Quatre Bras - Advance to Gemioncourt Farm

Gemioncourt Farm
(Source)

Soldaat Jean Decoster was posted with his section roughly a hundred paces to the south of Gemioncourt. He and his friend, Soldaat Denis Dupont, hadn't had a chance to go inside the farm complex, they knew the farmer and his family. Their battalion had been pushed forward as soon as the French artillery had begun to fire.

"Look at that, Jean, you can see the crops moving, there are Frenchmen in there!" Dupont cried out, the man was visibly nervous.

Decoster couldn't blame him, he was starting to question his own sanity for having joined the army. He guessed it was time to repay the King for the training, clothing, and food the army had bestowed upon them.

Soldats Pierre Delaplace and Roger Brassard marched up the chaussée side by side, yelling out "Vive l'Empereur!" with the other men in the battalion.

Their muskets at the ready, the two men from the south of France felt lucky to be marching on the roadway itself, near the center of their company. The flanks of the company spread to either side of the road and men were already complaining that the crops were grabbing at their gaiter straps and slowing them down.

The battalion was in column, its four center and grenadier companies each in line, one company behind the other. The light company was deployed well to the front, skirmishing with their Dutch-Belgian counterparts.

Brassard felt something pass near his head, he also heard the hiss of something fast moving. He realized with a shock, that what he'd heard was an enemy ball. He swallowed hard.

"Missed me that time!" he hissed at his compatriot.

Delaplace muttered, "Just march, Roger, march and be ready." He could see the gathering clouds of smoke ahead, they were getting near the enemy line.

Die Braunschweiger bei Quatre Bras 1815
Richard Knötel

The Duke of Brunswick went up and down his line, encouraging his men, many of whom were so young and inexperienced that he wondered if they would stand against the might of Bonaparte's army. He would know soon enough.

There! The French were there, the Duke saw a battalion in column, skirmishers to the front. They marched steadily, not quite within range, but the French skirmishers were already shooting at his men.

"Your Grace, please move around. Those skirmishers are aiming for you!"

The Duke was startled, he supposed that the French were shooting at him personally. Well, damn them, he wouldn't hide!

"There they are lads! Steady now, steady! Officers! Stand by to fire!"

The Duke nudged his horse to the rear of the firing line, no point in blocking the fire of his own men, he reasoned. Another ball hissed past, things were heating up!

Then he heard his officers give the command to fire. The volley was ragged as the men were nervous, but it was telling, before the powder smoke closed in, he had seen the front ranks of the French battalion on the road stagger, numerous men went down.

The fight was on!

Map of the battlefield
(Source)

Brassard looked for his friend, but didn't see him. The command rang out to prepare to fire, so he focused on doing just that, no doubt he'd see Pierre shortly.

"Feu!¹"

For the next few minutes, Brassard focused on firing and reloading, with the powder smoke billowing out with each volley it was hard to see anything. But his job was simple, stand in the ranks and do what you were told.

"En avant!²"

As Brassard stepped out, he felt the man on his right stumble against him, he looked and saw the man, fellow named Guillaume, fall to the surface of the chaussée without a sound.

Brassard couldn't stop to help him, couldn't do anything but shoulder his musket and march. So Brassard, experienced soldier that he was, did precisely that.

Behind him, on the road to Brussels, Pierre Delaplace lay on his back. His left leg shattered by a musket ball, Pierre had tried to tie off the wound, but it was too hard. The men marching past kept jostling him as he tried to stop the bleeding, his hands slippery with his own blood.

After a few moments, Delaplace felt an extreme tiredness sweep over him, so he had laid back. The powder smoke was clearing and he could see blue sky overhead. Perhaps he should sleep, then he could bind his wound.

Delaplace died on the road to Brussels on the 16th of June 1815.

"Back to the farm lads! There's too many of them!"

Decoster shook his head, there were a lot of Frenchmen moving towards them. He stood to go and watched as Dupont fired once more.

"Got the bastard!"

Decoster shook his head again, how in hell could Dupont tell if he'd hit anyone?

"Damned fellow has wasted the entire morning." The Duke of Wellington muttered under his breath as he snapped his glass closed.

"Your Grace?"

Turning, Wellington said, "Nothing Gordon, is Picton up yet?"

"Kempt's brigade is moving into place along the road to Sombreffe, Your Grace! His Hanoverians are already in place. Pack's brigade is coming in now!"

"Very well, I need that road held, it leads right into Blücher's rear. It looks like I won't be able to help the old boy directly this day, least we can do is keep the French at bay here! Come along now, back to the crossroads!"

Riding to the crossroads, Wellington looked to the Bossu Wood to the southwest. "What do we have in the wood?"

Gordon paused, then remembered an earlier report, "Dutch-Belgians, Your Grace. Perponcher's men. The Brunswickers are in the fields between there and the chaussée."

The Duke thought for just a moment, then ordered, "Message to Maitland, with my compliments, have them reinforce the Bossu Wood when they come up. I'll feel happier knowing that the Foot Guards were watching my right."

Gordon had already written out the order and handed it to another staff officer for dispatch.

Wellington shifted in his saddle and turned to Gordon once more, "I need to be informed immediately when new units arrive, have a staff officer with dispatch riders posted at the crossroads."

"Immediately, Your Grace."

Maréchal Michel Ney was happy with the progress Reille's troops were making. He regretted not having Girard's division of that corps present³, but as d'Erlon was in sight now, he was satisfied that he had the men needed to take the crossroads.

"Monsieur le Maréchal, have you given orders for d'Erlon to take the road to Thyle?"

A young aide-de-camp had been watching the head of d'Erlon's column move to the right, taking the road to Thyle and not staying on the main chaussée. Perhaps he wasn't fully informed of the Marshal's plan, but he felt he should call his commander's attention to it.

Ney pulled out his telescope, observing what the aide had just reported, he snapped the glass shut and bellowed, "What treason is this? Where in the names of all the saints is d'Erlon going?"

"Bosquet!"

"Sir?"

"Gallop over there, find d'Erlon, order him to report to me personally and halt his move to Thyle!"

"But ..."

"Now, Bosquet! Go!"

Chef d'escadron Louis Bosquet spurred his horse to the southeast. He had to wonder what was going on, it seemed that the Emperor's plan was falling into disarray.

Plans had a tendency to do just that as soon as action is joined. As Bosquet galloped, he wondered if anything had ever gone to plan? Certainly not in his experience.

But this campaign, only a few days old, was already going wrong.

Badly!

¹ "Fire!"

² "Advance!"

³ They had been detached to serve with the right wing, at Ligny.