Four Days in June

by Iain Gale

  Macdonell pointed towards him. Yelled towards the barn. ‘A surgeon. Find that officer a surgeon.’

  And then they were in.

  The gates fell away to either side of the entrance and a close-packed column of French infantry flowed through into the lower yard. Within seconds there were thirty, perhaps fifty Frenchmen in the yard. They were led by a giant of an officer. The huge lieutenant, an earring glinting gold in his right lobe, was quite Macdonell’s equal in stature. He had no sword, but was wielding an axe, taken from a sapeur. Macdonell watched with horror as he cleft one of the Coldstream privates in two, through the shako, from head to abdomen, like some Highland Jacobite pole-axing one of Cope’s dragoons.

  He saw the boy Beckey go down and at the same moment was conscious that some of his men were already beginning to fall back to the barn before turning to shoot into the fighting. The sheer momentum of the French was carrying them forward. The young Nassau lieutenant who had saluted him an hour before found himself isolated now and pushed back towards the farmhouse. As he turned, he met the gaze of the huge French officer, who brought his axe down on the Dutchman’s arm, severing his hand at the wrist before turning to find another victim.

  There wasn’t a moment to spare. Macdonell dashed across the yard, calling out as he went. ‘Guards, to me. Re-form. To me.’

  He reached the north wall of the château where a group of some thirty guardsmen were formed in two ranks, under the command of Colour Sergeant Biddle. Seeing Macdonell advance towards them they momentarily ceased firing. Macdonell found Biddle.

  ‘Colour Sar’nt. We’ll show them the steel, I think.’

  Biddle smiled. Barked the order, emphasizing and prolonging the last syllable. ‘Bayonets.’

  The few men who had not yet fixed their bayonets now screwed them to the muzzles of their muskets.

  Macdonell raised his sword. ‘Coldstream Guards. Follow me.’

  With a great roar the detachment burst at a run from the shadow of the wall upon the astounded French. The slight slope of the farmyard increased their momentum and carried them at full tilt into the front rank of the enemy. Every bayonet met its target. Blue coats tumbled to the ground. But the second rank of Frenchmen, mainly red-plumed grenadiers, were ready and began to push into the Guards. Now French steel found its mark. Macdonell levelled his blade and slid it deftly into the throat of a French corporal. Side-stepping the falling corpse, he noticed for the first time that two small haystacks to the right of the well had been set ablaze, presumably by shell fire. As he looked, a raft of burning hay fell over the face of a wounded man, a Nassauer he thought, lying at its base. His cries were pitiful. Macdonell turned back to the fight and saw that his charge had pushed the French as far as the gate. But more had now appeared in the space between the doors and were forcing an entry. Seeing a massive wooden beam lying on the cobbles, he picked it up. Ran towards the gates.

  ‘To me, Guards. To me. Close the gates. Keep them out.’

  He was aware that both Graham and his brother were running with him now as they neared the mêlée. And there, thank God, was Sar’nt Fraser. As they passed the well they were joined by McGregor and two other men of the 3rd Guards whom he did not recognize. To his left he glimpsed a knot of officers, momentarily motionless.

  ‘Wyndham, Hervey, Gooch. Follow me. Light Company, form on me. Form on me, Guards. To the gates. Close the gates.’

  He heard Fraser take up his cry: ‘Shut the courtyard gates. Keep them out.’

  Reaching the attackers, Macdonell pushed into the mêlée and cut down with his sword, severing a man’s ear and half his shoulder. He dodged a bayonet and parried another before thrusting and hitting home deep into a Frenchman’s side.

  Smoke was everywhere now, stinging the eyes, making it hard to find friend or enemy. The acrid smell of powder filled his lungs and he coughed, almost retched. He felt metal on metal. Metal on wood. Metal slipping into flesh. Bayonets seemed to thrust wildly on all sides. There was the unmistakable sound of steel on bone. And other noises. The moans of the wounded. The animal grunts and shouts of men intent on killing each other with whatever came to hand. Bricks, clubs, bare fists.

