Waterloo (18 page)

‘Thank you, Private. Can you still fire a musket?’

‘No, sir, but I can load one and I can piss down a barrel to cool it.’

‘Good. Tell Captain Wyndham that I have asked for reinforcements. Until they come, he must hold the garden.’

Now what? Sacrifice the garden and bring Harry’s men back to the farm? What then about Saltoun? He would have to withdraw too, or make for the sunken lane. Macdonell could certainly not reinforce either of them.

From somewhere in the wood a howitzer barked. Its shell flew over the south gate and exploded over the yard, hurling sixty iron balls from its thin case. The balls struck with the strength of a musket shot at short range, killing six Guards outside the chateau and wounding more in the yard. Another bark and another explosion and more men fell. Jérôme, still
careless of the safety of his own troops, had lost patience. Knowing that the Guards could not seek shelter from his guns and defend the walls at the same time, he had decided to blow them to bits – bits of bone, bits of flesh, bits of bodies. The yard was splattered with them.

From the slope behind them, General Byng’s cannon and Major Bull’s howitzers returned fire but they were firing blindly into the wood, hoping for a lucky shot. They could not pinpoint exactly where the French guns were nor could they risk firing into the clearing. Round shot or even shells landing short might do the French the favour of breaching the wall.

An axe thudded into the gate. Through the storm of noise Macdonald heard it splinter. He looked over the wall. A hole had appeared in the planking and the French were elbowing each other aside in a race to break through it. Two blue jackets had clambered onto the roof of the shed and were wrestling with a Guard. The Guard managed to push one of them off but the other flattened him with a punch to the jaw. He too fell into the melee below. The blue jacket raised his arms and bellowed in triumph before a musket shot tore into his back and he fell.

Cannons roared. Round shot crashed into the chateau and the farmer’s house and more men died. An eight-pound ball bounced into the base of the tower, tearing a great chunk out of the brickwork. Another landed on the stable on the west side, ripped through the roof and sent Guards dead and alive flying into the yard.

Along the walls, the Coldstreams were fighting a brutal battle for survival – shooting, hacking, smashing, skewering.
But the French numbers had started to tell. Inside the farm and garden, bodies lay strewn in the yard and on paths and flower beds. It could not be much longer.

Behind Macdonell, another voice spoke. ‘They are on their way, Colonel.’ For a moment, Macdonell, still dazed, thought the man was talking about the French. ‘Reinforcements, Colonel. On their way. General Byng says so.’ The fog cleared. It was Lester.

‘Thank you, Private.’ Battalions of reinforcements, hopefully, and without a minute’s delay. Hougoumont was held, but by a thread.

The attackers had found their way around the west side of the farm and were threatening the north gates again. James Hervey was there with the Grahams and his troop. The French would not find it easy to break through those gates for a second time but that would not stop them trying. If nothing else, it tied up Guards who could have been used elsewhere.

The three companies which charged down the slope from General Byng’s position were led by Charles Woodford. Outside the north gates they drove into the enemy, hurtling them back down the west lane past the large barn. At the south wall, Macdonell heard the cheers and could not stop himself rushing to see what they were for. The French were disappearing into the woods and taking their cannon with them. He found the small west gate open and Woodford’s troops pouring into the yard.

‘Hard fighting we’ve had, Charles,’ said Macdonell by way of greeting. ‘You are not a moment too soon.’

‘I know,’ replied Woodford. ‘We could see some of it from
the hill. The general was wondering whether to send us down when your man arrived. Good fellow, did well to get to us.’

Charles Woodford, colonel of the 2nd Battalion of the Coldstreams, was Macdonell’s superior. ‘Would you care to take over command, Charles?’ he asked. It was the proper thing to do.

‘Certainly not. You will remain in command. Where would you like us?’

A little surprised, Macdonell took a moment to gather his wits. ‘Harry Wyndham is under pressure in the garden. Two companies there, if you would. The other along the south wall.’ A shell exploded overhead, scattering its contents like lethal hailstones. ‘It’s safer by the walls.’

‘Very well. I will join Harry. General Byng is sending Francis Home with two companies from the 2nd Battalion to clear the frogs out of the orchard and the hedges around the lane. Two supply wagons have tried to reach you. Both were destroyed.’ Woodford gave the orders and led two of his companies to the garden.

