Introduction

11:55 June 18th, 1815: On The Road To Wavre

The steady tramp of marching feet and grumbling voices filled the air as Lieutenant Jean Pichot, aide de camp to the commander of the II Cavalry Corps General Count Exelmans, waited with growing impatience at the far end of the small bridge ready for any chance he could get to cross over. The column was a long one, all infantry of, if he could make out the few exposed shako plates correctly, the 37th Ligne and they had no interest in letting any fancy dressed horseman splash mud all over the place simply because he couldn’t wait his turn. Several eyes looked at him with undisguised envy; obviously they had no idea what it was like to have ridden continuously the better part of four days including an especially miserable ride the night before. The sky had cleared by now, the sun even gracing the landscape for a change, but the ground still held the proof of what he had gone through on the 17th where even the most water proof cape had not been able to keep a person, especially a cavalry aide de camp, from getting soaked through to the bone. Involuntarily, he shivered which caused his mount to do something similar and some of the passing infantry chuckled at his plight but none said a word to him. His clothes were reasonably dry now, except for some of the more inconvenient areas, but the thought of last night was enough for him not to wish to renew that particular feeling and force the rain swollen stream; imagine what the infantry would say if he slid off his saddle there? Besides, they had time. Everyone knew that the Prussians weren’t going anywhere they weren’t supposed to and French troops could march faster than any in the whole world. Still, duty did beckon and so, when he saw a break in regiments, he put spur to horse and galloped across the narrow bridge accompanied by the curses of the foot sloggers who were soon splashed with mud as he swept by. He gave no heed to them; no mere fantassin would get the better of him. Traveling forward regardless of the deep puddles (or perhaps because of them) the young lieutenant passed several more overcoat clad regiments of infantry until what he sought came plainly into view. There, just off the road on a slight mound were a group of men wearing bicorne hats, a sure sign that some high ranking officers were present. One man he noted as he approached nearer, the one in the middle of the group, had white feathers on his hat though these appeared to be somewhat more worse for wear than he was used to when he made his reports to his superiors (Marshal Berthier’s feathers had always been perfect). Nevertheless, this was the man he sought.

Riding up confidently, Pichot raised a hand to his fur busby in salute. “Lieutenant Pichot reporting sir!”

The man in the fancy bicorne looked up slowly from the map he was holding, his eyes seemingly wanting to examine the wet but fancy dressed aide before actually talking to him. The officer, Marshal Emmanuel Grouchy, nodded to Pichot slightly, his aristocratic upbringing dictating his very calming presence. When he spoke, the words were very articulate, clear and polite, something of a rarity for the ears of the lieutenant. “Make your report, sir, if you please.”

Instinctively, Pichot straightened up in the saddle, ignoring for the moment his sore behind. “Sir, our troops have scouted all the way to Wavre as ordered with units fanning out in both directions.”

Nodding slightly again, Marshal Grouchy quickly countered, “And what did you find? Where have the Prussians retreated to?”

“The Prussian army, sir, has split up all over the place but the bulk of the enemy has marched north, to Wavre. There are still deserters along most of the minor roads but General Exelmans is confident that he has located the main Prussian army and it seems to be in good order. Prisoners that we captured said that Prussians have been moving since early morning to join Wellington. Scouts to the west reported hearing gunfire just before I left,” the aide said as he pointed in the direction of Mont St. Jean where the main French army under the Emperor Napoleon was most probably by now.

Letting the words sink in for a moment, Grouchy looked back down at his map of the area and let his troubled thoughts collect. He might be calm on the outside but he knew that the decision he would have to make in a moment might be the biggest of his career. The Prussian army of Field Marshal Blucher had retreated on Wavre not like a mass of panicked fugitives but rather like a real army and now they were marching to join the British. Guns had been heard firing to the west which meant a battle had started. So it wasn’t his imagination or Gerard’s; guns were deployed and the Emperor only fired his beloved cannon when things were in earnest. Battle between the main army and the Anglo-Dutch, it would seem, was joined. But where? “Lieutenant Pichot, did you find out where the guns were heard? This is critical for our plans.”

Suddenly feeling like a fish out of water, the aide de camp swallowed hard and thanked God he knew the answer. “Local farmers said the sound was beyond the forest of Paris.”

A slight breeze arose and curled the map over. Momentarily losing his cool, Grouchy angrily slapped the offending end back over. Where was this forest of Paris, he thought? His finger raced across the paper to locate it. As he half expected, the forest, the Bois de Paris, was very much north of his current position and if he didn’t get his troops moving faster, he could expect another rebuke from a very impatient emperor. Already he had delayed marching north during the hours of the morning; he hoped with all his faith that this did not cost him. Guessing the distance and remembering where the Prussians were, Marshal Grouchy could see that the dreaded decision was coming upon him ever faster now.

To the right of the marshal, General of Division Maurice Gerard reached over and held a corner of the map so he could see where everything was taking place. His horse stamped a hoof nervously in a shallow puddle. Noting where the two forces were, the main French army and their wing, he could see quite quickly that they were marching away from the Emperor and not toward him. Marshal Grouchy was taking his men, all 30,000 of them, out of the potential battle area and he felt duty bound to let it be known. “Sir! We are going the wrong way.”