  A French officer appeared before him, smiled and thrust at him with a shining, straight-bladed infantry sword. Macdonell parried the thrust, but the Frenchman put up his white-gloved left hand and grasped the blade. Macdonell pulled hard and the officer, surprised at the Scot’s strength, had no choice but to let the blade slide back through his hand, cutting it open.

  ‘Merde.’

  Macdonell heard his oath and, taking advantage of the man’s shock, with a deft flick of his wrist encircled the officer’s blade and penetrated his guard. The Frenchman side-stepped the attack and, placing his bloodied hand behind his back like a fencer in training, tried his luck again. But this time Macdonell had the measure of him. As the Frenchman’s blade came towards his left breast he put up his own so that the two swords formed a cross and he was able to push his opponent’s away to the side with ease. Continuing to move forward he now dropped his own point at the last moment and felt it slide firmly into the flesh within the tight blue tunic. The Frenchman, still staring into Macdonell’s eyes, widened his own, opened his mouth, dropped his sword and grasped with both hands to staunch the fatal wound. Macdonell withdrew his bloody blade and turned away quickly, leaving the man to fall and die. It was no good when you saw their eyes. Not like that. Those faces stayed with you. Came back sometimes. Unexpectedly. Always the eyes. That stare of momentary surprise and then the horror as they understood the inevitable.

  To his right he saw that McLaurence was locked in a desperate fight with a voltigeur. Macdonell was close enough to smell them now. He moved to help but his way was blocked by another Frenchman directly before him lunging with his musket. Macdonell prepared to take him on. But as he did so a shot went off close beside his right ear, causing momentary deafness.

  A second later the Frenchman’s face had vanished. Blown clean away at short range into a blackened mess. The half-decapitated body fell away in front of him and Macdonell pushed forward over it towards the gate. He was at it now. Found the filthy wood with his hands. Careful not to drop his sword, began to push against the sea of blue coats swelling through the gap. To his right the Graham brothers, both of whom had handed their muskets to the less well-built Wyndham, were doing the same. And there were two more men with him on the left. From the 3rd Guards, with Fraser and MacGregor. Other officers joined them, adding their weight to the mass of redcoats pushing at the wooden panels, and then, with a painful slowness that seemed to last an eternity, the great door began to move away from them. They pushed at it again. Did not let up. Harder now. It continued to move. Slowly. Slowly. Macdonell heard himself shouting, ‘That’s it, men. Keep pushing. Push, for God’s sake. Push.’

  They were still moving. Pushing against the French. Slowly. Slowly. And all the time muskets, bayonets, swords, men’s arms were being thrust between the two doors as the French tried in desperation to keep them open. Musket balls hammered against the wood, a few penetrating. But the advantage was with the Guards. Macdonell looked up into the gap. Two feet to go. One and a half. A foot. Six inches. They were almost there.

  ‘One last push, lads. Together now. Heave.’

  With a splintering of wood the two doors met. One French musket broke in half as they banged together, its barrel and bayonet falling into the yard. And then Macdonell’s men were pushing the thick crossbars into their iron lugs. Bracing them with anything that might help keep them in place. He stood beside them, drenched in sweat and filth. Wiped a hand across his dripping brow. Turned to his right. Saw Wyndham. ‘We did it. Well done, Henry. Well done. Well done, Graham. Fraser. Well done, all of you. Thank God.’

  There was no time to rest. Musket balls began to patter down into the yard. A few intrepid Frenchmen had climbed on to one another’s shoulders and were firing over the wall down into the mass of heaving bodies in the yard. Macdonell saw
a private of the 3rd Guards go down and noticed another voltigeur take careful aim at Wyndham. The lieutenant, though, had seen the sniper himself and, handing James Graham’s musket back to its owner, stood coolly by as the keen-eyed corporal beat him to it and deftly put a ball clean through the Frenchman’s brain.

  Attempting to regain his composure, Macdonell turned back to face the yard and count his casualties and realized that it was far from finished. Ahead of him were forty Frenchmen, perhaps more, any one of whom was capable of reopening the gates. In their centre stood the big lieutenant, hatless now and covered in mud and blood, but still with his axe. Seeing the hopelessness of his position he flung the weapon down and was followed by his men as they let their muskets fall to the ground.

