Four Days in June

by Iain Gale

  It was too much for Saltoun. A slur on the brigade. Macdonell too felt the injury. Bristled with anger at this disagreeable young man, whom political necessity had dictated should be their corps commander.

  After a short pause, Saltoun spoke. ‘Very well, your Highness. As you order. We shall attack the wood.’ He turned to Macdonell. ‘Colonel Macdonell. Would you oblige me by returning to your command and following us into the wood. My own light companies will lead the way, followed by Colonel Askew with the battalion companies of the First Guards. May I suggest, Colonel Macdonell, that you skirt the edge of the wood and take the French in the flank, at its far end?’

  Macdonell nodded. Amused at this new formality, adopted for the benefit of the royal presence, he matched it. ‘Indeed, my Lord. That would seem to be a prudent decision.’

  Saltoun turned back to the Prince. Extended his arm in an extravagant gesture which might, by an older man, have been interpreted as sarcasm. ‘I trust that will suffice, your Highness.’

  Orange, either unaware of the amusement he had caused, or choosing to ignore it and evidently satisfied that his orders were being obeyed, merely smiled. Then, without another word, he turned his horse and took his staff off, back down the road to Quatre-Bras.

  Saltoun stiffened. ‘A sprat, James. We’ve nothing more than a sprat to command 30,000 men, and among them the finest infantry in all the world. A puppy to give us orders. “Attack the wood at once.” Oh, how I do not envy the Peer. Give me a company. A battalion, even. But an army, with Orange as my deputy? Oh no. Not for all the world.’

  Leaving Saltoun, still cursing, to organize the invasion of the wood, Macdonell rode back down the marching column until he found Wyndham, riding with Robert Moore at the head of the Coldstream light company. He smiled at them. Turned to the ranks. ‘Colour Sar’nt Biddle’.

  ‘Sir?’

  Macdonell pointed towards the trees of the Bois de Bossu. ‘We are ordered to attack that wood. We will move along its northern edge, to the flank and rear of Lord Saltoun’s light companies, who will assault it directly. The men have time to check their flints and untie ten rounds. Captain Moore, have the company officers assemble on me.’

  Turning his horse, Macdonell rode off the road into the fringes of the wood. The two companies followed, in extended order. A distance of at least a yard between each man. His company commanders and their subordinates rode up. Charles Dashwood of the Scots Guards with George Evelyn and young Standen behind them, Wyndham, Moore and Gooch. He nodded a greeting.

  ‘A few words now for the men, before we go, I think, gentlemen. Do you not?’

  Macdonell turned back towards the assembled rank and file of the light companies, drawn up now, at their sergeants’ orders. He felt it important that he make some sort of gesture as he prepared to lead his combined command for the first time into battle.

  ‘Now, my lads. You can see what we have to do. Never forget that the eyes of your country are upon you. Be steady. Be cool and be firm in your action. This wood must be ours this day. The battle depends upon it and Lord Wellington knows that he can depend on us. Many of you know me. Have served with me before. Many of you, however, do not. I must ask you to trust me. And you may surely trust in one thing, my boys. You are his Majesty’s Foot Guards. You hold the right of the line. And by the end of this day you will hold the wood. Now, let’s be at them.’

  A great, ragged cheer went up, followed by a few scattered shouts of ‘huzzah’. And then they were about their business.

  This was what the light companies knew best. This was why they were here, in the vanguard of the regiment. Here in this wood. It was one of the few good things to have come out of the American war. The creation of just such units of light infantry, trained to fight in conditions precisely like this. In America they had learned how to beat the rebel woodsmen at their own game, and for the last ten years, in the same way, they had beaten the French. Macdonell realized of course that there would always be a place on the battlefield for the devastating firepower that only a mass volley from a densely packed block of troops could bring – that after all was what won battles. Nevertheless he could not help but wonder whether one day this would not be the way that all fighting was done. With soldiers treated as independently motivated individuals. Every man a skirmisher. Sir John Moore had understood how that might work. Had questioned Dundas’s ludicrously rigid rule book, by which Britain’s infantry were to move by eighteen manoeuvres alone. Moore had looked at the lessons of the American wars and drawn up his own system for the training of light troops. His teachings were embodied in a treasured pocket-sized volume of hand-written notes that Macdonell reckoned his most valuable possession. Quicksilver remarks made by the much-mourned general and painstakingly recorded by the young Macdonell while training under Moore with the 78th at Shorncliffe in 1804. These past ten years it had been his daily reading. His bible and his prayer-book.

