‘Colonel James Macdonell, Second Battalion, Coldstream Guards,’ he announced himself. ‘Who here speaks English?’
A lieutenant in the black of the Brunswickers stepped forward. ‘Lieutenant Franz Mezner, Third Battalion, Brunswick Corps, Colonel. We are escorting these prisoners to Braine-le-Comte.’ Brunswickers, unlike the Dutch and Belgians who used dogs to pull their carts, ate them. A useful taste if food was short, although Macdonell had never had occasion to try it.
‘Prisoners, Lieutenant? I am surprised you and your men could be spared.’
‘They are deserters from the French army, Colonel. The general ordered them to be taken for interrogation.’
‘Who is your general?’
‘The Duke of Brunswick, Colonel.’
Wellington was not the only duke on the Allied side. His Serene Highness the Duke of Brunswick was another. What a waste of four fit soldiers, thought Macdonell. ‘What news do you bring, Lieutenant Mezner?’ he asked.
‘When we left, Colonel,’ replied Mezner, ‘we were holding a defensive position at the crossroads at the village of Les Quatre Bras. Our light companies had advanced further south.’
‘At Braine-le-Comte we saw many wounded men. There was talk of artillery fire and cavalry.’
‘Yes, sir. The French artillery has been pounding our positions all day. Their cavalry make sorties on the flanks in the hope of catching our infantry before they can prepare to meet them and then retire back to their lines. The casualties have been high.’
‘No infantry attacks?’
‘Not yet, Colonel, but it cannot be long. Our intelligence is that they are massing for an attack up the Charleroi Road. But reinforcements have been arriving since noon. General Picton’s division may be there by now and also General Kempt’s. And the Duke of Wellington himself, of course.’
‘And Napoleon?’
‘He has not been seen. These men say that Marshal Ney commands their army. They think Napoleon has marched east in search of the Prussians.’ If so, there would be no French advance through Mons, although Buonaparte had split his force. He must be confident of disposing quickly of the Prussians before rejoining Ney. Perhaps the Duke had underestimated his strength.
A thought occurred to Macdonell. ‘Why did they desert?’
Lieutenant Mezner smiled. ‘They claim to support their king, Colonel. It is more likely, however, that they do not care for British bayonets.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Carry on while we are halted.’ The lieutenant saluted smartly and returned to his prisoners. Macdonell watched them go. Why send them to Braine-le-Comte? He would have taken their weapons, stripped them naked and told them to fend for themselves. In any army, deserters were deserters, whatever the reason.
Harry Wyndham and his party had returned. They were not quite empty-handed, but little better. ‘Not the friendliest of farmers, James,’ he reported. ‘Some turnips, a cabbage or two, but no meat, although he has ducks and chickens. They wouldn’t sell them and I had to pay far too much for these.’ He waved a hand at a small heap of vegetables.
‘Ah well. Hand them out as best you can. We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got. We’re not going to wait for the quartermaster and he probably won’t allow us anything anyway. Have the horses been watered?’
‘Horses and men, both.’
‘On our way, then.’ From behind him, Macdonell heard voices raised in anger. He turned sharply. ‘What the devil? Oh, dear God, not again.’ Privates Vindle and Luke, each held by a Graham brother, were being dragged up the road. It was obvious that they were drunk. ‘What is the story this time, Corporal?’ he asked.
‘Drunk, sir,’ replied James.
‘On what?’ asked Harry. ‘There has been no gin ration.’
Joseph held up a green bottle. ‘This, sir. It’s some sort of local brew. Schnapps, I believe. Tastes like gunpowder and must be as strong.’
‘Where did you get it, Vindle?’ demanded Macdonell.
‘Found it, sir.’
‘Where?’
‘Same place they found this,’ said Joseph, producing a dead chicken from behind his back.
Macdonell stared at him. ‘Drunk and thieving. I could have you shot. You too, Luke.’
‘Not worth it, Colonel. Waste of ammunition,’ said Harry.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘We haven’t time for a whipping. Front of the line where Sergeant Dawson and I can keep an eye on them, four kettles and a pack full of stones each and not a sip of water until I say so.’ The unlucky fourth man in each company usually had to carry the kettles.
