Sebastian's Waterloo

SEBASTIAN’S WATERLOO

  (Prequel to Lord Somerton’s Heir)

  Alison Stuart

  Before Lord Somerton, he was just plain Captain Sebastian Alder, a penniless career officer in Wellington’s army.

  As Napoleon makes his last great bid for power, he will meet an Iron Duke and an indomitable force of English and allied troops in the fields just south of a little village called Waterloo.

  The events of June 18, 1815 will change the tide of world events and Sebastian Alder’s life forever...

  Sebastian’s Waterloo

  by

  Alison Stuart

  Copyright © July 2015, Alison Stuart

  Published by Oportet Publishing July 2015

  Cover Design: Alison Stuart

  Cover photograph: Purchased with Licence from www.canstockphoto.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Discover other titles by Alison Stuart at

  Author website: https://www.alisonstuart.com

  Chapter 1

  The village of Waterloo, Belgium 17 June 1815

  'Are you married?'

  Sebastian jerked his head up at the unexpected question. He looked across at his commanding officer and stuttered. 'No.'

  He had been married once... briefly... and in a way he still thought of himself as a married man, despite the six long years that had passed since Inez’s death.

  Major Arthur Heyland put his pen down on his writing box and smiled but even in the dim light of the lantern, there was no humour in his smile. 'Consider yourself fortunate, Alder.'

  'You, sir?'

  Heyland nodded. 'Married twelve years.'

  'Children?' Sebastian prompted, not from any great interest but conversation of any kind helped pass the time.

  This time there was humour in the smile, a genuine warmth he hadn't seen in the man who had been his commanding officer only two short weeks.

  'Six... and one due any day,' Heyland replied.

  Sebastian did the mental calculation. Quick work in only twelve years of marriage, most of which, he gathered had been spent on active service.

  As if sensing his unspoken question, Heyland said. 'Mary followed the drum and it broke my heart to leave her in Wales, but she’s... well she could hardly follow in her condition. She's a capital girl, my Mary.’ He sat back and scratched his nose with the end of his pen. ‘You know the life she has led, Alder, all without complaint. She has borne me four boys and two girls...’ he paused, the corners of his mouth turning down, ‘and the one I may never meet.'

  There was no answer to the last. Both men lapsed into silence, unbroken but for the steady lashing of rain on the window of their billet.

  'This rain will be the very devil on the morrow,' Heyland said, changing the subject.

  ‘If it is for us, then the French will have it just as bad,' Sebastian responded.

  Heyland looked down at the letter he had been writing. 'I’d been given permission to retire on half pay,' he said without looking up. 'We have enough to live comfortably. Mary and I...' he broke off with a shuddering breath.

  Sebastian said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He had been a soldier as long as this man, they had both seen service on the Peninsula, both been wounded several times. The prospect of battle held no illusions of grandeur or glory. If Heyland had some premonition that tomorrow would be his last day on earth, then Sebastian had seen it before and he had no comfort, no platitudes to offer.

  Death came at its own behest and even as he had charged the walls at Talavera, crying its name, death had laughed in his face. Now... he took a deep shuddering breath... the thought of death terrified him. He had not seen serious action since Talavera and in that time his life has changed.

  ‘I have a younger brother and sister,’ Sebastian volunteered. ‘Orphaned...’ He made a pretence of inspecting his sword for rust, conscious that Heyland gave him a long, lingering glance of complete understanding.

  If Heyland had been about to say something, a knock on the door interrupted him. A small man in the uniform of Sebastian’s original regiment, the 22nd Regiment of Foot, entered, carrying two pannikins.

  ‘That smells like real food,’ Heyland remarked taking the pannikin.

  'Chicken,' Corporal Bennet announced with a degree of pride in his voice.

  'Where did you steal it, Bennet?' Sebastian asked.

  He took the pannikin but in truth had little appetite. Only common sense told him he needed to eat.

  His orderly looked offended. 'Didn't steal 'nuffin, sir and I resents the implication. This came for you, Major Heyland, sir.' Bennet handed a folded and sealed paper to Heyland.

