Épilogue

Napoléon on Board the Bellerophon
Sir William Quiller Orchardson
(Source)

The Emperor, betrayed by many in the French government, particularly Fouché and Talleyrand, had attempted to flee to America. He was under great pressure to depart France, after all the Allies had declared war against the man, not the nation. The men in power had betrayed him once, they did so now.

As he stood at the taffrail looking at the English coast at Portsmouth, Napoléon Bonaparte went over in his head again and again as to exactly why his campaign to defeat the English and their allies and the vicious Prussians failed so miserably.

The portion of the Armée du Nord under his direct command had not only collapsed on the battlefield and fled without even attempting to stand but had also shed deserters all the way back to France. Ney had abandoned the army and returned to Paris on his own, seeking to win favor with the government which had rejected the Emperor.

Grouchy had somehow managed to bring his wing of the army back into France, intact and ready for action. If only he had handled his troops during the fateful period of 17 to 18 June in the same manner then perhaps the battle at Mont St. Jean would have been a resounding victory.

He heard a footstep on the deck, he turned to see one of his aides, Général de Division Savary.

"What news Savary? I saw a boat come alongside earlier. Are we allowed to proceed to America?"

From the look on Savary's face, Napoléon expected bad news. He was not disappointed in that regard.

Savary looked at his emperor with sadness, "Sire, the English government has denied your requests. You won't be allowed ashore in England and you will not be allowed to proceed to America."

Savary looked down at the deck, a single tear fell down his cheek.

"There is more?" Napoléon asked.

"I have been denied permission to accompany you into exile. I will be sent to Malta."

"Ah, Malta. Am I to be returned to Elba?"

"No Sire, Saint Helena. I have never heard of it, one of the sailors said that it ..."

"Yes, yes, it lies some 400 leagues off the west coast of Africa. A mere flyspeck in a vast sea. Apparently the English are terrified of me. They should have me executed, but they know France would rise in anger. I suppose the English are being clever."

"You are to be a prisoner there, Sire."

"I would expect no less."

Capitaine Joseph Martin, late of the Armée du Nord, actually stayed with Grouchy during the retreat back to France. Due to his badly bruised leg, which had yet to heal properly, he was discharged from the army. He promptly returned home.

His wife Marie eventually forgave him for abandoning the family to march with Napoléon one more time. Their son Claude, grew up to see another Napoléon as emperor, a nephew of the first emperor. He was too old to serve in that army, as he had three daughters, none of his children served in that army either.

Something for which he often thanked God.

Sergent Nicolas Guilbert was killed in action during the Old Guard's final attempt to drive the Prussians from Plancenoit. His old comrade, Sergent Jean-Claude Toussaint spent a large part of the rest of his own life trying to gain the Legion of Honor for his friend Guilbert.

But as all the witnesses, save Toussaint, had not survived the campaign, there was no one else to vouch for Guilbert's bravery in his last action.

Guilbert was buried in a mass grave on the battlefield.

Sergeant Hans Pizzeck was found in the ruins of Plancenoit, barely alive. He was evacuated to a Prussian field hospital where he died a week after the battle.

Brigadier Tomasz Kasprowicz survived the battle, as did his horse Liliana. He was one of the few survivors of his troop to make it back to France.

The morning after the battle, somewhere south of Genappe, he saw a familiar face, Jean-Pierre Benoit of the 12th Chasseurs.

"Brigadier Benoit! Do you remember me?"

Benoit turned, he was on foot as his horse had broken a leg in the night. He stared for a moment then said, "The Pole! The one I talked to on my farm before this business began!"

"I see you rejoined the army." Kasprowicz said, stating the obvious.

"Yes, my brother Hercule called me an idiot on the morning of the battle. I daresay he was right, but ..."

"Did your brother ..."

"To the best of my knowledge, he is dead. Died going back up that damned ridge."

A black look crossed Kasprowicz's face, "We lost many a comrade on that ridge."

Seeing something in the near distance, Kasprowicz told Benoit, "Wait here."

Moments later he returned with a horse, an artillery horse. Kasprowicz shrugged and said, "Better than no horse at all."

"Yes, better than walking."

In the inn on the Brussels chaussée, where the Duke had his headquarters, Wellington was writing his dispatch to the government describing his victory over the French. At the last minute he added a note saying that the Prussians had been an immense help.

He had been notified of the death of his aide, Alexander Gordon, shortly after he had finished the dispatch. He had gone upstairs in the inn, his own bed was taken, it was where Gordon had died, and found a room whose occupant had also not survived the battle.

