Four Days in June Read online

  It was midday. The sun was high in the sky. For three hours they had sat here. Such delays were nothing new to Macdonell. But surely, if George Bowles were to be believed, haste was of the essence. Someone – from his broad Devon accent and tuneful baritone, Macdonell guessed it to be Tarling, the company bard – began to sing:

  ‘Her golden hair in ringlets fell, her eyes like diamonds shining,

  Her slender waist with marriage chaste, would leave a swan reclining.

  Ye Gods above now hear my prayer, to me beauteous fair to bind me

  and send me safely back again to the girl I left behind me.’

  Biddle roared: ‘That man there. Who gave you permission to speak?’

  ‘I was singing, Colour Sergeant.’

  ‘I don’t care if you were playing the bloody piano, Tarling. No one ordered you to sing. Get fell in. I’ll tell you when you can sing.’

  Still dusting themselves off, straightening their kit, the Guards gradually regained the Nivelles road and fell into step. It was drier now and, as they marched, clouds of yellow dust began to rise from beneath their feet. There was no more singing, just the tramp of leather and the repeated clank of wooden canteen against bayonet. The marching soon regained its regular motion. Seventy paces to the minute. Regular and steady, thought Macdonell. None better. He noticed now that there were fewer civilians on the road. Houses too were more obviously deserted. Signs that they were nearing the battle. Sometimes, from one of the few cottages still occupied, small children would venture out, sent to offer bread or fresh eggs to the sergeants. Macdonell, usually strict in such matters, turned a blind eye. It was freely given and he knew that Biddle and the other sergeants would ensure that all the men who deserved to would have a share.

  It was early afternoon when at last they reached Nivelles. They came smartly to a halt. Macdonell could hear the guns now. How far away, he wondered. Five, ten miles? Ours or theirs? Corporal James Graham approached him, brushing dust from his tunic.

  ‘Sure, sir, that’ll be all for the day now from the good general. Do you not think?’

  ‘It is not my place, or yours, Corporal, to think about orders. But d’you hear that?’ He indicated the direction of the gunfire. ‘No. I am very much afraid that we have not seen the end of the road today. Look to your fellows if you would. Put them at ease.’

  He was wise to rest them. It was a full ten minutes before he saw the young aide riding up. Redder in the face than ever, but more assured now.

  ‘Colonel Macdonell, sir. You are to advance into the town. If you please. Colonel Woodford’s orders, sir. And would you be so kind as to ascertain as to whether the town is held by the French, sir.’

  Macdonell loosened his sword belt. Prepared to draw. ‘Have them untie ten rounds, Colour Sar’nt.’

  Biddle turned to the company. ‘Ten rounds and look to your flints.’

  Nervous hands fumbled with the strung-together cartridges, making ready for combat.

  Macdonell began to act with automatic ease. This was his natural state. ‘Officers, to your companies. Bayonets if you please, Mr Gooch.’

  He heard the familiar clank and scrape of barrels as 200 17-inch triangular blades were slotted into place. Macdonell drew his sword. Rested it flat against his right shoulder.

  ‘Follow me.’

  They advanced 200 yards. A too familiar eternity. Waiting for the flash of the first enemy musket from behind a wall or through a window. The flash. The scream. But none came. And then they were in the town. There was no firing. No French. Merely a mess of abandoned possessions and confused local civilians, none of whom seemed sure of what to do. In the gutter to his right, sitting up against a wall, Macdonell saw his first Allied casualty of the campaign, a captain of Belgian militia. His grey trousers were covered in blood. He had been shot through the calf and the tourniquet improvised from his orange sash seemed to have staunched the bleeding, which had already stained it a deeper red. As Macdonell looked at him he smiled and spoke softly. ‘Hurry on. It does not go well for us.’

  Macdonell said nothing. Hoping that the men had not heard the Belgian’s halting English and ignoring the alternately ecstatic and bewildered civilians, he led the two light companies along the street and within a few minutes had arrived at the end of the town. He gave the order to return bayonets to scabbards and sent a runner back to battalion headquarters to report that no contact had been made with the enemy. To his surprise, the man returned almost immediately with the order to stand down. As the light companies moved off the road and once again began to unshoulder packs and prepare their rations, Macdonell heard again, quite clearly, the sound of gunfire. Surely this was no time to make camp?

