“France was one nation — only one. She was smaller than Russia in size and population, poorer than Britain, less militaristic than Prussia. Yet for many years she had the strength to fight all these nations in concert, and dealt out defeats as often as she suffered them.
“Our wise men find it easier to speak of this as a miracle and a wonder, brought about by the genius of the Emperor, than to learn from it; for in their hearts they know the lesson, and they fear its implications. They do not wish to discover the power of a nation cleansed of parasites, where skill and diligence are rewarded, wealth circulates instead of accumulating, and aristocrats must either provide service commensurate to their status, or else perish.
“They do not wish to draw the conclusion that the sword of Napoleon was forged from the guillotine of Robespierre.”
Guillame Georges Elmar, I Call The World To Arms
June 17, 1815
5:30 a.m.
About a mile southeast of Sombreffe, Belgium
Dawn was about fifteen minutes away. The sky was clear, and the terrain was level cropland and pasture with only occasional patches of trees — a perfect open battlefield. Field Marshal Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher and his lieutenant-generals took a moment to look south, where the light was already showing signs of the presence of l’Armée du Nord, before they stepped inside the tent.
“What do we know of their order of battle?” Blücher asked his chief of staff.
“Ney commands on the right, Grouchy on the left,” said Gneisenau. “Our scouts place Bonaparte himself in the center, here, at the village of Velaine-sur-Sambre — a tiny little place, just a few farmhouses — surrounded by his Imperial Guard and most of the French artillery. Grouchy’s heavy cavalry is between Velaine and our own army.
“At present, we have this army slightly outnumbered. But two of their corps are expected to arrive today, and when they do they will outnumber us by some four thousand men.”
“I intend to defeat the tyrant before that happens,” said Blücher. “Undoubtedly he plans to make the first move, but I will beat him to the punch and force him on the defensive. Zieten, Pirch, Thielmann, how quickly can your men deploy?”
“At once,” said Zieten.
“At once,” said Pirch.
“Within the hour,” said Thielmann, showing only a little embarrassment.
“Very well. Zieten, you will take I Corps and lead the attack on the left. Your principal aim will be to defeat Grouchy’s cavalry. This done, you will aim your next attack here” — he pointed to a spot on the map about half a mile southwest of Velaine — “forcing a wedge between the Imperial Guard and the French infantry on the left.
“Once we have a clear line of attack, Pirch, you and II Corps will strike at Velaine, bringing your attack in from the right so as not to become entangled with II Corps. You will have our artillery under your command.
“Thielmann…” The field marshal paused. Lieutenant-General Johann von Thielmann was an able officer, but his corps was a mess of half-trained, grumbling, unreliable Saxons and Rhinelanders, and he himself had fought bravely for the French during the bad years. Blücher, who hated Bonaparte with a holy passion and had never served the tyrant in any capacity — indeed, had never stopped looking for ways to oppose him — couldn’t quite bring himself to trust the man.
“Thielmann, you and III Corps will act as a reserve. Position yourselves on the right, and be prepared to engage the enemy if Ney tries to stick a knife in our backs.
“Our aim today is to cut off the tyrant from the bulk of his army, and to hammer him and his loyalists until they break. God willing, by the end of the day Bonaparte himself will be dead or in our hands, and the glory of Prussian arms will be restored.”
“It will be a bloody affair, sir,” said Gneisenau.
“So be it,” said Blücher. “I will lead the first charge on Velaine. And the second. And as many others as are needed. This whole war has been a bloody affair. Today we have a chance to put an end to it at last.”
* * *
About 9 a.m.
Velaine
It was like being inside a thunderstorm. The gunsmoke was so heavy that beyond forty feet or so, nothing could be seen but muzzle-flashes of various sizes and the flickering light of a burning barn in the gray-white haze. All around him was an inconceivable din of cannon-fire, volleys and the screams of wounded men and horses.
Blücher stood and breathed in the smoke. Both armies were shooting blind in the general direction of the enemy. A musket-ball came within an inch of his right temple. Another one clipped his left epaulet. He had just had his fourth horse of the morning shot out from under him. He lived for moments like this.
And he was pleased with how the day had gone thus far. At the first hint of Zieten’s charge, Grouchy’s cavalry had fled east. His corps was now enmeshed with the French infantry somewhere on the left. Here, Pirch had just brought a halt to an infantry attack by Vandamme out of Wanfercée-Baulet.
And somewhere in the blind swirling melee of the center was the outlaw himself. Blücher could hardly wait to lead another cavalry charge into that chaos and seek him out. But for that, he would need another horse. He turned and headed back to the field headquarters, ignoring the three-pound cannonball that shot between his ankles, bounced on the ground and continued on its way.
While at the headquarters, he got a report from his chief of staff. “So far, sir, the fighting on the front lines is inconclusive,” said Gneisenau. “But I’m concerned about what’s happening on our flanks.
“Grouchy’s cavalry has rallied along the Mazy. It hasn’t engaged us directly, but it’s working its way north around our left flank.
“But the real action is on the right. Ney has been aggressively trying to outflank us. His cavalry is already south of Ligny and moving fast.”
“Order Thielmann to put a stop to that.”
“I did, sir. He reports that Ney is fighting like a madman, and III Corps is having trouble reacting quickly enough.”
Blücher laughed. “What Ney is fighting like is a man who has betrayed his true king and knows his only hope is for Bonaparte to win. So long as Thielmann keeps him busy, we are still on course to victory.”
