Episode 511: The Hundred Days

to go. His empire was gone, his dynasty destroyed. But in his mind the game wasn't over, because that day he got up with purpose. For months he had walked around Elba, listening to the rumors carried by smugglers and ship captains that Louis the eighteenth that restored Bourbon king in Paris was quickly losing the confidence of veterans. The French economy was in tatters. Taxes returned old aristocrats, the exiles of the revolution stepped back into offices with cold condescension.

In the army, that is, Napoleon's old army felt neglected, underappreciated, and in some cases, openly threatened. Napoleon read these signs very much like a gambler watching the turn of a card, and there it was. On that day, February twenty sixth, eighteen fifteen, with scarcely one thousand men and a handful of cannons, he boarded a ship and slipped past the British patrols. The coastline of Elba shrank before him, and he turned to his officers, declaring, France will welcome us.

The eagle will rise again. On March the first, Napoleon came ashore and a small beach near antibase, the southern sun glittering off of his uniform. There was no crowd, of course, but Napoleon didn't need crowds. He only needed time and the power of his reputation, and so he set off north through the Alps, following a route reminiscent of his Italian campaign. Every village he passed seemed to

stir from its winter slumber. All around him, veterans came out of taverns to stare at him, peasants whispered his name, and by the time he reached Grenoble, royal troops finally intercepted him. And this is where what is really a historical account starts to turn more and more into a legend. Napoleon stepped forward alone, taking off his coat to reveal

his familiar gray uniform beneath. Raising his voice, he walked out calmly to the soldiers assembled to arrest him, and announced, soldiers, if there is one among you who wishes to kill his emperor, here I am. Then instead of a shot, there came a shout, and then another, and then another, and then another. Within moments, the line of bayonets melted away, the tricolar cockades came out of hiding, and soldiers rushed forward, chanting Vive l Empire. The march to Paris became little

more than a triumphal procession. Louis the eighteenth fled the capitol, and on the twentieth of March, Napoleon entered the Tulery's palace, once again, greeted by jubilant crowds. For the first and last time, he reclaimed his throne without firing a single shot. But of course, this jubilation couldn't hide a painful truth. Europe was never going to accept a resurrected Napoleon. Inside Paris, Napoleon found a nation transformed. The revolution had matured constitutional

ideas were stronger. His own authoritarian rule was no longer universally desired. Many wanted liberty just as much as they wanted glory. The chambers the new legislative bodies watched him warily, and so the man who once dissolved assemblies with a scowl now tried a slightly different approach. He issued the Acte Adicional, a kind of modified constitution designed to protect civil liberties, a free press, and a more representative government. It was an attempt at reconciliation, a new face on

an old regime. But of course politics was never Napoleon's strongest battlefield, and diplomacy was even worse. At the Congress of Vienna, which had already begun in an effort to try to put Europe back together after the Napoleonic Wars, the crown heads of Europe reacted to the news of Napoleon's escaped with little more than stunned horror. One Austrian

diplomat scribbled, the devil is loosened from his chain. On March the thirteenth, the Continental powers declared Napoleon outlaw, quote beyond the pale of civil and social relations, and mobilized to massive armies, Wellington's Anglo Dutch and Prussian forces in the north. Meanwhile, the Austrians and Russians began to mass to strike from the east. Now Napoleon understood the numbers. He knew he needed speed, surprise, and a decisive blow

before all of these coalitions could unite. He needed one more campaign, one last campaign, to secure his throne. So, despite the fact that defense would seem like the order of the day, on June the twelfth, Napoleon left Paris for the northern frontier. There the roads teemed with veterans eager to fight for him again. Some kissed the tricolor flags, others marched barefoot just to rejoin the Eagles. Regardless, the plan was brilliant in its simplicity. He would strike Belgium

before the allies fully assembled. He would crush the Duke of Wellington, in charge of the Anglo Dutch army, and then he would crush Bluecher, in charge of the Prussian forces. If he could hit them separately, then he could force a negotiating peace. Now, the opening moves went extremely well for Napoleon. At Legner on June sixteenth, he smashed Blucher's Prussians, throwing the old marshal from his horse. Yet the Prussians this time didn't shatter. They retreated in good order and

went all the way back. Now, meanwhile at Coutre Brass, Marshal Ney failed to crush Wellington when he had the chance, and so the threads of Napoleon's strategy started to loosen. Wellington withdrew to a ridge south of a quiet village called Waterloo, a place whose name would echo across the centuries. The morning of June eighteenth, eighteen fifteen would open like a curtain of gray wool. There were thick clouds everywhere, which will play a factor in the battle to come

