by twenty-five hundred sabres had completely undone the French. The endless assault by the heavy cavalry broke the enemy's spirit. Now it was time for the cavalry troops to withdraw.

“Buford,” said Richard, his eye glued to his telescope, “something is wrong. They are not withdrawing. Are they not sounding Recall?”

“Aye, but the troopers are not listening.”

“But they will be cut to pieces!” Richard lowered his glass. “Turn back, you fools!”

The commanders of the heavy cavalry well understood the danger. Uxbridge and Ponsonby rode desperately to recall their troopers, but it was for naught. Blood was in the men's nostrils. Were they not the greatest cavalry on Earth? To a man, they cried, “To Paris! Death to Bonaparte!” They would win this battle on their own!

Free of the French soldiers, both living and dead, the cavalry troops galloped towards the French cannons, led by the Scots Greys. Soon they were upon the guns.

***

Colonel Brandon, at the center, turned from observing the line of what would prove to be three thousand prisoners being taken to the rear to watch the cavalry attack, the sound of Recall floating over the din. One glance at the tactical situation and all his years of experience came back to him in a flash. He saw what was going to happen and acted without another thought.

With a “By your leave!” shouted at the duke, Brandon dashed forward and downhill. He rode to and fore, screaming Recall at the members of the Household Brigade.

The Union Brigade was already far uphill on the opposite slope.

***

Richard and Buford watched in horror as the enemy cavalry counterattacked. The French cuirassiers with their swords and the lancers with their lances fell upon the exhausted British dragoons. The British tried to maneuver, they tried to fight, but numbers and fresh animals told the tale. It was a slaughter. By the time the remainder of the Household and Union brigades returned demounted in rage and regret to the Allied line, over a thousand of their comrades, including the valiant Ponsonby, were lost. For all intents and purposes, the Allies had no heavy cavalry left.

It was now 3:00.

***

London

Roberts gave the Sunday afternoon newspaper to Abigail with a worried look. She took one glance at the headline and dashed upstairs in search of her mistress. She found her in her rooms, looking wistfully out the window, a letter from Sir John in her hand.

“Lady Buford!” Abigail cried. “There has been a battle on Friday. Look!” She thrust the paper at her.

Caroline snatched the newspaper from the maid, the letter dropping to the floor.

“John! Oh, John!”

***

Major Wickham moved his troops forward as Wellington committed his reserves. Taking up a position in the line, he was shocked at the carnage before him. Everywhere there were dead and wounded soldiers—French, Dutch, and English alike. Downhill about five hundred yards away, he saw the La Haye Sainte farmhouse under heavy attack; however, no one was shooting at Wickham, and for that he was grateful.

Wickham watched a group of men respectfully carry the body of General Picton to the rear and fought the lump that grew in his throat.

An aide to Wellington rode up, interrupting his thoughts. “Major,” he called out, “get those wounded men to the rear!”

“Yes, sir. Hewitt, form a party and recover the wounded.” It was understood by all that no one spoke of recovering
French
wounded; they would have to fend for themselves until the fighting was over.

For the next half hour, various parties labored to carry the broken bodies to the dubious comfort of the surgeons' tents. Teams swarmed over the ridge of the hill, hoping the odd cannonball would miss. At about 3:30, the cannon fire seemed to intensify. Wickham, while a novice at war, understood what that was about.

“Recall the recovery teams—hurry!” he ordered.

At the signal, the men began returning to the line in some haste. Wickham noticed renewed fighting at the farmhouse. He thanked his lucky stars he was not down there.

Some minutes later, the French battle horns sounded again, but the tone this time was different. Wickham looked up and saw an awesome sight—five thousand cavalry charging down the French slope, right at Wickham's position.

“Form square!” he screamed. “Prepare to receive cavalry!”

The men dashed to get into position, and as they did so, Wickham reflected that, if the Prussians were to come and help, now would be an excellent time for them to do so.

It was now 4:00 p.m.

It was hell. There was no other word for it. George Wickham had died and gone to hell.

