Chapter 53: Letters and Farewells

When historians look back upon the genesis of the renowned Battle of Waterloo, they will note that Napoleon, in fact, initiated his maneuvers as early as June 12th, 1815. He employed a strategy of deliberate deception. The Allied forces were certain his objective was Brussels – only by seizing the city could he decisively sever the possibility of a unified Allied front. However, the timing and route of his advance remained shrouded in uncertainty. Initial intelligence suggested to the Duke of Wellington that Napoleon would opt for a circuitous route through Mons, aiming to encircle the Allied forces southwest of Brussels. Wellington, accordingly, had deployed his defenses to counter such a move. Yet, it was not until June 14th that the Allies received their first concrete intelligence regarding the French army's movements. Napoleon, as it turned out, had chosen a direct route to Brussels. His plan was to conquer the Prussian army first, and then, before the British forces could fully react, defeat them in turn. He divided his army into three, aiming for a series of swift, decisive victories to completely eliminate any chance of the Allies joining forces. There remained within Belgium a not-insignificant faction loyal to him, and he intended to establish a firm foothold in Brussels first. This was his final, audacious gamble of genius. Before the dawn of June 15th, three columns of French troops crossed the border into the Kingdom of the Netherlands. The campaign had begun. The Duke of Wellington, ever cautious, chose to adopt a defensive posture, reacting to the French movements as they unfolded. He had, however, underestimated the speed of the French advance. It was not until the afternoon that he fully grasped the direction and proximity of the main French attack. That very same day, the Duchess of Richmond's long-anticipated ball, a full two weeks in the making, finally commenced. A close confidante of the Duke of Wellington, she had, in an effort to alleviate the mounting tension within the army, transformed a hotel into a rather grand ballroom. Invitations had been extended to numerous officers, as well as the ladies and young women of the city. The Duchess had, in fact, sought Wellington's permission to hold the ball. His response had been characteristically reassuring: "Duchess, you may proceed with your ball with the utmost confidence. There is no need to fear any interruption." Yet, in the early hours of June 15th, Napoleon and his army had made their move. The Duke of Wellington, ever the cautious strategist, suspected this might be a feint and awaited more reliable intelligence before committing to any decisive action. The ball, therefore, went ahead as planned. And so it was, amidst an atmosphere of mingled anxiety and forced gaiety, a conflicting and rather unsettling combination, that this grand, historically significant ball, hosted by the Duchess of Richmond, officially began. In a way, it served to maintain a semblance of morale, a signal that, despite the news of Napoleon's advance, life for the British and their Prussian allies continued, for the moment, as usual. Some of the officers had managed to change into evening dress, while others remained in their military uniforms. At seven o'clock, the ball commenced in earnest, with officers twirling the attending ladies and young women around the dance floor. On the Continent, the fashionable dances were the waltz, the polonaise, and their like. Alicia and William Cavendish danced one dance after another, their gazes locked, a palpable anxiety tightening between them. Their conversation had dwindled to almost nothing, their hands clasped all the tighter. Doubts about the uncertain future gnawed at them. All anyone could speak of, try as they might to avoid it, was the news of the advancing French army – was it true, was it false, and what would happen next? The Duke of Wellington and his aides-de-camp did not arrive at the ball until after eleven o'clock. His tardiness seemed to confirm the whispered anxieties. The situation, it appeared, was less than ideal. Lady Georgiana, the Duke of Richmond's daughter, boldly approached Wellington and inquired directly. The Duke replied that the army would march on the morrow. Alicia and William Cavendish watched as the Duchess's guests were entertained by a performance of Scottish soldiers, members of her father, the Duke of Gordon's, Highland regiment. Alicia unconsciously dug her fingernails into William's palm. A premonition, chilling and unwelcome, washed over her. Another two hours passed in a blur of dancing, until, at one o'clock in the morning, supper was served. It was during this meal that the Duke of Wellington received the latest dispatches. Around ten o'clock that evening, reports arrived that the Prussian army had been attacked by French forces and forced to retreat. Wellington issued military orders, but continued with his supper. Later, further intelligence arrived from the returning Prince of Orange. By half-past ten, the French had advanced as far as Quatre Bras. Napoleon had ultimately chosen to attack from the east, rather than the west as Wellington had anticipated. It was a surprise attack. Yet, Wellington did not interrupt the festivities. After finishing his supper, he retired to the Duke of Richmond's study to discuss the military situation with his aides-de-camp. The news rippled through the assembled officers. Cavendish rose from Alicia's side, took her hand, and said with forced composure, "I shall return shortly, my dear." Alicia conversed with the other guests, unaware – though she could certainly surmise – that of the officers still present, still dancing, a full half would perish in the coming Battle of Waterloo, a battle that would claim a staggering fifty thousand casualties in a single day. The ball was forced to its conclusion. Marching orders were issued, and the number of officers on the dance floor dwindled steadily as they departed, silently and without fanfare, to assemble their troops and ride out. Until at last, only a group of carefree young girls remained, staring at one