The Battle Begins

JUNE 17TH-18TH 1815

" W e possessed the field at dusk, therefore Quatre Bras was a tactical victory," Major General Kempt explained upon his return from Wellington's briefing. "However, the French have successfully prevented us marching east to assist von Blücher's Prussians in their fight against a larger French army under the command of Napoleon Bonaparte himself. So, it was a strategic victory for the French—the reason we've withdrawn north to Waterloo."

Rowan dreaded the answer to a question he had to ask. "Sir, does this mean the Prussians were defeated?"

"They were badly mauled," Kempt replied. "But managed to withdraw in reasonable order."

"What about our losses, Sir?" another officer asked.

"We estimate the French lost about four thousand men," Kempt declared. "However, our casualties might be marginally higher."

"Christ Almighty," Ash exclaimed close to Rowan's ear.

Rowan wasn't surprised by the body count. His regiment had suffered at least a hundred dead, but the Dutch had been in the thick of things and must have lost thousands of men. Now the Allied cavalry, artillery and infantry—British, Hanoverian, Brunswicker and Dutch—were dug in near a small village where Wellington must have decided to make his stand in the defense of Brussels.

"Pray for me, Daisy, my love," Rowan whispered.

Niven and the rest of Wellington's forces were deployed along a ridge south of Waterloo. He suspected few would sleep this night. Confrontation loomed, almost a tangible thing in the air. As the long, night wore on, Niven's one consolation was that the French troops camped on the opposite ridge were enduring the same heavy thunderstorm.

"Teck heart, laddie," McKay declared. "We Highlanders are nay afraid o' a wee drop o' rain. Them Frenchies must be cursin' their Emperor."

Describing the downpour as a wee drop o' rain was like comparing a trickling burn in the Cairngorms to the mighty Thames, but Niven knew what his comrade meant. He was drenched, though the brand new Cameron plaid was protecting him and, more importantly, his bagpipes, better than his own would have.

Following Wellington's orders, Major General Kempt had formed his brigade into two lines and told them the Allied forces were to wait for the French to attack. "Von Blücher has sent word he will lead at least fifty thousand Prussian troops to aid us as soon as he can," Kempt informed them. "The remainder of his army is still dealing with a French column to the east."

As dawn broke, Niven peered through the eerie mist. The weak sun was making a valiant effort to dry up the rain soaked terrain. He looked right, then left. An unbroken line of thousands of allied soldiers and artillery occupied the ridge. Not far away, he could see the Halstead brothers mounted behind their regiment. To the west, in front of the right flank, on the edge of the valley between the two enemy armies, sat a strategic building Kempt had told them was the Chateau Hougoumont, garrisoned by British troops. The Eighth Brigade's primary task was to defend a walled farm located on the main road almost directly in front of their position. "The Hanoverians are holding La Haye Sainte farm. It must not fall into enemy hands," Kempt shouted before riding off.

Niven followed McKay, the drummers and the standard bearer to stand behind the ranks of Highlanders. There, they waited, all the while taking turns to play a medley of the regiment's pibrochs.

Two hours later, a message was passed that the Prussian were en route.

As the sun rose in the sky with no sign of an attack, McKay removed his tall bonnet and fluffed up the ostrich feather. "'Tis finally dryin'," he muttered.

Glad of a distraction to occupy a few minutes, Niven ran his fingers through his own feather. "Aye, mine too, but what is Frenchie waitin' for? They seem to be rushing about doin' nothin'."

"My guess is they dinna want their cannon boggin' down in yon rain-soaked valley. French guns are light but useless if they're stuck in mud."

Niven recalled Kenneth and Payton telling him about the superior French artillery they'd seen in Spain. Little had he known then he'd be facing enemy guns.

His whole body tensed when the boom of artillery fire finally echoed across the valley. He filled his lungs and gave his all to his pipes, hoping the wail would drown out the terrifying sounds of mayhem as the French assault on the chateau began.

Thorne did his best to control his frenzied horse, but a regimental groom finally had to grab the bridle. The lad eventually calmed the nervous beast with his soothing voice. Thorne didn't blame the horse for being skittish. Fear knotted his own belly as he watched the Allied artillery return fire at the French infantry swarming toward their lines. The term cannon fodder suddenly became real as Frenchmen were mowed down like tin soldiers.

"Steady, lads," Rowan bellowed. "Don't fire until I give the order."

"Their cavalry is attacking the chateau, Sir," one of Thorne's men shouted, jolting him out of his fear.

"Concentrate on the infantry," Thorne replied. "French foot soldiers are trained to move fast, but they mustn't break through our lines."

"Sir!" came the reply.

After an interminable hour of deafening musket fire, the French soldiers finally fell back, but the 32 nd had lost two officers shot dead and at least twenty from the ranks. Another dozen or so severely wounded men were being evacuated behind the lines to the makeshift hospital at Mont St. Jean.

Fierce fighting raged around the chateau but the Allied defenders seemed to be holding on.

Nearby, the Highland regiment looked to have suffered a similar number of casualties, but Niven still stood behind the ranks, playing his bagpipes. The haunting sound brought tears to Thorne's eyes. The courageous Scot would have been a more than suitable mate for Willow. He swallowed the lump in his throat, dismounted and went to assist with the wounded.

In the early afternoon, the French brought forth their artillery and began to fire on the farm at La Haye-Sainte. Ash Halstead's belly clenched at the sight of the French infantry swarming behind their guns. The real onslaught was about to begin.

"Their cannon might be light," Rowan shouted over the din of the barrage, "but they're terrible shots."

Ash didn't appreciate his brother's grim humor. Much of the heavy cannonade intended for the farm was falling on the men of the Eighth Brigade. As at least twenty thousand enemy soldiers rushed forward, Wellington ordered the Eighth and the whole 5 th Division to fall back behind the ridge and lie down. In the midst of this action, Lieutenant-General Picton, commander of the 5 th , led a bayonet charge against the French infantry.

In the relative safety of the slope behind their original position, Ash dismounted and crept up to the top of the ridge to see what was happening. He was just in time to see Picton fall from his horse, mortally wounded in the head. To lose a senior officer was a disastrous setback. Ash crept back to his regiment and shared the terrible tidings with his brothers and the other officers. They agreed not to relay the demoralizing news to the rank and file.

In mid afternoon, the barrage suddenly stopped. All Niven heard was the ragged breathing of his comrades, but the lull didn't last long. The roar of drums took its place. Word was that Picton had been killed leading a bayonet charge. Apparently believing the way was now open for them to advance, the French infantry was about to attack.

"They think we've retreated," Kempt shouted from his vantage point on his belly at the top of the ridge. "They've swept past La Haye-Sainte. When I give the signal, on your feet and show the bastards what's what."

When the Major-General dropped his hand, the entire fifth division rose up with a mighty yell and charged the enemy. Niven and Kenneth strode up to the top of the ridge and played as they watched the French retreat.

Suddenly, from a point below the ridge, regiments of Allied cavalry charged the French lines, among them the pale horses of the Scots Greys. "Scotland Forever," they yelled as they charged. Niven's euphoric belief the fighting would soon be over died a cruel death as he watched many of the riders be mowed down by enemy fire.

"Wellington willna be happy," McKay muttered. "Premature, that charge. No battle experience, the Greys."

As the Allied forces cheered the French retreat, Niven was too shaken to play. Trained soldiers were dying all around him. What hope was there for his survival?