Page 252 of The Armor of Light

The rain held off, for a change, though the ground was puddled and muddy. The sun was already hot: the day would be sultry.

Wellington was tense. The duke’s face did not reveal his heart, but those who knew him could read the signs. The invasion had caught him by surprise. Worse, he had made an error of judgement in letting Bonaparte get as far as Charleroi: he should have concentrated his troops sooner, he knew with hindsight. But Bonaparte had assembled his forces quickly and quietly, and managed to keep his invasion secret until it was well under way. Kit had twice heard Wellington say: ‘Bonaparte has humbugged me.’

Everyone knew that the main objective now was to join forces with the Prussians to form an army overwhelmingly larger than Bonaparte’s. And the crafty Bonaparte would do all he could to prevent that.

The headquarters party, all on horseback, overtook the regular troops heading south. Kit was thrilled to see Roger with his artillery, the heavy horse-drawn guns making steady progress on the cobblestones. For a minute Kit rode beside Roger, who looked well and energetic even though he must have started out in the early hours. ‘Take care of yourself,’ Kit said, and he had never uttered that trite phrase with so much emotion. Then he touched his horse with his heels and rode on.

A little farther on they passed the 107th Foot. Kenelm Mackintosh was leading some of the soldiers in a hymn called ‘Awake our drowsy souls’, a good choice for men who had got up in the middle of the night. The Baptists had all the best tunes, and Kit had a feeling that this was one of theirs, but Mackintosh was long past sectarian pettiness.

He scanned the faces as he rode past and soon picked out his mother and stepfather. Jarge had a standard soldier’s pack, called the Trotter Pack. Sal had a similar one that she must have scrounged from the supply wagon. Jarge was in uniform, a short red jacket and grey trousers; Sal in men’s clothing, trousers and a waistcoat. They marched cheerfully in the sunshine. Both were strong enough to walk all day without distress. As Kit watched, Sal took from inside her waistcoat a length of the spicy local sausage calledboudin, drew an unnecessarily long knife from a sheath at her belt, cut an inch of sausage, and gave it to Jarge, who put it in his mouth and chewed happily.

Kit was tempted to stop, but he had talked to his mother only a few hours ago, so he contented himself with attracting her attention and waving, then he rode on.

While he was still alongside the Kingsbridge contingent he saw Joe Hornbeam ride up, apparently having gone ahead and returned. Joe shouted to the marching men: ‘Up ahead there’s a clear stream just inside the woods on your left – stop and quickly fill your canteens with fresh water.’ He went up the line repeating the message.

He was hardly more than a boy, but he had become a good officer, Kit reflected, taking care of the men’s needs. He did not get that quality from his grandfather.

The road passed through a farmstead which someone said was Mont St-Jean, where there was a fork in the road. Wellington pulled up to speak to his staff. ‘I picked this spot a year ago,’ he said. ‘The left fork leads ultimately to Charleroi, the right to Nivelles; so here we can block two main approaches to Brussels.’

They were near the summit of a long ridge, looking across fields of wheat and rye, still green but summer-high. The coal road went down a gentle slope into a dip with two large farmhouses spaced a mile or two apart. It crossed an east–west track and rose again to the opposite ridge, where there was a tavern.

Wellington said: ‘If the worst comes to the worst, this is where we would make our last stand. If we fail here, we will have lost Brussels, and perhaps all of Europe.’

It was a sobering thought, and the group went quiet.

Someone said: ‘What was that last village we passed through?’

‘The place is called Waterloo,’ said the duke.

PART SIX

The Battle of Waterloo

16 to 18 June 1815

‘It was a damned close-run thing.’

FIELDMARSHALSIRARTHURWELLESLEY, DUKE OFWELLINGTON

41

WELLINGTON’S FACE WAS GRAVE, thoughtful. He did not speak much as they rode. He had suffered a setback, but he was not a man to brood over his mistakes. He surveyed the country constantly, and Kit knew from past experience that he was appraising every hill, field and wood for its military potential. The entourage respected his silence and took care not to disturb his thoughts. Kit had faith that Wellington would come up with the right solution to the problem.

At ten o’clock he drew the party to a halt at a crossroads. A small force of Dutch troops was there already, and to the right more were arriving from the west, bringing artillery. Kit guessed this must be Quatre Bras. There was a farmhouse on one corner and an inn diagonally opposite. The eastward road, also cobbled, presumably led into the territory occupied by Britain’s Prussian allies.

When the sound of horses’ hooves was quieted Kit could hear sporadic musket fire to the south, indicating that a French force of some description had come up from Charleroi on the coal road and had been halted, before reaching the crossroads, by the Dutch. The enemy was close. Looking that way, across a field of wheat, he could see puffs of smoke. It was probably a small advance party, but that might herald a larger force. However, the troops already here were relaxed, cooking dinner.

Wellington surveyed the view, and Kit did the same. He saw a mostly flat landscape with ripening crops. On his right the fields gave way to a dense wood of beech and oak trees; straight ahead theroad was straddled by a farmstead; and a mile or so away on the left was a village that someone said was called Piraumont. The group rode around the area, noting terrain features that would become important if the skirmish they were hearing should turn into a more serious battle.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the day became hot.

Finally Wellington drew the group together and made a simple announcement. ‘Before the end of today we must achieve two objectives: the first, to join forces with the Prussians; the second, to stop Bonaparte’s advance.’

He paused to let that sink in.

Then he said: ‘And we have two problems. First, where is Blücher?’ He was referring to Field Marshal Gerhard von Blücher, prince of Wahlstatt and commander-in-chief of the Prussian army in the Netherlands. ‘And second,’ Wellington continued, ‘where is Bonaparte?’

The Prussian liaison officer, Müffling, who was with the party, pointed east. ‘My latest information, your grace, places Field Marshal Blücher seven miles away at the village of Sombreffe, near Ligny.’