Another voice cut in, this one loud, harsh and coming from the marshal’s left. It belonged to the very outspoken General of Division Dominique Vandamme. “Maréchal Grouchy! Our course is obvious! March to the sound of the guns!” he declared as he pushed a finger onto the map.

Marshal Grouchy gritted his teeth as he eyed the man whom he knew to be a good soldier but whom he considered nothing more than a brigand. “General Vandamme! Kindly keep your opinions to yourself. If I need them, I will ask for them.”

Not to be brushed off so easily, the fiery Vandamme rocked his head back slightly as if holding his ground. “Our emperor is in battle with Wellington somewhere to the west. It is our duty to keep the damned Prussians off his back so that he can crush them without interference. I volunteer to march my corps immediately to the sound of the guns.”

Not again. The marshal stared at the map without really looking at it. Vandamme and he had had quite a flare-up on the 15th and here again it seemed that something might come up between them. This was not good for the command and only could lead to disaster if he did not take control of things now. The general was eager, perhaps too eager, to receive the baton of the marshalate but Napoleon liked men who were aggressive and he had to admit that the fire breathing general of Kulm was at least that. The battle of Kulm had been a defeat for France but it did show the spirit of the troops under Vandamme to be very high and that he let few things stand in his way. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, except the enemy, the clash of personalities between the generals and their commander was such that it was affecting the entire right wing of the Army of the North. Vandamme had already dragged his feet in carrying out some of his orders and Gerard too seemed ready to mutiny and go his own way. Now more than ever he had to take control of the situation. Napoleon had warned him this might happen as they walked on the battlefield of Ligny just as he had filled him in on everything he needed to know to command a wing of an army on campaign. The Emperor had known it was his first such appointment but he had nonetheless placed his confidence in his new marshal to carry out the assignment to pursue Blucher and this meant keeping him away from the flank of the main army if it should engage the English somewhere to the west. He mustn’t disappoint a given trust like that.

Gerard searched for the marshal’s eyes. “Sir? Do we march to the guns?”

Pichot watched with hesitant fascination the battle going on in the commander’s head. At that moment he had no desire to advance to anything higher than a mere lieutenant. Imagine the responsibility! Thirty thousand men marched to his orders and no others. One mistake and many lives could be lost for little gain. No. Command was best left to the generals.

Not receiving any answer, Gerard pulled at the edge of the map. Pointing with his white handed glove, he made some quick calculations in his head. “Sir, if we march now from here and presuming Blucher moves with the Prussians from Wavre, we could meet them around, around . . . .”

“Lasne,” Grouchy said as both their fingers hit the little town on the map at the same time. “But that assumption presupposes that Blucher is not going to continue his retreat to Liege or Brussels. If we march on Lasne, we could be missing an excellent opportunity of destroying the Prussians by a direct pursuit to Wavre. And suppose Blucher debouches from Wavre on to me and takes me in the flank? I shall be compromised for not having obeyed my orders which, you well know, are to march against Blucher.”

Vandamme shook his head in obvious disgust. The new marshal, this general of cavalry, had no business commanding this force if at this moment he did not know what to do. How could it be plainer? The Emperor was in battle and they had barely begun to march. If someone didn’t do something, and soon, they would end up, like d’Erlon on the sixteenth, doing nothing but the consequences would be far worse. At the moment, no one was in contact with Blucher except for the cavalry scouts. Their whole force should have been in front of Wavre by now to see for itself where the Prussians were; Blucher could march nowhere with a formidable French army right on his boot heels. He grunted loud enough to annoy the ears of his commander. “Sir, a snail can’t catch a bleeding dog with its tail between its legs. If we had started marching hours ago . . . .”

“General Vandamme!” Grouchy growled, finally losing his cool, “be so good as to rejoin your corps this instant to await my orders before you are relieved of command. Do not come back unless I ask you to, understood?”

Sensing that he had crossed the line (like he had so many times before), Vandamme nodded, impressed that his commander had actually threatened him. It might be a hollow threat but then again it might not and this general could not stand being out of any potential fight. Saluting stiffly, he turned his horse around and trotted away followed by his staff officers. Much to the marshal’s chagrin, however, his troops cheered him as he rode by.

Regaining his composure while he shook his head, he looked back at Gerard who was patiently waiting his instructions. “I suppose you wish to march to the sound of the guns as well?”

“It would seem to be the prudent choice, sir, and the Emperor has long preached this to us,” Gerard replied firmly. He, too, did not care for the new marshal but, seeing Vandamme nearly dismissed, he tried another approach to try and get his superior officer to change his plans. “So long as we keep Blucher away, we have fulfilled our mission and, if we can intervene at the Emperor’s battle, well, so much the better. Besides, the Prussians are in good order and united. I would wish the main army to be together when we fight him instead of our few corps.”

