Iain Gale - Four Days in June

‘Impossible, Captain. I can see no redcoats. Where are they?’ Ney peered through his telescope.

‘Not redcoats, sire. Riflemen. And believe me, they’re there. In the Bois de Cherris.’

Of course. Those running, green-coated infantry who had reinforced the Dutch skirmishers. Not Nassauers at all, but English riflemen. Raising his glass again, Ney tried to make them out, but the smoke was now too dense. He swung the telescope round to his left and instantly knew the report to be right. There in the middle distance, behind the thin hedge which flanked the road, was a line of red. Redcoats, their black shakos ranged in four ranks, under fluttering regimental colours – one dark blue, the other the cross of the British Union flag. Beyond them he saw others. Men in skirts. Highlanders.

Now Ney began to sense the danger. Now at last he had to acknowledge that this was no Dutch provincial general facing him out there across this shallow valley. This was Wellington, the master of concealment. For all Bachelu’s fears, the cover of the crops did not concern him so much as what lay beyond. Who knew what troops the English commander had now behind the crossroads? This could be Bussaco again and, if he were to be honest, Ney knew that somewhere out of sight, probably on the slight reverse slope to his rear, Wellington was massing a considerable body of infantry.

He turned to Reille, sitting silently on his horse, a few paces behind him. ‘The English, Reille. Wellington. You remember Bussaco? No, no. Of course. You weren’t there.’

‘Sire.’

The general was quiet. But Ney remembered Bussaco. Foy too. Would never forget it. Five years ago. The early morning mist lifting over a wooded hillside. His own VI Corps advancing in two massive columns, into what he had assured them was a retreating enemy. Advancing under light cannon fire to the crest of the hill. And then the shock. The two English battalions that had appeared from nowhere, delivering volley after unforgiving volley into their ranks. Sending the survivors hurtling down the slope in panic. Coming after them with the bayonet. There had been riflemen there too. Short swords screwed to the barrels of their guns. By 8 a.m. it had all been over. After Bussaco nothing had been the same. Wellington.

‘You see, Reille.’ Ney was suddenly animated. ‘At this moment Wellington will be manoeuvring his men out of sight. Behind that slope. Well, we are wise to his game, Reille. And we still outnumber him.’

Even as he spoke a great cheer went up from the centre of the line. Foy’s men had taken Gemioncourt.

As they emerged into the open ground on the other side, however, Ney saw a mass of cavalry move across the field towards the right. Sky-blue hussar uniforms and what looked strangely like green-clad French chasseurs. Dutch cavalry. They spurred headlong into Foy’s emerging infantry, managing to ride many down before they were able to form rallying squares. Within minutes, though, he could discern on the left the distinctive helmets of their own lancers. They took the Dutch in the flank, causing havoc. Men pulled back on their horses, tried to run. Turned, only to meet more lancers behind them. The Dutch Hussars and light dragoons wheeled about in disorder. Tried to find a way out. And then they were all streaming back up the road, the lancers hard after them. He saw more Dutchmen fall. Taken not by lance but by musketry. Mistaken by the redcoats, he realized with grim amusement, as they had been at first by him, for French. Rollin rode up.

‘Sire. Prince Jerome has advanced into Bossu wood, on a line with the farm, sire, as you ordered.’

‘Good, Rollin. That’s fine. Fine. Any news of d’Erlon?’

‘None, sire. But we know that he has left Jumet.’

Ney grunted. Where was I Corps? Jumet? D’Erlon was not even at Gosselies. Still, despite the presence of the English, things were going well. Jerome it seemed had taken almost half of the wood without firing a shot. Was ready to attack. Ney rode towards the left of the line, trailing in his wake his string of officers. As he approached Bossu wood, scattered shots began to ring out from the Allied skirmish line. He ignored them. Until one caught his horse square in the neck. It crumpled beneath him, trapping a booted leg.

‘Rollin, Heymes. Get me out. Help me.’

The two aides dismounted and rushed to Ney. Pulled him from beneath the dying animal. A fresh horse was brought up, the second he had purchased from the stricken Mortier.

Winded, bruised, Ney paused briefly before mounting, then continued towards the wood. He must take Bossu wood. Take the wood and he would be able to turn Wellington’s flank.

‘What troops oppose us in the wood, Heymes? Do we know?’

‘As far as we can tell, sire, just the Belgians. We have seen only blue coats, sire. No red.’

What was Wellington playing at? He had positioned his veteran English units on his left flank, and left only the half-trained, skittish Dutch militia to defend this key position. Foolish. He had made a fundamental mistake. And Ney would make sure that it was fatal.

Reaching the flank of Jerome’s column he rode between the trees, his new horse nervously picking its way through the undergrowth. Reckless in the face of enemy skirmishers and much to the concern of the staff, he removed his hat and waved it in the air so that the men could see his face. His voice rang clear through the wood.

‘The Emperor will reward any man who will advance.’

It was the old slogan. The words of Austerlitz and Wagram. Ney repeated them over and over again, circling his hat in the air as he rode the length of Jerome’s extended front line of cheering, blue-coated light infantry. He turned and rode back to rejoin his staff. Reining in towards Jerome, Ney caught a glint of something on his right, deep in the wood. Looking again, he saw a body of men crouching in the scrub, perhaps 200 yards away. Enemy skirmishers. But instead of blue coats they wore black. Brunswickers. Germans. What an assembly was this army. Brunswickers. A little better though, he presumed, than the Belgians. It would be harder to clear the wood. And, as Jerome sent his division crashing into the trees, Ney realized that he had now committed his entire force. There was no reserve. Where was d’Erlon? He swore.

‘Sire?’

‘Nothing, Rollin. Nothing. I see that the Duke’s German friends have come to help the Belgians. Where is d’Erlon?’

‘We believe him to be just south of here, sire. Perhaps near Frasnes.’

He was about to ask more precisely where, when an orderly rode up with a despatch from Napoleon. It was timed at 2 p.m. Written by Soult.

Attack whatever force is before you. After driving it back you will turn in our direction to bring about the envelopment of those enemy troops which I have already mentioned to you.

‘Those enemy troops’. The Prussians, he presumed. So the Emperor had decided to crush Blü cher first before turning on Wellington. Here then was a very different plan from that which he had first understood. Nevertheless it was the Emperor’s. It would work. The only way to honour it now though, Ney saw, was to take the crossroads. And to do it quickly. He continued to traverse the field from west to east. His right flank was looking increasingly vulnerable.

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