Four Days in June

by Iain Gale

  ‘Colonel Macdonell, sir?’

  A courier. An eager young sprat, as sparkling and shiny-new as if he had just come from parade at the Horse Guards. A vision for the ladies, in scarlet and blue, topped off with a great, lace-trimmed dragoon shako.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘My Lord Wellington’s compliments, sir, and he would be very much obliged if you would kindly take the light companies and move them directly down to the château? You are to occupy the buildings, sir. Colonel Saltoun will accompany you on your left, towards the orchard. With the light companies of the First Guards. You will, er … await further instruction. His Grace asks … if you please, sir?’

  Macdonell smiled at the young man, noting both his embarrassed uncertainty as to how to conclude his message and his all too evident pride and excitement.

  He took his gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. Flipped open the lid. It was 7 o’clock. There were, he surmised, perhaps two more hours of daylight. He turned towards the lowering sun. Spoke without looking at the aide de camp.

  ‘Thank you … sir. You may inform his Grace that Colonel Macdonell will act on his word, instantly.’

  As the young messenger turned his horse, Macdonell barked in the direction of the chattering NCOs. ‘Colour Sar’nt Biddle.’

  A figure snapped to attention and left the now silent huddle.

  ‘Colour Sar’nt. Have the men stand to. We are to move down to the château. What is our current strength?’

  ‘Seventy-nine men, four officers including yourself, sir, myself and three sergeants, sir. Five corporals and the bugler, sir. Now I’m not so clear as to the state of our men from the 3rd Guards, sir, but the latest reckoning is around ninety other ranks and four officers, sir, including Colonel Dashwood.’

  ‘Thank you, Biddle. You may move the men off.’

  Well, thought Macdonell, perhaps at least for some of them this would mean that their last night on earth would be a dry one. He looked towards the château. It seemed a fine establishment. A group of some half-dozen substantial buildings, enclosed within a high red-brick wall, with a good-sized barn and what appeared to be intriguingly elaborate formal gardens. He called for his horse, mounted and began what proved a difficult 500 yards down the hill.

  Those men who could do so fell into a column of threes on the road and then turned left on to the drive. No more than a dirt track, it was nonetheless still better than the sodden surrounding fields. For the rain had turned the ground to little more than mud, and the soldiers, laden with pack and musket, soon found themselves sliding down the slope. They fared barely better on the flat. Macdonell saw one man, a lad from the 3rd, boldly attempt to jump a watery ditch, only to slip backwards under the weight of his pack and fall into it up to his shoulders.

  Looking back up towards the twinkling fires of the lines it was possible from here, even in the evening light, to appreciate the nature of Wellington’s position. The army was encamped on a ridge, running as far as the eye could see, perhaps more than a mile and a half. A ridge. The Peer’s favoured defensive position. A ridge behind which he would conceal his men and make Napoleon guess as to where and how many they might be. But Macdonell and his men were not to be upon that ridge. Nor behind its sheltering brow. They were to be here; wholly one third of a mile from aid. Macdonell had a sudden, keen sense of isolation. Pictured himself riding to an island in a sea which tomorrow would surely be an ocean of French blue. Without betraying his flush of anxiety, he turned back to the château and continued towards the gate, noticing as he passed a round pond and beyond it the defensive potential of a sunken road, perhaps thirty yards from the garden boundary, shaded by an overgrown hedge. The drive split into two here, one fork, the better maintained, curving along the side of the buildings, past a kitchen garden towards what Macdonell presumed to be the main entrance. He continued up the lesser path and passed between two heavy wooden gates fixed with massive iron hinges to stout columns of red brick, linked above by a thick wooden beam. Beyond lay a cobbled courtyard, perhaps 50 feet square, with, in the centre an attractive covered well topped with a dovecot. Before him, up a slight incline, stood the mass of the château itself, a two-storey structure constructed, like the rest of the farm, from the local red brick, but in this case clad in white limewash. Directly to his right was a huge barn of the sort used for storing grain, and adjoining that a small cowshed.

