Sure enough, James did no more than doze and when Harry shook him gently he was more awake than asleep. ‘An hour after midnight, James,’ whispered Harry. ‘All quiet and the storm has passed. I have changed the pickets.’
Macdonell stood up and very nearly fell down again. His head ached and his stomach heaved. He retched, spat out a piece of meat and tipped water from the kettle into his mouth. It steadied him a little. ‘Thank you, Harry. Time I stretched my legs. Has that private returned yet?’
‘I’m afraid not. Lost, deserted or dead, I fear.’
‘Damn. I thought he would serve. I’ll send another.’
‘Might be better to wait until morning.’
James considered. Harry was right. It would be light in three hours. He would send another man then.
The camp was quiet, although few were sleeping. It was a strange thing. A man could march all day carrying his musket and pack and wishing for nothing more than rest, yet, when the opportunity came, be unable to sleep. Eventually his mind and body would surrender but Macdonell had seen men go without sleep for two or three days and still be sharp and ready to fight.
He found Sergeant Dawson sitting with his back against a tree. He had taken off his jacket and was dabbing with a piece of cloth at his arm. He scrambled to his feet when he saw Macdonell and held the cloth behind his back. ‘Sergeant Dawson, a wound?’
‘A scratch, Colonel, no more. Probably a thorn bush.’
‘Show me, please,’ insisted Macdonell. Reluctantly Dawson held out his arm. A long cut from elbow to wrist was dripping blood. ‘Thorn bush, Sergeant? French sword, I’d say. Why have you not had it bandaged?’
‘Didn’t seem worth it, Colonel. I’ll bind it up myself.’
‘Take it to a surgeon as soon as there’s one available. Let him sew it up.’
Dawson blanched. ‘I hardly like to trouble a surgeon, Colonel. There’ll be many worse than me needing his attention.’
‘There will. But kindly do as I say. Understood?’
The sergeant could not look his colonel in the eye. ‘Understood, Colonel,’ he mumbled.
The Grahams were lying back-to-back in their bivouac. They were too tall to sit or squat under their blankets and were excused having to share with two others. He motioned to them not to stand and squatted down beside them. ‘Any sign of trouble?’ he asked.
‘None, Colonel,’ replied Joseph. ‘Frenchies are sleeping like babes.’
‘No, Colonel,’ said James. ‘We are telling the stories our mother told us about imps and devils and ghostly creatures.’
‘Much more frightening than a few Frenchies,’ added Joseph, and laughed his gurgling laugh.
‘Better tell that to the young ones,’ replied Macdonell. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, we’re in for some hard fighting today.’
‘That we are,’ agreed James.
‘Don’t worry, Colonel,’ said Joseph. ‘We’ve good men in the company. They’ll look out for the boys.’
Macdonell stood. ‘I know they will.’ He went from fire to fire, exchanging words with those awake and reminding them that a faulty flint or a damp charge could kill a man as surely as a French sabre.
Without warning, there was a commotion from somewhere behind them. Macdonell made his way towards it, half-expecting a scuffle or an argument over a scrap of horsemeat.
It was neither. The young private sent with his despatch to General Byng had hobbled into the camp and stumbled over a sleeping soldier. The soldier had panicked and assumed they were being attacked. Happily he had recognised the boy just in time. ‘Are you wounded, Private?’ asked Macdonell.
‘No, sir,’ gasped the boy. ‘My ankle twisted in a hole in the road. I did not see it.’
‘Did you deliver my despatch to the general?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The boy took a rolled sheet of paper from under his shirt and handed it to Macdonell. ‘This is the general’s reply.’
‘Did you see anything of the enemy?’
‘No, sir.’ That was something, at least. No Frenchmen behind them.
Macdonell turned to the man who had been woken. ‘Get him food and water and put him on the first wagon going north.’ The private began to protest. ‘Enough, Private.’ Macdonell’s voice was sharp. ‘You’re no use to us if you can’t walk, let alone run.’ He turned and strode back to his bivouac.
Harry was asleep. James unrolled the despatch and tried to read it. It was still too dark. He gave the fire a kick with his boot, sending sparks into the air, and exposing the ashes. When he held the paper close, they gave off just enough light.
General Byng acknowledged Macdonell’s report and informed him that the French had been driven back down the Charleroi Road and instructed him to hold his position until ordered otherwise. There was no mention of advancing further. It was disappointing. James read it twice to be sure he had not misunderstood. They had forced the French back down the road whence they came. Somewhere out in the darkness, in the woods and fields and farms, Allied troops would be itching to chase them all the way back to France. Why not press home their advantage? He would let Harry sleep for another hour before waking him with the news.
