gingerly at first, picking a way through the standing remains of the King’s Germans and the dead and dying of both sides beyond, until the slope began to give them impulsion.
At the bottom they set about a reserve battalion of the Garde trying desperately to form square. Their sabres made light work of the attempt, and Hervey rallied them quickly to push on to the batteries beyond, for the guns had begun a brisk fire again now that the Garde had cleared their line. As they raced up the slopes he knew it was over, with nothing in sight but a few
Hervey still had the regiment in hand (by some marvel, for blood had brought them to a frenzy), and they rallied quickly to the trumpet. Horses were blowing hard as they pushed on up the slope through what remained of Bonaparte’s army swarming from the field. Everywhere there was shouting — ‘sauve qui peut’. And ‘trahison’, too. Why? (He could not imagine what part treachery had played in their defeat.) As they broached the crest, whence Bonaparte had surveyed the field for much of the day, he could see the solid blue line of Prussian infantry sweeping over the ridge to the east and down into the valley that had almost seen him dead. He quickened the pace yet further, for he could see Prussian hussars nearing and he was determined to gain the crest first.
There was no sign of Uxbridge, nor of Vivian even. Smoke drifted everywhere, and the light was fading. Should he now drive on down the road towards Rossomme? Every instinct was to do so, but with no-one following him up …? It was as well that he hesitated, for Sir John Vandeleur would have need of him. ‘Where are the Prussians?’ shouted the general as he emerged from the smoke.
Hervey pointed to the hussars approaching from Plancenoit to the northeast. T think they will be from General von Billow’s corps, sir.’
Vandeleur looked surprised by his knowing. ‘Lord Uxbridge is wounded. Are you the foremost squadron?’ he asked.
‘I fear we are the foremost
‘Great heavens! I had not supposed Vivian’s brigade to be so thinned. Hold here; we are all blown. I have not the slightest idea what has become of Vivian himself. I must have the Prussians take on the pursuit.’
I speak German, sir, if it would help,’ said Hervey hesitantly.
‘Help? I should say it will!’ replied Vandeleur, turning to his staff. ‘None of
Help it did, for Vandeleur would no more have recognized Prince Wilhelm at the head of von Billow’s cavalry than he would an officer in another brigade. And now was not the time for discourtesies (Sir John was notoriously short on ceremony). He managed to give, with Hervey as interpreter, a passable account of the last hour’s fighting, and the prince agreed to take up the pursuit.
‘One more matter, General,’ said Wilhelm, his hard Berlin consonants commanding absolute attention. ‘Marshal Blucher and the Duke of Wellington must seal this arrangement. I propose they rendezvous in this very place, at this inn — La Belle Alliance — an apt name for the battle itself, think you not?’
Vandeleur looked at Hervey, who did not wait to translate for him: ‘We may arrange the rendezvous, your Highness,’ he began instead, ‘but the duke is very particular about naming his battles.’
The army slept that night where it halted, on the battlefield itself, surrounded by the dead and dying, their exhaustion utter. The camp-fires which, as a rule, lit up after battle, like so many stars in a clear sky, were few and far between. Everywhere men just lay down and slept.
Not so in the Sixth. They could not claim to have suffered as the infantry, and Hervey had two thoughts only: to recover their dead and wounded, and to make ready for the advance on Paris, which he knew must follow soon. Making-ready he could, with confidence, leave to RSM Lincoln and Assheton-Smith, the senior of the other three lieutenants still in the saddle, but recovering the dead and wounded was another matter. ‘Mr Lincoln,’ he began thoughtfully, ‘we have but a half-hour of twilight. Scour the slopes in front of the battery we overran, but no further. I myself shall search for Serjeant Strange.’
‘As you wish, sir,’ replied the RSM, his voice for once muted, ‘but I urge that your cover-serjeant goes with you.’
Hervey was more than content to take the counsel, since there was no-one else with whom he might begin to relate his sense of guilt at this time.
In failing light, and against the flow of Prussians, they trotted northeast, the sights and sounds all about them reducing even Armstrong to silence, for never before had either of them re-crossed a battlefield. And never, for sure, one as bloody as this. What therefore made Hervey check in front of La Haye Sainte he could not tell: the ground was everywhere covered with the dead and dying. But one body lying face-down, sword still clutched in an outstretched hand, even among all the others drew his eye (perhaps the uniform looked too pristine compared with the muddy, gory remains all around). He dismounted and turned the scarlet-jacketed body over. The wild, staring eyes, which he had last seen on the ridge that morning, rolled upwards, yet there was no other life.
So Styles had reached the slopes in front of the batteries, dying with sword drawn, going for the enemy. Whether those eyes stared in wild fear or with the exhilaration of the charge mattered not: Hervey would be able to tell his people that their son had died among the enemy. And that was all he would need to say.
It was after midnight before they found Strange. Hervey had prayed so fervently that they might not, but his body they found easily, alone, and where he had last seen him, contorted in the agony that the dozen or more lance wounds had inflicted (for that was the number the lantern revealed).
‘Jesus, Mr ’Ervey,’ cursed Armstrong, ‘it’s an infernal weapon; it’s
They wrapped him gently in a blanket, as if wounded, and then Armstrong caught one of the loose horses roaming even this remote corner of the battlefield — a chestnut (Strange had always liked chestnuts). Unmarked by the battle, she stood patiently while they lashed his body into the saddle.
They picked their way back to La Belle Alliance, in silence once more, across a moonlit landscape where ghostly figures shuffled or darted in and out of the shadows. At times they were accompanied by a press of riderless horses seeking the security of the herd, some barely able to walk so appalling were their wounds. It was past three o’clock when they reached the inn, and burial that night was unthinkable. Hervey had resolved that Strange would have the rites of the Wesleyan service, so they wrapped his body in a velvet curtain (blue — the colour which had clothed him in life) and laid him in one of the rooms. Soon afterwards, Assheton-Smith and the RSM came with the regiment’s parade-strength. Hervey studied it through eyes that already ached, and which now filled with tears. He could scarcely believe the order of their loss, for they had been so late engaged. Only five officers and 123 other ranks would be ready for duty at dawn.
‘I have posted an inlying picket only, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Do we stand-to as usual before dawn?’
Hervey checked his irritation at the suggestion they might do otherwise. ‘Yes,’ he replied simply.
* * *
His leg ached, his head pounded, and he felt weak for want of food. He ought to do his rounds of the squadrons — that was what Edmonds would have done, was it not? But surely he had done sufficient of his duty, and was it not now his duty to rest? The RSM insisted it was, and Hervey yielded. Johnson had already taken Jessye, who had carried him through so much that day without once even stumbling, and he now brought his valise. Hervey put his hand on his groom’s shoulder. ‘I am glad that you at least …,’ he began, but then stayed his sentiments and went instead to the next-door room in silence. He lay on the floor by Strange’s body and struggled to think of a prayer. But sleep came quicker.