  Here then was the farm.

  Dismounting, Macdonell handed his horse to the ubiquitous Smith and noticed, standing to his left, a group of British cavalrymen. Light dragoons in blue, with bright buff and yellow facings. Close by, two of their officers stood in conversation. Noticing Macdonell, they stopped talking and one advanced towards him, hand on his sabre hilt.

  ‘John Drought, sir. Lieutenant, 13th Light Dragoons.’

  He had a soft, southern Irish accent. His men, perhaps a half-troop, Macdonell now saw, were positioned on foot at key points around the walls, their carbines held in readiness for any attempt by the French to rush the position.

  ‘Welcome to Hougoumont, sir. We arrived here shortly after midday to claim the farm and I can report that to date we have received scant attention from the French. The farm, as you’ll see, sir, is in two halves. Here we are in what you might call the service area, and there beyond that small gate is the smarter part. This here is the main house. The château, they call it. There’s a large garden to our right, and beyond that an orchard. The front is heavily wooded. That we perceive, sir, is the direction from which the French will make their attack.’

  ‘Thank you, Drought. We’ll take over from you now. But feel at liberty to remain here as long as you wish. Your men may make their billets in the barn. They’ll find the Guards pleasant enough company.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Indeed my orders from Major Boyse are to remain here until first light. So by your leave I will set about settling my men and the horses. I wish you a pleasant evening, sir.’

  As the young cavalryman walked away, Macdonell began to assess what he had taken on. By Drought’s reckoning the more formal area of the complex lay beyond a small door in a brick wall. He walked up to it, pushed it open and found himself in another yard with ahead of him an elaborate gatehouse and on his left a small chapel, attached to the château itself. Instantly the reason for his being here became apparent. This was no mere farm. It was a fortress, with inner and outer defensive positions, the advantage of height in at least two vantage points, several areas in which he could establish a sweeping crossfire and even a large well that would enable him to withstand hours of siege. It was clear that Wellington had placed him here to create an impassable strongpoint which would counter any notion Napoleon might have had of turning the army’s vulnerable right flank and cutting off the Allies from the sea.

  And with his realization came another, more sobering thought. The awareness that it was just possible that the whole battle would hang on him and how he acquitted himself here. In this farm. Hougoumont. For the coming night and day Hougoumont would be his universe.

  ‘Sar’nt Miller.’

  ‘Sir.’ The man appeared, at the double.

  ‘Sar’nt Miller, post picquets along those walls and in the upper floors of the buildings. I’m going to take a look around.’

  Already walking away from them, he called over his shoulder to the officers who had followed him down to the château, at the head of the ragged column.

  ‘Dashwood, Wyndham, Evelyn, Gooch, you others, come with me.’

  As they caught him up, Macdonell began to walk the position, taking in every potential strongpoint and weakness with the now instinctive eye of a man who had spent his life preparing for this moment. He walked into the space below the gatehouse and pushed hard at the closed and barred main southern gates. Firm enough, but best to be sure. Drought was right. This was where the French would try first.

  ‘Barricade this gate. Use everything you can. Wood. Barrels. Anything.’

  He turned to his second-in-command, He
nry Wyndham, plucked from the sixth company. Dependable Henry. With only a year’s service behind him, still a Peninsular veteran.

  ‘Henry. Take Gooch and our light company and occupy the buildings. The château, that house beside it, the stables and the three structures along this front. In particular we shall need a constant garrison above these gates. Make sure that every window is filled at all times by at least two men. When one has fired, the other will take over, and so on. I want an unrelenting fire. Have the men enter the attics and knock holes in the roof. We must direct as much fire as possible at the enemy before he reaches the walls. And you’ll need to place some men in the farmyard. Our own flank is by no means invulnerable.

  ‘Dashwood. Your company will fortify the garden and the immediate grounds as best you can. You might want to place some men in the kitchen garden, just outside the large barn. They’ll come round that way. You won’t be able to hold them, of course. Just let them know you’re there. And don’t worry about your left flank. Lord Saltoun will be in the orchard. Just concentrate on the garden. We can’t allow them to break through there and come round in our rear. And we’ll need to keep the north gate open for as long as we possibly can. It’s our only supply route.’