He sat in the dark for a while, staring out the window at the night. The adrenalin from the battle had yet to wear off, he couldn't sleep even had he wanted to.

The thought struck him, sometime in the early hours before dawn of the 19th of June. Quietly, he whispered to the darkness outside his window ...

Next to a lost battle, nothing is so sad as a battle that has been won.

Finis

Aftermath

(Source)

The Emperor sat his horse, stunned, too stunned to move. Eventually Général De la Bédoyère got Napoléon's attention.

"Sire, we must get you away from here."

The Emperor nodded in disbelief, the attack by the Guard should have clinched the issue. Did Ney blunder again? Where was Grouchy? Turning to Maréchal Soult he said, "Still no word from Grouchy?"

"No, Sire, not a word." Soult braced himself for the Emperor's expected outburst. Nothing.

The Emperor looked pale and unsure of himself, for many around him, it was the first time they had seen him in such a mood. Even during the retreat from Russia, Napoléon tried to emanate confidence. Now that was gone.

The Emperor's aides managed to guide and lead him to a square of the Old Guard Grenadiers.

Capitaine Joseph Martin was limping badly as he led his men back across the bridge where he had been hit by a ricochet. The battalion surgeon had examined him and told him that it was probably some mortar or a brick from the bridge which had injured him, "Had it been a ball, you would not have that leg now."

Sergent Louis Malheur was keeping an eye on his captain, the man was too ready to rush headlong into combat. He looked at Caporal Hervé Deschamps who nodded, then yelled out, "Skirmishers, to me!"

Martin was startled as his men rushed past him, he wanted to go forward with them, but knew he couldn't, not on his bad leg.

Word had come down from battalion that the Prussians had pulled back in the night, having their flank turned down towards Limal had unhinged their position along the Dyle. So they had been ordered forward to prevent the Prussians sneaking back in during the small hours of the morning.

Malheur looked at his captain, "Smells like victory, Sir."

Martin saw the Prussian and French corpses strewn along the street, he shook his head, "It smells like something, Sergent."

Generalleutnant Johann von Thielmann watched as his corps fell back to the next defensible position, which in reality would be just to the east of Brussels. At the very least he could rejoin the main army under Blücher.

As he watched the rear guard cavalry charge at a French unit, he heard a commotion behind him. Turning his horse, he snapped at Clausewitz, "What is the meaning of ..." He noticed that Clausewitz was grinning from ear to ear.

"Herr Generalleutnant, a message from the Field Marshal himself, the Corsican Ogre has been defeated, his army flees even as we speak."

Thielmann took the message, read it, then he too began to smile.

"Have the men stop falling back. We stand here. Soon the French will know that their Emperor has been defeated. I will sacrifice no more men today, if I can help it."

Even as he watched, the French pursuit began to slow, then stop, then began to retreat southwards.

"Shall we pursue, Sir?"

"No, let the old man¹ have that honor. We shall proceed in good time."

The men were in a sullen mood as they fell back from Wavre. Martin had no words to boost their morale. With the Emperor defeated, with his wing of the army shattered, there was no hope that he could see.

The Prussians were not pursuing, which was the only good news that day. For the first time in the campaign, Maréchal de Grouchy began to move with decisiveness and alacrity.

All that was left was to withdraw into France, regroup with I and II Corps and the Garde. Perhaps a stand before Paris was likely.

Joseph Martin resolved to leave the army at his first opportunity. Back to his farm, back to his wife and child. The Emperor was ruined.

¹ Generalfeldmarschall von Blücher.

Tout est fini ...

Imperial Guard Chasseurs at Plancenoit
(Source)

The Chasseurs went down into Plancenoit at the double time, they encountered a number of men from the Young Guard and Lobau's VI Corps, both wounded and healthy, retreating back along the road into the village. Many of them took heart at seeing the Old Guard advancing into action.

Without a word, they went into the village, charging with the bayonet. The Prussians, who were resting after driving Lobau's men and the Young Guard from the village, immediately began to fall back, some, many, began to run.

The laggards were bayoneted without mercy. As the Prussians fled, the Guard stopped and fired a volley into the backs of the retreating enemy.

Sergent Guilbert noticed that many of the French who had been fleeing the burning village, were now filtering back into the ranks and taking up positions in the houses.

"Look alive lads, the bastards will be back. We surprised them, they're not done yet." Capitaine Philippe Pierlot shouted out. "Take cover in the buildings, get ready to meet them with musket fire!"

Guilbert looked around, he saw his old friend, Sergent Pierre Grandchamp to his right, he was bleeding.

"Pierre! Are you hit?"

"It's a scratch, Nicolas! I've had worse."

