What REALLY Happened at Waterloo
[Author's Note: Originally written and posted on another website in 2009, I decided to put it here for everyone's enjoyment]
Preliminary Disclaimer : Νo alcoholic beverages of any kind were involved in the conception, elaboration, and writing of this story. However, I would warn fellow authors of the consequences of drinking large cups of flavored black tea followed by 2-3 cups of vanilla-flavored coffee with brown sugar. So I was in my cups when I first thought up this story, but they were not alcoholic. Consider yourself warned. Hit that back button now or waive your right to protest.
The story begins here...
Shakespeare once said that all the world's a stage. He was about half right. The world is a stage for the theatre of the absurd. (but Ionesco wasn't around at the time, so the Bard could not have known this) In fact, history is full of absurd events, as you will read below. Unfortunately, most of them don't find their way into the history books, or when they do, it's often in an altered version. Such was the case of the battle of Waterloo.
The true facts of the Battle of Waterloo have long been concealed in (what else?) a conspiracy of silence. Many accounts exist, by far the most accurate and entertaining being that of the unofficial but talented Regency scholar Jack Caldwell, 1815. In fact, Caldwell has many events correct down to the smallest detail. However, he was working, directly or indirectly, with sources that followed the officially documented account of the battle, as it has come down to us in the history books.
The official answer is well known. This is the real answer.
Much painstaking research was required in order to piece this account together, involving visits to the personal archives of individual participants in the battle. In fact, it was not until after Hurricane Katrina, when a few letters from the 19th century were discovered in the personal files of the late John Taylor Buford Sr. in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, that it was possible to fit together all the missing links and scattered, fragmentary details of the parts of the Battle of Waterloo that did not find their way into the history books. After all, it is a universally acknowledged truth that witnesses to a highly unusual event who are sworn to secrecy for many years afterward are in want of someone with whom to discuss it, preferably someone familiar with the event, because otherwise they run the risk of going absolutely bonkers (and maybe some of them did). However, if the truth had been widely known at the time, reputations would have been ruined, politics and politicians confounded, and hopes frustrated, not to mention that the entire basic canon of English literature would have ended up being changed and many illustrious personages would have died of sheer embarrassment (like Napoleon).
Enough preliminaries. Like many things, it all started with Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was not the classic ideal of his time in terms of what would be considered a handsome man, but he definitely had his way to charm the fair sex. In fact, he had an entire throng of devoted female admirers, who often met over tea, scones, and muffins in order to discuss their admiration of the man. Some of them were born in foreign lands. One of the ladies had developed a recipe for a variety of muffins that involved many small slivers of chocolate resembling small studs. The resulting baked goods were so popular that this group of ladies became known as the Stud Muffin Club. In fact, due to their pleasure in the muffins, and the fact that Colonel Fitzwilliam was the reason for their meeting and eating, many of the ladies began to refer to him as Colonel Studmuffin as well.
One day, one of the more audacious ladies came up with a plan. They should not simply revere Colonel Fitzwilliam from afar; they should attempt to meet him in person. Some of her friends disagreed with this idea, because they feared the idea of coming to blows over the man if they were to meet him in person, or what might happen if his affections were engaged by one or more of them, leaving the others to wallow in bitter disappointment. Another consideration was the fact that in Greek mythology the fate of many women who met with gods up close was not at all appetizing. However, eventually the fainter of heart were convinced that unrequited love (or at least admiration) was not good for the soul, and they should all have the occasion to meet their idol in person, at least to debunk his myth if they found him unsatisfactory or unworthy of his reputation (for example, if he had bad breath or was incapable of dancing, or was not as brave as believed to be).
There was one problem with this idea: Napoleon. He was very talented at inconveniencing other people's plans, especially plans he knew nothing about. The ladies' plans were frustrated by the fact that the former Emperor decided to rule and conquer once again; thus he rather inconsiderately escaped from his captivity on the small island of Elba, returned to France, and convinced the soldiers sent to capture him to support his cause instead. With the assistance of many marshals and generals who had served him, he raised an army and marched to the northeast. The British, led by the Duke of Wellington, found themselves forced to raise an army in order to stop him before he could raise a larger army and resume his conquest of Europe. The regiment commanded by Colonel Fitzwilliam was one of many that had to make its way from Britain to Belgium for this purpose.
Thus, the ladies found themselves in want of a way to cross the English Channel. Again, one of their number devised a plan. The ladies knew of the existence of another group of ladies, which was devoted to the admiration of Mr. Charles Bingley. These other ladies were not as enthusiastic in their devotion as those of the Stud Muffin Club, but their sentiments were also quite deeply felt. They admired the character and behavior of Mr. Bingley, and were sincerely happy for his recent marriage to the lovely Jane Bennet, a young lady of Hertfordshire who was renowned for her sweetness of temper, the kindness of her actions and attitudes, and her general courtesy and amiability. Her husband's character was rather similar to hers, which probably explained why they had fallen in love and married each other. Unlike Jane's mother, the ladies who admired her husband respected the peace of mind and domestic felicity of the newly married couple, which is why instead of attempting to visit the Bingley family at Netherfield, their well-appointed estate, or their town house in London, they limited themselves to meetings over tea and scones and chronicling the courtship and life of Mr. Bingley and his wife.
