‘What is that?’
‘Vindle and Luke, sir. Fighting. Sergeant Dawson instructed me to tell you.’
‘For the love of God, not again. Drunk?’ The very pair who had been at the prize fight.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell Sergeant Dawson that I will see them before parade.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The private saluted smartly and left. James hurriedly drank the remains of his tea, splashed water over his face, ran a comb through his mop of sandy hair and struggled into his new uniform, already brushed by the servant. It was as fine a uniform as any in the army. A red jacket with a high blue collar and blue cuffs, white breeches, cross-belt from right shoulder to left hip and calf-length black boots. The jacket was laced with gold braid. He checked his appearance in a mirror. He was ready. And if the French were on the Sambre, he would need to be.
On the first day of March, Napoleon Buonaparte had landed with about a thousand men at Golfe Juan on the southern French coast. Ironically, the Duke of Wellington had been in Vienna, discussing with the other European powers how best to ensure peace and stability for all after twenty years of conflict. Boney, not for the first time, had caught them napping and by the sound of it he might be about to do so again.
Macdonell had been with the regiment in Brussels when the news arrived. At first, some of his fellow officers did not take it seriously. They thought that Boney would get no further than Lyon. They did not believe that the veterans who had left their wives and families to fight for him and had seen so many of their comrades die in Spain and Russia would dust off their uniforms, sharpen their swords and make ready to follow him again.
Others did not accept the threat Napoleon posed because they did not want to. They were enjoying themselves too much in the glittering hotels and salons of Brussels to want to go to war, and so persuaded themselves that the little Corsican would simply go away.
James knew they were wrong. The highlander’s instinct that had served him well on battlefield and Scottish hillside alike told him that it would not be many weeks before they were at war again. He had fought in Italy and with Wellington in the Peninsula. He had seen French Lancers destroy an infantry line in a matter of minutes, he had watched helpless as French artillery had turned an infantry square into a mess of blood and bodies, and on dark nights he could still hear the remorseless drumming that signalled the advance of the French Imperial Guard.
Napoleon would not have left his exile on Elba without being confident that these tough veterans of his Russian and Spanish campaigns would follow him once more. Macdonell had even bet a guinea on it with Francis Hepburn. The guinea was paid the day they heard that Marshal Ney, commander of the Imperial Guard, and so-called ‘bravest of the brave’, had declared his support for the Emperor. If Napoleon’s beloved ‘immortals’, complete with their pigtails and earrings, were with him, not a man in France would entertain the remotest possibility of defeat.
Within two days of Ney’s declaration, King Louis XVIII had fled with his family to Bruges, and their emperor, to the joy of the people, had entered Paris. The Allies declared war on France and Wellington made haste to Brussels. Macdonell had heard the Duke say that he wished a more distant island had been found for Napoleon. St Lucia in the Caribbean, perhaps, where yellow fever or malaria might have done for him, or even the lonely island of St Helena, stuck out by itself in the middle of the Atlantic. And the Duke had been proved right. For Napoleon, Elba in the Mediterranean had been no more than a stepping stone back to France.
The Château Enghien stood at the north-eastern edge of the town beside a heart-shaped lake fringed with willow and oak. Once a magnificent building with a grand park, it had long ago fallen into disrepair. Nevertheless it had provided the officers of the 2nd Brigade with more than adequate accommodation. The walls might be peeling and much of the furniture broken, but it was dry and comfortable enough. James had tried, and failed, to imagine it as it must have been in its glory days – the scene, surely, of lavish banquets, grand balls and glittering musical gatherings. Just the things Napoleon was known to hate.
He strode out of the chateau, down a broad flight of stone steps and set off around the lake. A good walk before joining General Sir John Byng for breakfast and to be briefed on the night’s news would help clear his head. It was Sir John’s habit to take breakfast with his senior officers. Unlike Major General Peregrine Maitland who commanded the 1st Brigade, Byng liked to extol the merits of a good breakfast. The fastidious Maitland dismissed it as an unwelcome new habit and insisted that a man should do at least two hours work before breaking his fast.
