Chapter 6 - The Road to Waterloo
The rain began as if someone had opened a door in the sky.
Within minutes my coat was soaked.
Within an hour I stopped caring.
The road turned brown.
Then liquid.
Wheels sank.
Horses slipped.
Men cursed.
Artillery teams doubled their effort.
The army marched north beneath thunder.
I had once written that summer rain in the countryside was refreshing.
I apologize to anyone who read that article.
There was nothing refreshing about June 17.
Water ran from my hair into my eyes.
Mud entered my boots.
My notebook survived only because I wrapped it beneath my shirt.
Mercer’s wagon became stuck twice.
The second time twenty men pushed while horses pulled.
The wheel finally tore free with a sound like a cannon shot.
Everyone fell into mud.
William appeared from somewhere and laughed at me.
“You look like Belgium.”
“There is more Belgium on my coat than on the road.”
He helped me up.
His own uniform was hardly visible beneath mud.
Behind us French cavalry pressed the retreat.
There were sharp clashes.
Cannons fired through rain.
The sky flashed.
Sometimes I could not tell thunder from artillery.
Men who had fought the day before now marched without sleep.
Some simply closed their eyes while walking.
At one point I saw a soldier stumble, stand, walk three more steps, and fall asleep beside the road.
His sergeant kicked his boot.
“Up.”
The man opened one eye.
“Dead.”
“No you’re not.”
“Feels like it.”
“Up.”
He rose.
By late afternoon we approached the position Wellington had chosen.
Mont-Saint-Jean.
The name meant nothing to me.
The ground did not look impressive.
A ridge.
Fields.
Roads.
Farms.
A few buildings.
Nothing about it announced that tens of thousands of men would soon kill one another there.
Wellington’s troops moved into positions.
Some took shelter behind the ridge.
Others occupied farms in front.
Hougoumont to one side.
La Haye Sainte nearer the center.
Papelotte farther east.
I stood beside Mercer in the rain.
“This is it?”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mountains?”
“Something.”
He looked across the valley.
“Battlefields are usually ordinary until armies arrive.”
That sentence stayed with me.
We moved behind the line where medical facilities were being organized.
Buildings became dressing stations.
Barns held supplies.
Carts gathered.
Surgeons prepared.
Men found whatever shelter they could.
Night approached.
Rain continued.
Across the valley, the French arrived.
We could not see much through weather and fading light.
But we knew.
Campfires.
Movement.
Voices carried occasionally when wind shifted.
Two armies settled within sight of one another.
Napoleon on one side.
Wellington on the other.
The Prussians somewhere beyond.
Nobody near me knew exactly where.
William found a place beneath a hedge.
I sat beside him.
He wrung water from one sock.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You ever seen a proper battle?”
“Yesterday seemed proper enough.”
“No. That was a mess.”
“And tomorrow won’t be?”
He considered.
“Fair point.”
We shared bread.
It was wet.
Everything was wet.
Some soldiers tried lighting fires.
Many failed.
Men wrapped coats around themselves and lay directly in mud.
Officers moved through darkness carrying orders.
Horses stood steaming.
Somewhere a man sang quietly.
Someone told him to stop.
He sang more quietly.
I looked toward the French positions.
Lightning illuminated the ridge opposite.
For a fraction of a second I saw shapes.
Artillery.
Men.
Horses.
Then darkness again.
I wrote only one line that night:
Tomorrow this field will have a name.
Then I lay down beneath a wagon.
Rain struck the wood inches above my face.
May you like
I did not sleep much.
Neither did Europe.
