He vaulted over the wall and ran for the farmhouse. There were no shots. He called to Harry who signalled the fifty men to follow him and the rest to stay where they were. They skirted the house and turned up the side. Around the farmyard at the back stood a small barn, sheds and an empty pigsty. There was a haystack in one corner and a gate beside it.
Macdonell led them through the gate, which opened into another, larger yard. They stopped and stared. This yard was strewn with bodies, mostly Brunswickers in their black jackets and Nassauers in green. Many of the dead were twisted into grotesque shapes, their stomachs ripped open by sword or sabre. A dead horse lay in one corner, its legs buckled under its body and blood covering its flank. Another, headless, lay beside it. Carrion crows had lost no time in beginning their feast. They hopped on and around the corpses, pecking at eyes and squabbling over scraps. Even when they were disturbed, they carried on gorging themselves. The sight of the birds and the smell of blood and death were too much for some. They fell to their knees and emptied their stomachs on to the bloody ground. Henry Gooch was one of them.
The French had left the farm but they would not be far away. Macdonell sent James Hervey back to bring the Guards forward. Stepping carefully over bodies, he led the fifty men into a vegetable garden enclosed by a thick beech hedge. Without warning they were under fire again. Beyond the hedge there was a small field sloping up to another wood, this one much thicker and larger than the copse on the slope. The French were firing from it.
They ran doubled up to the far end of the garden. James turned and looked for the Graham brothers. They were there. He beckoned them forwards. ‘Make a gap in the hedge about here. Just big enough for a man to get through.’
The brothers took out their bayonets and hacked at the branches of the hedge. They heaved on the roots and bent the branches back but the beechwood was thick and did not yield easily. They exchanged a look. ‘You push,’ said James. Joseph nodded. James took off his shako and stood with his back to the hedge, his arms folded over his chest. The moment he said ‘ready’, Joseph lowered his shoulder, charged forward and knocked him backwards through the hedge. James was back on his feet and safely on the right side of the hedge in a trice. He bent over to catch his breath. Joseph put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Not too hard, was it?’
James coughed and stood up straight. ‘Away with you. Our mother hits harder than that.’ Led by James Hervey, the remaining Guards had joined them. Through the hole, Macdonell took them into the field of rye beyond. They formed two ranks facing the enemy positions in the wood. The French fired again. There were shrieks of pain and two men went down. One was holding what was left of his nose, the other’s shattered arm hung uselessly from his shoulder. The Guards got off a volley but they were firing uphill from close on a hundred paces. A direct hit would be more luck than marksmanship. Macdonell hesitated. The wise course would be to withdraw back behind the hedge and wait for the cannon to arrive. But if they did and the enemy chose to attack the farm, the cannon might be intercepted and they could be trapped. They would have to stay where they were.
He called for the wounded to be taken back to the farm and for two lines to re-form in pairs and spread out to give the French muskets less to aim at. It was a manouevre they had practised in the dull days at Enghien and they carried it out perfectly. He sensed relief among them. They were light infantrymen, skirmishers, will o’ the wisps, unaccustomed to fighting in lines. He took a position from where he could observe the accuracy of their shots and watch the reactions of the enemy.
A competent infantryman could get off three shots a minute as long as he had a pouch full of prepared cartridges. The drill was always the same and they had practised it a thousand times. Make sure the barrel and breech were clean, bite off the end of the cartridge paper, hold the ball in your mouth, set the hammer to half-cock, tip a little powder in, shut the hammer, pour the rest of the powder down the barrel, follow it with the ball and the paper for wadding, ram it home with the ramrod, cock and fire. After half a dozen shots a man’s mouth was dry as tinder from the powder and his head throbbing from the smoke and noise. It made no difference. He was trained to go on loading and firing, reloading and firing again until he had run out of cartridges or was dead.
The pairs worked together, one loading, the other firing. After every six shots they moved to a new position – a little back, a little forward or to the side. It made a Frenchman’s aim just a bit more difficult – a bit that might save their lives.
The cannon soon arrived – four six-pounders that had been hauled up the slope and around the house. Within a minute, the gun teams had loaded, primed and fired. The first salvo was short. The second landed among the French, sending bodies and muskets flying into the air. They watched the blue coats turn and flee, and Macdonell signalled the advance. Shrieking and yelling, through the smoke and the rye they ran, most of it trampled and lying flat. Yet more bodies lay everywhere – infantry and cavalry, French and British and Brunswickers. And horses, dozens of them. Men and beasts alike had suffered and died here.
On the far side of the field, they came to another house and garden surrounded by a fence. There corpses were piled high and covered in a black cloud of flies. The headless torso of a young infantry officer in bright-scarlet jacket with crimson lace lay slightly to one side. Highlanders had fought there too. Kilted bodies lay about, some obscenely exposed.
They skirted the house and garden and carried on through the rye, crouching low and making themselves as small a target as they could. They stepped over more mangled bodies and more blood-soaked limbs. ‘Eyes on the enemy,’ shouted Macdonell. ‘We can do nothing for these souls now.’ There were no wounded. Either they had managed to crawl to safety or they had been despatched by the point of a bayonet.