  Macdonell raised his sword to his face in a salute.

  ‘Sar’nt Fraser. Take these men prisoner. Have them fall back to the château.’

  He turned back to the gates. By God. They were coming again. From outside another great shout announced a further assault. The gates moved under the sheer weight of bodies. Macdonell knew the moment was crucial.

  ‘Keep at them, lads. Fire down on them. Don’t let up.’

  Men were running towards the north wall now. Climbing the fire steps. Squeezing into every available space to pour fire down on the heads of the French. A cry from behind made Macdonell turn round. He saw the boy, Wilby, fall to the ground clutching his side. Above him stood a French sergeant, his bayonet bloody. Great God. The prisoners had picked up their muskets again, were attacking them from the rear. It was against all the articles of war. Against honour. Desperation flared inside Macdonell. He turned to Fraser.

  ‘Get them, for God’s sake. Kill them. Kill them all.’

  He heard the words leave his mouth. Basic, primeval, tribal command. The sergeant didn’t need telling twice. Within seconds men were running from all directions, sending a deadly, close-range fire into the ragged square of French prisoners which had formed some twenty yards from the gate and was moving gradually towards the well. Their shots were returned with a disjointed fury. But it took only a few minutes before its ranks grew thin.

  The Nassauers, seeing a moment when most of the French appeared to be reloading and incensed by their maimed lieutenant, his bleeding stump bound with a torn shirt, seized their chance and laid in upon them with no quarter. Bayonets rose and fell, muskets clubbed down mercilessly, spilling blood and brains on to the cobbles. Macdonell saw two Nassauers pick up a wounded Frenchman and fling him, screaming, on to one of the burning haystacks. Sickened, he turned away. And then it was over. More than twenty of the French lay dead. The others, all wounded, tried to drag their broken bodies across the yard. Some groaned. Called for water. Several just lay and twitched. The Nassauers walked round them, plunging bloody bayonets deep into dead and wounded alike. One corpse, Macdonald noticed, had soiled his trousers. Up against a wall a small boy of no more than twelve, a drummer in green and gold, pressed himself back against the bricks, his face an expression of pure terror. Macdonell held his hand out to the frightened child.

  ‘Venez, venez, mon brave. On ne va pas vous manger maintenant. Venez donc.’

  Cautiously the boy moved from his hiding place. Extended his own hand and folded it into Macdonell’s as a child might into that of a comforting father. He was sobbing.

  ‘Sar’nt Biddle. Take this young fellow away and see he’s treated well. He’s fought bravely. You might put him with the gardener’s girl. They must be about the same age.’

  Children, he thought. Just children. She must have been born the year of Austerlitz and Trafalgar, he only shortly before. They had not known peace. What would their future be? Perhaps, God willing, they might survive this great battle. And then? And what of himself? No. Don’t wonder about that. Live for the moment. Take the day. Take the battle to the French.

  They had done it. Had repelled the attack. Had shut the gate. Macdonell felt a surge of elation and almost as suddenly was conscious of a sharp pain in his cheek. He put up his hand and felt warm blood. Damn. He pressed at the wound to see how deep it was and how long. Looked at his palm. It wasn’t so bad. Must have been that officer. The fencer. He spotted Gooch, bewildered by the skirmish, looking around himself distractedly. In need of orders.

  ‘Gooch. Take twelve men up to the highest room in the château. Tell me what you see.’

  One more push, he thought. One push and they’ll do it. And I do not have the men.

  He climbed up on top of a pigsty and peered over the north wall.

  Through the smoke he was able to make out a column advancing directly towards the gate. Infantry with mounted officers. Oh God, he thought. They have come round to the rear in force. There must be 300 of them. He rubbed his eyes. Looked again. Searched for the eagle, the drummers. Saw only red. Their coats were red. British red. He could make out columns now, three companies. And as they grew closer he was able to see their distinctive oilskin shako covers. British Guards. Reinforcements from the ridge, with three mounted officers. He recognized Edward Acheson on his bay mare. Another on a familiar grey. Dan Mackinnon with the grenadier company. And Colonel Woodford.