Due to their knowledge of Charles Bingley's character, the ladies of the Stud Muffin Club believed that he would be eager to assist them if his assistance were solicited. How could such an obliging fellow not wish to help the admirers of his wife's sister's husband's cousin (or his best friend's cousin, for that matter)? Unfortunately, before they could decide how to do so, Charles Bingley was caught up in a crisis of his own, and this time, it was not his sister's fault. (She had finally given up on matching herself with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, and instead decided to get a life of her own, by marrying a knighted officer of Welsh descent, Colonel Sir John Buford. Further details are available in Caldwell's work.) One morning, as the gentleman had ridden out in order to resolve some issues faced by the tenants of his estate, a scoundrel kidnapped his wife.
The abductor was a man who had been born and raised in Hertfordshire, but had long since established himself in London. His name was Mr. Trevor Whitlow, and for many years it had been his intent and hope to establish himself as the master of Netherfield, which would make him the principal gentleman of the district. However, he did not possess the financial means to purchase the estate, and its owner did not wish to lease it. Therefore, Mr. Whitlow devised an alternative strategy: to win the estate by inducing Mr. Chalmers, its owner, to gamble and thereby be forced to lose the estate to him. The plan did not meet with complete success, because although Mr. Chalmers did lose enough money to be mortified for life and to consider the lease or the sale of Netherfield, Mr. Whitlow was not a skillful enough gambler or manipulator to make Mr. Chalmers give him the estate. Indeed, after Mr. Chalmers recovered from the effects of his drinking, and realized to what a state he had fallen, such was his mortification that he resolved never to gamble again, and he developed quite a dislike of Mr. Whitlow, to whom after those events, he would not have given, sold, or leased the estate even if threatened with dire torture. Instead, he joined the Society for the Prevention and Elimination of the Evils of Gaming (later re-founded in the United States as Gamblers Anonymous), which promised, in twelve steps, to improve his character and cure him of the tendency towards gaming forever. And, as is known to readers of English literature, he leased Netherfield to Charles Bingley.
Why did Mr. Whitlow do all this? For the Love of Jane.
When Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Jane's sister (who eventually became Mrs. Darcy and in doing so inspired and is still inspiring all kinds of romantic literature), had said to her "you have liked many a stupider person", Mr. Whitlow was the object of her reference. From a young age, Mr. Whitlow had admired the beauty of Miss Jane Bennet, and was eventually consumed with lust for her. As they would say in the 20th century, he wanted her body (and had not enough of a soul to concern himself with hers). He attempted to win her love through poetry, but since it was not good poetry, he met with little success. The lady in question may have found his manners pleasant (for they were when he was not gambling) and thought that through the gentility of her spirit, she could urge him to reform his behavior. And maybe she could have, had the man in question not come up with the thought that in order to court a young lady born on an estate, he needed to possess an estate of his own (not to mention that it would provide him with more income for gambling). Had he been more intelligent, he would have asked Miss Bennet whether this was necessary, and obtained her assurance that it was not. Had he been a trifle more intelligent than that, he would have understood that the best way to win the admiration of Miss Bennet would have been to reform his character before seeking her hand, and not to expect to gain it first. Instead, things transpired as described in the above paragraph. And then Charles Bingley came onto the scene, and after many trials and tribulations that are quite well described elsewhere, the two of them married in a blissful ceremony. This, of course, made Mr. Whitlow quite angry, and he determined to thwart Mr. Bingley's happiness. Since he still had a few of the servants of Netherfield in his pay, he sought their assistance, and kidnapped Jane. He planned to make his way to the Continent with her, where it would not be known that she was already a married lady, and purchase an estate there (someone told him it was cheaper), where he could marry her, settle with her, and gratify his desire to enjoy her charms fully. (The idea that she might not agree with this did not enter his head) At least, one small consolation, he was not enough of a scoundrel to attempt to enjoy his prisoner's charms before he could marry her. Strange but true, but as written above, his manners could be pleasant when he was not gambling.
Once he arrived in Belgium, Mr. Whitlow found out something he had not imagined: there were too many armies in the way.
In the meantime, Mr. Bingley was astounded, fearful, anxious, dejected, and about fifty other adjectives of a similar nature. This fact did not escape the notice of his servants, who, in the way of servants everywhere, began to speak of it with other servants, and thus, the sad news found its way to the notice of Mr. Bingley's admirers. These ladies were of good character and therefore decided that they should visit Mr. Bingley and offer their assistance with this predicament. On the way to Hertfordshire, they encountered the ladies of the Stud Muffin Club as well, since the latter hoped for Mr. Bingley's assistance in order for them to meet Colonel Fitzwilliam and possibly support the efforts of the army as well (they were patriotic ladies).
Thus, by whatever means of transportation could be engaged, as in "practically everything but reindeer", they arrived at Netherfield. The master of the estate was in too despondent a condition even to repel unexpected visitors (in any case, he was probably too kind a chap to do such a thing).
