The Fields of Death

The other delegates nodded their agreement, but Arthur was not so certain. He had witnessed the strong loyalties that Bonaparte still commanded in Paris. If the former Emperor raised his banner in Naples, then many thousands would flock to join him, and those who remained would be sure to unsettle the new regime in France.

Over the next few days messages were sent out from Vienna to mobilise the allied armies. The audacity of Bonaparte’s escape had shocked the delegates, but there was little sense that he posed an immediate danger to Europe, and the powers continued their deliberations as they awaited confirmation of his location. It was four days after Colonel Campbell broke the news of his disappearance that the truth was learned. One of Talleyrand’s aides entered the chamber just before the midday recess and whispered urgently in his ear. Arthur watched as the French Foreign Minister’s face drained of blood. Metternich was speaking, reading verbatim from notes, and had not noticed the little drama.

Talleyrand rapped his knuckles sharply on the table and the Austrian minister looked up irritably, stopping his address mid-sentence.

‘Pardon my interruption,’ said Talleyrand as he looked round the table, ‘but I have just been informed that Napoleon landed on the coast of France six days ago. He has declared that he has come to reclaim his throne and is marching on Paris.’

There was a moment’s stunned silence, then Arthur spoke. ‘Did the local authorities oppose him?’

‘On the contrary. I am told that they went over to him without a shot being fired.’

‘By God, that’s bad news. Others will surely follow. If he gathers them up en route to Paris, I fear he will not be stopped.’ Arthur cleared his throat and spoke as clearly as he could, to ensure that the Tsar caught every word. ‘Your majesties, ministers, delegates, this changes everything. The peace of Europe is once more endangered. Every available soldier must be made ready to fight. If Bonaparte makes good his claim, then he will have the armies of France at his back again. We must face him on the battlefield once more.’

‘We must do more than that,’ Talleyrand interrupted. ‘We must ensure that he never troubles Europe again. I beg to move that before the Congress is suspended to deal with the threat it passes one last resolution. That Napoleon Bonaparte is declared an international outlaw. In the event that he is taken, then the powers gathered here shall jointly decree that he is beyond the protection of the law.’

‘I cannot agree to that,’ Arthur protested. ‘It would be nothing less than an incitement to assassination. Murder. Regardless of the ethical issues, it is a game that two can play. I would urge you to reflect on that.’

‘Nevertheless, it is a step we must take,’ Talleyrand countered. ‘Speaking for France, I propose the resolution.’

‘And Prussia supports it!’ King Frederick William blurted out.‘Death is exactly what that tyrant deserves.’

‘Very well,’ Talleyrand turned to Metternich. The Austrian nodded, and Talleyrand fixed his gaze on the Tsar. ‘Your majesty? What do you say?’

Alexander did not respond immediately, and raised a hand to touch his forehead. His lips pressed together in a tight line, and then he drew a deep breath and nodded. ‘I support the resolution.’

‘Four to one,’Talleyrand faced Arthur again. ‘Will Britain unite with the other powers, or will you still extend the protection of the law to Bonaparte?’

Arthur stared back coldly. He was being forced into a position he had no wish to be in. The disposal of Napoleon was in the interests of every man, woman and child of Europe, yet Arthur could not bring himself to cast aside the civilised values England had striven to preserve throughout the long years of the struggle to free Europe from tyranny. Nor would the British government he anticipated. Yet Talleyrand was right. If Britain failed to declare Bonaparte an outlaw then he would be sure to seize on that as an admission of his legitimacy. Worse still, he would see it as a schism in the ranks of his enemies and would exploit it to divide them. With a weary sigh Arthur nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well. I support the resolution.’

At once Talleyrand turned to one of his aides. ‘Have that drafted for the delegates to sign. Now, I suggest that the Congress goes into recess. Are we agreed? Yes?’

The delegates rose and began to file out of the room. Arthur felt a hand touch his shoulder as he reached the door and turned to find the Tsar looking at him gravely.

‘Your majesty?’

‘What will you do, my dear Duke?’

‘I must send word to my family to quit Paris as soon as possible. Then I will conclude our business here as swiftly as I can and make for Brussels to take up my command.’

‘Ah. Then it is for you to save the world again.’

‘That is the burden of us all, your majesty. The great test of our age is upon us.’

‘And if we fail?’

Arthur stared at him for a moment and shook his head.‘We dare not.’

Chapter 54

Napoleon

Laffrey, near Grenoble, 7 March 1815

‘Why have your men stopped?’ Napoleon demanded, as his carriage rattled to a halt on the rough track.

General Cambronne, the commander of the company of guardsmen leading the advance, pointed down the track in the direction of Grenoble.‘We ran into a battalion of infantry shortly after we set off this morning, sire.’

‘There was no shooting, I take it?’ Napoleon asked sharply. He had warned Cambronne against spilling any French blood when he had given him his orders to lead the vanguard of the tiny force Napoleon had brought with him from Elba. The former Emperor had landed near Antibes with just over a thousand men, a squadron of lancers and two cannon. It was a minuscule army with which to reclaim his throne, Napoleon mused, but he had advanced from the coast at once. Given the royalist sympathies of the people of Provence, he had chosen to avoid the easiest route towards Paris in favour of the road leading through the hills to Grenoble. So far he had been received with muted enthusiasm in the towns and villages he had passed through. Even though the enthusiasm for the Bourbons had waned, the people were anxious to avoid reprisals if Napoleon’s outrageous gamble failed. So they waited to see the outcome of his latest venture.

General Cambronne shook his head. ‘There was no violence of any kind, sire. As soon as we encountered their leading company I told our men to greet them warmly, and share some wine. Their captain would have none of it, though. He ordered his men to fall in and march back to join the rest of the battalion. I was told not to follow him, or he would order his men to open fire.’

‘Very well,’ Napoleon scratched the bristles on his cheek. This was the moment he had been fearing. So far, no one had stood in his way. Now he was confronted by armed men, whose officers were clearly determined to oppose his progress. The question was, would the men follow their orders when the crisis came?

Napoleon sat in his carriage and thought carefully about the situation. Throughout the ten months he had remained on Elba he had followed events in France closely. In addition to regular scrutiny of the newspapers he had been receiving secret reports from sympathisers, and even from Fouchй, who had been shrewd enough to keep a foot in both camps. Napoleon, and most Frenchmen, had been surprised when King Louis had appointed the arch-schemer as his Minister of Police, the post he had once held under Napoleon.

It was Fouchй who had informed him that the Comte d’Artois, the next in line to the throne, intended to reverse the liberties gained by the common people in the years following the Revolution. D’Artois was also planning to reverse the land reforms that had transferred many aristocratic estates to the peasantry. The mood in France was poisonous, Fouchй wrote to his former master. The common people were suspicious of the Bourbons and their followers. The sentiment was echoed by the demobbed soldiers who were struggling to find a place within the new regime, and looked back on the days of empire with increasing fondness.

As Napoleon read the reports, he resolved to quit his tiny kingdom of Elba at the earliest opportunity. No island of twelve thousand inhabitants could satisfy his ambitions, or sate his boredom, and he began to make preparations in secret. His small army was regularly drilled and his one warship, a small brig, was supplemented by five other small vessels sufficient to carry Napoleon and his men to France. All of this had to be carried out under the gaze of the British resident. Colonel Campbell was a kindly officer, much in awe of his host, and Napoleon was careful to speak with enthusiasm about his plans for improving Elba whenever the two had occasion to talk. Campbell seemed satisfied that Napoleon had accepted his new, minor station in life. Such was his confidence that Napoleon no longer presented any danger that he had announced he was making a brief visit to Florence.

Napoleon concealed his delight at the news as he enquired the date by which Campbell might return, on the pretext that he was planning a ball and did not want the Englishman to miss the event. As soon as Campbell had departed, Napoleon and his followers hurriedly loaded stores and equipment aboard the flotilla of small vessels and departed mere hours before the return of the Royal Navy brig that had conveyed Campbell to Italy.

Luck, as ever, had favoured him, Napoleon reflected. But now he faced the great test of his new adventure. The road ahead was blocked by regular soldiers, sent by the royalists to confront and arrest him.

‘Sire, what are your orders?’ Cambronne interrupted Napoleon’s thoughts. ‘Should I deploy the men?’

‘No. Have them form up in column, lancers to the front. You and I shall ride at the head of the column. How far ahead is the road blocked?’

Cambronne turned to look up the track. It inclined gently down towards the side of a hill and then turned along the shore of a small lake, the end of which could just be seen. To the left steep hills rose up sharply, creating a narrow defile through which Napoleon and his men must march to reach Grenoble.

The veteran pointed towards the place where the road disappeared round the side of the hill. ‘Just beyond the hill, sire, close to the far end of the lake.’

‘Very well, let’s proceed.’

Cambronne hesitated.‘Shall I have the guns moved close to the front of the column, sire? If there’s any trouble, they can clear the way with a few rounds of case shot.’

‘There will be no trouble,’ Napoleon replied flatly. ‘If there is, then our cause is as good as lost. Now, give the order for the men to make ready to advance. Make sure every man understands that they are not to fire a shot without my express order. If anything happens to me, then you are to lay down your arms at once. Is that clear?’

Cambronne nodded reluctantly, then turned away and strode over to the men who had fallen out alongside the track, bellowing at them to re-form their ranks.

A few minutes later the column started down the track. Napoleon was now riding a white horse, and he wore the old grey coat and battered bicorne that was familiar to every soldier who had campaigned with him over the years. As the track rounded the hill he felt his heartbeat quicken. To his right the small lake stretched out, the calm waters reflecting the wooded ridge on the far side. At the far end of the lake there was a stretch of open ground, perhaps a hundred paces across, between the hillside and the shore of the lake. A body of soldiers stood waiting, formed in line, with fixed bayonets that glinted in the afternoon sunshine.

‘What unit is that?’ asked Napoleon.

‘The first battalion of the Fifth Regiment of the Line, sire.’

Napoleon nodded.

The column advanced in silence, marching along the side of the lake. Napoleon glanced back, past the flickering pennants of the lancers, and saw the grim expressions fixed on the faces of the guardsmen. If it came to a fight, the veterans would make short work of the men opposed to them. But the instant the first blood was spilled, France would be bitterly divided. Even if Napoleon survived such a struggle, he would be forced to deal with the other European powers with almost no chance of success.

As the gap between the hillside and the shore began to widen, Napoleon raised his hand to halt the column.

‘Have the Guard form line. They are to shoulder arms. The lancers are to fall back and dismount.’

Cambronne sucked in his breath, but saluted and turned away to give the orders. As the guardsmen trotted out on either side of the track and formed ranks, Napoleon stared at the line of infantry barring his way. They stood silently as their commanding officer sat on his horse and raised his telescope.

Once the men were in position Cambronne resumed his place at Napoleon’s side. ‘What now, sire?’

‘It’s time you announced me,’ Napoleon replied.

Cambronne edged his spurs in and trotted forward towards the waiting soldiers. Their commander lowered his scope and watched the solitary rider approaching. When Cambronne was no more than fifty paces away the other officer cupped a hand to his mouth and called out. ‘Stop there!’

Reining in, Cambronne raised his hat and replied. ‘Comrades! Our Emperor has returned! Join us!’

‘Silence!’ the officer shouted, then ordered his men, ‘Advance your muskets!’

The bayonets angled forward, cold gleaming tips pointing towards Cambronne.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he barked. ‘How dare you threaten me? What do you think you are doing?’

‘I have orders to prevent you proceeding,’ the officer replied firmly. ‘You will hand over the outlaw behind you, and tell your men to lay down their arms.’

‘I shall do no such thing!’

‘If you do not surrender within ten minutes, I will give the order to open fire.’ The officer pulled out his fob watch and looked down at it.

‘If you fire on the Emperor you will be responsible to all of France!’ Cambronne responded. ‘Come now, we are all Frenchmen.’

He sat in his saddle and waited for a response. Eventually the officer looked up from his watch and spoke. ‘Nine minutes . . .’

With a muttered curse Cambronne turned his mount round and trotted back towards Napoleon. ‘You heard him, sire?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think he will give the order?’

Napoleon stared at the line of soldiers for a moment. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

He dismounted and handed his reins to Cambronne. ‘Stay here. If anything happens to me remember your orders.’

‘Sire, you can’t put yourself in danger. France needs you.’

‘Quiet,’ Napoleon said. He drew a long deep breath and started walking slowly towards the soldiers. As he did so he unbuttoned his coat to reveal the green jacket of a colonel of the Guards. His heart beat quickly as he gazed steadily at the row of bayonets angled towards him. He knew that he was placing his reputation in the balance against the discipline of these soldiers. If he was mistaken then it would be likely that he would be dead within the next few minutes. Although it was spring, he felt cold and had to clench his fists behind his back to stop them trembling. They must not see my fear, he thought fiercely.

He continued to approach them steadily, taking in the details of the expressions of those men closest to him. It was impossible to tell whether they meant him any harm. Behind them, the officer on horseback glared defiantly at Napoleon as he stopped, no more than twenty paces from their bayonets.

‘Soldiers of the Fifth! Do you not recognise me? Am I not your old general?’

His words echoed off the side of the hill and then there was silence until he spoke again. ‘If there is a man amongst you who wants to kill his Emperor . . . then here I am!’ He pulled back his coat and presented his breast to them.

‘Present arms!’ the officer called out, and the men in the front rank raised their muskets.

‘Take aim!

Napoleon pressed his lips together and widened his eyes as he stood his ground and stared into the muzzles of the muskets pointing directly at him.

‘Fire!’

Napoleon felt an instant of icy terror, then the moment was past. There was no crash of a volley, no flame and no smoke. Nothing but a strained silence.

‘Fire, damn you!’ the officer shouted angrily. ‘Obey the order!’

Before the sound of the words had died on his lips, another voice cried out, ‘Long live the Emperor!’

The soldiers lowered their muskets and cheered, almost as one, as they broke ranks and surged towards Napoleon. Some clasped his hand, while others, more awestruck, satisfied themselves with touching his coat. But all cheered his name again and again. Cambronne and his men joined in and ran forward to greet the other men as comrades. Napoleon smiled at those around him and then began to pace forward, the throng parting to let him pass. He stopped before the mounted officer, a young major.

‘What is your name?’

‘Lansard,’ the man replied through gritted teeth. His face flushed with bitter shame over the failure of his authority. He ignored his men as he fixed his eyes on Napoleon. He took the handle of his sword and drew it from its scabbard, and then tossed it on to the ground at Napoleon’s feet. He glanced down at the sword and then gestured to one of the soldiers next to him. ‘Pick that up and hand it back to the Major.’

As the officer reluctantly replaced the blade in its scabbard Napoleon smiled at him. ‘Lansard, you are no more a prisoner than I was. Now, your men are mine, and I ask you, will you join me?’

The officer was silent for a moment, and then nodded curtly. At once there was a fresh burst of cheering and Napoleon had to raise his voice so that Lansard could hear him. ‘You and your men will join my column. Take up position between the Guard and the lancers. Clear?’

‘Yes . . . sire.’ Lansard saluted and Napoleon turned and made his way back towards Cambronne and the Guard.

‘Cambronne!’

‘Sire?’

‘Send one of your officers, together with one of Lansard’s, to Grenoble. They are to tell the people, and any other units they find there, what has happened. Tell them to announce the arrival of their Emperor.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Cambronne smiled with joy and relief.

Napoleon smiled back.‘The crisis has passed, my friend. Once others receive word that this first battalion has come over to us without a shot being fired, then the rest of the army will follow suit. Until this moment I was just an adventurer. Now? Now I am a great prince of Europe once again . . .’

Chapter 55

The Tuileries, Paris, 8 April 1815

Napoleon slowly crumpled up the proclamation of the Congress at Vienna and continued to crush it between his hands. ‘So this is how they would treat me,’ he said in a low voice that the others sitting around the table could hardly hear. ‘They brand me an outlaw.’ He sighed bitterly and tossed the small ball of paper aside. ‘You can be sure this is Talleyrand’s doing. This is his revenge for the indignities I heaped on him over the years. So what if I did? He deserved every slight. Every insult.’

His council of ministers and generals sat in silence. They had been summoned to hear the Emperor read out the allies’ proclamation and discuss the appropriate response. Napoleon looked round at them. There were many familiar faces, recalled to service when Napoleon had returned to Paris. He had been greeted by an hysterical mob who had swept him off his feet and carried him through the streets, into the palace and up into the throne room, abandoned only the day before by King Louis. Napoleon had closed his eyes as they carried him, relishing the feeling of power he had over the affections of so many. Not just the people of Paris. At every stage of his march from the coast, the people had come out to greet him with cheers. The Bourbons had sent soldiers to oppose him, then armies, and in spite of their orders the soldiers had gone over to him. Even Marshal Ney, who had boasted to Louis that he would bring Napoleon to Paris in an iron cage.

Although the people and the army had acclaimed him, and demanded that he take back his throne, the more influential elements of French society had regarded his return with studied caution. The Chamber of Deputies, which had voted to depose him the previous year, hurriedly retracted their decision and welcomed the Emperor back to his capital, beseeching him to maintain the peace of Europe. Much as he would have liked to respond to their about-face with scorn, Napoleon realised that he needed their support. Without their co-operation, and that of officials and lesser assemblies across the nation, it would be almost impossible to build the support his regime needed.

The Emperor re-established his reign with caution. He had answered the calls for peace by sending messages to the other rulers of Europe assuring them of his desire to avoid conflict. He had even issued an edict pronouncing the end of France’s involvement in the slave trade. That at least should have garnered some good opinion in Britain. But his offers of peace had been either ignored or curtly rebuffed. Now the allies had signed a treaty pledging to send over half a million men to defeat Napoleon. They sought to divide the Emperor from his people by claiming that their war was not against France, but only Bonaparte, whom they had pronounced an outlaw.

‘You have all borne witness to my efforts to prevent war,’ Napoleon addressed his council. ‘I offered them my hand in friendship and in return they have spat in my face and offered me, and France, only threats. It is clear to all right-thinking men that Russia, Austria, Prussia and England are the aggressors.’

Marshal Davout, who had accepted the post of Minister of War, spoke up. ‘Sire, they could be playing into our hands by refusing to declare war on France. It places them in a difficult position. If they invade France, then they can hardly avoid uniting the nation behind you, particularly as you have offered them peace. Therefore, they must wait, and hope that you will attack them, and thereby justify their declaration of war against you in person.’

‘That is true.’ Napoleon nodded thoughtfully. ‘And what do you advise me to do?’

‘Bide your time, sire. Make no attempt to provoke military action. At the same time we can build our strength and be ready to defend our borders if the allies become impatient and decided to invade. That is my advice.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon regarded him for a moment, then shook his head. ‘We cannot risk such a strategy, Davout.’

‘Why is that, sire?’

‘At present there are two armies in the low countries, one under Marshal Blьcher, the other led by Wellington. Each commands over a hundred thousand men. Schwarzenberg has another two hundred thousand men poised to cross the Rhine, and another hundred and fifty thousand Russians are marching to join them. They will be in position to invade France by the end of July. And what do we have to face them? Louis left us with no more than two hundred thousand men to guard our frontiers. I have ordered another seventy-five thousand veterans to be recalled to the army, as well as eighty thousand volunteers. Even after they have been trained, we shall still be massively outnumbered. Lack of manpower is not the only problem. We are short of horses, equipment, ammunition.’ He paused. ‘So you see, time is not on our side.’

‘Then what do you propose, sire?’

Napoleon folded his hands together as he contemplated the answer he had already prepared. He knew that it would dispel any chance of portraying France as the victim of aggressors, yet he could conceive of no other course of action.

