Besides, the emperor considered this English duke a bad general and the English bad troops. Given surprise and the emperor’s lucky star, it would be a picnic.
He would begin at the morning
Colonel Christopher Brandon looked about the staff room, and despite the riot of colors of the uniforms and the brightness of the medals adorning the tunics, he could not say he was overly impressed. True, there were some veterans of the Peninsula—the popular Lord Hill and the foul-mouthed Sir Thomas Picton, both extremely talented —but Christopher did not know most of the others. Young Prince Willem of Orange was certainly brave enough; he had proven that in Spain. However, was that enough for a corps command? At least the prince’s chief of staff, Rebecque, seemed to know his business. The other officers would do, but Brandon was shocked at the duke’s choice of cavalry commander—Uxbridge, of all people!
“Gentlemen,” the Duke of Wellington said after giving a report of his May 3 meeting in Tirlemont with the Prussian commander, Field Marshal Prince Gebhard von Blucher, “we believe that Bonaparte will not attempt anything until July at the earliest. By then, our troops will have linked up with Blucher and his 80,000 Prussians. Keep your eyes on the west; undoubtedly, Bonaparte will try to cut us off from the coast and our line of supply. The town of Hal is the key. Prince Fredrick and General Colville will be responsible for its protection. Are there any questions?”
“Fear not, my lord!” cried the Prince of Orange. “Let Napoleon try to invade! We shall crush him!”
Brandon rolled his eyes.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” responded Wellington, as if the young man had just given a report of the weather. “That is all, gentlemen.”
Brandon saw Major Denny leave with Canning, Gordon, Stanhope, and the other
“Yes, Brandon—something on your mind?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the colonel. “It has been years since I have last served, and… uh… I was wondering —”
Wellington gave him a hard stare. “And you were wondering why I chose a broken-down, old man like you?”
Brandon kept his face impassive though his insides roiled at the insult. “Yes, sir.”
“I am starting to wonder myself.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord.”
“Have you no eyes, Brandon?”
Christopher’s lips tightened. “There is nothing wrong with my eyesight, sir.”
“Then tell me what you saw today!” Wellington demanded.
Brandon hesitated before he spoke, trusting in the duke’s penchant for frankness. “I saw a room full of officers who are unknown to me. I have no idea how they will act under fire.”
Wellington sighed. “Very succinct, Brandon, and I agree with you.” At Brandon’s intake of breath, the duke continued, “Most of the fellows who were with us in India and Spain are now in Canada—that is, the ones who are not dead in Louisiana.”
“Indeed.” Brandon was well aware that two thousand British soldiers had fallen during the disastrous attack on New Orleans. In January, a ragtag band of locals, frontiersmen, and American regulars had held off the finest of the king’s infantry. Two generals were dead, including Major General Sir Edward Pakenham, brother-in-law to Wellington. Several regiments were shattered, including the Highlanders—and for naught. The ill-begotten war had been over for weeks—the treaty signed in December—but word could not get to Louisiana quickly enough to stop the bloodbath. “I am sorry about Pakenham, sir.”
“I am, too. I could use him. Green troops, green cavalry, green officers—that is what we have here, Colonel! An infamous army, what?”
Diplomatically, Brandon replied, “If you say so, sir.”
Wellington laughed. “Ha! There is my Brandon—always wary, always careful. I need you, Brandon. I need men I both know and trust.”
“Is that why—?” Brandon blurted before he could catch himself.
Wellington nodded. “Yes, that is why I asked for Paget, the man who cuckolded my brother.”
It was common knowledge that Henry Paget, the Earl of Uxbridge, friend and comrade-in-arms to Sir Arthur, had run off with the wife of Henry Wellesley, British ambassador to Spain, while both were still married. Brandon was aware that both had been granted divorces, and Charlotte Wellesley and Uxbridge married, but for five years, there was bad blood between the Wellesley and Paget families.
“I cannot speak to Paget’s private affairs, but I need a man who will keep those hotheaded cavalry lads in line. Uxbridge can do the job.” Wellington’s voice dropped. “As for his highness, the prince, he is second-in- command in name only. I retain control of all British troops. He should not do too much harm.”
Brandon hoped the duke was right.
“Once Blucher arrives, we will have over 150,000 in the field, so I expect we should give a good account, even of Bonaparte. He may not want to attack such strength, you know, and that will give the Austrians and the Russians time to reach the French frontier from the east.” The duke paused.
“Before I left Vienna, Tsar Alexander came to me and placed his hand upon my shoulder. Do you know what he said, Brandon? ‘It is again up to you to save the world.’
“That is our task, Colonel.”
“All right, you men,” called out Captain George Wickham to his company. “Two salvos, then five rounds of volley platoon fire. Sergeants, take over.”
Wickham walked over to the shade of a nearby tree and discreetly retrieved a flask of brandy from his pocket. Taking a small sip of the fiery liquid, he surveyed his company. The sergeants were making sure that the company took up the proper four-row line—one low, three standing—that made up the square, the heart of the British method of infantry fighting. The months of training were evident; only a few men were out of place.
“All ready, sir!” called out a lieutenant.
Wickham strode to the line and took his proper place. Drawing his sabre—just as he would in battle—he pointed at the target thirty paces downfield.
“COMPANY, MAKE READY!”
A hundred muskets were cocked. Normally, the fourth line would not shoot—they served as reserves, but this was an exercise.
“TAKE AIM—STEADY!” The muskets came up pointing at the dozen hay bales that served as targets.
“FIRE!” The line disappeared in a cloud of smoke as the muskets went off as one. Hurriedly, the men reloaded. Wickham waited until most of the muskets had come back up, his watch in one hand.
“FIRE!” A hundred muskets crashed again. In the smoke, Wickham cried, “VOLLEY FIRE! VOLLEY FIRE!”
Beginning with the kneeling line, each line fired a volley in turn. The effect was a wall of constant fire, as the other lines reloaded as their comrades shot.
Finally, the fourth line fired its fifth shot, and the smoke dissipated. The haystacks were the worse for wear, an effect the army knew would boost the soldiers’ morale.
Wickham looked at his watch and shook his head. “Well shot, my lads, but too slow! Barely two volleys in a minute—should be closer to three! Sergeants, take your men for some extra drill,” he said as he dismissed the company. He was then approached by a Dutch officer who had observed the exercise.
“Your men did well, Captain,” he said.
