The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon (читаем книги онлайн бесплатно txt) 📗
Through his telescope Napoleon watched the progress of the attacks across the stream as his men fought to gain control of the villages covering the bridges and fords. The enemy fire was withering and the soldiers following the tricolours were being scythed down as they advanced. Yet their morale never faltered and the cheers for their country and their Emperor carried back faintly but clearly to Napoleon as he watched the bloody struggle.
Soult was at Napoleon’s side and muttered, ‘Our men are taking heavy punishment, sire.’
‘As are the enemy,’ Napoleon replied. ‘We just need Blьcher to commit his full strength to the fight, and the Guard and Ney will deal the decisive blows.’ Napoleon lowered his telescope and focused his mind on the surrounding landscape once again. It would be as well to spur Ney on, to ensure that his men reached the battlefield in time to strike as hard a blow to the enemy as possible.
He turned to Soult. ‘Send a message to Ney. Tell him the battle is in full swing. He is to manoeuvre immediately in such a way as to envelop Blьcher’s right and fall upon his rear. Tell him the fate of France is in his hands.’
Soult nodded as he finished scribbling down the message in his notebook and then hurried over to his aides to have the note rewritten in a fair hand. A moment later a despatch rider spurred his horse into a gallop and headed west towards Quatre Bras. Napoleon turned his attention back to the vicious struggle along the banks of the stream and noted with satisfaction that the first of the villages had fallen into French hands as a tricolour appeared in the tower of the church.
‘Sire!’ Soult called out as he trotted over from where his staff sat hunched over their campaign desks, dealing with the constant flow of reports and orders. He held up a scrap of paper. ‘From Ney.’
‘Well?’
‘He reports that he is engaging Wellington at Quatre Bras. He estimates their number at twenty thousand, with more sighted approaching the crossroads.’
‘Damn.’ Napoleon pressed his lips together. This was unexpected. ‘Tell Ney to continue to fight for control of the crossroads, but detach d’Erlon’s corps to make the attack on Blьcher’s flank. I need every man here. Every man.’
‘What about Lobau’s corps?’ Soult asked.
‘Lobau?’
‘At Charleroi, sire.’
Napoleon turned on his chief of staff. ‘What the hell are they doing at Charleroi?’
‘They have no orders, sire,’ Soult explained. ‘You made no mention of them this morning.’
‘I made no mention?’ Napoleon’s face drained of blood as he raged, ‘You fool, Soult! You idiot! What use is Lobau’s ten thousand in Charleroi? Send for them. At once, do you hear? Now get out of my sight.’
He turned away from his chief of staff before he gave in to the temptation to strike the man. An entire corps of his army was sitting uselessly as the decisive battle of the campaign was being fought. Lobau had little chance of arriving in time to make a difference. The outcome of the day rested on Ney’s shoulders. Napoleon turned and stared west for a moment, in the direction of Quatre Bras. If he could not have Ney, then at least d’Erlon’s corps would swing the balance here in Napoleon’s favour. There was still a good chance of destroying Blьcher and his army.
Quatre Bras, 3.00 p.m.
The Prince of Orange greeted Arthur and Somerset with a cheery wave as they galloped up to his line. The ‘Young Frog’, as he was known to Arthur’s officers thanks to his bulging eyes and thick lips, had drawn his two brigades up on a rise half a mile in front of the crossroads. The rolling land surrounding Quatre Bras, and the high crops of rye, obscured the view of the allied troops, and that of the French to the south. So far it had worked in the allies’ favour, as the enemy could not have realised how few men stood before them. Otherwise, Arthur realised, they would have swept the two Dutch brigades aside.
‘My dear Duke!’ The Prince grinned. ‘A pleasure to see you, sir.’
‘And you too, your highness.’ Arthur touched the brim of his hat. ‘What is the situation here?’
‘Calm enough. The French had left us alone until an hour or so ago. Then we heard their drums. Since then, they have contented themselves with sending forward some skirmishers to take those farms.’The Prince turned and indicated two small clusters of buildings to the south. ‘They’re also fighting my light infantry in the woods, to our right there.’
As Arthur and Somerset followed the direction indicated a fresh crackle of muffled musket fire sounded from the trees. In the distance the dull thunder of artillery at Ligny could be heard. The Prince cocked his head towards the east.‘I take it that Marshal Blьcher has engaged the enemy?’
‘Indeed.’ Arthur agreed. ‘I spoke to him less than two hours ago, just as the battle began. Unless we are attacked first, it is my intention to march the army to his support.’
‘Bravo!’The Prince nodded. ‘The Corsican pig will soon be on the run, eh?’
‘That is my fervent hope, your highness. But first we must secure control of the crossroads.’
They were interrupted by a fresh exchange of musket fire in the woods, far closer this time. Figures emerged from the treeline, running back towards the Prince of Orange’s position. Some had lost their hats, and others had abandoned their muskets. They disappeared into the rye and only the swirls of the tall stalks marked their passage. Behind them came the first of the French skirmishers, advancing out of the woods towards the right of the Dutch brigade. To the south, approaching through more of the crops, Arthur could make out another line of skirmishers, and behind them a shimmering mass of bayonets. A moment later the crested helmets of cuirassiers appeared to the left, working their way towards the vital Namur road that linked the two allied armies.
‘We are in some difficulty, your grace,’ said Somerset as he watched the enemy approach.
‘I have eyes,’ Arthur snapped. He turned in his saddle and stared up the road leading to Brussels. A British column was approaching, at its head the unmistakable figure of General Picton in his black coat and top hat, looking for all the world like an undertaker. ‘Ride to Picton. Tell him to send one of his officers back down the road. He is to tell every formation he encounters that they must march for Quatre Bras as swiftly as they can!’
Without waiting to salute, Somerset spurred his horse into a gallop and raced towards the oncoming British soldiers. By the time he had returned to his commander Arthur was watching the steady progress of the French as they emerged from the wood and began to drive back the Dutch brigade on the right. On the left the French cavalry were forming a line to charge. Arthur could see the first of the Dutch troops beginning to waver as they saw the danger. Some of the men began to step back, disordering the line, and then the first abruptly turned and ran, dropping his musket and then wriggling out of the straps of his backpack as he fled. Arthur glanced back to see that Picton’s leading regiment, the Ninety-second, Highlanders, were deploying into a line a few hundred yards behind the Prince of Orange’s position. More regiments were advancing to extend the line, and over to the left another column, in the black uniforms of the Brunswickers, was striking out towards the left, to support the wavering Dutch.
‘This is going to be a close fight,’ Arthur muttered.
‘Oh, you need not worry, sir,’ the Prince of Orange responded cheerfully. ‘My men will stand their ground.’
‘I hope so.’
The shrill cry of bugles sounded and an instant later the French cavalry advanced, crushing the rye stalks under them as they closed on the Dutch brigade. A few shots rang out as a handful of men were too nervous to wait for the order to fire, then more followed, and a long ragged volley consumed the Dutch soldiers in a bank of powder smoke. For a moment they could not see the approaching cavalry, but they could hear them well enough and feel the vibration of hooves through the ground beneath their boots. It proved too much for the inexperienced soldiers and the brigade broke, streaming back towards the crossroads.
