CHAPTER 7.
THE UNITED KINGDOM OF THE NEATHERLANDS.1815.
The Belgian Baroness held a fine party for her British allies on that warm, June night.
Hundreds of British Officers danced and drank with the most beautiful Ladies of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, confident of their impending victory over The French.
It was to be a second victory. Only a year earlier, the Napoleonic Wars had ended, and Napoleon had been exiled to the Isle of Elba. But he had returned, and taken back his throne, and led the French once more against the civilised world. And again he would be defeated; because The Duke of Wellington had taken up his command once again, and the Duke was certain that he had out manoeuvred his old enemy and would bring him to battle within the week.
Captain Harvey sipped wine from a crystal glass at a fine table, contented as he watched the younger Officers dance with their Ladies. And fine Ladies they were too; aristocrats from the southern lands which would one day be called Belgium with their big, dark eyes, and tall, blonde ladies from the north.
His friend Captain Lloyd strode over, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cigar in the other.
“What ho sir!” Lloyd exclaimed.
“Evening sir,” Harvey replied mildly.
“A fine evening indeed! I have been sent on a mission by… I forget her name- that Nordic Princess over there. She wishes to dance with you, and, indeed, to make an intimate acquaintance!”
Harvey did not even glance in the direction in which his friend pointed.
“My compliments to the lady, sir,” Harvey said. “Please inform her that I respectfully decline. As you well know, I was but recently married to the lovely Lady Molly.”
“Tosh, sir! You would struggle to find a fellow on that dance floor, or indeed in the bedrooms upstairs, or indeed out in the garden, who is not married to a lady quite different to the one whom he is currently with. Further more…”
A petit Countess with a fair, slender neck encircled by golden ringlets under a diamond tiara caught Lloyd eye before he could finish. He instantly put down his bottle, finished his cigar, and strode towards her.
At that moment, a young staff officer- stained with sweat and dust- burst into the hall. He cut across the dance floor, to the table where The Duke sat. There he stopped abruptly and whispered into The Duke’s ear.
Wellington stood abruptly, along with several of his Senior Officers, and followed the Staff Officer to a small, quiet room upstairs.
Quickly, and in no uncertain turns, the Staff Officer explained how The French had manoeuvred rapidly and secretly to attack The Prussian Allies at Thuin and Lobez that dawn. The British were cut off from their allies, and faced annihilation from a French force which greatly outnumbered them.
Wellington received this news gracefully, but his face darkened. Sitting with an old soldier’s perfect posture, he stared thoughtfully at his fellow Officers. King Arthur himself could not have showed such charisma as did those dark eyes, or as much responsibility as those deep brows.
“They have humbugged us,” Wellington said gravely.
Maps and charts were gathered, and a plan was rapidly formed. The French had to be brought to battle as soon as possible, before The Prussian could be wiped out or separated from The British by two great a distance. Wellington’s army would march for the town of Waterloo at dawn.
News quickly spread to the Officers, and to the army which camped nearby. Captain Harvey, along with most of the Officers returned immediately to their billets to prepare and snatch what little sleep they could. Others, like Captain Lloyd, choose to stay, and drink and dance until dawn.
“You are drunk, Captain Lloyd,” The Duke of Wellington said as he inspected the artillery division which Lloyd commanded the next day.
“Quite so, sir,” said Lloyd, who was not the only Officer on that field to be wearing a sword belt hastily strapped on over exquisite evening dress. “I made my choice between this and a hangover, and I stand by it. Sir.”
“Understood,” replied The Duke, who would not himself have wished to stand by thundering cannons all day with a hangover; then he rode on.
Captain Harvey stood at the head of his Company. His most trusted Officer, Lieutenant Marks, stood at his side. At either side of them stretched the long thin line of infantry men which he commanded. Like all of his men, he was exhausted from the rapid dawn march, on which they had been harassed by French scouts, but like the rest, he was pleased. They were at Waterloo- to fight the old enemy.
Many more Companies of infantry stretched across the field, like red, bayonet tipped walls. Behind them the cavalry and artillery waited. Ahead of them stood the vast horde of the French army.
“Ready Captain Harvey?” Wellington called as he rode over.
“Ready sir.”
Wellington nodded respectfully then looked at his pocket watch. The Prussian reinforcements were late, but the battle would have to begin without them. He rode on.
“Vive la Empereur! Vive la Empereur! Vive la Empereur!“ came the shout, interrupted only by harsh drum beats, as the French advanced in massive blue columns.
“Steady men! Steady!” Harvey called out, his pistol pointed at the advancing host and his sword held high.
The men waited, fingers tense on their triggers.
The French drew closer, advancing all along the line.
“Fire!” he commanded, slashing his sabre down and firing his own pistol.
The wave of lead hit the French.
“Second rank fire!” the sergeants yelled. “Third rank fire!... First rank fire! Second rank fire!...”
Every British infantryman had been trained to fire and reload his musket four times a minute. In long lines, three ranks deep, where two ranks crouched and reloaded as a third fired, they were able to keep up a steady volley of fire and death.
The cries of “Vive la Empereur!” were cut short. As was the drumming. The front ranks of the columns crumbled. The French fired a few wild shots and then turned to flee.
“Cease fire!” Lloyd yelled at the artillery men under his command.
His thirty guns, which had torn bloody swaths into the French columns, sat silent, with smoking, red hot barrels.
He stared across the battlefield with grim satisfaction. The battle went well, but there was much work left to do. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw what ever artilleryman feared the most. A band of cavalry who had outflanked the main army and were galloping towards him.
“Load grapeshot!” he commanded.
He took a swig from his hipflask- the last of his brandy- and rubbed the gun powder smoke from his face. His best evening suit was ruined, his long, powdered hair was black with soot, and his throat was parched. His men worked and would fire without any further commands. They worked for their lives, knowing how easily the French would ride them down if they came amongst them.
The French galloped closer, less than a hundred yards away. A hundred of them, all fine blue coats and shining steel. Some waving sabres, others had carbines ready to fire.
The first cannon fired. The grape shot- hundreds of musket balls stuffed down the barrel in a sack- turned the cannons into giant shotguns. Another cannon fired, then another, blasting the cavalry into bloody ruin.
By the time the cannons were silent only two of the French horsemen remained.
The first cavalry man cut down a gunner with his sword, before being dragged from his horse and stamped to death.
Lloyd casually shot the other with his flintlock pistol at a range of only five yards. But the horse- mad with fear- charged on, and the rider still held his sword and glared furiously at the face of death.
Lloyd dodged the horse and the sword, then leap up to grab the
rider. Englishman and Frenchman landed together in the mud with a bone rocking impact. Lloyd landed, sprawled, on top of his enemy, his weapons discarded in the struggle. The Frenchman clawed at him, with the determination of a man who knew he was going to die.
Ignoring his own pain, Lloyd bit deep into the man’s throat, quenching his thirst on his blood.
Harvey leaned heavily on his sword. It was mid afternoon. All day long the French had charged with infantry and cavalry, and all day long the British infantry had held their ground. His left hand was scorched from firing his flintlock pistol. His right arm was cut from the glancing blow of a bayonet. His skin was burnt by the fierce sun. His eyes and nose and mouth stung from the foul musket smoke which filled the air.
A quarter of his men were dead or wounded. Lieutenant Marks fought on despite wounds to his face and arms. Another Lieutenant had been slain.
For the first time in his life he was tired of war.
He wanted to be home, in his land, with his Molly.
But there was little time for reflection or weariness, because the French were charging again.
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