Four Days in June. Iain Gale

alike fall by the score. Saw, quite clearly, a young Prussian grenadier use the butt of his musket to beat out the brains of a voltigeur before he too was cut down by the slashing sword of a French officer. Who in turn was shot point-blank through the mouth. A sergeant of chasseurs was beating the bloody head of an already dead Jäger rifleman against the wall of the burning church. Never, in twenty years of soldiering, could Ziethen remember witnessing such basic, primeval violence.

      For a moment the French appeared to falter. And then another officer, a full colonel, rode up and rallied them and, although he could hear nothing above the din of battle, Ziethen could see the blue-coated infantry shouting, mouthing oaths to the glory of their Emperor, before they disappeared into the madness of the mêlée.

      Drained, he dropped the glass from his eye. Stared in silence. If they continued to fight like this, surely the French would win against any odds. Gneisenau must commit the entire reserve. Bring them down now, never mind the cannon fire. Ziethen raised his telescope again. Swung it round to the left of Ligny and across the stream. A glint of brass caught his eye. Cannon barrel.

      He called to von Reiche. ‘Do you see that?’

      There was no question about it. Artillery. He counted more than ten batteries. Heavy guns manned by men in peaked bearskins, being moved up towards Ligny. Bonaparte intended to reduce the village to rubble. And after that he would be free to swing those twelve-pounders around and enfilade either wing of the Prussian army.

      All they could hope for now, it seemed, was to hold out until nightfall brought an end to the fighting. Then perhaps the survivors might join with the English tomorrow.

      In the sky the storm clouds were gathering, steadily growing heavier. Where in God’s name, he wondered, was Wellington? And then, remembering his promise to Jagow, Ziethen set off, back up the hill, in search of the reinforcements.

      NINE

      Quatre-Bras, 3.45 p.m. Ney

      He sat on Mortier’s old horse, in the centre of the line, by the wood behind the little whitewashed farm, and stared at the pall of white smoke rising from the crossroads. Ney knew that he must work to calm himself. Wasn’t Aglaé always telling him so? He must control his temper. But, he reasoned, General Bachelu had been asking for it. Of course it was true that the high crops might conceal more of the enemy. There were always hidden dangers in battle. So why, he had asked him, had Bachelu ever become a soldier? Was he afraid? Ney had to admit it was a bit severe. More than that, it was unfair. Unjust. Ney bit his lip. Knew that the only reason he had treated the general so badly had been his own frustration. His orders from the Emperor had only arrived late in the morning, delivered in person by Charles de Flahaut. It was good to see the handsome young general. A reminder of happier times. Flahaut was the lover of Hortense de Beauharnais, the Emperor’s stepdaughter, and had been Aglaé’s favourite singing partner in so many concerts at their Paris home. Ney had always been a little jealous.

      It was a short message. Ney was to engage the English at once. Take the crossroads. But it had not taken him long to realize that, if he were to safeguard his flank, Bossu wood must also be secured. A frontal assault on the wood? Reille advised caution. Instead, Ney had decided to attack the Allied left. To make for the Namur/Nivelles road and to take it at the hamlet of Paradis. That done, he calculated, the Dutch would be forced to abandon the big wood to save their own flank. There would not be, as the Emperor had demanded, some daring coup de main. The only way to beat Wellington at this game, Ney knew, was to muster his men and simply press the Allies into the ground by weight of numbers. A mass attack in the old style. Of course the French would take casualties. But d’Erlon’s corps would be here soon to exploit the gap, and after that the way to Brussels would lie open. It was a brilliant plan. Worthy of the Emperor.

      It had, however, taken the remainder of the morning to manoeuvre into position. Twenty thousand men had moved from column of route to column of division and finally into column of attack. Twenty-four battalions, each of them with a frontage of sixty men and nine ranks deep. At length, it was not until 2 o’clock, far later than Ney had originally intended, that he had sent them in.

      Bachelu needn’t have worried. His division had simply walked through the handful of Dutch skirmishers. A thirty-gun cannonade had knocked out one Dutch battery in spectacular fashion, blowing up an ammunition caisson and sending men, parts of men and horses and shards of wood flying thirty feet into the air. True, Foy’s division over on the left had been harried by the remaining Dutch guns, but another barrage soon silenced them. Then Foy’s men had pushed into the edge of the wood, forcing back the Nassauers. Within an hour Ney had advanced 1,000 yards. On cue, Jerome’s division had arrived.

      Looking through a field-glass at the crossroads, Ney had also noted the arrival among the Dutch of fresh, green-coated troops. More Nassauers. Running, curiously, into position. It was of no consequence. What was important was to take the crossroads before Wellington was able to deploy his English.

      The central farm, Gemioncourt, was held in force. Ney moved quickly. Sent in four of Foy’s regiments to the assault, supported by Piré’s lancers. As they moved relentlessly forward, a rider approached the marshal from the direction of Paradis. A dust-covered captain of infantry.

      ‘Captain Letort, sire, of the 3rd Line. From Colonel Baron Vautrin. I have urgent news. The English, sire. They’re on the road. At Paradis and at the crossroads.’

      ‘Impossible, Captain. I can see no redcoats. Where are they?’ Ney peered through his telescope.

      ‘Not redcoats, sire. Riflemen. And believe me, they’re there. In the Bois de Cherris.’

      Of course. Those running, green-coated infantry who had reinforced the Dutch skirmishers. Not Nassauers at all, but English riflemen. Raising his glass again, Ney tried to make them out, but the smoke was now too dense. He swung the telescope round to his left and instantly knew the report to be right. There in the middle distance, behind the thin hedge which flanked the road, was a line of red. Redcoats, their black shakos ranged in four ranks, under fluttering regimental colours – one dark blue, the other the cross of the British Union flag. Beyond them he saw others. Men in skirts. Highlanders.

      Now Ney began to sense the danger. Now at last he had to acknowledge that this was no Dutch provincial general facing him out there across this shallow valley. This was Wellington, the master of concealment. For all Bachelu’s fears, the cover of the crops did not concern him so much as what lay beyond. Who knew what troops the English commander had now behind the crossroads? This could be Bussaco again and, if he were to be honest, Ney knew that somewhere out of sight, probably on the slight reverse slope to his rear, Wellington was massing a considerable body of infantry.

      He turned to Reille, sitting silently on his horse, a few paces behind him. ‘The English, Reille. Wellington. You remember Bussaco? No, no. Of course. You weren’t there.’

      ‘Sire.’

      The general was quiet. But Ney remembered Bussaco. Foy too. Would never forget it. Five years ago. The early morning mist lifting over a wooded hillside. His own VI Corps advancing in two massive columns, into what he had assured them was a retreating enemy. Advancing under light cannon fire to the crest of the hill. And then the shock. The two English battalions that had appeared from nowhere, delivering volley after unforgiving volley into their ranks. Sending the survivors hurtling down the slope in panic. Coming after them with the bayonet. There had been riflemen there too. Short swords screwed to the barrels of their guns. By 8 a.m. it had all been over. After Bussaco nothing had been the same. Wellington.

      ‘You see, Reille.’ Ney was suddenly animated. ‘At this moment Wellington will be manoeuvring his men out of sight. Behind that slope. Well, we are wise to his game, Reille. And we still outnumber him.’

      Even as he spoke a great cheer went up from the centre of the line. Foy’s men had taken Gemioncourt.

      As they emerged into the open ground on the other side, however, Ney saw a mass of cavalry move across the field towards the right. Sky-blue hussar uniforms and what looked strangely like green-clad French chasseurs.