SOMERSET
The Prince of Orange has been badly struck—
A bullet through his shoulder—so they tell;
And Kielmansegge has shown some signs of stress.
Kincaird’s tried line wanes leaner and more lean—
Whittled to a weak skein of skirmishers;
The Twenty-seventh lie dead.
WELLINGTON
Ah yes—I know!
[While they watch developments a cannon-shot passes and knocks
SOMERSET’S right arm to a mash. He is assisted to the rear.
NEY and FRIANT now lead forward the last and most desperate
assault of the day, in charges of the Old and Middle Guard,
the attack by DONZELOT and ALLIX further east still continuing as
a support. It is about a quarter-past eight, and the midsummer
evening is fine after the wet night and morning, the sun approaching
its setting in a sky of gorgeous colours.
The picked and toughened Guard, many of whom stood in the ranks
at Austerlitz and Wagram, have been drawn up in three or four
echelons, the foremost of which now advances up the slopes to
the Allies’ position. The others follow at intervals, the
drummers beating the “pas de charge.”]
CHORUS OF RUMOURS [aerial music]
Twice thirty throats of couchant cannonry—
Ranked in a hollow curve, to close their blaze
Upon the advancing files—wait silently
Like to black bulls at gaze.
The Guard approaches nearer and more near:
To touch-hole moves each match of smoky sheen:
The ordnance roars: the van-ranks disappear
As if wiped off the scene.
The aged Friant falls as it resounds;
Ney’s charger drops—his fifth on this sore day—
Its rider from the quivering body bounds
And forward foots his way.
The cloven columns tread the English height,
Seize guns, repulse battalions rank by rank,
While horse and foot artillery heavily bite
Into their front and flank.
It nulls the power of a flesh-built frame
To live within that zone of missiles. Back
The Old Guard, staggering, climbs to whence it came.
The fallen define its track.
[The second echelon of the Imperial Guard has come up to the
assault. Its columns have borne upon HALKETT’S right. HALKETT,
desperate to keep his wavering men firm, himself seizes and
waves the flag of the Thirty-third, in which act he falls wounded.
But the men rally. Meanwhile the Fifty-second, covered by the
Seventy-first, has advanced across the front, and charges the
Imperial Guard on the flank.
The third echelon next arrives at the English lines and squares;
rushes through the very focus of their fire, and seeing nothing
more in front, raises a shout.
IMPERIAL GUARD
The Emperor! It’s victory!
WELLINGTON
Stand up, Guards!
Form line upon the front face of the square!
[Two thousand of MAITLAND’S Guards, hidden in the hollow roadway,
thereupon spring up, form as ordered, and reveal themselves as a
fence of leveled firelocks four deep. The flints click in a
multitude, the pans flash, and volley after volley is poured into
the bear-skinned figures of the massed French, who kill COLONEL
D’OYLEY in returning fire.]
WELLINGTON
Now drive the fellows in! Go on; go on!
You’ll do it now!
[COLBORNE converges on the French guard with the Fifty-second, and
The former splits into two as the climax comes. ADAM, MAITLAND,
and COLBORNE pursue their advantage. The Imperial columns are
broken, and their confusion is increased by grape-shot from
BOLTON’S battery.]
Campbell, this order next:
Vivian’s hussars are to support, and bear
Against the cavalry towards Belle Alliance.
Go—let him know.
[Sir C. CAMPBELL departs with the order. Soon VIVIAN’S and
VANDELEUR’S light horse are seen advancing, and in due time the
French cavalry are rolled back.
WELLINGTON goes in the direction of the hussars with UXBRIDGE. A
cannon-shot hisses past.]
UXBRIDGE [starting]
I have lost my leg, by God!
WELLINGTON
By God, and have you! Ay—the wind o’ the shot
Blew past the withers of my Copenhagen
Like the foul sweeping of a witch’s broom.—
Aha—they are giving way!
[While UXBRIDGE is being helped to the rear, WELLINGTON makes a
sign to SALTOUN, Colonel of the First Footguards.]
SALTOUN [shouting]
Boys, now’s your time;
Forward and win!
FRENCH VOICES
The Guard gives way—we are beaten!
[They recede down the hill, carrying confusion into NAPOLÉON’S
centre just as the Prussians press forward at a right angle from
the other side of the field. NAPOLÉON is seen standing in the
hollow beyond La Haye Sainte, alone, except for the presence of
COUNT FLAHAULT, his aide-de-camp. His lips move with sudden
exclamation.