BLURB:
I Stood With Wellington
“Up Guards and at them!”
In February, 1815, after nine months in exile, Napoleon Bonaparte, the deposed Emperor of the French, escaped from the Isle of Elba. Seizing the initiative while the European powers bicker amongst themselves at the Congress of Vienna, Napoleon advances towards Belgium with an enormous army, where the combined forces of Prussia and England are cantoned. The French Emperor knows that if he can achieve a decisive capture in Brussels, it will shatter the already fragile European alliance.
Leading the allies is Sir Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington; the venerable British field marshal who defeated Napoleon’s best generals in Spain, yet who the emperor had never personally met in battle. Napoleon knows that if he can draw away Wellington’s chief Prussian ally, Gebhard von Blucher, and destroy his army first, he can unleash his entire might against the British. A victory over the unbeaten Wellington will cripple the alliance even further, as it will then deprive them of both English soldiers and financing.
In Belgium, Captain James Henry Webster has finally returned to a line regiment after being terribly wounded at the Siege of Badajoz three years prior. He is given command of a line company within the 1st Regiment of Foot Guards, the elite of the British Infantry.
A series of indecisive clashes will lead to a collision between the two greatest military minds of the age and the bloodiest single day of the entire century, as Wellington and Napoleon lead their armies to either immortality or oblivion. For Captain Webster, he fights for both his nation and to protect his young daughter in Brussels. Along with the rest of the Guards Division, he finds himself at the apex of the battle, where the fate of the entire world will be decided; at a place called Waterloo.
(Book Will Be Reviewed Very Soon–Only Minimally Behind! I am sorry.)
Chapter I: The Guns Have Stopped
Toulouse, France
10 April 1814
Nicolas Jean-de-Dieu Soult, Duke of Dalmatia
France is falling.
The French general gazed over the short rampart of the town and let out a resigned sigh. Nicolas Jean-de-Dieu Soult, Duke of Dalmatia, had served France his entire life, both under the Bourbon Monarchy, as well as the Empire of Napoleon. His military origins were humble, beginning in the ranks as a private and, thanks to his education, rising to sergeant in just a few short years before receiving his commission. Unlike their English adversaries, whose officers were almost exclusively wealthy gentlemen, many of France’s best officers, like Soult, had come from the ranks. Though he was one of the Marshals of France, and thus often addressed as Marshal Soult, this was an honorary title rather than an actual military rank.
He had celebrated his forty-fifth birthday less than two weeks prior, conducting the last of many tactical retreats to Toulouse. Ironically, he and Napoleon were just a few months apart in age, as was another of Soult’s peers, Marshal Michel Ney. The year, 1769, had been the birth year of many of the greatest military minds of the age.
Soult turned to his left and apprised his men, who were busily positioning small artillery pieces and emplacing baskets full of rocks on top of the short wall, to be used for additional cover. Most were raw conscripts with little to no practical training. Years of continuous warfare had depleted the ranks of the imperial army; the loss of almost half a million during the disastrous Russian invasion two years before had all but broken France. Napoleon may have been able to recover from this catastrophe had his armies in Spain not been engaged in supressing, continuous rebellions while, at the same time, having to face the unexpectedly relentless British expeditionary force.
“All guns are in position, sir,” a voice said behind him. Soult turned to see it was the sergeant major of the regiment assigned to defend this section of the city. He looked more like a young boy than a grown man, and Soult figured he was in his early twenties at most.
Most of the senior officers were either suffering in a camp hospital from injuries or various horrific diseases, a prisoner of the English, or a mutilated corpse somewhere between Toulouse and the Spanish border. The few officers who did remain were mostly young subalterns trying to command their individual companies. This left the sergeant major, who Soult guessed had been but a teenage conscript three or four years before, to coordinate the entire regiment.
“Well done,” the marshal replied. “Hold this position, and I’ll see to it the emperor commissions you, personally.”
“Thank you, sir!” the sergeant major replied, saluting sharply and then returning to his post.
“If we still have an emperor when this is over,” Soult said quietly to himself. He then shook his head. “How far we have fallen since Austerlitz?”
The battle he referred to had happened nine years before, was regarded as one of Napoleon’s greatest triumphs, and was also the action that later earned Soult the title of Duke of Dalmatia. The combined armies of Russia and Austria had been annihilated, suffering ten times the number of casualties they were able to inflict upon the French. The Third Coalition had ended, and the Holy Roman Empire dissolved as a result. Napoleon seemed invincible at the time, yet now it was the French Empire that was on the verge of collapse.