But for Harry and every other man in the camp there was no more sleep. An arrow of lightning lit up the night sky and thunder again rolled over their heads. Harry jumped up and grabbed his musket. ‘Only thunder, Harry,’ laughed Macdonell. ‘And we’ve had orders to stay put.’ He handed over the paper.
Harry rubbed sleep from his eyes. ‘What about the Prussians? Those deserters said Napoleon was after them.’
‘No news, but Blücher will stand and fight. He always has.’
‘What if he stood and fought and lost?’
‘Old Blücher? Come now, Harry. No one hates the frogs more than the Prussians.’
‘I hope you’re right, James.’ Another flash of lightning and the rain arrived again. It poured down in sheets and soon the camp was a muddy bog. Men scrambled back into their bivouacs and lay on their muskets.
For once, Harry’s good humour deserted him. ‘I’m heartily sick of this,’ he said, huddled again under their oilskin roof. ‘Damnable weather, damnable frogs. They could slip past us and be in Brussels before the rain stops. And we’ll never keep our muskets dry. Lie on them, point their barrels at the ground, wrap them in oilskin, they’ll still be wet.’ The first glimmerings of dawn were appearing. ‘Cup of gin all round? We’re likely in for another long day.’
‘Cup of gin it is. One only, mind.’ James picked up their kettle and tipped water into his mouth. A few drops ran down his chin. He wiped them off and inspected his hand. ‘Good God. It’s red. Where did it come from?’
‘The stream back beyond the farm,’ replied Harry.
James sniffed his hand. ‘Blood. It was not there yesterday. It must have come from upstream. Human or horse, do you think?’
‘No idea. Didn’t taste too bad last night but I’ll stick to gin this morning.’ Harry reached into his haversack and pulled out a brown bottle. He took a gulp and offered it to James who was about to take it when a man appeared out of the half-light. He was panting.
‘Private Mills, Colonel, on picket duty. Heard men in the rye ahead. Coming this way.’
‘How many, Private?’ asked Macdonell.
‘Small party, sir, perhaps half a dozen. Voltigeurs, I daresay, come to take a look at us.’
‘Right. Harry, collect the ensigns and eight men and we’ll give them a surprise for their breakfast.’ The men were quickly assembled. ‘Lead on, Private. Show us where you heard them.’ They moved slowly and quietly forward into the rye, muskets primed and loaded and held across their chests, a hand over the breech to keep out the rain and taking care to keep their heads below the level of the stalks. Macdonell unsheathed his sword and held it loosely at his side. At first, he could hear nothing but the breeze. But when the private stopped and pointed a little to their left, he caught the tiniest hint of movement through the rye, perhaps thirty yards ahead.
Macdonell nodded and signalled his men to fan out. If they could work their way round the voltigeurs, they could trap them like herring in a net. The Frenchmen would have expected sentries but must have thought they had avoided them. Whatever their purpose, they were alarmingly close to the camp.
Harry led five men back and to the left, James the other six to the right. Dawn was breaking but overhead more thunder clouds were gathering. One moment it was light, the next as dark as pitch. The breeze was becoming a wind. Taking advantage of its covering noise, James risked moving faster and hoped Harry was doing the same. It would be a pity not to catch the fish.
They circled the spot he thought the voltigeurs would have reached and he peeked over the rye. Through the rain he made out the back of a man’s head. He turned, lifted a finger to his lips and pointed. All six men nodded their understanding. He signalled for them to extend in line and move forward. They stood between the voltigeurs and their own lines. If Harry had managed to block their way forward, the Frenchies were as good as trapped.
Macdonell rose to his full height and charged through the rye, yelling for the others to follow. A second later, Harry Wyndham did the same. Thirteen men, muskets at the ready, ran at the voltigeurs from every direction. And stopped. They were not voltigeurs. Voltigeurs did not wear red jackets with white cross-belts. They were Guards.
Or at least they looked like Guards. At Albuera, Macdonell had very nearly been duped by a platoon of French infantrymen in British uniforms. Speaking in French, he asked the surrounded men to which battalion they belonged. There was no answer. He ordered them to put down their muskets. None of them moved. There was a lieutenant among them. ‘We are 3rd Foot Guards under the command of Colonel Hepburn,’ said the young man. ‘And, if I may ask, who the devil are you?’
