Quatre Bras, 2.30 p.m.
‘Looks like we’re in for quite a storm,’ Uxbridge commented as he looked up at the dark clouds edging overhead.
Arthur nodded absent-mindedly. His attention was fixed on ground to the south of the crossroads. He had been expecting the French to renew their attack all morning, and yet nothing had happened. The army had started to withdraw towards Mont-St-Jean long before midday and now only the rearguard remained. Uxbridge’s cavalry, together with Mercer’s horse artillery and the rocket batteries, were all that stood between the crossroads and the enemy. At last, a few minutes earlier, he had heard the sound of bugles coming from the direction of the French and the men of the rearguard waited in tense expectation for first sight of the enemy.
A sudden breeze had picked up, swirling through the heads of the remaining clumps of rye in the fields that had been trampled the day before. The wind was cool and refreshing after the close stillness of the morning and early afternoon. A shadow engulfed the rearguard’s position and swallowed them up in its gloom. Then Arthur felt the first drop of rain strike his cheek.
‘Now we’re for it,’ Uxbridge muttered. ‘Aprиs зa, le dйluge.’
‘Very funny,’ Arthur commented. ‘But I suspect we’re in for a storm of a different kind any minute.’ Half a mile to the south there was a rise in the land where the Prince of Orange’s brigade had been mauled. The ground there and beyond was still bathed in brilliant sunshine. As Arthur watched, a lone figure on a white horse galloped on to the rise and halted to survey the British position. The grey coat and bulky bicorne hat were unmistakable and he heard Uxbridge take a sharp breath beside him.
‘By God, that’s him!’ Uxbridge exclaimed. ‘That’s Boney.’
‘Indeed,’ Arthur replied, struck by the drama of the vision before him. The contrast in light made the French Emperor seem much closer than he really was. Arthur watched as Bonaparte scrutinised the rearguard and then looked, it seemed, directly at Arthur, though he knew he must be virtually indistinguishable from his men in the gloom. More horsemen appeared, in gold-embroidered uniforms, and halted just behind Bonaparte as they too surveyed the silent men defending the crossroads.
‘Your grace!’ a voice called out, and Arthur turned to see Captain Mercer waving a hand to attract his attention.
‘What is it?’
Mercer pointed towards the distant horsemen. ‘I believe they might be in range for case shot, your grace. May I have your permission to fire?’
‘Why not?’ said Uxbridge eagerly. ‘Strike him down and the war is as good as over.’
Arthur stared at his enemy. Uxbridge was right. But there was the danger that Bonaparte’s death might well turn him into a martyr and provoke his men into a furious desire for revenge. He shook his head.
‘Save your powder to cover the retreat.’
‘Sir?’
‘Do as I order, Captain!’
Mercer turned away from his commander with a shrug and stared towards the enemy. Arthur was aware of a dull rumble and then he saw the flicker of red and white pennants as a squadron of enemy lancers appeared a short distance to the Emperor’s right. More lancers appeared, and then cuirassiers, as the rise filled with horsemen. At that moment there was a dazzling burst of white, followed instantly by a metallic crash of thunder, and the horses started in panic. Raindrops, small and hard like fowlshot, lashed down from the sky. The darkness abruptly engulfed the French cavalry and swept on as the storm burst over the countryside.
Arthur cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘This will serve us well. Uxbridge, give the order to withdraw. Horse artillery first, then the rockets and then your cavalry.’
‘Yes, your grace.’
‘I’ll see you later,’ said Arthur. ‘Find me at Waterloo.’
Tugging on his reins, Arthur turned his horse and urged it into a canter as he rode up to the crossroads and joined the road leading to Brussels. The rain was already pooling on the surface of the road and glistening amid the grass on either side. If the downpour continued for any length of time it would turn the ground into a muddy morass, Arthur realised. So much the better, as it would surely hinder any pursuit that the enemy attempted. The flat thuds of Mercer’s battery caused him to turn back one last time and a moment later the first of the rockets hissed through the storm and burst over the enemy cavalry. Arthur watched a moment longer, and then spurred his horse down the road to re-join his army.
Chapter 59
Le Caillou, 9.00 p.m., 17 June 1815
The storm continued without let-up for the rest of the afternoon and on into the night, swiftly turning the surface of every road and track into thick mud that sucked at the boots, hooves and wheels of the Army of the North. Napoleon had continued his pursuit of the enemy at the head of Ney’s cavalry. The afternoon had been spent in a series of running skirmishes as the British mounted a staggered retreat to protect their guns, and slow down the French. As dusk fell, Napoleon had reached the farmhouse and called a brief halt while the long tail of his army struggled to catch up. When the first elements of the imperial headquarters arrived and started to prepare the Emperor’s quarters, Napoleon gathered some cavalry together and continued a short distance down the road. Ahead lay the dark mass of a low ridge. Napoleon squinted into the downpour and turned to the cavalry commander at his side.
‘Milhaud. It is imperative that we know if Wellington has halted for the night, or if he is using the cover of darkness to continue his retreat. Take your men forward and see what you can find.’
‘Yes, sire.’ General Milhaud saluted and then called out for his men to advance. Napoleon and his escort waited at the side of the road as the dark figures of the mounted column splashed by and disappeared into the night. There was no sound for nearly ten minutes, then all at once a bright flare of light appeared on the ridge, followed by the boom of a gun. More jets of flame stabbed out along a line bestriding the road and Napoleon nodded with grim satisfaction. Wellington was there all right. Close enough to be forced to stand his ground and fight in the morning. Napoleon turned his horse back and returned to the farmhouse. The headquarters servants were still preparing the accommodation, so he rested on some straw spread in a wide trough in one of the barns as he waited.
His fury at Ney had hardly abated. The opportunity to force a battle on Wellington at the crossroads had been lost, and now the arrival of the storm had hampered the army’s attempt to close up on their enemy. The men were exhausted, and strung out along the road towards Quatre Bras. It would be many hours before they caught up with the vanguard, ready to continue the pursuit once the storm had passed.
Napoleon knew that some measure of the blame attached to him as well. Too many hours had passed that morning before he had grasped the need to move on Wellington’s army. Exhaustion had played its part. He had not slept properly for many days and the normal heightened alertness of his mind was dulled. But there was something else, he mused. He had been so certain of his assumptions that Blьcher had deserted his allies, and that Ney would have taken Quatre Bras. That was an error of judgement. The breathless speed with which he had recovered power in France, together with the hysterical joy that had greeted his return, had made him feel invulnerable and infallible. Today had been a rude reminder of a commander’s need to constantly adapt to circumstances.
As soon as the farmhouse had been prepared for the Emperor and his staff, Napoleon summoned his senior officers. Over the next hour, the marshals and generals of division arrived, in drenched coats and splattered with mud. There was only one room in the farmhouse large enough to accommodate them all and most of the officers had to stand as they crowded about the Emperor, who was himself perched on a stool.