  As Sebastian hastily consumed the gelatinous mess Bennet had produced, without tasting it, Heyland broke the seal and scanned the contents, waiting until Bennet had left the room before he said. 'Our orders for tomorrow, Alder. We are to be held in the reserve under Lambert and be in place at the farm Mont St. Jean by 9 in the morning.'

  Sebastian nodded and rose to his feet. 'I'll pass the orders on,' he said, 'and make sure the men are rested.'

  Heyland ran a hand over his eyes. 'God knows they must be exhausted after that march from Ghent. I know I am and I had a horse.'

  Sebastian left his commanding officer to finish his letter to his wife in private and went in search of the rest of the officers of the 40th Regiment of Foot. Some were already asleep and he apologised for rousing them but they had the responsibility to ensure their men were settled for the night, had eaten, cleaned their muskets and would be ready to march at seven.

  'In this weather?' one of the younger officers complained, glancing at the open door and the pouring rain.

  'Count yourself lucky you have a dry bed and a meal in your belly,' Sebastian snapped. 'I am betting there are men out there who have neither. See to your men... now!'

  Chapter 2

  Sunday June 18th 1815 – 9.00am

  'Dear God!' The exclamation issued from the tight lips of Major Heyland as he and Sebastian rode forward to view the field of battle. 'I thought the waiting was bad enough, but this...'

  The 40th had been with Wellington’s reserve at Mont St. Jean since nine in the morning. Now at three in the afternoon the reserve had been pulled forward to defend the Brussels road just north of the farm of La Haye Sainte at the centre of the allied line. They knew from the steady stream of casualties that had passed by, that the fighting had been fierce but even battle hardened soldiers such as Sebastian and Heyland could not fail to be horrified by what lay over the ridge.

  They had both taken the time to do an extended reconnaissance before hostilities had commenced at eleven in the morning. The rain had ceased, leaving the roads and fields a sodden mess but in the calm before the storm the corn still stood bowed but unbroken by the force of nature, waving in the gentle breeze. Across the narrow valley, the blue uniformed French had been jostling into position, even as the red coated British and their allies, the Belgium, Dutch and German troops did the same.
Two farm houses occupied strategic positions, Hougemont to the right flank and La Haye Sainte to the left.

  'Lose those and we lose the battle,' Heyland remarked, lowering his spy glass.

  'I am sure the Duke is aware of that,' Sebastian said. He glanced behind him at the allied forces deploying on and behind the ridge line. 'Wellington’s chosen well. This ridge gives us a good rear slope defence,' he said. 'He's a cunning fox, the Duke. Unless the French have eyes in the sky, they won't know what to expect.'

  'But we still need the Prussians,' Heyland said.

  They had turned their horses and returned to the rear to wait in frustrated ignorance while hell was unleashed on the peaceful fields.

  Now, four hours into the battle and a pall of acrid gun smoke hung over the churned and muddy fields. Around the blackened and smoking farm buildings of La Haye Sainte, the carnage of the previous hours lay in plain sight, bodies of men and horses piled on top of each other. From this distance the cries of wounded men and beasts came borne on the wind as a soft moan, only to be drowned out by the thunder of the massive guns favoured by Napoleon.

  Even as they watched, an eerie silence descended on the field and out of the smoke, a dark line appeared moving forward with such grace that they could have been carried on the wind.

  Sebastian put the glass to his eye. His stomach lurched, his mouth suddenly dry.

  'Cavalry,' he said.

  'How many?'

  Sebastian swallowed. 'Thousands... more than I have ever seen in my lifetime and they are heading straight for us, sir.'

  There would be no time for a leisurely perusal of the field, Heyland and Sebastian turned their horses back to the battalion.

  'Form square!' Heyland yelled. 'Cavalry advancing.'

  The five hundred men of the Fighting Fortieth moved smoothly into position enveloping the two officers and their horses within the square. Four men deep in a tight packed square that measured barely thirty yards on each side and at its centre, the colours, held by a young ensign.