another, bewildered, their dances brought to an untimely end. They wept and embraced their mothers, wives, and sweethearts, as if already sensing the fate that awaited them. A romantic night, once filled with music and dancing, now culminated in tears and farewells, a parting of life and death. The women saw off their loved ones, waving their hands, running out for one last, desperate embrace. Alicia witnessed a pair of lovers huddled in a corner, kissing, the woman clutching at his face, pleading. The man, dressed in the black uniform of the Brunswick cavalry, ultimately departed. She cried out, her body trembling, collapsing against a side table. They were newlyweds, and he would become another casualty among the charging cavalry. The Brunswick cavalry regiment, it was later learned, suffered devastating losses at Waterloo. Alicia couldn't suppress a shiver that racked her body; she had never truly understood the taste of fear until this moment. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She was afraid. She raised her head, and there he was, her husband, standing before her. He gripped her shoulders, preparing to bid her farewell. The outcome of the military deliberations was that the Duke of Wellington had pointed to a specific location on the map: the British and Napoleonic forces would inevitably clash at the small village of Waterloo. They were to make a stand at Quatre Bras, further ahead, to buy precious time – time to gather the scattered troops, consolidate their forces, and seize the initiative by securing advantageous ground. William Cavendish, fortunately, was already in uniform – the striking red of the British army, rendering him tall and imposing. Unlike some, who had not had time to change and would be forced to ride to Quatre Bras in their breeches, stockings, and dancing shoes. He took her hand, his words a rush of instructions and reassurances, each syllable seeming to magnify in her ears. Then, somehow, they were outside. He fastened his cloak and donned his bicorne. A light rain had begun to fall, promising muddy roads, and, no doubt, a muddy battlefield. He cupped her face in his hands, his black leather gloves a stark contrast against her skin. "Alicia, my dearest. Meeting you was the most fortunate event of my life. I never imagined I could experience such happiness..." he said. Around them, countless others were parting – a scene of farewells illuminated by the flickering light of torches and the warm glow of interior candles, a backdrop of fine dresses and whispered cries, soft murmurs, final instructions. Alicia tilted her head back, the cold,淅沥-ing rain falling on her face. He, out of habit, carefully arranged her wrap, adjusting it just so. A single tear traced a slow path down her clear, pale cheek. Her eyelashes trembled, and her hand reached out, searching blindly. "I love you, Alicia, I truly love you. No one could ever take my place in loving you..." He repeated the words, his voice thick with emotion. He stopped, his gaze fixed on that single tear. William Cavendish had believed he'd experienced heartbreak before, many times over. But now, in this moment, he understood true pain. He had to leave. She nodded, a small, barely perceptible movement. He led his warhorse forward, turning back to look at her again and again. Alicia watched him go. Then, suddenly, she ran towards him. "Come back," she said, her voice choked with tears. "Come back to me." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, their bodies clinging together in a desperate embrace. A heavy pall hung over the city. Many were packing their belongings, prepared to flee at a moment's notice once the outcome of the battle became clear. News from the front would take time to arrive. Moreover, the information that *did* filter through was fragmented and unreliable, a jumble of truths and falsehoods. It would be at least two days before reliable reports from the front lines reached Brussels. The Prussians had suffered defeat at the Battle of Ligny on June 16th. Wellington, engaged with the French at Quatre Bras, had been badly mauled and received no reinforcements. He retreated northwards to the Mont-Saint-Jean position, near the village of Waterloo. On June 17th, Napoleon made a fateful error, one that would ultimately decide the outcome of the campaign. He ordered Grouchy to pursue the retreating Prussians, preventing them from joining forces with the British, a decision that stripped Napoleon of a third of his army. A torrential downpour prevented the French from capitalizing on their advantage. In the relentless back-and-forth, on the 17th, Napoleon's main force was stymied by Wellington's artillery at the Mont-Saint-Jean position. The two armies had arrived at their historical juncture: Waterloo. After a night of uneasy rest, in the early hours of June 18th, Napoleon responded to Grouchy's report, ordering him to continue blockading the Prussian army. Wellington, meanwhile, wrote to Blücher, seeking confirmation that he could provide at least one corps to join him in the battle at Mont-Saint-Jean. Otherwise, Wellington warned, he would be forced to retreat to Brussels. At eight o'clock in the morning, Napoleon, while taking his breakfast, remained supremely confident of victory in his confrontation with Wellington. He did not foresee that the Prussian army, under Blücher's command, would arrive to reinforce the British within five hours. At eleven o'clock, Napoleon issued his orders for battle. His tactic was to feint an attack on the British right flank, forcing Wellington to divert troops to its defense, while, in reality, concentrating his main assault on the center. A significant portion of his forces were squandered in this effort, ultimately failing to lure British reinforcements. This proved to be a major miscalculation. Beyond this, the primary focus remained a direct, frontal assault. Napoleon committed another blunder, entrusting the entire offensive command to Ney, the impetuous French Marshal, who ultimately and pointlessly exhausted the French cavalry in a series of ill-conceived charges. After a protracted and grueling