The Three Colonels

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!”

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 chateau. 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 chateau 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