  He was on the point of riding to the adjutant to enquire of the decision when past him, at full pelt, coming from the direction of Quatre-Bras, rode two men on foam-flecked horses. One he recognized as George Scovell, of Wellington’s staff, the other as an officer of Scovell’s cavalry staff corps – Wellington’s messengers. A few minutes later they rode back and, to his surprise, straight up to him. Scovell addressed him:

  ‘Colonel, you are to proceed immediately in the direction of Les Quatre-Bras. Lord Wellington’s forces are engaged in battle and you must join them with all speed. On arriving on the field you will see that the French have the object of gaining a large wood to your right. This is the Bois de Bossu. Should they do so they will hold this road and with it our flank and the key to Brussels. You must at all costs prevent this being done. The light companies will be the first to arrive. Yourself and those of the First Guards. You must hold the wood until relieved by the remainder of the division. Is that clear?’

  ‘Quite clear, sir. You may depend upon it.’

  Without another word Scovell and his companion turned and were gone.

  Macdonell gave the order to march and once again, and with an audible collective groan, the campfires were extinguished, the half-cooked rations abandoned.

  Back on the road, leaving the town behind them, the division continued to advance in the direction of Quatre-Bras. It was mid-afternoon now and the shadows were growing longer. With every step the guns grew more clearly audible, bringing a new urgency. And with it, Macdonell knew that among the new recruits, at least, there would come an unwanted sense of unease. He turned to Gooch, who was riding immediately behind him.

  ‘Mr Gooch, send word to Colonel Woodford. Beg to suggest to him that it may quicken our pace were he to have the music strike up.’

  And so, to the strains of the march from Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro, only recently adopted as the new regimental quick march, the Coldstreamers again began to move. Now though, as Macdonell had anticipated, they had a fresh spring in their step. The open road ran on before them. Turning on a sudden whim he looked to his rear.

  Beyond his own two companies, beyond Dan Mackinnon’s tall grenadiers, came the entire division, a great, dust-shrouded, red, black and grey snake, stretching away into the distance, punctuated at regular intervals by stiffly saddled officers rising high above the ranks. Just visible near the front, behind No. 4 Company, waving in the breeze, he saw his battalion colours. Those three sacred, six-foot squares of crimson silk: the colonel’s colour with the Garter Star; the lieutenant-colonel’s, with the Union flag; and the major’s, with its blazing stream of woven gold. The honour, the spirit, the soul of the regiment. They had carried them to Egypt, to Talavera and Barrosa – through the battles whose names they now bore – and then on to Salamanca and Vitoria. Soon they would carry them to Quatre-Bras and deep into the darkness of Bossu wood. Then they would find the French.

  EIGHT

  Ligny, 3 p.m. Ziethen

  Even here, on the rising ground, high above the village of Ligny the atmosphere was oppressively humid. It was not so much the weather, although the sky looked set for a storm, but the intense heat and smoke and the cloying smell of gunpowder produced by the battle which had raged for almost an hour now on the plain below. It had started, as they alwa
ys started, thought Ziethen, with three shots fired by a single French battery, timed at regular intervals, and sounding, as von Reiche had once remarked to him, like the opening notes of an opera. He knew what would come next, and soon the valley had filled with the music of the French regimental bands. He recognized one old favourite: ‘La victoire en chantant’. Within a few minutes, however, the instruments had been drowned by the crack of musketry and the thunder of cannon fire.

  The opening moves had come shortly after 2 o’clock. Ziethen, along with Gneisenau and Blü cher, had watched with interest from their hilltop vantage point on the heights above Brye as French cavalry, Dragoons by the look of their crested yellow metal helmets, had galloped towards their left flank. It was evidently a feint, though, or a holding action, for no sooner had the Prussians begun to plan a response than two French infantry columns had emerged from the wood behind the village of Fleurus opposite them, where Napoleon had established his own command centre, and begun their steady march down the hill.