Macdonell worked better on a full stomach. He had more energy and thought more clearly. And if they were to march, a clear head would be needed. Mobilising troops who had been in quarters for as long as they had would not be easy.
Among the rows of tents the first stirrings were apparent. Grizzled heads appeared, sniffed the air like hunting dogs, relieved themselves and retreated back inside. Fires were being lit and water boiled for tea. Most would breakfast on their ration of boiled beef and biscuit. A few might have scrounged an egg or some bread. In front of a tent at the head of a line, two large figures and an unusually small one were busy preparing their food.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Macdonell greeted them. All three immediately snapped to attention. Macdonell grinned. He could not help grinning when he saw the Graham brothers together. They were so alike that they could have been twins, although today James bore the marks of the fight. One eye was swollen and both cheeks bruised. Six and a half feet tall, broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, hewn from the hardest Irish granite, and inseparable. Macdonell often thought that if the army had just ten thousand like the corporals Graham, Napoleon would be wise to turn tail and run.
In appearance, the third man, Sergeant George Dawson, was rather different. Barely an inch over five feet, pug-nosed and barrel-chested, he might have been about forty years old. No uniform had ever quite fitted him, however skilful its maker. He was a tough borderer from the town of Hawick who carried his lack of height with a certain panache. Dawson, too, had been at Maida and in that odd, short battle, had fought bravely and by word and deed had encouraged others to do the same. That was why he now wore a sergeant’s crimson sash.
‘Good morning, Colonel,’ replied the sergeant. ‘You find us making ready for the day.’
‘Joy of the morning to you, Colonel,’ added James. ‘Mug of fine Irish tea?’
‘No thank you, Corporal. Good fight. Well done. How are the wounds?’
James raised a hand to his face. ‘Wounds, Colonel? Just a few scratches and my hands are good as new. Joe’s a fine mess, poor fellow. Hope he can hold his musket.’
‘So do I. How was the night?’
‘Long, Colonel. We expected news.’ This time it was Joseph.
‘Will we be marching today, Colonel?’ asked Dawson. ‘The men are asking.’
‘I expect so. Full parade at eight. Be sure to kick the drunks and dreamers awake and in to line.’
The corporals smiled their lopsided smiles. ‘That we will, sir,’ replied Dawson. ‘Are you aware of Vindle and Luke fighting again?’
‘I am, Sergeant, and I will deal with them after breakfast.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Macdonell nodded and went on his way.
A cloudless sky and already he could feel the warmth of the coming day on his face. God willing, the order to march would come that morning. If they were off to fight, the men should not be kept on parade for too long. Knapsack, blanket, sixty balls, powder, musket, bayonet and three days’ biscuit weighed nearly sixty pounds. As a young ensign he remembered finding the load heavier when standing still than when marching or fighting. Mind you, when it came to battle, the light companies he commanded would carry nothing but their guns, ammunition and a light oilskin haversack. Speed and stealth were the skirmishers’ best weapons.
Beyond the rows of tents the park stretched out towards distant woods. Sweeps of g
rass, close-cropped by the horses, were fringed with lines of poplars. All semblance of a garden had long disappeared, although there were paintings in the chateau of what had once been spectacular beds of roses and tulips. Macdonell made his way towards a stream that ran through the park and into Lac d’Enghien. On the banks of the stream grew willows, their branches draped over the water and, here and there, stooping so low that they might have been trying to drink. Just once he had seen a kingfisher there. It had swooped so fast to spear its prey that it had been no more than a blur of green and red; it was only when it emerged with a stickleback in its beak that he had been sure of what he had seen.
