When Napoleon finally awoke on the 17th, he spent the morning talking politics to GÉrard and Grouchy. It was midday when he gave the latter some thirty-three thousand men, and sent him after the Prussians. The spirit, if not the letter, of his instructions was that he was to penetrate BlÜcher’s intentions: “whether he was separating from the English, or meant to unite, and fight again!” Davoust would have known how to interpret such an order, and how to act upon it; Grouchy, it seems, did not. For thirty years there was a dispute about the order itself, but at length it came to light; and since its text has been known there has been little difference of opinion on the subject of Grouchy’s conduct. Detached from the main army to take care of BlÜcher, and to prevent the Prussians from coming to the aid of the English, he failed miserably to perform the task intrusted to him, and was of no more service to Napoleon in the movement which decided the campaign than D’Erlon had been at Ligny.

Through torrents of rain, through the mud and slush of the cut-up roads, the French followed the English toward Brussels.

On the crests of Mont St. Jean, with the forest of Soignes behind him, Wellington drew up his men for battle, relying upon BlÜcher’s promise to arrive in time to coÖperate. There were eighteen thousand troops at Hal, which might have been called up to his support; but Wellington, entirely misconceiving Napoleon’s plans, had expected an attack upon his right, and this large force at Hal was left there in idleness to guard against an imaginary danger. By two o’clock in the morning of the 18th, BlÜcher sent a courier to Wellington, promising the support without which the English army would have continued its retreat.

When Napoleon’s vanguard reached La Belle Alliance, and he saw that Wellington’s army was in position on the opposite heights, he was happy. He had feared that the English would retire behind the forest of Soignes, unite with the Prussians, and thus be too strong for him. If he could but fight Wellington while BlÜcher was away, he did not doubt his ability to “give the Englishman a lesson”: for while the French numbered 74,000, there were but 67,000 of the Anglo-Belgian army.

The French army floundered through the mud of the soaked wheat-fields, the miry lowlands of the Dyle, and were late in the night of the 17th in reaching their positions at La Belle Alliance. Indeed, some of the troops did not reach the battle-field till late next morning. The floods of rain had rendered it impossible for the provision trains to keep up. The exhausted French lay down with empty stomachs, to rest as well as they could on the wet ground, without shelter or fire, whilst the English army, comfortably fed, kept themselves warm by campfires.

At dawn the rain ceased. Napoleon again reconnoitred, the ground being so soft that in places he “mired up,” requiring help to lift his feet out of his tracks. Unconscious that even then old BlÜcher was wading through the bogs, across country, to get from Wavre to the English left at St. Lambert, Napoleon allowed hour after hour to slip by, stealing from him every chance of victory. The natural line of Prussian retreat was on Namur: he did not know that while BlÜcher lay unconscious, on the 16th, Gneisenau, chief of staff, had directed the retreat on Wavre. Therefore, Napoleon took his breakfast leisurely, chatting cheerfully with his general officers; and when he rode along the lines, saw all the splendor of his magnificent array, heard the bugles and the bands, and the sweeter music of seventy thousand voices shouting “Live the Emperor!” the great captain’s face glowed with pride and joy. To him such a spectacle, such a greeting, was the nectar of the gods; he drank it now for the very last time.

It was eight o’clock when he made his plan of battle, nine when he issued orders, at ten he lay down and slept an hour.

Napoleon mounted his horse at eleven, and rode along the Brussels highroad to the farmhouse of La Belle Alliance; then he returned to the height of Rossomme. Between the crest upon which he sat his white Arabian mare, “DÉsirÉe,” and that upon which Wellington awaited his attack, stretched the slopes of the ridges and the grain-covered valley between, about a mile in width. The Emperor was as calm and as confident as he had ever been in his life. Sitting his horse on the heights where all his army could see him, see the old gray overcoat and little cocked hat, see the square, pale face and the squat, sturdy figure, he swept every part of the field and of the horizon with his glass, and then gave the word. It was near noon on this fateful Sabbath day when the signal guns were heard; and the Prussians of BÜlow’s corps were already approaching St. Lambert. The battle commenced with an attack on the chÂteau of Hougomont, a stone building on the British right, protected by walls and moat and hedge. The French corps of ReillÉ, in the three divisions of Foy, Bachelu, and Jerome Bonaparte, threw itself furiously against this fortress; and desperate fighting, attack, and defence made the place literally run with blood—but the English, though driven from the woods, held the chÂteau.