‘There is only one chance of success, gentlemen. If I give the order for France to mobilise for war today, then by June I can form an army of perhaps a hundred and thirty thousand men on the border with Belgium. That is where the allies’ two weakest armies are positioned. If we can surprise them, before they can concentrate, then I am confident that we can defeat each in turn. If we can annihilate Wellington and his army, then we may force England out of the coalition. Without English gold the other powers will be hard pressed to keep their armies in the field against us.’ Napoleon paused as he saw the uncertainty in the expressions of his subordinates.‘Gentlemen, I assure you that I have fully considered the alternatives. If we wait, and allow the enemy to concentrate all their armies, then we must surely lose. If we attack while our troops are fresh and their morale is high, we can destroy a third of the enemy’s strength at one stroke. The rest will surely hesitate. My aim is to make them offer us peace. That is the limit of my ambition, I assure you. The old days of conquest are over. You have my word on it. We will have peace, but first we must fight for it.’ He looked round the table. ‘Does anyone wish to speak? No? Then I take it we are agreed.’ He paused briefly before continuing, ‘Marshal Davout.’

‘Sire?’

‘I want the order to mobilise our forces issued before the end of the day.’

‘Yes, sire.’

For the rest of the month, and into May, Napoleon worked tirelessly to prepare the country for war. At the same time, he was more mindful than ever before of the need to secure the loyalty of his war-weary people. The repressive measures imposed by the Bourbons were reversed. Political prisoners were set free and those officers who had served the Bourbons were freely pardoned and many offered commands within the reconstituted imperial army. At times this caused friction, especially when hard-line Bonapartist officers were denied promotion in favour of those who had served King Louis. But Napoleon knew that he could take the loyalty of his ardent supporters for granted, while the loyalty of the former Bourbon officers had to be bought. Thereafter they would be watched with suspicion by their subordinates and would be keen to prove their newfound allegiance to Napoleon.

Davout swiftly organised the production and supply of equipment for the rapidly expanding army. Mills and factories turned out thousands of uniforms and tens of thousands of cartridges. New cannon were cast and pinioned to freshly constructed gun carriages. Horses were requisitioned across the country. All the while a steady flow of soldiers marched north towards the Sambre river where they camped across a wide front, waiting for the order to concentrate. Napoleon remained in Paris for as long as possible. He had sent a private message to the Emperor of Austria, begging for the return of his son and his wife. But there was no reply and his heart hardened towards the Austrians, and he vowed that he would avenge this cruel silence.

As he made a show of dealing with his civil obligations, all the time Napoleon’s mind was focused on planning the coming campaign, selecting his officers carefully. Murat’s request to serve under him was brusquely declined. Murat had foolishly declared war on Austria as soon as he heard of Napoleon’s escape from Elba and was defeated shortly thereafter and forced to flee to France. After his earlier treachery Napoleon could not trust him.

His uncertain hold on power meant that he must leave Davout to control Paris in his absence. Berthier would have been his first choice as chief of staff of the new Army of the North, but early in June came news that Berthier was dead. He had fallen from a window of his home in Bamberg, but it was not clear if it was an accident or something more sinister. In his place Napoleon appointed Soult, despite Soult’s protest that he lacked the ability to run the Emperor’s general staff, and was better employed on the battlefield.

On 7 June Napoleon ordered that the frontier with Belgium be closed. As a further security measure no mail or civilian traffic was allowed on to the roads, while the soldiers of the Army of the North began to concentrate on Philippeville less than a day’s march from the border. A week later Napoleon’s carriage and cavalry escort trundled into the small town of Beaumont where the headquarters for the army had been established. The usually quiet streets of the town were filled with soldiers and they jumped to their feet and cheered the instant they were aware that their Emperor had joined them. Napoleon, though exhausted by the preparations for the campaign, forced a smile and waved to them. Even amid the wild celebration his mind was coolly assessing their morale and he was pleased to see that there was no hint of the dull mood of resignation that had characterised the soldiers he had led a year ago. They pressed round the carriage, following it through the streets until it turned into the coachyard of the inn where Soult and his staff were waiting.

The officers had been alerted to his approach and were already lining the short walk to the entrance of the inn. As the carriage rumbled to a halt on the cobbles, Soult strode across the yard and bowed his head while a footman helped the Emperor down.

‘Is everything ready?’ Napoleon asked curtly.

‘Sire, I have the honour to report that the Army of the North awaits your orders.’

‘Very good, Soult.’ Napoleon smiled and patted the marshal on the shoulder.‘Then it only remains to settle the final details of my plans.’ He gestured towards the entrance. ‘Inside.’

The two passed between the lines of staff officers, who bowed their heads as the Emperor passed. Napoleon noticed a few familiar faces, but most were unknown to him.

‘I take it that you had difficulties reassembling my old headquarters staff?’

‘Indeed, sire. Some had accepted service under the Bourbons, others were exiled or had left France. I have gathered the best men that I could find at short notice. They seem capable enough.’

‘Soult.’ Napoleon lowered his voice. ‘The fate of France will be decided in the next few days, a few weeks at the most. I am depending on you, and your staff. You shall not fail me, in any detail, is that clear?’

‘Yes, sire.’

They entered the building and proceeded through a small hall into the dining room. Every table had been pushed together in the centre to provide a map table for Soult and his staff. Small campaign desks and stools had been set up along the walls, and were presently piled with paperwork. There was little sense of the order that Berthier had insisted on, Napoleon reflected as he removed his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. The weather in the last few days had been warm and the room was sweltering.

‘Open some windows,’ Napoleon ordered as he spread his hands on the table and leaned forward to inspect the main campaign map. While Soult unfastened the latches and thrust the windows open Napoleon took in the details of the Army of the North’s deployment, as well as the forces of Blьcher and Wellington.

‘How accurate is our intelligence on the enemy’s positions?’

Soult joined him at the table. ‘As good as it can be, sire. We have many sympathisers amongst the Belgians and they have been feeding us with regular reports on the enemy. As you can see, their forces are still widely dispersed. I estimate that it will take them a minimum of three days to mass their armies once the order is given.’

Napoleon considered the map for a moment. ‘Let us assume the worst and say a maximum of three days.’ He paused for a moment and then smiled faintly. ‘There is something else that works in our favour. See how their lines of communication are routed in opposite directions: Blьcher’s east towards the Rhine, while Wellington’s stretch to the coast, at Ostende. Let’s play on that. Have a cavalry brigade detached from the army and make a feint towards Wellington’s communications. That should distract him. When we strike, their natural impulse will be to close up on their supply lines, and that will create a weak point at the junction of their armies, here.’ Napoleon reached forward and tapped the map, indicating the road leading from Charleroi on the border straight to Brussels. ‘That is where we must strike, Soult. The Army of the North’s main thrust must be along this road. We shall divide them and crush each in turn.’

‘Very well, sire.’ Soult nodded approvingly. ‘Which first? Blьcher or Wellington?’

Napoleon was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘Blьcher, I think. He is the more aggressive of the two. We can rely on Wellington to conform to his usual caution. He will wait for us to come to him. And while he waits, we will deal with Blьcher.’

Soult stirred uncomfortably. ‘Do not underestimate Wellington, sire. He is more bold than you think.’

Napoleon looked at his chief of staff and shook his head. ‘You overestimate his abilities because he has beaten you, Soult. Just the same as the other marshals he humbled in Spain and Portugal. You walked into the traps that he set, all of you. I will not be so easily fooled.’

‘Sire, you are wrong. If you had faced Wellington last year then you would know. He is a man to be reckoned with, and his soldiers would follow him to the ends of the earth.’

‘It is you who are wrong, Soult. I know how to beat Wellington. Besides, he does not command the same army any more. Wellington has a pot-pourri of nationalities fighting under him. Less than half of his men are British, and he dare not trust his Belgian units. While he faces such difficulties he need not concern us unduly. Is that clear?’

Soult stared defiantly at his Emperor for a moment, then gritted his teeth and nodded. ‘Yes, sire.’

‘Good.’ Napoleon turned back to the map and examined the disposition of his army.‘Marshal Grouchy has been notified that he is to command the right wing, I take it?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Then I intend to appoint Marshal Ney to command the left wing, while I remain with, and command, the reserve.’

‘Ney?’

‘You question my decision?’

‘Of course not, sire,’ Soult replied hurriedly.‘It’s just that Ney was the commander in chief of France’s armies under Louis. Can you trust him?’

‘Can I afford not to?’ Napoleon responded. ‘You know his reputation. The soldiers love him. He has great influence over those officers who served under the Bourbons. If Ney serves me, then we may be sure that those officers will follow his example. So, Ney commands the left wing.’

‘Very well, sire. When will Ney be joining the army?’

‘I sent for him shortly before I left Paris. Have him brought to me the moment he arrives.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Straightening up, Napoleon rubbed his haunches, which were aching after the long journey by carriage from the capital.‘What is the strength of the army?’

‘As of this last night’s returns we have eighty-nine thousand infantry, twenty-two thousand cavalry and three hundred and sixty-six guns.’

Napoleon frowned. ‘I had expected more.’

‘A division was diverted to the Vendйe to suppress the rebels there, sire. On your orders.’

‘Ah, yes. A pity. Well, I am confident that we have enough men for the task. In any case we shall have the advantage of surprise and that is worth more than any division, eh?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘So it only remains to decide the time and place of the attack,’ Napoleon mused as he returned his attention to the map.‘We will strike here, at Charleroi, in the early hours of the fifteenth of June.’

Soult’s eyebrows rose. ‘So soon?’

‘We cannot attack soon enough. Issue the orders. The cavalry is to screen our approach to the frontier tonight. No fires are to be lit until the campaign begins and every man is to be as quiet as possible. The enemy must not guess our intentions. Now, I am tired. I need sleep.’ Napoleon turned and headed back towards the door. ‘I trust that you have arranged quarters for me?’

‘Of course, sire.’ Soult hurried after him. ‘I’ll have a clerk show you the way.’

The room was spacious and a comfortable breeze cooled the air as Napoleon lay on the bed, stripped down to his shirt and breeches. Even though he was exhausted by the frenzied activity of the last three months, no sleep would come. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, as orderlies and officers came and went in the rooms below. Beyond the walls of the inn he could hear the faint hubbub of the army; shouted orders, the occasional rattle as a recently recruited drummer boy practised his beats, and the high-spirited cheers and laughter of men on the verge of a great adventure. Napoleon’s restless mind grappled with the supreme challenge posed by this latest campaign. Despite what he had said to Soult he knew that the odds were against him. Each of the allied armies matched his in size. Unless he could force his way between them there was little chance of victory, and without a decisive victory there was no hope of breaking the will of the vast coalition gathering to overwhelm him.

A large bee came into the room, its droning buzz growing louder while it flitted from side to side as it approached the bed. Napoleon’s eyes sought the insect out and he smiled faintly as it landed on the bedpost by his feet. A bee, the symbol he had chosen for his emblem. It was a good omen.

That night, under cover of darkness, the army crept as close to the frontier as it dared. The soldiers on picket duty patrolled the bank of the Sambre, exchanging good-humoured insults with their unsuspecting Prussian counterparts on the far side of the river, just as they had done for many weeks. As each formation reached its position the men were ordered to fall out and settle down in silence. They had been issued with rations for five days, and as dawn broke over the gently rolling countryside the men chewed on bread and cheese, as they had been forbidden to light fires to cook the stew that they usually ate.

Even though he rose at first light, Napoleon did not leave headquarters to ride through his army to offer encouragement, as had been his custom on the eve of battle. As far as the allies knew, he was still in Paris, and it would be foolish to risk being greeted by cheers that might be overheard by the enemy pickets.

Marshal Ney arrived late in the afternoon. His coat was covered in dust and his cheeks flushed from the exertion of the ride from his estate outside Paris. Napoleon stared at him frostily as the marshal presented himself in the small office that had been commandeered from the owner of the inn.

‘You are late, Ney.’

Ney sucked in a deep breath. ‘I might have been given more warning, sire. I came immediately I got your summons. What is it that you require of me?’

‘I need you to command the left wing of the Army of the North. Do you accept?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Ney replied without hesitation. ‘When do you expect the enemy to attack us?’

Napoleon could not help a small smile and glanced at the timepiece mounted on the wall. ‘It is we who will be attacking, Ney, in less than twelve hours from now.’

Ney’s eyes widened. ‘Sire, I know nothing of your plans. I need time to take up my command.’

‘Your officers have already been briefed. Your chief of staff can provide you with all the details that you need. Do you still accept the command, or do you consider yourself unfit to meet the challenge?’

Ney glared back. ‘I will do my duty, sire. I will lead the left wing of the army, wherever you command me to go.’

‘Very well,’ Napoleon stood up and held out his hand.‘My dear Ney, I have never needed you more than at this hour. You have no idea how much it comforts me to know that I will have the bravest of my marshals fighting at my side when we face the enemy.’

Ney puffed out his cheeks at such brazen flattery. Yet he took the emperor’s hand and shook it firmly. ‘I can think of no higher honour, sire.’

‘Then it is settled.’ Napoleon releaded his grip. ‘Given the time we have left before the advance begins, I suggest that you collect your orders from Soult and ride to join your men.’

‘Yes, sire!’ Ney stood stiffly and bowed his head, then turned and strode out of the office.

The soldiers of the Army of the North spent the remainder of the day, and the first part of the night, resting in the fields and woods close to the peaceful flow of the Sambre. Then, at midnight, the sergeants and corporals quietly crept down the lines of sleeping men and shook them awake. In the cool night air the dark figures formed into columns and moved forward to their start positions. Elsewhere, in the artillery camps, the gun crews harnessed the horse teams and limbered the cannon before they too rumbled forward. Ahead of the dense columns of infantry and artillery the cavalry mounted and fanned out along the bank, and then waited for the order to cross the frontier. At three in the morning the sentries silently fell back and on the far bank the Prussians were puzzled when there was no reply to the usual greetings they called across the water.

At headquarters Napoleon sat with his staff. Some of the officers conversed in low tones, but most sat in silence, glancing at the hands of a large clock perched on the mantel above the fireplace in the map room. The orders had been sent out to every formation hours earlier and the desks, stools and document chests had been packed on to the wagons allocated to Soult and his officers. There was a lull in the frantic activity of the last few days as everyone waited for the army to be unleashed against the allies. The hour hand of the clock crawled towards three and then, finally, Napoleon eased himself on to his feet, and his officers scrambled up from their chairs and faced him expectantly.

‘Gentlemen! The attack begins. God willing, this time in a week we shall be celebrating in the streets of Brussels.’

Soult raised his fist and punched the air. ‘Long live France! Long live the Emperor!’

His officers repeated his cry, again and again, while out in the night tens of thousands of men and horses rippled forward, advancing across the frontier.

Chapter 56

Arthur

Brussels, 15 June 1815

‘ ’Tis a damned disgrace,’ Picton grumbled as he took his place at the table. ‘The government has sent us not much more than half the troops your grace requested. And most of the beggars are green. Much of the army is foreign and nearly half the men speak German.’

‘It is an infamous army, to be sure,’ Arthur agreed calmly. He had invited his senior officers to an early dinner so that they might discuss their preparations for war before attending a ball that evening. Arthur had arrived to take up his command barely two months earlier and had been horrified by the lack of readiness evident in the lowlands. The failure of the British government to provide him with enough soldiers was only one of the difficulties he had had to contend with.

Faced with the new threat,Arthur had sought the services of as many as possible of the officers he had commanded in the Peninsula. Most had answered the call, but others had been imposed upon him, like his cavalry commander, the Earl of Uxbridge. It was the same with many of the staff officers who had been appointed by the Duke of York before Arthur arrived from Vienna.

Then there was the dubious quality, and loyalty, of the allied troops that made up two-thirds of his army. King William of the Netherlands had at first refused to agree to place his men under Arthur’s command and had reluctantly consented only after intense diplomatic pressure from London, and the payment of a large subsidy in gold. Arthur had decided to distribute the most unreliable of his allied troops amongst his redcoats to lessen the impact of any treacherous sentiments. Picton was right to complain, Arthur reflected as the other officers took their seats. But that was the hand that he had been dealt and he must do the best he could.

At least Kitty and his sons were safe. Somerset had escorted them back to England before joining Arthur in Brussels. They had left Paris only a few days before Napoleon had arrived and Somerset had taken the commendable precaution of burning all the embassy’s records before leaving. Unfortunately, the Bourbons had failed to show the same good sense and Napoleon had discovered the secret treaty that had been signed between Austria, France and England at the start of the year. When the details had been published in the French newspapers the Prussians and Russians had been outraged, and many of the officers in Blьcher’s army were hostile and suspicious of their English allies in consequence.

When the soup had been served, Arthur leaned towards Uxbridge and asked quietly, ‘Any fresh reports of enemy activity on our right flank?’

‘Nothing new. The Frogs seem to be there in strength, judging by what they show us along the frontier. Of course, if I had permission to send patrols into France we would have a far clearer picture.’

‘Out of the question. My orders are to hold the army in readiness until war is declared. If we cross the frontier we become the aggressors.’

‘Something of a nicety,’ Uxbridge said dismissively. ‘It is hard to believe that war can be avoided at this stage.’

‘Nevertheless, we have our orders. In the meantime, I am concerned that Bonaparte may attempt to strike to the west of Brussels, and cut us off from the sea. The army must be ready to concentrate against an attack from that quarter. So, we must have adequate warning from your cavalry patrols, Uxbridge. They must stay alert.’

‘I have them in hand, your grace. You’ll be amongst the first to know if Boney goes for the coast, or takes the Mons road to Brussels.’

‘That is well.’ Arthur paused a moment. ‘Blьcher’s chief of staff is demanding to know where I intend to concentrate my army in the event of an attack. I cannot tell him until I know where the main weight of the French army is positioned.’

‘Damned Prussians,’ Uxbridge muttered before he raised his spoon and took a sip. His eyes lit up. ‘I say, fine soup.’

Arthur suppressed a sigh. He had been trying to keep up the morale of his army, and that of his Belgian hosts, by insisting that the social life of Brussels continue as if there were no threat of war. The difficulty of that was that many of his officers were playing their part too well and appeared to have scant concern for the presence of a French army gathering on the other side of the border.

He forced himself to make inane conversation with Uxbridge, until the end of the first course. Then, as the dishes were cleared away, a staff officer entered the dining room and hurried to Arthur’s side and leaned towards his ear.

‘Your grace, there is a Prussian officer waiting in the hall. He says he has an urgent despatch from Marshal Blьcher’s headquarters.’

Arthur nodded, and smiled apologetically to his guests as he rose from his seat at the head of the table. ‘Pray continue the meal, gentlemen. I shan’t be long.’

He followed the officer outside to where the mud-bespattered Prussian waited. Despite his anxious expression, the Prussian snapped to attention and bowed stiffly before speaking in heavily accented English.

‘I come from General Gneisenau, your grace. The chief of staff begs to inform you that the French attacked our position at Thuin at eight o’clock this morning.’

‘In what strength?’

‘Enough to drive in our outposts and then take the town, your grace.’

‘Are the French attacking anywhere else?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Very well.’ Arthur nodded his thanks. ‘Tell General Gneisenau that I am concentrating my army. I will send word of my position as soon as I can.’

The Prussian bowed his head again and turned to stride back towards the entrance of the house Arthur had rented in the heart of the city. Arthur turned to the staff officer. ‘Get to headquarters at once. Tell Somerset to issue orders to every formation. The army is to form up and be ready to march as soon as orders are issued.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The officer turned away and increased his pace.

‘Walk, my boy, don’t run! We must appear calm in front of the local people.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the young officer replied, chastened.

Arthur returned to the dining room and sat back down. Picking up his fork he rapped the side of his glass. ‘Quiet, gentlemen.’