To their front they heard a shout, "Here they come again!"

Sergeant Hans Pizzeck was just behind the color party, his shako was long gone, his tunic was ripped, torn and filthy - but his musket was in fine shape, as was his bayonet.

As they came down the street, he could see men at the windows, readying to fire at them. Pizzeck almost didn't care, he knew, deep in his bones, that the day was theirs, they had defeated Bonaparte. It was now just a question of driving him and his minions from the field.

Prussian attack on Plancenoit
Adolf Northern
(Source)

"Jesus, there's a lot of the bastards!" Grandchamp called out as he frantically reloaded.

Guilbert aimed then fired, in the resulting smoke he couldn't see if he'd hit anybody, but the Prussians were so packed together he knew he must have hit someone.

"Ahhh ..."

Guilbert looked over, Grandchamp was down. From the amount of blood on his old friend's face, he knew that Pierre had found that death in battle that they all assumed they would find someday.

Sergent Jean-Claude Toussaint came into the room, which was rapidly filling with smoke, the place was on fire. "Time to go, Nicolas! The Capitaine has had it, a lot of the boys are dead or soon will be. We've done all we can here. Let's fall back to the next street."

Reluctantly, Guilbert turned to follow Toussaint. Stopping briefly he leaned over and touched Grandchamp's face, His eyes were staring into eternity, Guilbert knew for certain that his old comrade was dead.

"See you on the other side, Pierre. Wherever that might be."

Then he was out the door.

Pizzeck was lying against a building, he didn't feel so well. Looking down, he could see blood oozing from his midsection. There was no pain at the moment, though he knew that would come.

Hearing the firing and the shouting proceed into the next street, Pizzeck had an odd thought, "I wonder if there has ever been a battle where no one survived."

An officer, a captain he didn't recognize, stopped in front of him, "Sergeant, are you hit?"

Pizzeck lifted the hand he had been holding his gut with, it was soaked with blood.

The captain shook his head and moved on, "That one's a goner."

Pizzeck chuckled weakly, damned officers.

Attack of the Middle Guard at Waterloo
Giuseppe Rava
(Source)

Some of the men were wondering why they weren't heading up the main road to Brussels. Instead they were veering to their left, entering the torn up fields which were choked with dead and dying men and horses.

Maréchal Ney was at their head, riding his fourth horse of the day, the others had all been killed under him. He was exhausted, his hat was long gone, only his red hair made him recognizable to the troops.

"The day is ours! Advance! Vive l'Empereur! Vive la France!" Ney was hoarse, not even his aides could make out what he was saying.

Ney looked to his front, the fields were empty of the living. He saw an abandoned cannon, surrounded by the wreckage of its crew. Then he had the thought, the English are gone. The day is truly ours.

As they crested the ridge, the English appeared almost as if by magic. Ney hesitated, the Guard hesitated, then Hell came upon them.

The 3rd Regiment of Foot Guards (now Scots Guards) at the battle of Waterloo, Jun 18th 1815. Repulsing the final charge of the Old Guard.
Richard Simkin
(Source)

The front rank of Guardsmen went down in a heap, the volley had destroyed them nearly to a man. A few men tried to return fire, the officers were screaming "En avant, à la baïonnette!" But the men's natural inclination was to return fire.

Several men turned to go back down the hill, shouting "Regroup! Regroup!"

But elsewhere on the field, the supporting troops from I and II Corps raised the cry, "The Guard is retreating! We are betrayed!"

Maréchal Ney, having lost another horse, was beating the barrel of an abandoned cannon with his sword. He was screaming incoherently as his aides tried to drag him away.

"We must stand or die!" Ney cried in frustration.

"Monsieur le Maréchal, it is too late for that, the men are fleeing. We must go with them."

In nearly an instant, the Armée du Nord became an undisciplined mob, throwing their weapons away, shedding their packs, anything to help them run faster.

Along Wellington's ridge, the men who had fought for that ground all day, saw the backs of their enemy. Many began to cheer.

The Duke of Wellington, never fond of the troops cheering, called out to the troops, "No cheering lads, go forth and complete your victory!"

Uncharacteristically, the Duke raised his hat to the men. Softly, to himself, he said, "Finish them lads, soon it will be time to count the cost. But for now, enjoy your victory."

The Last Gasp

Napoleon's last grand attack at Waterloo
Ernest Crofts
(Source)

Sergent Nicolas Guilbert watched as the officers began to move the various units of the Imperial Guard into position to assault the opposite ridge. Things were confused for a moment when le Tondu himself arrived, the cheers for the Emperor were deafening.