Three hundred fresh men made an immediate difference. The French could not withstand the force of their fire and were driven back into the woods. Lt Colonel Home, easily recognised on his white horse, led the attack on the lane and the orchard from north of the Nivelles Road. His two companies took the French by surprise and soon chased them back to join their comrades in the woods. Once again, the whole enclosure, including the orchard, was in their hands.

Like two exhausted prizefighters, both sides paused for breath. Even the French artillery, perhaps awaiting ammunition
supplies, was silent. It was as if Prince Jérôme, his every attempt on Hougoumont so far having come to naught, was considering what to do next.

James Macdonell, however, knew exactly what to do. Clear the dead from the yards and buildings, get the wounded to the barn, check muskets and ammunition, repair defences. Before the French came again.

To the east, all along the low ridge that straddled the Brussels road, Buonaparte’s heavy cannon had been blasting away since soon after his brother had opened fire on Hougoumont. Having given his orders, Macdonell climbed the steps to the top of the tower. His glass had long since been lost but from there he would still get some view of the battlefield, albeit only through breaks in the foul smoke that filled the valley between the ridges. It was smoke so dense that a man might think he could reach out and grab a handful of it.

The four men at the window were cleaning their muskets and replacing their flints. They had had a relatively easy time of it so far, the nearest round shot having passed by the tower and over the north wall. Macdonell told them to ignore him and carry on with their preparations.

Over the wood, so many of its oaks now leafless and broken
by Major Bull’s howitzers, he looked out towards the inn at La Belle Alliance – the inn they had passed on the retreat from Quatre Bras less than twenty-four hours earlier, although it seemed like months ago. Squadrons of French artillery lined the low ridge as far as he sould see. Black smoke erupting from a gun barrel signalled yet another heavy shot on its way to the Allied lines where it would kill and maim the miserable troops standing or crouching in square against the threat from the Lancers and cuirassiers hovering below the ridge and dashing up to harass them. Artillery, cavalry, infantry. It was the order of battle.

There was very little response from the Allied artillery. Wellington abhorred what he called ‘long-range duels’ and the commander of an artillery squadron fired back at his own peril. The Dutch and Belgian battalions stationed on the south side of the ridge had disappeared – withdrawn perhaps but more likely destroyed. How long would the Duke allow this to go on? His infantry were doing no more than provide the French Gunners with target practice. Surely he would counter-attack soon.

To the north the fields beyond the orchard were seething with voltigeurs and tirailleurs, no longer hidden by the corn, which had been entirely trampled and flattened. They would be in the hedgerows, too, around the sunken lane and in the woods to the east. When Jérôme gave the signal, they would attack again.

Macdonell was about to leave the tower when, from beyond the Brussels road, he thought he caught the faint sound of drums beating the
pas de charge
. He could not see
over the rise in the ground as it neared La Haye Sainte but the road was a good half-mile away and the wind blowing from the west. If he was right, there were hundreds of drums beating, which meant thousands of troops. Wellington’s line was about to be attacked by columns of infantry. He hurried back down the steps.

Sergeant Dawson was at the south gate with Henry Gooch, whose face was now so swollen that he could not speak at all. They had nailed a plank across the hole in the gate and found more timbers to reinforce it. ‘No frogs coming in this way, Colonel,’ said Dawson cheerily. The little man looked like a chimney sweep.

‘Any problems, Sergeant?’

‘None, sir. Poor Mister Gooch is lost for words, so I am doing all the talking.’ Gooch shrugged and nodded.

It was the same in the chateau, where the wounded now occupied the hallway, and in the garden, where Charles Woodford’s men, still recognisable as Guards, had joined Harry Wyndham’s around the wall. Harry, too, looked as if he had been wallowing in mud. ‘Grateful for the help, James,’ said Harry, ‘but we’re very short of ammunition. Don’t suppose there’s much chance of getting any more, is there?’

‘I doubt it, Harry,’ replied James. ‘The frogs are all around the lane. Have you recovered what you can from the casualties?’

‘We have but it will not last long. Is there anything else to hand? Crossbows, javelins, slingshots?’

Macdonell laughed. ‘Afraid not. You’ll just have to hope that the frogs take fright and run away when they see you.’

‘I thought I heard the
pas de charge
.’

‘You did. Boney’s infantry are on the move. Best be ready for another attack.’