The officers turned towards him.

‘The French have crossed the border,’ he announced. ‘They attacked one of Blьcher’s formations.’

‘At last.’ Uxbridge smiled. ‘Where was this?’

‘At Thuin. The question is, does this constitute the main thrust of their attack, or is it a feint?’

‘A feint?’ Picton growled. ‘Are you saying that Boney’s trying to lure us towards the Prussians? That makes no military sense to me.’

‘It does, if he means to break through on our right and sever our communications.’ Arthur paused. ‘That is what I believe his intention to be, for the present. To guard against that possibility, the army will concentrate to the west of Thuin. If there is any indication that this is not a feint, then we will adjust our position accordingly. I have given the order for the army to make ready to march. I will also send an order to General Dцrnberg at Mons to probe for any sign of the enemy to his front. Meanwhile we shall wait until the situation becomes clear. Now, gentlemen, you know my policy with regard to the local people and our own civilians. We will attend tonight’s ball and there is to be no mention of this attack. I suggest you make the most of the entertainment, since it may be the last such occasion for a while.’

Shortly after ten o’clock Arthur was talking to Uxbridge when he saw the guests stir by the entrance to the ballroom as a figure in a riding cloak entered and scanned the room. Arthur recognised him at once - General Mьffling, the officer assigned to liaise between the headquarters of the two allied armies. As soon as he caught sight of Arthur the Prussian hurried through the crowd towards him.

‘I fear the game is up,’ Arthur muttered as the dancing stopped and the orchestra fell silent. All eyes were turning towards him.

‘So it seems.’ Uxbridge nodded.

Mьffling had been riding hard and his cloak and boots were smeared with mud. ‘Sir, Marshal Blьcher sent me.’

‘Come.’ Arthur placed an arm on the Prussian’s shoulder. ‘Let us converse somewhere quiet, and I shall have refreshments brought to you.’

He led Mьffling through a door at the side of the ballroom. Beyond, lit by a single candlestick, lay a small room used to store chairs. Arthur gestured to catch Somerset’s attention and pointed towards the orchestra before closing the door behind him. As the music struck up Arthur turned to Mьffling.

‘What news?’

‘Blьcher has advanced to Ligny to confront the French army. He asks if you will move to support him.’

‘How does Blьcher know for certain that the French army lies before him?’

‘We have been fighting the enemy throughout the day, sir. Our cavalry patrols report large columns marching through Charleroi. They even heard the enemy soldiers cheering for their Emperor. There can be no doubt that this is their main line of advance.’

Arthur was silent for a moment as he considered Mьffling’s words. Then he nodded slowly. ‘Very well, General. I hope that this is no ruse; I still think that the main attack will be along the most direct route to Brussels.’ Arthur reached for the handle of the door and nodded towards the ballroom. ‘Shall we?’

As they emerged back into the brightly lit ballroom Arthur saw that many of the officers had already left and more were taking their leave and making for the exit. There was nothing he could do to stop them, not without creating a scene. Mьffling strode away and Arthur beckoned to Uxbridge and the other senior officers present to join him so that he might pass on their brief exchange. As the officers left to join their commands, Arthur saw that the remaining guests were hurrying to quit the ballroom, fear in their eyes.

The streets of Brussels were filled with soldiers hurrying from their billets towards the regiments forming up outside the city. As Arthur’s carriage rattled over the cobbles he saw the first of the civilians loading their valuables into carriages and carts as they prepared to flee. Just before midnight the carriage reached General Mьffling’s house and Arthur was quickly shown through to the study where the general was waiting.

‘I have given orders for the army to march east to support Marshal Blьcher. We shall march through the night and hope to reach him by way of Quatre Bras tomorrow afternoon. Ride and tell him.’

‘I will, sir.’ Mьffling reached for his coat. ‘I only pray that it is not already too late.’

Arthur nodded. Every hour counted. If the French took the vital crossroads at Quatre Bras then there would be little chance of uniting the allied armies - and all that stood between Bonaparte and possession of the crossroads were two Dutch brigades.

THE WATERLOO CAMPAIGN JUNE 1815

Chapter 57

Fleurus, 8.00 a.m., 16 June 1815

The order to Marshal Ney to seize the crossroads at Quartre Bras had just been sent when a report from Marshal Grouchy arrived, announcing that the Prussians were massing their forces near the village of Ligny, on the far side of the stream that gave the village its name. Napoleon felt his heartbeat quicken as he saw the opportunity that Blьcher was foolishly extending to him. He looked up at the staff officer who had brought the message.

‘Are you certain it is the main Prussian force?’

‘Yes, sire. There is no question of it. They are forming up on the sloped ground on the far bank, in clear view.’

Napoleon smiled and then turned quickly to Soult. ‘We will attack Blьcher with Grouchy’s wing and the reserve. Order them to advance on Ligny immediately.’

‘Yes, sire. And what of Marshal Ney? Shall I send fresh orders for him to march and join us?’

Napoleon quickly considered the positions of his forces and shook his head. ‘No. We must have the crossroads. But tell Ney that he is to report the moment he has won control of Quatre Bras.’ Napoleon rose from his chair and strode towards the door of the hotel that Soult’s headquarters had occupied. He gestured to the officer who had carried the message from Grouchy. ‘Come! You are to take me to your marshal at once.’

The Emperor and his escort hurriedly mounted, and led by Grouchy’s staff officer they pounded out of the village. Ahead of them stretched the rear echelons of the right wing of the army, battalion after battalion of infantry together with artillery columns. As the small party of horsemen galloped up the side of the road, the soldiers glanced round and let out a great cheer as Napoleon passed by, his grey coat-tails whipping out behind him.

An hour after he left headquarters Napoleon reached Marshal Grouchy’s command post at a windmill on a small hill overlooking the stream and the high ground beyond. The soldiers and guns of Vandamme’s corps were already deploying on the French side of the stream. Opposite them stood the Prussians: dense formations of infantry in their blue and black uniforms, spread out along the slope. Napoleon dismounted and hurried towards Grouchy and his staff.

‘It seems that fortune favours us, gentlemen,’ he said, gesturing towards the enemy. The officers smiled, and then Napoleon turned his attention directly on Grouchy.‘What do you know of their strength and dispositions?’

‘That’s Zieten’s corps over there, sire. My skirmishers captured some prisoners at first light. I had them interrogated. They said that the enemy is concentrating at Ligny. Our cavalry patrols report that two more Prussian corps are approaching from the north. There is no question of it. Blьcher intends to fight.’

‘Then we may face as many as ninety thousand of them,’ Napoleon mused. ‘Very well, we need to bring every available man into line as swiftly as possible. You may start siting your guns opposite the Prussians. When the battle begins, they will make a fine target.’

‘Indeed, sire.’ Grouchy nodded.

Napoleon felt a surge of satisfaction flow through his body. His plan had called for the Army of the North to break through between the allies and then seek and destroy them one at a time. Now it seemed that Blьcher had saved him the job. It was only a question of assembling his forces more swiftly than Blьcher and attacking the instant he had the advantage.

As the hours passed and the sun climbed into the sky more infantry, cavalry and artillery swelled the ranks on either side. The Prussian infantry occupied all the buildings along the far bank of the Ligny and set about fortifying them, knocking loopholes in the walls to harass the French when they made their attack. While both sides prepared, Napoleon rode forward with his escort to inspect the battlefield more closely. The ground either side of the stream was marshy for some way and it was clear that any attack would be forced to use the bridges and fords scattered along the length of the stream. There would be heavy losses, Napoleon realised as he returned to the command post and waited for the rest of his forces, and Soult’s headquarters, to reach the battlefield. It steadily became evident that the enemy were arriving in greater numbers than the French, and towards noon Napoleon sent a message to Ney instructing him to attack the Prussian right flank as soon as Quatre Bras was in French hands.

By two in the afternoon Napoleon had decided on his plan. Standing over Soult’s map table, he briefed his officers. ‘The enemy has spread their forces thinly along the stream, over a considerable distance. The situation could hardly be better for us, gentlemen. While our cavalry contains Blьcher’s left flank, the guns massed in the centre of the battlefield will pound the enemy line, and then we shall attack frontally. When the moment is ripe, the Imperial Guard will smash through their line and cut their army in two. It will only remain for Ney’s wing to fall upon their right flank and rear and the Prussians will be shattered. After that, we will turn on Wellington and end this campaign.’ He smiled as he stared round at his officers. ‘A few days from now France will have triumphed and our enemies will have no choice but to sue for peace.’

Half an hour later, the signal gun announced the opening of the battle, and the French batteries thundered out. At first they concentrated their fire on the defenders in the villages along the bank of the river, and then, as the order was given for the infantry to advance, they shifted their aim to begin wreaking terrible destruction in the ranks of the Prussian reserves drawn up in full view on the slope behind the stream. Roundshot smashed into the formations, leaving a trail of bodies and limbs to mark their passage. Despite the losses, the iron discipline of the Prussians held up, and the battered battalions closed up the gaps and stood firm.

Through his telescope Napoleon watched the progress of the attacks across the stream as his men fought to gain control of the villages covering the bridges and fords. The enemy fire was withering and the soldiers following the tricolours were being scythed down as they advanced. Yet their morale never faltered and the cheers for their country and their Emperor carried back faintly but clearly to Napoleon as he watched the bloody struggle.

Soult was at Napoleon’s side and muttered, ‘Our men are taking heavy punishment, sire.’

‘As are the enemy,’ Napoleon replied. ‘We just need Blьcher to commit his full strength to the fight, and the Guard and Ney will deal the decisive blows.’ Napoleon lowered his telescope and focused his mind on the surrounding landscape once again. It would be as well to spur Ney on, to ensure that his men reached the battlefield in time to strike as hard a blow to the enemy as possible.

He turned to Soult. ‘Send a message to Ney. Tell him the battle is in full swing. He is to manoeuvre immediately in such a way as to envelop Blьcher’s right and fall upon his rear. Tell him the fate of France is in his hands.’

Soult nodded as he finished scribbling down the message in his notebook and then hurried over to his aides to have the note rewritten in a fair hand. A moment later a despatch rider spurred his horse into a gallop and headed west towards Quatre Bras. Napoleon turned his attention back to the vicious struggle along the banks of the stream and noted with satisfaction that the first of the villages had fallen into French hands as a tricolour appeared in the tower of the church.

‘Sire!’ Soult called out as he trotted over from where his staff sat hunched over their campaign desks, dealing with the constant flow of reports and orders. He held up a scrap of paper. ‘From Ney.’

‘Well?’

‘He reports that he is engaging Wellington at Quatre Bras. He estimates their number at twenty thousand, with more sighted approaching the crossroads.’

‘Damn.’ Napoleon pressed his lips together. This was unexpected. ‘Tell Ney to continue to fight for control of the crossroads, but detach d’Erlon’s corps to make the attack on Blьcher’s flank. I need every man here. Every man.’

‘What about Lobau’s corps?’ Soult asked.

‘Lobau?’

‘At Charleroi, sire.’

Napoleon turned on his chief of staff. ‘What the hell are they doing at Charleroi?’

‘They have no orders, sire,’ Soult explained. ‘You made no mention of them this morning.’

‘I made no mention?’ Napoleon’s face drained of blood as he raged, ‘You fool, Soult! You idiot! What use is Lobau’s ten thousand in Charleroi? Send for them. At once, do you hear? Now get out of my sight.’

He turned away from his chief of staff before he gave in to the temptation to strike the man. An entire corps of his army was sitting uselessly as the decisive battle of the campaign was being fought. Lobau had little chance of arriving in time to make a difference. The outcome of the day rested on Ney’s shoulders. Napoleon turned and stared west for a moment, in the direction of Quatre Bras. If he could not have Ney, then at least d’Erlon’s corps would swing the balance here in Napoleon’s favour. There was still a good chance of destroying Blьcher and his army.

Quatre Bras, 3.00 p.m.

The Prince of Orange greeted Arthur and Somerset with a cheery wave as they galloped up to his line. The ‘Young Frog’, as he was known to Arthur’s officers thanks to his bulging eyes and thick lips, had drawn his two brigades up on a rise half a mile in front of the crossroads. The rolling land surrounding Quatre Bras, and the high crops of rye, obscured the view of the allied troops, and that of the French to the south. So far it had worked in the allies’ favour, as the enemy could not have realised how few men stood before them. Otherwise, Arthur realised, they would have swept the two Dutch brigades aside.

‘My dear Duke!’ The Prince grinned. ‘A pleasure to see you, sir.’

‘And you too, your highness.’ Arthur touched the brim of his hat. ‘What is the situation here?’

‘Calm enough. The French had left us alone until an hour or so ago. Then we heard their drums. Since then, they have contented themselves with sending forward some skirmishers to take those farms.’The Prince turned and indicated two small clusters of buildings to the south. ‘They’re also fighting my light infantry in the woods, to our right there.’

As Arthur and Somerset followed the direction indicated a fresh crackle of muffled musket fire sounded from the trees. In the distance the dull thunder of artillery at Ligny could be heard. The Prince cocked his head towards the east.‘I take it that Marshal Blьcher has engaged the enemy?’

‘Indeed.’ Arthur agreed. ‘I spoke to him less than two hours ago, just as the battle began. Unless we are attacked first, it is my intention to march the army to his support.’

‘Bravo!’The Prince nodded. ‘The Corsican pig will soon be on the run, eh?’

‘That is my fervent hope, your highness. But first we must secure control of the crossroads.’

They were interrupted by a fresh exchange of musket fire in the woods, far closer this time. Figures emerged from the treeline, running back towards the Prince of Orange’s position. Some had lost their hats, and others had abandoned their muskets. They disappeared into the rye and only the swirls of the tall stalks marked their passage. Behind them came the first of the French skirmishers, advancing out of the woods towards the right of the Dutch brigade. To the south, approaching through more of the crops, Arthur could make out another line of skirmishers, and behind them a shimmering mass of bayonets. A moment later the crested helmets of cuirassiers appeared to the left, working their way towards the vital Namur road that linked the two allied armies.

‘We are in some difficulty, your grace,’ said Somerset as he watched the enemy approach.

‘I have eyes,’ Arthur snapped. He turned in his saddle and stared up the road leading to Brussels. A British column was approaching, at its head the unmistakable figure of General Picton in his black coat and top hat, looking for all the world like an undertaker. ‘Ride to Picton. Tell him to send one of his officers back down the road. He is to tell every formation he encounters that they must march for Quatre Bras as swiftly as they can!’

Without waiting to salute, Somerset spurred his horse into a gallop and raced towards the oncoming British soldiers. By the time he had returned to his commander Arthur was watching the steady progress of the French as they emerged from the wood and began to drive back the Dutch brigade on the right. On the left the French cavalry were forming a line to charge. Arthur could see the first of the Dutch troops beginning to waver as they saw the danger. Some of the men began to step back, disordering the line, and then the first abruptly turned and ran, dropping his musket and then wriggling out of the straps of his backpack as he fled. Arthur glanced back to see that Picton’s leading regiment, the Ninety-second, Highlanders, were deploying into a line a few hundred yards behind the Prince of Orange’s position. More regiments were advancing to extend the line, and over to the left another column, in the black uniforms of the Brunswickers, was striking out towards the left, to support the wavering Dutch.

‘This is going to be a close fight,’ Arthur muttered.

‘Oh, you need not worry, sir,’ the Prince of Orange responded cheerfully. ‘My men will stand their ground.’

‘I hope so.’

The shrill cry of bugles sounded and an instant later the French cavalry advanced, crushing the rye stalks under them as they closed on the Dutch brigade. A few shots rang out as a handful of men were too nervous to wait for the order to fire, then more followed, and a long ragged volley consumed the Dutch soldiers in a bank of powder smoke. For a moment they could not see the approaching cavalry, but they could hear them well enough and feel the vibration of hooves through the ground beneath their boots. It proved too much for the inexperienced soldiers and the brigade broke, streaming back towards the crossroads.

The French bugles sounded the charge and the cuirassiers let out a roar as they spurred their big horses on. They swept through the dispersing smoke, swords and breastplates gleaming in the sunlight, and then slashed left and right as they cut down the fleeing Dutch soldiers. A short distance beyond, Arthur saw the Brunswickers halt and try to deploy, but they were thrown into confusion as the Dutch rushed amongst them, swiftly followed by the French cavalry, and then the Brunswickers were fleeing as well.

‘Your grace!’ Somerset shouted a warning and pointed as one of the cuirassier squadrons began its charge down the length of the remaining Dutch brigade. Arthur saw the danger and called to the Prince of Orange. ‘Your highness, follow me!’

The three officers turned their mounts and spurred them down the rise towards the line formed by Picton’s division. The remaining Dutch troops, caught between the infantry emerging from the wood and the cavalry charging their flank, turned and ran. The air was filled with the sound of horses’ screams and the irregular pop of muskets as Arthur urged his mount on. Ahead lay the Highlanders, two deep, front rank kneeling as they advanced their bayonets to receive the cavalry charge. With an icy stab of realisation, Arthur saw that he and the others were in immediate danger of being impaled on those bayonets.

Cupping his hand to his mouth he bellowed as loudly as he could, ‘Ninety-second! Lie down!’

Even though the order was not in the manual, the nearest men had sufficient presence of mind to throw themselves flat, and the horses of the three officers leaped over the Highlanders. As Arthur reined in and turned his mount round the men rose to their feet to face the oncoming cuirassiers.

‘Hold your fire until I give the order!’Arthur shouted, ignoring Picton’s angry expression at his commander’s presumption. ‘Wait . . .Wait . . .’

The men held their muskets tightly into their shoulders, stilling their breath in anticipation. The enemy, having cut down the Dutch, now pounded on towards the redcoats, so close that their savage expressions were clearly visible. At no more than thirty yards Arthur shouted the order. ‘Fire!’

The volley crashed out and from the saddle Arthur saw the leading Frenchmen and their mounts pitch forward in a tangle of arms, legs and horseflesh. Those behind had to swerve aside or rein in and the impetus of the charge was broken. A second volley cut down another score of cuirassiers and then they turned and cantered away, back towards the rise where the Dutch brigades had once stood.

Arthur glanced round and saw that the arrival of fresh troops had stabilised the allies’ position and the French cavalry were in retreat. But already another danger was evident as the first French guns unlimbered to his front. Within fifteen minutes the first cannon balls were pounding the allied line.

For the next two hours the French made several more attacks. But all the time more allied units and guns were arriving from the direction of Brussels and gradually the battle swung in Arthur’s favour. In the approaching dusk the allied line pressed forward, retaking the ridge and farmhouses while the light infantry cleared the French skirmishers out of the woods. As night fell the final shots were fired and then the battlefield was quiet, save for the groans and cries of the wounded.

While more formations continued to arrive, including his headquarters staff, Arthur was growing increasingly concerned by the lack of news from Ligny. The last report from the Prussian headquarters, received at five o’clock, had informed him that Blьcher’s men were holding their positions.

‘In that case,’ Arthur told his aide, ‘we shall be in an advantageous position tomorrow. Once we combine with Blьcher we are sure to overwhelm the enemy.’

‘Assuming Blьcher has held them off.’

‘Of course. But we must be certain.’ Arthur called over one of his staff officers. ‘Colonel Gordon! Over here, if you please!’

The colonel trotted over as Arthur mentally composed his orders before he spoke. ‘You have a fresh horse?’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Then I want you to ride to Marshal Blьcher’s headquarters at Sombreffe, north of Ligny. Tell him that we have the crossroads and by dawn the army will be here in sufficient strength to march to join him. Also, I would appreciate a report on his engagement today.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Then off you go. You may find me here when you return.’

