A Close Run Thing

‘Well, I spoke before of the defensive position at Mont St-Jean. Like it or not, with the Prussians unable to hold the French at Ligny I do not see that he has any option but to fall back there — and let us hope that that is where the rest of the army is already making for. He must maintain contact with the Prussians, though. If he does not, then I doubt he is strong enough to hold even at Mont St-Jean, and then there’ll be the very devil of a fight in the forest behind. What I could not discern from that hussar was whether the Prussians have any fight left in them. If the French gave them such a drubbing that they cannot re-form, then even if they fall back in concert with us it will not be to any purpose. It looks forbiddingly as if Bonaparte may have achieved his first objective.’

‘My dear Hervey,’ said Lankester, holding out a flask of brandy, ‘you have a truly remarkable grasp of campaigning. There is not one officer in a hundred in this army who would have any notion of strategy beyond brigade drill — though in fairness they know that drill well enough. I hope with all sincerity that you will have a brevet out of all this — 1 for one will recommend it, though you know Edmonds will always anticipate me in that regard. But frankly, in this army, I feel sometimes that you would do better to capture some absurd French eagle!’

Hervey had never received praise from Lankester before. Curiously, it felt better even than the rare praise he had received from Edmonds. The master at Shrewsbury who had taught him his Greek, the gentlest of men whose academic interest in battles would have made him envious now of Hervey’s position, could have told him why: a Stoic’s praise was worthy, but a Corinthian’s was an inspiration.

A little sleep, in the few hours remaining before dawn, was all that Hervey was able to snatch, but it was satisfying enough. The outpost was called in soon afterwards, and they found the rest of the Sixth still in bivouac and making breakfast. That meal consisted of nothing more, however, than tea and biscuit from the troopers’ haversacks, there being neither sign nor news of the baggage train. Other than the periodic crack of a Baker rifle from a picket, its sharp report easily distinguishable from that of a musket or a carbine, there was silence from the direction of the previous day’s fighting. Rumour spread around the bivouac that the French had been decisively repulsed, that there would be a general advance and that the Sixth would be expected to lead it. Hervey was able to stop these fanciful ideas gaining too much of a hold, but it was a blow to them all none the less when orders came at about nine for a general withdrawal. The one mitigating detail was that their brigade was to cover the left flank. Hervey heard one of the younger troopers ask an older sweat if they would see any action there, and the sweat began to regale him with an account of Sahagun and the retreat across the Esla. Hervey remembered it well: it was more than apt — but God be praised that Slade had not command this time!

‘Nothing new under the sun, is there, Mr ’Ervey?’ Corporal Collins called as they took ground in front of General Picton’s division on the left. Hervey checked himself: Sahagun was one thing — yes, they had faced a superior number of French cavalry there — but this was quite another affair. Upwards of two corps of infantry, by his recall of the commander-in-chief’s assessment, with artillery and cavalry, were about to fall on them. He knew they had to buy time for the duke’s infantry to struggle back to Mont St-Jean, and he reckoned that they themselves would be lucky thereby to make the ridge as a regiment.

It was nothing less than astonishing, therefore, when they found themselves sitting for three hours awaiting the supposed onslaught — three hours in which the duke’s infantry and guns were able to march up one of the best roads in Europe to a defensive position which Hervey had thought one of the best he had seen. Was this really Bonaparte in the field? he wondered. Could it be a feint after all?

Captain Lankester rode along the front of the first squadron, Edmonds having ordered squadron-grouping for the withdrawal (a move that placed Hervey in field-command of ‘A’ Troop). Lankester exchanged the odd word with his troopers in a manner so matter-of-fact that Hervey could not but admire the accomplishment, as if the owner of some well-run estate were hailing his contented tenants on his morning ride: ‘I’m sorry, First Squadron — no breakfast, no rum, no Frenchmen, but I think we’ll have all of them aplenty and in good time, if not in that order!’ he called, to much laughter and cheering. ‘It could be worse, though!’

‘How’s that, sir?’ came a voice from the ranks.

‘Well,’ replied Lankester, wishing now that he had not said it, and trying to think of something, ‘it could be raining!’

Half an hour later it was. An apocalyptic clap of thunder, at almost the same instant that the French guns opened up, precipitated a torrential downpour which continued throughout their withdrawal to Mont St-Jean. But, rain or no rain, the withdrawal proceeded as a model exercise, conducted as if on a field day. The squadrons fronted repeatedly, the horse-artillery troop unlimbering and engaging each time in support. Then it would be ‘Guns, Cease firing; Out of action!’ and ‘Light Dragoons, Threes Right, at the trot, March!’ It was repeated once, twice, so many times that no-one would remember precisely. Only once did they nearly come to grief, in Genappe when Third Squadron took a wrong turning, their captain unable to read his sodden map in the sheeting rain. Hervey, realizing the error, had galloped after them and brought them back on to the right road just in time for the horse artillery to deal with a squadron of landers pressing them hard. Even Barrow had been moved to remark on the address he had shown: ‘It is my opinion, sir,’ he exclaimed to Edmonds, shaking his head in disbelief as Third Squadron galloped back on to the chaussee, ‘that the Service can ill afford to lose such a man for want of promotion.’ It was the last place from which Hervey would have expected praise.

Thunder, lightning, rain in torrents and mud up to the fetlocks the instant a horse left the pavee: the conditions were a trial worthy of the most exacting reviewing-officer. But the enemy seemed unable to press to a decisive advantage. Three hours’ delay before resuming their advance! It was all Hervey could think of — three hours What a difference that unaccountable failure was now making. It had been the duke’s deliverance no less! And dusk — earlier than the day before with so heavily overcast a sky — now began to envelop them in a blanket of safety as they reached Mont St-Jean, the lanterns of dozens of staff officers rallying the regiments to their collecting areas and thence to bivouacs near their battle positions. None of those officers could have expected the rearguard in such good order: soaked, exhausted, hungry — men and horses — but in formed bodies under perfect discipline. Three hours! What a price Bonaparte had paid already for that inexplicable stay. Had he not, himself, told his generals to ask of him anything but time? There was now a chance — just a chance!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. A HARD POUNDING

Mont St-Jean, Waterloo, 18 June

Before dawn broke, the bedraggled troopers of the 6th Light Dragoons were roused from their sodden sleep by the hands of the inlying picket. The flattened corn, which had at first afforded some comfort to backs aching from long hours in the saddle, had also held the surface water as if in a honeycomb, so that saddle aches had given way to cold cramps. Everywhere men scratched at beards three days old, and felt the griping of empty stomachs. There was a rank smell about the place, worse than was usual even for such a rough bivouac. So dark and hurried had been their camp that latrine discipline was all but ignored. There was no breeze, and few fires had survived the torrents of rain to take away the fetid air. The Sixth had never liked to bivouac with others, whose legionary habits they deplored, and as the troopers moved silently to the horse lines they were further dismayed by a trumpeter some way along the ridge blowing reveille, soon to be echoed by others of neighbouring regiments in a cacophony of different pitches, and they cursed them for the racket which put their own stealth to nought. A drummer in an infantry battalion began beating emphatically. The rain had drummed all night; at least it had now abated to little more than a drizzle.

A hand shook Hervey’s shoulder, but only a touch was needed to wake him. Except for the few hours he had snatched the night before, it had been over a year since he had slept on the battlefield, but the instincts of the previous five remained. In any case the rain had allowed no more than a fitful sleep. It had been near midnight