Waterloo

by Andrew Swanston

  ‘Run!’ Macdonell shouted, waving his arms and pointing back to the wood. The men needed no urging. The sight of French cavalry who would soon be close enough for them to see the grins on the riders’ faces and the bared teeth of their mounts was enough to send even the slowest of them running like rabbits back to the trees.

  Most of them made it. Some, Macdonell among them, did not. He had lagged behind to encourage the stragglers and was five yards from safety when the first of the Lancers reached them. The leading lancer must have seen his colonel’s epaulettes because he ignored the others and charged straight at Macdonell. He held his lance on his right side, his arm fully extended and ready to thrust its point into his prey’s face or chest. Macdonell turned towards him, stood with sword raised and watched him bearing down. To turn one’s back on a lancer was to invite certain death. The lance was no more than six feet from him when he hurled himself across the path of the horse. So late did he leave it that he felt the outside of the horse’s hoof touch the sole of his boot. He rolled over once and rose to his feet, the sword still in his hand. The lancer, with no time to react, galloped on until he could rein in his mount and turn back for the kill.

  Macdonell saw two men slain by merciless strikes of French sabres, one almost beheaded, the other speared through the back. Three others, including Sergeant Dawson, were desperately trying to reach the woods. He ran after them and would have made it had he not stumbled and fallen a few yards from the treeline. He was on his knees when he heard a shot and a lancer landed beside him. A bullet had entered the lancer’s head just above the left eye. A little dazed, Macdonell was struggling to his feet when two strong arms hoisted him up and dragged him to safety. ‘Now that was a trifle close for comfort,’ said a lilting Irish voice.

  Lying on the ground, Macdonell peered up into the man’s face. He could not tell. ‘Joseph?’ he muttered.

  ‘Bless you, sir, no. Joseph would more likely have shot you, his aim is so bad.’

  ‘James, then. My thanks. Help me to my feet, please, and we will see what is to be done.’

  Still dazed, Macdonell managed to stand. Harry Wyndham emerged from behind a tree. ‘Very acrobatic, Colonel. Are you hurt?’

  ‘I am not.’ The Lancers, doubtless disappointed at not catching more of the Guards, were milling about a hundred yards from the wood. They knew that was the extreme limit of a musket’s accurate range and the risk of a lucky shot was slight. ‘Tell them to hold their fire unless the brutes come closer,’ ordered Macdonell. They were quite safe where they were – trees and cavalry did not mix well.

  Macdonell could not be sure but he thought that the lancer who tired of doing nothing and trotted forward to within fifty yards of the treeline was the one who had first charged at him. He was shouting angrily and gesticulating with his sabre. He did not, it seemed, approve of their strategy of hiding in the woods. ‘Stupid frog,’ muttered Harry, raising a musket and firing. The lancer’s horse, shot through the neck, fell to the ground, shuddered and died. The lancer, beside himself with fury, ran towards them, shaking his fists and yelling something about ‘mon empereur’. Another shot rang out and the lancer fell. The man was a fool. Nor was he much good to his emperor now. ‘Now what, Colonel?’ he asked. ‘Wait for help to arrive or charge the bastards?’

  ‘I need half a dozen of our best sharpshooters,’ replied Macdonell. ‘Vindle was a poacher, if I’m not mistaken. Make him one of them.’

  Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Even Vindle won’t hit anything at this range.’

  ‘Then we shall have to make it easier for him. And have a hundred men hidden on the edge of the treeline, muskets cocked and ready to fire.’

  Among the six who presented themselves to Macdonell were Vindle and two others who had been convicted of poaching and sentenced to hang, only to escape the noose by joining the army. Poachers were good shots. Macdonell instructed them to check their muskets and to follow his orders exactly. ‘We will advance into the open, form up and, on my command, fire a volley. Aim for the horses. As soon as you have fired, run back here. Do not stop to help a fallen man, and if your musket slows you down remember that a wild-eyed Frenchman with a bloody great sabre is right behind you. Clear?’

