Waterloo (5 page)

‘Ah, James,’ Byng greeted him. ‘We are all through the town. Did you encounter any problems?’

‘A vegetable or two, sir, nothing more. Has the Prince sent orders?’

‘He has not, dammit. General Cooke has worked himself into a rare fury and I cannot say that I blame him. A poor chain of command almost guarantees failure.’ Byng lowered his voice. ‘And between you and me, I am not at all sure of the Netherlanders. They’ve seen the mess their militia battalions are in and some of them, we should not forget, were fighting for Napoleon not so long ago.’

‘We can hardly tell them to go home, General,’ replied Macdonell. ‘So I suppose we must hope for the best.’

‘Hope for the best. It’s about all we seem to do at the
moment. Orders. That’s what we need. Orders to march and bloody some French noses.’

Macdonell had seldom seen the general so exercised. It must have been the heat. He spoke gently. ‘The men do need a rest, sir, and food. Doubtless our orders will arrive shortly.’

The general raised an eyebrow. ‘Go and drink your tea, James. I’ll send word.’

Harry Wyndham had brewed tea in a Flemish kettle. He handed Macdonell a mug. ‘Hot and sweet, James, just like those highland lassies. Any news?’

‘Still awaiting orders. Have you made a count? Has the battalion lost many?’

‘Thirty, I think.’ Out of nearly nine hundred, that was better than might have been expected. ‘Exhaustion, mostly, and foot sores.’

‘Morale?’

‘Up and down. The wagonloads of wounded shook the new men. No one is sure about the Netherlanders and there are voices of dissent.’

‘Dissent?’

Harry affected the voice of a borderer. ‘If His Grace had not spent the night dancing we’d be among the frogs by now, not sitting in a field dripping with sweat, hungry and parched and not knowing where or when we’re going. Something like that.’

‘Make sure the new men are mixed in with the older ones. Don’t let them form their own little groups. And tell them to sing. Singing’s good for the spirit. How are Gooch and Hervey faring?’

‘Well enough. I think they’ll do.’

At noon the trumpets sounded and the drums beat to arms. Hastily they packed up, made ready and, under the watchful eyes of Captain Wyndham, Sergeant Dawson and the Corporals Graham, marched down the slope and on to the road south. General Byng was waiting to join his 2nd Division. He saw Macdonell and beckoned him over. ‘Still no orders, James, but General Cooke’s patience has run out. We are heading for the town of Nivelles – ten miles or so east. We’ll bivouac there tonight.’ James could only hope the general was right about a bivouac. Ten more miles of heat, flies and dust, and half the division would be beyond fighting.

Unencumbered by artillery and wagons, the light companies drew steadily ahead of the rest of the division. After two hours’ march, they came to a cluster of farm buildings with a narrow stream running between them, where Macdonell ordered a halt. Judging by the dust cloud behind them, the wagons and artillery were a good mile behind and both men and horses needed food and water.

While the troops rested by the side of the road, Harry Wyndham led a party to buy whatever he could from the farmers. Macdonell handed him a small bag of coins, issued that morning by the quartermaster. ‘Offer them a fair price, Harry,’ he said, ‘but not too much. Hay for the horses and I see turnips and cabbages in the fields. Fresh meat if they have any. Might be a pig or two hanging in a barn.’ While Harry went in search of food, a second party was sent with buckets and kettles to fetch water from the stream.

All afternoon they had passed small groups of transports and wounded men heading west. As at Braine-le-Comte, they were mostly from Dutch and German regiments and had made way for the Guards to march past. They had obligingly hauled wagons and herded cattle off the road and even pushed the wagon carrying the Prince’s personal equipment to one side. A few words were exchanged but there was no time to dally.

Macdonell was holding the bridle as his horse munched tufts of dry grass on the edge of a field when another party appeared from the direction of Nivelles. This one was different. Twenty or so blue-coated and unarmed Frenchmen under the guard of four Brunswickers. He led his horse down the road to meet them.

‘Colonel James Macdonell, Second Battalion, Coldstream Guards,’ he announced himself. ‘Who here speaks English?’

A lieutenant in the black of the Brunswickers stepped forward. ‘Lieutenant Franz Mezner, Third Battalion, Brunswick Corps, Colonel. We are escorting these prisoners to Braine-le-Comte.’ Brunswickers, unlike the Dutch and Belgians who used dogs to pull their carts, ate them. A useful taste if food was short, although Macdonell had never had occasion to try it.

‘Prisoners, Lieutenant? I am surprised you and your men could be spared.’

‘They are deserters from the French army, Colonel. The general ordered them to be taken for interrogation.’

‘Who is your general?’

‘The Duke of Brunswick, Colonel.’

Wellington was not the only duke on the Allied side. His Serene Highness the Duke of Brunswick was another. What a
waste of four fit soldiers, thought Macdonell. ‘What news do you bring, Lieutenant Mezner?’ he asked.

‘When we left, Colonel,’ replied Mezner, ‘we were holding a defensive position at the crossroads at the village of Les Quatre Bras. Our light companies had advanced further south.’