Colonel Gordon disappeared into the night, galloping along the road to Sombreffe, and Arthur stretched his shoulders for a moment before settling down by one of the camp fires of the Ninety-second to await his return. The long hours of the night passed without incident as more soldiers arrived at the crossroads and were led to their positions by staff officers. At first Arthur’s spirits were high. It had been touch and go the previous afternoon, but his men had bested the enemy. Even if Blьcher had not won at Ligny, he would be near enough for the armies to combine in the coming day. However, there was no sign of Gordon during the night, and as the first light appeared on the horizon a building sense of foreboding began to gnaw at Arthur’s heart. The sun rose, bathing the rolling landscape in a warm rosy hue. From the south came the faint sounds of trumpets as the French stirred, but there was no attempt to renew the previous day’s fighting.

Finally, at half past seven, Colonel Gordon returned. His horse was blown, its bridle covered in foam, and Gordon’s face looked gaunt as he dismounted and strode up towards Arthur.

‘Well?’

‘If you please, your grace, might we speak out of earshot of the others?’

Arthur frowned, but paced a short distance away from the headquarters staff, who exchanged a mixture of curious and anxious expressions.

‘Blьcher was defeated yesterday, your grace.’ Gordon spoke softly. ‘Many of his formations were routed. The rest were forced to retreat.’

‘I see.’ Arthur felt his heart sink as he digested the news. ‘Then I take it he is no longer at Sombreffe.’

‘No, your grace. He has pulled his army back to Wavre. That’s why it took me so long to find them.’

‘Wavre?’ Arthur was momentarily stunned. ‘But that’s nearly twenty miles from here. By God, we are undone,’ he continued in a hushed tone as the full implication of the news struck home. Blьcher was powerless to intervene if the French attacked Arthur’s army at Quatre Bras. Taking a deep breath, Arthur patted Gordon on the shoulder. ‘My thanks to you. I suppose in England they will say we have been licked. I can’t help it; as the Prussians have gone back, we must go too.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Find yourself some refreshment. But first, send General Mьffling to me.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

While he waited for the Prussian liaison officer Arthur glanced to the south and east, as if expecting to see the leading formations of the French army already advancing to attack him and seal their victory.

Mьffling came up, hurriedly fastening his jacket buttons. ‘You sent for me?’

‘Yes. It seems that your countrymen were defeated yesterday.’

The Prussian’s jaw sagged in dismay. ‘I had not heard.’

‘That is because we were not told,’ Arthur responded coldly.‘Blьcher has retreated to Wavre. Yes, Wavre. More than a day’s march from here. And his chief of staff did not think to inform us of his reverse at Ligny. For what reason, I wonder? A suspicious mind might conclude that we had been left here, unaware, in order to cover the Prussian retreat.’

Mьffling froze and then shook his head.‘That is an ignoble suggestion, your grace.’

‘Perhaps. And if I am mistaken, then I apologise,’ Arthur replied flatly. ‘But the fact remains, my army is in an exposed position. I will have to withdraw. I want you to ride to Blьcher at once. Tell him that I will fall back to a position parallel with his at Wavre.’ Arthur closed his eyes and imagined the map of the surrounding landscape. He nodded. ‘Tell Blьcher I will make my stand at Mont-St-Jean, if he can promise me the support of at least one of his army corps.’

‘Mont-St-Jean?’

‘The ridge across the road to Brussels. Just before the village of Waterloo.’

‘I know it.’

Arthur clasped his hand. ‘If I am defeated by Bonaparte then I fear that England may never forgive Prussia. In that event the coalition will fail, and the shadow of Bonaparte will descend upon Europe once again.’

Mьffling nodded.‘I understand. I will do whatever I can to persuade Marshal Blьcher.’

Chapter 58

Ligny, 7.00 a.m., 17 June 1815

Napoleon was at breakfast when the first report came in from General Pajol. He had taken his cavalry forward at first light to scout for the Prussians and discover in which direction they had retreated. Pajol’s officer informed the Emperor that a large body of the Prussians had been spotted on the road to Liиge. There were signs that some more of the enemy had headed in the direction of Wavre, but Napoleon dismissed that. If Blьcher was retreating, then he would be sure to fall back on his supply lines and make for Liиge.

Napoleon nodded with satisfaction as he dismissed the messenger and turned his attention back to his breakfast. He had been joined by Grouchy, Soult and some of the headquarters officers. Despite heavy losses, the victory of the previous day had left the Emperor in a good mood, and his subordinates were grateful for that.

‘All is proceeding according to plan,’ Napoleon declared as he cut into a rasher of bacon. ‘The Prussians are on the run, and Ney controls the crossroads at Quatre Bras. Wellington and his rabble will be withdrawing towards Brussels.’ He popped a large piece of meat into his mouth, chewed quickly and swallowed. ‘We have driven the enemy apart and it only remains to complete their destruction.’ He smiled at his officers. ‘This may go down in history as the swiftest campaign I have ever fought. Think on that, gentlemen. In years to come you will be sure to tell the tale to your grandchildren, eh?’

Soult and some of the others chuckled, but Grouchy’s expression remained sombre.

‘What is it, Grouchy?’ Napoleon frowned. ‘Why the long face?’

‘Sire, we should have launched our pursuit of Blьcher last night. If we had, then his army would have been scattered. As it is, we have lost contact with the Prussians. They could be anywhere. Rallying even as as we sit here and eat.’

‘You heard the report. Pajol saw them on the road to Liиge.’

‘He saw some Prussians. They could be deserters. I’m not convinced that our cavalry have located the main body of the Prussian army. Sire, we have to find them.’

A fresh knock at the door interrupted Grouchy. A junior officer entered and handed a slip of paper to Soult. The chief of staff read through it quickly and then cleared his throat. ‘From Ney, sire.’

‘Yes?’

‘He, er, says that he was not able to complete the capture of the crossroads yesterday. Wellington is still holding the position.’

Napoleon lowered his knife and fork and licked his lips as he considered this new information. What was Wellington playing at? He must know that his ally had been heavily defeated.

Soult leaned forward with an excited gleam in his eyes. ‘Sire, the reserve could reach Quarte Bras in a matter of hours. If Ney can pin Wellington to the crossroads, then we can force him to give battle.’

‘Wellington will not fight. He will retreat. In fact, I would be surprised if he had not already abandoned the position. He is not so foolish as to try to remain there now that Blьcher cannot support him.’ Napoleon drummed his fingers lightly on the table as he considered the situation. Then he looked up. ‘As I see it, there are two possible courses of action. First, we leave Ney to keep Wellington occupied, and press on with the rest of the army to find Blьcher and complete the destruction of his army. Second, Grouchy pursues Blьcher with the right wing of the army, while Ney and the reserve take on Wellington. What are your thoughts?’

His officers were silent for a moment and then Soult spoke up. ‘Sire, as we have lost contact with the Prussians any pursuit that we mount now entails the risk of marching in the wrong direction. If Blьcher is making for Liиge and we follow him, then we will have to extend our supply lines. If Wellington manages to elude Ney then he could cut our communications.’

‘If. If. If!’ Napoleon shook his head and continued acidly.‘Thank you for your advice, Soult.’

‘Soult is right to point out uncertainties, sire,’ said Grouchy. ‘We should have remained in contact with the Prussians and destroyed them at the second attempt. Now it is too late. We know where Wellington is, so we must strike at him, as soon as possible.’

Napoleon was angered by the slight on his judgement, yet there was truth in Grouchy’s words. It made sense to fall on Wellington. Yet there were other considerations. ‘Wellington’s army is still intact, whereas Blьcher’s is battered and in retreat. Blьcher was always the bigger threat. If the Prussians are annihilated then we will only have to face the weaker of the two allied armies.’ Napoleon stared at Grouchy.

Grouchy gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath before he responded as calmly as he could. ‘You are right, of course, sire. But the longer we spend looking for Blьcher, the greater his chance to rally his troops and co-ordinate his efforts with Wellington. Whatever we do, we must do it quickly.’

Napoleon was still for a moment. Despite what Grouchy said, the prospect of the destruction of Blьcher was too alluring and too valuable to dismiss. ‘I will give General Pajol a little longer to confirm the location of the main body of Blьcher’s army. If there is no definite sighting, then we shall move on Wellington. Breakfast is over, gentlemen. Marshal Grouchy, you and I will ride to your command. I wish to congratulate your men on their efforts yesterday, while we wait for word of Blьcher.’

For the next three hours Napoleon, Grouchy and a cavalry escort toured the battlefield. There were still thousands of bodies littering the ground about the villages where the fighting had been hardest. On the slopes lay the lines of the Prussian units torn to pieces by French artillery, and further up the scattered corpses of those who had been cut down by the cavalry charges with which the battle had concluded. Many of the French regiments had suffered grievously in the opening attacks, and Napoleon was careful to offer the survivors his praise, and hand out promotions and the promise of reward once the campaign was over. At his side, Grouchy did his best not to fret and surreptitiously checked his pocket watch whenever he could. Eventually he could bear it no more.

‘Sire, it is almost eleven, and no further word from Pajol. You must decide.’

‘Damn Pajol,’ Napoleon muttered. ‘What is he playing at? Why doesn’t he report?’

‘We have to assume he has not found the Prussians, sire.’ Grouchy leaned towards him and spoke in a low urgent tone.‘For pity’s sake, sire. We must act now.’

Napoleon stared at him for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well. Take your men and pursue Blьcher. Keep your sword in his back. Meanwhile I will use Ney and the reserve to deal with Wellington.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Grouchy bowed his head with a relieved expression. ‘I will set out at once.’

Napoleon nodded his consent and then abruptly turned his horse back in the direction of headquarters and spurred it into a gallop. The decision was made and now he must strike at Wellington as swiftly as possible, before the Duke could retreat out of danger. He returned to Soult just long enough to give the order for the reserve to move on Quatre Bras and then rode towards the crossroads to join Marshal Ney and his men.

The day was warm and the air quite still. To the east the sky was obscured by a dull haze. Directly above him only a handful of clouds floated serenely across the lush green of the Belgian countryside. Yet it was the very peacefulness that concerned Napoleon as he urged his mount on. There was no sound of cannon fire from the direction of Quatre Bras. If Wellington was still there then surely he should be hotly engaged by Ney’s forces?

As the road crested a rise Napoleon saw the sprawling camp of the left wing of his army. There was no sign of any formation ready to advance and do battle. Ahead, astride the crossroads, he could see the thin red blocks of Wellington’s army, interspersed with artillery batteries as they stood ready to defend their position. Beyond, in the distance, he could see more columns, moving in the direction of Brussels. Napoleon felt his stomach knot in fury as he beheld the scene, and he dug his spurs in sharply as he galloped on.

A mile later the road passed through an infantry regiment. The men were sitting quietly around their camp fires where pots of stew simmered, suspended beneath the iron cooking tripods. The pounding of hooves drew the attention of the closest men and they sprang to their feet as they recognised the Emperor, but the first cheers died in their throats as Napoleon reined in and shouted at them.‘What the hell is this? What are you doing here? To arms, you fools!You there!’ Napoleon thrust his finger towards the nearest sergeant.‘Find your colonel. You tell him the Emperor wants this regiment formed up and ready to march in ten minutes. If it isn’t I’ll have him shot. And pass the word on to other units!’

‘Yes, sire!’The sergeant saluted stiffly then turned to bellow orders to his men. Napoleon rode on, ignoring the other regiments he galloped through as he sought out Ney’s headquarters. By the time he reached the farm a mile south of the crossroads his mount was blown, and its flanks heaved like bellows as Napoleon climbed down from the saddle and walked stiffly to confront Marshal Ney.

‘Why are you not attacking the enemy?’ he snapped.

Ney’s face flushed red, and he opened his mouth to respond angrily, but controlled his temper just enough to growl back,‘I have not had any fresh orders to attack, sire. Not since I sent you my report of yesterday’s action.’

‘Orders? You do not need orders when you can see for yourself the need for action!’ Napoleon clenched his hands tightly. ‘Dear God, Wellington is all that stands between us and victory and you sit here on your arse and give him every opportunity to escape. Are you mad, Ney?’

‘No, sire.’

‘Then you must be a fool.’ Before Ney could respond to the insult Napoleon continued bitterly,‘Form your men up to attack. We can only hope that we can still catch Wellington before he slips away. Get to it, Ney. There is not a moment to waste!’ Napoleon turned away from his marshal, and found that he was facing General d’Erlon.

‘France has been ruined,’ Napoleon said bitterly. ‘Go, General. Place yourself at the head of your cavalry and make ready to pursue the enemy’s rearguard.’

It took nearly an hour for Ney’s forces to prepare for battle. In that time the haze had spread across the land and now dark clouds were closing up on the crossroads. The air felt hot and clammy and made Napoleon’s mood worse. He could only watch helplessly as, one by one, the regiments of Wellington’s line pulled back and joined the retreat.

Quatre Bras, 2.30 p.m.

‘Looks like we’re in for quite a storm,’ Uxbridge commented as he looked up at the dark clouds edging overhead.

Arthur nodded absent-mindedly. His attention was fixed on ground to the south of the crossroads. He had been expecting the French to renew their attack all morning, and yet nothing had happened. The army had started to withdraw towards Mont-St-Jean long before midday and now only the rearguard remained. Uxbridge’s cavalry, together with Mercer’s horse artillery and the rocket batteries, were all that stood between the crossroads and the enemy. At last, a few minutes earlier, he had heard the sound of bugles coming from the direction of the French and the men of the rearguard waited in tense expectation for first sight of the enemy.

A sudden breeze had picked up, swirling through the heads of the remaining clumps of rye in the fields that had been trampled the day before. The wind was cool and refreshing after the close stillness of the morning and early afternoon. A shadow engulfed the rearguard’s position and swallowed them up in its gloom. Then Arthur felt the first drop of rain strike his cheek.

‘Now we’re for it,’ Uxbridge muttered. ‘Aprиs зa, le dйluge.’

‘Very funny,’ Arthur commented. ‘But I suspect we’re in for a storm of a different kind any minute.’ Half a mile to the south there was a rise in the land where the Prince of Orange’s brigade had been mauled. The ground there and beyond was still bathed in brilliant sunshine. As Arthur watched, a lone figure on a white horse galloped on to the rise and halted to survey the British position. The grey coat and bulky bicorne hat were unmistakable and he heard Uxbridge take a sharp breath beside him.

‘By God, that’s him!’ Uxbridge exclaimed. ‘That’s Boney.’

‘Indeed,’ Arthur replied, struck by the drama of the vision before him. The contrast in light made the French Emperor seem much closer than he really was. Arthur watched as Bonaparte scrutinised the rearguard and then looked, it seemed, directly at Arthur, though he knew he must be virtually indistinguishable from his men in the gloom. More horsemen appeared, in gold-embroidered uniforms, and halted just behind Bonaparte as they too surveyed the silent men defending the crossroads.

‘Your grace!’ a voice called out, and Arthur turned to see Captain Mercer waving a hand to attract his attention.

‘What is it?’

Mercer pointed towards the distant horsemen. ‘I believe they might be in range for case shot, your grace. May I have your permission to fire?’

‘Why not?’ said Uxbridge eagerly. ‘Strike him down and the war is as good as over.’

Arthur stared at his enemy. Uxbridge was right. But there was the danger that Bonaparte’s death might well turn him into a martyr and provoke his men into a furious desire for revenge. He shook his head.

‘Save your powder to cover the retreat.’

‘Sir?’

‘Do as I order, Captain!’

Mercer turned away from his commander with a shrug and stared towards the enemy. Arthur was aware of a dull rumble and then he saw the flicker of red and white pennants as a squadron of enemy lancers appeared a short distance to the Emperor’s right. More lancers appeared, and then cuirassiers, as the rise filled with horsemen. At that moment there was a dazzling burst of white, followed instantly by a metallic crash of thunder, and the horses started in panic. Raindrops, small and hard like fowlshot, lashed down from the sky. The darkness abruptly engulfed the French cavalry and swept on as the storm burst over the countryside.

Arthur cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘This will serve us well. Uxbridge, give the order to withdraw. Horse artillery first, then the rockets and then your cavalry.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘I’ll see you later,’ said Arthur. ‘Find me at Waterloo.’

Tugging on his reins, Arthur turned his horse and urged it into a canter as he rode up to the crossroads and joined the road leading to Brussels. The rain was already pooling on the surface of the road and glistening amid the grass on either side. If the downpour continued for any length of time it would turn the ground into a muddy morass, Arthur realised. So much the better, as it would surely hinder any pursuit that the enemy attempted. The flat thuds of Mercer’s battery caused him to turn back one last time and a moment later the first of the rockets hissed through the storm and burst over the enemy cavalry. Arthur watched a moment longer, and then spurred his horse down the road to re-join his army.

Chapter 59

Le Caillou, 9.00 p.m., 17 June 1815

The storm continued without let-up for the rest of the afternoon and on into the night, swiftly turning the surface of every road and track into thick mud that sucked at the boots, hooves and wheels of the Army of the North. Napoleon had continued his pursuit of the enemy at the head of Ney’s cavalry. The afternoon had been spent in a series of running skirmishes as the British mounted a staggered retreat to protect their guns, and slow down the French. As dusk fell, Napoleon had reached the farmhouse and called a brief halt while the long tail of his army struggled to catch up. When the first elements of the imperial headquarters arrived and started to prepare the Emperor’s quarters, Napoleon gathered some cavalry together and continued a short distance down the road. Ahead lay the dark mass of a low ridge. Napoleon squinted into the downpour and turned to the cavalry commander at his side.

‘Milhaud. It is imperative that we know if Wellington has halted for the night, or if he is using the cover of darkness to continue his retreat. Take your men forward and see what you can find.’

‘Yes, sire.’ General Milhaud saluted and then called out for his men to advance. Napoleon and his escort waited at the side of the road as the dark figures of the mounted column splashed by and disappeared into the night. There was no sound for nearly ten minutes, then all at once a bright flare of light appeared on the ridge, followed by the boom of a gun. More jets of flame stabbed out along a line bestriding the road and Napoleon nodded with grim satisfaction. Wellington was there all right. Close enough to be forced to stand his ground and fight in the morning. Napoleon turned his horse back and returned to the farmhouse. The headquarters servants were still preparing the accommodation, so he rested on some straw spread in a wide trough in one of the barns as he waited.

His fury at Ney had hardly abated. The opportunity to force a battle on Wellington at the crossroads had been lost, and now the arrival of the storm had hampered the army’s attempt to close up on their enemy. The men were exhausted, and strung out along the road towards Quatre Bras. It would be many hours before they caught up with the vanguard, ready to continue the pursuit once the storm had passed.

Napoleon knew that some measure of the blame attached to him as well. Too many hours had passed that morning before he had grasped the need to move on Wellington’s army. Exhaustion had played its part. He had not slept properly for many days and the normal heightened alertness of his mind was dulled. But there was something else, he mused. He had been so certain of his assumptions that Blьcher had deserted his allies, and that Ney would have taken Quatre Bras. That was an error of judgement. The breathless speed with which he had recovered power in France, together with the hysterical joy that had greeted his return, had made him feel invulnerable and infallible. Today had been a rude reminder of a commander’s need to constantly adapt to circumstances.

As soon as the farmhouse had been prepared for the Emperor and his staff, Napoleon summoned his senior officers. Over the next hour, the marshals and generals of division arrived, in drenched coats and splattered with mud. There was only one room in the farmhouse large enough to accommodate them all and most of the officers had to stand as they crowded about the Emperor, who was himself perched on a stool.

‘It is my intention to attack Wellington tomorrow. He has chosen the very worst of positions to defend. Behind him lies the forest of Soignes. If his army breaks, they will not be able to retreat and we shall annihilate them. The opportunity we lost earlier today will be set right.’ He shot a cool glance at Ney and the Marshal pursed his lips angrily. ‘It is therefore vital that as many of our men as possible are in place before dawn. I have no time for excuses, gentlemen. You will do whatever you must to ensure that your formations reach the field in time. Questions?’

