The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon (читаем книги онлайн бесплатно txt) 📗

As the road crested a rise Napoleon saw the sprawling camp of the left wing of his army. There was no sign of any formation ready to advance and do battle. Ahead, astride the crossroads, he could see the thin red blocks of Wellington’s army, interspersed with artillery batteries as they stood ready to defend their position. Beyond, in the distance, he could see more columns, moving in the direction of Brussels. Napoleon felt his stomach knot in fury as he beheld the scene, and he dug his spurs in sharply as he galloped on.

A mile later the road passed through an infantry regiment. The men were sitting quietly around their camp fires where pots of stew simmered, suspended beneath the iron cooking tripods. The pounding of hooves drew the attention of the closest men and they sprang to their feet as they recognised the Emperor, but the first cheers died in their throats as Napoleon reined in and shouted at them.‘What the hell is this? What are you doing here? To arms, you fools!You there!’ Napoleon thrust his finger towards the nearest sergeant.‘Find your colonel. You tell him the Emperor wants this regiment formed up and ready to march in ten minutes. If it isn’t I’ll have him shot. And pass the word on to other units!’

‘Yes, sire!’The sergeant saluted stiffly then turned to bellow orders to his men. Napoleon rode on, ignoring the other regiments he galloped through as he sought out Ney’s headquarters. By the time he reached the farm a mile south of the crossroads his mount was blown, and its flanks heaved like bellows as Napoleon climbed down from the saddle and walked stiffly to confront Marshal Ney.

‘Why are you not attacking the enemy?’ he snapped.

Ney’s face flushed red, and he opened his mouth to respond angrily, but controlled his temper just enough to growl back,‘I have not had any fresh orders to attack, sire. Not since I sent you my report of yesterday’s action.’

‘Orders? You do not need orders when you can see for yourself the need for action!’ Napoleon clenched his hands tightly. ‘Dear God, Wellington is all that stands between us and victory and you sit here on your arse and give him every opportunity to escape. Are you mad, Ney?’

‘No, sire.’

‘Then you must be a fool.’ Before Ney could respond to the insult Napoleon continued bitterly,‘Form your men up to attack. We can only hope that we can still catch Wellington before he slips away. Get to it, Ney. There is not a moment to waste!’ Napoleon turned away from his marshal, and found that he was facing General d’Erlon.

‘France has been ruined,’ Napoleon said bitterly. ‘Go, General. Place yourself at the head of your cavalry and make ready to pursue the enemy’s rearguard.’

It took nearly an hour for Ney’s forces to prepare for battle. In that time the haze had spread across the land and now dark clouds were closing up on the crossroads. The air felt hot and clammy and made Napoleon’s mood worse. He could only watch helplessly as, one by one, the regiments of Wellington’s line pulled back and joined the retreat.

Quatre Bras, 2.30 p.m.

‘Looks like we’re in for quite a storm,’ Uxbridge commented as he looked up at the dark clouds edging overhead.

Arthur nodded absent-mindedly. His attention was fixed on ground to the south of the crossroads. He had been expecting the French to renew their attack all morning, and yet nothing had happened. The army had started to withdraw towards Mont-St-Jean long before midday and now only the rearguard remained. Uxbridge’s cavalry, together with Mercer’s horse artillery and the rocket batteries, were all that stood between the crossroads and the enemy. At last, a few minutes earlier, he had heard the sound of bugles coming from the direction of the French and the men of the rearguard waited in tense expectation for first sight of the enemy.

A sudden breeze had picked up, swirling through the heads of the remaining clumps of rye in the fields that had been trampled the day before. The wind was cool and refreshing after the close stillness of the morning and early afternoon. A shadow engulfed the rearguard’s position and swallowed them up in its gloom. Then Arthur felt the first drop of rain strike his cheek.

‘Now we’re for it,’ Uxbridge muttered. ‘Aprиs зa, le dйluge.’

‘Very funny,’ Arthur commented. ‘But I suspect we’re in for a storm of a different kind any minute.’ Half a mile to the south there was a rise in the land where the Prince of Orange’s brigade had been mauled. The ground there and beyond was still bathed in brilliant sunshine. As Arthur watched, a lone figure on a white horse galloped on to the rise and halted to survey the British position. The grey coat and bulky bicorne hat were unmistakable and he heard Uxbridge take a sharp breath beside him.

‘By God, that’s him!’ Uxbridge exclaimed. ‘That’s Boney.’

‘Indeed,’ Arthur replied, struck by the drama of the vision before him. The contrast in light made the French Emperor seem much closer than he really was. Arthur watched as Bonaparte scrutinised the rearguard and then looked, it seemed, directly at Arthur, though he knew he must be virtually indistinguishable from his men in the gloom. More horsemen appeared, in gold-embroidered uniforms, and halted just behind Bonaparte as they too surveyed the silent men defending the crossroads.

‘Your grace!’ a voice called out, and Arthur turned to see Captain Mercer waving a hand to attract his attention.

‘What is it?’

Mercer pointed towards the distant horsemen. ‘I believe they might be in range for case shot, your grace. May I have your permission to fire?’

‘Why not?’ said Uxbridge eagerly. ‘Strike him down and the war is as good as over.’

Arthur stared at his enemy. Uxbridge was right. But there was the danger that Bonaparte’s death might well turn him into a martyr and provoke his men into a furious desire for revenge. He shook his head.

‘Save your powder to cover the retreat.’

‘Sir?’

‘Do as I order, Captain!’

Mercer turned away from his commander with a shrug and stared towards the enemy. Arthur was aware of a dull rumble and then he saw the flicker of red and white pennants as a squadron of enemy lancers appeared a short distance to the Emperor’s right. More lancers appeared, and then cuirassiers, as the rise filled with horsemen. At that moment there was a dazzling burst of white, followed instantly by a metallic crash of thunder, and the horses started in panic. Raindrops, small and hard like fowlshot, lashed down from the sky. The darkness abruptly engulfed the French cavalry and swept on as the storm burst over the countryside.

Arthur cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘This will serve us well. Uxbridge, give the order to withdraw. Horse artillery first, then the rockets and then your cavalry.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘I’ll see you later,’ said Arthur. ‘Find me at Waterloo.’

Tugging on his reins, Arthur turned his horse and urged it into a canter as he rode up to the crossroads and joined the road leading to Brussels. The rain was already pooling on the surface of the road and glistening amid the grass on either side. If the downpour continued for any length of time it would turn the ground into a muddy morass, Arthur realised. So much the better, as it would surely hinder any pursuit that the enemy attempted. The flat thuds of Mercer’s battery caused him to turn back one last time and a moment later the first of the rockets hissed through the storm and burst over the enemy cavalry. Arthur watched a moment longer, and then spurred his horse down the road to re-join his army.

Chapter 59

Le Caillou, 9.00 p.m., 17 June 1815

The storm continued without let-up for the rest of the afternoon and on into the night, swiftly turning the surface of every road and track into thick mud that sucked at the boots, hooves and wheels of the Army of the North. Napoleon had continued his pursuit of the enemy at the head of Ney’s cavalry. The afternoon had been spent in a series of running skirmishes as the British mounted a staggered retreat to protect their guns, and slow down the French. As dusk fell, Napoleon had reached the farmhouse and called a brief halt while the long tail of his army struggled to catch up. When the first elements of the imperial headquarters arrived and started to prepare the Emperor’s quarters, Napoleon gathered some cavalry together and continued a short distance down the road. Ahead lay the dark mass of a low ridge. Napoleon squinted into the downpour and turned to the cavalry commander at his side.