Four Days in June

‘On his way to Nivelles from Braine-le-Comte. Or so I’ve told the Peer. I had supposed that he might arrive here early in the afternoon. But I’m beginning to wonder whether perhaps I haven’t been a little hasty.’

Before leaving Brussels Wellington had asked De Lancey to draw up a detailed list of the exact dispositions of the army. This, after some deliberation, he had done, basing it on the orders he had sent out the previous evening. In his haste, though, and amid all the chaos of packing and getting dear Magdalene safely off to Antwerp, he was uncertain as to whether he had been thinking of the Duke’s first or second set of orders. It gave the impression of the army having advanced somewhat further east than in fact it had. He was far from happy with the document.

But he felt that he and the Peer had such a degree of understanding and such was the exigency of the hour that it would suffice. He had presented it to Wellington at 7.30, just as they were setting off, explaining its meaning as they moved out of the city. It was not, he had emphasized, quite as precise as he would have wished, but it did, he believed, convey the situation well enough. The Duke had been satisfied. But still De Lancey couldn’t help but feel that he might have committed a grave error. His troubled reverie was disturbed by voices. Somerset and Gordon had reined their horses round to greet the approaching figure of Wellington and some twenty of his staff. Spotting De Lancey, the Duke rode closer.

‘A good position, De Lancey. Is it not?’

‘Indeed it is, your Grace. Not ideal, perhaps, but I believe that we can make it do.’

‘My only concern is the speed with which the rest of the army will reach us. I have not been in such a very unpromising situation in the matter of reinforcements since, when would you say?’ He paused. ‘Well, I will tell you. Fuentes de Onoro. Portugal. Four years ago. You recall, William? We were a divided force then. Outnumbered and over-extended. But we beat them, gentlemen. And so here we are again. And we can do so again. Can we not, gentlemen? What have we exactly? Somerset?’

‘Our current strength comprises Prince Bernhard’s 2nd Brigade of Dutch and Belgians, your Grace. That is the 2nd Nassau infantry of some 2,800 men and the regiment of Orange-Nassau, numbering perhaps 1,500. They have been here since yesterday and early this morning were reinforced by the remaining units from Baron Perponcher’s division. That is Bylandt’s brigade of Dutch and Belgians, your Grace. Principally militia. In total I believe that we can currently field some 7,500 men. With eight cannon.’

‘And when might we expect to see the first of our own lads? What of Picton? De Lancey. Your report.’

‘As I said, your Grace, I believe that the reserve will be in Genappe by noon. They will be the first to reach the field. Perhaps by two o’clock, your Grace. The cavalry should not be far behind.’

‘Well, we shall see. In any event I must send a despatch across to Blücher. He must have my assurance. We cannot afford to have his generals persuade him to turn. Without him, gentlemen, we are lost. We must persuade Prince Blücher that we shall soon be in a position to come to his aid. And to judge from your note of this morning, De Lancey, I see no reason to suppose otherwise.’

De Lancey opened his mouth to suggest that the memorandum had not been entirely accurate, that perhaps the British and Allies might not be as close to them as the Peer imagined, but quickly decided that it would be better to say nothing. If the Prussians felt reassured, if they stood and fought, with or without Wellington, then they all had a chance. He nodded.

‘Quite so, your Grace.’

Wellington called for an aide and began to dictate: ‘To Field-Marshal Blücher, at Sombreffe:

‘My Dear Prince,

My army is situated as follows: Of the corps of the Prince of Orange, one division is here around Frasnes and Quatre-Bras. The remainder at Nivelles. My reserve is on the march from Waterloo to Genappe, where it will arrive at noon. The English cavalry will at the same hour be at Nivelles. Lord Hill’s corps is at Braine-le-Comte.

I cannot see any great force of the enemy in front of us and await news from your Highness and the arrival of troops before I decide on my operations for the day.

‘Conclude, “Your very obedient servant”. The usual form.’

He turned back to De Lancey. Smiled. ‘I think that will do it.’ Then to Somerset. ‘That farm, Somerset. The central position. Make sure that we hold it. Tell the Prince of Orange it is vital to the battle. Send down … a battalion of Nassauers. And Somerset, make sure that he covers the two farms further forward, to the left and right. And now to business. What new intelligence have we of the French? Scovell, come and tell me what you know while I tour the lines. Gentlemen, will you join us?’

