A half-mile south of the bridge the first French staff officers were rifling the mail in Charleroi’s post office in search of letters which might have been posted by Allied officers and thus provide clues of British or Prussian plans. Such clues would add to the embarrassing riches of intelligence which had recently flooded in to Napoleon’s headquarters from Belgians who desperately wanted to be part of France again. The bright tricolours hanging from the upper floors of Charleroi’s newly liberated houses were evidence of that longing.
A French General of Dragoons found a bespectacled infantry Colonel inside a tavern close to the river and angrily demanded to know why the barricaded bridge had not been captured. The Colonel explained that he was still waiting for orders, and the General swore like the trooper he had once been and said that a French officer did not need orders when the enemy was in plain sight. “Attack now, you damned fool, unless you want to resign from the Emperor’s service.”
The Colonel, trained in the proper management of war, diagnosed the General’s crude enthusiasm as excitement and gently tried to calm the old man by explaining that the sensible course was to wait until the artillery reached the town, and only then to mount an attack on the infantry who guarded the barricaded bridge. “Two volleys of cannon-fire will clear them away,” the Colonel explained, “and there’ll be no need for our side to suffer any casualties. I think that’s the prudent course, don’t you?” The Colonel offered the General a patronizing smile. “Perhaps the General would care to take a cup of coffee?”
“Bugger your coffee. And bugger you.” The Dragoon General seized the Colonel’s uniform jacket and dragged the man close so that he could smell the General’s garlic and brandy flavoured breath. “I’m attacking the bridge now,” the General said, “and if I take it, I’m coming back here and I’m going to tear your prudent bloody balls off and give your regiment to a real man.”
He let the Colonel go, then ducked out of the tavern door into the street. A Prussian musket bullet fluttered overhead to smack against a house wall that was smothered with posters advertising a fair, which was to be held on the feast day of St Peter and Paul. Someone had limewashed a slogan huge across the rash of posters: ,Vive I’Empereur!”
,You!” The General shouted at an infantry lieutenant who was sheltering in an alley from the desultory Prussian fire. “Bring your men! Follow me. Bugler! Sound the assemble!” The General beckoned to his orderly to bring his horse forward and, ignoring the Prussian musketry, he pulled himself into his saddle and drew his sword. “Frenchmen!” he shouted to gather in whatever men were within earshot. “Bayonets! Sabres!”
The General knew that the town had to be taken and the momentum of the day’s advance kept swift, and so he would lead a rag-taggle charge against the Prussian infantrymen who lined the crude barricade. He fancied he could see a lower section at one end of the piled furniture where a horse might be able to jump the obstruction. He kicked his horse into a trot and the hooves kicked up sparks from the cobbles.
The General knew he would probably die, for infantry took pleasure in killing cavalry and he would be the leading horseman in the attack on the bridge, but the General was a soldier and he had long learned that a soldier’s real enemy is the fear of death. Beat that fear and victory was certain, and victory brought glory and fame and medals and money and, best of all, sweetest of all, most glorious and wondrous of all, the modest teasing grin of a short black-haired Emperor who would pat the Dragoon General as though he was a faithful dog, and the thought of that Imperial favour made the General quicken his horse and raise his battered sword. “Charge!” Behind him, spurred on by his example, a ragged mass of dismounted Dragoons and sweating infantry flooded towards the bridge. The General, his white moustaches stained with tobacco juice, spurred on to the bridge.
The Prussian infantry levelled their muskets over the furniture barricade. ,