“Sir,” said Gneisenau, “if he fails, we will be in danger of being surrounded.” The chief of staff gestured at the map. At the moment, the French line was shaped like the letter W — or, perhaps, like a lower-case Greek omega (ω) with the left side longer than the right. Bonaparte and his artillery were in the center, and the two sides of the formation, from what Gneisenau had said, were extending themselves around and would ultimately meet behind the lines. The French aim, clearly, was to surround the Prussian army while at the same time preventing any one corps of it from coming to the aid of the others.
“I see,” said Blücher. “And if I planned to run away, this would worry me. But I do not. I plan to win the day and make him do the running. Now, where’s that horse?”
* * *
1 p.m.
Just north of Velaine
In the pit of his stomach, Blücher could feel things starting to go wrong. It was like the cold sensation he got some nights when he could no longer deny that the dice had turned against him and his lucky streak was over.
He had just led what he had intended to be another charge on the French center. The horses had barely brought themselves up to a canter when they had to start dodging Prussian infantrymen running the other way. Some of his officers turned as they ran past, to shout “Reinforcements!” and “Drouet d’Erlon!”
So the French I Corps was here. It had taken them long enough.
He looked around him. He was in the middle of the Prussian artillery positions. Even the horse artillery couldn’t be quickly withdrawn — most of the horses were dead.
“RALLY!” he shouted. “Hold! Hold! For God and Prussia, hold! They will not have the guns!” Then the French came out of the gunsmoke, bayonets at the ready.
The next few minutes were full of nothing but fighting — struggling, instant by instant, to stay alive, to keep their bayonets away from his horse’s legs and get clear slices at their heads and necks with his saber. This, too, Blücher lived for.
And damned if it wasn’t working. The French weren’t going back, but they weren’t going any further forward, either.
Then, to his astonishment, Blücher turned and saw none other than August von Gneisenau charging up on a horse,
“The field headquarters has fallen, sir!” shouted his chief of staff. “I only just escaped!”
“What of III Corps!”
“It just… collapsed! Just like that! Sir, we are completely surrounded!”
“Damn you, Thielmann!” Blücher gritted his teeth. There was no escaping it — this battle was lost.
“If we can’t find a way out,” he said at last, “we shall have to make one.” He turned and pointed at a stretch of woods. “There, in the Bois de Floreffe. If I am not mistaken, that is where their line is. Order every man there who can still fight.” Grouchy, who commanded that wing of the French army, had been the most half-hearted of the usurper’s commanders today. How would he respond to this attack?
Blücher was riding southeast towards the Bois when it happened. His horse wasn’t shot out from under him — it disappeared, the barrel of its torso exploding into a cloud of red mist and tiny fragments of flesh.
His right leg below the calf disappeared along with it.
For a moment he just lay on the ground, stunned. When he realized what had happened — he had been hit by a cannonball — he wasted another moment wondering what caliber it was. Then the pain in his right foor (no, in the place where his right foot used to be) woke him up. He took off his belt and tied it around the wound — field tourniquets were a harder thing to get right than most people realized. Then he took a rifle lying on the ground and used it to prop himself up while he stood.
When he stood up, he almost lost consciousness again. His head swam, and the world went dark. It took the better part of ten seconds for him to start seeing again. He felt very tired, and very cold.
Blücher knew what this meant. He had lost too much blood already, and it was still trickling out. He had lived his whole life knowing that he could die at any moment, and it looked like the moment was here. The pain was growing, turning into something terrible, but he only needed to be brave for a little bit longer. Then he would have done all that God or his king could ask of him.
With one foot and the rifle, Blücher made his way toward a menhir, a great squarish block of sandstone the color of gunsmoke. He leaned against it and tried to collect what wits and strength he had. He noted in an almost disinterested way that the Imperial Guard was headed this way in force. If only III Corps had held out, his army would at least have had a better escape route.
“Damn you, Thielmann,” he said again. He didn’t think anyone could hear him, but someone must have.
“That is in the hands of a higher power than yours or mine,” came a voice from somewhere to his right, speaking accented French.
Blücher turned — only to see, riding up on a well-groomed white horse, the one man who at this point could have aroused real anger in him.
“Thielmann is dead,” said Bonaparte matter-of-factly. “That wing of your army held out until he was killed, then gave way.” He dismounted slowly, as if in discomfort. Two of the Guard seized hold of Blücher’s arms, ironically making it easier for him to stay on his feet. Foot.
Blücher took in a deep breath. He would not show weakness in front of this Godless upstart — not even now.
“What are you doing here, peasant?” he said, sneering a little. What was the escapee going to do at this point — kill him?
Bonaparte smiled. “Peasant,” he said. “Usurper, parvenu, thief, jumped-up Corsican clenching his little fists in rage, tin-pot dictator with delusions of godhood… I’ve heard them all. You oligarchs will go to any length to deny my true importance.” He leaned in closer. “Would you like to know just how important I really am?”
Blücher smiled. This was going to be good. There was nothing like the certainty of imminent death to give you perspective on mortal grandeur.
“I am as important as I can make myself. No more, no less. Just like everyone else. I think that’s what frightens you.”
Blücher was trying to think of an answer to this when everything went black.
* * *
Twenty minutes after the field marshal’s death, the French VI Corps under Mouton-Lobau arrived and joined the fight in the Bois de Floreffe. Gneisenau, seeing no alternative, ordered what was left of the Prussian army to surrender. Later estimates would show about 10,000 dead or wounded Frenchmen, and about 25,000 dead or wounded Prussians.
That same day, on another continent, Wellington received his copy of a peace treaty between Britain and the United States that conformed to his requirements in every particular.
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