June 18, 1815—The European monarchies brought to an end two decades of on-and-off warfare with France—and the hopes of Napoleon Bonaparte for re-establishing an empire that straddled much of the continent—as Britain’s Duke of Wellington and Prussia’s Gebhard Leberecht von Blucher defeated the Little Corsican 12 miles south of Brussels, Belgium at the Battle of Waterloo.
Even a genius eventually makes mistakes. It was Napoleon Bonaparte’s misfortune to make at least two on the same day. His subordinates—including brother Jerome Bonaparte and trusted commander Marshal Ney—contributed to the loss, too. But none compared in magnitude with those of the military commander who had once made mincemeat of his opponents by tearing up the old military rulebook.
In the July 2010 issue of Armchair General Magazine (table of contents only in this link; you’ll have to buy the issue for the article), military historian Bevin Alexander analyzes how the ancient Chinese military sage Sun-Tzu might have assessed the decisions of Napoleon and Wellington on this history-changing day.
To be sure, the Duke of Wellington made a questionable decision before the battle when he didn’t link up quickly enough with ally Blucher. By not massing his forces right away, he allowed Napoleon—who had escaped from exile on the island of Elba to return as emperor and reconstitute the Grand Army—the opportunity to defeat their forces in turn. This, in turn, could have dealt a devastating blow to the plan of the Seventh Coalition—the governments of Britain, Prussia, Russia, Sweden, Austria, The Netherlands and a number of German States—to crush Napoleon with overwhelming force.
But, compared with Wellington's, Napoleon’s errors were more numerous, more stubborn, more damaging, and more just plain inexplicable.
First, as Alexander explains, instead of executing a flanking maneuver that might have achieved surprise, Napoleon launched a massive frontal assault, preceded by enormous artillery fire to soften up the British, against an enemy led by a highly competent commander and well entrenched atop a formidable ridge.
(Alexander doesn’t mention the similarity, so I will: Napoleon’s Grand Army faced the kind of odds against dislodging Wellington’s forces that Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia would against George Meade’s Army of the Potomac on Cemetery Ridge.)
Second, worsening his chances of victory, Napoleon waited until mid-day before issuing the order to attack. If he was going to carry the day, he should have acted before Wellington and Blucher could join forces.
Following the lead of most historians, Alexander ascribes that decision to the emperor’s need to wait until the field—slick and mud-spattered from a recent downpour—dried. But I wondered how much that would restrain a normally audacious leader.
It took a fascinating review of the battle from, of all places, the Web site for the International Museum of the Horse (located—but naturally!—in Lexington, Ky.) for me to figure out why the emperor acted with such uncharacteristic slowness.
French cavalry forces actually outnumbered Wellington’s and Blucher’s 16,000 to 13,000. And Napoleon ascribed special importance to them, believing that “without cavalry, battles are without result."
Wellington was not so enamored of it as his opposite number. As an avid equestrian and military commander, the Duke knew all too well how horse and rider could lose their heads. Animals could react skittishly on fields affected by inclement weather, while cavalry leaders, like aristocrats on a fox hunt, could get caught up in the thrill of the chase.
One action during the heat of battle confirmed Wellington in his caution. Two British cavalry brigades, acting without orders, pursued the French down the road toward the Grand Battery. A counterattack practically decimated the two British brigades (the Scottish Greys came back with only one-sixth of their original 300 men), knocking them, for all intents and purposes, out of commission for the rest of the battle.
Throughout the battle, Wellington moved up and down his line, telling his men to wait and be ready. To one group, desperate to advance so they could at least move forward in the face of punishing artillery fire, he cautioned: “Wait a little longer, lads, and you will have your wish.”
I would add one last error to the ones enumerated by Alexander about Napoleon: the emperor underestimated the resolve of Blucher. The 72-year-old leader of the Prussian forces had led previous coalition forces to victory against him at the Battle of Leipzig, then had retired to farming when it appeared Napoleon had been forced out of power. The emperor’s “Hundred Days” after the escape from Elba led Blucher to re-join the fight.
Two days before Waterloo, Napoleon had beaten Blucher at Ligny, but the two corps he had dispatched to deal with the Prussian commander couldn’t catch him. In the early part of the battle, then, Napoleon was operating under powerful illusions: that Blucher’s forces had been not merely checked but roundly devastated, and that there was no way they could move 12 miles to the battlefield, with all their columns of infantry, cavalry and artillery, over muddy roads, fields and swamps, in time to make any difference.
By mid-to-late afternoon, Napoleon had a nasty surprise when he learned otherwise. The sudden presence of Blucher’s 30,000-plus troops solidified Wellington’s position and turned the tide of victory.