Reining his horse down the slope behind the Duke’s party, towards the thin line of blue-clad Belgian infantry, De Lancey felt more keenly something which he had sensed immediately on first arriving at the crossroads. Now, he thought, I am at the centre of the world, the vortex into which events are being drawn. More than ever before, I am standing on the edge of the precipice. Nervously, he touched the reassuring coolness of the small, round stone in his pocket. All over Belgium, he thought, thousands of men are marching directly towards this curiously insignificant place, with its farms and its woods and its strangely shaped lake. Are marching towards the coming battle. Marching towards their fate. Towards death. Marching directly towards me.

SEVEN

Braine-le-Comte, 12 noon Macdonell

Macdonell was awakened by a respectful cough. He had been dreaming. Running through a stream of cool water in the shadow of friendly purple mountains, dappled with Highland sunshine. Opening his eyes he found instead only the florid face of Sergeant Miller.

‘Begging your pardon, sir.’

‘Sar’nt?’

‘Galloper, sir. From General Cooke, sir.’

Macdonell stood up, brushed his jacket, straightened his shako. Saw before him a boy of perhaps seventeen, in the ornate uniform of the Life Guards – Grecian helmet, high collar. The courier began to speak, stammering the orders out with a slight lisp.

‘The general’s compliments, Colonel, and would you move your men to the right and around the town and back on to the road. We proceed in the direction of Nivelles.’ And then, slightly embarrassed to be giving his superior officer an order: ‘With the greatest of haste, sir, if you please. You are the vanguard of the entire division.’

Macdonell nodded.

The aide coloured, nodded uncertainly in return, pulled round his horse and galloped away.

‘Sar’nt.’

‘Sir.’

Miller moved quickly. Some of the men had overheard the orders and, even before the sergeant had barked his commands, were already beginning to pack up. Swearing; fastening buttons and packs; scratching; stamping tired feet; shaking limbs. If the job was to be done they might as well get on with it. Quickly they transformed from a resting rabble into a smartly formed-up unit of recognizable platoons and companies.

It was midday. The sun was high in the sky. For three hours they had sat here. Such delays were nothing new to Macdonell. But surely, if George Bowles were to be believed, haste was of the essence. Someone – from his broad Devon accent and tuneful baritone, Macdonell guessed it to be Tarling, the company bard – began to sing:

‘Her golden hair in ringlets fell, her eyes like diamonds shining,

Her slender waist with marriage chaste, would leave a swan reclining.

Ye Gods above now hear my prayer, to me beauteous fair to bind me

and send me safely back again to the girl I left behind me.’

Biddle roared: ‘That man there. Who gave you permission to speak?’

‘I was singing, Colour Sergeant.’

‘I don’t care if you were playing the bloody piano, Tarling. No one ordered you to sing. Get fell in. I’ll tell you when you can sing.’

Still dusting themselves off, straightening their kit, the Guards gradually regained the Nivelles road and fell into step. It was drier now and, as they marched, clouds of yellow dust began to rise from beneath their feet. There was no more singing, just the tramp of leather and the repeated clank of wooden canteen against bayonet. The marching soon regained its regular motion. Seventy paces to the minute. Regular and steady, thought Macdonell. None better. He noticed now that there were fewer civilians on the road. Houses too were more obviously deserted. Signs that they were nearing the battle. Sometimes, from one of the few cottages still occupied, small children would venture out, sent to offer bread or fresh eggs to the sergeants. Macdonell, usually strict in such matters, turned a blind eye. It was freely given and he knew that Biddle and the other sergeants would ensure that all the men who deserved to would have a share.

It was early afternoon when at last they reached Nivelles. They came smartly to a halt. Macdonell could hear the guns now. How far away, he wondered. Five, ten miles? Ours or theirs? Corporal James Graham approached him, brushing dust from his tunic.

‘Sure, sir, that’ll be all for the day now from the good general. Do you not think?’

‘It is not my place, or yours, Corporal, to think about orders. But d’you hear that?’ He indicated the direction of the gunfire. ‘No. I am very much afraid that we have not seen the end of the road today. Look to your fellows if you would. Put them at ease.’

He was wise to rest them. It was a full ten minutes before he saw the young aide riding up. Redder in the face than ever, but more assured now.

‘Colonel Macdonell, sir. You are to advance into the town. If you please. Colonel Woodford’s orders, sir. And would you be so kind as to ascertain as to whether the town is held by the French, sir.’

Macdonell loosened his sword belt. Prepared to draw. ‘Have them untie ten rounds, Colour Sar’nt.’

Biddle turned to the company. ‘Ten rounds and look to your flints.’

Nervous hands fumbled with the strung-together cartridges, making ready for combat.

Macdonell began to act with automatic ease. This was his natural state. ‘Officers, to your companies. Bayonets if you please, Mr Gooch.’