Waterloo

by Andrew Swanston

  ‘Now what?’ asked Harry when the Brunswickers had gone.

  ‘Now I’ll send word to General Byng and await further orders.’ From a pouch attached to his belt, he took a stick of graphite pencil and a small notebook. His report to the general said simply that they had cleared the wood and would shortly be encamping for the night. He tore out the page, folded the paper and peered through the last of the light for a man to take it back down the hill. A young private who looked no more than twelve was trying in vain to scrape blood off his jacket. He jumped up when Macdonell approached him. ‘Take this to General Byng, Private. You’ll find him at the crossroads.’ He tapped the private on the shoulder. ‘And no dallying in the inn.’

  The private took the paper and gave his colonel a gap-toothed grin. Despite having marched nearly thirty miles that day, having eaten little and faced French cavalry and artillery for probably the first time, the boy seemed pleased to be given the task. ‘Leave it to me, sir. I’ll be back before you know it,’ he said, smiling through a face streaked with powder and dirt. Macdonell watched him jump into the lane and trot off towards the road. The boy was as likely to carry out the task as anyone.

  They followed the line of the wood to the road, passing three dead French cavalry horses and their riders spreadeagled in a ditch. The sounds of war were gradually dying. Macdonell could not be sure that the 90th had retaken the Gemioncourt farm or where their front line was. To the east of the Charleroi Road he had been immersed in his own part in the battle. He had received one message from the Light Dragoon captain and knew from Captain Hellman that the crossroads were secure – or at least they were when the Brunswickers were sent to help him – but that was all. He badly needed accurate intelligence, or, better still, orders. Until they arrived, he would have to wait and hope.

  On its western side, the road was separated from the Bossu wood by narrow fields of rye. They chose a flat area near the wood to bivouac for the night. Here, too, lay the bodies of the dead. Macdonell ordered them cleared and pickets to be posted. Beside him, Harry glanced at the darkening sky. In the last of the light, black clouds were gathering. ‘If those are rain clouds, it won’t be a very comfortable night,’ he muttered.

  ‘No, Harry, it will not. And God knows where the enemy are skulking – in the woods, at the farm, in the next field – but we need rest. A wet night it will have to be. Post pickets, get fires lit and use blankets for bivouacs. Usual procedure – two blankets for four men. Muskets ready. No stacking in case we have to move quickly. Send a watering party back to the stream. Dawson was a butcher. Tell him to take the Grahams and cut what he can off those horses.’ Harry nodded and went to find the two corporals.

  Wriggling out of the straps that held his pack was always a pleasure. Macdonell stretched his back and sighed. Then he remembered the soldiers’ saying: ‘Every bullet has a billet’. He found the hole and put his index finger through it, opened the pack and rummaged around among his spare shirt and blanket. There it was. He pulled it out and squinted at it by the light of the fire. At first he did not notice. But then he realised. It was a British bullet, larger than a French musket could take. A French bullet could be used, at a pinch, in a British musket, but not a British one in a French musket. Could the French in the wood have been using captured guns?

  He sat cross-legged in the bivouac, tossing the bullet in his hand and trying to remember. Had he not passed Vindle on his dash out of the wood? Despite having been told to run for it, the idiot had stopped to reload. Vindle of all people. Why would he do that? You would expect him to be first out of the wood, not last.

  Unless he had a reason. Unless, for example, he had spotted an opportunity and wanted to get behind Macdonell. His haste to reload might explain the weak charge. He might have spilt some powder. Macdonell would not have entertained the thought of any other man, even Luke, being guilty of such an act, but Vindle … He had cause and it would not have been the first such incident in the army.

  The storm arrived with sudden and monstrous force. Thunder crashed and forks of lightning lit up the sky. Rain poured down and within a minute every man and every piece of equipment not under cover was soaked.

  Harry returned to the bivouac, an oilskin draped over his head. He had ordered a roll-call. The light companies had lost sixty-four men, dead, wounded or abandoned on the march from Enghien, and now, including officers, numbered two hundred and thirty-six.

  It had nearly been sixty-five lost. Macdonell slipped the bullet into his pocket. There was no proof, Vindle would protest his innocence and this was not the time to risk divisions among the men. He would wait for the right moment.

  Night had fallen when the watering party returned laden with kettles of water. Macdonell swallowed several gulps, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and belched loudly. ‘Sweet as a highland burn. Send another party to fill the kettles for the morning.’

  Lightning flashed, thunder rolled and the rain came down in sheets. Shivering soldiers huddled under their bivouacs and did what they could to keep themselves and their weapons dry. The pickets could not even do that. Out in the rye they crouched or lay flat, watching and listening for any sign of movement. If they sensed danger they would scuttle back to the camp.

  The two of them sat cross-legged under blankets stretched between branches cut from a tall beech hedge and listened to the rain splashing on the rye and on their meagre roof. ‘Anything to eat while we wait for the main course?’ asked Macdonell. Harry fished in his pouch and pulled out a chunk of hard tack.