"Soldiers of France! There lies your enemy," the Emperor actually pointed back to the enemy lines, "there lies the obstacle to peace in Europe. Victory is in our grasp! We march!"

With that the drums began to roll and the 3rd and 4th Regiments of Chasseurs and Grenadiers stepped off behind the Emperor and his staff.

Close behind him, Sergent Pierre Grandchamp mumbled, "What is this? Why are we not moving?"

Indeed, the 1st Chasseurs were caught leaning forward, anticipating the command to march. But nothing, the officers sat their horses and watched the junior regiments step off.

Capitaine Philippe Pierlot came down the column, stopping to talk with his sergeants. Apparently there was a serious threat developing on the army's right flank. Lobau's VI Corps had been reinforced with the Young Guard, but it wasn't enough. The Prussians were breaking through and gradually enveloping the right flank near Plancenoit.

"Nicolas, Pierre, Jean-Claude, le Tondu has ordered our two battalions down into Plancenoit. The Young Guard is retreating with the Prussians hot on their heels." Pierlot looked around as if fearing someone overhearing his words.

"Mon Capitaine, we never believed for an instant that Grouchy was arriving. It could only be the Prussians. The rest of the army might be buying that fairytale, we are not." Guilbert spoke bluntly, he was offended that the Emperor would entertain such an idiotic ploy.

Sergent Jean-Claude Toussaint chimed in, "We should be about it then, the quicker we deal with the threat, the quicker ..."

He was interrupted by the battalion commander ordering the unit forward. Indeed, rather than follow the Middle Guard¹ to the north, the Old Guard Chasseurs turned right, down towards Plancenoit.

At a slight bend in the road, the columns of the Middle Guard veered to the left, they would cross the fields aiming at the Anglo-Allied position just to the left of La Haye Sainte. Many of the veterans were startled to see the Emperor pull his horse off the road and stop. He raised his hat in salute as the Guard marched past.

"I don't like this, De la Bédoyère, I should lead this attack." Napoléon hissed at his aide.

"Sire, what if you are killed? Then the victory will be meaningless."

"Victory, De la Bédoyère, does this look like victory?" the Emperor snapped. Something deep in his gut told him that the day was lost, perhaps irretrievably.

"Les anglais and their hirelings are faltering, I can feel it. We have captured le maison carré,² many of the non-English troops have fled.³ Victory is there for the taking!"

Napoléon placed his famous hat back on his head, grimaced and spurred his mount back in the direction of La Belle Alliance. If the attack failed, he planned to place himself in a square of his Grenadiers and die with them.

Sergeant Fabrice Benoit was screaming at the men firing at his position. They were clearly Prussians, not Frenchmen, why were they attacking him? Already, Soldat Daan Goossens had been killed. The men wanted to fire back, Benoit wouldn't countenance it.

Then he saw their company commander Kapitein Hendrik Dujardin, stride towards the Prussians, screaming at them in German. Which startled them. They hesitated ...

"Gottverdammt! The French are that way," Dujardin bellowed, pointing with his sword. "We are Dutch, you stupid Prussian bastards!"

A Prussian officer rode forth and shouted, "But you are wearing French uniforms!"

In truth, in the waning light the Nassauers' uniforms were cut in the same style as the French. At a distance the shakoes were identical. As the Prussian rode up, he gasped.

"Mein Gott! Your uniforms are green, you are not French. My apologies mein Herr." Then he galloped off to turn his men in the direction of their common enemy.

1st Battalion, 2nd Nassau Regiment
(Source)

For far too many who had fought the French all day long, holding their own, beginning to hope that they might survive, death came from a friend and ally. In the gathering gloom, in the clouds of powder smoke, exhausted men often mistook their targets.

As Brigadier Tomasz Kasprowicz couched his lance and urged an exhausted Liliana up the muddy slope, he looked to either side. The Polish squadron was perfectly aligned, though reduced in number, their morale was still high.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear trooper Jan Kolski bellowing, the man never tired.

As they crested the ridge, the square in front of them seemed to waver, as if they wanted to run. Then a voice screamed out in Dutch...

"Vuur!⁴"

The face of the square vanished in a cloud of powder smoke, in an instant Kasprowicz was next to the terrified looking infantry. Liliana was striking out with her hooves, the men were trying desperately to fend her off.

He impaled a sergeant with his lance, then lost his grip on it as the man fell to the ground. Drawing his sword he began to slash and cut at the enemy. Then Kolski's horse found a gap in the square and rode into the midst of the enemy.

The Poles were slashing and cutting down the infantry, who began to flee, screaming for their lives. Major Paweł Jerzmanowski joined the fray, screaming, "The color! Take the color!"