Whilst Napoleon had been preoccupied with the wars against Prussia and Austria, as well as his attempt to seize Russia, a small British expeditionary force landed in Portugal in 1808 under the command of a general who’d made his name in India but had yet to be tested against the professional armies of Europe. That man was Sir Arthur Wellesley, now the Marquess of Wellington. He was also the same age as Napoleon, Ney, and Soult, and over the course of five years, his army clawed its way through the Peninsula, driving the French from Portugal and Spain. While the grand armies of the old European powers were being smashed by Napoleon with contemptuous ease, his best generals were suffering similar fates at the hand of Wellington. In fact, he had personally bested Marshal Soult on at least six occasions.
Soult looked once more at the hastily scrawled final orders that had been sent from the emperor. They directed him to hold Toulouse with his forty-two thousand men at all cost. Opposing him was a familiar nemesis, the venerable Wellington himself.
Just five months before, in December 1813, Soult had failed to break the British lines at the Battle of Nive and was forced to retreat. Then most recently, at the Battle of Orthez in February, Wellington’s forces had completely routed the French yet again, inflicting more than twice as many casualties as they took with thousands more French soldiers being taken prisoner. What further incensed Soult was that these defeats had taken place on French soil. He was anxious, not just for revenge against the insufferable English general, but to drive the British troops from his homeland. Unable to defend both Toulouse and Bordeaux, he had elected to make his stand at Toulouse where supplies and rations would be easier to come by. Bordeaux fell to the British soon after with scarcely a shot fired.
What further embarrassed the French generals who faced Wellington in the Peninsula was, with only a couple exceptions, they almost always had the advantage in numbers, yet had been unable to inflict even a single decisive defeat on the British expeditionary force. Now Wellington had numerical superiority, which prevented Soult from even considering a counterattack. With Russia, Austria, and Prussia closing in on Paris, all Soult could do was try and hold Wellington off while praying that Napoleon achieved yet another miracle against overwhelming odds.
At the British camp, there was a feeling in the air amongst the soldiers that the war was, at last, coming to an end. Nearly every redcoat who cleaned and inspected his arms and equipment for the coming battle was brimming with confidence, though each man secretly prayed that he wouldn’t fall now, with the war all but won.
It had been almost six years since the British expeditionary force under General Arthur Wellesley had landed in Portugal and decisively bested the French at Vimeiro. It was the first of many such victories. In fact, Wellesley, now known as the Marquess of Wellington, had never been defeated in a major battle. The combined powers of continental Europe had repeatedly fallen prey to the French Emperor, with Russia only being spared due to the harsh weather of their homeland rather than the tactical or strategic savvy of their generals. During the years in which Napoleon won his greatest victories against every army that dared face him, his best generals were humiliated time and again by this British upstart with fewer troops who were, at the time, far less experienced than their own.
It was only after the disastrous Russian winter had depleted and demoralized his army, that Napoleon finally looked west and took note of the ragtag army of redcoats who’d somehow won every major battle against his forces and had successfully driven the French completely out of Portugal and Spain. Wellington would later privately admit that he was glad to have never faced Napoleon directly in battle, and doubtless the French Emperor now wished that he’d abstained from invading Russia and had instead focused his efforts on personally crushing the British, once and for all. Sadly, for him the past could not be undone, and while his grip on the French throne slipped away, Wellington was building a reputation that exceeded that of any military leader of the age.
Amongst the near sixty-thousand men under his command was a young Irish soldier named Private David O’Connor. A member of the all-Irish 27th Inniskilling Regiment, he had only just arrived in camp two weeks prior.
Having taken the King’s Shilling the previous summer, David thought he’d have just enough time to learn basic drill and marksmanship before being sent to Spain or southern France. Instead, recruit training lasted an arduous seven months. One luxury the British had, that neither their allies nor enemies were afforded, was the protected isolation of their island, which allowed them to take the time to ensure their recruits were trained properly before sending them into battle. Of course, for young David, the months of training had not felt like a luxury, particularly the hard lashings he took from a couple of brutal instructors who despised the Irish. Still he persevered and was glad when the day came that he turned in his white, soiled, recruit garb and was issued proper trousers, shako, and red tunic.
“Fall in and look lively about it!”
At the barking order from Colour Sergeant Shanahan, every soldier dropped whatever he was doing, grabbed his musket, and formed up into three ranks, muskets shouldered. There was noticeable tension in the air, but also a strange sense of relief that the wait before going into action was now over.