"My dearest Jane has been stolen from me," he said to the ladies once they had assembled in the room where the Netherfield ball had been held (it was the only place where everyone fit). "How can I ever recover her?"
"Let us assist you with that," one of the ladies replied.
"Your assistance is welcome, but what could you possibly do?"
"Interrogate the servants!" With a rapidity that astonished everyone, they began to do just that. Within a few hours, they were successful in determining which servants knew nothing, which knew nothing of use, which knew something even slightly useful, and which were attempting to hide their knowledge. This last category, included a) those who were too afraid or too mortified to say anything, and b) those that were paid by Mr. Whitlow. The former could be plied with kind assurances; the latter required insistent questioning, the threat of prison, and in some cases, among other methods, the dripping of very hot baked beans onto their bodies (this is the origin of the expression "spill the beans"), after which full confessions were obtained.
It was understood that Mr. Bingley (and the assembled legion of ladies) must find a way to go to the Continent in order to bring Jane back. The cry of "we must fix this now!" swelled from the room.
"Ladies, one thing is quite clear to me," Mr. Bingley said, "if we wish to cross the Channel, we cannot expect to do it from Hertfordshire. To contract our passage, we must go to London first, to enquire of the shipping agents."
"Perhaps only a few of us should go, Mr. Bingley, and send an express here to inform you of which port town shall be our point of departure. It seems pointless for everyone to travel twice."
Fortunately, at that moment the road between Meryton and Netherfield was being traversed by William Goulding in his curricle, who has shouting to all passers-by, whether human or animal, "Have 'ye ever seen a curricle faster than this one?" Whether he expected a response from the animals is not known.
"Actually, we haven't," some of the ladies noted. Therefore, since Goulding's curricle was so fast, it was agreed that he would take three of the ladies with him to London to find a shipping agent. Had speeding tickets been in existence at the time, Mr. Goulding would have incurred five dozen or so. But this was important: there was a lady to rescue, and there was a Colonel to be admired.
On the way to London, one of the three ladies had become aware of an important complication. "Who is going to pay for all this?" After all, anyone who would transport a boatload of people - or of practically anything else - is in want of payment.
"Mr. Rushworth, of course!" answered a friend of hers.
"James Rushworth?" the third lady was incredulous. "What does he have to do with anything? He's just a stupid lump not worth knowing."
"That's not true!" said her companion. "You just need to read Departure from Prison to know that there's more to him than meets the canon. Or if you prefer some nice, friendly medieval logic, Edmund Bertram said that if he didn't have twelve thousand pounds a year, he would be a rather stupid fellow. Since he does, therefore he isn't. Besides, the poor dear has been bored and lonely ever since his wife left him for Henry Crawford. Divorce proceedings really are the pits. He needs to do something to feel useful, and well, we need to rush to get something worth the effort done, which means we need Rushworth. And he can afford it - I've heard he sold the house in Brighton because of painful memories."
"Hmmmm, you might be right," was the reply, "does that mean we might be taken across the Channel by Captain Wentworth? Or is he in Bermuda or someplace like that?"
Mr. Goulding was oblivious of this conversation, not that he could have understood it if he had attended. Fast curricle driving, farming, rescuing lambs or even fully-grown sheep from mud, and possibly romancing a lady, that was his world. For the eleventh time he asked whether the ladies were pleased with his curricle and had ever seen a faster one.
Eventually, this party arrived in London. Mr. Goulding left the ladies in Wimpole Street, and then he went off to race his curricle somewhere else.
Fortunately, Mr. Rushworth was at home. And he was lonely and bored enough that he could be convinced to support this enterprise. Therefore he agreed to enquire of the shipping agents and contract the ladies' passage to the Continent. Unfortunately, Captain Wentworth was on his way to Bermuda (the details can be found in Caldwell's work Persuaded to Sail), but in a pinch Captain Harville would do quite well as a substitute, since Wentworth himself had claimed that a better man than he could not be found. Therefore it was agreed that he would take the ladies (once they all showed up) to Belgium. It is possible that the prospect of sampling Belgian beer helped persuade him.
Arrangements were completed, but a couple of days were required in order for the entire group of ladies, plus Mr. Bingley and the most trustworthy of his servants, to assemble at the nearest port, after deciding what sorts of items to take with them on this trip. Mr. Rushworth obligingly paid for everything, especially after Mr. Bingley's predicament was explained to him. When one boat proved to be insufficient for the transport of everyone and everything, Captain Benwick was recruited into the enterprise as well. Thus the assembled group made the acquaintance of the good and no longer suffering captain and his young wife, the former Louisa Musgrove, who was eager for the journey in order to sample Belgian chocolate.
After a reasonably uneventful and uneventfully reasonable journey, the ladies, gentleman, and trustworthy servants reached Belgium. Then they found themselves with two tasks: to locate the British army and to rescue Jane from her abductor. As for the former task, in the beginning it was sufficient after walking for a kilometer or so to ask whatever members of the local populace could be found whether they had seen the British army, and to receive the answer "Yes, they went that way!"
