Jack Caldwell - The Three Colonels

“No, my love, just as long as you are aware of what you are doing.”

*   *   *

The French fired their cannons for nearly two hours, but the damage done was minimal. First, the soft, muddy ground plugged the cannonballs, containing the explosion and preventing them from skipping. Second, the reversed slope had protected the vast majority of the troops—all but a few Dutch regiments that the prince had placed too far forward. Those units were taking a terrible beating.

Denny was puzzled as he observed the action around Hougoumont. The French had attacked the outpost, but they seemed to go about all wrong. The enemy was using far too many troops for a demonstration but far too few troops to take the château. It would take the whole of Napoleon’s army to raze Hougoumont, especially as the veteran Coldstream Guards made up the bulk of the defense. It would be madness to try to take the château with Wellington ready to smash his flanks.

The French movements made no military sense, but Denny knew Bonaparte’s reputation as a genius. Did the tyrant know something that had escaped the duke’s attention? Was the Corsican preparing to spring some unforeseen trap? Where was the immediate threat?

Suddenly, Denny’s attention was drawn to the enemy ridge thirteen hundred yards away. An entire corps of infantry, 18,000 men strong, began to appear at the crest. To the sound of horns and the fluttering of battle standards, the host moved downhill in columns two hundred men wide. It was obviously the main attack.

It was now 1:30 in the afternoon.

“Prepare to receive infantry!” the duke cried repeatedly in his plain black uniform as he spurred his warhorse, Copenhagen, along the line.

The troops had about twenty minutes to form into two lines—one kneeling—and await the horde. The Allied artillery redoubled their efforts, their merciless barrage of ball and canister tearing great holes in the French formations.

Denny, watching with horrified fascination, noticed two things. First, the wide columns, while impressive, gave the Allies easy targets at which to shoot. Second, there seemed to be a lack of French artillery and cavalry support. Denny could not complain about this state of affairs.

Now the Dutch and British muskets opened up. The French, slogging uphill, were being murdered, yet on and on they came.

Unexpectedly, there was disaster—a Dutch brigade suddenly broke and fled their position. Trying to maintain control, officers rode among the troops, reminding them of their duty before general panic took hold. The prince himself was screaming after his fleeing men, exposing himself to enemy fire. Denny felt some pity for the Dutch, for they had suffered greatly at Quatre Bras due to bad leadership from their generals.

Closer and closer drew the French, now firing their muskets. English, Dutch, Belgian, and German troops fell.

However, at the moment the huge force reached the summit of the hill, General Picton, still in his civilian clothes, stood up, sword in the air. The 5th Division rose from their hidden positions, muskets aimed.

“FIRE!” the general screamed. The line disappeared in a cloud of gunpowder. In an instant, the smoke cleared and Denny could see hundreds of French soldiers lying dead or wounded.

“Now charge!” Picton ran forward at the head of his entire division, continuing to yell, “Charge! Charge! Hurrah!”

Denny had never seen anything like it. A great cheer went up from the line. Officers and men dashed at the enemy with swords and bayonets, screaming.

“Charge—!”

At that moment, General Picton was shot through the head.

As he fell, his men swept over him, engaging the French with bayonets. For long minutes—a lifetime it seemed to the participants—the soldiers grappled with each other in a macabre dance of death. The French assault wavered.

Lord Uxbridge saw his moment. “Cavalry, charge!”

Denny could not call it much of a charge. The heavy Household and Union brigades simply entered the fray at a walk through the Allied lines. Sabres flashing, they plunged in and cut and killed hundreds of French soldiers while other cavalrymen swept away the French cuirassiers guarding the enemy flank. The redoubtable Scots Greys were able to seize an eagle standard, the mark of a French regiment. As closely engaged as they were, the men did not fear French cannon fire, as the enemy could not shoot without killing their own.

Denny watched the enemy fall back in disorder.

*   *   *

Buford and Fitzwilliam watched the action with their telescopes. To their professional eyes, Uxbridge had attacked at exactly the right moment. The shock of being hit by twenty-five hundred sabres had completely undone the French. The endless assault by the heavy cavalry broke the enemy’s spirit. Now it was time for the cavalry troops to withdraw.

“Buford,” said Richard, his eye glued to his telescope, “something is wrong. They are not withdrawing. Are they not sounding Recall?”