The attack on Hougomont was a feint which the rash Jerome carried too far. The real attack was to be on the English centre, and to prepare for this the Emperor formed a battery of eighty guns. It was about one o’clock when Ney, who was to lead the charge, sent word that all was ready.

Before giving the signal, Napoleon swept the horizon with his glass, long and carefully. Away to the northeast he saw something which fixed his attention: it might be a clump of trees; it might be a column of soldiers. Staff officers followed the Emperor’s gaze, levelled their glasses, gave various opinions. “Trees,” said some; “Troops,” said others. If troops, what troops—BlÜcher’s or Grouchy’s? Such an awful doubt demanded instant action. Napoleon called for General Domon and ordered him to take a division of light cavalry and ride to St. Lambert; if the troops were Prussians, he must stop them.

Dumas describes the movement of the light cavalry: “Three thousand horsemen moved to the right, four abreast, unrolled themselves like an immense ribbon, winding a moment in the lines of the army, then breaking loose through our extreme right, rode rapidly and re-formed like a parade nearly three thousand toises from its extremity.” Soon the Emperor’s fearful doubt became a terrible certainty. Not trees, but troops, stood over there in the distance; and the troops were Prussians!

Where was Grouchy?

A Prussian prisoner taken in the territory where no Prussians should have been, was brought to the Emperor, and at his replies to the questions asked him, the imperial staff was panic-stricken; and Napoleon himself filled with a storm of impotent rage. No French troops had been seen where Grouchy should have been, and the Prussian host was crowding toward the field of battle!

From this time onward the doomed Emperor was fighting two battles: Wellington at Mont St. Jean, and the Prussians at Plancenoit. About seven thousand of the best troops were sent to hold the Prussians off, while the attack on Wellington was being renewed. This was toward three o’clock in the afternoon.

With two battles on his hands, Napoleon in his despair sent another messenger to Grouchy. Bitterly remarking upon the conduct of his lieutenant, who had been “amusing himself at Gembloux,” the Emperor exclaimed that if Grouchy but repaired his “horrible fault,” and marched promptly, all would yet be well; for, be it remembered, Grouchy was only ten or twelve miles to the right.

Suffering from local ailment which made the saddle painful to him, the Emperor dismounted and seated himself at a small table upon which his maps were spread. Sometimes he got up and paced back and forth with his hands crossed behind him. Sometimes he folded his arms on the table and there rested his head,—in pain or slumber. The management of the actual fighting which was going on all this while, was left almost entirely to Ney and D’Erlon, but especially to Ney, whose rashness at Waterloo was as ruinous to the French as his caution had been at Quatre-Bras.

Wellington, on the contrary, was as anxious a man as ever bravely faced a foe. He had not believed himself equal to the combat with Napoleon, man to man, and had only resolved to give battle after having been assured of BlÜcher’s aid. Whether the Prussians could arrive in time, was Wellington’s great doubt. He felt that his only salvation lay just there; and it was not until BÜlow’s corps, at 4.30 P.M., had drawn away from Napoleon at least sixteen thousand of his best troops, that Wellington, feeling the French onset in his front relax, exclaimed: “By God! I believe we will whip them yet.” Stronger evidence than that of the Prussian military expert, Muffling, is this Wellington exclamation, that he was a lost man had not “Old BlÜcher” come.

Against Wellington’s left the corps of D’Erlon was hurled; and at Papelotte and La Haye Sainte the struggle was as bloody, as desperate, as full of quick turns of fortune, ebb and flow, success mingled with failure, as any known to history. The English line was terribly shaken, the losses frightful, but the French finally were driven back.

The Emperor had intended to support ReillÉ with Lobau’s corps; that corps had been sent from the field to meet the Prussians.

Ney asked for a cavalry division to support the renewed attack he was about to make with D’Erlon’s corps. Owing to some mistake, Ney got not only the cavalry division which he had asked for, but the entire cavalry reserve, so that he took with him some twelve thousand horse.