over Belgian's rolling farmland. And the previous night there had been a thunderous storm. Mud clung to everything, It swallowed up sound, and it slowed movement. It was, in every sense of the idea, a terrible place to fight the battle that would decide the fate of Europe. The Battle of Waterloo would be absolutely decisive and would change the course of European history. And it was a I'll tell you now. The Duke of Wellington was in charge of one branch of the Coalition army, the Anglo Dutch. He

had chosen his ground with a veteran's eye. His troops, British regulars, Hanovians, Dutch, Belgians and contingents from Buenziic and Nassau were positioned along a ridge behind the village of moss Ejean, their line gently sloping downward toward the French. The crest of the ridge concealed thousands of his soldiers, allowing him to shift men. Unseen. To his right laid the fortified farmhouse of Huguemont, a brick walled estate surrounded

by orchards and totally impenetrable. To the center, the hamlet of Laja Saint, its stone walls sturdy but vulnerable, and on the far left a cluster of buildings around Papalette anchored the line. Wellington inspected his troops, and, with characteristic reserve, he was calm, almost detached, his words carrying weight. He declared boldly, hard pounding gentlemen, Let's see who pounds hardest. Across the valley. Napoleon surveyed the Allied line from his horse.

He had been now in countless battles, but this one was meant to be his redemption, but the Prussians had been battered days before, and Napoleon believed they were too far off to intervene. He was wrong, but his whole strategy was simple, crush Wellington and force Europe back to the negotiating table. As the rain began finally to taper off, the Emperor gave the signal at eleven thirty am. The French guns roared in Unison, more than two hundred cannons

firing across the valley. The earth convulsed with each blast. French skirmishers pushed forward through the wheat fields, their dark uniforms flickering through the smoke. But the mud had changed the battle. Cannonballs buried themselves instead of ricocheting. Artillery carriages sank, and the attack that Napoleon had planned to begin at dawn was now starting late, which gave the Prussians precious hours to get there. Feet splashing mud glistening with moisture,

the French assault surged towards Huguemont. What began as a diversion quickly turned into an inferno of close quartered combat. French columns shouting viva. The empros charged the orchard walls British guardsmen fired down from windows and loopholes. Inside the courtyard, Flames licked the timber as French shells ignited, roofs and hay burst into flames. An infamous door in the north

gate became quite literally a funnel of death. French troops burst it open for an instant, only to be pushed back by a handful of guardsmen who slammed it again. Captain Alexander MacDonald later wrote that it was the closest run thing he had ever seen. Napoleon wanted to Wellington instead. Huge Mahm became a magnet that drew in thousands of French soldiers and would grind them down over the next nine hours. But it was the center where the true

action was and where the battle was decided. The core of Napoleon's plan depended on cracking Wellington's line. This task fell to the d'arlan de first Corpse. Tens of thousands of infantry advancing in massive column formations. They marched uphill through wheat slick with rain bayonets glimmering in the light. The site would have been I'm sure terrifying. Four colossal formations, each looking like a moving solid block of steel from

the distance. Now, Wellington gave the order to wait until they were close, and then unleashed musket volleys from behind the ridge. The Allied troops rose from the verse slope as if the earth itself opened, and the two lines met in a thunderish clash. British volleys, French drums, shouts, screams, and all along the lines the terrible, terrible sounds of death. Then, just from behind a hedge, the British heavy Cavalry, the

Scot's Gray and Household Brigade charged. Their horses churned the mud as they slammed into the French columns, scattering men like leaves before them. A sergeant would later claim that he seized a French eagle in the melee, a symbol of enormous pride. But the cavalry, carried away by momentum, pressed too far. French lancers counterattacked, cutting many down. The field once again dissolved into chaos, a swirling struggle with no clear winner. We get through it all, at least

for the moment, Wellington's line held. By mid afternoon, at the crossroads in the center of his line, Wellington's defense depended on the German riflemen stationed at Las Sen. For hours, they held off repeated French assaults, but around three pm they started to run out of ammunition. They sent an urgent message for resupply, but it never came. French infantrymen

stormed the farm and captured it after brutal fighting. The tri color rose above the walls, and suddenly Napoleon could push up his artillery and rein it down directly upon the British center. The French guns opened a murderous barrage. Shells burst all along the field, and units broke and fled. Officers died trying to rally their men. Wellington seemed like he was everywhere at once, according to reports, stealing himself. But one question continued to haunt him as he called

out to his men, where were the Prussians now. Marshall Nay at this point, about four o'clock in the afternoon, believed that the battle was one that the Allies were retreating, but he mistook the movement of wounded men and supply wagons as a withdrawal without infantry support. Without Napoleon's explicit orders, he committed nearly the entire French cavalry to a massive assault. This time more than nine thousand horsemens thundered across the valley.