As for the retrieval of Jane, that would have been considerably more difficult, had it not happened that Mr. Bingley and a few of the ladies met a local gentleman of middle age, of dapper appearance and fastidious manner, who immediately enquired of them, "Pardon me, Mesdames et messieurs, but are you seeking an Englishman who has abducted the gentleman's wife?"
"Yes, we are, monsieur" answered one of the ladies, since Mr. Bingley was too shocked at this meeting to formulate any words, in fact, had he been able to speak, he almost certainly would have wormulated his fords and gotten his mongue tixed up. "But how do you know about that?"
"I have made it my life's habit to observe my fellow man," the Belgian gentleman said, "and there was something not right about that couple's behavior. Their rings were too different from each other, their manner was too diffident, and - well, I shall spare you the details. You will find them in a farmhouse two kilometers south of here; obviously the man who abducted the lady is waiting to see what will happen in whatever battle arises between the allies and the French in order to decide in which direction to flee afterwards."
"Your deductive skills are excellent," said the lady, and then called to a companion of hers who was known to favor stories with elements of mystery in them. "Agatha! I think this gentleman is right up your alley!"
The lady named Agatha came to meet him, bobbed an elegant curtsey, and asked him, "Whom do I have the honor of addressing?"
The gentleman bowed rather elegantly and said, "Hercule Poirot, à votre service, madame."
The Stud Muffin Club had just lost a member. However, many interesting literary works were created as a result of this meeting.
Before any attempt could be made to snatch Jane back from her snatcher, a plan was necessary. Some way must be found to enter the farmhouse, to subdue Mr. Whitlow, rescue Jane, and then evacuate the premises as rapidly as possible. As for the first purpose, some sort of diversion would be necessary; the second would require a hard object. It was decided that Mr. Bingley and some of his male servants would disguise themselves as local tax inspectors in order to gain entry, and then whoever was in the most favorable position would proceed to give Mr. Whitlow a hard knock on the head. However, the traveling group had not supplied itself with many hard objects, and it was not easy to find random stray bricks. Mr. Bingley thought of using the butt of his flintlock pistol, but one of the ladies had another idea as well.
"Do you remember how hard our scones can get when we overbake them? If a man of Mr. Bingley's strength whacked a man on his coconut with one of them, I believe that would be quite a stunning blow."
The members of the Stud Muffin Club were inspired by this idea: if they produced the deliberately hardened scones in sufficient quantities, they might be able to use them as artillery in order to help Colonel Fitzwilliam (and the other British officers, although in the ladies' mind they didn't matter as much) fight the French. This, however, required a search for ingredients, and most importantly, for ovens, which delayed progress in the direction of the British Army. It also explains why the ladies missed the battle of Quatre Bras.
Once a first batch of hard scones was prepared and Monsieur Poirot had enlightened Bingley's servants on how to dress and behave in the manner of Belgian tax inspectors, Bingley and his servants went to the farmhouse, attended by a small contingent of the former man's admirers (who brought their scones with them, thinking that they could throw the scones at Mr. Whitlow if he attempted to escape). The ladies of the Stud Muffin Club, in the meantime, proceeded south, in the direction of the last known location of the British Army.
At the farmhouse, three of Bingley's servants, accompanied by their master, knocked on the door.
"Qui est là?" was the response from within.
"Nous venons du Service d'Inspection Tributaire du Royaume des Pays-Bas Unis," said one of Bingley's servants who had learned French by previously working alongside a French cook in London. "Nous avons l'ordre de procéder à une inspection détaillée de cette propriété-ci." (pardon my French: We are from the Fiscal Inspection Service of the Kingdom of the United Netherlands. We have the order to proceed to a detailed inspection of this property.)
"Je ne suis pas le propriétaire. Il est à l'étranger et je ne sais pas quand il reviendra." (I am not the owner. He is abroad and I do not know when he will return)
was the reply from inside.
"Vous êtes obligé à permettre cette inspection quand même, monsieur," the servant insisted. "Autrement on va vous considérer coupable d'infractions de la Loi Tributaire." (You are required to allow this inspection in any case, Sir. Otherwise, you will be considered guilty of violating the Tax Law.)
Mr. Whitlow eventually grudgingly consented to open the door. As he began to open it, Bingley and his servants pushed forward, forcing the door to open wide, and Bingley reached down to his pocket to draw his pistol, but he reached slightly behind where he should have, and came up with a battle scone instead. That hardly signified, since he immediately hit Mr. Whitlow on the temple with it, knocking him unconscious instantaneously. Then he called for his beloved wife.
"Charles, dearest, I am here," Jane Bingley's sweet voice came from another room. Soon her gentle footfalls could be heard. Her devoted husband immediately took her in his arms, lifted her up and spun her around, and proceeded to show how much he had missed her with an exceedingly swoon-worthy kiss. Everyone in the room sighed except for the unconscious Whitlow. Jane reassured her husband, their admirers, and the servants that she was unharmed. Everyone was relieved.