  It was clear. Ignoring Vindle’s look of pure venom, Macdonell took the musket that Harry had prepared for him, lined up the six of them behind him, took one look round, let out an ear-shattering highland cry and dashed out into the field. The French cavalry simply sat on their horses and stared in astonishment. The volley, which brought down two horses and one rider, galvanised them. Macdonell and his shooting party were no more than halfway back to the woods when the Lancers charged.

  He had judged it nicely. As the seven men dived into the trees, a hundred musket balls struck their pursuers, bringing them down in a screaming heap. Ten men died instantly, and as many horses. The wounded, legs and arms lacerated and broken by musket balls and falling horses, did their best to scramble out of danger. It was as Macdonell had hoped. The French Lancers, true to their reputation for pride and impetuosity, had brought death upon themselves.

  From the safety of the trees they watched the Lancers turn their mounts and canter back through the cornfield towards the woods beyond. ‘Well, Colonel,’ said Harry Wyndham, standing beside Macdonell. ‘Fancy Lancers running away twice in one afternoon. Perhaps they feared you were about to sing one of your Scottish songs.’

  Macdonell pointed to a party of horsemen cantering towards them from the west. Their jackets were blue and gold and their blue shakos were adorned with red cockades. They were British Light Dragoons. ‘There is your reason, Harry. My tuneful singing had nothing to do with it.’

  As they approached, Macdonell stepped out of the trees. The Dragoon captain rode up to him. The flanks of his mount were glistening with sweat. ‘Colonel Macdonell?’ he inquired, holding his long, curved cavalry sword upright.

  Macdonell nodded. ‘I am Macdonell, Captain, and pleased to see you.’

  ‘We were told we might find you here, Colonel,’ said the captain. He pointed with his sword to the dead Lancers and horses. ‘Although it does not look as if you need our assistance.’ There was a thunderous explosion from the direction of the crossroads at Quatre Bras. The captain’s mount started in fright and did its best to throw him. It took the captain a good minute to bring the beast under control. ‘He’s been skittery all day,’ explained the captain. ‘And that must have been a shell hitting a powder wagon.’

  ‘Then let us hope that the powder was French.’

  ‘Indeed. Colonel, General Byng’s orders are for you to push on through the cornfield and into the woods. The 90th and a company of Jägers will attack the farm at Gemioncourt from the south and west. You are to clear the woods on this side of the farm.’

  Macdonell thanked the captain and wished him luck for the day. Harry was standing at his shoulder. ‘Ten minutes rest, check muskets, and then it’s more work for us, Harry. Pass the word. And find Captain Hellman.’

  Away to their right, the roar of cannon had intensified and another monstrous explosion ripped through the air, sending flames towering into the sky. With his musket slung over a shoulder and his hands over his ears, Captain Hellman appeared. ‘Colonel, you sent for me?’ he asked.

  ‘I did, Captain. We are ordered to cross the field and enter those woods, where the French are hiding. Would you and your men care to join us, or will you return to your battalion? It sounds as if you might be needed there.’

  Captain Hellman shook his head. ‘My men are foresters and farmers. They are at home in fields and woods. We will accompany you, Colonel.’

  ‘Very well. Five minutes more and we will advance.’

  They crossed the field at the double, every man keeping an eye open for French cavalry and ready to form square instantly. Much of the corn had been trampled by men and horses, making their advance easier. Where the corn ended, they came to a low hedge which concealed another narrow, low-lying lane. Macdonell led them along
it, keeping one bank of the lane and the wood on their left.

  A thin stream ran alongside the lane. Forgetting how close they were to the enemy, the men took turns to lie on their stomachs and used their hands and shakos to scoop water into their mouths. Biting the ends off powder cartridges turned a man’s mouth and throat to burning sand. Macdonell made no attempt to stop them. He had not fired many rounds, yet his own throat was as rough as pine bark.

  The worst of their thirst slaked, they moved on. At a point where the bank had crumbled, Macdonell sent Captain Hellman and his Brunswickers up and into the trees. In the gloom of the wood their black coats rendered them almost invisible.

  Further on he found another place where access to the wood was easy. He left half the company in the lane with Harry Wyndham with orders to stay there to cover their backs, and led the other half into the wood. At the top of the bank they spread out, crouching low and moving as quietly as the undergrowth allowed. At first the trees were widely spaced and thin, allowing light to penetrate the canopy and offering scant cover. Further in they became thick and dense. In the gloom, shapes and shadows danced among them. Here a man might easily fire at nothing or, more worryingly, at a friend.