It was one of the most spectacular cavalry charges in European history, the earth shaking under hoofs, but Wellington's men didn't break. They formed tight infantry squares, bristling with bayonets on all sides. Cavalry cannot break those squares, can only terrify the men. Wave after wave of French horsemen encircled the squares, firing pistols, slashing with swords, but there were no gaps. The squares held firm, and by the time that the charge ended, Ney had lost thousands of riders

and he had gained literally nothing. The battle was tipping away from Napoleon, and he knew it. And then from the woods to the east of the French line came a sound like distant thunder. It was early evening and the Prussians had arrived. Marshall Blucher, bruised and battered from Ligner, had kept his promise, writing I will come, By God, I shall come. His lead units slammed in a Napoleon's right flank. The French Young Guard counterattack streets turned into

killing zones. Houses burned and men fought with bayonets and doorways. Napoleon was now forced to divert more troops, including parts of his old elite Guard, away from the main battlefield to stave off the Prussians. Every man sent east week at his central line against Wellington and Wellington he knew it. At seven point thirty pm he tried his last gasp. With dusk approaching and the battle slipping from his grasp,

Napoleon made one final gamble. He ordered his most feared soldiers, the Imperial Guard, to advance uphill and smash Wellington's exhausted center. They marched in perfect order, drums beating, eagles held high. Even the Allied troops felt a chill at the sight. These were veterans of all of Napoleon's greatest battles, Osterlis, Jenner Wagram, men who had never experienced a defeat. The French Guard quickly crested over the hill and British troops

rose to meet them. Volley after volley tore into the French ranks, but they continued to come forward. At last, the British guards, hidden until the last moment, stood up and unleashed a devastating blast of musket fire. The Royal guards staggered, officers fell, and then the impossible happened. Napoleon's vaunted Imperial Guard simply melted away. A shout went up from across the line, lead Richieu, the Guard is retreating. Panic spread through the French army, and the retreat became

a route. As darkness crept over the battlefield, Bluecher's Prussians pressed the fleeing French. Napoleon tried to rally his men, but even he could not stop the collapse. His last army had well and truly resolved. Wellington and Blucher met late that night among the wounded and dead. They shook hands, knowing that the war was over. Napoleon's empire, revived for a mere one hundred days, was now shattered beyond repair.

The fields of Waterloo were now strewn with nearly fifty thousand casualties, men who had marched from every corner of Europe to decide the continent's fate in a single day. The mud, the smoke, the shouts of triumph and agony all faded into history, But of course, the consequences of the battle that did not. Napoleon now fled to Paris, hoping to rally political support, but the chambers refused him,

even old loyalists since the end. He abdicated, this time for good on June the twenty second, in favor of his young son, the King of Rome, though this title meant nothing in a new Europe. He attempted to escape to America, but he found British ports waiting at every turn, and so he surrendered to the captain of the HMS Belrathon, declaring, I come, like the Mystoicles, to throw myselves on the hospitality of the British people. Hospitality isn't what he got.

The British exiled Napoleon, this time to the distant Saint Helena, a lonely volcanic rock in the South Atlantic. This time there would be no armies, no councils, just wind, ocean and the memory of things that could never come back. Here, the man who had once ruled continent dictated his memoirs and rewrote his legend. The one hundred Days was not merely a return to power. It was a test of everything that Napoleon had become and what France had become

without him. It revealed a nation torn between glory and constitutional promise, between the past and the future. For Europe, this was the final reckoning. The Napoleonic era had been a storm. Waterloo allowed the victors to build decades of relative peace, But Napoleon, even defeated, refused to be forgotten. His legend grew in exile, and the one hundred Days would become a story of audacity, charisma, and frankly impossible ambition. And for the victors, now was the opportunity to carve

up Europe in the way that they sought fit. Next week turn to the beginning of that story, to the Council of Vienna, and to a new nineteenth century Europe, dawning and ready to truly enter modernity.