victory at Ligny—so great, in fact, that he expected Blucher 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 Honore 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
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 “
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 Blucher 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.
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.