  Macdonell was nervous. Very few men of the light companies had served in the American War. Like him, they had fought on plains and in mountains but never in woods like these. He hated fighting in the dark or where he could not see his enemy and these woods were dark and forbidding. And full of Frenchmen. Voltigeurs and tirailleurs would be lurking behind trees and in the undergrowth, eyes accustomed to the dark and muskets poised to spit a bullet into an enemy face. For all Macdonell knew, they were watching him now, waiting for a certain kill shot, just as he would have waited for such a shot on a Scottish hillside. A finger of fear ran down his spine. He took a deep breath and moved cautiously forward.

  They were fifty yards into the wood when a musket fired, echoing among the trees and bringing a howl of pain as it struck home. Then another, this time from a little behind and to the left. So the French were not evenly deployed but were scattered around the wood. Another musket fired from somewhere in the gloom ahead of him and a ball slammed into a tree no more than a hand’s breadth from his head. Voltigeurs, like light company men, always looked for the officers first. Suddenly the whole wood was alive with musket fire. Men yelled warnings and screamed in agony. Bullets tore into flesh and ripped bark from the trees. The voltigeurs had allowed them to enter deep into the wood and were now all around them. Shadowy blue figures slipped through the trees, using the smoke as cover, always on the move, pausing only to reload and fire. Outside the wood, where the sun still beat down on exhausted soldiers, cannon crashed and thundered, bringing instant death to unseen enemies. Inside it, in the shade of the trees, muskets cracked and spat and killed just as surely.

  Macdonell cursed. He should not have led them into this trap. He sensed a man at his shoulder. ‘It’s like shooting at ghosts, Colonel,’ said a lowland voice. Another shot whistled over their heads, close enough to make them duck behind a fallen oak.

  ‘It is, Sergeant. Any ideas?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel. Get among them with our bayonets. Slice a few faces and fillet some bellies. They’ll squeal like babes.’ Dawson was right. Hand-to-hand fighting would give them a better chance than waiting to be picked off by invisible sharpshooters. The problem was how to get among them. As if he had read his colonel’s mind, the sergeant continued, ‘If you call for a retreat, we could run back towards the edge of the wood where it is more open and hope they chase us. If they do, we will let them get close, then turn and charge.’ He paused and grinned. ‘Bayonets fixed, of course.’

  ‘And if they do not, at least we will have regrouped for another go at the brutes. Do your best to pass the word. Rapid retreat on my call in two minutes. Fix bayonets. Let them get close. Shriek like stuck pigs. Fear and panic. Halt at the lane. Turn and face them. One volley and charge.’

  Macdonell filled his lungs and shouted. ‘Fall back. Light companies retreat.’ Twice he shouted the order before clattering back through the undergrowth himself. He kept shouting to encourage the men to do the same and in the hope that the French would hear him and take an officer’s flight as a signal to give chase. All around him men sped back through the woods. Some stumbled and fell, others ripped their jackets on brambles, one stepped on a snare and howled in anguish when its iron teeth bit into his ankle. He managed to prise it open and hobbled after the others, cursing French poachers, French farmers and anything else French he could think of.

  Macdonell passed a man on his knees, fiddling with his musket. ‘Leave it, Private,’ he ordered. ‘Get back to the lane.’ The private looked up, startled. It was Vindle. Macdonell ran on. Idiot. If the French chopped him in half, it would be his own fault.

  A few yards further on he came to a small clearing. He had almost crossed it when a musket ball thudded into his back and sent him flying. Lying dazed on a heap of fallen leaves, he was aware of feet running past him. He struggled to his knees. There was no pain and no sign of blood. His pack had saved him. The charge must have been weak and the shot had buried itself in his blanket. He ran on.

  At the southern edge of the wood, all but a handful halted. A few, having either not received or having misunderstood the order, jumped into the lane. The rest halted, turned and waited for blue coats to appear.