Macdonell liked that spot. He went there to watch dragonflies and waterboatmen and, occasionally, to take off his boots and dangle his feet in the cool water of the stream. Although no more than a few hundred yards from the noise and bustle of the camp, it was peaceful. It was a good place to think. Army life allowed little time for private thought. And it reminded him of home – Glengarry, where the river ran down to the loch and on to the Great Glen above Fort William. He had been born there, grew up there with his brothers, learnt to catch salmon, stalk deer and shoot pheasant there. At school in Douai he had missed the lochs and glens of Scotland almost as much as his family. And he missed them now. He stooped to pick up a pebble and threw it into the stream. He watched the circles it made in the water as they expanded outwards, eventually to be swallowed up by the current. He used to do the same in Glengarry when the river was slow.
For him, the Netherlands and Northern France were too flat to lift the heart, too much of a muchness. He craved the wildness of the highlands, snow on the peaks, icy streams, crofters’ cottages, the sweet smell of burning peat, yellow gorse and purple heather on the slopes. God willing, it would not be many days before he saw them again.
As the third son of a Catholic highland family, his father dead, he had chosen a military life for himself. The family estate had passed to the eldest brother Alasdair, the second was content with his writing and his books, which left James. He had considered the Church, politics, travel, exploration, and had settled on the army. It had been a wise decision. The discipline and order suited him. He enjoyed the company and fellowship of soldiers. And he had acquitted himself with distinction in battle, enjoying the irony of a member of a staunch Jacobite family serving a German king who sat on a throne in London.
A knot of tension was growing in his stomach. He had felt that same knot in Italy and in the Peninsula. Not fear, not excitement, more a sharpening of the senses, an acute alertness that presaged action and danger. Today, surely, they would march. The Duke of Wellington would give the order and they would march to meet Napoleon. Napoleon, who could not acknowledge defeat, had risen again and, if he were not stopped, would sweep through the Netherlands to the coast where he would gaze across the Channel to England. And then what?
Dragging himself from his reverie, he turned and walked briskly back to the camp. The camp stirrings had taken on a new energy and he knew at once that the tension was not his alone. He could see it, hear it, even smell it among the men. It was there in the urgency of their movements, it was there in their gruff voices and it was there in their faces. They were going to war and they wanted to get on with it. Wellington had called them, admiringly, the scum of the earth – scum who had taken the King’s shilling rather than see their wives and children starve, or to avoid the horrors of Newgate or Bridgewall. It worried the Duke and his officers that so many had never hefted a sword or fired a musket in anger, but they were at least survivors, scrappers who the army had trained to fight as a unit and had turned into proud members of a proud regiment. Like as not, Macdonell’s light companies would be first into battle and first to draw blood.
Unwilling to face more questions, Macdonell skirted the camp and returned to the chateau. General Byng was a man who insisted always on exactness and accuracy. Breakfast at seven o’clock meant just that and woe betide the officer who was late.
CHAPTER THREE
That morning they were ten – Byng, Lt Col Alexander Woodford, who had command of the 2nd Battalion and was thus Macdonell’s immediate superior, Francis Hepburn, Captain Charles Dashwood of the 2nd Battalion, Harry Wyndham, four other captains and Macdonell. At seven exactly, Byng entered the dining room and invited them all to be seated. Fortunately, the long mahogany dining table and twelve curved-back chairs had survived the demise of the chateau.
Sir John Byng, veteran of Vittoria, Pamplona, Ireland and Toulouse, was the most courteous of men. ‘Before we eat, gentlemen,’ he began in his gentle, almost scholarly manner, ‘I know you will be wanting news.’ At the table there were murmurs of assent. ‘The position this morning is as follows. Ney’s Armée du Nord is still on the eastern bank of the River Sambre, facing the town of Charleroi. The three main bridges over the Sambre are, we understand, intact. The Duke expects Ney, in due course, to cross the river and advance towards the town of Mons to our southwest but he will not commit us until he is sure. We are to be ready to march at short notice, although it may be days, even weeks, before we do.’ He looked around the table. ‘I see the disappointment on your faces, gentlemen. I, too, would prefer to wait no longer, but you will see the sense in the Duke’s strategy. He wants Napoleon to show his hand before acting. Are there any questions?’
‘Can we still count on Marshal Blücher?’ asked Woodford.