The cost was grievous to both sides—23,000 for the Allies versus 25,000 killed and wounded (plus 9,000 captured) for the French. But when it was all over, Napoleon’s dreams of reconquest lay in ruins. The British quickly made sure he would not escape to America, instead hustling him down to the far-away island of St. Helena, where he died six years later.
Even a genius eventually makes mistakes. It was Napoleon Bonaparte’s misfortune to make at least two on the same day. His subordinates—including brother Jerome Bonaparte and trusted commander Marshal Ney—contributed to the loss, too. But none compared in magnitude with those of the military commander who had once made mincemeat of his opponents by tearing up the old military rulebook.
In the July 2010 issue of Armchair General Magazine (table of contents only in this link; you’ll have to buy the issue for the article), military historian Bevin Alexander analyzes how the ancient Chinese military sage Sun-Tzu might have assessed the decisions of Napoleon and Wellington on this history-changing day.
To be sure, the Duke of Wellington made a questionable decision before the battle when he didn’t link up quickly enough with ally Blucher. By not massing his forces right away, he allowed Napoleon—who had escaped from exile on the island of Elba to return as emperor and reconstitute the Grand Army—the opportunity to defeat their forces in turn. This, in turn, could have dealt a devastating blow to the plan of the Seventh Coalition—the governments of Britain, Prussia, Russia, Sweden, Austria, The Netherlands and a number of German States—to crush Napoleon with overwhelming force.
But, compared with Wellington's, Napoleon’s errors were more numerous, more stubborn, more damaging, and more just plain inexplicable.
First, as Alexander explains, instead of executing a flanking maneuver that might have achieved surprise, Napoleon launched a massive frontal assault, preceded by enormous artillery fire to soften up the British, against an enemy led by a highly competent commander and well entrenched atop a formidable ridge.
(Alexander doesn’t mention the similarity, so I will: Napoleon’s Grand Army faced the kind of odds against dislodging Wellington’s forces that Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia would against George Meade’s Army of the Potomac on Cemetery Ridge.)
Second, worsening his chances of victory, Napoleon waited until mid-day before issuing the order to attack. If he was going to carry the day, he should have acted before Wellington and Blucher could join forces.
Following the lead of most historians, Alexander ascribes that decision to the emperor’s need to wait until the field—slick and mud-spattered from a recent downpour—dried. But I wondered how much that would restrain a normally audacious leader.
It took a fascinating review of the battle from, of all places, the Web site for the International Museum of the Horse (located—but naturally!—in Lexington, Ky.) for me to figure out why the emperor acted with such uncharacteristic slowness.
French cavalry forces actually outnumbered Wellington’s and Blucher’s 16,000 to 13,000. And Napoleon ascribed special importance to them, believing that “without cavalry, battles are without result."
Wellington was not so enamored of it as his opposite number. As an avid equestrian and military commander, the Duke knew all too well how horse and rider could lose their heads. Animals could react skittishly on fields affected by inclement weather, while cavalry leaders, like aristocrats on a fox hunt, could get caught up in the thrill of the chase.
One action during the heat of battle confirmed Wellington in his caution. Two British cavalry brigades, acting without orders, pursued the French down the road toward the Grand Battery. A counterattack practically decimated the two British brigades (the Scottish Greys came back with only one-sixth of their original 300 men), knocking them, for all intents and purposes, out of commission for the rest of the battle.
Throughout the battle, Wellington moved up and down his line, telling his men to wait and be ready. To one group, desperate to advance so they could at least move forward in the face of punishing artillery fire, he cautioned: “Wait a little longer, lads, and you will have your wish.”
I would add one last error to the ones enumerated by Alexander about Napoleon: the emperor underestimated the resolve of Blucher. The 72-year-old leader of the Prussian forces had led previous coalition forces to victory against him at the Battle of Leipzig, then had retired to farming when it appeared Napoleon had been forced out of power. The emperor’s “Hundred Days” after the escape from Elba led Blucher to re-join the fight.
Two days before Waterloo, Napoleon had beaten Blucher at Ligny, but the two corps he had dispatched to deal with the Prussian commander couldn’t catch him. In the early part of the battle, then, Napoleon was operating under powerful illusions: that Blucher’s forces had been not merely checked but roundly devastated, and that there was no way they could move 12 miles to the battlefield, with all their columns of infantry, cavalry and artillery, over muddy roads, fields and swamps, in time to make any difference.
By mid-to-late afternoon, Napoleon had a nasty surprise when he learned otherwise. The sudden presence of Blucher’s 30,000-plus troops solidified Wellington’s position and turned the tide of victory.
The cost was grievous to both sides—23,000 for the Allies versus 25,000 killed and wounded (plus 9,000 captured) for the French. But when it was all over, Napoleon’s dreams of reconquest lay in ruins. The British quickly made sure he would not escape to America, instead hustling him down to the far-away island of St. Helena, where he died six years later.
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