Awaiting the Storm ...

In this May 10, 2015, photo, historical re-enactors dressed as soldiers of the Belgian-Dutch 7th Battalion of the Line march in formation at a Napoleonic era living history camp in Elewijt, Belgium. The Belgian-Dutch living history group is coordinating their group for participation in the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo which will take place in June 2015. (AP Photo/Virginia Mayo)
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Soldaat Jean Decoster and Soldaat Denis Dupont were sitting outside the small barn they were billeted in. The rumors of Napoléon Bonaparte being back on the throne of France was a hot topic of conversation in their battalion of the Royal Netherlands Army. Many of the men in their unit had once fought in the French army, back when their home provinces had been annexed to France. They considered themselves Belgians, not Dutchmen.

Their unit, the 7th of the Line, was a mixture of Flemings and Walloons¹. The men who spoke French were in companies together, those who spoke Dutch the same. They somehow managed to get along, though many Belgians were resentful of having to bow to a Dutch king, though as one man put it, "French boss, Dutch boss, even a Belgian boss, we're still on the bottom, so what does it really matter?"

Decoster and Dupont had been friends for a very long time, both were from the village of Quatre-Bras. Really nothing more than a few buildings surrounding a crossroads on the main road from Charleroi to Brussels. Both grew up on farms nearby, both had gone into the French Army in 1808. Both had survived the Iberian campaign, neither wanted to see either Spain or Portugal ever again. Both agreed that from what they had heard, Spain was preferable to Russia. Both were glad to still be alive.

Decoster drew on his pipe, then let out a long stream of smoke. Grinning at Dupont he said, "So I guess we're in the shit again, Denis."

"How do you figure that, Jean?"

"Do you think the Emperor is going to sit and wait for his enemies to come to him? No, he'll strike hard and fast, hoping for a quick kill to give the crowned heads arrayed against him something to think about. Sometimes live and let live is a good policy. Not that the Emperor ever saw things that way."

"But why are we in the shit?" Dupont insisted.

"Where are the two closest enemy armies to France? Right here my friend, us and the Prussians. Blücher might strike south into France but Wellington will wait for the Emperor to show his hand. The two won't move without them being together. That's why we're in the shit. Napoléon will come this way. Mark my word."

Sergent Nicolas Guilbert was still wondering if he had made the right choice, he had been offered a commission in a line unit and had turned it down. His company commander, Capitaine Philippe Pierlot, had understood, though he had told Guilbert that he was somewhat selfish by staying with the Guard.

"Nicolas, just think of the lives you might save in a line unit based on your experience. You have the talent and the knowledge, you really should consider ..."

"Perhaps when this campaign is done, mon Capitaine. Until then I will stay in my regiment with men I know and trust. If le Tondu succeeds, then it's a possibility. We both know the wars won't end with a single campaign, provided it is France who emerges as the victor."

Pierlot nodded, he had had similar thoughts, this next throw of the dice might end the Emperor's adventure once and for all.

As Guilbert strolled across the barrack square, a rider came in, stopping at the main building. Movement orders perhaps? The weather was getting very nice, though it was still raining a lot and cold at night. But that was typical for early May in this part of France.

Guilbert knew that the army was growing in size, the Guard was nearly at full strength, though smaller than it had been in past years. The chasseurs and grenadiers had added two regiments each of former Guardsmen who had rallied to their Emperor. But, Guilbert had noticed, the equipment and uniforms were still a mixed grab bag in the newer regiments. He could well imagine what the line units must be going through.

He had no doubt that the Emperor could build an army strong enough to take the fight to les Anglais and their allies the Prussians, sitting just north of the border in the Low Countries. He also thought that they would pick up new recruits there, not enough to make a difference on the field of battle, but perhaps enough to damage the morale of those who stayed loyal to the House of Orange.

He grunted then tapped out his pipe, he would go where he was told, he would ensure his men did the same, but he would leave the big decisions to the Les Grands Chapeaux², that's what they were paid to do. Though after the First Abdication, he wasn't sure if he trusted the marshalate anymore³.

Captain Angus McTeague of the 92nd Regiment of Foot, the Gordon Highlanders, stepped out of the small café he liked to frequent near the park. He was enjoying Brussels immensely as were most of his colleagues. But Captain Morris McGilvery of the Black Watch, a man he had known back in Edinburgh and had served with in the Peninsula, was fond of reminding him, "Now that Boney's broken out of his bloody cage, it'll be up to us to stuff him back in. And that'll be hard fightin', mark my words laddie!"

McTeague noticed that McGilvery was very quiet that day. "Cat got yer tongue, man?"

McGilvery grinned and said, "Nah, I'm fine, just tired o' this garrison duty. Makes a man fat, dumb, and happy. Too many of my boys are having too much fun, takes the starch right out of 'em. If we don't get back in tae the field soon they'll be waddling into battle."

"Well then you'll be happy to know that old mad Picton had ordered field exercises for this weekend. And it's supposed to rain according to my landlady."

"And how would she know that?"

"She says it's her knees, when they ache then the rain is on its way. She claims she's right most of the time."

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't do to march about in nice weather would it?"

The two Scottish officers continued down the street, both worried that Bonaparte would be heading their way, and soon. Many of the Peninsular veterans were either still in America or aboard ship returning home. The army which the Duke had was small, professional, but small. They would need to rely heavily on their Dutch allies.

"I hear the Hanoverians have raised new units, Morris? Any truth to that?"

"Aye, but they're pretty young and not a bit of experience among 'em. Don't expect them to fight like the KGL⁴, best stay close to the fellows wearing red coats, not sure the others won't turn and run. Some of 'em will probably turn on us and rejoin Boney. I wouldn't bet against it!"

"We'll see then."

As they reached the intersection where they would split up, each to their respective quarters, McTeague asked, "Will you be at Madame Vermaut's tonight?"

McGilvery paused then nodded, "Why not? Beats listening to the rain on the roof, I suppose."

"Indeed. See you then? Seven of the clock?"

"Aye, I'll be there."

¹ Belgium has two main areas, Wallonia where the French-speaking Walloons live, and Flanders, where the Dutch-speaking Flemish live. (Yes, there's also a part of Belgium where the people speak German. Along the border with Germany, natürlich, near St. Vith.)

² Literally "the big hats," French army slang for Napoléon and his marshals.

³ Many of the French Marshals conspired to force Napoléon's abdication in 1814. Many had gotten positions under the returned monarchy, to say that the common soldiers trusted those men would be an error. The French Army of 1815 was experienced, many of the men were veterans of long service, but there was a great deal of distrust.

⁴ The King's German Legion, units raised from those of King George III's Hanoverian subjects who had fled their homeland after it fell to the French. Soldiers every bit as good, and some better, than their British counterparts.