‘At Braine-le-Comte we saw many wounded men. There was talk of artillery fire and cavalry.’

‘Yes, sir. The French artillery has been pounding our positions all day. Their cavalry make sorties on the flanks in the hope of catching our infantry before they can prepare to meet them and then retire back to their lines. The casualties have been high.’

‘No infantry attacks?’

‘Not yet, Colonel, but it cannot be long. Our intelligence is that they are massing for an attack up the Charleroi Road. But reinforcements have been arriving since noon. General Picton’s division may be there by now and also General Kempt’s. And the Duke of Wellington himself, of course.’

‘And Napoleon?’

‘He has not been seen. These men say that Marshal Ney commands their army. They think Napoleon has marched east in search of the Prussians.’ If so, there would be no French advance through Mons, although Buonaparte had split his force. He must be confident of disposing quickly of the Prussians before rejoining Ney. Perhaps the Duke had underestimated his strength.

A thought occurred to Macdonell. ‘Why did they desert?’

Lieutenant Mezner smiled. ‘They claim to support their king, Colonel. It is more likely, however, that they do not care for British bayonets.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Carry on while we are halted.’ The lieutenant saluted smartly and returned to his prisoners. Macdonell watched them go. Why send them to Braine-le-Comte? He would have taken their weapons, stripped them naked and told them to fend for themselves. In any army, deserters were deserters, whatever the reason.

Harry Wyndham and his party had returned. They were not quite empty-handed, but little better. ‘Not the friendliest of farmers, James,’ he reported. ‘Some turnips, a cabbage or two, but no meat, although he has ducks and chickens. They wouldn’t sell them and I had to pay far too much for these.’ He waved a hand at a small heap of vegetables.

‘Ah well. Hand them out as best you can. We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got. We’re not going to wait for the quartermaster and he probably won’t allow us anything anyway. Have the horses been watered?’

‘Horses and men, both.’

‘On our way, then.’ From behind him, Macdonell heard voices raised in anger. He turned sharply. ‘What the devil? Oh, dear God, not again.’ Privates Vindle and Luke, each held by a Graham brother, were being dragged up the road. It was obvious that they were drunk. ‘What is the story this time, Corporal?’ he asked.

‘Drunk, sir,’ replied James.

‘On what?’ asked Harry. ‘There has been no gin ration.’

Joseph held up a green bottle. ‘This, sir. It’s some sort of local brew. Schnapps, I believe. Tastes like gunpowder and must be as strong.’

‘Where did you get it, Vindle?’ demanded Macdonell.

‘Found it, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘Same place they found this,’ said Joseph, producing a dead chicken from behind his back.

Macdonell stared at him. ‘Drunk and thieving. I could have you shot. You too, Luke.’

‘Not worth it, Colonel. Waste of ammunition,’ said Harry.

‘What do you suggest?’

‘We haven’t time for a whipping. Front of the line where Sergeant Dawson and I can keep an eye on them, four kettles and a pack full of stones each and not a sip of water until I say so.’ The unlucky fourth man in each company usually had to carry the kettles.

‘Very well. Empty their packs and find good homes for whatever there is.’ Macdonell turned to Vindle and Luke. ‘With luck, the march will kill you. If not, it should sober you up. Take them away, Corporals, and make sure they keep up the pace.’

‘That we will, Colonel.’ Once more it was said in unison.

In mid-afternoon, having marched well over twenty miles since dawn, they reached open land on the western edge of Nivelles, where General Cooke sent forward orders that they were to halt and set up camp. ‘Looks a good enough place to spend the night, Harry,’ observed Macdonell, pointing to a copse of oak and chestnut. ‘Plenty of wood for cooking fires and there might be a stream in those woods. Send out watering parties and get fires lit. Let us hope that is it for the day. I’m worn out and I’ve been sitting on a horse all day.’

‘Pity there’s no pond around,’ replied Harry. ‘I’d strip off and jump in.’

‘Well, at least we’re spared that.’ While Harry organised watering parties and wood collectors, Macdonell stretched his legs by wandering among the men. Like them, he was plastered in dust and sweat. He ran his hand over the stubble on his cheeks and scratched his groin where his trousers, damp with sweat, had chaffed the skin. The muscles in his back and thighs were shaking from ten hours in the saddle and his throat was on fire. Unlike them, he had not been on his feet carrying sixty pounds of weapons and equipment. No wonder many of them had thrown off their cumbersome wooden-framed packs, unbuttoned their jackets and stretched out on whatever strip of grass they could find. A few looked actually to be asleep. William Vindle and Patrick Luke were among them. Macdonell kicked them awake and told them to fetch wood for a fire. Muttering bitterly, they struggled to their feet and staggered off in the direction of the wood. No matter if they never came back.

Some of the younger men had taken off their shoes and were busy washing sores and picking at blisters. The older and wiser of them had left their shoes on, knowing that if they took them off their feet would swell from the heat and they might not be able to get them on again. If by chance they did have to move on that evening, they did not want to do so in bare feet.