A cannon roared and a six-pound shell whistled over their heads. The French had brought up artillery. Another landed a little to their right, sending up a spray of earth but doing no damage. Instinctively, the men moved left and spread out. Almost immediately there was a shout of ‘cavalry’. The French also had cavalry and had anticipated their manoeuvre. Macdonell yelled the order. ‘Form square. Prepare to meet cavalry.’ The troops ran towards their appointed leaders and began to form irregular-shaped but tightly packed squares around them, with the front line kneeling and bayonets pointing outwards. It was another manoeuvre they had practised and practised until they could do it blindfolded and it was all that stood between them and death at the point of a lance or the edge of a sabre. No horse would run in to or try to jump a line of bayonets.
The French cavalrymen, in their fine plumed helmets and green jackets and breeches, were expert and ruthless. Two of the slowest of Macdonell’s men were caught in the open and cut down with scything swipes of a sabre. The remainder had scrambled into the squares when the first of the French cavalry reached them, the last of them diving head first over a kneeling front line. Sure enough, the horses shied away and their riders were forced to bear off. But as soon as they were clear, more artillery shells exploded around the square. A phalanx of stationary soldiers made a tempting target for a Gunner.
A shell landed just in front of the first rank, broke into pieces and killed two men instantly. Their bodies were dragged aside and the gap they left closed. From the middle of his square, Macdonell shouted an order and it crabbed sideways and forwards. The others followed suit. The French cavalry stood a hundred yards away, waiting for the squares to break. If they did, they would be on their prey in a trice, sabres held in extended arms, ready to thrust and hack at defenceless heads and bodies.
The next shell fell harmlessly in the place they had vacated. Another shouted order and again the squares crabbed sideways. Macdonell had the strange sensation of acting out a play in front of a mounted audience. Receive cannon shot, move, keep the square tight, more shot, move again. Hold the square. Never give the audience a chance to attack. More like a dance, perhaps, than a play. Men went down, blood streaming from their heads
and chests. One called pitifully for his mother. Another looked Macdonell in the eye, swore mightily and died. No one moved to help the wounded. The square must be held or they would all die.
There was a break in the cannon fire and the cavalry came closer, shouting insults and daring the infantrymen to fire at them. When they retreated, the French artillery started up again. Macdonell, keeping an eye on the cavalry, tried to gauge the moment to form line and charge at the infantry. Too soon and the cavalry would reach them before they were among the enemy and into the woods behind them, too late and they would be easy meat for the French muskets.
He was spared the decision. Captain Tanner’s artillery teams had dragged their cannon over the field and around the charnel house of the farm. The captain’s first shot was aimed at the cavalry. It sent horses and riders, earth, debris and bodies cartwheeling into the air. The survivors did not wait for a second shot, but turned their mounts and galloped for cover. The light companies’ charge was instant, so fast that Macdonell did not know whether the men had waited for his order or not. Screaming their battle cries, they ran at the French line, driving it backwards into the wood. Fifty yards short of the treeline, he halted them and called for them to spread out in their pairs in the tall rye. They would give the French something to think about in case they were considering another attack.
Of French cavalry there was now no sign. The artillery volley had spooked them and rather than attack the guns they had gone in search of easier prey. And the French artillery was as good as useless against skirmishers their gun captains could not see. It was tempting to seize the opportunity and charge straight at them. But Macdonell did not know their strength and a headlong dash into the woods might prove disastrous.
Off to their right, he knew from the remorseless crash of cannon that the fighting in the centre of their lines was ferocious. Wellington would have demanded reinforcements for the beleaguered troops at Quatre Bras and would have thrown everything in to his defence of the crossroads and the road to Brussels; Ney would have used his heavy artillery, followed by his cavalry, to break it. Macdonell could only hope that the defence had held and that he and his light companies were not cut off. There was no time to dwell on it. He had his own battle to fight.
From their left a small company of black-clad Brunswickers arrived. Their captain presented himself to Macdonell. He was a man of about Macdonell’s age, almost as tall and fair-haired. ‘Captain Hellman, Colonel. We saw you from our position and thought you would appreciate some help.’
‘Pleased to have you with us, Captain. How many are you?’
‘Forty, Colonel.’ Despite their taste for dog meat, the Brunswickers were good soldiers who hated the French. Many Brunswick families had suffered greatly from the deprivations of the feared Imperial Guard, to whom Napoleon always gave free rein after a victory. Forty of them would make a difference.
‘Our orders are to clear the area of the enemy and push them back beyond the farm at Gemioncourt.’
Through the rye and up the slope they went, heads low and muskets held across chests. Macdonell had placed Captain Hellman on his left wing. Harry was on the right and he in the centre, Gooch and Hervey with him. He had been too occupied to keep an eye on the ensigns but they were still standing and appeared unharmed. Advancing in an irregular line made life more difficult for the French marksmen, but if the cavalry reappeared, they would be in trouble. It was a calculated risk.
A few shots whistled over their heads, mostly to Macdonell’s left where the Brunswickers were impatient to get at the French. They advanced ahead of the line, drawing sporadic French fire but never wavering.
