Harry Wyndham had left the garden and found James leaning against the chapel wall. ‘Can you hear it?’ he asked. James nodded. ‘Does it mean what I think it means?’
‘I fear so.’ He could barely get the words out.
‘What’s to be done?’
James pushed himself upright. His legs shook and the wound in his arm throbbed. He could not see out of his blood-caked right eye and his throat was on fire. ‘Until we are ordered otherwise, we will stay here,’ he croaked. ‘If the frogs come again, we will kill as many of them as we can. After that …’ The thought hung in the air.
‘Woodford said you would say that. He wants you to know that he agrees. We will hold the garden until we receive word.’
‘Tell him that we will do the same.’ He waved a hand around the yard. ‘Not that there is much left to hold.’ He held out the hand to Harry. ‘Your first battle, Harry, and you will never fight a tougher one.’
Harry’s filth-covered face lit up in a grin. ‘I certainly hope not.’
In the distance, apart from the drums, it had gone strangely quiet, as if the French Gunners were leaving the stage to their emperor’s Imperial Guard. Few muskets fired, even fewer cannon. The drums beat out the march and, in his mind’s eye, Macdonell saw the solid blue columns advancing up the slope. He was almost tempted to go to the orchard to watch them. The rhythm of the drums quickened. The Guard was charging. He swallowed hard and tried to shout. ‘Mister Gooch, all muskets at the wall and eyes on the woods, if you please. Corporal Graham, kindly take a look at the north gate. Mister Hervey might be in need of assistance. Sergeant Dawson, distribute whatever ammunition we have left.’ He paused. ‘And gin if there is any.’
With the Guard on the ridge, Jérôme might well decide that he had one last chance to take Hougoumont. He had been trying all day and with a final attack by his rampaging, exultant infantry he would expect finally to succeed.
James Graham had returned from the north gates. ‘The gates are secure, Colonel,’ he reported. ‘Mister Hervey has seventy men but is short of powder.’
‘Can’t do much to help there, I fear. James, if the Guard is on the ridge, we are likely to face another attack. I do not want it to end inside the walls. When the frogs appear, you and I will lead a charge. Every man we’ve got, Brunswickers and Guards. Colonel Woodford will defend the garden.’
‘A fine plan, Colonel. One more go at them it shall be.’
The small west gate had never seriously been threatened and with the north gates secure under Mister Hervey, he would throw every man still standing into the charge. There was no point in a roll-call. At a rough guess, he had one hundred and fifty light company men and one hundred Brunswickers. The rest he had sent to the garden. Two hundred and fifty against whatever Jérôme sent against them – five hundred? A thousand? More? They were very low on powder and shot, worn out and in dire need of food and water. The French would be rested and fed.
‘I doubt it will be much of a fight, James,’ replied Macdonell. ‘We shall squash the French like ants.’ General Byng’s artillery had stopped firing over them. The Duke must have moved them to their left, from where they would be able to fire on the advancing French columns. The threat of an attack on his right flank had been superseded by the threat to his centre. ‘Mister Gooch, Sergeant Dawson, gather all the troops save those at the north and west gates in the yard.’ Hougoumont could be held no longer but there was one last fight to be won.
The chateau and chapel were still burning. The barn and farmer’s house and stables were little more than heaps of smouldering ashes. There really was very little left to defend. Macdonell absently brushed ash from his jacket, and yelped. His palms were agony. He would not be able to hold a sword. The body of a jacketless French corporal lay on top of the heap by the chapel. Being careful to use only his fingers, he ripped open the corporal’s shirt. ‘Allow me, Colonel,’ said a voice behind him.
Macdonell looked round. ‘Thank you, James. I was just trying to work out how to do it without crying like a baby.’
James Graham used his bayonet to cut two strips from the shirt. ‘Hands out, if you please, Colonel.’ It was embarrassing, but he had no choice. Macdonell held out his hands, palms up, and watched Graham tie a strip of cloth around each one. ‘Try that, Colonel,’ said Graham, holding out his own hands. Macdonell grasped them and grimaced. Holding a sword would be possible but not easy.
‘You would have made a fine surgeon, Corporal,’ he said.
