Only a few fresh troops and Ney declares that he can conquer the final dogged endurance of the British troops, before they in their turn receive the support of Blücher and his Prussians, or before nightfall gives them a chance of rest.
So he sends Colonel Heymès to his Emperor with the urgent message: "More troops, I entreat, more troops and I can break the English centre before the Prussians come!"
None knew better than he that this was the great hazard on which the life and honour of his Emperor had been staked, that Imperial France was fighting hand to hand with Great Britain, each for her national existence, each for supremacy and might and the honour of her flag.
Imperial France--bold, daring, impetuous!
Great Britain--tenacious, firm and impassive!
Wellington under the elm-tree, calmly scanning the horizon while bullets whiz past around his head, and ordering his troops to hold on to the last man!
The Emperor on horseback under a hailstorm of shot and shell and bullets riding from end to end of his lines!
Ney and his division of cuirassiers and grenadiers of the Old Guard had just obeyed the Emperor's last orders which had been to take La Haye Sainte at all costs: and the intrepid Maréchal now, flushed with victory, had sent his urgent message to Napoleon:
"More troops! and I can yet break through the English centre before the arrival of the Prussians."
"More troops?" cried the Emperor in despair, "where am I to get them from? Am I a creator of men?"
And from far away the rumour: "Blücher and the Prussians are nigh!"
"Stop that rumour from spreading to the ears of our men! In God's name don't let them know it," adjures Napoleon in a message to Ney.
And he himself sends his own staff officers to every point of the field of battle to shout and proclaim the news that it is Grouchy who is nigh, Grouchy with reinforcements, Grouchy with the victorious troops from Ligny, fresh from conquered laurels!
And the news gives fresh heart to the Imperial troops:
"Vive l'Empereur!" they shout, more certain than ever of victory.
The grey day has yielded at last to the kiss of the sun. Far away at Braine l'Alleud a vivid streak of gold has rent the bank of heavy clouds. It is now close on seven o'clock--there are two more hours to nightfall and Blücher is not yet here.