The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon (читаем книги онлайн бесплатно txt) 📗
‘We’ll not survive another such attack,’ Arthur muttered soberly. ‘In any case, look there.’
He pointed towards La Haye Sainte and his aides followed the direction indicated. A handful of men, the survivors of the garrison, were trotting back towards the ridge above the farmhouse. Emerging from the buildings behind them came the first of the French soldiers, cheering as they fired shots at their retreating enemy. The men of the King’s German Legion did not stop to fire back.
‘They’re running for it,’ an aide said coldly.
‘Their ammunition must be exhausted,’ Somerset suggested. ‘They had to quit the farmhouse, or die there.’
‘It might have been better if they did,’ Arthur responded. ‘Anything to delay Bonaparte.’
The officers were silent for a moment as they watched a figure appear on the roof of La Haye Sainte’s stables, waving a tricolour from side to side in triumph. As Arthur stared at the fallen strongpoint, and the French forces gathering behind it, he knew that Bonaparte was preparing for one last assault on the allied line. Arthur’s reserves had been thrown into the battle. The men that remained had been under fire since noon.
‘What shall we do, your grace?’ asked Somerset. ‘Shall I order a fresh brigade to retake La Haye Sainte?’
‘Yes, we must do that. It will be a bloody business but we can’t afford to lose the farmhouse. If it remains in French hands then all we can do is hold the ridge, or die where we stand.’
‘If we fail to retake it, what are your orders?’
‘There are no more orders,’ Arthur replied flatly. He stared towards the east where the first gloom of dusk was gathering on the horizon, partially obscured by the smoke of battle from the direction of the village of Plancenoit.‘The night must come,’ he said softly.‘Or Blьcher.’
Chapter 63
La Belle Alliance, 6.30 p.m.
‘Ney has taken the farmhouse!’ Soult exclaimed. ‘Sire, we have La Haye Sainte. Look.’
Soult pointed to the French flag waving above the barn. Ney had already ordered some guns forward and they had begun to scourge the redcoats on the crest of the ridge, less than three hundred paces away. Soult held out Ney’s scribbled report. ‘He asks for reinforcements, sire. Wellington is beaten. One more attack and the day is ours, he says.’
‘Ney says so?’ Napoleon sneered. The ground around the farmhouse was carpeted with French bodies, as was the slope between the farmhouse and the end of the walled garden of Hougoumont. ‘The proof of Marshal Ney’s wisdom lies there for all to see. He has squandered our entire force of cavalry on his useless attacks. And then thrown Foy’s division away. So you’ll understand why I might begin to question the good marshal’s judgement.’
Soult looked across the valley to the ridge, where spouts of earth leaped into the air as more of the French guns resumed their fire on the allied line. ‘Perhaps Ney is right this time, sire. He needs more men.’
‘More men?’ Napoleon threw his hands up bitterly. ‘Where do you expect me to get them from? Do you want me to make some?’
Soult closed his mouth and looked down, enduring his master’s wrath.
‘Ney has undone us. Just as he did at Jena. Besides, we have other matters to deal with.’ Napoleon turned to the map table and indicated the eastern half of the battlefield. Lobau’s corps had attacked the head of the Prussian column and been forced to fall back, giving up the village of Plancenoit. Napoleon had immediately sent in the Young Guard to drive the Prussians out. Shortly before Ney had taken the farmhouse, news arrived that Plancenoit was once more in Prussian hands, no more than a thousand paces from the road to Charleroi. Unless Blьcher’s soldiers could be halted, there was a danger that the Army of the North would be surrounded. Only the six battalions of the Middle Guard and eight of the Old Guard, eight thousand men in all, remained in the army’s reserve.
‘We must stop the Prussians first,’ Napoleon announced. ‘Keep two battalions of the Guard back as a final reserve. Send the rest to form a line in front of Plancenoit. Have them form square in case the Prussians send cavalry forward. Then order two battalions of the Old Guard to retake the village.’
‘Two battalions?’ Soult shook his head. ‘Duhesme estimated that there were over ten battalions facing him at the village.’
‘That may be, but two is all I can spare. They know what is at stake and they will do their duty. See to it.’
Soult nodded reluctantly and dictated the order to one of his aides. As the officer rode off, down the road beside which the finest soldiers of the army stood waiting, Napoleon examined the map again. The recapture of Plancenoit would give him a reprieve only. If it was done, then there might still be time to beat Wellington. If he was routed then the remnants of the French army could wheel east and hold the Prussians at bay while Grouchy marched on their rear during the night. Napoleon felt a nervous sickness in his stomach at the great peril that threatened to engulf him. He tried to thrust it from his mind, turning away from the map and clenching his hands together behind his back as he stared towards Plancenoit.
Within half an hour of the order the sound of firing from the village intensified and Napoleon and his staff waited anxiously for news of the outcome. They were not kept long as one of Duhesme’s officers came galloping up. He reined in and bowed his head to Napoleon.‘Sire, I have the honour to report that the Old Guard have driven the Prussians back. Plancenoit is back in our hands.’
‘Very well.’ Napoleon turned to Soult. ‘Recall the reserves and have them formed up to the right of the inn. We have one last chance to finish Welligton. There.’ He pointed to the ridge, where the cavalry had charged earlier. The artillery that Ney had brought forward had annihilated two brigades of Dutch troops sent forward to retake the farmhouse of La Haye Sainte, and were now tearing into the nearest British formations.
‘Order every available man forward,’ Napoleon ordered. ‘Turn every gun on to the enemy.’
The weary men of d’Erlon’s corps and those of General Reille who had rallied to their standards cheered the nine battalions of the Guard that had been ordered to advance. With drums beating the veterans stepped out proudly, the grenadiers in their tall bearskins leading the way, while four batteries of horse guns followed the formation. Napoleon strode to his horse and a groom helped him up into the saddle. Taking the reins he spurred his mount into a trot and made his way down the road before cutting across to take up position ahead of the Guard. His heart filled with a defiant pride as he approached the bottom of the vale and began the approach to the ridge.
A drumming of hooves to his left made Napoleon turn to look and he saw Ney galloping across towards him, followed by the handful of staff officers who had survived the earlier charges.
‘Sire, what are you doing?’ Ney frowned as he reined in beside the Emperor.
‘I am doing what I should have done from the start of the battle. Leading my men from the front.’
‘You will be killed, sire.’
‘It is possible.’
‘You must not fall here, sire. For the sake of France. While you live, there is hope.’
‘Hope? What hope?’ Napoleon asked blankly.
Ney leaned over and took the reins from him. For an instant Napoleon was tempted to snatch them back, but he hesitated. Then his resolve to lead the final attack of the day, perhaps the final attack of his life, faded.
‘Take the Emperor back to the inn,’ Ney ordered, handing the reins to one of his aides, who led the horse back through the gap between the two leading battalions of the Guards. One of the veterans raised a cheer. ‘Long live Napoleon!’ and the others joined in at once, and continued until he had passed through the formation. Then they set their faces towards the ridge and fell silent as they marched forward.