This mighty mass was not launched at the weakened English left, but at the centre. How the French host rode down into the valley, up the hill, and charged upon the English guns and the English squares, repeating the assault time and time again, all readers know. Made with a heroism which the world can but admire, these charges were repulsed with a courage which nothing could shake. The English squares stood unbroken against French horse, as the French themselves had stood against the Mamelukes. Twice, thrice, the British cannoneers were driven from their guns; twice the British artillery was in the hands of the French. Why were not the guns spiked? Why at least, were not the sponges broken, or the caissons destroyed? In the melÉe no one gave the order. So the cannon and its ammunition and its rammer was left there ready for the British gunner, when the retreat of the French cavalry made it possible for him to return to his battery. The attack had been premature. The Emperor himself exclaimed, “This is an hour too soon, but as it has been done I must support it. The day may be lost by this mistake.”

It is true that Wellington’s army was fearfully battered; that, between his rear and Brussels, the road was full of panic-stricken fugitives, not all of whom were Belgians or Hanoverians. It is true that English officers had almost despaired, and that frantic riders flew to BÜlow imploring him to save the British army. It is true that there was a gap in the English line into which Ney frantically sought to throw infantry, and so win the day. But Napoleon had already been forced to send ten thousand other veteran troops to hold in check the thirty thousand Prussians. When, therefore, Ney’s messenger came, asking for infantry, the Emperor petulantly answered, “Infantry! Where does he expect me to get them? Can I make them?” There are those who say that had he thrown in the few reserve battalions of the Guard, the day might have been won.

So the great opportunity passed. La Haye Sainte was taken; but the English line was mended by reËnforcements where it had been broken, and the Prussians, under Ziethen, joined Wellington on his left. It was now seven o’clock. The French were about to be taken in the flank by the entire Prussian army. Napoleon might have drawn off in good order, but the junction of BlÜcher and Wellington would spoil all his plans. There was a chance yet for him to crush the English by a final charge into which every available man should be thrown. If it succeeded, all was won; if it failed, all was lost. It was the superb risk of the daring gambler: everything upon a single cast.

The orders flew, lines were formed, the great captain rode among his men, and spoke to them. The sound of their shouts of “Live the Emperor!” reached the English lines where the charge was expected, a deserter from the French ranks having brought warning. Ney was put at the head of the columns, and the march began. Through the mud of the valley, and up the slippery hill they went, under the murderous fire of all the English guns. Through the dense ranks, too closely crowded in that small space, great lines were cut by cannon balls, and so hot was the musket fire that they could not deploy. Ziethen’s Prussians were now in the fight, coming with full force on the right. Ney’s men, taken front and flank, had yet advanced to within fifty yards of the English line; but unable to open their ranks and charge, under such a terrific fire, they fell into confusion. The Emperor was watching them through his glass. “They are all mixed up; for the present, all is lost.” At the moment when Napoleon was saying this, Wellington was ordering the advance of his whole line; the Prussian guns were thundering on the French flank; and over the lost field ran the cry: “The Guard recoils! We are betrayed! Save himself who can!”

In vain Ney struggled to hold the rout; in vain the Emperor hoarsely shouted to his men to rally: it was dark; confusion was everywhere; and the French army, a mighty wreck, was swept from its moorings. English cavalry made furious charges, crying “No quarter!” and Napoleon had no cavalry reserves to meet the shock.

Note.—In reference to the disputed incident of the British demand for the surrender of the Old Guard, and Cambronne’s reply, the truth seems to be, that such a demand was made, and that Cambronne did reply, defiantly, though nastily; and that his language shot out in the disgust and exasperation of the moment, can more accurately be rendered into the English phrase, “Go to hell!” than in the classic terms, “The Guard dies: it does not surrender!”

Immediately after his scornful response, the heroic Cambronne was shot full in the face, and was left for dead on the field.

Readers of Thackeray will remember how he jeers and laughs at the defiance of the Old Guard; just as they will remember how he jeers and mocks at the second funeral of Napoleon,—so sure is the professional fun-maker to overreach himself, now and then.

The truth is, that the French troops were badly handled in the actual fighting at Waterloo; and that Napoleon stated no more than the fact when he charged Ney with having acted like a madman.