“Aye, but the troopers are not listening.”

“But they will be cut to pieces!” Richard lowered his glass. “Turn back, you fools!”

The commanders of the heavy cavalry well understood the danger. Uxbridge and Ponsonby rode desperately to recall their troopers, but it was for naught. Blood was in the men’s nostrils. Were they not the greatest cavalry on Earth? To a man, they cried, “To Paris! Death to Bonaparte!” They would win this battle on their own!

Free of the French soldiers, both living and dead, the cavalry troops galloped towards the French cannons, led by the Scots Greys. Soon they were upon the guns.

*   *   *

Colonel Brandon, at the center, turned from observing the line of what would prove to be three thousand prisoners being taken to the rear to watch the cavalry attack, the sound of Recall floating over the din. One glance at the tactical situation and all his years of experience came back to him in a flash. He saw what was going to happen and acted without another thought.

With a “By your leave!” shouted at the duke, Brandon dashed forward and downhill. He rode to and fore, screaming Recall at the members of the Household Brigade.

The Union Brigade was already far uphill on the opposite slope.

*   *   *

Richard and Buford watched in horror as the enemy cavalry counterattacked. The French cuirassiers with their swords and the lancers with their lances fell upon the exhausted British dragoons. The British tried to maneuver, they tried to fight, but numbers and fresh animals told the tale. It was a slaughter. By the time the remainder of the Household and Union brigades returned demounted in rage and regret to the Allied line, over a thousand of their comrades, including the valiant Ponsonby, were lost. For all intents and purposes, the Allies had no heavy cavalry left.

It was now 3:00.

*   *   *

London

Roberts gave the Sunday afternoon newspaper to Abigail with a worried look. She took one glance at the headline and dashed upstairs in search of her mistress. She found her in her rooms, looking wistfully out the window, a letter from Sir John in her hand.

“Lady Buford!” Abigail cried. “There has been a battle on Friday. Look!” She thrust the paper at her.

Caroline snatched the newspaper from the maid, the letter dropping to the floor.

“John! Oh, John!”

*   *   *

Major Wickham moved his troops forward as Wellington committed his reserves. Taking up a position in the line, he was shocked at the carnage before him. Everywhere there were dead and wounded soldiers—French, Dutch, and English alike. Downhill about five hundred yards away, he saw the La Haye Sainte farmhouse under heavy attack; however, no one was shooting at Wickham, and for that he was grateful.

Wickham watched a group of men respectfully carry the body of General Picton to the rear and fought the lump that grew in his throat.

An aide to Wellington rode up, interrupting his thoughts. “Major,” he called out, “get those wounded men to the rear!”

“Yes, sir. Hewitt, form a party and recover the wounded.” It was understood by all that no one spoke of recovering French wounded; they would have to fend for themselves until the fighting was over.

For the next half hour, various parties labored to carry the broken bodies to the dubious comfort of the surgeons’ tents. Teams swarmed over the ridge of the hill, hoping the odd cannonball would miss. At about 3:30, the cannon fire seemed to intensify. Wickham, while a novice at war, understood what that was about.

“Recall the recovery teams—hurry!” he ordered.

At the signal, the men began returning to the line in some haste. Wickham noticed renewed fighting at the farmhouse. He thanked his lucky stars he was not down there.

Some minutes later, the French battle horns sounded again, but the tone this time was different. Wickham looked up and saw an awesome sight—five thousand cavalry charging down the French slope, right at Wickham’s position.

“Form square!” he screamed. “Prepare to receive cavalry!”

The men dashed to get into position, and as they did so, Wickham reflected that, if the Prussians were to come and help, now would be an excellent time for them to do so.

It was now 4:00 p.m.

It was hell. There was no other word for it. George Wickham had died and gone to hell.

Horns blaring and flags flying, the French cavalry charged the center of the Allied line. Avoiding the fire from Hougoumont on the left and La Haye Sainte on the right, they rode in narrow columns up the muddy slope towards Mont St. Jean. The Allied artillerymen, especially the British and KGL, resolutely stood by their guns and poured shot and canister at the approaching horses until the last moment. Then they dashed to the safety of the nearby squares, protected by the muskets and bayonets of the infantry.