On the Banks of the Sambre, Near Charleroi

Generalfeldmarschall Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher
Commander of the Prussian Army of the Lower Rhine
1815
(Source)

Manfred and Wolfram Klepper were simple soldiers in the Prussian Army. Both had been inducted into the army in 1813, neither had fought at Leipzig, but both had been in at the kill in 1814. The boys remembered Paris well.

Now Bonaparte was back at it and they, along with the rest of their battalion, were guarding a bridge over the Sambre River, just south of Charleroi. The brothers were on duty at a road block which their pioneers had constructed at the mid-point of the bridge. Their orders were simple: delay the French long enough so that the pioneers could light the charges they had set on and under the bridge.

"Hopefully those fuses are long enough to let us get back to our side of the river!" Wolfram had said, glancing at their officer.

"You'd best pay attention to your own duties, Klepper! If I want you on this bridge shooting Frenchmen, then by God you'll stay right on this very spot until I say otherwise!" their sergeant had barked.

Sergeant Hans Pizzeck was a rough old fellow, Manfred (the older of the brothers by five minutes) said more than once that the old sergeant had probably served under Frederick the Great. Wolfram had guffawed aloud at that.

Which had earned the twins extra duties for a week!

Though Pizzeck wasn't quite that old, he had fought in the battles in 1806 and had seen the Prussian Army torn apart by Bonaparte's new way of war, he was an old soldier by any definition. He'd been a sergeant in 1806 and hadn't seen battle since then! Now in his mid-forties, he often complained that if they had hanged Bonaparte in 1814, he could be at home with his grandchildren.

"Keep your eyes peeled you two, we've had reports of Frenchies sneaking across the river to spy on us and Belgies sneaking south to rejoin their old comrades. I suspect that Corsican bastard will make his move soon. I feel it in my bones!"

Wolfram sniggered and said, sotto voce, to his brother. "Is he sure it's not the rain making his bones ache?"

Manfred snorted then quickly covered it with a fit of coughing.

Pizzeck snarled at them, "Less comedy, more soldiering, you two idiots. If you like extra duties, I've got plenty."

After the sergeant had moved down to the next post, the houses on the Prussian side of the river were all manned and set up as strong points, Wolfram looked at his brother.

"Well, I guess we better keep our eyes open, brother. Hey, look, over there, gotta be a French cavalryman, right?"

Manfred looked in the direction Wolfram was pointing and saw a very old farmer riding a very old horse. "Sure brother, probably Imperial Guard, Lord knows he looks old enough to have been in Egypt before the turn of the century!"

The "old" man saw the two Prussians on the bridge, laughing and gesturing at him. He could hear their gibes as well. Looking closer, he could see ten or fifteen other men atop the bridge behind the barrier on the bridge.

He also noticed the houses along the far bank, all with signs of being occupied by soldiers. He made a mental note to advise his commander that this bridge might not be the one he'd choose to cross on the way to Charleroi. There was another further upstream which had no houses on the far bank and was manned only by a detachment of Prussian cavalry.

Dash across there and these Prussians here would have the Emperor's Armée du Nord behind them. They would have two options at that point, surrender, or die.

Chef d'escadron¹Louis de Gaudry preferred that they would choose the latter option. He hated the Prussians with a passion, they had hanged his father during the 1814 campaign in France and had raped the women in his family when they had overrun his home village.

Satisfied that his disguise was working, he nevertheless decided to turn back to his camp. He didn't think this horse he'd borrowed had many more leagues in him. Poor thing had to be fifteen years old and had been worked hard every day. But he was a tough old nag, rather like de Gaudry himself.

He actually had been in Egypt with Bonaparte in 1798, nearly 17 years ago when he'd been a brand new sous-lieutenant of Chasseurs à Cheval. Of course, he was nearly 23 at the time, having served in the ranks for five years before that.

Now he was forty, well, he would be on the 18th of next month. And yes, he was in the Imperial Guard. Perhaps his disguise wasn't as good as he thought!

The column halted again, Sergent Nicolas Guilbert wondered what the hold up was this time.

"I tell you Pierre, at this rate we might make Brussels sometime in October!" he groused at his fellow sergeant, Pierre Grandchamp.

Pierre nodded and said, as he pulled out his pouch of tobacco and his pipe, "Might as well have smoke while we wait."

He offered the pouch to Guilbert, who shook his head and muttered, "No, but thanks ..."

Guilbert turned as he heard a commotion towards the rear of the column. "Damn it, another damned courier."

As he said that he had his men shuffling off to the side of the road to make way for yet another mounted courier from headquarters.

As the man passed them, his horse kicking up clods of mud, Guilbert noticed that this courier was one of the Imperial equerries, a messenger from le Tondu himself.

It was the last day of May, the weather had been spotty with quite a bit of rain. It was still chilly at night and they had been sleeping rough since they'd left the outskirts of Paris. Marching ten hours a day, every Guardsman could sense that the Emperor was in a hurry.

One of the officers had asked a farmer that morning, "How far are we from the Low Countries?"

The man had thought about it for a moment, then said, "About four days on foot. You lads might make it in five, there's an awful lot of you!"

The Emperor had decided, he would strike into Belgium. He knew roughly where the dividing line was between Wellington and Blücher, he would strike there. He had a feeling that the English would be worried about their line of retreat to the coast. The Prussians would be looking over their shoulders back to the Rhine.

Strike them while they're separated, crush one, then crush the other.

Then, and only then, he would dictate the terms of peace from the palace in Brussels!

¹ Squadron commander, cavalry rank equivalent to a Major.