  The Prussians waited, behind the limited cover of their defensive position. On Blü cher’s orders, Ziethen had drawn up his I Corps, the front line of the Prussian army, in a long ‘S’ shape, ranged 10 kilometres in a string of hamlets which ran along the course of a stream, the Ligne. It was a good defensive feature; its pleasant banks – lined with willows, alders and brambles – were naturally marshy and would be impassable to infantry under fire. The French would be channelled on to the four bridges across the Ligne. Forced into bottlenecks, which, if the Prussians used their time carefully, raking them with cannon and musket fire, would soon become crammed with enemy dead and dying.

  On the right, in the houses of Wagnelée, La Haye and St Amand, Ziethen had placed Steinmetz’s dependable Brandenburgers and Westphalians and Jagow’s crack 29th Infantry. In the centre, around Ligny itself, the largest of the villages with two farms, a church and a walled cemetery, and in Potriaux and Tongrinnelle, stood Henckel’s 19th Regiment and the remainder of Jagow’s men. Here also was Krafft’s brigade, detached from II Corps. The left flank and the farming settlements of Boignée, Balatre and Bothey were held by Carl von Thielemann’s III Corps. The reserve cavalry, Uhlan and Landwher lancers mostly, Blü cher had positioned in a hollow behind Ligny. Pirch’s brigade stood just behind the commanders, on the heights of Brye.

  The second line of II Corps had arrived at midday and fallen into its pre-ordained supporting position on the forward slope of the high ground along the Nivelles road, centred on Sombreffe. In all Blücher’s men numbered around 84,000. Yet, as Ziethen was well aware, they were barely enough for such an extended front. This was nevertheless the plan which had been prepared and agreed upon by the General Staff a month ago. And as such it must be adhered to. Their precise positions, though, thought Ziethen, were not as had been prescribed – on a north – south axis. Napoleon’s direction of attack had forced them to wheel ninety degrees, with their forward positions now taking the form of a vulnerable salient. It was far from ideal.

  As much had been evident two hours ago to Wellington, who had ridden into the camp with a small escort of his staff, and gone largely unrecognized by the majority of the Prussian soldiers. The Duke had been greeted by Colonel Hardinge, an amiable officer of the English Guards, attached to Blü cher’s staff, whom Zeithen had come to know and admire over the past few days. Taken by Hardinge to Blücher, Wellington had climbed with him, and Gneisenau, Ziethen and von Reiche, to the top of the windmill that stood high above the village, affording a wide view of the plateau below. The Prussian commander was unsettled. Ziethen knew that he had a recurring problem with his back. He had been on horseback since dawn and would doubtless be in a bad mood. He was clearly beginning to feel his seventy years. And Ziethen had also noticed an alarming stiffness in his commander’s legs as they had climbed to the top of the mill earlier that morning.

  Back at their makeshift observatory, they had stood in silence as, revealing nothing, Wellington surveyed the positions. Ziethen had met the hero of Vitoria only once before, last year, in Vienna. He admired his composure. With such coolness he might almost have been a Prussian officer rather than an Englishman. It was this, perhaps, along with the value of his word and his effect on the morale of troops on a battlefield, which he knew Blücher most valued. Gneisenau of course was another matter. Had it been up to him, the Prussians would not now be acting in concord with the English, but would have waited for the promised Austrian army to arrive. But that, they all knew, would have been too late. And so, reluctantly, the Chief of Staff had bowed to the wishes of the Field Marshal. This morning he stood at a little distance from the rest of the party, absorbed, apparently in his own observations.

  At one point von Reiche had become excited, spotting on an opposite slope a group of French officers, with among their glittering finery a little man in a drab grey coat. He’d turned to Gneisenau: ‘Bonaparte, your Highness. It’s Bonaparte.’

  The Chief of Staff had put a field-glass to his eye. Even Blücher had looked. The Duke alone had continued his inspection in silence, before at length turning to Blü cher. Why, he asked, had he not made use of the reverse slope? Surely the Prussian reserves would take a pounding from the French guns? Ziethen had relished the Field Marshal’s reply: ‘My men like to see their enemy.’