The troops, cavalry, and infantry were massed in such dense formation, on such contracted area, that they were in each other’s way, had no fair chance to do what they should have done, and were sacrificed horribly to the British artillery. At the very moment when Ney was clamoring for reËnforcements, he had forgotten a part of his own troops,—who were not engaged, who could have been used, and who might have decided the day in his favor. The mismanagement of the troops still further demoralized them, as it tended to confirm their suspicions that they were being betrayed.

It has been claimed that Napoleon intentionally deceived his own troops, toward the last, by sending word along the line that Grouchy had come. This is by no means certain. The Emperor could hear the guns of Grouchy, who was engaged at Wavre, just as Grouchy had heard, during the afternoon, the guns at Waterloo. Napoleon doubtless believed that Grouchy was at last going to show up on his extreme right.

The old road of Ohain seems not to have wrecked the French cavalry in the tragic manner Victor Hugo alleges. Romance, tradition, and patriotic painting represents the Emperor’s squadrons as being engulfed in the ravine made by the road where it passed through the high ground—over which ground the cavalry is alleged to have charged, in ignorance that the ravine, or “hollow way,” was there. Mr. Houssaye who has studied the matter thoroughly says that there is no historic foundation for the story.

The remnants of the Old Guard formed squares, and for a while held off their pursuers; but the barrier was too frail, and it soon melted away. Napoleon, dazed and despairing, spurred his horse toward the English guns, but Soult, according to Gourgaud, caught the bridle reins, and the Emperor was forced off the field, protected by the last of the Old Guard squares. With a few horsemen he rode away, so crushed, so tired, that Bertrand and Monthyon had to hold him upright in the saddle. Several times on the retreat he attempted vainly to rally the fugitives: the panic was too complete.

The English rested at La Belle Alliance; and Wellington, after meeting and hugging BlÜcher, rode to Waterloo to write his despatches. A Rothschild agent had already gone at speed to the coast, to reach England ahead of the news, and make additional millions for that enterprising house.

The Prussians pressed the pursuit with relentless vigor; and the summer moon lit as wild a man-hunt as this blood-soaked planet ever knew.

What should Napoleon do,—stay, and attempt to rally the army, or hasten to Paris to check intriguers and organize resistance to the invaders? He did not know what had become of Grouchy, did not know how much of his own army was left. He dreaded the betrayal and the deposition of 1814, not fully realizing the deeper pits of 1815. As a matter of fact, Grouchy’s army was intact. He had led it in most leisurely fashion to Wavre, and it had listened all day to the guns of Waterloo. GÉrard, Vandamme, Exelmans, felt that the Emperor was in the midst of a great battle, and with the instinct of soldiers urged that they should “March to the guns!” They pleaded with Grouchy to go, GÉrard insisting with such temper that Grouchy’s precious self-love was pricked. In vain was all remonstrance; Grouchy would not move. He went to Wavre, fought the rear-guard which BlÜcher had left there to detain him, made himself as utterly useless to his chief as though he had not existed, and then, after Waterloo, fell back, in admirable order, to Namur. Pluming himself upon the safety of his corps, the loss of the Empire did not ruffle his self-complacent satisfaction.

There was chaos in Paris when it was known that the army was no more, and that the Emperor was at the ÉlysÉe palace. The tongue of faction fiercely wagged, and conspiracy stalked unmasked wherever it would. Lafayette babbled of constitutions and guarantees for liberty, when France needed every strong arm and every gun. FouchÉ, duping both imperialists and republicans, plotted for the Bourbons, and opened communications with Wellington. Lucien Bonaparte gave wings to his conceit, and dreamed of a new government in which he should be chief and Napoleon lieutenant!

Carnot alone kept his head and saw clearly what was needed. “Give Napoleon all he wants, make him temporary dictator, hold up the man’s hands, and let him save the country!”

Grand old republican! History puts upon his memory, as a wreath, Napoleon’s own sad words, uttered in these days of trial, “Carnot, I have known you too late!”

FouchÉ sowed distrust in the chambers, making them believe that Napoleon meant to dissolve them. This the Emperor was advised to do; and should, perhaps, have done. When they refused to vote him supplies, they ceased to be of service; became, instead, a source of weakness and danger. Why not cut down such a tree? Why tolerate politicians who at such a moment prated of constitutional limitations?