Macdonell ignored the question. ‘Then you are fortunate Foot Guards. You were close to being shot by the light companies of your own battalion. What are you doing creeping about here?’
‘Colonel Hepburn sent us out to check that there were no French behind us. We are camped a quarter of a mile further south at the edge of the wood.’
‘Are you now? Then you may escort me to Colonel Hepburn. Captain Wyndham will accompany us. The rest of you return to camp and await our return. Tell Sergeant Dawson where we are.’
The bivouacs of the 3rd Foot Guards had been set up at the southern edge of the Bossu wood, where the Guards were lighting their fires and boiling their kettles. They found Francis Hepburn with a glass to his eye, sheltering under the branches of an oak and scanning the fields of rye that stretched south along the road to Charleroi. A young corporal stood beside him. ‘Damned if I can see anything in this rain,’ said Hepburn, passing the glass to the corporal, ‘You have a look, Corporal.’ Hepburn turned and saw them. ‘Well, damn me if it isn’t Colonel Macdonell and Captain Wyndham. I was wondering where you had got to. Corporal, find some tea for our guests.’
‘I assume you cleared the wood, Francis,’ said James.
‘We did. Bloody work. Saltoun’s battalion took heavy losses. At times there seemed to be a frog behind every tree. And telling friend from foe was not easy. Nasty fighting, but the Hanoverians are holding it now. No danger of the frogs attacking from there. And you, James, bloody work as well?’
‘It was. Nearly fifty men lost, but the ground is secure as far as the Gemioncourt Farm.’
‘Which the 90th now hold. And not a frog in sight. Do you suppose they have gone home?’
‘No.’ James peered into the distance. ‘They’re not far away and we’ll see them again today.’ The corporal returned with two mugs of tea. James took a sip and raised his eyebrows. ‘Excellent tea, Francis. Where did you get it?’
Hepburn blushed. ‘Er, Daisy gave it to me before we left. Said it would remind me of her.’
‘And does it?’
‘It does. Now, I suggest you strike camp and bring the light companies down here so that we are all ready to move off when the order to advance comes. It shouldn’t be long.’
Far to the south a cannon cracked and moments later an eight-pound ball landed twenty yards in front of them. Had the ground been dry it would have bounced and might have killed all of them. Fortunately, it stuck in the sodden earth and did no damage. ‘A shot to clear the barrel,’ said Harry, wiping his brow with a sleeve, ‘and the sooner we get at them the better.’
More cannon fired and more round shot plummeted into the ground in front of them or smashed against trees, sending shards of timber and bark flying through the camp. One man shrieked and fell to the ground with a twelve-inch needle sticking out of his arm. ‘They are only clearing their throats,’ shouted Hepburn. ‘Lie flat until it’s done.’ He turned to James. ‘And we’d better do the same.’
They lay on the ground under cover of the wood and waited for the throat-clearing to finish. ‘Will you return fire?’ asked James.
‘No,’ replied Francis. ‘Waste of ammunition and the peer disapproves of what he calls long-distance duelling. Likes us to save our best for the infantry.’
For thirty minutes cannon fired, rain fell in torrents and drenched men found what shelter they could from both. It was still raining when a small troop of Light Dragoons came cantering down the road. Their captain dismounted and led his mount to the edge of the woods. Over his uniform he wore an oilskin cloak and carried a messenger bag, also oilskin. He tethered his horse and approached the camp. ‘I have urgent orders for Colonel Hepburn from General Byng,’ he announced, taking a packet from his bag. ‘And I am told Colonel Macdonell commanding the light companies is also here.’
Francis strode up to the dragoon. ‘I am Colonel Hepburn, Captain. And this is Colonel Macdonell.’
The captain handed his packet to Francis. It was rolled in oilskin and tied with cotton thread. General Byng was taking no chances with the rain. ‘Your orders, sir,’ said the Dragoon. ‘And now we will go to the farmhouse.’
‘Are the orders for the 90th the same?’ asked James.
‘They are, Colonel.’
That was encouraging. A general advance down the road to Charleroi, where the French would be chased back over the river. Francis unwrapped it and extracted a single sheet of paper. It did not take him long to read the order. Without a word he passed it to James. Then he swore. ‘Bugger it, James. We’ve cleared the frogs out of the woods and fields, taken the farmhouse, sent them packing and held the road north. Why in the name of our German king are we now being ordered to withdraw?’