Mr. Whitlow was then tied to a chair, and it was decided that two witnesses would stay behind in order to provide the local authorities with testimony concerning the kidnapping. In this way, Mr. Whitlow was sent to prison. As for the other members of the assembled group, after some debate they also decided to venture south in search of the British Army; however, they did not take the exact same route as the ladies of the Stud Muffin Club, and ended up somewhere further to the east.
And on the next morning, when neither group had yet succeeded in finding the British Army, the Battle of Waterloo had begun.
The Duke of Wellington, an excellent tactician, had chosen a good position for the armies that he commanded, which consisted of British, Dutch, and German troops. However, in order to ensure success, he needed the Prussians to arrive and place the French under attack from two sides. Unfortunately, until now, the Prussians had not given a good account of themselves in battle, being defeated soundly at Wavre and Ligny. Thus, it was not certain that even their support would be sufficient to defeat the French. Still, any support was better than no support, but as the battle continued, with its dangerous vicissitudes, many British commanders began to wonder where the Prussians were.
The answer to that is quite simple. The Prussians were in Prussia, of course. The army that everyone believed to be a Prussian army in fact was no such thing. The number of true Prussians in the army that had embarked on this campaign was exactly two: Marshal Blücher, the supreme commander, and his assistant.
Marshal Blücher was a drunk. That in itself should not have posed a problem; there have been many successful military commanders in history that drank too much. The problem is that he was the wrong kind of drunk. Had he been a placid, Mr. Hurst-like drunk, for example, one who drank and then fell asleep or made an occasional muttering, that would not have been a problem. Had he even been the kind of drunk that tends to dance on tables, tell bad jokes, sing obscure regional songs in a loud voice, and in general make a fool of himself before falling asleep, that would have been fine as well. In either case, the Marshal's assistant, the very capable and handsome Oberst Andreas Von Waldeck, would have taken care of everything as he did most of the time anyway. The problem was that when the Marshal got drunk, he did all sorts of inexplicable and irrational and misguided things and there was no chance that anyone could get a word in edgewise to correct his actions. And on this occasion, he had committed the mother of all blunders: he had brought the wrong army with him.
The army commanded by Blücher at that moment was not an army of Prussians, but of Prissians. The Prissians were a minority unknown outside the borders of Prussia. At first glance, they looked exactly like Prussians, and one could not tell the difference from their speech either. What set the Prissians apart was their tendency to be fastidious in their personal appearance, of which they took prodigiously good care. They delighted in using the finest fabrics, the most elegant clothing, soaps and scents of all sorts, and many other such acoutrements, which they all kept in excellent condition. This was why they did not make good soldiers. Whenever an officer commanded them to attack or to do practically anything, their reaction consisted of statements such as "Why should we do that? We'll get mud on our boots and wrinkle our uniforms, and our belt buckles will lose their shine!" They frustrated their commanders to such an extent that it had become the general policy of the Prussian Army never to conscript them. However, on this occasion, Marshal Blücher had gotten himself extremely drunk, well foxed beyond all bounds of foxedness or foxability, and the result was that he had conscripted thousands of Prissians, almost the entire male Prissian population. And up to now they had lived up to their reputation: in battle, in order to avoid getting themselves dirty or wrinkled or anything, they had simply retreated and left the field open to the French. It did not matter to them who ruled Europe as long as they could continue in their regular Prissian habits. It was hard enough for Oberst Von Waldeck to get them all to march in the right direction; he managed that by promising them that after the end of the campaign he could take them by several towns where thermal baths were located, so that they could enjoy restorative baths. However, now the fate of Europe stood in the balance, and Oberst Von Waldeck and Marshal Blücher, after the latter man had sobered up and become aware of his extreme mistake, were beside themselves in frustration. They needed to reach Waterloo and do something to help defeat the French; besides the risk of being conquered if they were defeated, the reputation of Prussian soldiers would be ruined forever, as all Prussians would thus be assumed and expected to act like Prissians.
This was the situation with the Prussians and Prissians when they encountered Charles and Jane Bingley, with the aforementioned servants and admirers. Theirs had also been a slow advance, in part because of repeated displays of renewed marital affection between the Bingleys. They observed the most recalcitrant army ever seen, with two commanding officers attempting to shout orders and thousands and thousands of soldiers voicing complaints in German.
Charles Bingley, being a friendly and helpful man, approached the Oberst, bowed to him, and asked "Is there any way that we could be of assistance to you?"
"Do you sink you could get zose souzands of soldiers to act like real men and fight ze French?" was Oberst Von Waldeck's reply.
"Well, perhaps, if you tell me what is preventing them..." Charles said. Oberst Von Waldeck was not certain how to proceed. The secret of the existence of the Prissians had never been revealed to a foreigner. Could that taboo be broken? In the meantime, he noticed that his commander, out of sheer frustration, had started drinking again, which meant that things could become quite disastrous if no action was taken soon. Desperate times called for desperate measures, which meant that he explained everything to Charles and Jane.
"Charles, my love, come close to me for a moment, I have something to tell you," Jane said to her husband. He needed no further inducement than his beloved wife's words. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began whispering in his ear.
"I adore it when you whisper in my ear, my beautiful wife," he said, "especially when..."