‘Marshal Blücher and his Prussians are guarding the eastern approaches to Brussels at Ligny and Liège. The marshal may be over seventy but there is no more gallant commander. He will not fail us.’
‘What is his strength now, General?’ This time it was Francis Hepburn.
‘About the same as our own, some seventy thousand. The French, His Grace estimates, number one hundred and twenty thousand. The Russians and the Austrians will advance from the east but are unlikely to arrive before the end of the month.’ Byng looked at Macdonell, seated next to him. ‘What do you think, James?’ he asked. The general had a habit of seeking the views of his officers, not always having regard to their rank.
‘If I were Napoleon,’ replied Macdonell, who had lain awake thinking about just this, ‘I would rely upon the element of surprise. I would move quickly to drive a wedge between the Prussians and ourselves. I would attack Charleroi and advance without delay on Brussels. Surprise has always been a tactic he favours.’
‘You would not go west to Mons or east to Ligny?’
‘I would not, General, especially if it meant splitting my force.’
For a long moment, Byng gazed at Macdonell. ‘And perhaps that is just what he will do. We shall know soon enough. And how would you respond to this threat?’
‘I would march at once, join the Prussians and seek to take the initiative.’
Byng looked doubtful. ‘Hm. Would you now? Defender turned aggressor, eh?’ He paused and looked around the table again. ‘Does anyone else agree with Colonel Macdonell? No, on second thoughts, do not answer that. The Duke has decided and that is that. Now let us take our breakfast.’ He rose and went to a sideboard on which silver pots of tea and coffee, plates of brioches and French bread and slabs of pound cake had been laid out. The officers followed him, loaded their plates and returned to the table. None of them would start the day on an empty stomach.
When they were all seated again, Byng turned to Woodford. ‘My carriage will be departing at seven this evening for the Duchess’s Ball, Alexander. Would you care to join me?’ The rule against carriages in the town had been lifted for the evening.
‘That would be most kind, General,’ replied Woodford.
‘Excellent. You, too, Harry. We have room for three. General Cooke, I understand, will be leaving earlier. He has an afternoon engagement in Brussels.’ The officers suppressed smiles. Wellington himself was known to be fond of afternoon engagements. In Paris he was even rumoured to have conducted simultaneous affairs with an opera singer and an actress, both of whom had previously been lovers of Buonaparte. �
�I am unhappy at leaving Enghien at this time, gentlemen, but the Duke is insistent that we attend the Duchess of Richmond’s Ball. It has been weeks in preparation and he does not wish Her Grace to be disappointed.’ He smiled kindly. ‘And I know I shall be leaving matters in the most capable hands.’
Harry Wyndham, second son of the Earl of Egremont, had received an invitation and, a little to Macdonell’s surprise, had accepted. The product of a grand English public school, determinedly independent in spirit and inveterate wag, Harry was twenty-five years old, and a captain in the light company of the Coldstreams. Despite the differences in age, rank and background, he and James had become friends. In fact, their ranks were not as different as it might have appeared to anyone not familiar with the strange ways of the Guards because James held not only the rank of lieutenant colonel but also the lesser one of major and Wyndham that of lieutenant colonel in addition to captain. To anyone outside the regiment, double-ranks were utterly confusing. Harry was always good company, an important quality in times of dreary inactivity, and found it difficult to take life seriously. Whenever James erred towards self-importance, Harry could be relied upon to find the mot juste. All he lacked was battle experience. It would not be long before he got it.
James feared that he too might be included in the Duchess’s guest list because of his family connections and had been greatly relieved when he found that an ancient Scottish lineage was not enough to warrant an invitation. From the Coldstreams, Woodford, Wyndham and three young ensigns from distinguished families would be joining General Byng. Macdonell disliked all dancing other than a good Scottish reel, and would be very much happier at Enghien. True, a highland regiment was due to give an exhibition of sword dancing, but the guests would be gavotting and waltzing and quadrilling well into the early hours.
At fifteen minutes before eight, Byng carefully wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and rose from the table. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I will leave you now to be about your duties. If there is more news I will, of course, send word.’
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