The Grahams had lit their fire and were preparing to eat. From their packs they had retrieved the scraps of meat and biscuit distributed at Enghien and were occupied in making them edible. James cut out the filthiest bits and handed the rest
to Joseph who swilled them in a cup of water and laid them out on the grass. All around, groups of men were doing much the same. ‘It’s a fair way off, Colonel,’ said James Graham, ‘but that is cannon fire I can hear, is it not?’

‘I believe it is, Corporal. But do not let it spoil your supper. I doubt we’ll be needed today,’ replied Macdonell, not believing it. They were upwind of the cannon, which would make the guns seem further away than they really were. He reckoned they might be no more than two miles off.

Macdonell walked on, greeting the men he knew by name and offering a word of encouragement to the youngest. He accepted a sip or two of gin and a mouthful of weevily biscuit and when the first group returned with water, drank a cupful and splashed a little on his face.

At last they could eat and rest properly, and he would try to find out what was happening beyond Nivelles. General Cooke would have sent a rider forward to announce their arrival. He would bring back news.

What the rider actually brought back, however, were orders to advance at once through the town. The general, much invigorated, in turn sent orders out for the drums to sound the call to arms and for the battalions to fall in. Miserable, complaining soldiers doused their fires, packed up their knapsacks, buttoned up their jackets and prepared to march again. Under instructions from the corporals, they checked their flints and counted off ten rounds of ammunition.

Every one of them knew that the time had come. They had marched all day and now they were going into battle. If they had not been needed, they would have been allowed to rest. The
Emperor’s troops, hard, well equipped and impatient to avenge past defeats, awaited them.

Macdonell watched old soldiers encouraging new ones to take a swig of gin. He listened to throats tormented by the heat and dust, retching and coughing as if fit to rip themselves open. He listened to prayers spoken aloud and snatches of hymns croaked tunelessly out. And, in the distance, despite the wind, he caught the unmistakeable smell of cannon. And of a battlefield.

As at Braine-le-Comte, the Nivelles streets were choked with wagons, artillery pieces and the wounded, pleading pitifully for water, help, or their mothers. Many had lost an arm or a leg, some both. Others held their hands to their stomachs, as if trying to keep their guts from falling out. There were no surgeons with them. They would be too busy further forward to accompany the wagon train. Carriages, ambulances and fourgons, left behind by Netherlanders and Belgian Jägers in their rush to reach Quatre Bras, added to the confusion. The light companies scrambled over and round them as best they could.

A company of Highlanders seeking temporary respite from the battle taunted them as they went by. ‘What’s your hurry, laddie? The Frenchies will wait for you.’ ‘Remember your manners and say bonjour to m’sieur.’

‘Hop on my back, man, if you’re tired. I’ll take you to meet m’sieur,’ shouted back Joseph Graham.

The wind shifted and suddenly the cannon sounded very close. A number of men fell back, and from exhaustion or fear collapsed onto the roadside. Harry Wyndham, in a fine tenor
voice, belted out the first verse of a song about the lovely ladies of London Town. Those with the energy joined in with the chorus.

On the other side of the town the watering parties caught up with them. Macdonell, his throat still burning from the dust, took a gulp from a bottle offered to him by a Foot Guard. It was not water but ale. ‘Kind lady outside the inn,’ grinned the private. Macdonell took another gulp and handed the bottle back. A stray shell whistled overhead and landed in a field. ‘Nearly there,’ he croaked.

The air was becoming so thick with dust that it was difficult to see or breathe. Carts carrying more wounded trundled towards them. Clouds of flies buzzed around open wounds. A company of Belgians lay in a ditch, trying to scoop its filthy water into their mouths. They had little to say except that Wellington himself had arrived that afternoon and that it had been bloody work. They had been battered by French artillery and had narrowly survived several cavalry charges by hastily forming square or dashing into nearby woods. They did not know if the crossroads were still held or what was happening further south.

Macdonell urged the light companies on. More overheated and exhausted men fell by the wayside. They were left where they fell, Captain Wyndham quickly ordering the columns to close ranks. Surprisingly, Vindle and Luke were still going. For all their thieving and drunkenness, they were a tough pair of weasels.

They found the crossroads and the buildings around it still held by companies of Jägers, Nassauers and Brunswickers.
But the French artillery had been at its terrible work and the defenders had paid a terrible price. Hundreds of bodies were strewn in all directions. Many were headless or in bits. Medical orderlies scurried about doing what little they could for the wounded. A field hospital had been set up in a house on the Nivelles road. Inside and outside it, blood-soaked surgeons amputated limbs and stitched up stomachs. In German, Dutch and English men pleaded pitifully for water. Mutilated horses lay still attached to overturned gun carriages. Dogs sniffed hopefully at corpses and black crows circled overhead. The stench of death – a stench like no other – filled the air. And from the south, French artillery, not yet satiated, hurled more death at them.

In the fields to their left, British cavalry had been deployed in line. Macdonell took a glass from his pack and put it to his eye. Unless he was mistaken, General Picton’s cavalry division had indeed arrived and the general himself, easily recognised in blue coat, white stock and black hat, was at their head. Despite the carnage around him, he could not help smiling. If there was a fight to be had, General Thomas Picton would be among the first there.