Waterloo (7 page)

There was a break in the cannon fire and the cavalry came closer, shouting insults and daring the infantrymen to fire at them. When they retreated, the French artillery started up again. Macdonell, keeping an eye on the cavalry, tried to gauge the moment to form line and charge at the infantry. Too soon and the cavalry would reach them before they were among the enemy and into the woods behind them, too late and they would be easy meat for the French muskets.

He was spared the decision. Captain Tanner’s artillery teams had dragged their cannon over the field and around the charnel house of the farm. The captain’s first shot was aimed at the cavalry. It sent horses and riders, earth, debris and bodies cartwheeling into the air. The survivors did not wait for a second shot, but turned their mounts and galloped for cover. The light companies’ charge was instant, so fast that Macdonell
did not know whether the men had waited for his order or not. Screaming their battle cries, they ran at the French line, driving it backwards into the wood. Fifty yards short of the treeline, he halted them and called for them to spread out in their pairs in the tall rye. They would give the French something to think about in case they were considering another attack.

Of French cavalry there was now no sign. The artillery volley had spooked them and rather than attack the guns they had gone in search of easier prey. And the French artillery was as good as useless against skirmishers their gun captains could not see. It was tempting to seize the opportunity and charge straight at them. But Macdonell did not know their strength and a headlong dash into the woods might prove disastrous.

Off to their right, he knew from the remorseless crash of cannon that the fighting in the centre of their lines was ferocious. Wellington would have demanded reinforcements for the beleaguered troops at Quatre Bras and would have thrown everything in to his defence of the crossroads and the road to Brussels; Ney would have used his heavy artillery, followed by his cavalry, to break it. Macdonell could only hope that the defence had held and that he and his light companies were not cut off. There was no time to dwell on it. He had his own battle to fight.

From their left a small company of black-clad Brunswickers arrived. Their captain presented himself to Macdonell. He was a man of about Macdonell’s age, almost as tall and fair-haired. ‘Captain Hellman, Colonel. We saw you from our position and thought you would appreciate some help.’

‘Pleased to have you with us, Captain. How many are you?’

‘Forty, Colonel.’ Despite their taste for dog meat, the Brunswickers were good soldiers who hated the French. Many Brunswick families had suffered greatly from the deprivations of the feared Imperial Guard, to whom Napoleon always gave free rein after a victory. Forty of them would make a difference.

‘Our orders are to clear the area of the enemy and push them back beyond the farm at Gemioncourt.’

Through the rye and up the slope they went, heads low and muskets held across chests. Macdonell had placed Captain Hellman on his left wing. Harry was on the right and he in the centre, Gooch and Hervey with him. He had been too occupied to keep an eye on the ensigns but they were still standing and appeared unharmed. Advancing in an irregular line made life more difficult for the French marksmen, but if the cavalry reappeared, they would be in trouble. It was a calculated risk.

A few shots whistled over their heads, mostly to Macdonell’s left where the Brunswickers were impatient to get at the French. They advanced ahead of the line, drawing sporadic French fire but never wavering.

At the top of the field they came to a low, straggly hedge. Beyond the hedge was a sunken track. In the hedge and on the bank of the track, flies swarmed over yet more bodies of dead and wounded men. There were dozens of them. The wounded spoke of the battering they had taken that morning. Macdonell ordered them to be moved into the shade of the oak and birch that grew along the side of the track and to be given water and blankets. Firing from the wood had ceased and the cannon had gone. Either the French were up to one of their tricks or they had withdrawn through the wood.

Macdonell found Captain Hellman and his company well placed on the bank of the track where the undergrowth was dense. The captain was intent on the wood. ‘Any sign of movement, Captain?’ he asked.

‘None, Colonel. But they might be in there waiting for us.’

‘Indeed they might. What do you suggest, Captain?’

‘I could take some men and try to get round the side of the wood without being seen. If we see any movement, we’ll know they are in there.’

‘Very well, Captain. I’ll give you twenty minutes.’

Captain Hellman grinned. ‘Leave it to me, Colonel. We’ll soon see what they’re up to.’ He gathered four men and set off. Macdonell returned to his place in the middle of the line, where he found Harry waiting for him.

