An Unsettling Morning at the Crossroads

The early hours of June 17, 1815, were marked by an unusual chill and a sky heavy with clouds. Near the strategic crossroads of Quatre Bras, Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, had managed only three hours of sleep in the village of Genappe before returning to his post shortly before 3 a.m. His request to the soldiers of the 92nd Regiment, a Scottish Highland unit, was simple: “The 92nd,” he said, “I will thank you to start a little fire.” The soldiers dutifully built a blaze, and the Duke settled beside it, deep in thought, awaiting news of his Prussian allies. His attire was characteristically unadorned: white trousers, low boots, a dark blue tailcoat, a white cravat, and his customary bicorne hat. This simplicity stood in stark contrast to the flamboyant uniforms favored by many officers of the era, such as Horatio Nelson, who famously wore ornate, medal-adorned coats into battle. Wellington required no such embellishments; his authority was inherent, recognized by his men without pageantry.

By half-past four, the sun began to rise on a landscape that would soon be etched into history. The calm of the morning was deceptive, a brief respite before the storm of war resumed. Wellington’s contemplative wait by the fire was a moment of quiet leadership, a commander bearing the immense weight of a coalition’s survival on his shoulders. The fate of Europe hinged not just on the armies gathering in Belgium, but on the decisions made in these quiet, pre-dawn hours.

A Pregnant Woman’s Perilous Journey

As the camp stirred to life, a poignant scene unfolded. A visibly distressed woman, nine months pregnant and accompanied by three young children, wandered through the military encampment. This was Martha Deacon. She had arrived at Quatre Bras the previous day, likely aboard a supply wagon, searching for her husband, Thomas Deacon, an ensign with the 73rd Regiment, another Highland unit. They had become separated during the final advance of the previous evening’s fighting.

Thomas Deacon’s own ordeal had begun alongside a comrade, Thomas Morris. A musket ball had struck and instantly killed a man next to Morris. “Who was that?” Deacon had asked. Morris replied, “Sam Shortrey,” before turning to see his officer wounded. “Sir, you are hurt,” Morris said. Deacon’s response was grimly accepting: “Indeed I am, God bless me.” A bullet had wounded his arm. Dropping his sword, he had made his way to the rear, searching for Martha and their children, whom he had left with the regiment’s baggage train. His search continued until sunset, but it was in vain. At dawn, weakened by blood loss, he fainted and was placed on a cart with other wounded men, transported back to Brussels for treatment.

Martha, clad only in a black silk dress and a thin shawl, continued her desperate search. She eventually found someone who knew her husband’s fate, but with no transport available north to Brussels, the heavily pregnant woman embarked on an incredible journey. With her three children in tow, Martha Deacon walked twenty-two miles. Her path was battered by a thunderstorm of such ferocity that Wellington later remarked he had never seen its equal, even in India. For two days, she persevered. Her determination was rewarded with a happy ending: she found Thomas recovering from his wounds in Brussels, and the following day, she gave birth to a baby girl. In a testament to the battle that defined their family’s story, they named their daughter Waterloo Deacon.

The Prussian Conundrum: Retreat or Reengage?

While Martha Deacon began her walk, the Prussian high command was facing a decision that would determine the course of the campaign. Field Marshal Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher, battered and bruised from the previous day’s defeat at Ligny, had snatched a few hours of rest in the small village of Mellery. His staff found him there in the early morning to debate their next move.

The Chief of Staff, August von Gneisenau, a brilliant but deeply cautious man, harbored a profound distrust of the British. He advocated for a strategic withdrawal eastward toward the Rhine River and Prussia. This move would ensure the army’s preservation but would also put significant distance between the Prussians and Wellington’s Anglo-Allied army, effectively abandoning them to face Napoleon alone. Blücher, however, held a different view. Unlike Gneisenau, he liked and trusted Wellington. The discussion was brief. Despite Gneisenau’s intelligence and stubbornness, he recognized his commander’s innate, instinctual grasp of warfare and deferred to Blücher’s demand. The army would not retreat east. Instead, it would march north to Wavre.