“Well thought,” Grouchy complimented. He knew that Gerard disliked him as well but at least he had the sense not to fan the flames of discord. But what should they do? More and more he felt that fate rested on his shoulders and that agonizing decision was clearly something of great magnitude. The Emperor had entrusted him with a third of the Armee du Nord to command as he saw fit. Should he march on Lasne? Was it even feasible? Already Vandamme’s troops were marching on Wavre and so they would have to be stopped and countermarched in the other direction so he could keep his command together. This was sounding more and more like d’Erlon’s unfortunate marching routine on the 16th when he had covered a lot of territory yet had managed to remain out of both the battle Quatre Bras and Ligny. But perhaps Gerard was right. Today there was only one battle to fight, the Emperor’s, and if he could keep Blucher occupied then that battle could be fought without anyone looking over his shoulder for the Prussians.

Marshal Grouchy had something to prove to his subordinates but probably mostly to himself. His lethargy at the end of the battle of Friedland had gone virtually unnoticed in the wake of the huge victory but his indecision had allowed a small part of the Russian army to escape that day because he had done nothing as they scurried by. The marshal, a cavalryman by trade, had thought about that often over the years but he didn’t think that he would ever have a chance to repeat the scene a second time. Now here it was. He had to do something. He did not want to be marked in history as a poor general or, worse yet, a coward who had failed the great man during France’s most desperate hour. Part of him cried out from inside. He was a good general, he knew that. Why would the Emperor have given him the right wing if he also did not think the same? Did he not have a reputation of excellence as a cavalry commander to uphold? He had to remember that and forget any of these gloomy and self degrading thoughts. Nonetheless, the decision still waited for him because he was the commander. No one, not even the fiery Vandamme, could make this decision for him.

Gerard could tell his superior was in turmoil and he did not envy his situation. Suddenly, events seemed to be moving very rapidly and only a move now, right now, could avert catastrophe. He considered pushing the issue again when no other response was forthcoming but, for a moment, held his tongue to allow Grouchy some space and time to think. A few minutes more would not hurt anyone.

To the marshal, there appeared to be three choices. First, he could march to the sound of the guns as Vandamme had declared so passionately and it would mean that his whole force would be united in any battle with the enemy. Unfortunately, this also meant the loss of valuable time as Vandamme counter marched and he recalled Exelmans from Wavre. Also, this choice presupposed that the Prussians were marching to aid Wellington. If they did not, he would indeed be named d’Erlon. The second choice was just the opposite. All of his forces could move on Wavre, leaving Exelmans’ troops to keep contact with the Prussians for him and report on any moves they might make. This idea was appealing as he believed that Blucher was retreating away from everyone and could not engage the Emperor in any case. But suppose he was wrong about the intentions of the enemy? What then? The last option involved detaching a corps of infantry to parallel the Prussians and slow them down while the other infantry corps continued the march on Wavre; the cavalry corps could keep the line of communications open between them in case one was attacked by superior forces. The third option was a bold one as he risked having his force divided and defeated in detail before anyone could help. But was this option really so bad? Grouchy knew how the Prussians were organized and he knew that they would have trouble constructing anything like a battle plan on the spur of the moment. Perhaps this was the way . . . .

General of Division Gerard decided that his boss had had enough time. He leaned forward in his saddle and said, quietly but firmly, “Sir, is something wrong? What shall we do? My corps is nearly here . . . .”

The aristocrat snapped his head around to face his subordinate. He nodded twice. “General Gerard, you will take your corps and march to Lasne via the village of Mousty. Be sure and get the attention of any troops that are to your front. If the Prussians are marching to relieve Wellington, then it is up to you to stop them. I will position the cavalry of General Exelmans to cover the area between you and General Vandamme.”

“Then Vandamme will continue to march on Wavre?” Gerard said, only a hint of hesitation in his voice as he did not wish to have Grouchy change his mind if he complained that the whole force wasn’t marching west with him.

“Yes. The rest of our force will tie down any Prussians that you do not find and bring them to battle,” Grouchy declared strongly even though his mind was still riddled with doubt. “March quickly general and give my regards to the Emperor.”

Gerard saluted smartly. He had wanted more but duty and honor told him to be satisfied with what he had received. “Yes sir!” He waved forward his senior aide de camp. “Capitaine Mattei, the corps will change its route of march. From here we march west. March to the sound of the guns!”

Marshal Grouchy’s eyes registered the patient Pichot to his front. Once one made an order one then had to be able to translate it easily to others. “Lieutenant, ride to General Exelmans and inform him that General Gerard is marching west to join with the Emperor and that his corps will cover our flank from Wavre to Chapelle St. Lambert. Inform him also that General Pajol’s cavalry will support him shortly in this task. More detailed instructions will follow.”

The aide de camp, resplendent in his hussar style uniform, gave the most correct salute in his life and spurred his horse to the main road where the last of Vandamme’s infantry were nearing that narrow little bridge. Splashing everywhere, he ignored the insults and rode as fast as he could through the muddy tracks beyond. Having heard the conversation of the generals, he suddenly felt very important and the speed at which both horse and rider moved suggested that perhaps something very big was going to happen this day.

The aide’s departure left one man with his lonely thoughts. Taking a last glance at the map while an artillery team noisily rolled by, he prayed inside that he had made the right decision . . . .