Graham laughed. ‘Now there’s a thought, Colonel. When I go back to Ireland and I’m too old for soldiering, I might just take to studying medicine. I’d be the first doctor in the family.’
There was a shout of warning from the window of the gardener’s house, followed by a long roll of drums. They were coming. ‘Every man in the yard. Muskets checked and ready,’ yelled Macdonell. ‘On my order, we will advance. There will be only one shot each, so aim well. Our task is to kill as many of them as we can.’
The Guards watching from the gardener’s house ran down the stairs to join them. The yard was full. Macdonell made his way to the gate. The wood was full of blue jackets, spilling out into the clearing. Among the leafless trees, mounted officers stood ready to join the attack. It was the same as far as he could see to his left. For the length of the garden and beyond, lines of French infantry awaited the order to charge.
But James Macdonell would not allow them to charge. The Guards would beat them to it. He turned to face them. ‘Fill your lungs, aim well and hit hard,’ he shouted. ‘With me, now. Charge!’ He hopped over the broken wall, the Guards and Brunswickers screaming and shrieking behind him.
The leading Guards had almost crossed the clearing before they put their left shoulders forward and fired. The Brunswickers did the same. Dozens of blue jackets fell. Dozens more returned fire and ran forward to receive the Guards’ charge. Once again, the clearing was a battlefield.
Macdonell felt a surge of energy flow through him – that special energy of battle, which could give a man the strength to go on however tired he was. He raised his sword and hacked down on a French head. Blood spurted and the man fell. He smashed the hilt into a face and thrust the point into a stomach. All around him Guard fought Frenchman and Frenchman fought Brunswicker. The clearing was a heaving, struggling, bellowing crush of bodies. Muskets slammed into noses and chests, swords hacked at heads and limbs and bayonets sliced into flesh and bone. Whatever was happening on the ridge was forgotten. Each man could think only of his own battle to kill and survive, or die.
The energy that gave strength also dulled pain. The bandages had gone from his hands yet Macdonell felt nothing. Again and again he used his sword to thrust and slice and his height and reach to defend himself from the butts of muskets and the points of bayonets.
Two Frenchmen were falling for every Brunswicker or Guard, but bravely as they fought, the Guards could not hold back the tide of Frenchmen for ever. Gradually, inevitably, they were forced back towards the wall, leaving their dead and wounded lying in churned, blood-soaked, guts-splattered earth. Macdonell found himself beside the towering figure of James Graham who had appropriated the axe of the giant sous-lieutenant and was using it to fell any Frenchman who came within striking distance. Twice, Macdonell stepped back sharply to avoid the arc of its blade and twice saw a French head fly from a French body as cleanly as if its owner had met his end on the guillotine.
Some of the French had managed to slip round the west wall and up the lane towards the north gates. If they breached the gates and attacked the Guards from the rear, the battle would be over. Macdonell could only trust that Hervey and his small troop would keep them out. He had no inkling of what was happening in the garden or the orchard but as no French had yet appeared behind them, hoped that they were still held.
Their backs were now hard against the wall of the house and the shed beside it. Macdonell stood beside the portly figure of Sergeant Dawson under the arch of the gate. They could retreat no further without surrendering the farm and the chateau, so they would stand where they were. James Graham was still swinging the axe with brutal force, Dawson was thrusting his bayonet into stomachs and groins, every Guard and every Brunswicker was smashing, cutting and gouging at whatever he could.
And so was every Frenchman. Their commander had only to call his men back to allow his muskets a clear sight, and they would drop the Guards like a row of skittles. But the French attackers were not to be called back. They had suffered grievous casualties and would not allow them to have been in vain. Neither order nor threat would deter them. They would have the glory of taking Hougoumont.
Sergeant Dawson thrust his bayonet at another French groin, lost his footing and fell face down in the mud. The butt of a musket smashed into the back of his head and he lay still. Macdonell grabbed the musket, tore it free and jammed it into its owner’s face, which dissolved into a mess of blood and bone. He stooped quickly to put a hand to Dawson’s neck. The sergeant was dead. As he rose, a blow slammed into his shoulder, sending a stab of pain down his wounded arm. He lashed out with his sword, felt it strike bone and lashed again. A Frenchman fell with blood spurting from his thigh. A thrust into his windpipe and he too was dead.