To David’s left was an equally young soldier who had been with him in recruit training. To his right was a much older private, who he hazarded was old enough to be his father. They were in the front rank of the company, and David grudgingly reckoned they would be the first to fall. Like all line companies, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, muskets loaded with bayonets fixed, and carried over the left shoulder. While it may have baffled the outside observer as to why the men stood so close together in formation, from a tactical standpoint it made perfect sense. Men in close order were easier to keep in line and coordinate as one unit. Given the short range of the standard musket, after one or two volleys, most of the fighting was done with the bayonet, where one wanted friends on either side of him, all fighting as one.
“Company!” the captain shouted. “Advance!”
Orders and bugle calls echoed throughout, and the young Irish soldier could not make sense of any of it. He focused on as much of his commanding officer’s voice as he could make out and was thankful that orders were echoed by everyone along the line, ensuring dissemination in even the loudest din of battle. Drummers beat a cadence, and the men of the Inniskilling began their march towards Toulouse.
The ground was damp, the long grass trodden down, sparse trees dotting the landscape as they advanced towards the fortified town. The Inniskilling had been kept in reserve and was now, at last, being committed to battle. As their footfalls made a unified thud into the earth, in time with the beating drums, the sights of the battle that had already happened greeted them. David swallowed hard as he saw his first dead human being. It was a young drummer; his head completely blown off by a cannon shot, a coagulated pool of blood running from his neck and mingling with the mud and grass. As they continued to march they came upon more dead, both British and French. The fatal wounds struck by musket ball and bayonet were horrific to behold. Bodies, and parts of bodies, littered the ground. David almost tripped over a severed arm that was still clutching a shattered musket.
Even more horrifying than the sights of the dead were the wounded, of which there were far greater in number. Even the strongest of men cried out piteously in anguish, as they clutched at the stumps where arms and legs had once been, or sobbed mournfully as they held their own guts in blood-soaked hands. In a tribute to their physical and mental fortitude, the British wounded made far less of a commotion than their enemies.
The fighting here had been particularly fierce, and the number of casualties on both sides was great. David saw one French soldier trying to crawl away, his right leg bloodied and dragging behind him. As he walked past, he heard the man give a fresh cry of pain as a redcoat bayoneted him in the small of the back. This brought a sharp rebuke from the man’s corporal, as killing of the enemy wounded was viewed contemptuously. There was nothing brave about murdering one who was either stricken or attempting to surrender. It was generally accepted that wounded left behind following a battle would be cared for by the victorious army, as best as they were able, although, it was a given that atrocities still occurred on both sides.
The hour was growing late, and everything that could go wrong did. Wellington had misplaced his trust in his Spanish allies, giving them a strongpoint to attack, which they failed to break through. The venerable and highly aggressive Sir Thomas Picton had thought to take his diversionary attack and make it into a real one, like he had at Badajoz, only to be thrown back with terrible losses. David could hear a continuous crash of musket fire coming from his right, where Picton’s division was reforming and pushing back against a French counterattack. Indeed, the French had fared little better, and Soult had to know that his position was precarious at best.
The slowly advancing Inniskilling regiment was, at last, at the outskirts of the town. An occasional tree, scoured by musket and cannon fire, lined the town. In front of the short slope was a small stream brought on by the recent heavy rains. Bodies from both sides littered the slope and lay grotesquely twisted amongst the rubble strewn about. A battered company of French fusiliers was scattered about the ruins, desperately making ready to take on this new wave of British redcoats. Cohesion was gone and there was no semblance of formation; they simply tried to reload their weapons as fast as possible and started shooting blindly. Were they fresh, they might have been able to make a decent showing of themselves. As it was, they’d been battered and bloodied all day, with many of their friends lying amongst the carnage.
The erratic shots mostly landed short or went over the formation, though the occasional musket ball slammed home, bringing shouts of surprise and pain from those hit. Even as men fell, the company advanced in step and in complete silence.
“Halt!” the captain shouted.
It was then that David realized just how close they’d come to the enemy. He fought to control his breathing and sweat started forming on his brow, despite the damp cold. He could see a tattered French soldier not fifty yards from him, just a few feet up the slope. The lad was probably his age, if not younger. His mop of hair was plastered to his head with sweat and grime, traces hanging in front of his eyes. His face was filthy, his uniform torn in many places. For a brief moment the two made direct eye contact, and the Frenchman started to furiously reload his musket.
“Front rank…make ready!”
David and the rest of the men in front lifted their weapons from their shoulders and held them straight up and down in front of their chests. He wanted to lower his weapon and shoot the young man, who was still glancing his way as he dropped the ball into his musket and furiously rammed it home.
