Darcy's Journey (22 page)

47

Sunday 18
^th
June,
7.00 am

Darcy rode with Colonel Fitzwilliam along
the edge of a cornfield, to the west of Waterloo. They had risen at dawn, after
overnighting in Brussels, and taken a road due south for an hour. Heavy rain on
Saturday evening left the ground so mired that the roads near Waterloo were blocked,
obliging them to detour into the adjoining fields to avoid a queue of carts
struggling through the mud. The rain stopped during their ride, but with mist
rising from the sodden corn, visibility remained poor.

After discussion they had left Burgess
in Brussels, with the Viscount’s servants; his instructions were to await news
of the battle, and if the French won, to go immediately to Antwerp, ready to accompany
Elizabeth by boat to England if the French advanced further north, or if Darcy
for whatever reason was unable to join them.

The British had taken their stand on the
north side of the Mont St Jean ridge, just below Waterloo. To reach them coming
from the south, the French would have to march uphill through pastures and
fields of rye. Three outposts near the top of this slope had been fortified. To
the west was the chateau of Hougoumont, a large country house concealed by
trees. In the centre stood a walled farmhouse called La Haye Sainte, adjoining
the main road to Brussels, and hence a vital position. Finally, to the east,
lay a hamlet where troops could easily be garrisoned. Darcy had memorised these
locations the evening before, from a detailed local map, but for the 52
^nd
regiment the key area was the reverse slope behind Hougoumont, for it was here,
hidden from the advancing enemy, that they were encamped.

As they crossed another field, Darcy
caught his first sight of their objective, a mass of tents looming out of the
mist. He quivered with foreboding as they approached, and the reality of the
situation hit home. The camp had been pitched near farm buildings at the foot
of the slope, and included stores of food and weaponry, a field hospital, and
improvised accommodation for camp followers.

They tethered their horses and walked to
a cluster of tents, mounted side by side to enclose a large area. Inside,
officers milled around talking, while others sat at folding tables writing
messages. Colonel Fitzwilliam took an empty desk in a corner, and shifted two
barrels for use as chairs.

‘Darce, I must leave now to confer with
the Lieutenant General. For the next few hours we will probably be kicking our
heels, so I suggest you look around, and introduce yourself to the surgeons and
other duty officers.’

Darcy swallowed, reminded incongruously
of his first day at Harrow.

To begin with, Darcy checked
paperwork, which included names of the officers in the regiment and the men in
each battalion. After the battle they would have to log the casualties, and
prepare statistics for headquarters and letters for the families. He put the
registers aside and walked to a hospital area where surgeons were setting out
instruments amid stacks of blankets, stretchers, and bandaging.

Like the surgeons, Darcy wore a scarlet
uniform with red piping; his cylindrical cap held a cockade—the black ribbon
shaped into the wheel that marked medical staff. During the battle, his main
duty was to organise convoys that would transport supplies to the dressing
stations further up the ridge, and bring back wounded soldiers. He had not
realised that these tasks would be left to an unofficial band of
camp-followers, often wives and other relatives of the men. Another duty was to
organise the transfer of seriously injured men to local villages or hospitals
in Brussels; for this purpose, a motley collection of carriages and bullock
carts was assembling beside the road, including some he had hired himself the
previous day.

Strolling to the edge of the encampment
he found a group out of uniform, mostly women, their small children running
around the makeshift tents. One or two had set up stalls where soldiers queued
to buy tobacco or brandy. Outside he spotted a man in gentleman’s attire, who
was seated on a rock scribbling in a notebook.

‘Good morning.’ Darcy bowed and
introduced himself. ‘I was co-opted at the last minute as an adjutant.’

‘James Herrick.’ The man slipped a
pencil into the spine of the notebook. ‘I work for the
Times
of London.
Have you news from the front?’

‘No. You?’

‘We had a report half an hour ago that
Wellington is visiting our positions at the front, after staying up most of the
night writing letters to other commanders. He is relying on the Prussians to
protect our left flank, while the Dutch help us hold the right. The problem is
whether the Prussians will arrive in time. Luckily Bonaparte is not yet marching.
Our spies say he slept in a house three miles away, and is still there.’

‘I will leave you to your work.’

They nodded to one another and Darcy
moved on.

Two hours later, Darcy was back at
his desk when the artillery opened fire. He had met some of the officers, and
accompanied one up a path to the nearest dressing station, even venturing to
the crest of the ridge where they saw British infantry garrisoned inside the
walls of the chateau of Hougoumont, and several lines of reinforcement behind.
In the distance, in the clearing mist, he could just make out a vast mass of
dark blue as the French armies began their advance.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned from
headquarters with the news that the right and centre were now firm, allowing a
retreat seawards if necessary, but the left flank would remain weak until the
Prussians arrived. It was expected that Bonaparte would attack down the centre,
so as to separate the British from the Prussians and control the main road into
Brussels.