The first cries came from outside the orchard. At first Macdonell could not make out even if the voices were English or French. But as they increased, he thought he could hear what they were saying. It was not possible. He must be mistaken. The cry was taken up outside the garden. He listened harder. ‘La Garde recule, La Garde recule.’ Was it possible?
The French in the wood and the clearing heard it too. The Imperial Guard, Buonaparte’s immortales, never defeated in battle, were in retreat. Yet it could not be. The Emperor only sent forward his Guard when victory was assured. It was a perfidious British trick. They did not believe that the Guard were retreating and they would not be denied their victory. They launched themselves at the defenders with desperate fury. They would take Hougoumont.
The Guards and the Brunswickers stood firm. They knew what the cry meant and if it was true, there was still hope. Try as they might, the furious French could not break their line.
Now the woods echoed with the cry. La Garde recule. La Garde recule. And suddenly the Guards were facing French backs. It was as if the realisation that it was true had drained every ounce of courage from them. If the mighty Guard really had been put to flight, what hope was there for them? They ran back to the woods. The tiny figure of the drummer boy jumped out from behind a pile of bricks and sped after them.
‘Let them go,’ croaked Macdonell. ‘Where is Mister Gooch?’ Henry Gooch, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, raised his sword. He could not speak. ‘Mister Gooch, hold this position, if you please, until I order otherwise. Assume that the frogs will be back. Water and gin, muskets ready.’ Gooch nodded. ‘Corporal Graham, Sergeant Dawson is dead. You will take his place.’
The Irishman rested his huge hands on the axe handle and breathed deeply. He might have killed twenty Frenchmen. ‘Very good, Colonel.’
All along the garden wall, in the fields and the orchard, there was barely a blue jacket to be seen other than those lying dead or wounded. It was not until Macdonell reached the far end of the orchard that he could see what was happening. The entire French army was in full retreat. As he watched, squadrons of British cavalry set off in hot pursuit. He shuddered. A man with his back to charging cavalry would be lucky not to be sliced in half. But the retreat was total. He saw no attempt to stand and fight, no attempt to form square, certainly no counter-attack.
Down the slope the cavalry galloped, whooping and bellowing and brandishing their sabres. Somehow the wily Duke had kept them hidden for just this moment and they were going to make the most of it. All along the ridge behind them, the infantry and artillery teams cheered them on. And the French were running. The first of the cavalry reached them and the slaughter began. Macdonell turned away. He had seen enough blood spilt that day.
He could only guess at what the Duke had done but he would wager a hundred guineas he was right. Once again, the old fox had chosen his ground, concealed his strength and awaited his moment. And once again, the French had fallen for it. Having bombarded the ridge with his cannon and believing the battle as good as won, Buonaparte had sent his Imperial Guard forward to finish it off. They had been met first by artillery and then by cavalry they did not know existed. They had panicked and run, taking the rest of the French army with them.
‘Now that,’ said Harry Wyndham, who had left the garden to watch the spectacle, ‘is something I did not expect to see today. The Guard have indeed reculed, and so have the rest of them.’ James did not reply. The energy of battle had drained from him and he was too exhausted even to whisper. ‘Are you hurt, James?’ asked Harry. James shook his head. ‘I am happy for it. I too have been lucky. I dread to think how many were not. Did the Prussians arrive?’ James shrugged. He wanted only to lie down and sleep.
But he could not. There was still work to be done – the roll-call, the wounded to be taken to the dressing stations behind the ridge, food and water to be found. He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, smiled weakly, and returned to the farm.
He had seen hundreds die that day, and many more wounded. He had killed a dozen himself. Yet he had survived with little more than burnt hands and a scratch on the arm. The capricious fortunes of war.
Outside the south wall, a Brunswicker corporal offered him a canteen of water. He tipped it down his rasping throat and managed to splutter his thanks. As instructed, Henry Gooch and James Graham had kept the troops at their posts. ‘Stand them down, Mister Gooch,’ he croaked. ‘It is over.’ Gooch, still unable to speak through his swollen mouth, nodded to Graham, who gave the order. A ragged cheer went up and every man sat or lay where he stood.