  Since then, the Guards had led the way with a light company, and every battalion in the British army had followed. Hand-picked men from every regiment, chosen for their athletic ability and their marksmanship. But also for their self-sufficiency. And then there were the light regiments themselves. And the rifles. He respected too the way that in all the light units discipline was maintained less by the lash, which ruled throughout the army, than by respect, duty and pride. Although in the Guards, of course, as much was already understood.

  He observed the men with pride now, operating as true light infantry. Making use of cover. Working in pairs. The one giving covering fire while the other advanced. Macdonell called to a familiar figure who was pressing forward on foot just ahead of him. James Graham.

  ‘Corporal. Stay close to me.’

  He would need his own covering man. He looked to his left and saw that Gooch too was pressing on, covered by Miller. Slowly, the two companies worked their way, inch by nervous inch, along the edge of the long wood. At first, as they moved forward, they did not encounter much evidence of the enemy. Working his horse through the scrub, among the smoke and heat, Macdonell was surprised by the smell of freshly damp leaves. It triggered thoughts of similar summer days in Glengarry. Of precious moments, with a fowling piece in his hands, Alasdair Macdonald, the young ghillie, at his shoulder, treading gently through the undergrowth in search of pigeon, snipe, teal and mallard. Remembered too the swarming midges. For a moment he saw himself standing at dusk, before the peat fire of his bedroom in the castle, scratching at the great red insect bites on his legs and arms. Tried to remember too the pleasant after-dinner fug, down in the lodge among the keepers, savouring the pale amber of their local whisky – a drink eschewed by his brother at the castle’s dining table. He recalled the sound of flocking geese as they flew across the lowering sun. But the image merely jerked him back to reality. For there was no birdsong here. The wood was entirely empty of wildlife. Already seasoned by death. Men had been fighting in this place all day.

  His horse shied over a body. Looking down he saw a Belgian officer. A young man, his head very nearly severed from his body; a gaping, ragged hole in place of his neck. A shell burst, he presumed. As if in answer he heard the splintering of wood from up ahead, where Saltoun’s men now led the way, and the anguished cries of the first English wounded. A French battery on the rising ground above the wood had observed the Guards’ advance and timed its fire with cruel accuracy. As the Guards moved forward, the shelling became heavier. Macdonell recognized at once the staccato mutter and fizz of the spinning six-inch iron balls as they flew high above his head. Within seconds the wood was a storm of flying timber, as the bursting shells sheared great splinters off the trees. Still advancing, Macdonell’s men began to encounter Saltoun’s dead and wounded. Injured guardsmen came staggering out from the trees to their left, supporting each other, some cheering their comrades on. Coolly objective in the unreality of action, Macdonell noticed that many of the casualties seemed to have been caused not by the pieces of shell, but by shards of wood, splintered
from the trees, some of them as sharp and as long as sword blades, many still embedded like stakes in their unlucky recipients.

  There was more firing now, to his left, musket shots, as the First Guards’ battalion companies and grenadiers began to close with the French.

  An ashen-faced young captain of one of the light companies of the First, Ellis, rode out from the depths of the wood. Careered towards Macdonell.

  ‘Sir, have you seen the Prince? For God’s sake, sir, do send a runner. I beseech you. Find the Prince and tell him to order Colonel Askew to cease his fire at once. He is firing directly to his front. But not on the French. He is firing into his own men. On us.’ And with that he was gone. Back into the darkness.

  Macdonell acted at once. Had Biddle find a messenger. But not to the Prince, that would have no effect. He’d send the runner directly to the colonel of the First Guards.