‘Sire.’ D’Erlon raised his hand. ‘Will Grouchy be close enough to take part in the battle?’

‘I don’t know. I am still waiting for him to report his progress. We must assume that he will not reach us in time to intervene. That need not concern us. We are strong enough to carry the day.’

‘And what of the Prussians?’ asked Prince Jйrфme. ‘There is a danger that they might intervene, sire.’

‘Not if Grouchy contains them. Besides, as far as we know, their line of retreat will take them away from Wellington. I think we can discount the prospect of the Prussians’ causing us any difficulties.’

Jйrфme shook his head. ‘I am not so certain, sire.’

‘Really?’ Napoleon raised his eyebrows as he looked at his younger brother. ‘Why is that?’

‘Two hours ago I had a meal at an inn at Genappe. A waiter told me an interesting story. He claimed that Wellington and his staff ate there this afternoon. He overheard one of the staff officers say that Blьcher was at Wavre, and that he might move to support Wellington tomorrow.’

The other officers stirred at this news. Napoleon was silent until they settled down again. ‘I thank you for that intelligence, Jйrфme. But let us wait for Grouchy’s report. Then we shall know for certain.’

‘What if the waiter was telling the truth, sire?’ Jйrфme persisted.

‘I don’t see how Blьcher can present any danger, as long as Grouchy is forcing him back, away from Wellington.’ Napoleon waved his hand dismissively. ‘Blьcher is of no concern to us. All that matters is the army waiting for us at Mont-St-Jean.’

Waterloo, 10.00 p.m.

Colonel Frazer was standing stiffly before his commander in chief, trying not to show any expression as he endured the tirade.

‘It is bad enough having to contain the foolihardiness of my cavalry without my artillery blasting away at every shadow they see in the darkness,’ Arthur said bitterly.

‘Begging your pardon, your grace, but it wasn’t shadows my boys were shooting at. It was Frog cavalry.’

‘I don’t give a damn. It’s the job of the vedettes and the pickets to deal with such things. Not the damned artillery. Now Bonaparte knows where your batteries are sited, thanks to your gunners’ overeagerness. I’ve a damned good mind to break every sergeant back to private over this, d’you hear?’ Arthur leaned across his table, bearing his weight on his knuckles, and tried to moderate his tone.‘Now then, Frazer, you will have to see to it that the guns are repositioned. Perhaps a little hard work in the rain and the mud might help to clear the heads of your men, eh?’

‘Yes, your grace. I’ll give the order at once.’

‘I’d rather you oversaw the repositioning in person.’

‘Yes, your grace. Will that be all?’

Arthur nodded and his senior artillery officer turned smartly and marched to the door of the cottage. The sentry opened the door for him and Frazer disappeared into the rain. Once the door was closed, Arthur eased himself back down into his chair and gently rubbed his eyes. There was little doubt that Bonaparte knew that his army was in position on the ridge. Uxbridge’s cavalry patrols reported that more French troops were massing opposite the ridge with every passing hour. There was no question of further retreat. The position at Mont-St-Jean was the last decent defensive ground before Brussels, and there Arthur must stand and fight. His best hope was that Blьcher would respond to his request and send some portion of his army to support Arthur. As yet there had been no answer.

Le Caillou, 4.00 a.m., 18 June

Napoleon stamped the mud from his boots as he handed the oilskin cape to a servant. He had just returned from a visit to his outposts to try to see if there was any sign that the enemy were withdrawing. The ridge was quiet and the sentries patrolling in front of the allied army were clearly visible against the dull hue of a multitude of camp fires burning on the reverse slope. Reassured that Wellington remained in position, Napoleon had returned to his headquarters. As he entered the dining room of the farmhouse Soult approached him.

‘Sire, a message has arrived from Grouchy.’

‘Ah, at last. What does he say?’

‘He has determined that the bulk of the Prussian army had retired on Wavre, and not towards Liиge.’

‘Wavre?’ Napoleon’s brow creased as he concentrated on the implications of this news. It seemed that there was some truth in the story told by the waiter in Genappe after all. If Blьcher was at Wavre then he needed to be watched closely to ensure that the Prussians did not intervene in the day’s business. ‘Does Grouchy say what his intentions are?’

‘Yes, sire. He intends to follow them in order to prevent them from reaching Brussels, and joining Wellington.’

‘Good. That is the right thing.’

‘Shall I acknowledge his message, sire?’

‘What? No . . . No, it’s not necessary.’ Napoleon shook his head and then crossed the room to sit on a bench by the rain-streaked window. He leaned his head back against the plastered wall and shut his eyes.

The rain finally stopped just before dawn and as the first glimmer of light stretched across the landscape the sodden men of the Army of the North stirred from beneath their drenched blankets and coats and built up their fires with whatever wood was left. Then, huddled round the blaze, as they tried to get warm and let their uniforms dry out, they quickly ate some of their remaining rations before packing their kit and forming up in their companies.

At the army’s headquarters Napoleon was having breakfast with his staff. Despite the hardships and lack of sleep in recent days the mood around the Emperor was light-hearted. One of the allied armies had been beaten and now another would share its fate. The only issue to spoil Napoleon’s mood that morning was a report from General Drouot that the ground was too wet for the artillery to be moved forward to a position where they would have the enemy line in range. The wet ground would also lessen the impact of any artillery fire since the shot would not be able to ricochet off the ground and would simply bury itself in the muddy soil. Therefore Drouot requested that the attack be delayed until late in the morning. After brief consideration Napoleon consented. He had a clear superiority in artillery and it would make sense to use that to best effect.

‘Well, then,’ he announced. ‘It seems that the army will be at leisure this morning.’ A distant bell began to toll. ‘Of course, it is Sunday, the day of rest. Most propitious, this rain.’

His officers smiled. Even Soult, whose usual energetic demeanour had been somewhat dampened by the burdens of his new position as chief of staff, relaxed a little. He waited a moment and then coughed before he addressed the Emperor.

‘Sire, since the start of the engagement is to be delayed, might we recall Grouchy and put the result of the battle beyond doubt?’

‘Doubt?’ Napoleon was taken aback. ‘You doubt the outcome? Why, we have ninety chances in our favour and not ten against. We do not require Grouchy. Soult, just because you were beaten by Wellington does not make him a good general. If he was, then he would surely not have chosen such poor ground to defend. His difficulties are compounded by the poor quality of his troops. I tell you, this will be a brief battle, not much more effort for us than eating this breakfast.’

‘Truly, I hope so, sire.’

‘What about you, Reille?’ Napoleon turned to another of his commanders who had faced Wellington. ‘Do you share Soult’s anxieties about the quality of our opponents?’

Reille recognised the change in his master’s mood and answered cautiously. ‘Wellington knows how to defend, sire. Attacked from the front his troops are all but impregnable. However, we have the advantage in cavalry. If we manoeuvre on his flanks, then he must surely be defeated.’

‘Rubbish!’ Napoleon barked. ‘A frontal attack is all that is necessary to break his line. You shall see. And this we can achieve,’ he turned back to Soult, ‘without Grouchy.’

Soult bowed to his master’s will. ‘Very well, sire. But may I at least communucate with Grouchy your desire that he should close up on the Prussians at Wavre?’

‘As you will,’ Napoleon replied carelessly. ‘Tell him to keep pushing the Prussians back before him. Now then,’ he rose from his chair, ‘since there is time, I will inspect my soldiers. Soult, you will establish the command post at that inn . . .’ He clicked his fingers.

‘La Belle Alliance, sire?’

Napoleon nodded. ‘It will provide a fine view of the destruction of Wellington’s army.’

Mont-St-Jean, 10.00 a.m.

Arthur had joined his army soon after dawn and ridden along its length, to make sure that his men were in position and prepared for the coming battle. As he passed by the men cheered him and Arthur, true to the cool demeanour he had imposed on himself for many years now, occasionally favoured them with a curt nod. There was a constant crackle of muskets as the men fired into the air to clear the barrels of any moisture or grit washed in by the previous night’s deluge. The rain had also had another peculiar effect that amused the men. The dye from their jackets had run and the white cross belts were stained red. Arthur hoped it wasn’t an omen.

He had decided to ensure that his right flank was where his main strength would lie, in case Bonaparte attempted to hook round the army’s position. The left, in the direction of Blьcher, was far less formidable, and Arthur knew that he was taking a gamble on the timely arrival of his ally. The artillery had been sited along the crest of the ridge, where it could pound the French columns as they advanced to attack. Behind them, sheltered by the reverse slope, the infantry waited in a staggered line while much of the cavalry was massed behind the centre. A handful of farms lay scattered across the front of the allied line and these had been fortified, ready to act as strongpoints to break up the enemy’s assaults. On the right was the small country estate of Hougoumont where Arthur had placed the Foot Guards, the cream of his infantry, and in front of the centre, on the road to Brussels, stood the large farmhouse of La Haye Sainte, defended by a battalion of the King’s German Legion.

Arthur completed his inspection of his battle line and joined his staff officers on the ridge a short distance above the chateau and grounds of Hougoumont. ‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ he called out cheerfully.

They returned the greeting and touched the brims of their hats in salute. A figure at the rear of the press of officers edged his mount through and Arthur saw that it was General Mьffling. He trotted forward to Arthur’s side.

‘Sir, I have been looking for you this last half-hour. I have received a message from Marshal Blьcher, sent at seven this morning.’

Arthur composed himself before he responded. ‘Well?’

‘He promises to support you with at least two corps of his army. And he will lead them in person.’

Arthur felt a lightness of spirit fill his heart and he allowed himself a faint smile as he spoke to Mьffling. ‘I thank you, my friend. That is the very best of news.’

Arthur tugged on the reins and Copenhagen, his favourite mount, edged round to face the enemy, less than a mile away. As he surveyed the French, clearly massing for a frontal attack, Arthur realised quite how small the battlefield was. No more than three miles by two, within which the best part of two hundred thousand men were preparing to contest the ground. The French were manhandling the last of their guns into position, in the middle of their battle line.

‘There’s Napoleon, your grace,’ a voice called out.

Arthur glanced to his side. ‘I’ll thank you not to get carried away by your enthusiasm, de Lancey.’

His young quartermaster-general flushed. ‘I apologise, your grace.’ Arthur turned to gaze across the vale separating the two armies. Napoleon was clear to see, mounted once more on his snow-white horse, and escorted by a squadron of Polish lancers. As he made his way steadily between the massed formations of infantry his soldiers cheered wildly, some raising their shakos up in the air on the end of their muskets.

‘They put on quite a show,’ Uxbridge mused. ‘Doubt we’ll ever get the damned battle started at this rate.’

Arthur said nothing as he continued to watch his opponent. He was quite content for the French to waste time. Every minute that passed bought more time for Blьcher’s soldiers to reach the battlefield. Bonaparte seemed wholly unconcerned by the passage of time as he paraded through the formations of his army for the best part of an hour before returning to his command post beside the Brussels road. A few minutes later a signal gun boomed from close by the Emperor’s position.

There was a faint click as Somerset opened his fob watch. ‘I make it close on eleven thirty, your grace.’

Arthur nodded. ‘Note it down.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The battle has begun, gentlemen. To your positions!’

Before the sound of his last words had faded the air was split by a terrible roar as the massed batteries of French artillery opened fire.

Chapter 60

A mixture of shot and canister rained down on the allied positions and from his command post Arthur could gauge that the enemy’s fire was concentrated on the flanks of his army. Hougoumont in particular was being subjected to a pounding. Branches and leaves leaped from the small wood and the orchard that lay to the south and east of the chateau. Roof tiles exploded into fragments as a handful of French guns aimed too high. Through his telescope Arthur could see that the men defending the walled orchard had crouched down to take shelter from the bombardment. Even so, an occasional shot would smash a hole in the wall, sending lethal fragments of brick and flint flying through the air.

On either side of Arthur the allied guns were firing back at the enemy. The artillery was under strict orders not to engage in any counter-battery fire, and took aim on the massed formations of infantry and cavalry instead. As he had chosen to follow his usual tactic of keeping the bulk of his army on the reverse slope, Arthur knew that the French guns would not be the greatest danger on this day. The real test would come when Bonaparte launched his foot and horse against the allied line.

Even though the main weight of the French artillery was battering the flanks, the rest of the line was still being subjected to fire. The skirmishers were scattered amid the pale green corn and wheat across the allied front, rising to take aim and fire at their opposite numbers before ducking down again to reload. Every so often the crops around them would swirl as a ball, or a blast of canister, cut through the stalks, and one or more of Arthur’s men would be plucked from sight as they fell.

The drone of a shot passing close overhead caused some of his staff officers to flinch and Arthur looked round. ‘Steady, gentlemen.’

Glancing to his right he saw that one of his regiments, the Fifty-first Foot, was closer to the crest than was healthy, and even as he watched a roundshot hit the ground just in front of the flank company, smashing two men to bits as it bounced on.

‘Somerset, order that regiment to lie down.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

As Somerset galloped off, Arthur saw that his staff officers, over forty in all, were clustered together behind him. ‘Uxbridge, it strikes me that our generals are rather too thick on the ground.’

Uxbridge nodded. ‘I’m sure we make a tempting target.’

Turning Copenhagen, Arthur cupped a hand to his mouth to address his officers. ‘I’d be obliged if you gentlemen would disperse. I will ride to you if you are needed.’

As the staff broke off into smaller groups Arthur saw that more regiments were following the example of the Fifty-first and going to ground, where they would be far less exposed to enemy fire. Turning his attention back to the situation around Hougoumont, he could see a French division forming up in front of the woods, ready to attack the moment their artillery ceased bombarding the chateau and its walled garden. Once the French infantry moved forward the allied guns on the ridge would be unable to fire on them for fear of hitting their own men.

The enemy artillery fire on Hougoumont gradually began to slacken and when the last of the guns ceased fire there was a brief pause before the French drums began to roll, beating an insistent rhythm, signalling the advance. The leading battalions of the division positioned in front of the chateau’s woods began to pace forward.

‘There are too few men defending Hougoumont, your grace,’ said Somerset. ‘They should be reinforced.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘They are adequate for the task.’

Somerset shot him an anxious look but Arthur did not react, and fixed his attention on the action beginning down the slope. The leading French formations disappeared from sight as they entered the trees and an uneven crackle of musketry followed as the British skirmishers fell back towards the chateau. A moment later the first of the enemy reached the garden wall and began to clamber over. The defenders, spread thinly along the wall, did their best to hold the perimeter, but were forced to give way as the French climbed over, or scrambled through the gaps smashed through the wall by artillery fire. The blue-coated attackers quickly spread out across the gardens and approached the chateau and its outbuildings. Sparks of fire and puffs of smoke erupted from windows and loopholes as the defenders opened fire on the French infantry pressing in from two sides.

The enemy had reached the chateau more quickly than Arthur had anticipated and he feared that Somerset might be right. Nudging his spurs in, he trotted over to the commander of a battery of howitzers of the Royal Horse Artillery that stood limbered up and ready to move.

‘Major Bull, isn’t it?’

The battery commander saluted. ‘Yes, your grace.’

‘I need the services of your battery. Follow me.’ Arthur turned and trotted down the slope towards the chateau. Bull and his howitzers followed, the gun carriages rumbling over the ground. Arthur drew up a hundred yards from the chateau. From the far side the din of the desperate struggle filled the air. ‘Have your howitzers fire over the chateau. We must take the pressure off the defenders. But be sure to get the range right, Major.’

‘Yes, your grace. I understand.’

Arthur watched as Bull’s men swiftly unlimbered the howitzers and loaded the fused iron spheres into the stubby barrels. Bull carefully ensured that each gun’s elevation was adjusted so that the shells’ trajectories would clear the chateau by a safe distance. The battery opened fire and Arthur looked up to follow the faint smears of the sputtering shells as they arced over the chateau towards the wood beyond, bursting amid the branches and blasting the attackers with small iron shards.

‘Very good,’ Arthur called out to Major Bull. ‘Remain here to support the chateau as long as you can.’ He turned and galloped back up to his vantage point to watch the attack. Hundreds of French soldiers were crowded about the chateau and its walled courtyard, but as far as Arthur could see, none had succeeded in gaining entry. The relentless fire from the defenders was cutting the enemy down in droves and bodies steadily piled up around the building. Further back, those still in the woods were being savaged by the howitzer shells. The attack raged for ten more minutes before Arthur saw the enemy begin to fall back, fading into the trees before they retreated over the field beyond the wood. The firing in the chateau ceased and a moment later Bull’s battery followed suit.

Arthur nodded with satisfaction. ‘First blood to us, I think.’

La Belle Alliance, 1.00 p.m.

‘What is Prince Jйrфme doing?’ Napoleon snapped as he watched fresh troops advancing towards Hougoumont from a second division. ‘He is only supposed to be making a feint against the chateau. He was supposed to force Wellington to draw on his reserves, not me.’

‘Sire, do you wish to order the Prince to cease his attack?’

Napoleon watched as the fresh wave began to enter the woods. A moment later the air above them was dotted with the white puffs of exploding shells. He shook his head. ‘No. Jйrфme may still force Wellington’s hand, and if the Duke does not take the bait then we shall take the chateau, and use it to harass the allied line.’

Once again, Hougoumont was shrouded in powder smoke as Napoleon’s men made their assault. He watched the ridge for any sign of movement and then pointed triumphantly as a column of redcoats doubled down the slope towards the chateau.‘There! I knew Wellington would have to send in more men.’

Soult watched for a moment and then said quietly, ‘I make that no more than four companies, sire. Prince Jйrфme has committed the best part of two divisions so far.’

Napoleon glared at him a moment and then turned his attention back to the battlefield. The smoke from the cannon of both sides was eddying above the landscape in dense clouds, threatening to blot out the view of the surrounding countryside. A sudden anxiety caused him to raise his telescope and sweep the horizon from the south round to the north-east. Fields, farmhouses and small woods glided past the eyepiece, and then a dark shadow just beyond the edge of a treeline caused Napoleon to stop. He blinked his eye and called one of the headquarters staff to stand in front of him so that he could use the man’s shoulder as a rest to steady the telescope. Soult, and a handful of others, had seen his worried expression and now turned in the same direction and scrutinised the dark line that was gradually emerging from the trees.

‘There is a column of soldiers over there,’ Napoleon announced. Then he lowered the telescope and hurried across to the map weighted down on a table outside the inn. He scanned the map and then stabbed his finger down. ‘The woods near Chapelle-St-Lambert.’

Soult exchanged a worried look with the other staff officers gathered about the map. One of them swallowed and asked, ‘Could it be Grouchy? Marching to the sound of the guns?’

Napoleon shook his head. The distant column was coming from the direction of Wavre. ‘Prussians. There is no doubt about it.’

There was a brief silence as the staff officers digested the information and then Soult raised his telescope towards the distant woods and spoke quietly. ‘I can see more columns, sire.’

Napoleon stroked his chin. ‘The Prussians are still two hours’ march from the battlefield. They cannot support Wellington for a while yet. There is time enough to win the day.’

‘And what of Grouchy, sire?’ asked Soult. ‘Shall I send for him?’

‘By all means.’ Napoleon shrugged, as he considered the last known position of Grouchy’s thirty thousand men: advancing towards Wavre from the south.‘Though I fear that he is too far away to intervene, even if he were to wheel towards us at once.’

Nevertheless Soult hurriedly wrote the order and thrust it into the hand of one of his aides. ‘There. Take that to Marshal Grouchy. Tell him that the fate of France in is the balance.’