Hougoumont was a smoking ruin. The clearing outside the south gate was a graveyard. The remains of the barn were a charnel house. In the yard heaps of bodies lay awaiting burial. They would have to wait. Macdonell would order burial pits dug the next morning. In the garden Sellers was doing his best for the wounded. Macdonell found Mrs Osborne, her dress soaked in blood from her wound. Mrs Rogers was with her. ‘The battle is over, ladies,’ he said, ‘and we are victorious. Do your husbands live?’
‘They do, Colonel,’ replied Mrs Rogers. ‘Both safe, thank the good Lord.’
‘And you, Mrs Osborne, how do you fare?’
‘A bullet through my breast and into my shoulder, Colonel. The surgeon says he will extract it and I will live to be an old lady.’
‘I am glad of it. How did you get to Hougoumont without my knowing?’
‘We slipped down with the men when you were with the Duke, Colonel. We wanted to be with them,’ replied Mrs Rogers with a grin.
Macdonell nodded and moved on. He exchanged a word or two with each wounded man until he came to Joseph Graham. His thigh had been bandaged with a pair of trousers. He was deathly pale. ‘Corporal Graham?’ whispered Macdonell. The Irishman opened his eyes briefly. He showed no sign of recognising his colonel. Macdonell left him to sleep.
James Hervey and his troops were in the north yard, inside the gates. ‘I think we may open the gates now, Mister Hervey,’ said Macdonell. ‘We must get the wounded up to the dressing stations.’
Two guards lifted the cross-beam off its housings and pushed open the gates. Outside them, the lane was full of French bodies. ‘Check for wounded, Mister Hervey. If there are any, send them up too.’
‘I will, Colonel.’
‘And send a foraging party up to the ridge. Food and water, whatever they can find.’
Darkness was falling and the clash of battle had been replaced by the cries of the wounded. Macdonell found James Graham in the south yard. ‘James, we need wagons for the wounded. Send a party to fetch some. Your brother is in the garden. Make sure he and Mrs Osborne are on the first wagon. Are you hurt?’
‘Me, sir? Good Lord, no, sir. Not a scratch. But I fear for Joseph.’
‘He has lost much blood. Get him to a surgeon, James.’
From the corner of his eye, Macdonell saw two figures emerge from the gardener’s house – a broad-shouldered man in a leather jerkin and a battered old hat and a blonde girl of about five in a dirty white smock. They were holding hands and, despite the failing light, were blinking as if they had emerged from a cave into bright sunlight. ‘Who the devil are you?’ he called out before collapsing into a fit of coughing. The two figures came towards him and the man held out a bottle. James took a mouthful and coughed again. It was brandy. He handed back the bottle. ‘Thank you. Merçi.’
‘Mon plaisir, monsieur. Je m’appelle van Cutsem, le jardinier. Voiçi ma fille.’ Macdonell shook his head. The man claimed to be the gardener and the little girl to be his daughter. Where had they come from?
With mounting astonishment, he discovered that Monsieur van Cutsem and his daughter had spent a night and a day in the cellar under the gardener’s house and had emerged only when the sounds of battle had died. They did not know which way the battle had gone until they climbed the stairs and saw red uniforms in the farm and the garden. The gardener did not trust the French and was relieved that they had been defeated. Best of all, he had food and wine in the cellar, and would be happy to share them with the British soldiers. Macdonell advised him not to visit the garden with his daughter until it had been cleared of bodies. He did not tell them that they were fortunate not to have been burnt alive or buried under a ton of rubble.
More than half the remaining Guards did not wait for the foraging party to return. They simply found a place to sleep and something with which to cover themselves and lay down. They lay in the gardener’s house and the shed, among horses burnt to skeletons by the fire and among their own dead comrades in the yards and the garden. Wagons trundled down the lane to take the wounded up to a dressing station or the makeshift hospital in the village.
When the last of the wounded had gone and such food and water as the foragers could find had been distributed, Macdonell went to the chapel and crept inside. The fire had destroyed the door, the walls were scorched and blackened. He looked up to where the wooden carving of Christ had hung over the door. It was still there. The flames had reached his feet and no further. The rest of the carving was intact.
Macdonell found a place in the gardener’s house, spread a filthy blanket on the stone floor, lay down and slept.