There was a postscript subjoined to this missive by another and more cautious hand. General Count von Gneisenau, still convinced that his English ally’s early service in India had made him a master in the art of duplicity, entreated the Baron ‘to ascertain most particularly whether the Duke of Wellington has really adopted the decided resolution of fighting in his present position: or whether he only intends some demonstration, which might become very dangerous to our Army.’
To Müffling, who profoundly respected the openness of the Duke’s character, and knew how serious the coming engagement was likely to be, this postscript was exasperating. He neither mentioned it to the Duke nor made enquiries of him which he knew to be superfluous. The despatch which he had already written must convince Gneisenau of the seriousness of his lordship’s intentions. He gave it to his aide-de-camp, telling him to be sure to let General Bülow read it, if, on his way to Wavre, he should encounter him. He could do nothing more to hasten the march of the Prussian 4th Corps, and having seen the aide-de-camp off, had little else to do but wait, in steadily growing impatience, for news of his compatriots’ approach.
The deploying movements of the French had been completed by half past ten. The music and the trumpet calls ceased, and the columns stood in a silence that seemed the more absolute from its marked contrast to the medley of martial noises that had been resounding on all sides for the past hour. As the village clocks in the distance struck eleven, the Duke took up position with all his staff, near Hougoumont, and looked through his glass at the French lines. A very dark, wiry young officer, with a thin, energetic face in which a pair of deep-set eyes laughed upon the world, came riding up to the Duke, and saluted smartly. The Duke called out: ‘Hallo, Smith! Where are you from?’
‘From General Lambert’s brigade, my lord, and they from America!’ responded Brigade-Major Harry Smith, with the flash of an impudent grin.
‘What have you got?’
‘The 4th, the 27th, and the 40th. The 81st remain in Brussels.’
‘Ah, I know! But the others: are they in good order?’
‘Excellent, my lord, and very strong,’ declared the Major.
‘That’s all right,’ said his lordship, ‘for I shall soon want every man.’
‘I don’t think they will attack today,’ remarked one of his staff, frowning across the valley.
‘Nonsense!’ said his lordship, with a snap. ‘The columns of attack are already forming, and I think I have seen where the weight of the attack will fall. I shall be attacked before an hour. Do you know anything of my position, Smith?’
‘Nothing, my lord, beyond what I see—the general line, and the right and left.’
‘Go back and half Lambert’s brigade at the junction of the two great roads from Charleroi and Nivelles. I’ll tell you what I want of you fellows.’
He rode a little way with Smith, apprising him of his intentions. The Major, who was one of his lordship’s promising young favourites, listened, saluted, and rode off at a canter to the rear. He cut across the slope behind Alten’s division, leapt a hedge, and came down on to the chaussée almost on top of Colonel Audley, who, having been sent on an errand to Mont St Jean, was riding back to the front.
‘God damn your—Harry Smith, by all that’s wonderful! I might have known it! When did you arrive? Where’s your brigade?’
‘At Waterloo. We were held up by the wagons and baggage upset all over the road from Brussels, and when we got to Waterloo we met Scovell, who had been sent by the Duke to see if the rear was clear—which, by God, it was not! He requested us to sweep up the litter before moving on! What’s the news with you, old fellow?’
‘Oh, famous! How’s Juana? You haven’t brought her out with you, I suppose?’
‘Haven’t brought her out with me?’ exclaimed the Major. ‘She was sitting down to dinner with Lambert at some village just the other side of the Forest last night!’
‘Good God, you don’t mean to tell me she’s with the brigade now?’
‘No, I’ve sent her back to Ghent with her groom,’ replied the Major coolly. ‘We’re in for a hottish day, from the looks of it. I understand my brigade will be wanted to relieve old Picton. Cut up at your little affair at Quatre-Bras, was he?’
‘Devilishly. Someone said he himself had been wounded, but he’s here today, so I suppose he wasn’t. I must be off.’
‘By Jove, and so must I! We shall meet again—here or in hell! Adios! Bienes de fortuna!’
He cantered off; the Colonel set his horse at the bank on the right of the chaussée, scrambled up, and rode past Lord Edward Somerset’s lounging squadrons up the slope to the front line.
By the time he had found the Duke it was just past eleven o’clock. He joined a group of persons gathered about his lordship, and sat with a loose rein, looking along the ridge opposite.
‘Heard about Grant?’ asked Canning, who was standing next to him.
‘No: which Grant?’ replied the Colonel absently.
‘Oh, not General Grant! Colonel Grant. He did send the information of the French massing on Charleroi on the 15th—the very fullest information, down to the last detail. It’s just come to hand!’
‘Just come to hand?’ repeated Audley. ‘How the devil did it take three days to reach us?’
‘Ask General Dörnberg,’ said Canning. ‘It was sent to him, at Mons, and he, if you please, coolly sent it back to Grant, saying that it didn’t convince him that the French really intended anything serious! Grant then despatched the information direct to the Duke, but of course, by that time, we were on the march. Good story, ain’t it?’
‘Dörnberg ought to be shot! Who the devil is he to question Grant’s Intelligence?’