As the officer swung himself up into his saddle and spurred away Napoleon sighed. ‘The fate of France will be decided by those who are already on the field, Soult.’ Turning his attention back to the ridge in front of the French battle line Napoleon pointed to the stretch of the slope to the right of the Brussels road.‘We cannot delay the main attack any longer. Soult, tell d’Erlon to prepare his corps to advance. It is time to see if these Englishmen you are so afraid of can really stand before our columns.’

Chapter 61

The Ridge of Mont-St-Jean, 1.30 p.m.

The massed guns of the French had been firing for the last half-hour, tearing up the hedge that ran along the road stretching across the ridge. The British skirmishers had lain down and pressed themselves into the earth as roundshot whirred overhead and canister hissed through the rye stalks like a sudden squall. Just in front of the ridge, spread out in line across the slope, were the Dutch soldiers of Bylandt’s brigade. Arthur had not ordered them to withdraw to the reverse slope for fear that Bonaparte might think that the allied centre was retreating, cut short his bombardment and order his infantry forward. The brigade would have to be sacrificed to buy time. Word had reached Arthur that the Prussians had been sighted, but would not reach the battlefield for some hours yet. Arthur’s heart was heavy as he watched the Dutchmen stand their ground and endure terrible punishment as the French guns tore bloody gaps in their ranks again and again.

Beside him, Somerset watched the sickening slaughter and turned to his commander. ‘Your grace, I beg you, allow me to recall Bylandt.’

‘No. They must stand and take it.’

Somerset shook his head. ‘They will not endure it much longer. No men could.’

‘They must. We must snatch at every chance for delay, until Blьcher arrives.’

The French fire began to slacken and in less than a minute the last of the guns had fallen silent.

‘What now?’ Somerset wondered. ‘Cavalry or infantry?’

His question was answered by the faint rattle of drums. Arthur trotted forward towards the large elm tree that grew close to the junction of the Brussels highway and the lesser road running across the ridge. Below, perhaps six hundred yards away, a dense bank of powder smoke obscured the French on the other side of the valley. The surviving British skirmishers were cautiously rising to their feet and peering into the smoke. Behind them the remains of Bylandt’s brigade closed up and advanced ten paces to clear the shattered bodies and limbs of their fallen comrades.

Arthur strained his eyes, trying to penetrate the smoke as the sounds of the French drums drew closer. Then he saw the first of them, dim figures edging through the smoke as the skirmishers advanced ahead of the main columns. As they emerged into clear sight Arthur saw that the line stretched from in front of La Haye Sainte to his right for over half a mile across the battlefield towards the farmhouses of La Haie and Papelotte on the left.

‘This is no feint, Somerset,’ Arthur decided.‘They mean to break our centre at one stroke. From the frontage, I would think Bonaparte is sending three divisions against us.’ He looked to his left, where the men of Picton’s division were standing in battalion columns on the reverse slope. ‘Three to our one. Not good odds.’

‘If Picton breaks, then the enemy will cut our army in two, your grace.’

Arthur nodded, and then gestured towards the cavalry reserve. ‘Ride to Uxbridge. He is to order his cavalry to make ready to charge.’

Somerset wheeled his horse and galloped away and Arthur turned back towards the enemy. There was a steady crackle of muskets as the skirmishers began their one-sided duel. The outnumbered British fired and fell back before the onslaught. Here and there, a red-coated figure was struck down and stumbled out of sight. The French columns continued their inexorable advance: one great mass of men who toiled up the muddy slope towards the ridge. They continued to emerge from the smoke, rank after rank, seemingly without end, and Arthur gazed upon the spectacle with a cold heart. It was a magnificent sight, he thought, more than ten thousand men boldly advancing to do battle. Magnificent, but those fine regiments must be destroyed.

The British artillery crews on the ridge took aim on the French line and opened fire, over the heads of the skirmishers, so that the roundshot plunged down amid the rear ranks, sweeping away files of ten or fifteen men at a time. The air was filled with the crash of cannon and the concussion shook the very air about Arthur. As he sat in his saddle and watched, the allied officers recalled their skirmishers and the men trotted back up to the ridge and through the gaps in the hedge to re-join their regiments. Only Bylandt’s brigade stood before the oncoming mass. The persistent rattle of the drums was accompanied by the cries of the French officers as they urged their men on, and the soldiers cheered for their Emperor in a deafening roar.

The British guns were now firing canister directly into the face of the columns, felling groups of men in an instant, but the gaps closed up and they continued forward relentlessly. At fifty paces, Bylandt gave the order for his men to make ready. Their muskets came up and a moment later the order to fire was lost in the crash of their volley. Directly before them the leading rank shimmered under the impact and men crumpled to the ground. Those following quickened their pace, but before they could close the distance the Dutch troops, shaken by the terrible losses they had already endured, gave way, falling back through the hedge. Their officers did their best to rally them on the far side, and for a moment most of them stayed with their colours and began to reload. There was no attempt to fire a volley and individual soldiers shot at the enemy as soon as their muskets were ready, then turned and fled after their comrades.

Arthur ignored them as they ran past his position. A moment later the last of the gun crews in front of the oncoming columns discharged their cannon and trotted back to safety through the gaps between the regiments of Picton’s division.

Somerset had passed the orders on to Uxbridge and came galloping back to his commander’s side. ‘Your grace! You must move back; the French are almost upon us.’

Arthur nodded and turned Copenhagen away, and the two riders trotted towards the rear of Picton’s division. A hundred yards away Picton spied his commander and raised his top hat in greeting before turning his attention to his men and bellowing an order to his Highlanders. ‘The Ninety-second will advance! All in front of you have given way. Be brave, my boys! Forward!’ He drew his sword and waved it above his head.

The leading ranks of the French columns had reached the hedge and now some of the battalions halted to fire, while others pressed through the hedge and halted a short distance the other side. Arthur could not help holding his breath as the French muskets came up and a voice called out, ‘Tirez!’

Flashes lit up the line and the volley tore through the Highlanders running forward to engage the enemy. As scores of kilted figures tumbled down, the line staggered and almost came to a halt. Picton spurred his horse forward and called to his officers. ‘Rally! Rally the Highlanders!’

At that moment his head snapped backwards. His fingers spasmed and the blade fell to the ground. As the horse trotted on, Picton slumped to one side and fell from his saddle, rolled across the trampled grass and lay still.

‘Good God,’ Arthur muttered. ‘Poor Picton.’

A groan passed through the ranks as they became aware of their commander’s death, and then the Highlanders let out an angry roar and plunged towards the waiting French. It was a valiant charge, but Arthur knew that the weight of numbers was on the enemy’s side and that Picton’s men could not hold the centre of the allied line unaided.

From behind came the call of a trumpet, three blasts ending in a long, higher pitch, again and again. Uxbridge had ordered his heavy cavalry to attack. Two brigades edged forward. There was too little space to launch into a gallop and they could only trot through the gaps in Picton’s division as the infantry hurriedly closed up to let the horsemen by, cheering their mounted comrades on. The horsemen cantered forward, into the massed ranks of the French infantry, hacking and slashing with their heavy blades. For a moment the enemy’s nerve held, but as more British cavalry flowed round their flanks and loomed above them like giants in the thick smoke, their courage left them. The leading ranks turned and pressed into those behind, desperate to escape the swishing sword blades, and the panic communicated itself through the entire formation in moments. Thousands of infantry turned back down the slope and ran, desperately wriggling out of their cumbersome packs as they sought to escape.

‘By God, that was well timed!’ Somerset said as he rose up in his saddle and cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Ride, men! Ride! Run ’em into the ground!’

Arthur turned to frown at him, about to tell his subordinate to show some restraint, when he caught sight of Uxbridge dashing past, sword drawn and urging his men on at the top of his voice. Then Uxbridge’s’s mount leaped a low stretch of hedge and thundered down the slope in pursuit of the enemy.

On the ridge the battered lines of Picton’s division re-formed their line and Arthur let out a low sigh. The centre had survived the first great test of the battle.

La Belle Alliance, 2.30 p.m.

Napoleon stared in silence at the fleeing mass, borne towards him like confetti. Surging forward through the fleeing figures were the riders of Wellington’s cavalry, closing up on the line of cannon stretching across the middle of the battlefield. The gunners dared not fire for fear of slaughtering their own men and could only watch in dread as the danger swept down the slope towards them. As the first of the British horsemen reached the guns some of the crews tried to defend themselves, using ramrods, handspikes and short swords. It was a brief, unequal struggle and the gunners were quickly driven away from their cannon, hurrying back to find shelter amid the limbers and under caissons. The horsemen pursued them, sabreing any man who came within reach. They also slashed at the tendons of the draught horses to disable them, and the helpless animals collapsed in their traces, whinnying in agony and terror.

Around the Emperor, his staff officers watched the cavalry charge aghast. Only a short time earlier, it had seemed that nothing could stop d’Erlon’s corps from smashing its way through the heart of the allied army. Now all three divisions were scattered and the slope was covered with thousands of bodies.

‘Sire, what are your orders?’ asked Soult. ‘Should we move the headquarters to safety?’

‘There is no need,’ Napoleon said wearily. ‘The counter-stroke is already under way. Look there.’ He gestured to their right where General Jacquinot’s cavalry had emerged from the broken ground on the east of the battlefield. The force was made up of cuirassiers and lancers and they swiftly deployed to charge into the flank of the British cavalry, many of whom were still engrossed in the destruction of d’Erlon’s men and the artillery train behind the grand battery, and so carried away by their exuberant spirits that they failed to realise the danger, or respond to the desperate recall signal sounding from the top of the ridge.

When his men were ready, Jacquinot led the charge himself, steadily building the pace until he unleashed his cavalry a short distance from the enemy. The charge crashed through the British horsemen, who were cut down as they struggled to meet the attack. Their horses were blown, and many who gave up the fight and turned back towards the ridge to try to escape were overtaken and killed.

Napoleon watched with grim satisfaction as his cavalry avenged their comrades, riding down and killing one enemy after another and leaving their bodies in the mud alongside those of d’Erlon’s men. Both sides had suffered a bloody reverse, Napoleon reflected, but the allies still held the ridge, as well as the strongpoints that lay before it.

‘We can only win this battle if we break Wellington’s centre,’ he announced. He looked towards Hougoumont, shrouded by smoke, not all of which was caused by the furious exchange of musket fire. A billowing column was rising into the sky from amongst the buildings, and flames glittered along the roof of a barn. With luck the fire might spread and force the defenders to fall back. That left the smaller farmhouse of La Haye Sainte, directly in front of Wellington’s centre. Napoleon had observed the withering fire that had been poured into the flank of d’Erlon’s division by the defenders of the farm. Clearly, La Haye Sainte must be taken, if any attack on the ridge was to have a chance of success. He turned to Soult.

‘Tell Ney we must have the farm if we are to win the battle. He must take it at any cost.’ He pointed to the stretch of ridge behind La Haye Sainte and Hougoumont. The slope there seemed more gentle than where d’Erlon had made his advance. It was also less muddy, and would not be such a hindrance to any attack on the ridge. ‘That is where we must strike next. Tell Ney to use every available gun to pound the allied centre before he sends in an attack.’

Soult nodded and made a quick note. As he wrote, a courier galloped up to the inn and dismounted from his exhausted horse. Spotting Soult he hurried over and handed him a despatch. Soult quickly finished his order to Ney and read the report. Then, with a grim expression, he approached Napoleon and spoke softly so that the other officers would not overhear.

‘A message from Grouchy, sire.’

‘Well?’

‘He is still advancing on Wavre. He will not be able to reach us until late this evening.’

Napoleon pursed his lips. ‘Then we must forget about Grouchy.’

‘And what of the Prussians, sire?’

‘We must delay them. Send Marbot’s hussars towards Lasne, and alert General Lobau to have his corps ready to move to guard our right flank.’

Soult finished his notes and strode across to the officers sitting at the table set up outside the inn to have the orders copied into a fair hand and sent off. Meanwhile Napoleon’s attention fixed on La Haye Sante. It was far smaller than Hougoumont and there would be fewer men defending it. Ney should be able to take it with ease.

Chapter 62

There was a brief lull across most of the battlefield while as many French guns as possible were positioned between Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte. All the time, the assault on both continued. Napoleon could see his men right against the walls of the latter, snatching at the muzzles of any muskets that appeared through the loopholes and trying to wrench the weapons from the hands of the defenders. The door of the barn was missing and a ferocious mкlйe was being fought out at the entrance. As they pressed forward in a desperate bid to overwhelm the defenders, more of the enemy fired down on the French from the wall beside the barn. Some even hurled bricks on to the heads of the men below.

Once again the attack failed and the French fell back, passing through the shattered trees of the orchard out of range. As soon as they had retired to a safe distance a battery of howitzers resumed their bombardment of the farm and the shells burst over the tiled roofs with a flash and puff of white, or landed before exploding and briefly illuminating the interior of the farm’s walled yard in a lurid red glow.

To Napoleon’s left there was a rumble of hooves and he turned to see the cavalry reserves moving forward to form up behind the line of guns being trained on the ridge. Regiment after regiment of cuirassiers, lancers and dragoons came forward until the floor of the shallow valley was a mass of horsemen, sitting silently in their saddles as they awaited the order to attack. Ney took his place at their head and raised his feathered hat to signal the guns to open fire. With a staggered roar the bombardment began. Each gun spat flame and smoke as it jumped back a short distance with the recoil.

Wellington’s gun crews stood to, but did not return fire, and Napoleon realised that they must be conserving their ammunition for the French cavalry, when they began their advance. Napoleon saw one of the British gun carriages above Hougoumont disintegrate as it was struck by roundshot. Splinters exploded in all directions, felling the crew. The axle collapsed and the barrel canted up at an angle towards the sky. All along the ridge columns of earth tore into the air, but the lines of soldiers still stationed on the forward slope and the ridge itself stood their ground as roundshot, canister and shell decimated their ranks.

‘They cannot take such punishment for long,’ Soult commented.

Napoleon nodded. But even as he took grim satisfaction from the destruction being dealt out by the French guns, he was aware that time was slipping away. Every minute brought the Prussians closer to his right flank. The battle could still be won, he calculated, but the odds were no more than sixty to forty in his favour. Victory depended on breaking the centre of the allied line. Napoleon reached down and took out his fob watch, and glanced at the hands. Wellington’s soldiers, scraped together from the forces of Europe’s minor powers, had defied Napoleon for over four hours.

‘Their nerve will break at any moment, Soult. I am certain of it.’ Napoleon gestured towards the waiting cavalry. ‘And then nothing will stand between Ney and the streets of Brussels.’

The elm tree, 4.00 p.m.

Even though Arthur had given the order for the battalions on the ridge to lie down the casualties were still fearful. Heavy shot, angled low, smashed through the prone figures, leaving bloody smears and tangled bodies to mark their passage, and there was no shelter from the shells that regularly exploded overhead, sending fragments of iron slashing through the men below.

‘We endured nothing like this in Spain, your grace,’ said Somerset as they watched the bombardment to their right. Even though the French guns were targeting the stretch of the ridge between the two strongpoints of Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte, occasional shot smacked into the slope or whirred through the air close to Arthur and his small party of staff officers. Once there was a dull roar behind them, and Arthur turned to see a column of smoke swirling into the sky from the shattered remains of a handful of ammunition wagons, now ablaze as several dazed figures around the wreckage rose to their feet and staggered away from the flames. Scores more men and horses lay on the ground, unmoving.

‘Lucky shot with a howitzer,’ one of Arthur’s aides muttered.

‘Lucky?’ Somerset snorted.

The officers turned their attention back to the furious bombardment. It seemed to Arthur as if it had reached a climax. He turned to look at the men of the nearest regiment, one of those composed of new recruits fresh from their training battalion in England. There was no mistaking the fear in their expressions. Arthur knew that they had to be moved back, before their spirit failed.

‘Somerset, pass the word. The centre of the line will retire a hundred paces.’

‘A hundred paces? Yes, your grace.’

The aide spurred his horse away and conveyed the order to every unit defending the ground under fire from the French guns. One by one the battalions stood up and formed ranks before turning about and pacing back down the reverse slope, out of sight of the French gunners. Within quarter of an hour the only men still visible to the enemy were the gun crews. Some of the batteries, overcome by the exasperation of enduring losses without responding, ignored Wellington’s order not to engage in counter-battery fire and had started to blaze away.

There was no time to ride over to the gunners and berate them, as at that moment Arthur realised that the enemy bombardment was slackening. The last few guns fired and then the French crews reloaded their guns and closed up to them to create as much space between each gun as possible. The reason for this was at once obvious to Arthur, who spurred his horse forward, down the reverse slope towards the infantry regiments sheltering there.

‘Prepare to receive cavalry! Infantry will form square!’

The order was relayed from battalion to battalion and each of the lines of infantry steadily manoeuvred into blocks, three ranks deep. The front rank knelt, each man resting the butt of his musket against a boot so that the bayonets angled out to present a bristling line of steel points on each face of the formation. Soon the reverse slope was covered in a patchwork of red rectangles, loosely staggered like elongated squares of a chessboard. Arthur and his staff took their place in the middle of a battalion close to the ridge, and waited. Above them the British artillery fired away at the advancing cavalry as long as they dared, then abandoned their guns and rushed for the shelter of the nearest square, throwing themselves flat beneath the outstretched bayonets. A handful of crews had the presence of mind to remove a wheel from their guns and run it down the slope with them, leaving their gun immobilised.

‘Here they come,’ Somerset muttered as the ground shook beneath the impact of four thousand cavalry ascending the forward slope. The sharp notes of bugles sounded an increase in pace and then the first of the enemy appeared on the ridge, wearing the crested helmets of dragoons. They came on, sweeping past the abandoned guns, their front extending for a thousand yards, charging towards the squares in a deadly wave of gleaming swords and deadly lance points.

‘Hold your ground!’ the colonel of the battalion bellowed to his men. ‘For England!’

Arthur watched a squadron of cuirassiers swing towards the square, their gleaming breastplates shimmering as their mounts stretched their necks and galloped down the gentle slope.

‘Fire!’ the colonel shouted and the view of the enemy was obliterated by smoke. Arthur heard the thud of the bullets impacting on horseflesh, and the clatter as they struck the cuirassiers’ breastplates. The smoke eddied away revealing horses and men strewn across the flattened crops.

‘Fire at will!’ the colonel ordered.

On all sides now the first volleys blazed out and enemy cavalry tumbled to the ground. Then they were in amongst the squares, flowing between the rows of bayonets, like a wave crashing against rocks and forced to channel its flow between immovable obstacles. The most fearless of the cavalry steered their mounts up to the lines of bayonets and then attempted to lean out and slash their blades down at one of the kneeling men. But, almost to a man, they were shot out of their saddles before they could strike.

As Arthur watched he nodded with satisfaction. His men were holding firm, and as long as they did, the French cavalry would be sacrificed to no purpose. The only anxiety Arthur had was that while his infantry was preoccupied, Bonaparte might be ordering up infantry and artillery to support the attack. If that happened then there was little that could be done to save the allied army. Threatened by cavalry they would be forced to remain in square, and thus provide perfect targets for the enemy’s cannon.

His train of thought was broken as one of his aides was thrown to the side by the impact of a bullet. With a groan the young officer fell from his saddle.

‘Get him to the dressing station!’ Somerset ordered a passing drummer boy, and the wounded officer was dragged away, towards the colours where the other members of the battalion’s band were treating the injured.