  Sebastian dismounted and looping the reins over his arm, walked across to the young man.

  ‘First action?’

  The young man nodded. ‘Joined the regiment when it landed, sir. Father bought my commission. Thought it would be a lark. Never thought it would be...’ he glanced around the tightly packed square, ‘...like this.’

  Sebastian had no words of encouragement. In truth his own stomach roiled at the thought of what they were about to face. In this situation, full knowledge of what was about to hit them, was probably worse than this boy’s ignorance.

  He clapped the boy on the shoulder and forced a reassuring smile he did not feel.

  ‘You’re with good men, lad, and they are relying on you to hold the colours true.’

  The boy nodded, his Adams apple moving as he swallowed.

  He mounted and rejoined Heyland, who looked him up and down, a smile twisting his mouth.

  'Damn it, Alder, have I mentioned that your uniform is a disgrace?' Heyland said in a casual tone. 'You could at least have taken the trouble to be fitted for the correct regimentals.’

  Taking the Major’s words as an excuse to lighten the moment, Sebastian ostentatiously tugged at the frayed cuff of his uniform jacket - the uniform of the 22nd Regiment of Foot, not the 40th.

  'There was no time,' he responded in a similar tone. 'I will see to it as soon as we return to London,’ adding with an answering smile, ‘sir.’

  ‘See that you do,’ Heyland responded. He rose in his stirrups. ‘They’re coming... Wait for it lads...Wait... Now. Fire on the horses.’

  The French cavalry coming over the rise were met with a fusillade of disciplined musket fire from the front ranks of the square, to be taken up by the second, third and fourth ranks in quick succession. Screaming horses went down, taking their riders with them.

  'No supporting artillery,' Heyland said, turning to Sebastian.

  'A mistake?' Sebastian suggested.

  'Napoleon doesn't make mistakes, but he might.’ Heyland pointed at a bare headed man in a magnificent uniform, that even from the distance, gleamed with gold embroidery. The man stood in his stirrups screaming orders, his red hair sticking up on end.

  ‘Ney,’ Sebastian murmured.

  Heyland nodded. ‘Mad, impetuous bastard.’ He ducked as a pistol ball fired over the heads of the English soldiers took off his cap.

  ‘Damn, that was close,’ Heyland remarked straightening in his saddle and adjusting his collar.

  The French cuirassiers, their breast plates gleaming, the plumes of horse hair waving from their high helmets, circled the impenetrable squares of English and allied soldiers, firing their pistols, making impotent attempts at trying to cut the corners of the squares, slashing with their heavy sabres. Bayonets held them at bay, musket fire took out man and horse and through it all the Frenchman bared their teeth, uttering unintelligible war cries.

  ‘Go on lads,’ the Battalion Sergeant Major yelled, ‘You make faces right back at ‘em and then shoot ‘em dead.’

  But the ranks of the 40th were thinning. As each man fell, one of the reserves kept, was sent forward to fill the gap and the lines reclosed. The dead were cast aside, the wounded dragged into the centre of the square. Medical orderlies did what they could to ease the suffering men but with the circling cavalry there was no chance of getting the men back behind the lines.

  In the space of an hour the square had halved in size, Ney's men had pulled back, but Sebastian was under no illusion that it was retreat, they were regrouping for another attack. Napoleon wanted La Haye Sainte and he wanted it badly.

  Chapter 3

  Sunday June 18th 1815 – 7.00 pm

  After the cavalry, the infantry came in waves. Of the five hundred men who had marched out of Mont St. Jean only a few hours before, nearly half were dead or injured. When the line threatened to waver, Heyland himself rode up and down with exhortations to 'Stand firm, reinforcements are coming boys.'

  'Reinforcements?' Sebastian looked at his commanding officer. 'We both know the only hope we've got now are the bloody Prussians.'

  Heyland ran a hand through his hair and glanced to the left flank, the direction from which the Prussians would come... if they came at all.