  They soon did. Muskets flashed and men fell. The blue coats were everywhere but they used the thin trees as cover and did not come close enough. Macdonell wondered fleetingly if the plan was going to backfire. For a charge to be successful, they must lure the French nearer. If not, they would be back in the lane where the French would use them for musket practice.

  Some way to his left, he glimpsed movement in the trees. More dark coats. Beside him, James Hervey had also seen them and aimed his musket in their direction. As he pulled the trigger, Macdonell grabbed the barrel and pulled it skywards. The shot went high into the trees. Hervey looked at his colonel in astonishment. ‘Look again at those jackets, Ensign,’ said Macdonell.

  Hervey peered through the smoke. The jackets were not blue but black. Captain Hellman and his Brunswickers burst out of cover and charged through the trees. A second later, Macdonell and the light company did the same, followed by Harry Wyndham’s men who had scrambled up the bank to join them.

  Some of the French turned to face the threat to their flank. The others stood to take the full force of the light companies’ charge. None of them ran. They were brave men, well trained and proud.

  Macdonell held his sword extended, ready to slash or slice. He ran at the French and with a thrust of his long arm skewered a voltigeur, twisted his hand and pulled the sword from the man’s stomach. Blood spurted out. The Frenchman clutched the wound and collapsed. A backhand slash almost cut the next man’s arm in two. Around him, the light companies used bayonets, swords and their hands to kill and disable. The Graham brothers were fighting back-to-back, protecting each other’s rear, killing and wounding with bayonet and musket butt.

  A man beside Macdonell went down holding his shoulder. Another cursed as his musket misfired before taking the force of a French bullet in his mouth. A third leapt at a Frenchman who was struggling to reload. He drove his bayonet into the man’s throat and screamed in triumph. A moment later he too was dead, his neck half-severed by a French sword.

  A shout of warning from his left made Macdonell turn sharply. A French sabre was poised to split open his head. He ducked to one side and thrust the point of his sword into the man’s eye. The sabre fell to the ground but the Frenchman, to Macdonell’s astonishment, remained standing. He reversed his sword and smashed the handle into the man’s face. Bones broke and he too fell. He turned to see Henry Gooch, his face ashen white, staring at the dead Frenchman.

  Steel clashed on steel, men screamed and fell and blood splattered on the woodland floor. Macdonell saw Harry block a cutting slash and chop his sword down on his attacker’s neck. Fo
r a while the outcome hung in the balance. The French, attacked from two sides, fought bravely. But when the Brunswickers got round behind them, they were doomed. Their captain lay down his sword and called for his men to do the same. Reluctantly, they did.

  Macdonell took a moment to catch his breath. When he could speak clearly he ordered Harry to have all French muskets and ammunition collected and the wounded attended to. Those who could walk set off down the lane where they would come to the road back to Quatre Bras. Those who could not were given rum or gin and made as comfortable as possible. With luck, they would be found by medical orderlies.

  The French captain was waiting patiently to learn his fate. Macdonell scratched his head. What he was to do with a clutch of French prisoners when the light would soon be fading and he had no idea where the Guards would be spending the night, he did not know. ‘We could shoot them all,’ suggested Harry cheerfully.

  ‘Then we could eat them,’ added Captain Hellman, licking his lips and patting his stomach. ‘I expect they taste like poodles.’

  ‘I would rather you did not,’ said the French captain in perfect English.

  ‘Vous parlez bien, Captain,’ said Macdonell, taken by surprise.

  ‘Merçi, Colonel. However, we are your prisoners and I expect you to treat us honourably, just as we would treat you honourably if our roles were reversed.’

  ‘Like the poor wretch we found in the woods?’ asked Joseph Graham. ‘Tortured and murdered, he was, and by cowardly frogs.’

  The captain looked horrified. ‘I can assure you that my men would never commit such an act.’

  ‘Well someone did,’ growled James.

  Macdonell made a decision. ‘Captain Hellman, kindly escort the prisoners back to the crossroads. I believe it is in our hands all the way there. If you pass a medical wagon, tell them there are wounded here. And my thanks for your assistance.’

  ‘As you wish, Colonel. I will do as you say. Perhaps we shall meet again tomorrow.’