The explosions of cannon were shockingly
loud, but still distant. The men remained calm, but a buzz went round when news
came of a French advance towards the chateau. Darcy joined a group of officers
discussing the significance of this move. Why attack Wellington’s right flank
instead of the centre? Was it the main target, or was this a diversion?

There was a collective gasp as a
thunderous roar came from nearby.

‘Our guns,’ Colonel Fitzwilliam shouted.
‘The French infantry must be in range.’

The deafening clatter continued, making
it difficult to speak or even think. An officer grabbed Darcy’s arm.

‘Can you help? An overturned cart is
blocking the path to the dressing station.’

‘Shall I go?’ Colonel Fitzwilliam
shouted.

‘You are needed here,’ Darcy shouted
back.

Darcy rounded up a dozen camp followers
and rode ahead up the track. Just a hundred yards from the dressing station, a
bullock cart had hit a deep rut in the mud and twisted on its side, spilling
three wounded men who now lay at the verge. Two soldiers and a local driver had
unyoked the ox, but were struggling to shift the cart. When Darcy added his
weight, the cart moved a little, then fell back. He told them to save their
energy, and attended to the men. All had musket wounds, roughly bandaged. One
man with a head injury was unconscious; one had taken a ball in his ribs; the
other, in his shoulder.

There were cries from below as camp
followers joined them, and cheerfully swarmed around the cart. A massive heave
not only righted the cart but nearly tipped it over the other way. The soldiers
carefully reloaded their comrades, while Darcy inspected the rut which had
caused the accident.

‘Stop!’ He ran down the hill, yelling at
the retreating camp followers. ‘Come here!’

They trooped back, and he counted six
men, two boys, and five women, one of them pregnant.

‘We must repair the path!’ He jumped
over a ditch into the adjoining field, and scooped up an armful of clay and
stones from the border. ‘Pack the hole until it is level and firm.’

The boys caught on, and set to work with
enthusiasm. Striding downhill, Darcy noticed other spots where the track would
become impassable.
They should have thought of this before!
But there
was still time. He snapped off posts from a rotting fence and dug them into the
roadside to mark ruts that needed filling.

48

Sunday 18
^th
June,
6.00 pm

Darcy stumbled into the officers’ tent,
breathless from another sortie to the forward dressing station. He spotted his
cousin buckling on his sabre and went to meet him.

‘News?’

‘The first and second waves have done
their best. Now it’s our turn.’

‘What are your orders?’

‘The French have almost gained La Haye
Sainte farmhouse and are advancing up the centre. We are to form squares ready
to attack from the flank.’

Darcy slapped his arm lightly. ‘Good
luck, cuz.’

‘You look dead beat. Get a drink and sit
down.’

Darcy scooped a mug of tea from an urn
and sat on the straw, leaning his back against a barrel. From the next tent
came screams as surgeons performed their gruesome work. Attacks against
Hougoumont had continued the whole day, yet miraculously it had held. On one
occasion French infantry had broken through a gate into the courtyard, only to
be trapped and cut down when British soldiers swarmed to the breach and re-secured
it.

But the main battle had shifted to the
centre. In early afternoon, a massive infantry attack up the Brussels road
threatened La Haye Sainte. This was repulsed temporarily when British cavalry
charged over the ridge and down the hill. But the French reformed, and responded
two hours later with a cavalry charge of their own. Wave after wave attacked;
the British could only defend and hope that the Prussians would get past the French
in the east, and come to their aid.

Among the departing officers, the mood
was sombre. Despite heroic resistance by the troops at the front, the battle
was almost lost. During the next hour the French would probably overrun the
British centre, after which there would be a rout.

There was no more news, but judging
from the numbers of wounded, the fighting was still intense. Carts moved in
convoys up and down the slope, and as the path dried out, fewer repairs to the
road were needed.

‘Sir!’ Darcy saw the Times correspondent
Mr Herrick approaching. ‘May I accompany you on this run?’

Darcy pointed to a pile of stretchers.
‘Give me a hand with these.’

The journalist pocketed his notebook and
they finished loading the cart.

Darcy yelled, ‘Have you a horse?’

‘At the back.’

‘Catch us up.’

Darcy mounted, and rode ahead of the
convoy to ensure the path was clear. At the dressing station, twenty men
waited. Carefully he helped load three soldiers with grapeshot wounds.

