‘Then let us go there.’
The party turned onto the eastbound road and rode at a brisk pace. When they were close to Sombreffe they met a British liaison officer who offered to guide them to Blücher. He took them to a windmill that had wooden stairs leading up to a viewing platform – probably constructed by the Prussian engineers, Kit guessed, since windmills did not normally have viewing platforms.
There was not enough room on the platform for all of Wellington’s entourage, but he told Kit to follow him because he knew Kit spoke a little German.
Blücher was in his early seventies, with receding white hair and an enormous brown moustache. He was said to be a rough diamond, having little education but a shrewd military brain. He had theflushed cheeks of a heavy drinker, and a large curved pipe was clenched between his teeth. Wellington greeted him amiably and seemed to like him, which surprised Kit: the duke could be fastidious about his acquaintances.
Blücher was using a telescope to look south-west. Wellington took out his own spyglass and pointed it in the same direction. The two men spoke French with a few English words mixed in, occasionally asking for a translation. Kit felt his German was really not good enough, and feared he would be useless, but in the end he managed well enough.
Without taking his telescope from his eye Blücher said: ‘French troops.’
‘About five miles away,’ Wellington said.
‘I see two columns.’
‘On a country road.’
‘Approaching Ligny.’
They agreed that Bonaparte had split his army in two at Charleroi. The part they were seeing was chasing the Prussians; the rest was almost certainly on the coal road. There was no way to know the different strengths of the two parts, but Blücher felt most of the French were here, and Wellington agreed. After some discussion – not all of which Kit followed – it was decided that Wellington would bring the greater part of his army from Quatre Bras to Ligny to reinforce the Prussians.
Kit felt relieved. At least they had a plan.
But the plan fell apart almost immediately.
While they were riding back the way they had come, they began to hear the boom of distant artillery. The sound came from the west, the direction in which they were heading, which meant there was a battle at Quatre Bras.
Wellington spurred his horse –a magnificent beast called Copenhagen – and the rest of the party struggled to keep up with him.
Nearing Quatre Bras, they ran into musket fire that came from their left, south of the road. Kit ducked his head and the party veered right, off the road and into the woods to the north. As far as he could tell no one was hit, but they were forced to slow down.
The presence of French troops so close to the road was bad news. Clearly the enemy had gained ground since this morning.
Wellington’s sangfroid was severely tested as they struggled to hurry the horses through the undergrowth while listening helplessly to the sounds of heavy fighting ahead.
At last they reached the Quatre Bras crossroads and gained a clear view of the battlefield. Only a thousand yards to the south, the combat looked fierce on both sides of the coal road. The French line extended north-east all the way to the village of Piraumont, bordering the Ligny road, which explained the musket fire.
It occurred to Kit that if the French could hold that village, they would control the eastbound road and could prevent Wellington and the Anglo-Dutch army from joining forces with the Prussians; whereupon Wellington’s objectives for the day would become impossible.
Kit was dismayed. He was used to Wellington being always master of the situation. But Wellington had not changed: the difference was that he was now up against an enemy general of his own calibre. Bonaparte was a military genius to match Wellington. It’s a battle of giants, Kit thought; I wonder whether I’ll live to see who wins.
Wellington quickly resumed command and said: ‘Our task now is to wipe out the French force here so that we can march to Ligny and reinforce the Prussians.’
He ordered the 95th Rifle Regiment to liberate Piraumont, then turned his attention to the main battle.
It was going badly. The French had taken the farmstead on the coal road and seemed on the point of overwhelming the Anglo-Dutch force. Kit felt despair: everything was going wrong so quickly.
But more troops seemed to be arriving. The 95th Rifles were the vanguard of General Picton’s division, and now the rest were appearing. Wellington disliked Picton, a bad-tempered Welshman who failed to show the deference owed to an English duke. However, everyone was glad to see him now, and Wellington ordered him to throw his forces into the fray immediately.
But French reinforcements arrived too, and the attackers edged closer, yard by yard, to the strategically vital crossroads.
When yet more British troops arrived at five o’clock, Wellington counter-attacked and drove the French back – but too slowly. And the French retained control of Piraumont. Wellington was pinned down, unable to join the Prussians.
Kit ran with messages from Wellington to the front-line commanders and back. As always in battle, he forgot that he might be killed at any moment.
He kept an eye open for the 107th Foot, saw Joe Hornbeam running into the trees to the west, and concluded that the Kingsbridge troops were engaged in the woods; but he did not see his mother.
The battle surged to and fro. Men were maimed and died screaming, and the wheat was trampled to ruin. The women brought ammunition and gin to the front line, and went back dragging the wounded to the surgeons’ tent. In doing so several women were mutilated by indiscriminate cannonballs and random musket fire, but Kit did not see Sal among them.
