Chapter 7 - The Ridge at Mont-Saint-Jean
Morning revealed how ordinary Waterloo truly was.
Fields.
Wet crops.
Hedges.
Farm buildings.
Tracks.
Low rises.
Mud everywhere.
I walked as far as Mercer permitted and tried to understand the ground.
To the west stood Hougoumont, a walled farm complex surrounded by trees and gardens.
Near the center, closer to the French side, La Haye Sainte sat beside the main road.
Farther east were farms and villages whose names I wrote down carefully because I suspected they would matter later.
Papelotte.
La Haye.
Smohain.
Behind us stood Mont-Saint-Jean.
Farther north was the village of Waterloo itself.
I frowned at my map.
“So the battle might not even happen in Waterloo?”
Mercer shrugged.
“History enjoys untidy names.”
The ridge was Wellington’s advantage.
Many Allied troops could remain partly sheltered behind its crest from French artillery.
From where I stood, much of the army seemed to disappear.
“That’s deliberate?” I asked an officer.
He looked irritated.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He walked away.
Journalists were apparently unwelcome before breakfast.
William’s regiment waited behind part of the ridge.
I found him cleaning his musket.
The weapon already looked clean.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He looked up.
“Yes.”
Around us men prepared in their own ways.
Some checked equipment repeatedly.
Some joked too loudly.
Some wrote letters.
One soldier ate cheese.
Another vomited behind a hedge.
A third slept.
That impressed me most.
“How can he sleep?” I asked.
William shrugged.
“Practice.”
Across the valley, the French were becoming visible.
Lines.
Columns.
Artillery batteries.
Cavalry.
Flags.
The scale was difficult to understand.
You could look at a thousand men and think, That is many.
Then move your eyes slightly and see another thousand.
And another.
Somewhere among them was Napoleon.
I tried identifying him.
Impossible.
History likes close portraits.
Reality often gives you distant dots.
I did not see an emperor.
I saw an army.
And an army is more frightening.
The rain stopped, but clouds remained.
The ground was soaked.
Artillery wheels sank into mud.
Men waited.
That waiting was terrible.
I had imagined battles began with immediate fury.
Instead, Waterloo began with breakfast.
Coffee where available.
Bread.
Meat.
Men checking flints.
Officers consulting watches.
Hours passed.
The French delayed while ground dried enough for guns to move more effectively.
Everyone knew something enormous was coming.
Nobody knew exactly when.
Near eleven, Mercer inspected his instruments.
I hated looking at them.
Saw.
Knives.
Forceps.
Things designed to help people by hurting them first.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“I liked your profession better before I understood it.”
“So did I.”
I walked outside.
William stood with his company.
I wanted to speak.
Instead I nodded.
He nodded back.
Then from the French side came movement.
Artillery.
Men toward Hougoumont.
A gun fired.
Then another.
Then many.
The peaceful valley vanished beneath sound.
William lifted his musket.
Mercer shouted for assistants.
I opened my notebook.
May you like
My hand shook too badly to write.
The Battle of Waterloo had begun.