  ‘Try that. The navy swear by it.’

  ‘So I believe.’ Macdonell shook a family of weevils out of the tack and broke off a corner. It was hard as stone and almost tasteless. ‘Glad I’m not a sailor.’

  ‘If the rain goes on like this, we’ll need sailors. It’ll be a naval battle.’

  As if the heavens had heard him, there was a break in the rain and a large figure emerged out of the darkness. ‘Saved the best for you, Colonel.’ James Graham handed Macdonell a chunk of horsemeat. ‘Juicy slice of rump.’

  ‘Thank you, Corporal. Is there enough for all?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A little each. I’ll save some for the sentries.’

  Harry nursed their fire to life and cut the meat in half with a knife. They skewered the two pieces on bayonets and held them over the flame. Their mouths filled with saliva. The meat was still raw and bloody when they took their first bites. While they chewed, the rest went back over the fire. ‘Boney was right about an army marching on its stomach,’ spluttered Harry with his mouth full. ‘The French always get better food than us because they steal it.’

  A shriek of pure, shivering agony split the night. And then sobbing, a man calling out to his God, and silence. The voice had been French. ‘They still die like us,’ observed James drily, ‘well fed or not.’ The wretched man must have been left for dead on the roadside.

  ‘That they do. Now, shall we share the night? You get some rest and I will wake you in three hours.’

  ‘I fear sleep will prove elusive, but I shall try. Wake me if there is any news. And make sure the pickets are alert.’

  ‘Of course.’ Harry pushed himself to his feet and went to inspect the camp, leaving James with enough room to stretch out his legs under the oilskin. In the distance thunder rumbled, warning that another storm was sweeping in from the west.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  17th June

  Sure enough, James did no more than doze and when Harry shook him gently he was more awake than asleep. ‘An hour after midnight, James,’ whispered Harry. ‘All quiet and the storm has passed. I have changed the pickets.’

  Macdonell stood up and very nearly fell down again. His head ached and his stomach heaved. He retched, spat out a piece of meat and tipped water from the kettle into his mouth. It steadied him a little. ‘Thank you, Harry. Time I stretched my legs. Has that private returned yet?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Lost, deserted or dead, I fear.’

  ‘Damn. I though
t he would serve. I’ll send another.’

  ‘Might be better to wait until morning.’

  James considered. Harry was right. It would be light in three hours. He would send another man then.

  The camp was quiet, although few were sleeping. It was a strange thing. A man could march all day carrying his musket and pack and wishing for nothing more than rest, yet, when the opportunity came, be unable to sleep. Eventually his mind and body would surrender but Macdonell had seen men go without sleep for two or three days and still be sharp and ready to fight.

  He found Sergeant Dawson sitting with his back against a tree. He had taken off his jacket and was dabbing with a piece of cloth at his arm. He scrambled to his feet when he saw Macdonell and held the cloth behind his back. ‘Sergeant Dawson, a wound?’

  ‘A scratch, Colonel, no more. Probably a thorn bush.’

  ‘Show me, please,’ insisted Macdonell. Reluctantly Dawson held out his arm. A long cut from elbow to wrist was dripping blood. ‘Thorn bush, Sergeant? French sword, I’d say. Why have you not had it bandaged?’

  ‘Didn’t seem worth it, Colonel. I’ll bind it up myself.’

  ‘Take it to a surgeon as soon as there’s one available. Let him sew it up.’

  Dawson blanched. ‘I hardly like to trouble a surgeon, Colonel. There’ll be many worse than me needing his attention.’

  ‘There will. But kindly do as I say. Understood?’

  The sergeant could not look his colonel in the eye. ‘Understood, Colonel,’ he mumbled.

  The Grahams were lying back-to-back in their bivouac. They were too tall to sit or squat under their blankets and were excused having to share with two others. He motioned to them not to stand and squatted down beside them. ‘Any sign of trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘None, Colonel,’ replied Joseph. ‘Frenchies are sleeping like babes.’

  ‘But you are not.’

  ‘No, Colonel,’ said James. ‘We are telling the stories our mother told us about imps and devils and ghostly creatures.’

  ‘Much more frightening than a few Frenchies,’ added Joseph, and laughed his gurgling laugh.

  ‘Better tell that to the young ones,’ replied Macdonell. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, we’re in for some hard fighting today.’

  ‘That we are,’ agreed James.

  ‘Don’t worry, Colonel,’ said Joseph. ‘We’ve good men in the company. They’ll look out for the boys.’

  Macdonell stood. ‘I know they will.’ He went from fire to fire, exchanging words with those awake and reminding them that a faulty flint or a damp charge could kill a man as surely as a French sabre.

  Without warning, there was a commotion from somewhere behind them. Macdonell made his way towards it, half-expecting a scuffle or an argument over a scrap of horsemeat.

  It was neither. The young private sent with his despatch to General Byng had hobbled into the camp and stumbled over a sleeping soldier. The soldier had panicked and assumed they were being attacked. Happily he had recognised the boy just in time. ‘Are you wounded, Private?’ asked Macdonell.