There it was, guarded by two grizzled veterans and being held aloft by a young ensign who probably wasn't yet shaving. Spurring Liliana forward, Kasprowicz followed Kolski in.

Amazingly Kolski still had his lance, which he used to skewer one of the color guard, the old veteran went down screaming in rage, jerking Kolski out of his saddle.

Before the other veteran could kill the cavalryman, Kasprowicz sword came down on the man's shoulder, cleaving his arm from his body. Kolski came up off the ground and ran the young ensign through.

The young man gasped and loosened his grip on the colors, which Kasprowicz immediately seized. Liliana reared back, her front hooves finished the young ensign.

Kolski was looking for his own horse when both men heard the Major screaming, "With me lads, with me!"

The square was broken, the men were fleeing, Kasprowicz gripped the enemy colors tightly as he rode towards his commander, who he could now see was wounded and without his czapka⁵.

"What the hell are you waiting for Jan? Let's take that color⁶ back to our own lines! Our job is done!" Kolski was riding an enemy officer's horse, a fine animal from the look of him.

Major Jerzmanowski led the remnants of the Polish squadron back down the hill as the battle raged around them. He knew the fight was lost, there just weren't enough men left to drive the English off their ridge and hold the Prussians at bay.

Polish Chevaux-Lègers
Aleksandr Yezhov
(Source)

¹ Napoléon's Imperial Guard were generally broken down into three classes, if you will. The Old Guard, Middle Guard, and Young Guard (Vielle Garde, Moyenne Garde, Jeune Garde) were distinctions of length of service and other considerations. You can read more about it here.

² Many of the French referred to La Haye Sainte by this term, "the square house."

³ A common claim after the battle. English writers often downplay the contributions of the Dutch-Belgian units in their army. Though some of the Allied troops did run, it was because the casualties they had sustained and their relative inexperience caused them to break.

⁴ Fire!

⁵ "Czapka" is simply the Polish word for "cap" (not hat). It was used to refer to the square-topped cap worn by the Lancers of the Imperial Guard at Waterloo.

⁶ Five to six colors were taken by the French at Waterloo. None from British units, to my knowledge. One British color was taken at Quatre Bras, that of the 69th Foot.

Bloody Sideshow

(Source)

Capitaine Joseph Martin fell back with the remnants of his company from the embattled bridge across the Dyle. The Prussians were fighting hard today and they would not be budged. Martin wondered why they didn't bring up the guns and blast the damned Prussians from the buildings they were holding on the far side of the bridge.

It was rapidly getting on towards nightfall and the men were starting to falter. Hard marching and hard fighting over the past few days had worn their courage down to a nub. But they weren't quite ready to quit, so when the drums began to rumble again, they were back on their feet. Ready to give it another go.

Hauptmann Kurt Langanke now found himself in command of his battalion. His men were young, inexperienced Landwehr¹, but they were holding up rather well. The problem was, due to their inexperience, they were taking very serious casualties and the officers and sergeants were continually exposing themselves to enemy fire to prevent that. Causing heavy casualties among the more experienced leaders.

His company was down to perhaps 3o men, the battalion itself mustered no more than 300. As he got the men situated in the buildings near the bridge he heard the French drums. All he could think was, "Not again ..."

Martin was hit somewhere near the middle of the bridge. One moment he was standing, leading his men forward, the next he was face down, wondering how he got there. His ears were ringing and his mouth tasted of copper. Other than the ringing in his ears, it was strangely quiet. The rattle of musketry, the screams of the men all seemed to be far away.

He felt a pang of regret, his wife Marie would be furious to learn that her husband had gotten himself shot while following "that Corsican bastard," as she referred to the Emperor, when he could have stayed home on his farm. Then he thought of his little son Claude, he smiled, then he lost consciousness.

"Where is the Capitaine?" Sergent Louis Malheur was furious, the damned Prussians were starting to fold, the fire from their positions was lessening as French cannon fire began to have an effect on the buildings north of the Dyle.

Caporal Hervé Deschamps looked towards the bridge, without thinking he got up and yelled at Malheur, "There, on the bridge, there is our Capitaine!"

Even as the words left his mouth, he was sprinting towards where he thought he saw his captain, along with Malheur and three other men. Martin was a popular officer.

Martin was dreaming, he was fishing with his father and his son. The day was warm and the sun sparkled on the water. In his dream he saw his old friend René, the dead brother of his wife. René was smiling and waving at him, he was shouting something, Martin couldn't quite make it out.

