Allied Sunset and Empire’s Dawn, the French Ascendant at Waterloo
The sun was high, and the mud had firmed up where not soaked down by the blood of young men. Waterloo, Belgium is a crossroads farming village 17 miles South of Brussels. On June 18, 1815, the newly reformed L’Armée Du Nord under Napoleon Bonaparte met the army of Sir Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington for the most consequential conflict of modern Europe to date. The soldiers and citizens alike were of two minds. Wellington never doubted himself, nor his English troops of the line. His coalition also included the Dutch, Belgians, and Hanoverians. He knew not how dependable they would be.
By 2:30 pm the 5th and final assault on the French left wing was bogged down at Hougoumont, a fortified, walled farm in the middle of the open farmland. The right was held up by another similar farm Le Haye-Saint. Smaller, but still an obstruction to the general advance of the line.
Bonaparte scanned his stalled troops as reports returned to HQ. He was pleased with the initial success of the day but kept glancing over his right shoulder, to the East, looking for dust rising from the roads. “Where is Grouchy, he is late and I need him now.” He will come sire, said Marechal Soult, chief of staff. Napoleon grew impatient, but turned to his aide-de-camp, “Send word to Générale Ruty. I want his artillery to break them. Bonaparte defined conceit, he believed in his invincibility, and was confident of victory, although the entire continent raised arms against him. The previous three nights while his army had advanced and routed the Prussians at Quatre-Bras and sent alarms through Brussels, Amsterdam, London all the way to the dozens of royal houses of the German states, he pored over his maps, he measured, he deciphered, he interpreted, he knew the rise and folds of the ground, what was sown, what forests provided cover and what roads gave him ready access. He kept it neatly filed and folded within his complex encompassing mind before issuing orders during the rainy dark morning hours of June 18. He knew where to put the guns. He knew where Wellington’s would position his units. “Sir, have you any more specific orders?” the aide said while writing his memo. He simply said, “Break them.”
The cannonade during the afternoon of June 18 was devastating. The English, Dutch, German and a few remaining Belgians, those afraid to fight but more afraid to run, lay behind a slight rise, a modest ridge across the farmland, Mont St. Jean. It was not a hill but a gentle arcing ridge. 88 guns tore into the English center for one hour, round-shot and explosive shells. The round shot bowled them over like ten-pins, bounced along their backs like skipping stones, as blood and viscera erupted in plumes. Concussion shell fuses were cut to burst just above the heads of the prone soldiers. English officers stood, within this storm, at the head of their units and discussed fox hunting, their future wives, children and dreams. When the occasional break from the smoke cleared, you could see them chatting coolly as if at a garden party. Inside, they felt terror, taking every ounce of willpower not to cower and dig holes with their faces. Gentlemen simply did not do that. English officers set examples for their men. They were cut down like chaff. Those fiancées, mothers and school companions received letters of posthumous commendation for their bravery.
“Call Ney, we are ready for him….as planned,” said the emperor. “And Infantry sir, Drouot and Duhesme?” said Soult. “Oui, c’est le moment,” it is the time, replied the diminutive commander. The afternoon grew late. Marechal Grouchy, commander of the Right wing with his four corps of 30,000 men had not arrived. The Prussians scouts appeared on his right, but were kept in check. He was furious at Grouchy as he was late, but Bonaparte had decided, clearly. He would beat the English without him.
Marshal Ney, Napoleon’s brash, fearless, red-headed field commander readied his cavalry. Lancers, Carabiniers, Hussars and the Dragoons, still wearing bronze breastplates, and helmets with horse tail plumes, vestiges of a by-gone era, when a gentleman faced his enemy face-to-face with a sword. Napoleon whispered something to his aide-de-camp, and he scurried away. Soult, replied, “Is there more I should know sire.” “You know enough Soult. Face the enemy in your front, burn those goddamned farms! It is enough, burn them, and be done with it.” Soult had been reprimanded in front of the staff. Even though he was not a field officer, he knew it was his responsibility to carry out the will of the Emperor. The farms still resisted, after five infantry assaults. The cavalry marched out in formation, 8,000 strong, an awesome force, their chief advantage being to quickly move from one place on the field to another. Cavalry coordinated with the infantry for feints, spoiling attacks, pursuit, and sheer intimidation, yet rarely a direct assault upon enemy fronts. Infantry lines of battle delivered inhibiting sheets of lead and death to horses and riders. Cavalry had not the firepower to resist it. However, they mustered by company, then battalion, brigade and division. They mustered for 45 minutes in the center of the French line. Artillery and Tirailleurs, skirmishers kept up pressure on the English front. At 4 pm Ney’s cavalry advanced at a walk.