“Present!”
The Irishman lowered his musket and looked down the barrel, past the bayonet, and right at the young French soldier who was simultaneously shouldering his weapon. David gritted his teeth and prepared to meet his fate.
“Fire!”
He squeezed the trigger of his flintlock before the captain had finished saying the order. A spark from the flint ignited the powder in the pan, with the subsequent flash firing the weapon. A volley of British muskets exploded and socked their front in with smoke.
“Front rank…kneel!”
David immediately dropped to a knee, glad that he was now a smaller target for the enemy. He pulled a paper cartridge from his ammunition pouch and made ready to reload, when he noticed that no one else on the line was doing so. He then realized why their commander had waited until they were so close to the enemy before engaging.
“Second rank…make ready…present…fire!”
The crash of the second volley of gunfire left his ears ringing. Subsequent commands and the second rank knelt behind them; the third rank firing their volley into the enemy that now none of them could see.
“Company up!”
The air was pungent with the smell of burned powder. It made David’s mouth feel parched, leaving a foul taste. The men stood with their bayonets protruding forward. Cold steel would finish this battle.
“Charge!”
A loud cry echoed down the line, and the men made a mad dash towards the enemy’s positions. As they sprinted up the slope, David thought he saw the body of the young French soldier who’d tried to take a shot at him. The lad’s throat was ripped open, with a torrent of blood gushing forth. His eyes were wide open, and his tongue sticking out between his teeth, his entire body convulsing as death took him. There was no time to pause and get a good look at him as the company was rushing as fast as it could at the enemy lines. But when they got to the top of the slope, there were no Frenchmen left to face them. The soldiers stumbled to a halt and looked around, trying to see where their quarry had gone off to.
“Bloody hell,” a soldier said. “They’ve all hoofed it.”
“You don’t suppose we got them all, do you?” the new recruit next to David said.
“Not likely with the way you lot shoot,” Colour Sergeant Shanahan scoffed as he walked down the line.
They then noticed a series of outlying buildings that covered the area between the slope and the main wall of the city.
“Alright, lads,” the captain called out. “Start clearing these buildings out. We’re to hold this position until told to advance into the town.”
A shot rang out, which caused the men to scatter and seek cover. Soldiers started reloading their muskets as more sporadic fire came from the far high wall. David and several of his companions rushed over to a small one-room shack and violently kicked the door in with a loud smash. Inside was a single table, two chairs, and a bed in the corner, yet it was devoid of any people. The sounds of musket balls slapping the walls caused them to drop to the floor.
“These damn plank walls are so thin they won’t stop a bloody thing!” one of the soldiers grunted, as they crawled towards the single window that faced towards the city wall.
“At least it gives us some concealment,” David muttered, as a shot smashed through the wall just a few feet above his head.
He removed his bayonet and knelt next to the window, which had already been smashed from previous clashes earlier in the day. He could make out the occasional flash and lots of smoke billowing from the ramparts. The French defenders were simply firing at random. They were at least a hundred yards from the wall, but the young Irishman decided to chance a shot. The blast of the musket echoed loudly in the hollow shack. As he lay back against the wall and began to reload, he quickly ducked to the side as the flash of a bayonet almost stabbed him in the eye.
“Damn it all, will you scabbard that fucking thing already!” he barked at his companion, slapping the weapon away. “Not like we’re going to stick anyone lying here.”
“Sorry, mate,” the other soldier said with a trace of embarrassment. He detached his bayonet and then quickly fired a shot from the same window.
Two other soldiers who accompanied them were at the doorway which lay perpendicular to the city wall. One lay on his stomach, the other kneeling, as they, too, started firing shots at what they could see of their enemy. The remainder of their company, along with the rest of the regiment, were now either occupying the outlying buildings or finding cover amongst the trees and behind slopes of earth.
“Well, that’s it then,” David grunted. “A bloody stalemate this is.”
“What should we do?” the nearest soldier asked him.
“Bugger it,” David replied. He leaned his weapon in the corner, sat back against the wall, removed his shako, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes.
“O’Connor, what the hell?” one of the soldiers from the doorway shouted back at him. “Get back up and start shooting already!”
“And what for?” David retorted, his eyes still shut, “They’re bloody well out of range, and I don’t feel like being out of cartridges when the frogs counterattack, now do I? Somebody wake me when they do.”
The other soldier grumbled quietly, but said nothing more.
He didn’t remember nodding off, though what startled him alert was the utter silence. It had since grown dark, and not a shot was heard. “What the devil?” he asked as he fumbled for his musket in the dark.