In the dream he began to wade into the river, his father and little Claude were yelling at him to stop. But he needed to hear what René was saying. As he got into the river up to his waist, he could feel the current pulling at him. He wanted to just let go and let the river take him downstream.

"That's odd," he thought. "How is it possible for René to be standing on the surface of the water?"

With a roar he came awake, he could taste the blood in his mouth and the pain in his left leg. It was no longer quiet, the roar of cannon and the shouts of men, in both German and French, filled the air. Musket shots rang out close by, why was he being manhandled?

Then he heard, "Relax mon Capitaine, we've got you, we'll get you to safety."

Somehow that comforted Martin and he closed his eyes again.

Deschamps quickly checked his captain, he was still alive. Sergent Malheur had torn the captain's trousers open where there was blood seeping through. It wasn't a serious wound at first glance, a bad contusion with a few scrapes, no serious bleeding.

Malheur noticed that the captain was bleeding from the mouth as well, he checked and was relieved to see that he had bitten his tongue pretty badly, but the bleeding was already stopping.

Deschamps spoke, "A ricochet perhaps? A glancing blow from a cannon shot?"

"It would have been nearly at the limit of it's range, unless it was one of ours bouncing back onto the bridge after hitting a house held by the Prussians." Malheur postulated.

Martin woke up, "What is going on? Am I hurt?"

"Lie back, Sir. It looks like you were bruised by a cannon shot, when you fell you bit your tongue." Malheur answered.

Martin tried to get up, Malheur pressed him back down, "Relax Sir, our fight is done for the day, the Prussians have pulled back. Apparently Pajol's cavalry crossed the Dyle further downstream and we've turned the Prussian flank. I think we've won."

"What news of the Emperor?" was Martin's first question.

"Cannon fire can still be heard to the west, but we've heard nothing. Maybe the generals know, but we don't." Malheur spat into the dirt as he said this.

Battle of Wavre
Click to embiggen

Maréchal Grouchy held Soult's letter and paused to think. The letter was marked as having been sent at one in the afternoon, it was after six now. But the orders were the clearest he'd received yet. The Emperor had ordered Grouchy's detachment to immediately march to Mont St. Jean.

As Vandamme's troops were still entangled with the Prussians along the Dyle, he sent a dispatch to Gérard, ordering him to march to the bridge at Limal where Pajol was across in force and screaming for infantry. Grouchy determined that he would go that way as well. He sent another dispatch to Vandamme, leaving him in command of the troops near Wavre.

"Herr General!" Generalleutnant Johann von Thielmann, commanding the Prussian III Corps turned to his chief of staff.

"Yes, Clausewitz, what is it?" Thielmann was very pleased that he had held the French at the Dyle River, they still held the bridges near Wavre.

"The French are across the river at Limal, at first it was just cavalry, but there are strong infantry columns advancing now to support the cavalry."

"Scheiße! What do we have available to reinforce?"

"Oberst Stülpnagel's 12th Brigade² is in that area."

"Have him march at once, throw the French back across the Dyle!"

"Zu befehl!"

As night fell, the Prussians went in with the bayonet at Limal and were thrown back. Had there been more daylight left, it is possible that Grouchy could have rolled up Thielmann's III Corps and destroyed it. As it was, his detachment of the Armée du Nord, though battered, now lay athwart the Prussian lines of communication back to the Rhine.

As the cannonade to the west had faded to silence, many in the French army with Grouchy had high hopes that they would all march on Brussels the next day. After all, the Emperor must have defeated Wellington by now.

Certainly, how could it be otherwise?

¹ Militia-type units formed by an edict of 1814 to call all capable men between 18 and 45, not already serving with the regular army, to the colors. Hastily formed, poorly equipped but they were enthusiastic.

² A Prussian brigade in 1815 was equivalent to a French division.

The Crescendo

Charge de Cavalerie napoléonienne¹
Henri Louis Dupray
(Source)

Brigadier Tomasz Kasprowicz was dismounted, checking one of Liliana's hooves, she had been limping earlier. He found a small stone which he quickly removed.

"There girl, that should help." he stroked the horse's neck affectionately and she nuzzled her rider in return.

Remounting, he heard the trumpets calling once again. He heard Soldat Jan Kolski mutter, "Drogi Jezu, nie znowu.²"

Kasprowicz looked over at Kolski, the man was riding a dragoon mount, he'd lost his own at some time during the charges. He looked terrible, as bad as Kasprowicz felt. Kasprowicz didn't say a word, he knew exactly what Kolski meant. The difference was, this time it appeared that the infantry was going up the ridge with them.