  Ahead of him, the Coldstream light company had now moved properly into the wood. From necessity, as the brush became thicker, the men were forced out on to one of the many cleared rides, cut through the wood in more peaceful times, for the pursuit of game. Even on this long summer evening the light was poor this deep in the wood and, whatever the Prince had said, it was not easy to see their enemy. Macdonell wished, as he often did, that his men had the advantage of the rifle regiments, uniformed in dark green rather than their gaudy scarlet and white. They were sitting targets for the French tirailleurs, whose own dark blue made them far less distinct against the foliage. Of course both sides were armed with muskets, notoriously inaccurate at more than eighty yards. But in sufficient numbers, even in skirmish order, their fire was still lethal. If they could close with them, though, take the bayonet to them, then Macdonell knew the Guards would sweep the French from the wood. They could see them now. Through the trees. Masses of blue, discernible by their only clear feature, the absurdly tall wagging shako plumes of yellow and red. He could see them darting about. Dropping to take cover in the ditches, or behind rocks and bushes. He heard the crack as their muskets spat flame into the darkness. The swoosh of the musket balls scudding past his face. He caught Graham’s voice swearing, frustrated by the lack of vision. The corporal was close beside him now.

  ‘Wouldn’t you say so, sir, that this is a terrible place? I was just saying to my brother. God, but you can’t get a clear view of the beggars.’

  ‘Quite so, Graham. But you can certainly hear them.’

  With his words a flurry of musket fire tore at the already ragged leaves on a tree above his head. Graham ducked as the balls smashed into the trunk. And as both sides now exchanged fire, the white smoke from the muskets decreased the visbility even further. It was like fighting in a dense fog, crowded with unseen obstacles. Hard to tell the men from the trees. The officers of course were easier to spot. And they began to pay the price.

  Foolish, thought Macdonell, to remain up here on his horse. But it was his duty. To lead. To inspire the men with his coolness. The smoke had made it unclear as to just how far ahead of them the French were.

  And now, as the two sides realized their closeness, the fight became a game of man against man. Suddenly, from out of the smoke a swarthy, mustachioed tirailleur appeared before Macdonell, in the act of reloading his musket. Macdonell raised his sword. Brought it whistling down, through the shako and into the head. The man fell, clutching at his cleft face. Screaming, gurgling through an agony of blood. A moment later, over to his right, Macdonell saw Graham run his bayonet clean through another Frenchman, who grasped in vain at the barrel. The Irishman punched him away. Withdrew the bloody blade, moved on, workmanlike as ever. Still the shots rang out. Musket balls flew around his head as the French demonstrated their reluctance to give an inch of this hard-won ground.

  At least the cannon had stopped now and Macdonell’s horse was more sure footed. Its fear of bodies now gone, it advanced steadily over the lumpen shapes in blue and red uniforms, lying together in oblivion. Among them he noticed one of his own men. Tried to recall his name. Stevens? One of the new intake. Lincolnshire lad. Poacher, he thought. Dead poacher now. Hole through the throat, crusted with dried blood.

  The wounded were still moving past him. Walking and crawling. But the further he pushed into the wood he was encouraged by the growing numbers of French dead. Mounds of dark blue. Crumpled heaps of men. There was no doubt. Little by little they were pushing them out. Clearing the wood. Must be almost an hour since they had started. For a moment the smoke cleared and he thought that, perhaps 200 yards up ahead, he could see more light. The far edge of the wood.

  Still around him came the crunch and splinter of timber and leaves, as musket balls crashed into the trees. And the less frequent, duller thud as they hit a human target. There was cheering from the front now. The First Guards must have reached their objective. Or at least had pushed home a bayonet charge. Still he could see nothing. Below him a Frenchman suddenly thrust up with a bayonet. It missed him, and his horse, embedded itself in a saddle bag. As the tirailleur struggled to release his musket, Macdonell raised his sword, but before he could bring it down the man fell. Shot through the heart. He looked around. Saw Graham. The barrel of his musket smoking. A great grin across his face. Macdonell touched the peak of his shako in thanks and turned back into the mêlée.

  A red-coated soldier came running towards him, jumping over boulders and scrub. A lieutenant of the First Guards. Bloody face. Broken sword. White breeches spattered with gore. Couldn’t place him.