Horns blaring and flags flying, the French cavalry charged the center of the Allied line. Avoiding the fire from Hougoumont on the left and La Haye Sainte on the right, they rode in narrow columns up the muddy slope towards Mont St. Jean. The Allied artillerymen, especially the British and KGL, resolutely stood by their guns and poured shot and canister at the approaching horses until the last moment. Then they dashed to the safety of the nearby squares, protected by the muskets and bayonets of the infantry.

Like the waters of an incoming wave against a rocky shore, the cavalry poured over and around the line, the squares resisting the onslaught. Volley after volley issued from the Allied positions while French cuirassiers and lancers slashed at their tormentors. Finally, the human surge receded, leaving dead men and animals in its wake—and fewer and fewer redcoats standing each time. What heavy Allied cavalry remained harassed their counterparts during the withdrawal.

The artillerymen hastened to their guns. For some reason, the French failed to either spike them or carry them away. Reloading and reforming, the Allies prepared for the next assault, and then the same terrible sequence repeated itself.

Wellington and his staff rode constantly up and down the line, exhorting the men and filling in what gaps they could. When the enemy approached, they would join the artillerymen in the relative safety of the squares. Once, Wickham found himself standing next to Colonel Brandon during an attack.

For two hours, the attacks came and came. Wickham lost count after ten. The crack of muskets and the roar of cannon fire had deafened him. It was good fortune, for he could hardly make out the screams and moans of wounded men and horses. All about him were dead and dying British soldiers; they had no time to evacuate them to the rear. Every time Wickham caught his breath, the French charged again.

“Charge” was a relative term. As the battle wore on, the assaults were made at no more than a trot, as man and animal were pushed beyond the breaking point. On and on, the gallant enemy came. Again and again, the steadfast defenders sent them to their eternal reward. It was no longer war; it was suicide.

About an hour after the attacks commenced, the order was given to “Well-direct your fire.” In other words,
shoot
low
at
the
horses
. It amazed Wickham how difficult it was to carry out such an order. There seemed to be no hesitation in shooting the riders; why was it harder to kill animals than men?

Wickham recalled killing his first man—a charging officer of cuirassiers who was knocked off his horse by the ball from his pistol. By the time two hours passed, he had lost count of the number of men he dispatched by gun or sword. It could be twenty or twenty thousand.

After yet another assault began to fall back, an exhausted Wickham looked about him and saw there were more men down inside the square than not. He turned to speak to Hewitt just as a French trooper spurred his horse, leapt over the dead men before him, and got inside the square.

The next moments were a lifetime to Wickham, as he and the cavalryman fought desperately, but neither was able to land a telling blow. Then, Wickham suddenly found himself twisted around, vulnerable to the man's sabre. Wickham could not turn in time. Terror seized him. The Frenchman's sword raised high, and Wickham awaited the inevitable strike—and Hewitt fired his reloaded pistol into the back of the French trooper's head. The cuirassier fell dead at Wickham's feet. The terrified horse, now free of his burden, leapt back out of the square and raced headlong downhill.

Wickham enjoyed an instant of elation. He turned to thank Hewitt—and the captain received a musket ball in the belly. Hewitt's blood spattered on Wickham's uniform. He caught his wounded subordinate as Hewitt fell screaming.

“Peace, Hewitt, peace! I shall get you to a surgeon,” he lied through his teeth. It was impossible to leave the square.

After a few minutes, Hewitt quieted down, an unworldly calm coming over the captain. It gave Wickham the chance to look up to see if the French were coming again.

They were not. They were retreating.

“Major,” gasped Hewitt, still in Wickham's arms, “I am all right. It… it does not hurt any more. That is g… good, is it not?”

Wickham somehow knew it was not. “That is good, Hewitt. Hewitt? Hewitt? Oh, God! Hewitt! God damn it!”