"Plenty of time for that later, darling," she said with a rather becoming blush, "first let me tell you how to help these officers."
After Jane had finished explaining her idea to Charles, he turned to Oberst Von Waldeck and asked him "If I made a speech to your soldiers in English, would you be able to interpret into German for them?"
"Ja, I qvite belieff zat I could, Herr Bingley. Please begin."
"Prissians! Hear me!" Bingley exclaimed. "You do not know what fate will befall you if you are conquered by the French. The French aspire to supremacy in every sphere of elegance and fashion, and would see you as competitors. They would no longer allow you to wear fine clothing, lest you challenge their position. They would outlaw the production and sale of soaps and scents in your homeland. They would not allow you to clean your bodies frequently. They would only allow you to wear clothing of the poorest quality. They would force you to wear cravats made of canvas!"
Now that idea quite enraged the Prissians. For the first time in history, a gasp of indignation swelled through their ranks, followed by the German equivalent of "Zose dastardly French! How dare zey? Ve must knock zer blocks off!"
"Prissians, of what consequence is the soiling of a single uniform, compared to the right to wear the clothes that you wish for all time? For all your fashion and finery, for the right to live as you have chosen, to keep yourselves from such degradation as I have described," Bingley commanded, "FORWARD MARCH!"
With a blood-curdling battle cry and a determination seldom seen in their history, the army of Prissians, accompanied by the Bingleys and those with them, marched as fast as possible in the direction of Napoleon's army.
In the meantime, back at Waterloo, the British and allied forces were caught in a quite difficult situation. The counter-attack by the cavalry led by Lord Uxbridge had forestalled the French offensive, but then the Scotts Greys, Life Guards, and Inniskillings had overextended their position and been slaughtered by the French, leaving the British with a very limited amount of cavalry forces left and a gaping hole in the middle of their line.
Watching the scene of the battle with his spyglass, Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte was not completely satisfied with the way things were proceeding. The English cavalry had thrown off his troops' attack, but his forces had managed to counter them after they charged too far. He could see that the British center was unprotected. The Prussians could be arriving at any moment, and though he had already defeated them twice, he considered it a better idea to finish off the British, Dutch, and German forces first in order not to find himself attacked from two fronts. He ordered his generals to send in the Imperial Guard, his undefeated Immortals, who had decided many battles for him. The battle had been no picnic so far, but he still harbored hopes of celebrating victory with a good dinner.
It was at that moment that the ladies of the Stud Muffin Club encountered Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. In time of peace, the good Colonel would have been thrilled to bits to encounter such a throng of ladies, especially since they claimed to admire him, but in the midst of battle, the most courteous reply that he could manage was "Excuse me, ladies, but you do see that we are in the middle of a battle. If you have any way to assist us against the French, I would be happy to hear you, but make it fast; anything else, kindly save it until later!"
"But that is why we are here!" claimed one of the ladies "We have brought you a shipment of special ammunition for the cannons! Load them up and the Frenchies will never know what hit them! At the very worst, you will have more ammunition left for later. And this will give the Prussians a little more time to arrive, and in the meantime Wellington can prepare a good counter-attack."
One of Colonel Fitzwilliam's positive qualities was his ability to think quickly. He took a quick look with his spyglass, and he saw that the Imperial Guard was advancing towards the Allied positions. Anything that could forestall them was welcome. He shouted out for three artillery commanders, and told them to load the cannons with those new projectiles and start firing without delay.
"Let's do it," the lady who had spoken with the Colonel shouted to her colleagues, "Load up every cannon you can see with scones!"
"Did you say 'scones', Madam?" The Colonel asked incredulously. "Are we going to be shooting scones at the French?"
"That is the code name the War Office uses for them," she explained. "Trust me, they will wreak plenty of havoc." Once the Colonel had turned back to give orders to his troops, she almost fell over laughing.
At that very same moment, the Duke of Wellington, supreme commander of the Allied forces, was surveying the situation. He was concerned, but did not let his emotions get the best of him. As he saw the French troops advancing, he gave orders to a Colonel of Dragoons attached to the General Staff.
"Brandon! Take your troops, Buford's, and the only one of those Dutch generals whose troops have been doing much - Stokkermans - and shore up the center. Send Fitzwilliam up to the ridge of Hougoumont to attack from there, and tell Vivian and Vandeleur to prepare to counter-attack from the right. Those French are not going to get the best of us!"
"Done, Your Grace!" Colonel Christopher Brandon saluted and rode off with alacrity. One thought continued to bother Wellington. Where were those Prussians? If his counter-attack failed and they still did not come, it might be too late.
Within two minutes, a huge cheer rose from the British ranks.
"Your Grace, Your Grace!" Wellington's trusted assistant handed him a spyglass, "Wonderful news! See for yourself, Sir! Fitzwilliam's gunners are mowing down the Imperial Guard like never before!"
The French Imperial Guard was renowned for its tenacity under fire and its prowess in battle. Truly, it was an extremely potent and tenacious force when faced with normal fire. This time, however, they were facing a type of projectile that they had never seen before. The battle scones, fired by a combined group of Fitzwilliam's artillerists and the ladies of the Stud Muffin Club, packed quite a punch as they were fired at the advancing French with pinpoint accuracy. Napoleon's renowned Immortals were thrown into disarray.