“Don’t know,” one of the soldiers said, who was now standing in the doorway. “The guns stopped a little while ago. Here, I see a rider over there.” He pointed across the shack, off to the left where the glare of torches could now be seen.
“Alright, you bastards!” Colour Sergeant Shanahan shouted. “Fall in and look lively about it!”
“Always telling us to look lively,” the soldier in the doorway grunted.
“Does this mean we won?” David asked with a grin, elbowing his companion, who he assumed was sleeping too. When the man did not budge, David shook him vigorously. “Come on, man, wake the hell up already!” It was then that he felt the dampness on the collar of his friend’s tunic. He took a deep breath and in the darkness felt around his neck, which was torn away on the side and soaked in blood.
“Shit,” he said quietly as he rose, grabbed his shako and musket, and headed for the door, which his companions had already left through. He briefly turned back and looked into the darkness where his friend now lay dead. “Rest easy, mate.”
“Fall in at the double already!” Colour Sergeant Shanahan shouted as soldiers rushed towards him from various directions.
The captain and two subalterns were talking to the rider, who many of them recognized as Major Fitzroy Somerset, an officer from Wellingtons’ staff.
As David morosely took his place on the line, the colour sergeant’s voice was bellowing into his ear once more.
“Put on your bloody shako and do your tunic buttons up! Where the devil do you think you are?”
“Sorry, colour sergeant,” the Irish private said quietly, eyes downcast as he put on his shako, hastily did up his top two buttons, and shouldered his weapon. Shanahan, who was getting accountability of the men, asked about his friend.
“He bought it,” David said quietly.
The colour sergeant gave a sad nod and patted him on the shoulder. David thought he heard him quietly say ‘I’m sorry’.
The captain quickly walked over and addressed the company. “The frogs have pulled out of the town,” he said, eliciting a cheer from the men. “We will fall in with the rest of the regiment, push through, and set up pickets on the far side lest Soult manages to gather reinforcements and counterattack.”
David chanced a glance over his shoulder towards the shack where his friend now lay dead. There were many who would scoff that war was the worst place to form friendships, as they were often ended abruptly through death. And yet, for the average soldier, regardless of which side he fought on, it was precisely such a harrowing ordeal that brought them closer together.
It was utterly quiet as they marched through the town. Doors and windows were boarded up, and not a soul dared take to the streets once the redcoats came. Horrifying stories of what the British army had done to the citizens of the Spanish cities of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz terrified the French populace. All was silent with the exception of the drum cadence and the matching footfalls of the advancing regiments; soldiers only talked, in hushed voices, as they reached the far side of the town and set up guard watch and pickets. David and several of his companions took up position in a ditch that ran parallel to the main road into town.
“This bloody grass is soaked,” a soldier next to him grumbled. “Feels like me arse is in a puddle.”
His mind numb, David sat down in the wet grass and leaned against his weapon, unable to ascertain how he should feel after what he’d been through. He thought about his friend who lay crumpled beneath the window of the shack. The two had carried each other through recruit training and had been elated when both were assigned to the Inniskilling and sent to southern France. David then wondered what would happen to his body. Would they be able to retrieve all of their fallen or would he only be found after the denizens of the shack returned to find the slain redcoat? This was far more likely, with the corpse being looted of anything of value and then tossed into the street for the dogs and vermin to devour. Whatever happened after this night, all David knew was his friend would never have to worry about a wet bottom ever again.
The next morning Wellington sat on a camp stool outside his tent. He had just woken and was still in his shirtsleeves, pulling on his boots. He was distressed over the previous day’s battle, given the terrible, and he felt needless, losses they’d sustained. He paused and glanced up at his aide, Major Somerset. “For once that bastard Soult got the best of me,” he lamented. “I’ve given him a damned good thrashing every time we’ve met in battle, and yet, in this place he finally manages to stop me in my tracks.”
“Well, your grace,” Somerset reckoned, “he did abandon the town, and so is it not our victory after all?”
“A very severe affair in which we defeated the enemy completely,” the Duke replied, giving a nod. He could still claim Toulouse as a victory, even though Soult had voluntarily abandoned his positions in the night, rather than being driven from them.
It was then he noticed the horse riding at a fast gallop up the road. The rider was wearing a red officer’s frock, and Wellington surmised that he must be a messenger from Bordeaux. The noose was tightening around Napoleon, with allied troops closing in on Paris. As the rider came up to his tent and slowed, the Duke recognized him as Lieutenant Colonel Fred Ponsonby. An officer of much distinction, he’d proven invaluable in a crisis on numerous occasions. Fred’s brother, William, was nine years his senior and a major general, who had been in command of a 1,200-man cavalry brigade until handing command off in January and returning to his duties as a member of the House of Commons.