‘Very well. Empty their packs and find good homes for whatever there is.’ Macdonell turned to Vindle and Luke. ‘With luck, the march will kill you. If not, it should sober you up. Take them away, Corporals, and make sure they keep up the pace.’
‘That we will, Colonel.’ Once more it was said in unison.
In mid-afternoon, having marched well over twenty miles since dawn, they reached open land on the western edge of Nivelles, where General Cooke sent forward orders that they were to halt and set up camp. ‘Looks a good enough place to spend the night, Harry,’ observed Macdonell, pointing to a copse of oak and chestnut. ‘Plenty of wood for cooking fires and there might be a stream in those woods. Send out watering parties and get fires lit. Let us hope that is it for the day. I’m worn out and I’ve been sitting on a horse all day.’
‘Pity there’s no pond around,’ replied Harry. ‘I’d strip off and jump in.’
‘Well, at least we’re spared that.’ While Harry organised watering parties and wood collectors, Macdonell stretched his legs by wandering among the men. Like them, he was plastered in dust and sweat. He ran his hand over the stubble on his cheeks and scratched his groin where his trousers, damp with sweat, had chaffed the skin. The muscles in his back and thighs were shaking from ten hours in the saddle and his throat was on fire. Unlike them, he had not been on his feet carrying sixty pounds of weapons and equipment. No wonder many of them had thrown off their cumbersome wooden-framed packs, unbuttoned their jackets and stretched out on whatever strip of grass they could find. A few looked actually to be asleep. William Vindle and Patrick Luke were among them. Macdonell kicked them awake and told them to fetch wood for a fire. Muttering bitterly, they struggled to their feet and staggered off in the direction of the wood. No matter if they never came back.
Some of the younger men had taken off their shoes and were busy washing sores and picking at blisters. The older and wiser of them had left their shoes on, knowing that if they took them off their feet would swell from the heat and they might not be able to get them on again. If by chance they did have to move on that evening, they did not want to do so in bare feet.
The Grahams had lit their fire and were preparing to eat. From their packs they had retrieved the scraps of meat and biscuit distributed at Enghien and were occupied in making them edible. James cut out the filthiest bits and handed the rest to Joseph who swilled them in a cup of water and laid them out on the grass. All around, groups of men were doing much the same. ‘It’s a fair way off, Colonel,’ said James Graham, ‘but that is cannon fire I can hear, is it not?’
‘I believe it is, Corporal. But do not let it spoil your supper. I doubt we’ll be needed today,’ replied Macdonell, not believing it. They were upwind of the cannon, which would make the guns seem further away than they really were. He reckoned they might be no more than two miles off.
Macdonell walked on, greeting the men he knew by name and offering a word of encouragement to the youngest. He accepted a sip or two of gin and a mouthful of weevily biscuit and when the first group returned with water, drank a cupful and splashed a little on his face.
At last they could eat and rest properly, and he would try to find out what was happening beyond Nivelles. General Cooke would have sent a rider forward to announce their arrival. He would bring back news.
What the rider actually brought back, however, were orders
to advance at once through the town. The general, much invigorated, in turn sent orders out for the drums to sound the call to arms and for the battalions to fall in. Miserable, complaining soldiers doused their fires, packed up their knapsacks, buttoned up their jackets and prepared to march again. Under instructions from the corporals, they checked their flints and counted off ten rounds of ammunition.
Every one of them knew that the time had come. They had marched all day and now they were going into battle. If they had not been needed, they would have been allowed to rest. The Emperor’s troops, hard, well equipped and impatient to avenge past defeats, awaited them.
Macdonell watched old soldiers encouraging new ones to take a swig of gin. He listened to throats tormented by the heat and dust, retching and coughing as if fit to rip themselves open. He listened to prayers spoken aloud and snatches of hymns croaked tunelessly out. And, in the distance, despite the wind, he caught the unmistakeable smell of cannon. And of a battlefield.