Major Wickham carefully laid Captain Hewitt's inert body on the ground, reached down to the pale face, and closed the unseeing eyes. Wickham took one deep, shuddering breath and looked up. He beheld dead and dying men all around him. There was an overpowering stench of powder and blood and excrement. Beyond was a sea of dead men and animals. Smoke and mist obscured the French lines.

But it was over. He could just make out the retreat of the cavalry towards La Haye Sainte.

A broken Wickham moved a few staggering steps and sat upon an upturned, empty ammunition box, his head in his hands. He was weary, bone-tired from fear and exertion. His ears deafened, and his mind was in a fog. His belly was empty, and his lips ached for water. Caked with mud, blood, and worse, he looked an unholy terror. His heart grieved for Hewitt, the loyal subordinate who had saved his life. He also felt relief—for he had survived and the battle was over. It had to be over.

It was nearly 6:00 in the evening.

***

Buford and Fitzwilliam watched the whole of the French cavalry assault upon the Allied line, aching to do something to relieve the strain upon the infantry, but it was not to be. Their mission was to protect the left flank and to watch for reinforcements.

“Sir!” cried one of the troopers. “There are men coming out of the woods there!”

The two colonels turned their telescopes to the east; they had been so preoccupied in observing the battle that they had forgotten their responsibility.

“I see them,” exclaimed Richard. “Can you make out the uniform, Buford?”

“No.” It was still light on this late June afternoon, but low clouds and smoke had washed the colors out of the world. “They look gray.”

“They are!” said his companion. “They are here—the Prussians are here!”

Buford swung his 'scope to the right. “We are not the only ones who have seen them.” Masses of French soldiers were marching across the ridge to engage their new enemy.

***

Wellington continued to ride along the Allied line, escorted by what was left of his staff. To a man, they were distraught at the carnage. The duke was well known to lament losses deeply. As they continued to assess the condition of their defenses, the Prussian liaison informed the duke that the Prussians were engaged with the right wing of the French army. Before the staff could celebrate the good news, disaster stared them in the face.

The squares in the middle of the line had suffered so badly that the proud companies had ceased to exist. Worse, the KGL, badly mauled and out of ammunition after a heroic four-hour stand at La Haye Sainte, had no choice but to quit the farmhouse and fall back to the Allied ridge. The center of the Allied line was wide open. Defeat was at hand, should Napoleon become aware of their weakness.

Wellington was quick to recognize the danger. “Denny! Ride to Lord Hill and have him reposition Second Corps to join up with our right wing! The rest of you—see to the condition of the squares and get all the German troops of the division that you can to the spot, and all the guns, too! I shall order the Brunswick troops to the spot and other troops besides. Ride!”

It was 6:30.

***

A hated sound floated across the battlefield one last time, forcing Wickham to look up again. He saw that on this occasion the trumpets heralded not cavalry but something far, far worse. Masses of French infantry began forming on the far ridge.

The spotless uniforms on these men were different from any seen on the battlefield this day. The soldiers seemed gigantic, especially with their tall bearskin hats. The
esprit
de
corps
of these men was higher than any other French soldiers Wickham had engaged.

Horror seeped into Wickham's barely functioning brain. He realized that there was only one unit in the French army to which those men could belong. They had to be the Emperor's undefeated Imperial Guard. His crack division, they were only used when Napoleon was assured of victory; they always delivered the
coup
de
grâce
at the end of the battle. They were invincible—they were fearless—because they always won. No army had ever stood before them.

And they were forming before the center of the Allied line.

Slowly Wickham rose to his feet. What was left of his senses fled him. He was utterly broken by the hours of combat he had undergone. Thoughts of honor, glory, and duty were as dust to him. Even fear of the punishment for desertion could not register in his mind. Wickham's only thoughts were for flight and survival.

Wickham fell back to a horse standing by. Only the grime on his face hid the paleness of his features. To the sergeant holding the reins he shouted, “I am going back for some reinforcements and more ammunition! Stand by your position!” He leapt upon the horse and headed to the rear.

The sergeant was confused, for they had just received a delivery of gunpowder.