“Your grace!” Ponsonby said as he dismounted quickly, face full of excitement. “I bring extraordinary news.”
“I thought you might,” Wellington said, calmly pulling on his boots. “I knew it was only a matter of time before the allies made peace with Bonaparte.”
“Not peace,” Ponsonby replied, shaking his head. His face was red and the smile so broad that Wellington thought to chastise him for appearing unseemly. The officer’s next words made those feelings evaporate. “Napoleon has abdicated. It happened five days ago.”
“Abdicated?” Wellington echoed, quickly rising to his feet. Never one to show emotion, the feelings of joy and relief overwhelmed his usual stoicism. “By my honour, hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”
Soldiers in the vicinity bore expressions of bewilderment. Their commander-in-chief, who almost never smiled and disdainfully referred to them as ‘scum of the earth’, was now dancing about and snapping his fingers over his head, singing boisterously as if he had just drunk an entire cask of ale and was frolicking with a dozen lasses in an Irish whorehouse. One of those men baffled by Wellington’s conduct was Private David O’Connor, who had just come in from spending the night on picket duty.
“Well, fancy that,” one of the soldiers said with a grin. “So the war’s been over for five days now.”
“Yeah,” David replied, his face bore a scowl. “Pity then, that our lads died for nothing taking this damnable town.” He spat on the ground in disgust, shouldered his musket, and quickly walked back to his company bivouac on the far side of town.
For Nicolas Soult, his feelings echoed those of the young Irish soldier as he sat atop his horse and watched his sad and defeated army march past. Their collective expressions showed sorrow, defeat, and yet even a sense of relief that the war was now over. There was also the frustration and anguish in the realization that their last battle had been an utterly pointless waste of lives. Any personal pleasure he may have felt at having finally given Wellington a proverbial bloody nose was lost upon seeing the futile sufferings of his men. Nearly one in ten of the defenders of Toulouse had fallen, and knowing that their deaths had come five days after the war ended turned the marshal’s stomach. France was clearly tired of war, after so many years of fighting and countless lives lost or otherwise shattered.
For those who survived the war’s shells, they would return to try and make sense of their fractured lives. Veterans who had fought for their nation would now be left to try and scrape up whatever they could for work. For those who’d been seriously injured or disabled, the prospects were even grimmer. This was universal, regardless of which nation’s uniform a soldier wore. And for the armies of Napoleon, there was now the added stigma of enduring decades of relentless warfare only to be on the side that lost. Soldiers and generals alike would for the remainder of their lives attempt to make sense of what happened and what could have been done to prevent their ignominious defeat. While at one time being a member of Napoleon’s imperial army was the most esteemed honour for a Frenchman, it was now an added mark of shame; the scorn of their nation’s humiliating defeat falling upon them.
As for what would happen to Soult himself, he wasn’t quite sure. The Bourbons had been out of power for more than two decades, and clearly if Louis XVIII was in fact being restored to the throne, he could not very well afford to sack all of his ablest generals. France would still require an army, even though it would be but a fraction of what it had been under the peak of the Empire. Louis would need men like Soult, as well as his peers, such as Michel Ney and Emmanuel de Grouchy. He would need the men in the ranks, as well, for there was certain to be much tumult with the deposal of Napoleon. A new world was dawning, and Soult knew not whether it boded good or ill for France.
Where once had been silent terror, Toulouse suddenly became a city of celebration. The tricolour flags of Napoleon’s FrenchRepublic were suddenly replaced by the white flags and cockade of the Bourbon Monarchy. People cheered and danced in the streets, welcoming the British redcoats as heroes and liberators.
“I bet they keep both flags in their trunks, depending on who’s in charge that day,” a soldier scoffed as a group of them walked down the street.
Colour Sergeant Shanahan was leaning against a column at the city hall and chuckled at the remark from the passing soldier. He looked up and saw a number of cheering townspeople battering away at the base of Napoleon’s statue on top of the city hall. As the statue came crashing to the ground, eliciting cheers from hundreds of onlookers, the Irishman let out a sigh.
“So this is how it all ends,” he muttered to himself. Having little luck finding work anywhere near his village of Sixmilebridge in County Clare, Ireland, Patrick Shanahan had been an easy target for the fancy-dressed recruiting sergeant, what felt like a lifetime ago. In actuality, it had only been seven years since he ‘took the King’s schilling’, yet everything had changed. The past six years had all been spent on campaign in Portugal, Spain, and now Southern France. His son and twin daughters would have grown so much by then and probably would not even recognize their father.