Napoleon ordered his carriage to go to the chambers; but after the horses had idly pawed the ground for hours, he changed his mind. He would not go.

Ney returned in a fury from the army. Napoleon’s bulletins of the battle had censured him. The marshal angrily replied in the Moniteur, and he now from his place in the House of Peers struck back at his late master. When LabÉdoyÈre, Davoust, and others told the chambers that Grouchy’s army was intact, and that thirty or forty thousand of Napoleon’s own troops had rallied,—all of which was true,—Ney hotly denied it. Passionate and positive, he declared that the army no longer existed; that all talk of defence was idle; that terms must be made with the enemy. Unfortunate man, whom Bourbon hatred had marked for a traitor’s death! His one chance for life was to continue the fight for the Emperor; his headstrong folly and falsehood ruined both Napoleon and himself.

Nothing would satisfy the Lafayette party but Napoleon’s abdication. The ground must be cleared for a republic or a limited monarchy. Freed of Napoleon, Lafayette believed that France could make peace with the Allies, and would be suffered to choose her own ruler and form of government. FouchÉ slyly encouraged this dream of the man whom Napoleon justly termed “a political ninny.” No one knew better than FouchÉ that Napoleon’s vacant throne would be filled by the king whom Napoleon had driven from it.

The plots that were at work became known throughout Paris, and created an immense sensation. The masses of the people wanted no Bourbons, no Lafayette experiments. In the face of such national danger, they wanted Napoleon. Great crowds began to collect, and the streets rang with cries of “Live the Emperor!” The multitude thronged the avenues to the ÉlysÉe palace, and clamored for Napoleon to assert himself.

But at last the great man’s energy was dead. He cared no longer for anything. He was sick in mind and body, disgusted, worn out, utterly discouraged. The enemies of France he could fight—yes, a world full of them!—but France itself he would not fight. He would head no faction; would wage no civil war for his crown. It had come to that, and his heart failed him. Let the factions rage, let his French enemies combine: he would not stoop to such a combat. At last he was vanquished: this greater Percy’s spur was cold.

Behind the armies of BlÜcher and Wellington blazed the campfires of more than five hundred thousand soldiers marching under their kings upon France: how could any human being combat half of France and the whole of Europe besides? The great head sank upon his breast, and the beaten Emperor muttered, “Let them do as they will.”

He gave in his abdication in favor of his son, when abdication was demanded. He submitted when his son was set aside. He made no effort to prevent the formation of FouchÉ’s provisional government. He warned the erring statesmen that they were playing FouchÉ’s game, and were making a huge mistake; but he lifted no hand to check the movement. Soldiers as well as citizens clamored for him to lead them; he answered their shouts with lifted hat and bowed head, but in no other way. When FouchÉ, fearing him, ordered him away, he went.

Stopping at Malmaison, it was the same. He took no interest in anything, was apathetic, slept much, talked at random, and strolled idly about the grounds. Soldiers, passing in the road, cheered him with as much enthusiasm as ever, but he merely said, “It would have been better had they stood and fought at Waterloo.”

There was one flash of his old spirit. The armies of Wellington and BlÜcher, marching upon Paris, had become widely separated. He saw that they could be beaten in detail, and he offered his services as a general to the FouchÉ government to drive back the invaders. The offer was refused. The army which had been operating in La VendÉe clamored for him to put himself at its head; the army of the Loire sent envoys; citizens thronged about him and besought him to rouse himself and fight. “No. It would only be civil war. I will not shed the blood of the French in a purely personal cause.”

He formed no plans. He lingered at Malmaison when he could have escaped. Finally he went to the coast, and again he wasted time in uncertainty when he might have safely taken ship to America.4

When almost every other chance was gone, he trusted himself to Captain Maitland of the British navy, whom Napoleon had understood to promise asylum for him in England.

The armies of Wellington and BlÜcher continued their advance. There was some fighting before Paris; then came capitulation; and then came the Bourbons, skulking back to the throne in the rear of the enemies of France. Lafayette and the provisional government were quietly swept into the outer darkness. In after years he lamented his error of 1815, and in 1830 he did what he could to square accounts with his friends, the elder Bourbons.