"Keep 'em coming, ladies, we still got plenty to deal with," shouted an artillery captain as the scones continued to be fired.
The Duke of Wellington had no idea what exactly was going on, but he was rather well pleased. Surveying his forces' own lines, he could observe that his commands were being followed rather quickly. Buford, Brandon, and the division commanded by General Karel Stokkermans had converged on the center of the line, forming a de facto brigade that was ready to repel any onslaught. The French attack, however, was faltering, which was quite a surprise to him. Were Napoleon's best troops not the ones now being committed to attack? Was Bonaparte holding further forces in reserve? The British needed to counter-attack quickly. Wellington surveyed the higher ground, and he saw Colonel Fitzwilliam's troops going up to the ridge, following his orders. And then he saw something else that gave him pause: the position previously held by Fitzwilliam's artillery detachment was now occupied by a large number of women. And they were loading the cannons with something that was clearly the wrong shape for a cannonball. Unfortunately, it was too far away for him to be able to see exactly what those projectiles were.
"Something incredibly strange is going on," he said to himself. However, he was not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. If the French had weakened, they would be undone by a stronger counter-attack. The point was to win the battle: understanding how it had been done could be managed afterwards.
A further cheer from the troops sounded out. Wellington surveyed the lines again, but the counter-attack had not yet begun. Instead, a mass of troops were coming from the east and heading directly for the French troops, with great rapidity, in fact. The Prussians had arrived, apparently, and from the apparent speed of their advance, they looked quite determined, for the first time in this campaign! It was the moment to act!
"Densmore!" he commanded one of the riders from the General Staff. "'Tis now or never! Find Brandon and tell him to have his brigade charge. And then send Vivian and Vandeleur into the breach as well. Let's hit the Frenchies with everything we've got!"
Densmore immediately rode off to find the aforementioned officers. Wellington's shout of "And don't bloody forget to salute me next time, you feather-brained lunk!" trailed behind him.
Napoleon surveyed the scene of the battle with his face quickly turning red in agitation. His Imperial Guard, never defeated in battle, who had carried the day on so many other occasions, had been utterly decimated! As the gap in the British lines was closed, his Marshals asked him for more men for a second assault. "Where do you want me to get you more men? Do you want me to make them?'" he had answered in anger. And then a group of British troops had launched an unexpected attack from a new position, and soldiers wearing Prussian uniforms had arrived from the east, and surprisingly seemed to be fighting well. Once he saw that the British were counter-attacking from other points along the line as well, Napoleon began to behave in most un-Emperor-like fashion: he started jumping up and down in frustration.
Just before Densmore arrived with the orders to attack, Colonel Sir John Buford had noticed the arrival of the Prussians and their rapid advancement. He raised his spyglass again to assess the situation.
"Good God!" he exclaimed to his assistant, Major Fox. "The Prussians are fighting like crazed demons, and there's a man with their commander who looks incredibly like my wife's brother!"
Had Buford possessed a more powerful spyglass, he would have seen that the Prussians (who were in fact Prissians, but he did not know that) were followed by a group consisting of a large number of women, including Mrs. Jane Bingley, and a few liveried servants. They did not have warlike intentions; Mrs. Bingley suggested that they stay close by in order to tend to the wounded, if necessary.
Once Densmore reached Brandon's brigade and the general offensive was mounted, the supply of battle scones had been almost exhausted.
"Cease firing, ladies! Cease firing!" Captain Hawkins commanded. "We wouldn't want to hit our own boys by mistake!" However, it took him a few minutes to make sure that his order was followed, which meant that a few British troops were unfortunately knocked down at the beginning of their attack. Colonel Sir John Buford was among them.
For all practical purposes, the French were caught in a sandwich. Between Vivian and Vandeleur's cavalry, Fitzwilliam's Lancers, Brandon's dragoons, Buford's troops (although their commander was felled, they still fought on - besides, the situation was too chaotic for them to really understand what was happening), the Dutch and German allies, and the enraged Prissians (thought by everyone else to be Prussians), the French could go nowhere but backward. On all sides, the Allied forces cut through them like a series of knives through olive oil (which means that they went all the way through and created a huge mess in the process). Reports that cries of "La Garde recule parce qu'elle l'a pris dans le cul" were heard cannot be confirmed or denied. What is certain is that the French Army suffered its worst reversal since Agincourt.
Napoleon was soon captured. He was brought before Wellington for a formal surrender. He was surprised that besides the other Allied commanders such as William of Orange and Lord Hill, the Prussians were represented by a mere Oberst (Von Waldeck had knocked his commander unconscious at the first sign of drunkenness, in order to make sure that he would not commit some other monstrous blunder - if he woke up with a headache later, he would probably imagine that he had just gotten drunk again), accompanied by a British civilian and a divinely beautiful blond lady with a statuesque figure who was clearly the latter man's wife (as he could observe from the rings on their fingers and their habit of kissing every few minutes), and there was a rather large number of women around.