‘We are ready, James. Let them come.’

With a twinge of guilt, Macdonell realised that apart from his brief sleep, he had not yet visited the barn, where most of the wounded had been taken. He left the garden and made his way to the north yard.

In the barn at least a hundred men stood, sat and lay on straw soaked with blood, urine and excrement. As good as his word, the surgeon and his assistants were attending first to those with minor wounds. Cuts from bayonets or swords were stitched and bandaged. With their fingers or a pair of forceps, they probed for musket balls in stomachs and chests, being careful to keep the patient as near as possible to the position he was in when he was shot. Most balls were safely extracted and many of the wounded went straight back to the battle. Arms and legs from which a ball could not be extracted had been removed and thrown onto a heap in the corner. The little French drummer boy sat beside it, his head on his knees, sobbing quietly. The surgeon glanced up from removing a shattered finger and saw Macdonell looking at them. ‘It is my practice to amputate as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘It reduces the chances of suppuration and gangrene. That and the generous letting of blood saves many lives.’ The finger came off and joined the pile in the corner. Macdonell nodded. He knew nothing of medical matters and was content to put his trust in those who did.

‘There you are, Private,’ said the surgeon. ‘Mrs Osborne will bind it.’

‘Mrs Osborne?’ demanded Macdonell. ‘I was not aware that a woman was here.’

‘Were you not, Colonel? Two women, in fact, Mrs Osborne and Mrs Rogers.’ Sellers did not look up from examining a chest wound. ‘And we are grateful for their help, are we not, North?’

‘We are, sir,’ replied the bandsman, who had had the good sense to cover his uniform with a length of sacking tucked into his collar. The sacking was streaked with blood and decorated with bits of flesh.

Macdonell looked about. ‘Where are they? I do not see them.’

‘They are in the chateau, Colonel,’ replied North. ‘We are sending the minor wounds to them for dressing. It speeds things up.’

Macdonell shook his head. He had seen no women in the chateau and for all that they were useful, he wanted to know how the devil they had got there without his knowing. He would pay them a visit.

He let his eye wander over the faces waiting their turn. Many he knew by name or by sight. Most stared back blankly. Some – the lucky ones who expected to survive – managed a weak smile. Few spoke, fewer still made any sound of distress. It was as if each man had withdrawn within himself to concentrate solely on bearing his pain without complaint. Even soldiers given to grumbling about the smallest inconvenience had the capacity to suffer stoically. Private Vindle, his face a gruesome mess of bone and flesh, sat quietly, eyes closed and arms crossed. Beside him, Joseph Graham saw Macdonell and smiled. He was holding his right thigh with both hands,
trying to stem the flow of blood. Macdonell hoped it was no more than a sabre cut. If it was a musket ball he might lose the leg.

From the yard outside the barn came the sounds of desperate fighting – musket fire and voices raised in alarm. Macdonell dashed out. To his horror, the north gate was open again and James Hervey’s troops were outside, their muskets pointing up the lane. As he ran to the gate, a cheer went up and a wagon pulled by two horses and driven by a single, hatless man, thundered down the lane and in through the gates. The Guards followed it in and secured the cross-beam.

Both horses had been wounded by fire from the voltigeurs hidden in the hedgerows but the driver, miraculously, was unhurt. He jumped down and called for help in unloading his wagon. When he saw Macdonell, he saluted smartly. ‘Private Brewer, Colonel, Royal Waggon Train.’

‘Do you bring us ammunition, Private Brewer?’ asked Macdonell.

‘I do, sir.’

‘Good man. Now you are here, you’d best stay here. Mister Hervey will find you a musket.’

‘Very good, sir.’

A brave man, Private Brewer, and a fortunate one to have survived his dash down the lane. ‘Distribute the ammunition at once, Mister Hervey. Captain Wyndham in the orchard would appreciate it and so would Mister Gooch.’ Macdonell barked the order. There was no time to spare.

Almost immediately, the howitzer in the wood fired and a
shell flew over the wall. It did not explode above their heads but landed in the yard and shattered. Its contents, burning clumps of pitch, gunpowder and turpentine, spilt into the yard, where they spluttered and died in the mud.

Macdonell swore. Mrs Osborne and Mrs Rogers would have to wait. The French had turned to carcass shot.