Some of the Frenchmen had realised the futility of trying to break into the squares and had sheathed their blades and taken out their horse pistols to fire at the infantry who had defied their initial charge. The last of the volleys had been fired and now the air was filled with a constant crackle as individual soldiers reloaded and fired. The smoke hanging over the squares was soon as dense as the thickest London fog and the enemy horsemen were little more than shadows. The bloom of muzzle flashes lit up the smoke all around, and above the sound of gunfire Arthur could hear the desperate cries of officers of both sides encouraging their men, as well as the cries of the wounded and the terrified whinnies of crippled horses.

For fully twenty minutes the enemy cavalry attempted to break into the squares, but each time one of Wellington’s men fell the body was dragged inside the square and the gap closed up and the formation remained as impregnable as before. Then Arthur was aware that the fire was fading away, and a voice cried out,‘They’re going! The Frogs are on the run, boys!’

A cheer went up, and spread from square to square. Arthur gestured to his staff to follow and trotted out of the square that had sheltered him, the infantry moving aside to let him by. He cupped a hand to his mouth and called out, ‘Gunners to your pieces!’

Passing out of the smoke, he rode forward a short distance to gauge the situation. A handful of the enemy were still retreating over the ridge, and those who had lost their mounts struggled across the churned field, hampered by their heavy boots and cumbersome breastplates. Hundreds more were sprawled on the ground with their mounts, many writhing feebly as they groaned. The artillery crews paid them no attention as they dashed forward and manned the waiting guns. Not one of the guns appeared to have been spiked, Arthur noticed in surprise. A foolish oversight on the part of the enemy, and one for which they would pay dearly. He headed across the slope to join the battery of Captain Sandham. His nine-pounders and howitzer were in action as Arthur rode up and acknowledged his salute.

‘Pound ’em, Sandham.’

‘I will, your grace,’ the captain grinned.

Two hundred yards away, the French officers were struggling to rally their troops and Arthur recognised Marshal Ney wildly haranguing the men before him. Suddenly the marshal’s horse lurched as a roundshot smashed into its neck. The animal collapsed beneath Ney, but as Arthur watched he calmly rose from his saddle and strode a few paces to the nearest horse, took its reins and ordered the rider to get down. Once in the saddle of his new mount Ney continued his impassioned address.

‘They’re coming again!’ Mercer yelled.

‘Get back to the squares,’ Arthur ordered. ‘You too, Somerset.’

Sandham’s crews fired their last rounds and made off. Arthur waited a moment longer, then reached for his telescope and trained it on smoke rising up from a village away to the east, no more than two miles from where he stood. There was fighting there, and there could be only one explanation for it - the first of the Prussians had reached the battlefield. A French bugle sounded the advance and Arthur snapped his telescope shut and turned Copenhagen back towards the squares dimly visible in the slowly dissipating smoke.

The next charge suffered the same fate as the first and then the attacks became piecemeal as each enemy regiment broke off, rallied and came back again. During the intervals between the attacks, the French artillery opened fire and the shot arced over the ridge before plunging into the densely packed squares, causing far more casualties than the cavalry attacks. Arthur rode from square to square to show his presence and encourage his men.

‘Heads up, lads, they will not break us! . . . Just a while longer, now . . . The Prussians are coming!’

The men took heart from his words and shouted their scorn at the enemy as they returned again and again, stopping their tired mounts within pistol range and hurriedly discharging their weapons before trotting away to reload. As the smoke cleared before the face of one of his squares Arthur saw a French officer standing by one of the abandoned guns venting his enraged frustration by raining frenzied sword blows on its barrel.

At length Ney must have realised the futility of attacking without the proper support. Shortly before six o’clock the sound of drums was heard on the reverse slope and Arthur muttered to Somerset, ‘This is what I feared. Come, we must act at once!’ He galloped over to the brigades commanded by General Maitland and General Pack and pointed towards the right of the line, the ridge above Hougoumont.

‘I need your fellows there at once. They are to form line.’

‘Line, your grace?’ Maitland looked anxious. ‘With cavalry present?’

‘It’s not cavalry that is the danger now. Lead your men forward directly.’

The two brigades doubled across the slope as the gun crews hurried back to their weapons and reloaded with canister. From the crest of the ridge Arthur was not surprised to see that the enemy cavalry had pulled back to allow their infantry to advance. They came on as before, in dense formations that quickly fell prey to the allied guns raking the slope with canister, and those that approached the ridge were suddenly caught in the flank by the volleys of the two brigades that had been ordered forward. Leaving hundreds of their comrades strewn amid the bodies of horses and riders left from the cavalry attacks, the rest fell back towards the French lines.

Arthur took stock of the situation. His squares, though unbroken, had suffered heavy casualties from the enemy’s artillery. The battalions of his Dutch allies were badly shaken and their officers and sergeants now stood to the rear ready to pounce on any man who fell out of line and thrust him back into position. Already one of his cavalry units, the Cumberland hussars, composed of inexperienced gentlemen, had turned away and was disappearing in the direction of Brussels.

‘We’ll not survive another such attack,’ Arthur muttered soberly. ‘In any case, look there.’

He pointed towards La Haye Sainte and his aides followed the direction indicated. A handful of men, the survivors of the garrison, were trotting back towards the ridge above the farmhouse. Emerging from the buildings behind them came the first of the French soldiers, cheering as they fired shots at their retreating enemy. The men of the King’s German Legion did not stop to fire back.

‘They’re running for it,’ an aide said coldly.

‘Their ammunition must be exhausted,’ Somerset suggested. ‘They had to quit the farmhouse, or die there.’

‘It might have been better if they did,’ Arthur responded. ‘Anything to delay Bonaparte.’

The officers were silent for a moment as they watched a figure appear on the roof of La Haye Sainte’s stables, waving a tricolour from side to side in triumph. As Arthur stared at the fallen strongpoint, and the French forces gathering behind it, he knew that Bonaparte was preparing for one last assault on the allied line. Arthur’s reserves had been thrown into the battle. The men that remained had been under fire since noon.

‘What shall we do, your grace?’ asked Somerset. ‘Shall I order a fresh brigade to retake La Haye Sainte?’

‘Yes, we must do that. It will be a bloody business but we can’t afford to lose the farmhouse. If it remains in French hands then all we can do is hold the ridge, or die where we stand.’

‘If we fail to retake it, what are your orders?’

‘There are no more orders,’ Arthur replied flatly. He stared towards the east where the first gloom of dusk was gathering on the horizon, partially obscured by the smoke of battle from the direction of the village of Plancenoit.‘The night must come,’ he said softly.‘Or Blьcher.’

Chapter 63

La Belle Alliance, 6.30 p.m.

‘Ney has taken the farmhouse!’ Soult exclaimed. ‘Sire, we have La Haye Sainte. Look.’

Soult pointed to the French flag waving above the barn. Ney had already ordered some guns forward and they had begun to scourge the redcoats on the crest of the ridge, less than three hundred paces away. Soult held out Ney’s scribbled report. ‘He asks for reinforcements, sire. Wellington is beaten. One more attack and the day is ours, he says.’

‘Ney says so?’ Napoleon sneered. The ground around the farmhouse was carpeted with French bodies, as was the slope between the farmhouse and the end of the walled garden of Hougoumont. ‘The proof of Marshal Ney’s wisdom lies there for all to see. He has squandered our entire force of cavalry on his useless attacks. And then thrown Foy’s division away. So you’ll understand why I might begin to question the good marshal’s judgement.’

Soult looked across the valley to the ridge, where spouts of earth leaped into the air as more of the French guns resumed their fire on the allied line. ‘Perhaps Ney is right this time, sire. He needs more men.’

‘More men?’ Napoleon threw his hands up bitterly. ‘Where do you expect me to get them from? Do you want me to make some?’

Soult closed his mouth and looked down, enduring his master’s wrath.

‘Ney has undone us. Just as he did at Jena. Besides, we have other matters to deal with.’ Napoleon turned to the map table and indicated the eastern half of the battlefield. Lobau’s corps had attacked the head of the Prussian column and been forced to fall back, giving up the village of Plancenoit. Napoleon had immediately sent in the Young Guard to drive the Prussians out. Shortly before Ney had taken the farmhouse, news arrived that Plancenoit was once more in Prussian hands, no more than a thousand paces from the road to Charleroi. Unless Blьcher’s soldiers could be halted, there was a danger that the Army of the North would be surrounded. Only the six battalions of the Middle Guard and eight of the Old Guard, eight thousand men in all, remained in the army’s reserve.

‘We must stop the Prussians first,’ Napoleon announced. ‘Keep two battalions of the Guard back as a final reserve. Send the rest to form a line in front of Plancenoit. Have them form square in case the Prussians send cavalry forward. Then order two battalions of the Old Guard to retake the village.’

‘Two battalions?’ Soult shook his head. ‘Duhesme estimated that there were over ten battalions facing him at the village.’

‘That may be, but two is all I can spare. They know what is at stake and they will do their duty. See to it.’

Soult nodded reluctantly and dictated the order to one of his aides. As the officer rode off, down the road beside which the finest soldiers of the army stood waiting, Napoleon examined the map again. The recapture of Plancenoit would give him a reprieve only. If it was done, then there might still be time to beat Wellington. If he was routed then the remnants of the French army could wheel east and hold the Prussians at bay while Grouchy marched on their rear during the night. Napoleon felt a nervous sickness in his stomach at the great peril that threatened to engulf him. He tried to thrust it from his mind, turning away from the map and clenching his hands together behind his back as he stared towards Plancenoit.

Within half an hour of the order the sound of firing from the village intensified and Napoleon and his staff waited anxiously for news of the outcome. They were not kept long as one of Duhesme’s officers came galloping up. He reined in and bowed his head to Napoleon.‘Sire, I have the honour to report that the Old Guard have driven the Prussians back. Plancenoit is back in our hands.’

‘Very well.’ Napoleon turned to Soult. ‘Recall the reserves and have them formed up to the right of the inn. We have one last chance to finish Welligton. There.’ He pointed to the ridge, where the cavalry had charged earlier. The artillery that Ney had brought forward had annihilated two brigades of Dutch troops sent forward to retake the farmhouse of La Haye Sainte, and were now tearing into the nearest British formations.

‘Order every available man forward,’ Napoleon ordered. ‘Turn every gun on to the enemy.’

The weary men of d’Erlon’s corps and those of General Reille who had rallied to their standards cheered the nine battalions of the Guard that had been ordered to advance. With drums beating the veterans stepped out proudly, the grenadiers in their tall bearskins leading the way, while four batteries of horse guns followed the formation. Napoleon strode to his horse and a groom helped him up into the saddle. Taking the reins he spurred his mount into a trot and made his way down the road before cutting across to take up position ahead of the Guard. His heart filled with a defiant pride as he approached the bottom of the vale and began the approach to the ridge.

A drumming of hooves to his left made Napoleon turn to look and he saw Ney galloping across towards him, followed by the handful of staff officers who had survived the earlier charges.

‘Sire, what are you doing?’ Ney frowned as he reined in beside the Emperor.

‘I am doing what I should have done from the start of the battle. Leading my men from the front.’

‘You will be killed, sire.’

‘It is possible.’

‘You must not fall here, sire. For the sake of France. While you live, there is hope.’

‘Hope? What hope?’ Napoleon asked blankly.

Ney leaned over and took the reins from him. For an instant Napoleon was tempted to snatch them back, but he hesitated. Then his resolve to lead the final attack of the day, perhaps the final attack of his life, faded.

‘Take the Emperor back to the inn,’ Ney ordered, handing the reins to one of his aides, who led the horse back through the gap between the two leading battalions of the Guards. One of the veterans raised a cheer. ‘Long live Napoleon!’ and the others joined in at once, and continued until he had passed through the formation. Then they set their faces towards the ridge and fell silent as they marched forward.

‘Stop,’ Napoleon ordered Ney’s aide. ‘I command you.’

The aide paused uncertainly, then bowed his head and handed back the reins. At once Napoleon wheeled the horse about to watch the cream of his army cross the floor of the valley, slowly disappearing into the dense cloud of powder smoke that had gathered as a result of the French batteries’ bombardment of the ridge throughout the day. Ney halted the formation and ordered them to form square, then the Guard continued their advance, five battalions to the front, and four behind, in reserve.

Soult had taken a horse and now rode up to the Emperor. He pointed towards the line of the ridge as it turned to the north-east of the battlefield. The dark shape of a distant column was approaching Wellington’s left flank, and clearly visible to the men of d’Erlon’s corps.

‘Sire, those are Prussians.’

‘Quiet, Soult!’ Napoleon snapped. Glancing round, he saw that none of the soldiers seemed to have overheard. He turned back to his chief of staff. ‘I know what they are. But you will ride down the line and tell our men that it is Grouchy, come to save us.’

‘Sire?’

‘Our fate hangs by a thread, Soult. Our men need to believe they can win, or we are finished. Now go, tell them!’

Soult nodded as he grasped the necessity of the lie. He took a deep breath and spurred his horse along the front ranks of d’Erlon’s corps. Snatching off his hat he waved it from side to side and then thrust it towards the distant column.

‘Men! See there! It is Marshal Grouchy! Grouchy is coming! Wellington is beaten!’

His words were seized on eagerly and the men cheered wildly, and then began their own advance to the right of La Haye Sainte. The roar of their voices carried across the valley to where the Imperial Guard continued their relentless approach to the ridge. Marshal Ney paused at the rear of the column. He glanced back towards Napoleon, waved his hand, and then turned to the front as he drew his sword and urged his horse forward, disappearing into the smoke.

The allied centre, 7.30 p.m.

‘Heads up!’ a soldier from Halkett’s brigade shouted. ‘Here they come again!’

Arthur had just led two battalions of Brunswick infantry forward to the ridge. The inexperienced young men looked ahead nervously as they heard the shout and guessed its import. Even though the French guns had continued to fire on the ridge, there had been no attacks for nearly an hour and Arthur had used the opportunity to pull in his flanks and concentrate what was left of his army astride the road to Brussels. Halting the Brunswickers, he rode ahead with Somerset and Uxbridge as far as the hedge on the crest and looked down the slope. The sound of drums drifted through the smoke.

‘Infantry again,’ said Uxbridge.

‘Then we shall send them on their way.’ Somerset forced a smile. ‘The same as we did before.’

They waited a moment longer and then saw the heads of what appeared at first to be five large columns of infantry. There was no mistaking the uniform of the men approaching the ridge.

‘By God, Boney’s sending in the Guard,’ Uxbridge muttered. ‘In squares. Well, they need not have bothered. I’ve too few men left to mount a decent charge.’

Arthur turned to Somerset. ‘I want every gun turned on them. They must not get over the ridge. Ride the line and tell every battery commander.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

As Somerset galloped away Arthur took a deep breath. ‘Here it is, Uxbridge, the deciding moment.’

He looked along the ridge and saw the smoke-grimed faces of his weary men. The artillery, who had been exposed to enemy fire longer than any other arm, had suffered badly. All that remained of some batteries were the smashed fragments of their weapons, while others had lost guns, men and horses. Those still on their feet had been serving the weapons for eight hours and moved with the leaden stagger of men on the verge of collapse. As Somerset went along the ridge warning of the approach of the enemy, those units still in square hurriedly wheeled their sides out to form a line facing the ridge. The surviving guns blasted away, shooting canister into the faces of the French squares. Napoleon’s veterans instantly closed up the gaps, dressed their ranks, and continued forward, as if they were executing a parade-ground manoeuvre. With a rumble, some batteries of enemy horse guns trundled up between the squares and halted to unlimber. The crews had their weapons trained on the ridge and ready to fire in less than a minute.

‘Never seen guns moved so well,’ Arthur marvelled.

They opened fire, targeting the English guns with canister and cutting down their crews. For as long as they could Arthur’s gunners poured their fire into the advancing imperial guardsmen. The two battalions on the right of the French line were marginally ahead of the others, and as they came up to the crest of the ridge Arthur and Uxbridge cantered over to the safety of Halkett’s brigade. The infantry could not see the Frenchmen yet, but the sound of the drums carried to them clearly and they tightened their grip on their muskets and stared grimly ahead.

The tops of the bearskins appeared first, and above them the gold of an eagle atop its standard.

‘Make ready to fire!’ Halkett bellowed and his men advanced their weapons and pulled the hammers back to half-cock.

The front ranks of the first two French squares halted, raised their muskets and quickly fired a volley. Bullets zipped past Arthur and Uxbridge and a dozen or so of Halkett’s men fell.

‘Take aim!’ Halkett held his sword aloft, and then swept it down as he bellowed, ‘Fire!’

From his saddle Arthur could see that the British volley was far more effective than the enemy’s, and the front rank of the two squares seemed to collapse en masse. He turned to Halkett and called out, ‘Charge your brigade! Now!’

Halkett nodded and repeated the order in a clear bellow. His men let out a roar as they advanced their bayonets and plunged through the smoke. Ahead of them the guardsmen stood their ground for an instant, uncertain and afraid, and then backed away.

‘They’re running! After ’em, lads!’ a sergeant called out.

A handful of the French veterans stood their ground, and were quickly cut down by Halkett’s infantry. The redcoats plunged down the slope, the guardsmen fleeing before them. Arthur touched his spurs into Copenhagen’s flanks and galloped along the line to Maitland’s brigade, lying down on the reverse slope. The next two squares of the Imperial Guard were just appearing over the crest and Arthur cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Now, Maitland! Now’s your time!’

Maitland nodded and gave the order. ‘The brigade will rise!’

In a few seconds some fourteen hundred men, in four ranks, appeared in front of the French guardsmen, who only a moment earlier had thought nothing stood between them and victory. The surprise and shock on their faces was unmistakable as they stumbled to a halt.

‘Take aim!’ Maitland ordered. ‘Fire!’

Arthur saw the deadly impact of the massed volley, and the charge of Maitland’s men did for these squares exactly what Halkett’s had for the first two. The Imperial Guard, the finest body of soldiers in Europe, broke and fled back down the slope. Maitland spurred his horse after his men and followed them a short distance down the slope, until he saw the last square to his right. Turning to the nearest companies, still bunched together as they headed down the slope, he halted them and formed a line facing the side of the last French square in front of the allied line. The redcoats quickly reloaded their weapons and took aim. Ahead, and to the other side of the square, more allied soldiers did the same. There was a moment’s stillness, then the first of the volleys crashed out. Others followed, and the French soldiers were felled in waves. The survivors stared in terror at the bodies around them and then turned and ran.

A cheer rose up from end to end along the allied line at the sight of the elite French infantry pouring down the slope. Arthur stared at the sight, not quite believing his eyes and not immediately grasping what it meant. It was Uxbridge who reacted first.

‘Boney’s beaten! By God, he’s beaten!’ He grasped Arthur’s arm. ‘Your grace!’

Before Arthur could reply the sound of a cannon ball passing close by filled the air with its drone, and he felt Uxbridge’s fingers suddenly dig into his sleeve.

‘I’m hit . . .’ Uxbridge looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘I’m hit.’

Arthur reached over and grabbed his shoulder to steady him. ‘You there!’ he called to a gun crew who had retreated to Maitland’s brigade. ‘Help me. Get this officer to the rear!’

The gunners eased Uxbridge down from his saddle and laid him on the ground. Arthur saw that his knee had been smashed by a roundshot and was now a bloody mess of bone and muscle. The artillery crew picked him up and Uxbridge let out a deep groan as they moved off. Arthur turned back towards the battle and looked down the slope. There were still four battalions of guardsmen formed up, but they were now slowly falling back, covering the retreat of their stricken comrades. Over to the right, the garrison of Hougoumont still held on as they fought to contain the fire that had broken out earlier. To the left, the French were abandoning La Haye Sainte and retreating down the road to Charleroi. Over to the east Arthur could clearly see the columns of Prussians pushing back the remnants of the Young Guard.

‘By God,’ he muttered to himself. ‘We’ve done it . . . We’ve won.’