stalemate, Wellington chose to deploy his cavalry. The British Union Brigade charged, breaking through the infantry columns, but, lacking proper command, their pursuit spiraled out of control, carrying them deep into the French lines. They were ultimately counterattacked by French cavalry, resulting in heavy losses and the death of their commander, William Ponsonby. Where was William Cavendish in all of this? As one of Wellington's aides-de-camp, he was positioned near the Duke, observing the unfolding battle through a spyglass. The Duke of Wellington was known for his habit of venturing deep into the battle lines, accompanying his soldiers. Serving as his aide-de-camp was a perilous undertaking. The sixteen or seventeen-year-old Cavendish had once imagined his future wife on the battlefield. Now, on the heights, amidst the roar of cannon fire and the drifting smoke of gunpowder, he prayed. He prayed to return to his wife, to his beloved. The sounds of military bands and bugle calls echoed around him as he witnessed the utter destruction of that massive, frontal cavalry charge. Of the more than two thousand British cavalrymen who had participated, fifteen hundred perished on the field. Most of those cavalrymen were the sons of nobility and wealthy gentry – skilled horsemen, courageous in battle, but lacking in tactical acumen, prone to insubordination, and easily driven to reckless abandon. William Cavendish frowned. He was given his orders. With a stoic calm, he accepted the dispatch, leaned low over his horse, and spurred the animal forward, navigating the treacherous landscape of the battlefield. ... Alicia listened, her heart in her throat, to the news trickling into Brussels. On the day of the Battle of Waterloo itself, the outcome of the fighting at Quatre Bras finally reached the city. On the list of the fallen, she paused at the "C" section, searching with painstaking care. Colonel William Cavendish – his name was not there. She, like so many other women, was subjected to a relentless mental torment. Since the sixteenth, she had barely eaten or slept, consumed by prayer. She had never been particularly devout, but now, she poured all her hopes and fears into her faith, praying for the safe return of her husband, whole and unharmed. What if it was his body, returned whole, but lifeless? Alicia froze. She covered her face with her hands. She sorted through his letters, his will, the neatly organized reports and documents. Beneath the desk, she discovered a hidden compartment. She pulled it open, revealing a stack of pristine, white letters. Newly written, they seemed to still carry the faint scent of ink. She paused, then took them out, gazing at them silently. She knew immediately what they were. She was, after all, exceedingly clever. Alicia picked up the topmost letter and opened it. It began in a lighthearted tone: "My dearest Ally, it was no easy feat to write these letters without your knowledge. But I knew you would find them, perhaps soon after my departure..." It had been a long time since he'd used such a formal tone with her. "...There are many things I couldn't bring myself to say to your face, for it would only add to the sorrow, and I did not wish to presume the worst. But, Ally, I must explain, make arrangements – though 'arrangements' is hardly the word... I shall not dictate what sort of husband you should choose – though I trust I could offer some *excellent* advice..." ...perhaps resting his head in his hand, a small smile playing on his lips. Then, his expression would have sobered, a mixture of frustration and sorrow clouding his features, lingering even as the smile faded. You will become independent, utterly free, like a small bird soaring through the sky, doing as you please. I will no longer be the set of rules and constraints you must adhere to... Will you remember me? I imagine you might be sad, so I won't tell you to remember me. Nor will I say goodbye. I might very well return, or I might disappear from your world entirely, but in that case... will you miss me? *Jevais vous manquer*... Please, miss me, but do not grieve for me. As in that story I once told you, I shall become a star (though that does sound a bit odd, doesn't it?), and you can use that telescope to gaze upon me now and then... "...Perhaps we shall meet again in the next life. This is becoming rather sentimental, isn't it? I (silence). Of course, my greatest hope is to return to you. Regardless, you are always before me, and I will always, eternally, miss you. When I was sixteen, I would look up at the night sky, at the shimmering stars, and I would imagine the face of my future wife. And now, dear, wrapped in a blanket after setting up camp, gazing at that same night sky, I will think of you." He wrote as if he were chatting with her. He mentioned that he had written thirty letters to her – there hadn't been time to write more. She could read one each year, or she could read them all at once, and then forget him, or remember him, whichever she pleased. "I love you, my dear, I truly love you." "Goodbye (meaning, I shall return in two days). Goodbye (a heavy blot of ink)." Alicia read and reread the letter. She wiped away the tears from the corners of her eyes. He was perhaps a bit too melodramatic. On the back, he had detailed all of his possessions, from his bank bonds to his collection of artifacts, his favorite ornaments and paintings, everything meticulously listed. He had comforted her in the most absurd way. He knew her well. It was as if he were there, smiling, his presence radiating from the very paper. She didn't know, but she could imagine what the remaining twenty-nine letters contained. Alicia pressed the stack of letters to her heart. He had, on a whim, it seemed, sprayed them with a fragrance, the scent of rosewater. It drifted into her nostrils, delicate and lingering. "I used that cologne you detest so, that way your memory will be of something unpleasant, and thus... you will slowly cease to think of me." William Cavendish had penned that line. Then, after a moment's thought, he had earnestly, repeatedly, written those final words, "I love you."