  'Sir, look...' the young ensign pointed in the direction of La Haye Sainte. A French flag fluttered from a shattered chimney. The Germans had defended it well but it had fallen, the German defenders tumbling out of a side gate and northwards to the comparative safety of the allied lines.

  The French had achieved one of the key positions on the Brussels road. Now all Napoleon had to do was push through past the farm before the Prussians joined forces without the outnumbered allies. Standing in the way of Napoleon’s ambitions was the 40th Regiment of Foot.

  'Something of a dilemma, gentlemen.'

  The voice came from behind them and both Sebastian and Heyland turned in their saddles at the sound of the familiar voice.

  The Duke of Wellington, impeccably dressed in a well cut blue frock coat, surveyed them from under the brim of his familiar bi-corn hat that emphasised the beak of his nose. His gaze flicked from one to the other.

  'Always good to see Peninsula men,' the Duke said as calmly as if they had encountered him in a park. 'Alder, we need some of that dash you showed at Talavera.'

  Talavera? Sebastian shuddered. That had not been 'dash'. That day he had been bound for hell, determined to die, instead he had earned himself a crippling wound and a field promotion.

  The Duke gestured with a gloved hand at the farmhouse. 'So what are we to do about our friends?'

  'They're bringing guns up to the farm,' Heyland said.

  The Duke's mouth tightened. ‘I know but I've got sharp shooters in the sandpit on the left. God willing they will be able to pick off the gun crews. How fares the 40th, Heyland?'

  Heyland's gaze scanned the lines of men. 'We've lost nearly half our number.'

  'And you may yet
lose your other half,' the Duke said, and gestured toward the French line. 'See that, gentlemen?'

  A wall of men had begun to advance across the valley, moving in steady cadence to the beat of the drum.

  'The Imperial Guard,' Sebastian said in an exhalation of breath. ‘The Old Guard.’

  'Bonaparte's finest, but also his reserve,' responded the Duke. 'He is desperate to break us before the Prussians join the field but we'll be ready for them. Heyland, I want all your men to lie down, only to rise on my order, understood?'

  Heyland glanced at Sebastian and Sebastian saw the light of understanding in Heyland's eye. The old fox, he thought.

  'Lure the guard over the crest of the ridge in the belief the allies are in retreat?'

  The Duke allowed himself a smile. 'Exactly. When they’re in range, give ‘em a surprise and when they’re on the run, your object, gentlemen, will be La Haye Sainte.’

  One had to admire the Duke’s optimism, Sebastian thought. The Old Guard had never once in its entire history, turned and run.

  The Duke, with his unnerving ability to read minds, turned his sharp gazed on Sebastian. ‘I have some good news. The Prussians have arrived and they are quite content to harass Napoleon's right flank as we deal with the Guard. Drive back the Old Guard and he is done for. Does that suit you?'

  'Of course, sir.'

  'Excellent.' The Duke turned his horse to face the men of the 40th. 'You've done well, my lads,' he said, rising in his stirrups. 'But we've had enough of sitting up here, waiting for the worst Boney can throw at us. See that farm house?' He gestured at La Haye Sainte. 'I want the men of the 40th to clear it of the French rabble. Are you up for it, boys?"

  A spontaneous cheer went up from the depleted ranks. Shakos were tossed in the air and every last man of the 40th-- exhausted, dirty, wounded-- drew themselves up a little taller.

  The Duke surveyed the men with a cold eye. 'No cheering, my lads, but go on and complete your victory.'

  Wellington turned back to the two senior officers. 'Good luck,' he said. 'I know you'll do it.'

  Both men saluted and watched as the Duke and his attendant staff cantered away. Sebastian watched him go and wiped a hand across his dry mouth. Drive off the Old Guard... that sounded such a simple task but as the air filled with the tramp of feet and the sonorous cry of 'Vive L'Empereur', his own courage failed. He had survived the worst of it so far, with nothing more than a scratch on his arm from a glancing pistol ball, but now, dark premonition descended on him like a carrion bird.