Wellington’s lines had weakened and his men’s morale nearly drained. They had repulsed attacks on the farms, and contained a general assault on the center. The cannonade had inflicted deep fissures in his ranks, but the psychic scarring was far worse. The men died and were maimed as they lie prone, while a feeling of helplessness overcame them. Yet, hope flashed before them.
“By God, they are sending the horse, are they mad?” Wellington’s Chief of Staff, De Lancey peered through his brass scope. He looked again, standing in his stirrups, “There is no infantry in support!” Ney’s men advanced still at a walk. “Send word down the line, form square.” This maneuver dated back to the Greek hoplite phalanx where men drew a wall of shield and spears bristling outward in all directions. And with the soldiers under Wellesley, it was 16 inch bayonets which no horse would charge directly. The officers remaining after the artillery barrage, the ones not cracked and broken, licked their chops, reveling in the folly of the cavalry attack, as imposing and grand as it was, the largest in modern memory, the lancers, cuirassiers, carabiniers and, heavy dragoons spread across a half mile front, creating a rumbling of the earth as distant clouds formed and grumbled over Charleroi. The English, Dutch and German allies formed squares by battalion, 6 men deep, roughly 40 men abreast, with officers, horse and artillery in the middle. They formed themselves in checkerboard pattern.
The units in fact were hidden beyond the lip of St. Jean ridge. The approaching troopers could not see them well, save some of their standards and officers on the ridge. Green jacketed English riflemen, the 2nd and 3rd Battalion, 95th Foot Regiment, the “grasshoppers,” were deployed as pickets. Anyone below division level command in the French cavalry in fact thought the enemy was retreating, that they were being sent in to mop up. Wellington was counting on this, as there was no French infantry in support. If the “little corporal” followed through with this madness, the day will have been won. His bravado welled up inside of him as he declared to his staff, “This is the moment gentlemen, and will perhaps be remembered as our finest.”
Bonaparte smiled slightly, a brief, cursory curl of the lips, instantaneous and brief. The day had gone modestly well, yet it was not decisive. At midday about 1:45 pm he had made other plans, known only to himself, Chief of Staff Soult and Marshal Ney, his ranking field commander, an impetuous fighter, the only officer out of thousands to successfully bring an organized French unit out of Russia in the winter of 1812, when 250,000 men were lost.
Orders had been sent an hour previous. “Soult, are Duhesme, and Drouot ready?” “They are sire, in line, ready to advance,” replied Soult. “Send them, now!” not shouting but with force and incisive surety. Soult raised his hand to an aid, the aid waved a signal flag, in semaphore the massage relayed across the field to the allied front. The Imperial Guard advanced in line of battle. La Jeune Guarde and La Vieille Guarde, the Young and the Old Guard, Bonaparte’s personal elite troops, most of which had been with him since the beginning of his ascendance, having fought in Italy, Egypt, Austria, Prussia, and Spain, were now to strike the hammer blow to retake the continent. There were half-a-million allied troops in Western Europe intent on stopping him, but this moment would change all of that. If Wellington pulled out, the alliance would break. Bonaparte and 45,000 Frenchmen he had on the field that day, would change history.
The troopers advanced at a trot. The ground vibrated with their advance. The Guard advanced, veiled by the horsemen, their dust was the horsemen’s dust, the inhaled it between their teeth and smiled. They advanced at the double-quick a trot of their own. Tirailleurs and Voltigeurs of the Young Guard, sharp-shooters and skirmishers shot ahead on the flanks, and dueled with the grasshoppers. Their muskets inferior, but they were no ordinary soldiers.
The cavalry advanced at a canter. The non-coms in the Old Guard screamed at their men as they advanced at the double quick, Chiens sales! C’est vos plaisirs de rencontrer la morte, en service à l’Empereur. ALLEZ, ALLEZ! The Old guard, having never been defeated on the field were practically running. It was about a mile from the French lines to the ridge of Mont St. Jean. This was their last fight. Courir, fils de putes, vous êtes déjà mortes!!! The guard bolted to the ridge, desperately trying to keep pace with the cavalry. On to St. Jean the French cavalry reached a full gallop. The clouds of dust and smoke from the guns formed a literal fog of war. Nothing could be seen by either headquarters. Bonaparte stood outside of his forward post, listening to the artillery, which had switched to round shot, to be lobbed into the squares, the thunder of his horses, led by the Carabiniers, men with short rifles, followed by the Cuirassiers, men with pistols, followed by the Dragoons, the heavy armored cavalry, with heavy saber made for breaking lines, and lastly the Hussars and Lancers, lightly armed but the quickest.