  The French saw them too. Began to turn. But such an about-face was clumsy at the best of times, and it was too late now. Bayonets glinting, the first ranks of the British smashed into their disordered flank. The French turned in a rabble to the left and rushed pell-mell back the way they’d come. A lone officer, trying to rally them, was shot from his horse. At the corner of the wall a small knot of voltigeurs turned to fire. Their effort was not concerted, but Macdonell saw a dozen holes appear in the Guards’ ranks. Acheson’s horse was shot from under him and he watched horrified as Mackinnon’s horse too was brought down and threw its rider. The redcoats came on, bayonets fixed. Number Four Company first, followed by the grenadiers and Number One Company. Macdonell watched as Mackinnon, his leg bleeding from the knee, struggled to his feet. Leaning on a corporal, he urged the grenadiers on against the French. A few of the voltigeurs managed to get in another shot at close range. Macdonell saw one of the captains, young John Blackman, popular with the men, shot clean through the head. And then came the bayonets. The fight lasted barely a minute. Most of the French took flight as the rear column pushed through the grenadiers and smashed into them. Some surrendered. Not always with success. Macdonell watched as Blackman’s furious sergeant pushed aside the praying hands of a kneeling voltigeur and spitted him clean through the chest with seventeen inches of steel. Conscious that the danger was not yet over, Macdonell called over to the men on the wall: ‘Open the gates. Let them in.’

  Hands worked at the improvised barrier and the great wooden gates were heaved open. Outside the path was strewn with dead Frenchmen. There were 100 at least, maybe 200. Some of the bodies had been badly trampled and were almost unrecognizable under the mud. As the two leading companies of Coldstreamers continued to pursue the French into the wood, the rear column marched into the château over this carpet of corpses. Macdonell ran towards Mackinnon, who was limping with his corporal through the gate.

  ‘Dan, how good to see you. And not a moment too soon, by God. You’re hurt.’

  ‘The cap of my knee. A musket ball, by God. It really is quite excruciating. But James. What of you? You’re alive. They had you encircled. We thought for a minute you were overrun. Hard to see through the smoke.’

  Their words were almost drowned by the cheering that erupted from the tired defenders as another hundred men filed in through the gate. Woodford rode up. Swung a gleaming boot over his saddle and jumped down. Macdonell saluted.

  ‘Colonel Woodford, sir, how very pleasant to see you. Am I to suppose that I should now hand over command, sir?’

  ‘Indeed not, Macdonell. I can perceive no earthly reason to relieve a man of command when he appears to be doing such an excellent job. The château is yours, sir. Consider me merely as … an equal. We shall command together, n’est-ce pas? Now, acquaint me properly with your position and place
these lads where they’re most needed.’

  He noticed Macdonell’s bloody face. ‘You, uh, appear to have cut yourself … in shaving.’ He laughed at his feeble joke. Then caught sight of Mackinnon’s more serious wound. ‘Dan, what’s this? Get to the surgeon, man.’

  ‘It’s merely a touch, sir. You see. No more than a graze.’

  ‘Touch or no, you’ll see Dr Whymper.’

  The others were filing in now and with them, having detached himself from Number Seven Company up on the ridge protecting the colours, rode George Bowles – clean-shaven, coat spotless, boots polished and buffed by his soldier-servant to a glass-like sheen. Macdonell applauded. Mackinnon grinned.

  ‘George. Bravo. Off to a review?’

  Bowles laughed. ‘Come to offer you a hand, James. Colonel Woodford says to us, “Macdonell’s done for, boys,” he says. “Who’s for helpin’ the poor old Jock?” Well, James, you know that I can never resist a call to arms. Besides, you didn’t think I’d miss this scrap, did you? But, gad, you’ve had hot work here, eh?’

  ‘You could say that, George. It has been damned hot work. Though I’ve a feeling that it’s about to get a good deal hotter.’

  NINETEEN

  The ridge of Mont St Jean, 1.40 p.m. De Lancey