Page 249 of The Armor of Light

‘Very likely,’ said Wellington. ‘He might hope to encircle us and cut us off from the coast, so that we could not receive supplies. But we can’t be sure until we know more. Meanwhile, we must exude an air of unruffled calm. We have a superior force, we have the power to choose the moment of battle, we have little to fear.’ He smiled. ‘And to prove it, tomorrow I shall attend the duchess of Richmond’s ball.’

40

THE RUEROYALEwas a street of magnificent mansions bordering the park. Wellington’s house there was his headquarters as well as his home. On the day of the ball, Thursday 15 June, his senior staff assembled for dinner at three o’clock in the afternoon. It was not a social occasion: his wife was in England and there were no women around the table. The food was not fancy. Wellington liked beef and very good wine, and not much else.

Henry, earl of Shiring, was at the dinner. Kit waited in the large hall with the other aides-de-camp. The earl was worried. There were persistent rumours that the French were on the point of invading. However, Wellington had trusted spies in Paris and they had seen no sign of imminent action. He suspected that Bonaparte started such rumours to deceive him.

One of the rumours said that Bonaparte would send a small diversionary force to attack the Prussians south-east of Brussels, tempting Wellington to deploy the Anglo-Dutch armies there; then the main attack would come in the west, cutting Wellington’s lines of communication with the coast. To Kit that sounded like a typical Bonaparte deception. Wellington was not so sure.

Minutes after the senior staff had sat down, William, Prince of Orange, arrived. He was commander of Wellington’s First Corps, which included the Dutch troops. A slight figure, he was nicknamed Slender Billy. The dining-room door was left open so that the aides could hear what he reported.

The prince announced that outlying Prussian troops had skirmished with a French force that had crossed the border due south of Brussels.

This had been anticipated by a rumour that Wellington had mistrusted.

The duke was momentarily taken aback. His spies had given no warning of this. ‘It may have been a minor attack,’ Wellington said. ‘A scouting party, perhaps.’

‘But it may not!’ said the prince.

Feint or attack? There was no way to know for certain. The commander-in-chief had to choose. All he had was his instinct.

Wellington said: ‘We must get more information.’

The prince’s tone of voice showed that he was deflated. Clearly he felt Wellington should send troops south to support the Prussians. Kit did not know what to think. Bonaparte was famous for moving fast; any delay in responding could be fatal. But if Wellington moved troops based on scant information, he could be wrong-footed.

Move or wait?

The dinner resumed, though not for long. The next breathless arrival was the son of the duke and duchess of Richmond. He had galloped twenty-two miles – changing horses several times – with the news that French soldiers had captured the tiny medieval city of Thuin, just inside the border, driving Prussian troops into retreat.

How serious was this? The young nobleman, his clothes covered with mud from his pell-mell journey, did not have an estimate of the strength of the attacking force. That was unfortunate. Wellington now badly needed to know how many French troops had crossed the border. His judgement was on the line.

Heads or tails?

Minutes later the Prussian liaison officer, Major-General vonMüffling, arrived to say that the French had now advanced ten miles farther northward and were attacking the larger town of Charleroi.

Wellington still thought it unlikely that the entire French army was involved in this infiltration. It was more probable, he judged, that this was the rumoured feint, to draw defensive forces away from the real invasion somewhere else. Others around the table thought differently.

However, as a precaution Wellington summoned the quarter-master-general, Colonel Sir William De Lancey, and ordered all allied forces to be ready to march. He also briefed De Lancey on what marching orders to issue.

Kit was worried. From the start he had agreed with Wellington that the appearance of French Lancers near Mons, south-west of Brussels, indicated a main attack farther west – but contrary evidence was mounting. Nevertheless, Wellington was holding to his original judgement and interpreting new reports as further signs of a feint.

What if Wellington was wrong? Right now the allied forces were spread over hundreds of miles of countryside – they had to be, to find enough food for the men and forage for the horses. Before they could fight they had to be rounded up and marched to the war zone, which took time; whereas Bonaparte’s army might already be assembled for the fight.

And daylight was running out.

Kit feared that a giant menace was looming and Wellington was refusing to see it.

When the much-interrupted dinner was at last over, Wellington walked in the park, as was his custom. This was not as insouciant as it seemed: his subordinates knew to find him there at that hour, and as he walked he gave out a stream of orders.

Then he returned to his house. Carriages were waiting to take everyone to the ball, but Wellington and his staff lingered. At dusk von Müffling reappeared with a further report from the Prussianarmy, and this was deeply shocking. The French had taken the fortress of Charleroi, only forty miles from Brussels, and the Prussians had been forced to retreat.

Worse, it was confirmed that the Imperial Guard was part of the attacking French force. This was an elite corps that always travelled with Bonaparte.

Kit felt the chill of fear. Wellington had guessed wrong. This was no feint. While the allies had been getting ready to invade France, Bonaparte had turned the tables on them and invaded the Netherlands. The invaders had been invaded.

Wellington’s face turned slightly pale.

Kit recalled Wellington’s own words: ‘Bonaparte is an opportunist. The only thing you can predict is that he is unpredictable.’