Battle Within A Battle - Hougoumont

Hougoumont
Ernest Crofts
(Source)

Corporal Michael Wareham turned to Private Mick Wilcox and yelled out, "How's your ammunition?!"

Wilcox shook his head, "I've plenty of cartridges, but my damned Bess is nearly fully fouled, I can barely ram a charge home!"

Wareham shook his head in return, "Mine as well, perhaps we can ... Ah damn my eyes, here come the bloody French again!"

Though the open space between the gardener's house and the wood was clogged with dead Frenchmen, the men of Reille's corps continued to press their attacks. It was if the fate of France depended on this one chateau.

Wareham looked around, there were a number of muskets on the ground, left by the wounded who had been dragged to, or had dragged themselves, to the main house. Wareham grabbed one.

Extracting the ramrod, then sliding it down the barrel, he sensed that this weapon hadn't been fired much before its owner had no more use for it. Quickly he loaded it, noting as he did so that Wilcox had found another weapon as well.

Wareham aimed out the window at a man waving a sword around, he yelled out, "Damned fool officers are making themselves bloody obvious today."

Pulling the trigger and then being enveloped in powder smoke, Wareham couldn't tell if he'd actually hit the man or not. Then Wilcox yelled out, "Ye potted the bugger, Corp!"

As he reloaded, he grinned at Wilcox, who suddenly grimaced and began to slump towards the floor.

"Mick, are ye hit?"

"Aye Corp, the Frenchies have done for me." Wilcox then collapsed to the floor, his eyes closed.

Lieutenant Antoine Boulle was clutching his abdomen, he was in agony. He had seen the flash from the upper story as he directed his grenadiers to assault the gate before them. His men has surged forward, bellowing incoherently, when he felt a hard thump in his lower belly.

He fell onto his butt, startled that he seemed to have no strength in his legs. He was left sitting upright, he didn't realize that he was resting against a man killed in an earlier assault. But that thought was far from his mind. The pain of his wound frightened him, he had seen more than one man die, painfully and slowly, from a stomach wound.

The pain seemed to come in waves, he struggled to stay awake. He knew that if he lost consciousness he was doomed.

He looked up at the gate his men were assaulting, they seemed to nearly have it opened when it slammed shut once more. Then more English appeared atop the wall to the right which jutted out from the building at a right angle and take his men under fire. Their assault on the gate collapsed in blood and gore.

As his men fell back to the wood, he saw his sergeant, Hugo Duret, who paused and grabbed another man. Together the two dragged their lieutenant back to the cover of the wood.

"We will get you back to the surgeons, Lieutenant, your wound probably hurts like the very devil himself was poking you, but it's not bleeding all that badly."

Though Boulle did pass out from the pain as his men dragged him to the rear, he didn't die. He awakened to find a surgeon binding his wound.

"You're a lucky man, young Lieutenant, I extracted the ball, it wasn't in very deep. The muscle will heal, but it will be very painful for a few weeks."

Then the surgeon rushed off, his apron was saturated with blood and his arms were red to the elbows. Boulle now had a new dread, many wounded survived their wounds only to perish in the hospital.

Private Wilcox was dragged to the main house where a surgeon gave him a brief glance, then shook his head and moved on.

Wareham was tempted to force the man to treat his mate, but he knew better. Wilcox was still unconscious when Wareham gripped him by the shoulder.

"Get well ye malingering bastard, I'll be back to fetch you once the battle's won." As he dashed back to the gardener's house, he was blinking furiously, his eyes were tearing up.

"Damn me, I'll not cry like a woman." He muttered to himself, then he saw smoke billowing down from the top of the main house. The French artillery had succeeded in setting the house alight!

"Gordon!" The Duke had to raise his voice over the noise of the cannon firing nearby.

"Your Grace?"

"Take this down and sent it to MacDonnell in the chateau!

 

I see that the fire has communicated from the hay stack to the roof of the château. You must however still keep your men in those parts to which the fire does not reach. Take care that no men are lost by the falling in of the roof or floors. After they will have fallen in occupy the ruined walls inside of the garden, particularly if it should be possible for the enemy to pass through the embers to the inside of the house. (Source)

"Right away, Your Grace!" Gordon finished the note and then handed it to one of the orderly officers.

Wellington was concerned that if Hougoumont fell, it would give Bonaparte leverage to unhinge his right flank. He debated sending another detachment to MacDonnell, then decided against it. His center had been badly damaged by Bonaparte's initial attack, he needed to keep as many men in reserve as he could.