***

“Brandon,” ordered Wellington, “ride to Vandeleur's position! He is to reposition the majority of his horse to the center! Quickly!”

Brandon rode to the east and soon came upon General Vandeleur and his men riding towards him. Clearly, the general had anticipated the duke's command.

“Brandon, well met!” called out the general as his brigades continued onward.

“I see you have read the duke's mind, sir!”

“Yes.” The general gave Brandon an appraising look. “Do you ride, Brandon?”

“I would be honored, sir.”

“Good—take Buford's and Fitzwilliam's regiments and protect our left flank! And watch out for our Prussian allies!” With that, the general rode after his men. By this order, Vandeleur had just placed Brandon in command of an ad-hoc brigade.

Brandon was soon among his friends and informed them of their mission. “Fitz, you and I shall attack the French flank. Buford, you shall have the left and engage the enemy cavalry. Form the men!”

“Aye, Brigadier!” responded Richard. As Brandon was now senior colonel in charge of a brigade, Richard acknowledged his new role. The two regiments began to get into position.

***

His message to Lord Hill delivered, Denny dashed back to Wellington's position when he saw a lone rider heading to the rear. Suspecting a deserter, he flicked his reins and moved to intercept the man.

“Halt!” he ordered as he pulled in front of the rider, his hand upon his pistol grip. “What… Wickham?”

“Denny!” cried a wide-eyed Wickham. “I… I was looking for reinforcements! We have been terribly cut up and—”

“Yes, we know, George!” said Denny, releasing his pistol. “Second Corps is moving to fill in the gaps! And, George, the Prussians are here! They are engaging from the east!”

“But do you know who is coming?”

Denny could well hear the terror in his friend's voice and attempted to calm him. “Yes, it is the Imperial Guard.” He moved closer to Wickham. “George, if we can hold Bonaparte here by the nose, the Prussians will kick him in the arse. We will defeat him in detail, but only if the line holds—it must!
Everything
depends upon it. We are concentrating all of our forces
here
. Wellington is moving in not only Second Corps but the Light Cavalry as well. We will be right here with you, George. We can do it!”

Just then, the sound of horses caught their attention. Vandeleur and Vivian's men began appearing behind the Allied line. Their mission was twofold: to reinforce the center and to prevent any desertions.

At the sight of the horsemen, all the life seemed to go out of Wickham's countenance. He stared at nothing for a moment, bowed his head, and then in a flat voice he replied, “I must return to my men, Denny.” He turned his horse and started slowly back up the ridge.

“Of course, of course. Keep your spirits up, George! Until later—
bonne
chance
!” cried Denny.

Wickham stopped and turned his face to his friend. His visage caused Denny to start.

“Good-bye, Denny.”

Wickham spurred his horse forward and loped up the ridge.

Denny could not move for several moments, for the expression on Wickham's face had shaken him to his core. It was as if he had beheld a man already dead.

***

The emperor rode his gray horse forward, escorting his five-thousand-man-strong Imperial Guard towards the Allied line. He stopped before the ruined farmhouse at La Haye Sainte and took the salute of his most faithful soldiers. “
Vive
l'Empereur
” rang out repeatedly as they filed by. With a grim look on his face, he waved at his troops.

His confident carriage belied his inner turmoil. He had risked everything to defeat the English before the Prussians entered the battle, but Grouchy, d'Erlon, and Ney had failed him—Ney most of all. He recalled his response to Ney's demand for reinforcements during his stupid cavalry attacks: “Troops? Where do you want me to get them from? Do you want me to make them?”

Now the Prussians had arrived. Grouchy, whom he had just raised to marshal, had failed to engage Blücher and keep him occupied. Failure and incompetence were all about him.

Yet the emperor still believed in his lucky star. With the fall of La Haye Sainte, the center of the English line was wide open. He could see no troops opposite. Once he split the Allied line, he would force Wellington off the field. He would then turn his attention fully upon the Prussians, a force he had already beaten two days before.