Almost at that same moment, a singular coincidence which paints the exhaustion of the two armies, Ney demanded infantry from Napoleon, and Napoleon exclaimed,
“Infantry!
Where does he expect me to get it?
Does he think I can make it?”
Nevertheless, the English army was in the worse case of the two.
The furious onsets of those great squadrons with cuirasses of iron and breasts of steel had ground the infantry to nothing.
A few men clustered round a flag marked the post of a regiment; such and such a battalion was commanded only by a captain or a lieutenant; Alten’s division, already so roughly handled at La Haie-Sainte, was almost destroyed; the intrepid Belgians of Van Kluze’s brigade strewed the rye-fields all along the Nivelles road; hardly anything was left of those Dutch grenadiers, who, intermingled with Spaniards in our ranks in 1811, fought against Wellington; and who, in 1815, rallied to the English standard, fought against Napoleon.
The loss in officers was considerable.
Lord Uxbridge, who had his leg buried on the following day, had his knee shattered.
If, on the French side, in that tussle of the cuirassiers, Delort, l’Heritier, Colbert, Dnop, Travers, and Blancard were disabled, on the side of the English there was Alten wounded, Barne wounded, Delancey killed, Van Meeren killed, Ompteda killed, the whole of Wellington’s staff decimated, and England had the worse of it in that bloody scale.
The second regiment of foot-guards had lost five lieutenant-colonels, four captains, and three ensigns; the first battalion of the 30th infantry had lost 24 officers and 1,200 soldiers; the 79th Highlanders had lost 24 officers wounded, 18 officers killed, 450 soldiers killed.
The Hanoverian hussars of Cumberland, a whole regiment, with Colonel Hacke at its head, who was destined to be tried later on and cashiered, had turned bridle in the presence of the fray, and had fled to the forest of Soignes, sowing defeat all the way to Brussels.
The transports, ammunition-wagons, the baggage-wagons, the wagons filled with wounded, on perceiving that the French were gaining ground and approaching the forest, rushed headlong thither. The Dutch, mowed down by the French cavalry, cried,
“Alarm!”
From Vert-Coucou to Groenendael, for a distance of nearly two leagues in the direction of Brussels, according to the testimony of eye-witnesses who are still alive, the roads were encumbered with fugitives.
This panic was such that it attacked the Prince de Conde at Mechlin, and Louis XVIII. at Ghent.
With the exception of the feeble reserve echelonned behind the ambulance established at the farm of Mont-Saint-Jean, and of Vivian’s and Vandeleur’s brigades, which flanked the left wing, Wellington had no cavalry left.
A number of batteries lay unhorsed.
These facts are attested by Siborne; and Pringle, exaggerating the disaster, goes so far as to say that the Anglo-Dutch army was reduced to thirty-four thousand men.
The Iron Duke remained calm, but his lips blanched.
Vincent, the Austrian commissioner, Alava, the Spanish commissioner, who were present at the battle in the English staff, thought the Duke lost.
At five o’clock Wellington drew out his watch, and he was heard to murmur these sinister words,
“Blucher, or night!”
It was at about that moment that a distant line of bayonets gleamed on the heights in the direction of Frischemont.
Here comes the change of face in this giant drama.
CHAPTER XI—A BAD GUIDE TO NAPOLEON; A GOOD GUIDE TO BULOW
The painful surprise of Napoleon is well known. Grouchy hoped for, Blucher arriving. Death instead of life.
Fate has these turns; the throne of the world was expected; it was Saint Helena that was seen.
If the little shepherd who served as guide to Bulow, Blucher’s lieutenant, had advised him to debouch from the forest above Frischemont, instead of below Plancenoit, the form of the nineteenth century might, perhaps, have been different.
Napoleon would have won the battle of Waterloo.
By any other route than that below Plancenoit, the Prussian army would have come out upon a ravine impassable for artillery, and Bulow would not have arrived.
Now the Prussian general, Muffling, declares that one hour’s delay, and Blucher would not have found Wellington on his feet.
“The battle was lost.”
It was time that Bulow should arrive, as will be seen.
He had, moreover, been very much delayed.
He had bivouacked at Dion-le-Mont, and had set out at daybreak; but the roads were impassable, and his divisions stuck fast in the mire.
The ruts were up to the hubs of the cannons.
Moreover, he had been obliged to pass the Dyle on the narrow bridge of Wavre; the street leading to the bridge had been fired by the French, so the caissons and ammunition-wagons could not pass between two rows of burning houses, and had been obliged to wait until the conflagration was extinguished.
It was midday before Bulow’s vanguard had been able to reach Chapelle-Saint-Lambert.
Had the action been begun two hours earlier, it would have been over at four o’clock, and Blucher would have fallen on the battle won by Napoleon.
Such are these immense risks proportioned to an infinite which we cannot comprehend.
The Emperor had been the first, as early as midday, to descry with his field-glass, on the extreme horizon, something which had attracted his attention.
He had said, “I see yonder a cloud, which seems to me to be troops.”
Then he asked the Duc de Dalmatie,
“Soult, what do you see in the direction of Chapelle-Saint-Lambert?”
The marshal, levelling his glass, answered,
“Four or five thousand men, Sire; evidently Grouchy.”
But it remained motionless in the mist.
All the glasses of the staff had studied “the cloud” pointed out by the Emperor.
Some said: “It is trees.”