"I say, good show, Bingley," Wellington exclaimed in extreme jollity, "to get those Prissians to fight like Prussians was no mean task. If we could only explain your presence here, you would deserve a knighthood."
"Actually," said Bingley with characteristic modesty, "it was Jane's idea, Your Grace. She deserves the credit for it."
"Ve should call zis epizode 'Ze Charge of ze Bingley Brigade'," suggested Oberst Von Waldeck.
"Excusez-moi, Your Grace," said Napoleon, who was more than a bit put out at having been ignored until this moment, "but as one commander of an army to another, can you tell me what those bizarre projectiles that felled my Imperial Guard were? And why are there so many women accompanying your army?"
"I have one of them for you here," said one of the ladies, taking out a battle scone from her reticule. "This is what we were firing at you."
" C'est quoi au juste, ça?" Napoleon asked in bewilderment as he took a scone in his hands and proceeded to examine it by turning it over and over. (What exactly is that?)
"They are called scones," Lord Hill explained, "usually we eat them with our tea, but I dare say they are supposed to be much softer than this."
"You are telling me that my Imperial Guard, the very pride of France, was undone by baked goods? And they were fired by women? Sacré bleu, quelle honte!" And he fell to Wellington's feet. "I beg of you, mon Duc, do not allow this to be known!"
"I cannot imagine that anyone would believe it if I told them," Wellington said. "I have no wish to be taken for a lunatic and put into Bedlam."
"Get a grip, Napster," said one of the British ladies as she pulled the fallen Emperor back to his feet, "do you think we want people to hear about this either? We might even start getting conscripted!"
"Not to mention a whole bunch of other consequences," said a companion of hers, "if anyone got a hold of the receipt, every baker from Birmingham could start a revolution."
"Have no fear, your Infernal... er, excuse me, Imperial Highness," Wellington said with a twinkle in his eye. "Battles are usually so disorderly that few people really know what has happened. I think it will be best for everyone if we merely say that this battle was a damned close-run thing, the nearest run thing you ever saw in your whole life."
The preparation of the official account had begun. It was decided that no mention should be made of the battle scones, the Stud Muffin Club, the Bingley Brigade, or the conversion of the Prissians into Prussians. In fact, once the Prissians had gotten a taste of military action, they discovered that they quite enjoyed it (especially because they were on the winning side), and within a generation, they had ceased to live as a separate community and could not be distinguished from the Prussians. And if they occasionally spent a long while polishing their boots or shining their belt buckles, it was attributed in each case to individual eccentricity, and as long as they fought well, nobody really cared. After all, Wellington was known to be quite a fastidious man himself. And he carefully drafted an account of the battle that attributed its outcome to military tactics and nothing else.
Some people knew better, but they decided not to mention the real events publicly. That was because if they had told anyone who was not present (and even many of those who were), they would not have been understood. If they had been understood, they would not have been believed. And if they had been believed, everything would have been stood on its head. This is part of the reason why Napoleon was taken to a desolate island in the middle of the ocean and Sir John Buford, who was believed by many to have been killed in battle, secretly sold off his commission and retired to a life of obscurity with his wife in Wales, from which they later emigrated to Louisiana with their children.
It is not known whether the Stud Muffin Club continued to meet once its members had returned to Britain. It is suspected that they made an agreement not to maintain an organized presence; however, some references to the events of Waterloo were discovered recently in the archives of a little-known literary society apparently formed some years later, which was called the Derbyshire Writers' Guild (possibly named for the county where Colonel Fitzwilliam was born). It was through these references that it first became known that such an entity as the Stud Muffin Club had ever existed. It seems that the ladies who belonged to the above organization had widened their literary efforts to the chronicling of the life and times of the Darcy, Bingley, Bennet, and Fitzwilliam families in general.
There are various accounts of the later life of Charles and Jane Bingley, but in essentials what appears to be the truth is that Mr. Bingley sold Netherfield after a few months and purchased an estate in Derbyshire, and he and his wife were blessed with many beautiful and amiable children, the first of which was undoubtedly conceived immediately after the battle of Waterloo. They became well-known in their local community for philanthropic initiatives and as a model of conjugal and familial felicity.
As for Colonel Fitzwilliam, the multiplicity of accounts of his life, and especially the number of different women that he may or may not have married, truly boggles the mind. The most frequently repeated tale is that he married his cousin Anne de Bourgh, although it is also suspected that this was a lie put about by said lady's mother, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who in her time had quite a reputation as a harridan. Unfortunately, no record of such a marriage can be found, since all the records of Hunsford church, the church nearest to the de Bourgh estate in Kent, were destroyed in a fire in 1874. It is also said that he may have married his cousin Georgiana Darcy, but nothing can be proved one way or another. The historical novel Toddles Makes His Move, of unknown authorship, hints at an alternative outcome, claiming that the Colonel married an expert Dutch female spy and moved to the Netherlands, taking her surname and dropping his own.
However, considering some of the more fantastical details included in the story, if you believe that, you can believe anything.
The End
(Yes, you may breathe now)