I am an avid reader of history; an aficionado, though not a student or teacher. But I recently came upon a story I had never heard before.
Who is to say how many eons ago nature began to carve out a riverbed in what would later be the Country of Belgium? Who is to say when people began to call that river ‘O’Hain?’ Oh, there are those to say it was not a river but a road, but those origins are too dated to be authenticated. Maybe, too, is the possibility that when a river dried up – as the O’hain had for many years – it might be used as a road or path, a not uncommon event.
The day is the 18th; the month: June; the year 1815; significant in the fact that it would be the last battle Napoleon Bonaparte ever fought.
The scene must have been unimaginable to the modern eye: men dying by the thousands. Napoleon, a master strategist – though some would argue he was losing his edge – scanned the murderous panorama looking for a weakness in the lines of the Duke of Wellington. Finally he found one, but little did he know the hidden river of O’Hain lay patiently in ambush as it had for thousands of years – as if awaiting this moment. This topographical irregularity showed on none of Napoleon’s maps, nor was it detected by his scouts.
Through his spyglass, Napoleon saw rolling hills blanketed with tall grasses; a perfect point of attack. He and his subordinates, military historians agree, had made several critical errors that day which led to his final defeat, but he was about to make another telling blunder.
Held in reserve had been Napoleon’s mounted cavalry, his Cuirassiers, so named because of their impressive breastplates. French horse and man were eager to join the carnage, waiting impatiently to be released to charge.
Finally the order came, and thousands of them set the ground into a menacing thunder as they attacked over what they thought was a relatively level plain.
At full gallop, blades drawn, hooves grinding the ground, and dragoons in full throat, they, too late, saw their peril. No time to draw rein, the leader plunged into a twelve foot deep, twelve foot wide, four hundred foot long abyss. The front of the column fell within; the momentum of those riding just behind them pushed the front flank forward to their deaths, as they themselves were so pushed from behind.
Soon it was a mass of dead and dying man and horse, killed by drawn sabers, horses’ hooves, and sheer weight. Horrifyingly, the massive ditch filled up, and the rearmost of the guard simply rode over them, using the bodies as a bridge, only to be annihilated and repulsed by the camouflaged English on the far bank.
Quite a story. One I had never before heard.
Look for Lucky’s books locally and on-line: I Swear By Apollo; The Oath of Hippocrates; The Cotillian; A Journey Long Delayed; Campfire Tales; Sabonics; More Campfire Tales; Growing Up In Stephentown; Animal Archives; The Story Teller. The Adventures of Napoleon: Volumes one and two; Musings
SEE SABRINA’S WILDLIFE WEBSITE: FACEBOOK.COM/SWVA WILDLIFE