  The young officer saluted and hurried off to gather his command.

  Macdonell turned to the fourth officer in the group, George Evelyn of the 3rd Guards. He was about to assign him a command when he was interrupted by the arrival of a civilian. It was a man, in early middle age, dressed somewhat bizarrely in a green formal coat, plum-coloured velvet waistcoat, high-buttoned linen trousers and clogs. Clearly a rustic. The man began to address him in rushed and garbled Walloon French. Macdonell smiled and signalled him with his hand to slow down. Gradually he began to understand. This was the gardener. Monsieur van Cutzem. Macdonell noticed now that hiding behind him was a young girl, no more than ten years old, holding on to his coat. She, he presumed, was the man’s daughter. The gardener continued. At some length. The owner of the château, a Chevalier de Louville, had not lived here these past ten years. He lived now at Nivelles. His tenant, a farmer named Du Monsault, Macdonell thought he said, had left some days ago, taking with him all his possessions and the other staff. His own wife, it seemed, had also gone to safety and he too had meant to go. He had stayed behind only to lock up and to ask them to please be careful of his garden. He had tried that very afternoon to leave. To take his daughter Marie to safety. But now the roads were blocked with soldiers and carts and guns. Now it was impossible. Too late.

  He stopped and shrugged. Smiled pathetically. Might he, he wondered, be of any assistance? He did not care much for the French. He wasn’t bad with a gun. Could shoot rabbits. One thing he begged. Could the esteemed general please instruct his men not to destroy his garden? It had taken him twenty years to create. It was his life’s work.

  Macdonell smiled back. Felt truly sorry for this victim of fate. Of course, he assured the gardener in halting French. His men were not vandals. But he must also understand that this was war, that things would be … lost. Changed forever. But, he assured the bewildered man, he would do his best.

  Macdonell’s courteous smile hid his displeasure at this unwelcome complication. Civilians. By the end of this fight, he thought, you will be lucky if the house is still standing, man, let alone your precious garden. Lucky too if you and your pretty daughter both are any more than corpses. Looking over the man’s shoulder he summoned one of the soldiers busily barricading the gate. ‘Corporal Henderson.’

  The man dropped the huge barrel he had been manhandling and hurried over across the yard, his ill-fitting shoes slipping on the shiny cobbles.

  ‘Henderson, do me the service of placing yourself with these two good people and ensuring that no harm comes to them. In the absence of the owner they are our hosts and we no more than their guests. The chapel would seem to be a good enough refuge. And Henderson, I shall hold you personally responsible should anything go amiss.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Macdonell smiled at the gardener and stretched out his arm towards the grinning corporal, happy to have been selected for this less arduous task.

  ‘Monsieur, my corporal will take good care of you and your daughter until the present danger is past.’

  That at least was one problem dealt with. He walked away from the gatehouse, back towards the entrance to the formal garden. Through a side gate, beyond an elegant balustrade, lay a perfectly laid-out parterre. Macdonell was beginning to admire it and again about to summon Evelyn when he was disturbed by the sound of gunfire. It was coming directly from his front. From the orchard. He saw puffs of white smoke. Clearly Saltoun had found the enemy. The shots were moving now, out into the wood. The French appeared to be falling back. He was unable to see a thing, but could hear muffled commands and shouts. At length he found George Evelyn.

  ‘Evelyn. Take Standen and twenty men from Captain Wyndham’s company and report to Lord Saltoun in the orchard. I presume that that commotion was the sound of his men succeeding in driving off a French reconnaissance party. If that is indeed the case take your men and form a forward picquet in the woods. Just to the west of the orchard wall. Ensure that nothing of the sort should happen again tonight.’

  ‘Sir.’