This was arguably the most critical decision of the entire four-day campaign. The direct communication line along the Nivelles road was lost, but a network of minor country lanes still connected Wavre to the Brussels road. These were not paved highways; they wound through farmland and woods, crossing streams and rivers, often becoming quagmires in the rain. Yet, by choosing Wavre, Blücher left open the possibility of reuniting with Wellington’s army. It was a courageous and risky choice. Blücher knew a French force would undoubtedly be sent to harass his retreat and prevent a junction with the British. Choosing Wavre diminished his own chances of a safe escape to the east, but the old marshal, nicknamed “Marshal Vorwärts” , would not abandon his ally. Wellington had been unable to aid him at Ligny, but the “old hussar” would not reciprocate by deserting the coalition.

The Grim March to Wavre

The order was given, and the Prussian army began its trudging march north. The mood among the troops was somber. A captain from a Westphalian cavalry squadron noted the profound despondency that had settled over the men. The weather quickly turned against them, and a steady rain began to fall. The precipitation caused new leather saddles to swell and become uncomfortable, adding a minor but symbolic misery to the retreat. The columns of weary, rain-soaked soldiers represented a force that had been beaten but not broken. Their spirit, like their commander’s, remained resilient.

This movement was a masterpiece of operational discipline. Despite their defeat, the Prussian army disengaged with remarkable order. Blücher’s personal leadership was crucial; his presence among the troops, even while injured, bolstered their morale. The march to Wavre was not a rout but a controlled, purposeful repositioning. It demonstrated the key difference between the armies of the Napoleonic Wars and those of previous generations: the ability to recover from a setback and remain a coherent, threatening force. Napoleon, expecting a full retreat toward Prussia, had misjudged his opponent’s resolve. The Emperor dispatched Marshal Emmanuel de Grouchy with a significant corps to pursue the Prussians, but with the assumption they were fleeing east. Grouchy’s subsequent hesitation and failure to prevent the Prussian march to Wavre would become one of the most debated aspects of the entire campaign.

Wellington’s Strategic Withdrawal

As the Prussians marched north, Wellington faced his own critical test. With confirmation that Blücher had been defeated and was falling back, his position at Quatre Bras became untenable. Napoleon’ main force could now swing north and threaten to pin the Anglo-Allied army against the Prussian retreat route, destroying them in detail. Wellington now executed one of the most skillful withdrawals in military history.

Throughout the day of June 17, under the cover of a strong rearguard and in the midst of increasingly heavy rain, Wellington’s army retreated northward along the road to Brussels. His chosen position for a stand was a ridge south of the village of Waterloo, near an inn called La Belle Alliance. It was a strong defensive position, with a reverse slope that would protect his infantry from the full force of French artillery. The discipline of his troops during this retreat was exceptional. It was a nervous operation, conducted with the ever-present threat of Napoleon’s vanguard attacking its flank. Yet, the army pulled back in good order, its confidence in Wellington’s command unshaken.

The downpour that soaked Martha Deacon and swelled the Prussian saddles also turned the fields of Belgium into a quagmire. This weather, a source of immense discomfort to the soldiers, would play a decisive role the next day. It would delay Napoleon’s initial attack, giving the Prussians more time to march to Wellington’s aid, and it would hamper the movement of French artillery and cavalry. The rain, born on that fateful dawn of June 17, was becoming an unaligned actor in the drama, tilting the scales toward the allies.

The Human Dimension of Grand Strategy

The story of the Battle of Waterloo is often told as a clash of titans: Napoleon, Wellington, and Blücher. But the events of June 17 reveal the profound human element that underpinned these grand strategies. The campaign was not merely about lines on a map and the movement of corps; it was about the decisions of individuals, great and small.

It was about Wellington’s calm resolve by a campfire, a leader embodying the steadiness he required from his men. It was about Blücher’s defiant choice of loyalty over caution, a decision rooted in character as much as tactics. And it was about the quiet, immense courage of people like Martha and Thomas Deacon, whose personal struggle for survival unfolded within the vast machinery of war. Their story, culminating in the birth of Waterloo Deacon, serves as a powerful reminder that history is lived by individuals, each with their own fears, hopes, and extraordinary endurance.

The dawn of June 17 set the stage for the cataclysm to come. The decisions made in those few hours—Blücher’s pledge to support Wellington, Wellington’s masterful retreat to a strong position, and the fortitude of the common soldier and civilian—created the conditions for the battle that would finally end Napoleon’s ambitions. The fate of Europe was being shaped not just on the battlefield, but on muddy roads and in the hearts of those who traversed them. The march to Waterloo had begun.