At the top of the field they came to a low, straggly hedge. Beyond the hedge was a sunken track. In the hedge and on the bank of the track, flies swarmed over yet more bodies of dead and wounded men. There were dozens of them. The wounded spoke of the battering they had taken that morning. Macdonell ordered them to be moved into the shade of the oak and birch that grew along the side of the track and to be given water and blankets. Firing from the wood had ceased and the cannon had gone. Either the French were up to one of their tricks or they had withdrawn through the wood.
Macdonell found Captain Hellman and his company well placed on the bank of the track where the undergrowth was dense. The captain was intent on the wood. ‘Any sign of movement, Captain?’ he asked.
‘None, Colonel. But they might be in there waiting for us.’
‘Indeed they might. What do you suggest, Captain?’
‘I could take some men and try to get round the side of the wood without being seen. If we see any movement, we’ll know they are in there.’
‘Very well, Captain. I’ll give you twenty minutes.’
Captain Hellman grinned. ‘Leave it to me, Colonel. We’ll soon see what they’re up to.’ He gathered four men and set off. Macdonell returned to his place in the middle of the line, where he found Harry waiting for him.
‘Orders, James?’ he asked.
‘Captain Hellman has slipped round the wood to see if there are any Frenchies still lurking in it. I’ll send word when he returns.’
Away to their right around the Charleroi Road, artillery started up again. The crash of heavy cannon reverberated through the trees, hammering eardrums and blocking out all other sound. Rooks shrieked in alarm. The men on the bank of the sunken track lay down their muskets and covered their ears.
When Captain Hellman returned he had to cup his hands and all but shout into Macdonell’s ear to make himself heard. ‘The devils have withdrawn but they might have left a small party to cover their retreat. If you were to hold back your centre, Colonel, and allow both wings to advance through the wood at an oblique angle, we should take any ambushers by surprise.’
Macdonell considered. It was a sensible plan but he did not like the idea of holding back. ‘No, Captain, we will all advance together, making as much noise as we can. We’ll beat them out of the wood like pheasants. If the main body has withdrawn the rest will surely follow.’
If Captain Hellman was surprised he did not show it. ‘I had forgotten the British penchant for frightening birds half to death before shooting them,’ he said, ‘It will be an interesting experience for us.’
Macdonell ordered the men to be lined up in a crescent formation with instructions to yell, scream, rattle their swords and beat their muskets against their kettles. Anything to make enough noise to frighten an enemy who could not see them into thinking there were thousands of them and running for the safety of their own lines as fast as they could. Anything, that was, except fire their muskets. The risk of accidents and ricochets in woods was too great.
Macdonell gave the signal and off they went. The light companies of the Coldstream and 3rd Guards, trained to move silently in any terrain, crashed into the trees and through the undergrowth, shouting, hammering and rattling into the wood. Rooks shot into the sky like black rockets, squawking and screeching in fury.
They followed the trails left by gun carriages being hastily dragged back through the undergrowth, until, in the middle of the wood, they came across the remains of campfires. Macdonell held his hand over a small pile of ashes. They were warm. The French had camped there, but there was now no sign of them.
Further on, they came to a clearing. In the middle of it lay the body of a Nassauer infantryman, face down, his back covered in congealed blood. Thinking it might be some sort of French trick, Macdonell halted the line and approached the body cautiously. A thick cloud of flies rose briefly from their work before settling back down on the corpse. He waved them away and turned the body over. The man’s face was covered in burn marks. Macdonell swore. The demands of war he understood. A soldier killed because he had to. It was his duty. But here a captured soldier had suffered for the amusement of the French and his body had been left as a warning to others. That was beyond his understanding. Damn them to hell.
They carried on through the wood until they reached its southern edge where trees gave way
to open land and, a little further on, a field of corn. They had seen neither Frenchman nor pheasant, just gruesome evidence of the enemy’s barbarity. Captain Hellman found Macdonell peering through his glass at the cornfield. ‘Any sign of them, Colonel?’ he asked.
Macdonell shook his head. ‘Can’t see any, but the corn is high. They might be in there.’ On three sides of them, cannon continued to hurl their deadly charges at enemies seen and unseen, explosions ripped through the morning air and men would be dying in their hundreds. Macdonell did not give it a thought. All his attention – his eyes and ears and mind – was focused on the field in front of him. He searched in vain for movement in the corn. There was none. The French infantry had withdrawn still further. He signalled the advance.
In a ragged line, the men of the light company and the Brunswickers moved forward into the open. If the French were hiding in the corn they would flush them out. If not, they would take up a position at the far end of the field and await orders. Beyond it a low hedge separated it from another wood.
The line had covered about fifty yards when there was a shout of warning from the left. Macdonell turned. Sergeant Dawson was bellowing at the top of his voice. From somewhere French cavalry had appeared. They were Lancers – probably the same troop they had encountered earlier – and must have been hiding in one of the many sunken lanes that criss-crossed the area, waiting for the light companies to emerge from the wood in line. A ragged, extended line at that.
It was a trap. Twenty horseman, lances extended, galloped towards them. There was no time to form squares. They had been caught in the open and would be slaughtered.
Waterloo Page 6