  At length, as they were about to descend from the tower, Gneisenau, ever distrustful, had asked the Duke if he would send at least a division as quickly as possible along the Namur road, towards the Prussian lines. Again Wellington had remained silent. And then, pretending to ignore the request, had spent some time with Hardinge, poring over Blü cher’s maps. Nevertheless, before riding off, he had finally offered his assurances that he would come to their aid – providing of course that he was not attacked himself. A conditional promise. Better than none, thought Ziethen. Although within the hour he had cause to doubt his conclusion.

  The first great attack had come in three huge, extended columns, each with a cloud of skirmishers in front, which had smashed their way, without waiting for a covering cannonade, through the four-foot high corn towards St Amand and Jagow’s 29th Infantry. The Prussian artillery had done dreadful work among the French, scything into their ranks. And still they came on. Once at the village Jagow’s 2,000 men had poured volley after close-range volley into the front ranks. Yet still they came. It had taken no more than fifteen minutes for the French to drive the beleaguered 29th out of St Amand. This success seemed to be the signal for a wider attack, as the other villages came under a withering fire from, he estimated, at least 100 French cannon. In La Haye, Steinmetz had attempted a counter-attack and moved his brigade reserves against St Amand to bolster the decimated but unbroken 29th.

  Where, though, was Wellington? Perhaps, he thought, Gneisenau’s fears were not groundless. About one thing, however, the Duke had been right. The French artillery had been raking the reserve lines for almost an hour. Firing high over the heads of the front line, their ricocheting cannonballs had taken a terrible toll of II Corps. Surely the English would hear that? Surely they must march to the guns? Quietly, Ziethen cursed Gneisenau for his damnable ability to be right.

  A roundshot, whistling a little too close over his head, en route for the reserve, brought Ziethen back to the present. Peering ahead, into the valley, he could see, across the entire front, dense columns of French pressing home their attack. Reports were coming in from all sides.

  A messenger rode up. One of Jagow’s aides, sent from the bloodbath at Ligny.

  ‘Herr General, Major-General Jagow begs to inform you that he is facing renewed attacks. He estimates over 10,000 French infantry. He requests reinforcements, sir, but asks me to inform you that he will hold till the last man. He is even now exhorting his men to die for the Fatherland.’

  ‘Tell him I can promise nothing. I have no more troops in reserve and the whole of II Corps is under heavy fire and unable to manoeuvre. No. Wait. Tell the general. Tell him that something … someone … some men will be
with him soon. Tell him to hold on.’

  Another rider. This time from Steinmetz. He recognized him. Captain Werner. His face black with gunpowder. A sword cut across his chin.

  ‘Herr General. Major-General Steinmetz begs to inform you that he has taken more than 2,000 casualties and has been forced out of the village, sir. St Amand is lost. He requests further orders, sir. Shall we counter-attack?’

  Ziethen thought for a moment.

  ‘No, Werner. Tell the general to regroup. To form up before the village. To consolidate whatever remains of his brigade. Tell him that I’m coming. That I’m bringing reserves. Tell him to wait for my arrival. Understand?’

  With St Amand gone, their right flank and with it their link with Wellington would be seriously threatened. This had not been part of the master plan. Incredibly, although they must outnumber Napoleon by 10,000 men, they were losing the battle. Ziethen was haunted by memories of Jena. Disgrace. Humiliation. But this was a different army. It was also different, though, from that which had crushed Bonaparte at Leipzig. It was hard to believe how quickly last year the General Staff in their wisdom had disbanded that army. Hard too to credit the short time it had taken to assemble the one now suffering so badly. Young and green, it had been well drilled and disciplined to react like the modern army it must be. But it was still an army constituted for the most part from conscripts and militia. He only hoped that what it lacked in experience it could make up in determination. So far, at least, it seemed to be holding.

  Riding around the base of the windmill, Ziethen searched for Blü cher, but found only Gneisenau. Surly. Frowning. A cannonball had cut his horse from under him. He rounded on Ziethen.

  ‘Well, my dear count. What of this? You will no doubt recall that I advised you that we should not stand here. That we should retire on Liège. Tell me, General von Ziethen, where do you suppose, at this moment, is the Duke of Wellington?’