Wellington ordered his men along the line to hold fire until the horses were in their faces. The horses foamed and screamed, the riders spurred them savagely, then at 75 yards pulled up and began to arc obliquely. Slowed to a canter, they began to spilt in the center and, and cut to the right and left, forming a Y formation. By the time they were drawn abreast of the English lines they were 25 yards away and running in line parallel to the English and they gave them one volley of their firearms and again spurred their horses to the right, before and beyond La Haye-Saint on the right, and before and beyond Hougoumont on the left. Both farms were burning as the Grande Batterie had switched to incendiary shells. There were openings within the English front as the Allied line had formed squares, and presented spaces for the troopers to maneuver. The Carabiniers came in even closer, let loose their volleys and scattered, yet still orderly. British infantry enfiladed them, and they took losses but hurried on to the left and right of the English center. Acrid smoke fumed from the ridge. The dragoons, the heavy horse clad in Bronze, thundered over the ridge, heavy sabers drawn, shooting pistols, carnies and shotguns, they in turn gave and absorbed their volley. Brazen and reckless, some passed within 5 meters of the English squares. Others were shot down and their horses crashed into the massed troops, for a moment breaking their secure formation. Fresh horses could opportunely vault the breach and create havoc from within. But it was not the plan.
The English thought the horses had shied from the wall of bayonets and felt secure. They took their losses but gave as good as they got. Next came the Hussars and lancers, lighter, fleeter horsemen, they dashed and danced between the squares in company strength, hurling lances, insults and pistol shot, they lingered, fearless, terrified and raging, all eyes in the squares on them, screaming horses, the leering Frenchmen and the screaming of the wounded drowned out all sensation.
“FORM LINE, FORM LINE!” The command made its way down the English line. Wellesley turned to his Chief De Lancey and cried, “What the bloody hell do they think they are doing?” The last of the lancers and hussars had darted away into the safety of copses and hollows scattered throughout the landscape. And then they saw them, the Eagles of the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Guard Battalions advancing in line, at the double quick, their bearskin shakos perched high on their heads, their woolen clothes soaked through with sweat and the last energy in their souls given to fulfilling their duty on that line. Drive and destroy the English and allies before them, and after if their Emperor willed it, they may lay down and die. At this moment, they were 50 yards from the english, within range, they halted. TIREZ, TIREZ, TIREZ, TIREZ!!!! Their officers wailed at their men at they belched lead into the British squares, dense, packed, crowded pens of livestock they seemed. Redcoats and their allies fell by the hundreds, the Young Guard’s tirailleurs moved aside, allowing the heavy infantry to advance. The Old guard slowed to a march, reloading as they moved, the allied squares frantically tried to deploy into line. “Deploy, deploy, line of battle,” officers and non-coms shouted, again and again, as if to will it into existence, a second volley tore into the English line. Hundreds fell in seconds. The Redcoats were among the most fearsome infantry in the world, dedicated, awesome and fearless in the face of death. Yet Wellington had no more than three fresh English battalions in his immediate center. His allies held not the discipline and fear of its own officers which the English had. They managed to deploy and discharge once into the oncoming guard. The front ranks of the guard fell in scores and laughed. Baisez tes mères! Nous allons vous manger pour le dîner! They reloaded and at 25 yards shattered the allied lines. The English line broke. Baïonettes, Charge! And the guard advanced at a run. The Cavalry had not withdrawn, they found shelter under the cover of the artillery. They drew their heavy sabers, and rapiers. They charged the routed allies. The guard reloaded as they advanced reagaining order, and shot into the backs of running soldiers. Dutchmen threw down their weapons and lie prone. The Germans fought until they ran out of ammunition or were over run. The English reserve retired, taking up positions around the Brussels road.
Bonaparte had received dispatches from his hussar couriers, the Ney and Drouot had broken the line. “Avance, tout au long de la ligne.” Advance, all along the line. Every reserve unit in order of battle advanced to take the field. Hougoumont surrendered, La Haye-Saint surrendered, Wellington, shook his head in disbelief. “Not today old boy, not today, to Antwerp.” He rode off with his retinue of staff officers and found his travel carriage waiting.
The great and lesser houses of Épernay, Champagne sent wagons to Brussels to congratulate the Emperor on his great victory. Each of the four largest houses Gosset, Heidsieck & Co Monopole, Moët & Chandon, Perrier-Jouët, 500 cases each of cellar reserve. The British expeditionary force left the continent, embarked from Antwerp on June 22. Without them, the alliance against Bonaparte died. The Belgians, citizens of Holland, celebrated and welcomed the French, at least half of the nation being culturally and ethnically connected. The banking houses of Holland gave allegiance to the French and committed to building them a Navy. The Austrians agreed to never cross the farthest Eastern frontier of Switzerland, nor Prussia and the German States. Without the West’s support, the Russians withdrew beyond the Nieman river, their traditional frontier between Poland and Austria. Once again, the small Corsican General was in command of a nation, while half the continent took a knee. Napoleon Bonaparte was quietly contemplative of his worst failures, the winter in Russia, the Spanish war and abdication. Now, he would turn his attention to statecraft. He considered himself fortunate, and felt his destiny fulfilled.