His wife, Anne, at first lamented that he had not tried to get her onto the company roles when the expeditionary force left for Portugal. All officers and up to six other ranks in each company could bring their spouses with them on campaign. Patrick had been adamant that he did not want his children raised in war, and so Anne had stayed with them in Ireland. Like many soldiers who had families back home, he had a stoppage taken from his pay to be sent to Ireland to provide for his family. Patrick had only kept enough coin to buy an occasional extra loaf of fresh bread, or new socks, and other essentials the army did not provide.
Though he missed his wife and children every day, he never regretted his decision; too many horrors had he faced and he was glad to spare his family. Families were by no means safe from the hazards of war either. He remembered one young private who had been so elated that his wife’s name had been drawn by lottery to accompany him. They did not realize she was with child until after arriving in Portugal. The poor lass had a terrible time of it, with her husband trying to care for her in addition to all of his duties. The other wives within the company had been there for them and even helped deliver their son when the young soldier was on picket duty. Tragedy struck a week later; the private had just gone out of his wife’s tent when a stray artillery round blew their living area to bits. There had been a dozen casualties, including his wife who, though alive, was missing a leg and part of a hand. Their new-born son was cut in half by the blast. The grievously injured woman was evacuated with the rest of the wounded to be sent back to England, but succumbed to infection less than a month later before even making it out of Portugal. The widowed soldier was a broken man, moving through life listlessly, speaking to no one, and keeping no company except his own. Many expected him to put a pistol to his head or charge headlong into an enemy barrage during the next engagement. Yet, six years later he still walked among the living, having faded into the background among the mass of redcoats, doing his duty in eternally silent mourning. Patrick had seen the young man earlier that evening, sitting alone in the corner of a porch on an abandoned house, drinking a bottle of looted gin. The colour sergeant asked the private if he was well, to which the young man replied, “I live only because God hates me.”
Patrick wondered what would happen to the young soldier, as well as many of the others, now that the war was over. For that matter, he wasn’t certain what would happen to himself. He reckoned some of the men would be sent across the ocean to fight in that utterly pointless war in America. He further guessed that the British government would try and burn Washington to the ground to teach the former colonists a harsh lesson.
As distasteful as he found the idea of fighting in America, his only other option seemed to be taking his discharge and going home. As with any war, once hostilities ended there was always a mass demobilization, seeing as how gigantic armies were expensive to maintain and no longer needed. There was the possibility of garnering other postings around the vast British Empire, though for most of the men their options would be to either go fight across the Atlantic or go home. If given the option, many would opt to leave the King’s service, but Patrick Shanahan was a practical man. Tens-of-thousands of former soldiers would now be seeking work, and jobs were already hard to come by. This was particularly true in his native Ireland; hence the disproportionate number of Irishmen serving in the ranks. It was a bitter irony for many that despite the never-ending strife between Ireland and her English overlords, Irishmen made up a third of the entire British army, wearing red jackets and carrying muskets in the service of King George.
Patrick suddenly found himself in a dilemma. Meagre though the wages of a soldier were, despite Wellington’s efforts to raise the pay of non-commissioned officers, it was still a steady source of income that provided for his family. Elated as he’d be to see Anne and his children again, he would be a poor excuse for a husband and father if he failed to find work after returning home. He doubted that the army would allow him to reenlist should jobs prove as scarce as he feared. On the other hand, leaving for America would mean being away from his family for even longer, to risk dying in a war that as best as he could tell neither side even understood why they were fighting in the first place. And once that war ended, then what?
“If only I knew where to find Captain Webster,” he muttered to himself. The officer he referred to was a young man he’d only known for a couple days, yet the harrowing ordeals they endured had formed a bond between the two. They fought together during the hellish assault on the fortress of Badajoz, two years earlier. Patrick had been a corporal then, Webster a lieutenant. The two had been part of a group of volunteers known as the Forlorn Hope; the first men into the breach of an assault who were there simply to get into the enemy defences and die in place. Both men had miraculously managed to survive, though Webster was badly wounded leading the assault. Patrick had bound the officer’s wounds and carried him all the way back to friendly lines. It was for this reason Wellington had personally promoted him to sergeant. Patrick figured he could call upon a favour from the officer whose life he’d saved. The problem was, last he knew Captain Webster had been sent home to England to recuperate from his injuries, which had proven far worse than initially thought, and was then made a recruiting officer.