Herrick arrived at his side. ‘Can we go
further up?’

‘Too risky.’

Darcy was on the point of remounting
when a woman ran screaming towards him. ‘Sir! Help!’

He recognised the pregnant wife who had
helped repair the road. ‘What is it?’

‘My Harold.’ She pointed to the crest.
‘Hit by cannon. Left ’im at the top.’

Darcy called out to Herrick. ‘Here’s
your chance!’

They grabbed a stretcher, and followed
the woman along the border of a field. Half a mile to their left, above the
farmhouse of La Haye Sainte, Darcy saw a British position apparently abandoned,
only a handful of men still standing. Hundreds of bodies lay in the long grass,
victims, he assumed, of French artillery.

He tasted bile, and thought for a moment
he would be sick, but managed to choke it back and press on. They passed a
clump of bushes, climbed a steep bank of rough grass, and suddenly the whole
valley spread before them.

Herrick gasped as they looked down on Armageddon.

Peering through the smoke, Darcy strove
to take in the scene. The French had taken La Haye Sainte and were climbing towards
the abandoned ridge. Below him, west of Hougoumont, squares of British infantry
were waiting.

‘They are ours!’ Herrick shouted. ‘The
52
^nd
.’

Darcy looked again, but at this distance
there would be no way of making out his cousin.

Herrick pointed past the chateau. ‘The
French are deploying the Imperial Guard!’

There was firing on their left, and
Darcy swivelled to witness an astonishing sight. In the field he had presumed
abandoned, the bodies in the long grass suddenly came to life, leapt up, and
discharged lethal fire into the French infantry cresting the ridge.

He grasped Herrick’s arm, and pointed. ‘Look!’

The French were retreating, taking heavy
casualties as they stumbled in shock down the hill. Herrick glanced at the
carnage, but pulled away, intent on the massed ranks in dark blue further back.

The French infantry attacking the ridge
had reformed near the farm buildings, and Darcy switched his gaze to the
Imperial Guard, which had veered west as if aiming to break through nearer the
chateau.

‘My God, they’re coming our way!’ Herrick
shouted.

Darcy turned, looking for the woman. ‘Let’s
go!’

They spotted her waving frantically, having
located her husband. Darcy sprinted across the ridge to her side, and with
Herrick’s help lifted the man on to the stretcher. The ball had struck a
glancing blow on the chest, leaving him with crushed ribs and probable damage
to the lungs.

‘Name?’ Darcy asked, to check he was
responsive.

‘Corporal Dunne.’ The wheezing voice was
barely audible.

‘We’ll have you to a doctor in no time.’

With a final glance at the battlefield,
Darcy saw the 52
^nd
wheel round to approach the Guard on their flank,
under cover of the trees around the chateau. Tearing himself away, he took the
front of the stretcher, and with Herrick’s help hastened back to the dressing
station.

The convoy had left. They set Corporal Dunne
beside a regimental surgeon, who had a quick look at the wound and waved them
down the slope.

‘Can you do nothing?’ Darcy demanded.

‘Surgery won’t help. Get him to a bed
where his wife can look after him.’

It would be simplest to leave Dunne for
the next convoy, but the thought of abandoning him to a bullock cart, where his
broken ribs would be horribly jarred, was unbearable.

‘Shall we take him now, Mr Herrick? We
can pick up the horses later.’

At the camp, duty officers were
organising further transfers of the wounded to the village of Merbe Braine, where
they would be attended by local doctors and women. Mrs Dunne, after running
beside them all the way, bent over her husband while getting her breath back.
His condition had worsened; he lay inert with his eyes closed, only the rise
and fall of his chest signalling life. Darcy was about to leave when Mrs Dunne
double-backed with a screech.

‘Oh my God! Me waters!’

Darcy stared at her. ‘Pardon?’

‘The babe, bless it. It’s coming.’

Darcy called out to a surgeon. ‘We have
a lady here in childbirth.’

‘Too busy.’ The man pointed towards the
area where the camp followers had set their tents. ‘Take her to the women.’

Darcy returned to Mrs Dunne. ‘Can you
walk?’

‘I’m not leaving Harold.’

‘Stay here, with the women. We’ll take
your husband to the village, and you can join him later.’

‘No. I’m coming with you!’

Darcy looked at Herrick, who had
remained to observe the drama. Having left so many injured men at the field
hospital, it was disproportionate to devote so much effort to this couple, yet
he felt impelled to carry the task through.

‘Herrick! Let’s carry the corporal to a
carriage at the back.’ Darcy looked at Mrs Dunne, and sighed. ‘All right. Come
if you must.’