"But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that view'd
Changed its proud glance of fortitude.
Nor was one forward footstep staid,
As dropp'd the dying and the dead."
--SCOTT.
Meantime a furious artillery duel raged between the opposing ridges.
Wellington had ordered his gunners not to fire at the French batteries,
but only at the French columns, while the French, in the main,
concentrated their fire on the British guns. French practice under
these conditions was naturally very beautiful, for no hostile bullets
disturbed their aim, and the British gunners fell fast; yet their fire
on the French masses was most deadly. At two o'clock Napoleon launched
his great infantry attack, led by D'Erlon, against La Haye Sainte and
the British left. It was an attack of terrific strength. Four
divisions, numbering 16,000 men, moved forward in echelon, with
intervals between them of 400 paces; seventy-two guns swept as with a
besom of fire the path along which these huge masses advanced with
shouts to the attack, while thirty light guns moved in the intervals
between them; and a cavalry division, consisting of lancers and
cuirassiers, rode on their flank ready to charge the broken masses of
the British infantry. The British line at this point consisted of
Picton's division, formed of the shattered remains of Kempt's and
Pack's brigades, who had suffered heavily at Quatre Bras. They formed
a mere thread of scarlet, a slender two-deep line of about 3000 men.
As the great mass of the enemy came slowly on, the British line was
"dressed," the men ceased to talk, except in monosyllables, the
skirmishers lying flat on the trampled corn prepared to fire. The
grape of the French guns smote Picton's red lines with fury, and the
men fell fast, yet they closed up at the word of command with the most
perfect coolness. The French skirmishers, too, running forward with
great speed and daring, drove in the British skirmishers, who came
running back to the main line smoke-begrimed and breathless.
As the French masses began to ascend the British slope, the French guns
had to cease their fire for fear of striking their own forces. The
British infantry, too, being drawn slightly back from the crest, were
out of sight, and the leading French files saw nothing before them but
a cluster of British batteries and a this line of quickly retreating
skirmishers. A Dutch-Belgian brigade had, somehow, been placed on the
exterior slope of the hill, and when D'Erlon's huge battalions came on,
almost shaking the earth with their steady tread, the Dutch-Belgians
simply took to their heels and ran. They swept, a crowd of fugitives,
through the intervals of the British lines, and were received with
groans and hootings, the men with difficulty being restrained from
firing upon them.
A sand-pit lay in the track of the French columns on the left. This
was held by some companies of the 95th Rifles, and these opened a fire
so sudden and close and deadly that the huge mass of the French swung
almost involuntarily to the right, off its true track; then with fierce
roll of drums and shouts of "En avant!" the Frenchmen reached the
crest. Suddenly there rose before them Picton's steady lines, along
which there ran, in one red flame from end to end, a dreadful volley.
Again the fierce musketry crackled, and yet again. The Frenchmen tried
to deploy, and Picton, seizing the moment, ordered his lines to charge.
"Charge! charge!" he cried. "Hurrah!"
It is yet a matter keenly disputed as to whether or not D'Erlon's men
actually pierced the British line. It is alleged that the Highlanders
were thrown into confusion, and it is certain that Picton's last words
to his aide-de-camp, Captain Seymour, were, "Rally the Highlanders!"
Pack, too, appealed to the 92nd. "You must charge," he said; "all in
front have given way." However this may be, the British regiments
charged, and the swift and resolute advance of Picton's lines--though
it was a charge of 3000 men on a body four times their number--was
irresistible. The leading ranks of the French opened a hurried fire,
under which Picton himself fell shot through the head; then as the
British line came on at the double--the men with bent heads, the level
bayonets one steady edge of steel, the fierce light which gleams along
the fighting line playing on them--the leading battalions of the French
halted irresolute, shrunk back, swayed to and fro, and fell into a
shapeless receding mass.
There were, of course, many individual instances of great gallantry
amongst them. Thus a French mounted officer had his horse shot, and
when he struggled from beneath his fallen charger he found himself
almost under the bayonets of the 32nd. But just in front of the
British line was an officer carrying the colours of the regiment, and
the brave Frenchman instantly leaped upon him. He would capture the
flag! There was a momentary struggle, and the British officer at the
head of the wing shouted, "Save the brave fellow!" but almost at the
same moment the gallant Frenchman was bayoneted by the colour-sergeant,
and shot by a British infantryman.
The head of the French column was falling to pieces, but the main body
was yet steady, and the cuirassiers covering its flank were coming
swiftly on. But at this moment there broke upon them the terrific
counterstroke, not of Wellington, but of Lord Uxbridge, into whose
hands Wellington, with a degree of confidence quite unusual for him,
had given the absolute control of his cavalry, fettering him by no
specific orders.