Captain James Henry Webster returns in the Napoleonic epic of the Waterloo Campaign.
In February, 1815, after nine months in exile, Napoleon Bonaparte, the deposed Emperor of the French, escaped from the Isle of Elba. Seizing the initiative while the European powers bicker amongst themselves at the Congress of Vienna, Napoleon advances towards Belgium with an enormous army, where the combined forces of Prussia and England are cantoned. The French Emperor knows that if he can achieve a decisive capture in Brussels, it will shatter the already fragile European alliance.
Leading the allies is Sir Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington; the venerable British field marshal who defeated Napoleon’s best generals in Spain, yet who the emperor had never personally met in battle. Napoleon knows that if he can draw away Wellington’s chief Prussian ally, Gebhard von Blucher, and destroy his army first, he can unleash his entire might against the British. A victory over the unbeaten Wellington will cripple the alliance even further, as it will then deprive them of both English soldiers and financing.
In Belgium, Captain James Henry Webster has finally returned to a line regiment after being terribly wounded at the Siege of Badajoz three years prior. He is given command of a line company within the 1st Regiment of Foot Guards, the elite of the British Infantry.
A series of indecisive clashes will lead to a collision between the two greatest military minds of the age and the bloodiest single day of the entire century, as Wellington and Napoleon lead their armies to either immortality or oblivion. For Captain Webster, he fights for both his nation and to protect his young daughter in Brussels. Along with the rest of the Guards Division, he finds himself at the apex of the battle, where the fate of the entire world will be decided; at a place called Waterloo.
Excerpt
Marshal Ney sat atop his horse, his expression one of complete triumph. It would all be over soon; the destruction of the English army and final victory for France. Whatever troubles they may still face from the Prussians, without Wellington and the English to support them, they would quickly capitulate.
Ney noted with approval that General Morvan marched at the head of the Imperial Guard. The brave general had led his men with distinction at Ligny, and now he would lead by his own example, on foot at the head of the finest troops in all of Europe.
“Baïonnettes !” Morvan shouted, raising his sword high.
The men in the front ranks lowered their muskets so their bayonets were protruding forward. They marched in a standard deep column, which had been used repeatedly to shatter every army the coalitions had sent against them. That the British tended to rely on firepower to break the column did not matter now; they were already beaten and would put up little resistance in the face of the Guards!
“Vive la France! Vive la France!”
The battle cries of their enemy grew louder, the drum cadence increasing slightly. James could just see the bayonet points of shouldered muskets. He lay flat in the grass, lest he draw fire from the enemy’s front ranks. He knew Wellington would wait until the French were almost on top of them. As the chants of the enemy grew almost deafening, he knew it was almost time.
“Hold steady, lads,” he said. “Wait for the Duke’s command!”
“Bugger all, there they are,” a soldier said through gritted teeth. He had to crane his head back from where he lay, but he could just make out the silhouettes of their advancing foe; their cadence and battle chants growing louder.
“If we cannot hold,” Corporal O’Connor said, “at least Old Nosey is here to die with us.”
“Vive la France! Vive la France!”
From atop his horse, Wellington had perhaps the best view of anyone on the field. He could see clearly both the advancing French columns, as well as his own troops, who lay prone in the grass. Like Napoleon, he knew that the fate of all would be decided in the next few minutes. The Imperial Guard advanced steadily and with purpose; the Duke could not help but admire their discipline. One of their columns was marching directly for him, and Wellington reckoned they had to see him and know who he was. He was the prize. They would bring him before their emperor in triumph! The columns were all on line with each other as they crested the gradual slope, their front ranks now within thirty feet of his still-prone troops. He raised his hand and gave the rarest of full smiles of triumph.
“Now Maitland! Now’s your time!”
James heard the call, blood rushing through his veins as he stood. It was only now that he could fully see the French Imperial Guard, whose distance from him could be more easily measured in feet than yards.
“Front line…up!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. The enemy were so close that he could clearly see the look of panic in their faces as a wall of redcoats rose up in front of them.
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