Morning, 18 June 1815

Dawn of Waterloo
Lady Butler
(Source)

"Johnnie, wake up!"

Corporal John MacBain, Johnnie to his friends, opened his eyes. He was wet, he ached all over, and he was in no mood to suffer his fellow man.

Glaring at the interrupter of his sleep, he grumbled, "What the Hell do ye want, MacDonald?"

"Can ye no' hear that?" MacDonald said, pointing to his right.

"Ah!" MacBain heard the regiment's trumpeters sounding reveille, he sat up, and groaned. He and most of the regiment had been in the saddle all day yesterday. Half of the day in the rain, which was still coming down. He did note that the sky was lightening in the east.

"Is there anything to eat, Dickie?"

"Aye, Johnnie. stirabout¹, lots of it."

"Yummy." MacBain stood up and looked at the sorry state of his uniform. Without scraping away a layer of mud, one could barely discern that it was a uniform. Going into his valise, he pulled his brush out.

"I guess I'd better scrape some of this mud off before the Sar'nt Major sees me. Have you been down to the horse lines?"

"Aye, they've been fed. Not much mud on 'em, except for their feet."

"I guess if I'd stood up all night I'd be clean too."

"Aye," MacDonald laughed, "and no less wet!"

The Army Awakens
Illustration from L'Epopeé by Job
(Source)

Soldat Pierre Delaplace awakened in a sea of glutinous mud. He was on his back, using his pack as a pillow. He thought for a moment and wondered if he'd ever been this miserable before, yes, in Russia. He sat up.

"I was wondering if you were just going to sleep in today." Soldat Roger Brassard said. He had only awakened moments before and was busy scraping the mud from his trousers. He thought about removing his greatcoat, he knew the back of it had to be caked in mud as the garment felt ten pounds heavier. As it was still raining, he opted to leave it on and hoped that the rain would clean it off.

"Well, as much as I'd like to sleep in, the neighbors are making a terrible racket over there."

Brassard chuckled as he looked over at the battalion's assembled drummers, busy beating Le Diane². Then he said, "I wonder if rations came up during the night?"

"Up those roads? The only thing moving up those roads last night were guns, caissons, and the ammunition wagons. Rations? I suppose the Emperor assumes we'll be eating in Brussels tonight. But I tell you, first corpse I come across, I'll be looking for biscuit."

"What if the dead man is French?"

"Then I'll hope he's an Immortal, those lucky bastards always get fed first. If not, I'll look for a dead Englishman!"

Brassard shook his head, "Like the Guard would go in first. You're  more likely to find a dead pharaoh than a dead Guardsman!"

Both men turned as a flourish of trumpets announced the arrival of the very men they both hated and envied, the Imperial Guard.

The Guard arrives.
(Source)

Sergent Nicolas Guilbert took a deep breath, then let it out. They had finally been called to a halt. Word spread through the ranks that the Emperor was nearby. Some of the men were excited, Guilbert just wanted to get off of his feet for a few minutes and perhaps have a bite to eat.

The Guard had pushed hard throughout the long, stormy night. When the last of the artillery had passed, they climbed up out of the sodden fields and marched on the chaussée itself, though slick with mud, it was better than slogging through the fields beside the road.

Guilbert looked up to see Capitaine Philippe Pierlot making his way back down the column. "Hey Capitaine, what's the plan here?"

Pierlot was somewhat startled to be hailed from the ranks like that, he looked up, ready to have a sharp word with the offender. When he saw who had called to him, he relaxed. He and Guilbert went back a long ways.

"Nicolas, someday you're going to shout at an officer and you'll be lucky to keep your stripes. How are you and the men holding up?"

"Tired, Sir, and hungry."

"We have no idea where the ration carts have got to, foraging parties have gone out, but this area seems to have been stripped clean. We're a little late to la Fête³ but I suspect we'll get a break while the ground dries. Still too wet to move the guns in the fields."

It was only then that Guilbert realized that the rain had stopped and the sun was appearing fitfully through the scudding clouds.

(Source)

"The ground should be dry enough before noon, Sire. The rain has stopped and there is a nice breeze which will help things along."

Napoléon nodded and dismissed his artillery chief with a wave of his hand. He hadn't slept well, his stomach was bothering him and he could feel his piles⁴ acting up. Lack of sleep, many hours in the saddle, Napoléon understood the cause, but why, on this day?

Général de Division Comte Reille leaned over the table as the Emperor's staff began to put food out. "Sire, I beg you, do not underestimate the English. They ..."

The Emperor shifted in his chair, he felt a sharp pain which instantly made him snap at Reille. "I tell you Reille, and you others who fought them in Spain, this Wellington is a bad general and the English are bad troops. Defeating them will be no more taxing than eating breakfast. Now enough of that, gentlemen, please help yourselves," he swept his hand over the table. "We have a long day ahead of us."

Corporal Michael Wareham was back at the garden wall of Hougoumont, he could see green coated men in the woods to the south moving about. It seemed to him that they had finished their breakfast and were seeking good positions.

Wareham couldn't imagine the French attacking this place, it was solidly built. The thatched roofs on a number of the buildings gave him pause though, fire could roar through thatch in an instant. But after the soaking from last night, fire didn't really concern him all that much.

What did concern him was a chat he'd had with a Hanoverian soldier, whose unit was also deployed in the woods to the south. He'd traded the man a bit of tobacco, which he didn't use, for a bit of brandy, which he was fond of. The German spoke some English, though with a heavy accent.

"So English, there are a great many Franzosen beyond this wood. At least, how do you say, zwei Divisionen?"

Wareham knew enough German to understand that. "Two divisions, why that's some eight to ten thousand men. Are you sure?"

"I didn't count them, English. But I served with them in the old days, I know how many I saw. They're preparing their soup now, but when this dries out," he said gesturing at the sodden turf, "I think they will come. Your Vellin'ton intends to fight, ja?"

"I daresay he does, thanks Fritz, good luck today!"

"You as well, English. Danke für den Tabak!"

As the German had gone back into the wood. Wareham realized that they would fight today. From the sounds of it, Boney had brought his entire army this way.

Private Mick Wilcox interrupted his thoughts, "Go back and get some tea, Corp. Rumor has it there's biscuit as well."

Wareham saw the crumbs on Wilcox's tunic, "Brush yourself off before the Sar'nt Major sees you. Are you relieving me here?"

"That I am, Corp, that I am. I hope you'll be back before the festivities begin?"

"Depends on my leftenant, but I'm sure I'll be back here. Keep your head down, Mick."

"Aye, that I will, Corp, that I will."

Across the valley, Wilcox could hear a band start to play, then others joined in. Grumbling, he said to himself, "I'll bet Boney's putting on a show right now, trying to scare us off the ground. But we'll see about that, that we will."

¹ Porridge made by stirring oatmeal in boiling water or milk.

² The French drum call for reveille.

³ The party, French Army slang for war.

⁴ Piles is a common term for hemorrhoids, the Emperor suffered from that problem. As do I.

⁵ Frenchmen.