Бернард Корнуэлл - Sharpe's Waterloo

Seven battalions of the Guard marched past the Emperor. With them went the light and powerful horse-drawn eight-pounder cannon that would give the Guard close support when they reached the ridge.

The Guard’s drummers drove the column on. Above them, bright in the valley’s gloom, the spread wings and hooked claws of the Eagles glistened. The Guard carried their colours attached to the Eagles and the stiff silk flags made bright spots of colour against the black bearskins. The Guard were equipped with the finest muskets from the French armouries, their cartridges were packed with the best powder of the Paris mills, and their bayonets and short sabres were sharpened like razors. These were the unbeaten heroes of France marching to victory.

Yet the Guard had never fought Wellington’s infantry.

They cheered as they passed their Emperor. He nodded pleased recognition at men deep in the marching ranks, and raised a hand in benediction to them all. Not an hour before this moment two battalions of the Guard had driven a whole Corps of Prussians out of Plancenoit, now seven full battalions would march against an enemy abraded to breaking point. The last of the Empire’s cavalry rode on the Guard’s flanks and, as the huge column headed deep into the smoke and heat on the valley’s floor, the skirmishers flocked towards it and formed ranks to follow the Guard. Fifteen thousand infantry would make this last triumphant attack.

And it would be a triumph, for the Guard had never failed. But the Guard had never fought the redcoats either.

The Guard left the highway and slanted to their left after they had passed the Emperor. They would cross the fields and climb the slope midway on the British right, following the path made by the cavalry. The drums beat them on. They were led by Marshal Ney, bravest of the brave, who had already had four horses shot from beneath him this day, but who now, on his fifth horse, drew his sword and took his place at the column’s head.

The Guard marched across the field of dead, beneath the gun smoke, to seek the scarred and blackened ridge where the scum of Britain waited. The battle had come to its moment of truth, and the Emperor, his Guard gone to war, turned slowly back to wait for victory.

The Duke galloped along the right of his line. He could see French cavalry at the foot of the slope, but he dared not form his infantry into square for he had seen the approaching Guard and knew he must meet it in line. “Form into four ranks!” he shouted at the remains of Halkett’s brigade. “Then lie down again! Four ranks! Lie down!”

The French cannon-fire was fitful now. The redcoats lay down, not to escape the sporadic cannonade, but so they would stay hidden till the very last moment of the Guard’s attack. Only the British officers could see over the ridge’s crest to where the French infantry was a dark shadow slashed by the slanting brightness of their bayonets. The column crept across the valley floor, seemingly propelled by the massive array of drums that beat the pas de charge and only paused to let the Guard give the great shout of the Empire at war: „Vive I’Empereur!“

Colonel Joseph Ford gazed with despair at the great assault. Next to him, and still mounted on Sharpe’s horse, Peter d’Alem-bord gripped the saddle’s pommel. The right side of his saddle-cloth was soaked with blood that had seeped from his bandaged wound. The leg throbbed hugely. He felt weak, so that the shadow of the advancing Guard under the smoke’s shadow seemed to swim before his eyes. He wanted to call out for help for he knew he was losing strength and he suspected the surgeon had cut a blood vessel, but he would not give in; not now, not at this desperate moment when the enemy infantry was at last making its final assault.

“Sir! Colonel Ford, sir!” A staff officer from brigade, mounted on a limping horse, came to the rear of the battalion. “Colonel Ford, sir?”

Ford turned dully to face the officer, but said nothing.

“What is it?” d’Alembord managed to ask.

“Colours to the rear,” the staff officer said.

For a few seconds d’Alembord forgot his wound and his nausea and his weakness. He forgot his fears because he had never heard of such an order, not once in all his years of fighting. “Colours to the rear?” he finally managed to ask in a shocked voice.

“General’s orders, sir. We’re not to give the Crapauds the satisfaction of capturing them. I’m sorry, sir, I really am, but it’s orders.” He gestured to the rear area where the colours of other battalions were already being carried away. “Colour parties are to assemble behind our light cavalry, sir. Quickly, please, sir.”

D’Alembord looked to where two sergeants held the battalion’s silk colours that had been riddled with musket-fire, blackened by smoke, and stained with blood. Seven men had died-this day while holding the colours, but now the bright flags were to be rolled up, slid into their leather tubes, and hidden. D’Alembord thought there was something shameful in the gesture, but he supposed it was preferable to letting the French capture the colours of a whole army, and so he gestured the Sergeants to the rear. “You heard the order. Take them away.”

D’Alembord’s voice was resigned. Till this moment he had-harboured a shred of optimism, but the order to take the colours to safety proved that the battle was lost. The French had won, and so the colours would begin the British retreat. The Emperor might have his victory, but he would not be given the satisfaction of piling the captured colours amidst the jubilant crowds of Paris. The great squares of heavy fringed silk were carried away, going back to where the last British cavalry waited to gallop them to safety. D’Alembord watched the flags disappear into the smoke and felt bereft.

Sharpe also saw the flags being carried to the rear. He had come back to the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, but, not wanting to interfere with either Ford or d’Alembord’s command, he deliberately posted himself fifty paces from the battalion’s left flank. He loaded his rifle.

Harper, his rifle already reloaded, watched the Imperial Guard and crossed himself.

Lieutenant Doggett saw the two Riflemen return and rode his horse to join them. Sharpe looked up at him and shrugged. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

“You’re sorry, sir?”

“The Prince wouldn’t listen to reason.”

“Oh.” Doggett, seeing the ruin of his career, could say nothing more.

“I hit the bugger in the shoulder, you see,” Sharpe explained, “instead of in the belly. It was just plain bad marksmanship. I’m sorry.”

Doggett stared at Sharpe. “You…“ He could not finish.

“But I wouldn’t worry,” Sharpe said, “the bugger’s got enough to worry about without pissing all over your commission. And if you fight with us now, Lieutenant, I’ll make sure your Colonel gets a glowing report. And I don’t want to sound cocksure, but maybe my recommendation is worth more than the Prince’s?“

Doggett smiled. “Yes, sir.”

It seemed cocksure to even surmise survival. Doggett turned to look into the smoke-shot valley that was filled with the overwhelming enemy attack. An errant shaft of sunlight glinted brilliant gold from an Eagle. Beneath the gold the long dark coats and the tall black bearskins made the attackers seem like sinister giants. Cavalry, pennons and lances high, followed the huge column, while further back a shifting mass of shadows betrayed the advance of the rest of the French infantry. The drums were clearly audible beneath the louder percussion of the remaining French guns. “What happens now?” Doggett could not help asking.

“Those bastards in front are called the Imperial Guard,” Sharpe said, “and their column will attack our line, and our line ought to beat the hell out of their column, but after that?” Sharpe could not answer his own question, for this battle had already gone far outside his own experience. The British line should beat the French column, for it always had and it was an article of an infantryman’s faith that it always would, but Sharpe sensed that this column was different, that even if it initially recoiled from the volley fire it would somehow survive and bring on all the other enemy behind in one last cataclysmic attack. An empire and an emperor’s pride rode on this drum-driven attack.