Patrick had no way of knowing if Webster ever returned to the continent or stayed in England. Despite being a member of the upper class that often viewed the common rankers with disdain, the captain had been a decent fellow; openly acknowledging that Patrick had saved his life and even once calling him by his given name. No other officer had ever shown the Irishman what could almost be considered a sign of friendship. He then decided that if he were to save himself from the conundrum of having to decide between being discharged from the ranks or fighting in America, he had to find Captain James Henry Webster.
While the masses celebrated in the streets, an impromptu banquet was held with all of the senior British and Spanish officers. General Don Miguel de Alava was the ranking Spanish officer present. An interesting character to say the least, Alava had the unique distinction of having fought for both the French and English. Serving as a marine aboard his Uncle Admiral Ignacio Alava’s flagship, he had served as part of the joint French and Spanish force at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. The battle had proven to be one of the most one-sided naval engagements in history, and though it cost British Admiral Horatio Nelson his life, the French and Spanish fleets had been annihilated, with the British lone masters of the seas ever since. Alava’s uncle had been seriously wounded, and his flagship captured. When Napoleon turned on his allies and invaded Spain, placing his brother, Joseph, on the Spanish throne, Alava changed his allegiance and would later find himself as an aide-de-camp of Wellington. The personal valour he had shown at both Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz had earned him the respect of both Spanish and British alike.
Despite their six years of service together, this evening was the first time Alava or any of his men had seen Wellington actually don the British uniform. Wellington always campaigned in plain civilian garb, preferring his blue overcoat to his red officer’s uniform. But on this night he walked into the dining room sporting his best scarlet frock with its high black collar covered in elaborate gold embroidery. A fancy gold cord hung from his right collar and wrapped loosely around his arm, with tails hanging down. Running from his left shoulder, across the body down to his right hip, was the deep blue sash of the Order of the Garter, Britain’s highest chivalric honour.
“Your grace,” General Alava said with a deep bow as all officers in the room stood. The Spanish, who had all been drinking heavily beforehand, seemed jittery to the amusement of their English counterparts.
As few of the British spoke Spanish, and the Spanish officers at best only knew rudimentary English, cross-conversations proved impossible. About the only thing the British officers could do was try to keep up with the Spanish-level of drinking.
Uncertain what else to do, Wellington stood and held his glass high. “Gentlemen!” he said, “To Louis XVIII and the restoration of the Bourbon Monarchy!” As the assembled host echoed the toast, Wellington took a deep pull off his glass and sat down.
“I thought you hated the Bourbons,” Somerset said quietly into his ear.
“A ‘walking sore’,” Ponsonby added, “Isn’t that what you called Louis?”
“Have you ever seen the Bourbon king?” Wellington asked. “Dear God, the man’s as big as a house and wracked by gout. His daddy lost them the throne to the guillotine over twenty years ago. The man cannot inspire a village idiot, let alone an entire nation. Still, he’s our ally, and with him back on the throne we are at last rid of Boney and can all go home. I daresay, I’ll have a portrait of that ‘walking sore’ hanging in my banquet hall!”
Though his voice dripped with sarcasm, both Somerset and Ponsonby surmised that Wellington was serious about hanging the French King’s portrait in his dining hall.
“Gentlemen,” Alava said with his deep accent, standing once more. “I must propose a toast. To his grace, the Duke of Douro, Marquess of Wellington, and ‘El Liberador de Espana’!”
“El Liberador de Espana!” the Spanish officers all shouted before breaking into a series of whoops and shouts of celebration. Their drunken behaviour, which contrasted sharply with their smart uniforms, was undignified in Wellington’s eyes.
Realizing that the dinner party was degrading into a drunken debauchery, he stood, finished his wine, bowed deeply, and quickly excused himself. Somerset and Ponsonby broke into laughter when they heard Wellington shouting down the hall, “Coffee! Get me some damn coffee already!”
BIO:
Born in Edmonds, Washington, author James Mace is currently a resident of Meridian, Idaho. He enlisted in the United States Air Force out of high school; three years later transferring over to the U.S. Army. After a career as a Soldier that included deploying to Iraq, in 2011 he left his full-time position with the Army National Guard to devote himself to writing.
His well-received series, “Soldier of Rome – The Artorian Chronicles,” is a perennial best-seller in ancient history on Amazon. In his latest endeavors, he also branched into writing about the Napoleonic Wars. After he finishes the last of The Artorian Chronicles in 2013, he looks to expand into a series about the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879.
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