‘Orders, James?’ he asked.

‘Captain Hellman has slipped round the wood to see if there are any Frenchies still lurking in it. I’ll send word when he returns.’

Away to their right around the Charleroi Road, artillery started up again. The crash of heavy cannon reverberated through the trees, hammering eardrums and blocking out all other sound. Rooks shrieked in alarm. The men on the bank of the sunken track lay down their muskets and covered their ears.

When Captain Hellman returned he had to cup his hands and all but shout into Macdonell’s ear to make himself heard. ‘The devils have withdrawn but they might have left a small party to cover their retreat. If you were to hold back your centre, Colonel, and allow both wings to advance through the wood at an oblique angle, we should take any ambushers by surprise.’

Macdonell considered. It was a sensible plan but he did not like the idea of holding back. ‘No, Captain, we will all advance together, making as much noise as we can. We’ll beat them out of the wood like pheasants. If the main body has withdrawn the rest will surely follow.’

If Captain Hellman was surprised he did not show it. ‘I had forgotten the British penchant for frightening birds half to death before shooting them,’ he said, ‘It will be an interesting experience for us.’

Macdonell ordered the men to be lined up in a crescent formation with instructions to yell, scream, rattle their swords and beat their muskets against their kettles. Anything to make enough noise to frighten an enemy who could not see them into thinking there were thousands of them and running for the safety of their own lines as fast as they could. Anything, that was, except fire their muskets. The risk of accidents and ricochets in woods was too great.

Macdonell gave the signal and off they went. The light companies of the Coldstream and 3rd Guards, trained to move silently in any terrain, crashed into the trees and through the undergrowth, shouting, hammering and rattling into the wood. Rooks shot into the sky like black rockets, squawking and screeching in fury.

They followed the trails left by gun carriages being hastily dragged back through the undergrowth, until, in the middle of the wood, they came across the remains of campfires. Macdonell held his hand over a small pile of ashes. They were warm. The French had camped there, but there was now no sign of them.

Further on, they came to a clearing. In the middle of it
lay the body of a Nassauer infantryman, face down, his back covered in congealed blood. Thinking it might be some sort of French trick, Macdonell halted the line and approached the body cautiously. A thick cloud of flies rose briefly from their work before settling back down on the corpse. He waved them away and turned the body over. The man’s face was covered in burn marks. Macdonell swore. The demands of war he understood. A soldier killed because he had to. It was his duty. But here a captured soldier had suffered for the amusement of the French and his body had been left as a warning to others. That was beyond his understanding. Damn them to hell.

They carried on through the wood until they reached its southern edge where trees gave way to open land and, a little further on, a field of corn. They had seen neither Frenchman nor pheasant, just gruesome evidence of the enemy’s barbarity. Captain Hellman found Macdonell peering through his glass at the cornfield. ‘Any sign of them, Colonel?’ he asked.

Macdonell shook his head. ‘Can’t see any, but the corn is high. They might be in there.’ On three sides of them, cannon continued to hurl their deadly charges at enemies seen and unseen, explosions ripped through the morning air and men would be dying in their hundreds. Macdonell did not give it a thought. All his attention – his eyes and ears and mind – was focused on the field in front of him. He searched in vain for movement in the corn. There was none. The French infantry had withdrawn still further. He signalled the advance.

In a ragged line, the men of the light company and the Brunswickers moved forward into the open. If the French were hiding in the corn they would flush them out. If not, they
would take up a position at the far end of the field and await orders. Beyond it a low hedge separated it from another wood.

The line had covered about fifty yards when there was a shout of warning from the left. Macdonell turned. Sergeant Dawson was bellowing at the top of his voice. From somewhere French cavalry had appeared. They were Lancers – probably the same troop they had encountered earlier – and must have been hiding in one of the many sunken lanes that criss-crossed the area, waiting for the light companies to emerge from the wood in line. A ragged, extended line at that.

It was a trap. Twenty horseman, lances extended, galloped towards them. There was no time to form squares. They had been caught in the open and would be slaughtered.