Somerset came riding up, his face alight with excitement. ‘Your grace, d’you see? The French are broken. They’re retreating!’

Arthur could not restrain himself a moment longer. The strain and anxiety of the terrible contest was lifted from him and he felt a wave of elation course through his body. Somerset was grinning at him.

‘What are your orders, your grace?’

Arthur took off his hat and waved it above his head, in the direction of the enemy. ‘Give the order to every man you can find - general pursuit.’

As the word spread swiftly through the ranks of the men who had held the ridge all day the army swept forward, infantry mixed with cavalry as they chased after the French. Arthur rode with them and at his approach his men cheered him for all they were worth. The French spilled out across the landscape as they desperately tried to escape, abandoning their guns, caissons and wagons along with their wounded. Arthur searched for sign of Bonaparte, but the Emperor’s distinctive white horse was nowhere to be seen. He reined in briefly at La Belle Alliance, where men from one of the Dutch cavalry regiments were busy ransacking what was left of the French headquarters in the gathering dusk. A hundred yards further down the road he came upon the first of the Prussian soldiers. They were busy bayoneting wounded Frenchmen and glanced up at him suspiciously until they realised from his beaming smile that he could hardly be an enemy. A short distance further on he saw a cluster of Prussian officers on horseback. At their head was a stiff-backed, elderly man with a fabulous growth of silvery hair on his cheeks.

‘Marshal Blьcher!’ Arthur called out at once, raising his hand.

The Prussian officers turned towards him and as he reined in Blьcher recognised Arthur in turn, edged his mount over and embraced him. Neither man spoke the other’s language, and Blьcher blurted out, ‘Mein lieber Kamerad! ’ And then, in a guttural accent, ‘Quelle affaire!’

Arthur laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Bonaparte is beaten. Once and for all.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘But it was a damned close run thing!’

The pursuit continued after nightfall. Arthur’s troops were too exhausted to go far and gradually abandoned the task to the Prussians. A pale moon rose over the battlefield and cast a ghostly silver-grey hue over the fields of death where the bodies of tens of thousands lay stiffening in the cool air. The ride along the road back to Waterloo filled Arthur with a numbing sense of unreality. The air over this same ground had earlier been filled with the deafening roar of guns, the crack of muskets and the rhythmic signals of bugles and drums.

It was quiet now, but far from silent. Many of the wounded lay groaning, crying out or simply talking to themselves. Some babbled incoherently, driven mad by pain or the trauma of the day’s experiences. Here and there small parties of soldiers searched for wounded survivors of their regiments to carry back to the dressing stations behind the ridge and in the village of Waterloo. The defenders of Hougoumont had emerged from their strongpoint and left the fire in the barns to burn itself out, the flames still casting a glow across the bodies piled around the house and gardens.

Arthur shivered as he reached the shattered limbs of the elm tree on the ridge. He looked back across the battlefield one last time and then spurred Copenhagen into a trot as he made for the inn that served as his headquarters at Waterloo. Somerset had arrived shortly before him and could not hide his relief that his commander was unhurt. Supper had been prepared by the innkeeper and the headquarters servants had laid the table for Arthur and his staff officers with the best silverware and china. He sat down at the head of the table, and Somerset took the seat to his left.

‘Where are the others?’ Arthur asked. ‘My aides?’

‘They will be along directly,’ Somerset replied, then frowned. ‘At least, some will, I’m sure.’

Weariness had set into every bone in Arthur’s body and he managed to eat little of the cold meat and bread that was put in front of him. Servants came and went and a few officers arrived with messages, which Somerset took and read, only handing on the most important to Arthur. Midnight came, but no more of his staff officers returned to headquarters. Arthur turned to Somerset.

‘Thank God I do not know how it feels to lose a battle, but few things can be more painful than to win at the cost of so many fine officers, and friends.’

‘Yes, your grace.’ Somerset nodded. ‘It is a hard thing to take.’

‘I must sleep,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘Then I will write my report. England must know the result. Wake me at the third hour.’

Somerset nodded.

Arthur rose stiffly from his seat and winced. He stood for a moment, staring at the empty places along the table and feeling a terrible emptiness within him. ‘I pray that I have fought my last battle.’

Then he smiled bleakly at Somerset and crossed the room to one of the wooden pallets that had been covered with straw-filled mattresses to serve as beds. He was too tired to take off his boots and eased himself down, lying on his back. His eyes ached terribly, and he closed them for a moment, and was deeply asleep shortly afterwards, his snores filling the room.

‘Your grace, wake up.’

Arthur stirred, blinking his eyes open. Somerset was leaning over him.

‘What time is it?’

‘Just past midnight, your grace.’

Arthur sighed. ‘I was to be woken at three.’

‘Yes, but we have a visitor, your grace.’ Somerset turned and gestured to a figure standing just inside the door of the inn. By the light of the lantern hanging above the table Arthur saw that he was wearing the uniform of a French officer. Arthur swung his legs over the side of the makeshift bed and stared at the man. He was tall and thin, some years older than Arthur and dark-featured. A bloody rag was tied around his head.

‘Who the devil are you?’

‘Colonel Chaumert, of the Imperial Guard, your grace.’ The Frenchman bowed his head.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I have a message for you.’ He glanced at Somerset.‘It is for your ears only.’

Arthur rubbed his jaw. ‘Leave us.’

Somerset hesitated. ‘Are you certain, your grace?’

‘What harm could befall me now?’

Somerset shrugged, and then left the room, shooting a warning glance at the Frenchman as he went through the door and closed it behind him.

‘Now then.’ Arthur gazed directly at Colonel Chaumert. ‘Explain yourself.’

Chapter 64

On the road to Charleroi, 4 a.m., 19 June 1815

‘You must understand that this meeting must remain a secret,’ Chaumert said as they passed by the company of guardsmen blocking the road.

‘If the meeting serves no purpose I have no intention of ever admitting to it,’ Arthur replied coldly.

‘Good,’ the French officer nodded as the small column of riders passed through the moonlit countryside.

Despite the defeat a number of units of the Army of the North had remained intact and had been avoided by the Prussian pursuit, who had preferred easier pickings. Arthur and his small escort of Life Guards had ridden with Chaumert as far as Genappe, and then Arthur had continued with the colonel and a squadron of lancers to the final destination, following side roads to avoid the French soldiers fleeing towards the frontier. Now they turned off the road on to a narrow lane, at the end of which was a small farm. A carriage sat in the farmyard. By the light of the moon, Arthur could see a perimeter of sentries surrounding the building. Chaumert reined in and slipped down from his saddle. He tethered his horse to a post outside the door and looked up at Arthur.

‘He’s waiting inside.’

Arthur hesitated. He wondered if he should have heeded Somerset’s advice not to leave his headquarters with the French colonel. But there was little to fear, and something might yet be salvaged for the good of all by his agreeing to come. He dismounted and handed the reins to Chaumert. Then he lifted the latch and entered the farmhouse. A small fire glowed in the hearth of the main room and by its flickering light Arthur could see the dim figure sitting on a stool to one side. He turned at the sound of Arthur’s footsteps.

‘Good evening, my dear Duke,’ Napoleon said without a smile. ‘I should say that it is a very good evening for you. I congratulate you on your victory.’

Arthur stared at him from the shadows by the door, and replied, in French, ‘There has been too great a loss of life for me to accept any congratulations.’

‘For the moment, yes. But in time the dead are forgotten and such a victory is remembered for ever.’ Napoleon waited for a response, and when it did not come he gestured towards a plain wooden chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. ‘Come and sit.’

Arthur crossed the room and eased himself down. Napoleon’s features were dimly visible by the light of the fire: heavy jowls and sunken eyes beneath a broad brow and short, dark hair.

‘Your officer said that you wanted to discuss surrender terms.’

‘That is what I said, but I have other reasons.’ Napoleon stared at Arthur curiously for an instant.

‘I am not interested in them,’ Arthur replied. ‘I am here to discuss surrender, or I leave at once.’

‘Very well, we will discuss surrender. But first, let me say how kind the years have been to you.’

‘What do you mean?’ Arthur asked suspiciously.

‘You don’t remember?’ Napoleon’s brow rose a fraction. ‘Ah, but I do. I never forget . . . Angers. The School of Equitation. Twenty-nine years ago. You played the violin.’

Arthur felt his blood turn cold. Though his mind was tired he recalled the happiest year of his youth, spent away from his mother, and brothers whose academic ability far outshone his own. A year when he had been released from the burden of his family to enjoy the company of his peers, under the kind patronage of the school’s aristocratic director. The Comte de Pignarole had perished in the Revolution. Arthur recalled a day when the school had entertained some young officers from a French artillery regiment. As the memory crept back he looked searchingly at Napoleon.

‘I see that you do remember.’A smile flickered on the weary features. ‘The world has changed so much since then, eh? And we have changed with it, and become great men.’

‘As I recall, we did not have much in common that day,’ said Arthur. ‘There was a disagreement.’

‘That’s right. You were all for the rights of the aristocrat, and I argued for the rights of the common man.’

‘And now you are a tyrant, and I am the one fighting to restore liberty.’

‘Liberty?’ Napoleon sneered.‘You want to restore the Bourbons, and they want to restore the corruption and privilege that drove the people to revolution in the first place. You mark my words, the Bourbons will not last. None of the ruling houses of Europe will survive. The Revolution opened people’s eyes. It will take some nations longer than others, but revolution will come to them all.’

‘I am not here to listen to this,’ Arthur interrupted. ‘We will talk of surrender, or I leave now. What are your terms?’

Napoleon stared coldly at him. ‘I am not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner.’

Arthur shrugged.

‘Whatever the outcome of today’s battle, I am still Emperor of France.’

‘Your title means nothing now. Your army is crushed, and the people of France will not forgive you for leading them to defeat again.’

‘I have other armies. Grouchy is still in the field. I can retreat on Paris, gather my soldiers to me and make a stand.’

‘There is no hope of resisting the coalition,’ Arthur said wearily. ‘It is over.’

‘There is always hope,’ Napoleon replied vehemently. ‘When I was exiled to Elba you all thought I was finished, admit it! And yet I came back. It took me less than a month to have France back in my grip. What is to stop me doing it again?’

‘There will be no Elba this time. You have been declared an outlaw. If the Prussians take you prisoner then you will be shot. I doubt if the Austrians or the Russians will be inclined to be any more merciful.’

‘And what of England? Would my oldest enemy do the same?’

‘I cannot speak for my government, but I would prefer not to see another ruler torn from his throne and executed like a common criminal. It disturbs the natural order of things. So, perhaps I should state my terms first.’ Arthur lowered his head for a moment to order his thoughts. ‘Tell your soldiers to surrender. Every man in your service. Then declare your unconditional abdication. In exchange, I will take you into custody. I offer you no guarantees for your protection. I will abide by whatever decision my government makes concerning your fate.’ Arthur looked up. ‘Those are my terms.’

Napoleon was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘Those terms would not dignify a dog. What can I do but refuse and fight on?’

‘With what? You have nothing to fight with, except a dwindling number of followers who only want a glorious end. I have seen enough of war to know that it has little glory. It is an ugly, cruel thing, and it would be better to put it behind us as soon as we can.’

‘Yet you have known no other life but that of a soldier at war,’ Napoleon said shrewdly. ‘Do you really think you can be comfortable with peace?’

‘I do not know,’ Arthur replied. ‘But I do know that I no longer want to live in a state of war. I feel that with all my heart. I ask you . . . I beg you, put an end to this conflict now. Spare the lives of your people. Spare the lives of your enemies. Take this chance to be remembered for having done the right thing when you could still choose to. Agree to that and I will do all that is in my power to find you a respectable place of exile in which to end your days. It will not be Elba. Make no mistake, it will be a prison, and you will be closely guarded. If you refuse then you must take your chances with England’s allies.’ Arthur looked at the Emperor earnestly, hoping that he would see the futility of continued resistance.

Napoleon folded his hands together and leaned forward to rest his chin on them. He stared back into Arthur’s eyes with the penetrating stare that had so intimidated his generals and ministers. The Englishman did not flinch.

‘I cannot accept such terms. I am Napoleon. What will history say of me if I flinched at the end?’

‘If you fight on, beyond the point of reason, and have more men die for nothing, then history will surely brand you a tyrant. . . and a monster.’

‘I wonder?’ Napoleon smiled.

Arthur felt a surge of anger at the other man’s preoccupation with his place in history. How many more men would be buried in the foundations of such posterity? He stood up and looked down on Napoleon. ‘There is nothing more to say. This meeting did not take place, as far as I am concerned. I had hoped to save the lives of my men, your men, even you. But I can see that you will not let that happen.’

Napoleon shook his head.‘I have not given you permission to leave.’

‘Permission? I do not need your permission.’

‘I can order my men to prevent your leaving.’

‘I was given your word that I would be allowed to pass freely.’

‘Is that what Colonel Chaumert said?’ Napoleon smiled thinly.

Arthur felt bitterly sad that it had come to this. There was no end to Bonaparte’s lack of integrity. He looked squarely at the other man. ‘If you don’t care for your own reputation, that is one thing, but would you dishonour Colonel Chaumert too? And to what end? Even if you refuse to let me go, your defeat is assured. And you would add the weight of eternal shame to that of eternal tyranny. That will be what you are remembered for.’

Napoleon breathed in deeply and was silent for a moment.‘Go then. We shall not meet again.’

‘I have no desire to,’ Arthur replied. He made his way to the door, opened it and stepped out into the moonlight. Colonel Chaumert looked at him expectantly.

‘My horse, if you please.’

Chaumert handed Arthur the reins and offered his hands to help Arthur up into the saddle. Arthur ignored him and climbed into the saddle unaided. Chaumert mounted his own horse and the two men rode out of the farm, back up the road towards Brussels. As they reached the place where Arthur’s escort was waiting, he turned to Chaumert.

‘Before I go, tell me something.’

Chaumert shrugged. ‘What is it?’

‘You are a good man, I take it.’

‘I have tried to be.’

‘Then what is it that makes a good man prepared to follow a tyrant to the very end?’

Chaumert thought for a moment. ‘Even tyrants have the seeds of true greatness in them. A good man sees that, and he serves in the hope that one day the greatness will out.’

‘And if it doesn’t? What do you do then?’

‘Then I am wrong, in which case I deserve oblivion, for all those who suffered at the hands of the tyrant I served so faithfully.’

‘Then why stay at his side?’

‘Because there is still time for some measure of redemption.’

Arthur held out his hand. ‘I fear you will be disappointed.’

‘And I fear you may be right.’ Chaumert smiled as he clasped Arthur’s hand. ‘Sir, in another life, I would rather have found a man like you to serve. But then what man ever truly has the chance to choose his own fate?’

Arthur stared at him and then nodded sadly. ‘Goodbye, Colonel.’

‘Farewell, sir. I hope you, of all men, live to enjoy the fruits of peace.’

‘The fruits of peace?’ Arthur paused as he considered the future. Home. Kitty and his unknown sons. A return to the flummery of social life, and the poison of politics. The war had made him, furnished him with the closest friends he had ever known. It had shown him the heights of human endeavour, as well as the depths of depravity. He smiled. ‘For men like us the fruit of peace is the absence of war. Little else. It’s over. All over.’

Then he turned his horse in the direction of Waterloo and galloped away as the first rays of a new dawn seeped across the worn, torn continent.

Chapter 65

Plymouth, 30 July 1815

As Napoleon emerged from the companionway the lieutenant of the watch gave a quick nod to the midshipman standing by the blackboard easel. The youngster snatched up a rag and hurriedly erased Eating Lunch, and then chalked up, in big letters, On deck, for the benefit of the thousands of spectators aboard the swarm of small boats bobbing on the sea surrounding HMS Bellerophon. As those aboard the boats turned to read the new notice some stood and scanned the deck of the warship for the first sign of the great man. For the last week the harbour had been packed with local people and those who had travelled some distance just for the chance to catch sight of the Frenchman who had threatened to humble Britain for the last fifteen years.

Napoleon straightened up as he emerged on deck and nodded a greeting to the lieutenant. Behind him came his small coterie of staff officers, and the party climbed the short flight of stairs on to the quarterdeck of the seventy-four-gun warship. At first Captain Maitland had tried to insist that the French officers stick to the port side of the quarterdeck, leaving the starboard side free for the ship’s captain and his officers. However, Napoleon had ignored the instruction and wandered where he willed, asking endless questions about the operation of the warship of those officers who spoke French. Maitland was not on board today. He had gone ashore and taken a room in an inn favoured by naval officers to await fresh instructions concerning his prisoner. Ever since Napoleon had arrived on the deck of the ship, surrendering himself to the protection of his most inveterate enemy, the British had not known what to do with him. Maitland had reported Napoleon’s presence to the senior admiral on station, who had ordered him back to England to refer the matter up the chain of command. Now Napoleon’s fate was being decided by the government in London.

Crossing to the side of the warship he gazed down over the thousands of spectators who had come to see him. He smiled and raised his hat in greeting and there was a ragged chorus of cheers from his audience.

De Las Cases, Napoleon’s secretary, shook his head. ‘The English make strange enemies, sire. You seem to be as popular with them as their own monarch.’

‘Well, I must ensure their continued good will,’ Napoleon replied quietly as he raised his hat again and waved it at a party of young women aboard a small yacht that had somehow slipped through the screen of guard boats which were rowing swiftly to cut the yacht off. ‘I have no desire to be handed into the custody of my enemies on the continent.’

Few doubted that he would be put to death if he were returned to France, which left his English captors with a dilemma. Of all his enemies, Napoleon had calculated that England would treat him the most leniently. That was why he had given himself up to Captain Maitland. In truth, he had little choice in the matter.

After the defeat at Waterloo, he had raced back to Paris to take charge of the situation and prepare to gather all available forces to stem the advance of Wellington and Blьcher. Such was his exhaustion that he allowed himself several hours’ rest once he reached the Tuileries. By the time he awoke his enemies had made their move. Led by Fouchй, the Chamber of Peers and the Chamber of Deputies had passed motions declaring that they could not be dissolved without their agreement, and called on the National Guard to defend them. Fouchй had then called on Napoleon to abdicate for a second time. Weighed down by fatigue and despair Napoleon had given way. As a last favour to his former master Fouchй had placed a French frigate of the Rochefort squadron at his disposal and requested that he leave France once and for all. Napoleon had delayed in Paris for a few days, offering to serve his country as a mere general to help stem the allied invasion. His offer was curtly rebuffed. As the first exchange of cannon fire echoed across the city Napoleon and a small band of close followeres had fled to Rochefort, only to discover that it was closely blockaded by the Royal Navy. Napoleon had hoped to escape to the United States, and waited in the port for the chance to slip out to sea under cover of a moonless night.

As he waited, a report came from Paris that the capital had surrendered to Wellington and Blьcher. The Bourbons were to be restored once more, and had already issued orders for Napoleon’s arrest. To wait any longer was foolhardy, and so, on 15 July, Napoleon had commandeered a lugger to carry him and and his party out to the nearest British warship.

‘What becomes of us now then, sire?’ de Las Cases wondered. ‘I mean, if the English decide not to return us to France.’

‘They will treat us as honoured guests,’ Napoleon replied confidently. ‘That is their nature. They baulk at extreme acts and would not have my blood on their hands. I expect that Lord Liverpool and his government are even now deciding on a small estate, somewhere in the heart of the country, where we may be kept under close supervision.’

‘And in the longer term, sire?’

‘Once it is felt that I no longer pose a threat to peace, I shall be free to leave.’ Napoleon turned to his secretary with a glint in his eyes. ‘I am finished in France, but I am sure that my talents can be put to good use in another sphere. You’ll see. Perhaps I will even be permitted to resume my rule over Elba.’

‘I hope so, sire.’