“By God!” he ejaculated abruptly as he lowered the glass. “That’ll do!”
He turned to another aide de camp.
“Ride off and tell Clinton and Leith to return to their former ground.” These were the generals commanding the Fifth and Sixth Divisions, on the right and right-centre of the British position. Then Wellington ordered up his horse. Closing his spy-glass with a snap, he turned with these words to his Spanish attaché, Colonel Alava: “Mon cher Alava, Marmont est perdu!” A moment later Wellington was on horseback and his staff also, all galloping off.
Wellington grasped the meaning of Marmont’s move. He saw his chance of falling on in force and overpowering the detached French wing before help could reach it.
He made his way as fast as his charger could carry him to the British Third Division—Picton’s men, temporarily commanded by Wellington’s brother-in-law, General Sir Edward Pakenham.
“As he rode up to Pakenham,” says an officer whose regiment was close by, “every eye was turned on him. He looked paler than usual, but was quite unruffled in his manner, and as calm as if the battle to be fought was nothing more than an ordinary assemblage of troops for a field-day.”
“Ned,” said Wellington, as he drew rein beside Pakenham, tapping him on the shoulder and pointing in the direction of the separated French column as its leading troops were beginning to move towards their distant position, “Ned, d’ye see those fellows on the hill? Throw your division in column, and at ’em and drive ’em to the Devil!”
“I will, my lord, by God!” was Pakenham’s laconic reply, and he turned away to give the necessary orders.
A FURIOUS COUNTER-ATTACK
The two Eagles were taken in the course of Pakenham’s attack, when the Third Division, with the Fifth advancing on one flank, was moving forward to meet the fierce counter-attack with which the enemy, after the first collision, attempted to make amends for their commander’s blunder.