The Battle Dance: Waterloo

Muddy Mayhem

The sun was still shining over the green pastures and clay roof tiles in the village of Waterloo when a group of British staff officers rode into the forest of Soigné on the great highway to Brussels. Yellow rays penetrated the leafy canopy to caress their brows and the sheen of their horses. The bulge of grey above their heads threatened to block out the blue expanse. Lightning streaked and thunder growled its warning.

"I wish it would hit," Lord Jasper Darnley grumbled. "The tension tends me to terseness."

"Wish it may hold off until we have shelter," Lt-Colonel Scovell suggested. "Once these tempest strikes, the cold purveys your entire person. The air is humid now but a shower should soon cool it down."

"Bad weather bogs down a retreat," Lieutenant Lennox agreed. "Ten times more tricky to fix camp or transport cannon."

The black blanket crept over the sun and day was made into the night. As the bank of cloud burst, the sky seemed to stretch down and brush the earth. A rushing noise like of a waterfall filled their ears and an icy wave washed over their bodies. In seconds they were soaked. Even the hoof beats were drowned out for a time drowned.

Jasper gazed up between the agitated branches at the billowing mantle. Heaven touches earth, he thought, sky meets the ground, and he was thankful the forest gave partial protection. The riders dug in their heels, sped up the journey, but the straining steeds suffered far more from fatigue than did their masters.

"Our poor countrymen," Jasper cried to his companions.

"This storm may prove a blessing in disguise," Scovell shouted back. "The French pursuit must slow down, too!"

The three staff officers were just a handful of the men travelling through the lashing rain, sticky mud, tangled wry, and marshy meadow. Three armies reassembled to devour one another. For hours visibility was poor. A soldier could barely see the back before him. Even his hand held before his face was a rainy blur. The gloom settled over their souls as the going grew worse and rapid progress impossible. The British were stampeding for the safety of their waterlogged camps as the French snapped at their heels. Napoleon was striving to narrow the gap, close in for the kill.

The cavalry clashes calmed in the last few miles of the march. Squabbles had subsided, scraps, single combats. Carbines refused to fire, the powder being too wet. The roar of thunder obscured even the scrape of sabres. Infantrymen were too busy escaping the elements, burrowing into haystacks, barns, or farmsteads to bother about cavalry contests.

The Life Guards pressed through the final field.‎ Corn stalks scratched and tickled faces and tore fabric. Seeds sprinkled saturated uniforms. ‎Water ran down their collars and into their boots as their horses trod up the slushy slope. The rest of the Household brigade had assembled on the plateau. Captain Kelly crested the ridge and his squadron spanned out, keeping formation. ‎

"Halt here!" he called. "Rest as we await orders."

Lieutenant Nicholas Tilden lifted his head and blinked into the driving rain. Water droplets laced his lashes. Every inch of him was wet. Through the haze, he glimpsed rolling wry and corn, crops and trees, a straggle of houses and farms, and the cutting for a highway heading straight for a vast tract of woodland. The great chaussée between the hilltop and hamlet was covered with three retiring columns composed of cavalry, infantry, and artillery. The country to the east and west looked empty of either army.

Nicholas urged his horse up to his captain. "Our enemy could easily outflank us," he yelled. "Are we inviting Boney to swoop around our side? One French force attacks our encamped army while the other captures Brussels."

"I doubt even Boney could succeed at such a thing in this storm," Kelly smiled through chattering teeth. "The mud is so thick and his army is still strung out on the march."