Another aide galloped up, the Duke turned impatiently and barked, "What is it, Fremantle? Must you gallop about like a subaltern?"

Lieutenant Colonel John Fremantle, used to the Duke's shortness at times, simply stated, "Apologies, Your Grace, but the men are getting rather cut up by the artillery. Might I suggest they fall back beyond the crest for now?"

"No apology necessary, Fremantle. Yes, yes, give the order, have the lads fall back. Have them lie down, their officers will remain mounted to survey the field. Off you go then!"

Within minutes, the men turned about and marched back perhaps a hundred paces. Once in position, the officers and sergeants had the men lie down. Due to the nature of the ground, not many shot were bounding up the hill, most buried themselves in the mud or passed harmlessly overhead.

"Damn it, I should have seen that sooner." the Duke muttered to himself.

"Your Grace?"

"Nothing Gordon, nothing at all. Let's head back to the crossroads. I fear the French might try La Haye Sainte once more."

Across the valley one of Maréchal Ney's aides noticed something odd happening across the valley.

"Monsieur le Maréchal, look across the valley, the English infantry is pulling back!"

Taking his glass from another aide, Ney looked, and indeed, he could see the English infantry march back to the ridge, then seemingly disappear.

"We have them, follow me!"

Galloping to the nearest formation of heavy cavalry, Ney ordered them to advance. Their general immediately remonstrated with the marshal.

"Attack? Their infantry has not been hurt, they are in good order."

"Look for yourself, Kellerman! Their infantry has withdrawn!"

Général de Division François Étienne de Kellermann, commanding the IIIrd Cavalry Corps¹ took out his glass. He caught a glimpse of one regiment moving back over the crest. Then it seemed like they began to go prone.

"The infantry are still there, they appear to be lying down." Kellerman argued.

Maréchal Michel Ney took a deep breath, his aides feared that their marshal was about to lose his famous temper, but he managed to control himself. "I gave you an order Monsieur, should you refuse to carry it out ..."

Kellerman had had enough of this man, jerking the reins of his mount he turned to his trumpeter. "Sound the advance, column of squadrons, regiments in echelon, the dragoons shall lead."

Without another word, Kellerman trotted off to put himself at the head of his cavalry. He would advance cautiously and not charge in like some mindless barbarian.

As the IIIrd Cavalry Corps advanced, the heavy cavalry of the Imperial Guard under Général de Division Claude-Étienne Guyot began to move. Guyot's intention was to move up to fill the gap left by Kellerman's advancing corps

But they didn't stop.

The Emperor felt refreshed by his brief nap, walking forward to his map table he noticed the advance by a large portion of his cavalry.

"What madness is this? This move is a false one, the English are still resisting fiercely. But I suppose it must be supported."

"De la Bédoyère!"

"Sire?"

"My compliments to le Comte Milhaud, have him prepare his corps to support Kellerman as needed. Also, notify le Comte de Lobau that I may have need of his corps to support the cavalry."

"Sire?" One of the other aides intruded.

Turning to the man, the Emperor was about to dress him down when he decided to listen, the man had been with him for a number of years, he wasn't wont to interrupt without reason.

"What is it, Flahaut? Quickly now!"

"Sire, a patrol has returned, they have a prisoner, a Prussian officer. The man claims that Bülow's corps is approaching and is nearly within striking distance."

A quick glance at his map told him what he needed to know. "De la Bédoyère, alert Lobau that he is to prepare to deploy his corps to the right. It seems we might have company soon. I want him ready to interdict any interference on our right."

As aides galloped off to spread the word, Napoléon had a moment of doubt, if the Prussians were close, than where the Hell was Grouchy?

"Soult! Have we heard anything from Grouchy, anything at all?"

"Nothing Sire, nothing since early this morning."

"Send patrols to the east, find Grouchy, he must march to us immediately! Go! Quickly!"

Maréchal Soult did as he was commanded, knowing full well that Grouchy couldn't possibly reach them before nightfall. He feared the worst.

¹ Consisting of a brigade of dragoons, two brigades of cuirassiers, and a brigade of carabiniers (another type of armored cavalry, similarly equipped as the cuirassiers though with brass sheeting on their steel cuirasses). One brigade of cuirassiers had been roughly handled at Quatre Bras, but the other three were nearly at full strength.