As at Braine-le-Comte, the Nivelles streets were choked with wagons, artillery pieces and the wounded, pleading pitifully for water, help, or their mothers. Many had lost an arm or a leg, some both. Others held their hands to their stomachs, as if trying to keep their guts from falling out. There were no surgeons with them. They would be too busy further forward to accompany the wagon train. Carriages, ambulances and fourgons, left behind by Netherlanders and Belgian Jägers in their rush to reach Quatre Bras, added to the confusion. The light companies scrambled over and round them as best they could.
A company of Highlanders seeking temporary respite from the battle taunted them as they went by. ‘What’s your hurry, laddie? The Frenchies will wait for you.’ ‘Remember your manners and say bonjour to m’sieur.’
‘Hop on my back, man, if you’re tired. I’ll take you to meet m’sieur,’ shouted back Joseph Graham.
The wind shifted and suddenly the cannon sounded very close. A number of men fell back, and from exhaustion or fear collapsed onto the roadside. Harry Wyndham, in a fine tenor voice, belted out the first verse of a song about the lovely ladies of London Town. Those with the energy joined in with the chorus.
On the other side of the town the watering parties caught up with them. Macdonell, his throat still burning from the dust, took a gulp from a bottle offered to him by a Foot Guard. It was not water but ale. ‘Kind lady outside the inn,’ grinned the private. Macdonell took another gulp and handed the bottle back. A stray shell whistled overhead and landed in a field. ‘Nearly there,’ he croaked.
The air was becoming so thick with dust that it was difficult to see or breathe. Carts carrying more wounded trundled towards them. Clouds of flies buzzed around open wounds. A company of Belgians lay in a ditch, trying to scoop its filthy water into their mouths. They had little to say except that Wellington himself had arrived that afternoon and that it had been bloody work. They had been battered by French artillery and had narrowly survived several cavalry charges by hastily forming square or dashing into nearby woods. They did not know if the crossroads were still held or what was happening further south.
Macdonell urged the light companies on. More overheated and exhausted men fell by the wayside. They were left where they fell, Captain Wyndham quickly ordering the columns to close ranks. Surprisingly, Vindle and Luke were still going. For all their thieving and drunkenness, they were a tough pair of weasels.
They found the crossroads and the buildings around it still held by companies of Jägers, Nassauers and Brunswickers. But the French artillery had been at its terrible work and the defenders had paid a terrible price. Hundreds of bodies were strewn in all directions. Many were headless or in bits. Medical orderlies scurried about doing what little they could for the wounded. A field hospital had been set up in a house on the Nivelles road. Inside and outside it, blood-soaked surgeons amputated limbs and stitched up stomachs. In German, Dutch and English men pleaded pitifully for water. Mutilated horses lay still attached to overturned gun carriages. Dogs sniffed hopefully at corpses and black crows circled overhead. The stench of death – a stench like no other – filled the air. And from the south, French artillery, not yet satiated, hurled more death at them.
In the fields to their left, British cavalry had been deployed in line. Macdonell took a glass from his pack and put it to his eye. Unless he was mistaken, General Picton’s cavalry division had indeed arrived and the general himself, easily recognised in blue coat, white stock and black hat, was at their head. Despite the carnage around him, he could not help smiling. If there was a fight to be had, General Thomas Picton would be among the first there.
General Byng summoned Macdonell and Hepburn. ‘I have just received orders from the Prince,’ he told them, spreading a map on the ground. ‘We are here,’ he said, pointing with a twig to Quatre Bras. ‘The centre of our line is on and around the Charleroi Road.’ The twig ran down a line southwards from Quatre Bras. ‘On our right, the Bois de Bossu, seething with Frenchmen and a threat to our right flank. Colonel Hepburn, you will take the 3rd Foot Guards into the wood with the 1st Brigade. Lord Saltoun’s 1st Foot Guards have already entered the wood. Clear out the enemy and secure it.’ He turned to Macdonell. ‘Colonel Macdonell, take your light companies up this slope.’ He pointed to fields on their left. ‘If this map is right, you will come to a farm.’ Byng peered closely at the map. ‘La Ferme de la Bergerie, with fields and more woods beyond it. There has been heavy fighting there and the wood and farm are also full of Frenchmen. Drive them back. I will send Captain Tanner up with the light cannon after you. Further south there is another farm.’ Again the general peered at the map. ‘La Ferme de Gemioncourt. It was taken by the French this morning and is now sheltering the artillery that is bombarding us.’ He coughed lightly. ‘The 69th took the brunt of it and were then cut down by a cavalry charge.’
