"It is very bad still, however, and the ground in many places a morass."
"My people call this sort of thing 'Wellington weather'," observed his lordship. "It always rains before my battles. What's the news from the Marshal? Hope he's no worse?"
The Marshal Prince had been last heard of as prostrate from the results of having been twice ridden over by cavalry when his horse was shot under him at Ligny. It would not have been surprising had an old gentleman of over seventy years of age succumbed to this rough usage, but Marshal Forwards was made of stern stuff. He was dosing himself with a concoction of his own, in which garlic figured largely, and had every intention of leading his army in person again. He had ordered General Billow to march at daybreak, through Wavre, on Chapelle St Lambert, with the Second Army Corps in support; and wrote asking for information, and promising support.
After a short conference with the Duke, Muffling went back to his own quarters to send off the intelligence that was wanted, and to represent to General Gneisenau in the plainest language the propriety of moving to the support of the Allied Army without any loss of time.
The Duke, apparently quite refreshed by his short nap, sat down to write letters. "Pray keep the English quiet if you can," he wrote to Sir Charles Stuart. "Let them all be prepared to move, but neither be in a hurry nor a fright, as all will yet turn out well."
But his lordship had not forgotten the bugbear of his right wing. Only a few hours earlier, he had sent orders to General Colville, at Braine-le-Comte, to retire upon Hal, and had instructed Prince Frederick to defend the position between Hal and Enghien for as long as possible. It was his opinion that Bonaparte's best strategy would be to outflank him, and seize Brussels by a coup de main. "II se pent que l'ennemi nous tourne par Hal," he wrote to the Duc de Berri. "Si cela arrive, je prie votre Altesse Royale de marcher sur Anvers et de vows cantonner dans le voisinage."
His lordship found time to send a note to his Brussels flirt, too. His indefatigable pen warned that her family ought to make preparations to leave Brussels, but added: "I will give you the earliest intimation of any danger that may come to my knowledge. At present I know of none."
His letters all written and despatched, his final dispositions checked, the Duke sent for his shaving water; and Thornhill, his phlegmatic cook, began to prepare breakfast. His lordship was notoriously indifferent to the food he ate (he had, in fact, once consumed a bad egg at breakfast before one of his battles in Spain, merely remarking in a preoccupied tone, when he had finished it: "By the by, Fitzroy, is that egg of yours fresh? for mine was quite rotten"), but Thornhill had his pride to consider, and might be trusted to concoct a palatable meal out of the most unpromising materials.
Just before the Duke left his Headquarters, a lieutenant of hussars rode into Waterloo at a gallop, and flung himself out of the saddle at the door of the little inn. His gay dress was generously splattered with mud, but Colonel Audley, leaning against the doorpost, had no difficulty in recognising an officer of his own regiment, and hailed him immediately: "Hallo! Where are you from?"
The lieutenant saluted. "Lindsay, sir, of Captain Taylor's squadron on picket duty at Smohain. Message for his lordship from General Bulow!"