  So that was Evelyn accounted for. And Standen. Macdonell looked about him. Only Moore left of his own officers. And Elrington from the 3rd. Everywhere men were working at the walls, coats off, sergeants and corporals barking out orders. It was good to have beaten off that scouting party. Should give them the chance to work unimpeded. He doubted whether the French would try the same thing again tonight. It must be clear by now that he and his men held the château. It was too late to contest.

  As if a direct rebuttal of his thoughts, a series of scattered staccato shots rang out from beyond the gate. From the gatehouse someone called down. ‘Cavalry. Look to your front.’

  Holding his sheathed sword close to his side, Macdonell dashed across the yard and, ducking his tall head to enter, ran inside the gardener’s house, curiously managing to notice in his haste the von Cutzems’ half-finished plates of food still on the table. He climbed the small staircase to the upper storey and found four of his men sniping from the windows. Peered over a shoulder. There in the wood before them. Cavalry. Green-coated chasseurs, using their free hand to take random shots with their carbines. As he looked the man standing next to him fired and dropped a French corporal from his horse.

  ‘Well done, Kite.’

  What a waste, though, he thought. Why were they using what would soon be valuable horsemen in what could now only be a fruitless attempt to seize the château? They were blindly following orders. No allowance for real initiative in the Emperor’s army. That, he thought, would surely be its downfall.

  More men scrambled up the stairs behind him, Gooch leading them, grinning, sword drawn. More muskets were brought to bear on the milling chasseurs. Two more fell. And another three. Four, including the officer, discernible by his gold lace, had been unhorsed and were taking cover behind a hedge which bordered the wood. Balls from their carbines struck the walls around the window embrasures; but none made it through to the Guards. The chasseurs began to look uncertain. A half dozen of them quickly decided that they at least would not meet their end in this futile and one-sided firefight. The Guards continued their sporadic fire, but the danger had passed. Descending slowly, Macdonell recovered his composure.

  Walking out into the rain he resumed his tour of inspection.

  ‘That’s it, Dobinson,’ he called out to a corporal from his own company. ‘Like that. Have the men pile the timber up against the door. And Dobinson, once you’ve done that you had better get Sar’nt Miller and find those pioneers. I want fire steps along every wall.’

  He would make this place impregnable. A fortress.

  Passing the chapel, Macdonell reconnected with Moore and Elrington and walked back through the garden gate.

  The formal garden was perhaps 200 yards
in length and half as much wide. It was laid out in the classic French style with carefully trimmed calf-height hedged parterres flanking paths of gravel and in some places neatly cut turf. He gazed out across row upon row of greenery and colour, now at the height of its flowering and looking surreally beautiful, even in the rain which in the past few minutes had increased its ferocity. Thunder crashed out above their heads. Moore spoke.

  ‘A hard night, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Moore, but a harder day on the morrow.’

  The three officers passed a group of sodden soldiers gathering wood to make a fire step, the rain running in rivulets down their now unbuttoned scarlet tunics. Recognizing Macdonell one called out, grinning: ‘Just like Salamanca, sir, ain’t it.’

  Macdonell nodded and smiled back. There had indeed been a similarly violent thunderstorm the night before Wellington’s great Spanish victory, almost exactly three years earlier. The man spoke again.

  ‘We sent ’em running then, sir, and we’ll do it again in the morning. So we will, sir.’

  Through the rain he recognized Joe Graham, the sergeant’s brother. County Monaghan born and just as huge a man, with the same Irish drawl. ‘That we will, Graham. If I know you and your brother.’

  He hoped to God that he would be proved right. The men would have to work through the night to get it done. Wellington would need to find them help.

  ‘Moore. Find your horse and take yourself off to his Grace. Find an officer on the staff and ask if we might borrow some pioneers from elsewhere in the line. It is of the utmost urgency.’

  How curious, he mused, to be strolling in such circumstances through this place of tranquillity. He imagined the garden as it might have been in happier times. Saw the owner and his guests taking the air after dinner. They must have walked a similar path. Must have remarked on the beauty of this flower or that. Laughed perhaps at the wit of a fellow guest.