‘Were they not in square, General?’asked Macdonell.
‘Alas, no. I am told that the Prince was concerned at the artillery fire they were taking.’ Macdonell shook his head in disbelief. Ordering infantry into line with cavalry nearby was tantamount to murder. ‘Your task is to prevent the French from getting around our left flank. I will send more intelligence when I have it. Any questions?’ There were none.
Macdonell ordered flints and powder checked again. He put on a light pack, specially made for him in London, in which he kept a spare shirt, a woollen blanket, a razor and a sharp knife. If his mule was lost or killed, he would need them. He left his horse with a groom, knowing that the beast would be no use in wooded areas and anyway preferring to fight on foot.
Harry Wyndham was at his shoulder, Gooch and Hervey just behind. They took neither a drummer boy nor a medical orderly. If they were to push the French back they would have to move quietly and fast. No drums, no shouting, no stopping for the wounded. Just what light company men were trained for. With a glance behind him, Macdonell signalled the advance and four hundred men, muskets primed and loaded, followed him up the slope.
There was to be no surprise. French sharpshooters were hiding in a copse of trees on the right-hand side of the slope. The guards were no more than halfway up it when shots began whistling about their heads. Men screamed and fell. Macdonell felt a ball touch his shoulder and nearly stumbled. They were in the open, taking fire from a hidden enemy – the worst possible position and the very opposite of what light company men were used to. He yelled an order to lie flat and threw himself to the ground. The mounds and hollows on the slope offered a little protection and a man lying on his belly was a much smaller target than one standing up.
Harry wriggled up alongside him. ‘Saw us coming, James. Lucky they did not wait until we were closer before firing, stupid clods. What now?’
Macdonell grunted. He was angry with himself for not having guessed there would be voltigeurs about. They would be ahead of the main body of French troops, scouting the land and picking off the enemy when they had the chance. ‘Spread the men out, Harry, a good five yards between each pair, and i
n broken line. We’ll make it as hard as we can for them.’
‘I’ll shout when we’re ready,’ replied Harry, slithering away down the slope.
With luck the voltigeurs would fire their next volley as soon as they saw their targets. At eighty yards, the casualties should be light. They would take the volley and charge up the slope to the copse of trees. That should scare the foxes from their den.
The moment Harry shouted, Macdonell was on his feet and running up the slope. He did not run in a straight line but weaved this way and that in the hope of confusing the voltigeurs. At six feet and three inches and above seventeen stone, he was not the most nimble Guards officer but he ploughed on towards the copse. Behind him, nearly four hundred men took his cue, yelling and firing into the trees. The French volley came almost at once. Twenty or so shots in all. Macdonell did not look round but from the few cries he heard, knew that it had not been effective.
He was no more than thirty yards from the trees when twenty blue jackets ran out from the side and made for the top of the slope. The Guards’ fire took down three of them, the others scuttled off. Macdonell halted his men. He had caught sight of a farmhouse roof over the ridge of the slope. There would be more frogs there. He did not want to lead the Guards headlong into a trap. But his orders were to clear the farm of the enemy. They would advance cautiously.
They moved slowly around the trees, keeping low and watching the farm. For the new men, this was their first fight. Macdonell knew how nervous they would be. Charging flat out at an enemy was one thing. Advancing slowly towards muskets they could not see was quite another. There was a risk that one would panic and run. If that happened, the panic would spread. He found he was holding his breath.
This time the voltigeurs waited until their attackers were almost at the low farm wall before opening fire. Then they let loose. There were more French in the farm. From windows and doors a storm of bullets hit the guards. A dozen fell, dead or wounded. Fifty reached the wall and crouched behind it. The rest lay flat and fired at the windows. Macdonell peered over the wall. A shot fizzed past his head. A blue jacket was hanging out of a window. Another was on his stomach by a door, blood seeping through his uniform. He could see no others.
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