Page 258 of The Armor of Light

They went to the farmhouse that Wellington had made his headquarters. The farmer and his family were probably sleeping in the cowshed: armies in wartime took what they needed and paid little heed to civilian protests.

Wellington stood at the head of the long kitchen table. His senior officers sat around the table and the aides stood against the walls. Wellington nodded to Henry and said: ‘Morning, Shiring. I think that completes the roster. Let’s have the latest news.’

Henry bowed and took a seat. Kit remained standing.

The head of intelligence stood up. ‘I sent our French-speaking spies, men and women, into Bonaparte’s camp yesterday evening, selling the usual stuff that soldiers want: tobacco, gin, pencils, soap. They had a difficult task, in this teeming rain, with the French spread over several square miles. But based on our previous knowledge plus their reports I estimate that Bonaparte has about 72,000 men.’

‘Almost the same as us,’ said Wellington. ‘We estimate our own strength as about 68,000. What about French morale?’

‘They’re cold and wet, as we are, and they’ve been marching all day, just like us. But our spies note a difference. They’re nearly all French, and they want to fight. They worship Bonaparte like a god.’

Kit knew what was being left unsaid. Most of the French – officers and men – were of low-class origin, and owed their rise to the revolution and Bonaparte. In Wellington’s army the officers mainly came from the aristocracy and the gentry, and the other ranks were all from the lower levels of society. Furthermore, two out of three allied soldiers were Dutch or Hanoverian; only a third were actually British. And many of those British served unwillingly, having beensentenced by justices to join the army, or tricked by recruiting sergeants. The most loyal of Wellington’s soldiers belonged to the King’s German Legion.

‘As for artillery,’ said the intelligence officer, ‘Bonaparte seems to have about two hundred and fifty big guns.’

‘And that’s a hundred more than we have,’ said Wellington.

Kit was dismayed. It looked as if the allies were at a disadvantage. Bonaparte had manoeuvred brilliantly and had outsmarted Wellington. And so I might die, Kit thought.

There was silence for a few moments. The commander-in-chief had all the available information. Now he alone could decide what to do.

At last Wellington spoke. ‘An even contest means losing lives to no purpose,’ he said. ‘And we are somewhat less than even.’ Kit was not surprised. Wellington aimed to join battle only when he had the advantage. ‘At these numbers I will not fight,’ he said decisively, and he paused to let that sink in.

‘Two possibilities,’ he went on. ‘One: the Prussians join forces with us. With something like 75,000 men they would tip the balance. If they can get here, we will fight.’

No one dared to comment, but there were nods of agreement around the table.

‘If they cannot, we will retreat again, through the forest of Soignes. There is a road the Prussians could take from Wavre through the forest to meet the main road just south of Ixelles. That will be our last stand.’

This time no one nodded.

Kit knew that this was a plan of desperation. The road the Prussians would have to use was a woodland trail: it was impossible to move thousands of men quickly through such terrain. In any event, with only a few hours left until dawn, time was now running out for a retreat.

Wellington echoed his thoughts. ‘My strong preference is for Plan A,’ he said. ‘Fortunately, Field Marshal Blücher has reappeared. It seems he was wounded and unconscious for a time, but he is now back in command at Wavre, his army camped east of the town. Late yesterday I got a message saying that he will join us this morning.’

Kit was deeply relieved. There would be no battle today unless the British side was likely to win.

‘However, the situation can change fast in war, and I must have confirmation that Blücher’s intentions this morning are the same as they were last night. And if they are, I need to know what time of day he will get here.’ Wellington looked at the earl. ‘Shiring, I want you to ride to Wavre and put a letter into Blücher’s hands. Take young Clitheroe with you – he speaks a little German.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Henry.

Kit was thrilled to be chosen for such an important mission, even though it meant riding twelve miles in darkness and pouring rain.

Wellington said: ‘Get your horses ready while I’m writing.’

Kit and the earl left the room and found their way to the stables. The earl woke a couple of grooms. Kit watched the bleary-eyed men carefully as they saddled two horses: he did not want to have to stop and readjust the straps on the road.

The grooms fixed a storm lantern to each saddle in front of the rider’s thigh. It would light the road for only a few yards ahead, but it was better than nothing.

When the horses were ready the two men returned to the farmhouse kitchen. Wellington and a small group of generals were poring over a hand-drawn map of the battlefield, trying to guess what Bonaparte would do. Wellington looked up and said: ‘Shiring, be so kind as to return with Blücher’s answer post-haste. Clitheroe, assuming the answer is yes, I want you to stay with the Prussians a bit longer. As soon as they’re well on the way, ride ahead of them and bring me an update on their estimated time of arrival.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Lose no time. Depart instantly.’

They returned to the stables and mounted up.

They walked their horses on the mud track alongside the cobbled road, down the slope to the crossroads near La Haye Sainte. There they turned left and took the unpaved road towards Wavre.