  ‘Colonel Macdonell, sir. Lord Saltoun’s compliments and we have taken the far end of the wood. He asks you, sir, if you would be so good as to direct your men in a movement towards the left.’

  ‘Consider it done, Lieutenant.’ Macdonell wheeled in the saddle. Found Robert Moore: ‘Captain Moore, I would be much obliged were you to find Colonel Dashwood and ask him to move his company over there.’ He pointed. ‘Towards the far edge of the wood. I want to sweep this area clean of the enemy. You understand? Wyndham, take Colour Sar’nt Biddle and half the company and cover the track to our right. I intend to take the centre.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Ducking now to avoid the low branches as he walked his horse deeper into the wood, Macdonell found his face level for a moment with its mane. Caught the distinctive smell. Horse sweat, powder smoke. Death. As the smoke cleared, the full fury of the engagement became apparent. The floor of the wood was carpeted with spent musket balls, jagged pieces of shell, shakos – French and British – discarded and shattered muskets. And with them the bodies of the dead and dying. He passed a tirailleur, barely alive, sitting on a tree stump, clutching his stomach. He had been bayoneted just above the diaphragm. Blood covered his blue coat and vest. Trickled from his mouth. He looked up at the passing English officer, for an instant caught his eye and then slowly looked away, off into the distance, waiting for release.

  Then, without warning, the shooting became less intense. The last French just melted away. A few turned to give covering fire. He glimpsed the falling, scarlet form of one unlucky guardsman, caught in the closing rounds. And then he was there. At the edge of the wood. Looking out on to a scene of utter devastation. The ugly remains of a day’s battle.

  Under a pall of dirty grey smoke, the bodies of the dead, the dying and the wounded covered the field. Maybe as many as 2,000, thought Macdonell. All nationalities. All uniforms. And with them the larger, more motionless forms of dead horses. And parts of horses. And those not yet dead. Some of the beasts were lying on their backs, rolling in agony. Others knelt on stumps of forelegs, whinnying pitifully. Through the carnage, badly wounded men slowly dragged their broken bodies to whichever side seemed to offer most safety. And beyond the bloody mess he could see the two lines facing each other. The red, green, blue and black of the Allies and, opposite, the dark blue of the French. Colours still waving over their heads. Officers riding up and down both lines. Yelling encouragement. Sergeants barking orders. Keeping formation.

  Looking over to his ri
ght, Macdonell saw that Saltoun had advanced the First Guards up a small hill beyond the wood, to a farm complex. They seemed to have taken the buildings. But then he saw the red and grey figures running back down the hill, and behind them more English guardsmen, in orderly ranks now, but still clearly withdrawing. And then he saw why. Over the crest of the hill came a body of cuirassiers. He could not guess how many. The First Guards were making for the cover of the wood. He reckoned they would manage it. Sure enough, just moments before the cavalry hit, the last redcoats found cover. The front ranks of the cuirassiers, unable to curb their momentum, went crashing into the hedge of bayonets among the trees. A small group of the French, however, seemed adamant in their pursuit of two mounted figures, officers who had yet to make the safety of the wood.

  Macdonell recognized one as Saltoun, the other as young Hay, another Scot, the son of the Earl of Errol and General Maitland’s personal aide. Not quite eighteen, he was considered, by common agreement of his peers, the handsomest soldier in the army. He was also thankfully, thought Macdonell, given his present predicament, an expert horseman. Only three days before Hay had won a steeplechase at Grammont on this very same horse, if he was not mistaken. Miss Muzzy, he’d christened her. A fine-looking grey mare. George Bowles had lost a sovereign in a wager. Mackinnon, as was his way, had made twice that sum.

  Macdonell watched, fascinated, as this new, spontaneous horse-race unfolded. Saw Saltoun make the wood. Jump the short hedge that marked its western limits and land safe among his men. He looked back to the chase. Grinning hugely, Hay was now clearly enjoying his moment of celebrity every bit as much as any field day out with the hounds. The men were cheering him on now. Urging him with laughter towards the safety of the wood. The little thoroughbred, part Arabian by the look of her, was easily outpacing the lumbering black chargers of the three remaining cuirassiers who came on behind him. The Frenchmen hadn’t a chance.