‘Francis,’ replied James with a shrug of resignation, ‘I have no more idea than you. But the order is clear and emphatic. We are to return with our companies to Quatre Bras at once.’
‘Damn and blast. God knows what the men will make of it. Bloody fighting, comrades killed and wounded, and now we are to turn tail and run for it.’
‘Bloody withdraw, then. What’s the difference?’
Macdonell did not reply. ‘I must return to my company, Francis. Thank you for the tea.’
Back they trudged, splashing through puddles, unable to think of anything to say. Harry gave the order to strike camp and make ready to march. ‘Going to chase the frogs back to Paris, are we?’ asked James Graham, rubbing his hands. He and his brother had come through the day unharmed.
‘It seems not, Corporal,’ replied Harry. ‘At least not yet. We are returning to the crossroads.’
‘Won’t find many frogs there,’ growled Joseph, ‘except the green ones they eat.’
The French artillery, now fully awake, had started up again, and their Gunners were firing at the woods, the road and the Gemioncourt farm. On top of the cannonade, thunder boomed, lightning flashed and miserable soldiers packed up their bivouacs, collected their few possessions together, helped each other into their sodden packs and prepared to march. Having taken all the ground for the best part of a mile south of the Quatre Bras crossroads, they were now, it seemed, going to give it back.
The road was thronged with men, horses and artillery heading north. Behind them French guns fired at their backs as if mocking their retreat, and all along the roadside the bodies of the dead lay heaped. Blue uniforms, the black of the Brunswickers, green Riflemen, kilted Highlanders, the blue of the French Infantry and the red of their Hussars. Bodies crushed, mangled, butchered. Skin flensed from faces and hands. Horses, gun carriages, muskets, swords – the tools of war. And, here and there, a woman – a soldier’s wife who had remained at her husband’s side. The looters had already been out – packs lay open and discarded, pockets emptied and jackets cut from backs – rich pickings for the scavengers.
At the crossroads it was worse. The dead and dying lay together on the road, propped against blood-spattered walls, and in doorways. Exhausted medical staff were still hard at work, moving from body to body, searching for signs of life. The wounded were heaped onto wagons to be sent north, the dead piled in gardens and on patches of bare ground. A kilted Highlander whose left arm was a bloody stump sat, silent and blank-eyed, watching his leg being sawn off. Mutilated horses were despatched with a single musket shot. Soldiers trudged through the village, too weary to do more than put one foot in front of the other. Knots of infantrymen from the 28th and 32nd regiments sat, silent and unmoving, around improvised campfires. And from everywhere came the sounds of men and women weeping.
General Cooke had set up his headquarters in a room of the farm, which was also being used as a hospital. There Macdonell found him, seated, head in hands, at a plain pine table. Beside him stood General Byng, General Maitland, Lord Saltoun and Colonel Woodford. Francis Hepburn was there too, having ridden hard in his impatience to find out what was happening. A map was spread out in front of them. ‘Ah, Macdonell,’ General Cooke greeted him, ‘I am delighted to see you unharmed. What is your strength?’
‘Two hundred and thirty-six, General, including officers,’ replied Macdonell, ‘Sixty-four dead or wounded. What is our present situation?’
Cooke cleared his throat. ‘We have taken heavy losses, but so have the French. Yesterday, however, Field Marshal Blücher and his Prussians were engaged by the French under Buonaparte at the town of Ligny.’ He pointed to the map. ‘They were badly mauled and forced to retreat.’
So that was it. The retreating Prussians had left Wellington’s left flank exposed. If his centre did not also retreat, it would be cut off and destroyed. ‘Have the Prussians gone east or north?’ asked Hepburn.
‘A good question, Colonel,’ replied Byng. ‘We do not know. We do know, however, that Blücher has given his word to the Duke that he will wheel to join our main force.’
‘And the sooner the better,’ added Maitland.
‘Meanwhile, gentlemen,’ went on Cooke, ‘you are to lead your battalions north up the road to Brussels, towards the town of Waterloo. South of the town, the Duke is establishing a strong defensive position on a ridge known as Mont St Jean. That is where we shall next meet Buonaparte.’ Macdonell and Hepburn turned to leave. ‘One more thing, Colonel Macdonell,’ said Cooke. ‘You will have cavalry cover, but I want the light companies at the rear of the line.’
‘Of course, General.’ The rear of the line was the most dangerous position in a withdrawal, and this would be a fighting withdrawal. Macdonell expected nothing less than that his light companies would bear the brunt of it.