All afternoon the cavalry had flung themselves at the enemy guns and infantry squares. With each assault, fewer men rode back down the hill. Most of the heavies from both Milhaud's and Kellerman's cavalry corps had been drawn into the charges. Guyot's Imperial Guard heavies and then even his own unit, Général de Division Comte Lefebvre-Desnouëttes' Guard light cavalry had joined in.

From what Kasprowicz could see, there were no reserves left. Only the Guard infantry stood in formation near La Belle Alliance, waiting. Every other fresh body of troops had been committed.

Sous-lieutenant Hercule Benoit stood with the remnants of his battalion, he was nearing the limits of his endurance. He now commanded the grenadier company, all twenty-seven of them, all that were left of the one hundred and eleven men who had advanced into Belgium only four days before.

They had been fighting the English and their German allies in the orchard to the east of the farm complex. They had finally managed to drive them from the orchard. Some of the enemy infantry, Benoit thought them to be Nassauers from their green uniforms, fled up the ridge. The red coated English fell back into the formal garden, exacting a heavy toll from the French.

He had seen his brother, Jean-Pierre³, briefly in the morning. After chastising him for being a fool for rejoining Napoléon, his brother had gone ahead and returned to the army himself, to the same regiment he had served in before, the 12th Chasseurs à Cheval. He'd been promoted as well, from Brigadier to Maréchal des logis-chef⁴.

Sous-lieutenant Benoit had been busy fighting around Hougoumont all day and had not seen the massive cavalry charges earlier in the day. When the Emperor's brother, Prince Jérôme, had pulled what was left of his brigade out of the orchard, he had seen the hillside leading up to the ridge covered by the dead and wounded of the cavalry, men and horses. It had stunned him.

Now they were to go up the hill, to support what remained of the cavalry. Why had no one thought of this earlier? Even the greenest of the green knew better than to attack infantry, still in good order, with cavalry only.

"I wonder where my brother is now?" he thought.

Maréchal des logis-chef Benoit sat his mount some 400 paces from where his younger brother stood. He knew the fighting around the big chateau was brutal, he hoped his brother was still among the living.

This was his second horse of the day, his favorite, Cherie, had been killed in the last attack up the hill. His regiment of light cavalry was covering the flanks of the heavy cavalry. He'd had the misfortune to have a howitzer shell explode close by, which had eviscerated poor Cherie.

He had openly sobbed as he had dispatched the poor beast with his pistol. He had started to walk back to the lines when a comrade he'd served with at Leipzig rode up leading an extra horse.

"Jean-Pierre! Take this one!"

As he had mounted the small mare, another light cavalry horse apparently belonging to another chasseur regiment, he wondered what had happened to her former rider. As he and Brigadier Maurice Féret rode back to rejoin their unit, Benoit looked back and saw the many dead and wounded near the crest of the English ridge. No doubt the poor bastard was still up there.

Private James Woodhouse of the 1st Regiment of Foot Guards was lying on the ground. Their officers had bade them lay down to keep them relatively safe from the French cannon fire. His side of the field had not experienced the cavalry charges as they were posted up the ridge from the big chateau, Goomont he'd heard it called.

But guns from the units attacking the chateau had been shooting at the Foot Guards and causing some damage. So now they lay in the muck, awaiting orders.

He could see the officers walking about, which gave him confidence. As he watched one of the captains using a glass to try and make sense of things, his messmate, Harry Thompson, nudged him.

"'Ere, look at that cheeky young bastard Daugherty, I think he's actually asleep!" Thompson said with a grin.

"Let 'im be Harry, we might all be sleeping by tonight, and I mean the long sleep. Daugherty's young, first battle and all. Surprised he can sleep through all this racket."

Both men chuckled and went back to relaxing in the warm mud of the Belgian countryside.

Sergeant Fabrice Benoit, a very distant cousin of Jean-Pierre and Hercule Benoit, had seen the dark uniformed men advancing towards the rear of their position. He thought they might be Prussians, their uniforms didn't look much like the French uniforms, their shakoes were a much different shape and the cloth of their tunics was a very dark blue.

Were these their allies? Come to help them defeat the French, he certainly hoped so. He and his boys were very low on ammunition, a party had been sent back to find some. There were a lot of men moving to the rear Benoit noticed, not all of them wounded.

Again he thought of the irony of it all, he was Dutch, attached to a mostly German-speaking unit in the Dutch army, fighting against the French, who he had been fighting with not two years ago. What a strange world, he thought.

Generalleutnant Hans Ernst Graf von Zieten had his men moving into position near the small hamlet of Smohain. He turned his glass towards the English position.