‘Run!’ Macdonell shouted, waving his arms and pointing back to the wood. The men needed no urging. The sight of French cavalry who would soon be close enough for them to see the grins on the riders’ faces and the bared teeth of their mounts was enough to send even the slowest of them running like rabbits back to the trees.

Most of them made it. Some, Macdonell among them, did not. He had lagged behind to encourage the stragglers and was five yards from safety when the first of the Lancers reached them. The leading lancer must have seen his colonel’s epaulettes because he ignored the others and charged straight at Macdonell. He held his lance on his right side, his arm fully extended and ready to thrust its point into his prey’s face or chest. Macdonell turned towards him, stood with sword raised and watched him bearing down. To turn one’s back on a lancer was to invite certain death. The lance was no more than six feet
from him when he hurled himself across the path of the horse. So late did he leave it that he felt the outside of the horse’s hoof touch the sole of his boot. He rolled over once and rose to his feet, the sword still in his hand. The lancer, with no time to react, galloped on until he could rein in his mount and turn back for the kill.

Macdonell saw two men slain by merciless strikes of French sabres, one almost beheaded, the other speared through the back. Three others, including Sergeant Dawson, were desperately trying to reach the woods. He ran after them and would have made it had he not stumbled and fallen a few yards from the treeline. He was on his knees when he heard a shot and a lancer landed beside him. A bullet had entered the lancer’s head just above the left eye. A little dazed, Macdonell was struggling to his feet when two strong arms hoisted him up and dragged him to safety. ‘Now that was a trifle close for comfort,’ said a lilting Irish voice.

Lying on the ground, Macdonell peered up into the man’s face. He could not tell. ‘Joseph?’ he muttered.

‘Bless you, sir, no. Joseph would more likely have shot you, his aim is so bad.’

‘James, then. My thanks. Help me to my feet, please, and we will see what is to be done.’

Still dazed, Macdonell managed to stand. Harry Wyndham emerged from behind a tree. ‘Very acrobatic, Colonel. Are you hurt?’

‘I am not.’ The Lancers, doubtless disappointed at not catching more of the Guards, were milling about a hundred yards from the wood. They knew that was the extreme limit of
a musket’s accurate range and the risk of a lucky shot was slight. ‘Tell them to hold their fire unless the brutes come closer,’ ordered Macdonell. They were quite safe where they were – trees and cavalry did not mix well.

Macdonell could not be sure but he thought that the lancer who tired of doing nothing and trotted forward to within fifty yards of the treeline was the one who had first charged at him. He was shouting angrily and gesticulating with his sabre. He did not, it seemed, approve of their strategy of hiding in the woods. ‘Stupid frog,’ muttered Harry, raising a musket and firing. The lancer’s horse, shot through the neck, fell to the ground, shuddered and died. The lancer, beside himself with fury, ran towards them, shaking his fists and yelling something about ‘
mon empereur
’. Another shot rang out and the lancer fell. The man was a fool. Nor was he much good to his emperor now. ‘Now what, Colonel?’ he asked. ‘Wait for help to arrive or charge the bastards?’

‘I need half a dozen of our best sharpshooters,’ replied Macdonell. ‘Vindle was a poacher, if I’m not mistaken. Make him one of them.’

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Even Vindle won’t hit anything at this range.’

‘Then we shall have to make it easier for him. And have a hundred men hidden on the edge of the treeline, muskets cocked and ready to fire.’

Among the six who presented themselves to Macdonell were Vindle and two others who had been convicted of poaching and sentenced to hang, only to escape the noose by joining the army. Poachers were good shots. Macdonell instructed them to
check their muskets and to follow his orders exactly. ‘We will advance into the open, form up and, on my command, fire a volley. Aim for the horses. As soon as you have fired, run back here. Do not stop to help a fallen man, and if your musket slows you down remember that a wild-eyed Frenchman with a bloody great sabre is right behind you. Clear?’

It was clear. Ignoring Vindle’s look of pure venom, Macdonell took the musket that Harry had prepared for him, lined up the six of them behind him, took one look round, let out an ear-shattering highland cry and dashed out into the field. The French cavalry simply sat on their horses and stared in astonishment. The volley, which brought down two horses and one rider, galvanised them. Macdonell and his shooting party were no more than halfway back to the woods when the Lancers charged.