Their Last Suppers: Legends of History and Their Final Meals Read Online Free Page B

and the battlefield.
    At 7 a.m. he rose and dressed in his favorite uniform as a general of the Guard Chasseurs. He joined his generals, Soult, Lobau, Reille, the Duke of Bassono, and his brother Jerôme for breakfast in the humble dining room of the farmhouse. The food, thoughin simple surrounds, was served on the imperial silver that always accompanied him. Napoleon was good humored but constantly dismissive of the English forces arraigned against him.
    Although the French line extended nearly 5 miles, Napoleon’s sole intent that morning was to throw a disguised feint, then attack the English center with all his forces and break them as he had broken so many other armies before.
    Although the rain eventually stopped, the sodden fields would not permit him to move his artillery and attacking forces into position quickly enough, and a frustrated Napoleon was forced to delay his attack until 11:35 a.m., a 2-hour delay that eventually proved his undoing.
    The feint was thrown by his brother Jerome at a heavily defended farmhouse on the British side called Hougoumont, with the main attack launched at the British troops in view on the ridgeline by the heavy infantry and artillery at 1 p.m. Napoleon’s devastating firepower began to inflict heavy casualties on the British infantry, who slowly began to pull back over the crest of the hill. Believing the British line to be broken, his second in command, General Ney, flung the French cavalry in reckless pursuit of the retreating infantry, without consulting Napoleon, who was elsewhere on the battlefield.
    Swarming over the top of the hill, thousands of French lancers expecting a rout were stunned to find themselves confronted by volleys of fire from even more thousands of troops in well-organized defensive squares. The cunning Wellington had kept most of his force out of sight on the other side of the hill, thus luring the French cavalry to its decimation, followed by a panicked retreat.
    Meanwhile, down in the valley Jerome was throwing endless lines of troops to their deaths at the Hougoumont farmhouse, determined to take control of the situation for his brother. He did just that at about 4 p.m., though at huge cost to the precious French reserves. Napoleon, who was incandescent with rage on realizing the mistake Ney had made, resolved to smash Wellington once and for all and launched attack after attack at the British front lines, which finally began to crumble under the terrible onslaught.
    Several miles away, General Groucher bristled at the suggestion from his second in command that he “should march to the sound of the distant guns,” stressing that his orders were only to follow Blücher and the retreating Prussians.
    Not only was Groucher depriving Napoleon of what would have been a decisive force in the main engagement, but by lying back too far behind the Prussians he was enabling the wily Blücher to lead his men back toward Wellington and the battlefield of Waterloo.
    Despite the incompetence of his generals, the superior numbers and artillery of the French were gradually wearing down the British defensive forces. The French infantry almost forced through the battered Wellington at 6 p.m., causing Wellington to shout, “Give me night, or give me Blücher,” as he knew another such attack would finish him.
    By now both commanders could see an army marching to the battlefield in the distance. Were the uniforms the blue of Groucher or the black of Prussia? They both got the answer from eagle-eyed officers at the same time: They were Prussian black.
    In desperation, Napoleon ordered his famed Old Guard forward in the hope of smashing Wellington quickly; then he hoped to regroup and deal with the Prussians later. The Old Guard had been with him from the beginning. Grizzled veterans from many campaigns, they usually heralded an imminent French victory, and once again they advanced to the beat of their bands with supreme confidence.
    But not today. Faced with a withering