"Hauptmann von Müller! Are the English retreating? Are we moving into a trap?"

Von Müller turned his own glass towards where the commander of I Corps was looking. He saw what his commander saw, men moving to the rear, some wounded, many looked healthy. The usual dodge of helping a wounded comrade to the rear, accompanied by four or five healthy men.

"It looks like the English are quitting the field, Herr Generalleutnant."

Von Zieten snapped his glass closed in a rage, "Recall the men, we must fall back so that we don't get caught up in this fiasco. Wellington has been defeated, that's the only explanation. Send a message to the Field Marshal, 'English retreating on the forest south of Brussels, recommend we fall back and regroup.' Got it? Off you go then Hauptmann!"

Within minutes, the Prussians that Benoit had seen advancing had fallen back out of sight. He thought that odd, for he could hear cannon fire to the south of his position. Who was attacking who in that direction? Why were the Prussians retreating? He began to consider falling back himself, but the French to his front seemed quiet for the moment.

"What the hell is going on?" he muttered.

Karl Freiherr von Müffling⁵ had received a message that the Prussian troops which had been tying in to the Allied left were now falling back.

"Was für ein Wahnsinn ist das?⁶" he had said aloud.

"Sir?" his British aide, Captain Harold Fisk, asked.

"Von Zieten's corps is in sight of the field, but now he's withdrawing, he has been told that we are defeated!"

Fisk was shaken by the statement, "But Sir, we are not!"

"I know. Come, we must ride to von Zieten and stop his withdrawal, if he does not come up, then we certainly are lost!"

Fisk spurred his horse and followed the Prussian. He thought to inform the Duke, but he and von Müffling were alone for the moment. Fisk wondered where all the other staff officers were. Little did he know, but Wellington's staff had been decimated this day. He was one of the few left upright on the field.

The trumpets sounded, the drums beat the pas de charge and another attack was launched up the British ridge just to the east of Hougoumont.

The field was torn and muddy, corpses and wounded men and animals were strewn about to make it hard not to tread upon them. But the French infantry shouldered their muskets once more, the cavalry drew their sabers and urged their tired mounts forward, many could only maintain a walking pace. The horses were nearly blown, the men exhausted.

Then a rider came galloping down the length of the advance, his hat lifted in the air, waving back and forth as the officer, an Imperial aide-de-camp, shouted, "Nous sommes sauvés! Voila le Maréchal de Grouchy! En avant mes braves! Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'Empereur!⁷"

Immediately shoulders went back, men lifted their chins, a thousand voices bellowed in unison ...

Vive l'Empereur!

The Armée du Nord went up the ridge, the bands played La Victoire est à nous, the men were uplifted. Then the cries were redoubled as many men began to shout, "Vive la Garde Impériale, les immortels marchent avec nous!⁸" French morale soared.

Up on the ridge, Wellington when was informed of this development, he galloped to the point where he assumed the French would arrive. Pulling out his glass, he surveyed the scene. Then he turned to Cathcart ...

"Damn the fellow is a mere pounder after all. Well, we shall see who is left standing. Alert the Guards, I believe Bonaparte means to try his luck here. Go now!"

"Your Grace!"

As Cathcart galloped off, Wellington turned his glass towards La Belle Alliance. He saw the Imperial Guard began to move, for just a moment he felt doubt. Then it passed and he continued to lead his army.

"Come, Copenhagen, let's move to our right a bit more."

As he did so, the men began to cheer, something which always irked him, but for now he'd let them cheer, he doubted that many would live to see the sunset. But he had been informed that the Prussians were in action on his left and were also attacking Bonaparte's rear near Plancenoit.

He stroked his horse's neck and said, "No matter what old fellow, we did our duty this day."

¹ "Charge of French cavalry." Though this painting is not specific to Waterloo, to my knowledge, and it would be unusual for mixed types of cavalry to be charging all together like this, it's a nice image of charging French cavalry.

² Dear Jesus, not again.

³ He started the story as Fabrice Benoit, then I went and gave one of the allied soldiers the exact same name. Seeing the first Fabrice had only a brief mention, I changed his name to Jean-Pierre. Yes. I should fire my editor. (I had to change his brother's name - Pierre became Hercule - as well. Geez ...)

⁴ Cavalry equivalent to a sergeant major in the infantry. For those completely confused with French ranks, see here.

⁵ He was the Prussian liaison officer with Wellington's headquarters.

⁶ What madness is this?

⁷ We are saved! Here is Marshal de Grouchy! Forward my braves! Long live the emperor! Long live the emperor!

⁸ Long live the Imperial Guard, the immortals march with us!