  ‘No, sir,’ gasped the boy. ‘My ankle twisted in a hole in the road. I did not see it.’

  ‘Did you deliver my despatch to the general?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The boy took a rolled sheet of paper from under his shirt and handed it to Macdonell. ‘This is the general’s reply.’

  ‘Did you see anything of the enemy?’

  ‘No, sir.’ That was something, at least. No Frenchmen behind them.

  Macdonell turned to the man who had been woken. ‘Get him food and water and put him on the first wagon going north.’ The private began to protest. ‘Enough, Private.’ Macdonell’s voice was sharp. ‘You’re no use to us if you can’t walk, let alone run.’ He turned and strode back to his bivouac.

  Harry was asleep. James unrolled the despatch and tried to read it. It was still too dark. He gave the fire a kick with his boot, sending sparks into the air, and exposing the ashes. When he held the paper close, they gave off just enough light.

  General Byng acknowledged Macdonell’s report and informed him that the French had been driven back down the Charleroi Road and instructed him to hold his position until ordered otherwise. There was no mention of advancing further. It was disappointing. James read it twice to be sure he had not misunderstood. They had forced the French back down the road whence they came. Somewhere out in the darkness, in the woods and fields and farms, Allied troops would be itching to chase them all the way back to France. Why not press home their advantage? He would let Harry sleep for another hour before waking him with the news.

  But for Harry and every other man in the camp there was no more sleep. An arrow of lightning lit up the night sky and thunder again rolled over their heads. Harry jumped up and grabbed his musket. ‘Only thunder, Harry,’ laughed Macdonell. ‘And we’ve had orders to stay put.’ He handed over the paper.

  Harry rubbed sleep from his eyes. ‘What about the Prussians? Those deserters said Napoleon was after them.’

  ‘No news, but Blücher will stand and fight. He always has.’

  ‘What if he stood and fought and lost?’

  ‘Old Blücher? Come now, Harry. No one hates the frogs more than the Prussians.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, James.’ Another flash of lightning and the rain arrived again. It poured down in sheets and soon the camp was a muddy bog. Men scrambled back into their bivouacs and lay on their muskets.

  For once, Harry’s good humour deserted him. ‘I’m heartily sick of this,’ he said, huddled again under their oilskin roof. ‘Damnable weather, damnable frogs. They could slip past us and be in Brussels before the rain stops. And we’ll never keep our muskets dry. Lie on them, point their barrels at the ground, wrap them in oilskin, they’ll still be wet.’ The first glimmerings of dawn were appearing. ‘Cup of gin all round? We’re likely in for another long day.’

  ‘Cup of gin it is. One only, mind.’ James picked up their kettle and tipped water into his mouth. A few drops ran down his chin. He wiped them off and inspected his hand. ‘Good God. It’s red. Where did it come from?’

  ‘The stream back beyond the farm,’ replied Harry.

  James sniffed his hand. ‘Blood. It was not there yesterday. It must have come from upstream. Human or horse, do you think?’

  ‘No idea. Didn’t taste too bad last night but I’ll stick to gin this morning.’ Harry reached into his haversack and pulled out a brown bottle. He took a gulp and offered it to James who was about to take it when a man appeared out of the half-light. He was panting.

  ‘Private Mills, Colonel, on picket duty. Heard men in the rye ahead. Coming this way.’

  ‘How many, Private?’ asked Macdonell.

  ‘Small party, sir, perhaps half a dozen. Voltigeurs, I daresay, come to take a look at us.’

  ‘Right. Harry, collect the ensigns and eight men and we’ll give them a surprise for their breakfast.’ The men were quickly assembled. ‘Lead on, Private. Show us where you heard them.’ They moved slowly and quietly forward into the rye, muskets primed and loaded and held across their chests, a hand over the breech to keep out the rain and taking care to keep their heads below the level of the stalks. Macdonell unsheathed his sword and held it loosely at his side. At first, he could hear nothing but the breeze. But when the private stopped and pointed a little to their left, he caught the tiniest hint of movement through the rye, perhaps thirty yards ahead.

  Macdonell nodded and signalled his men to fan out. If they could work their way round the voltigeurs, they could trap them like herring in a net. The Frenchmen would have expected sentries but must have thought they had avoided them. Whatever their purpose, they were alarmingly close to the camp.

  Harry led five men back and to the left, James the other six to the right. Dawn was breaking but overhead more thunder clouds were gathering. One moment it was light, the next as dark as pitch. The breeze was becoming a wind. Taking advantage of its covering noise, James risked moving f
aster and hoped Harry was doing the same. It would be a pity not to catch the fish.

  They circled the spot he thought the voltigeurs would have reached and he peeked over the rye. Through the rain he made out the back of a man’s head. He turned, lifted a finger to his lips and pointed. All six men nodded their understanding. He signalled for them to extend in line and move forward. They stood between the voltigeurs and their own lines. If Harry had managed to block their way forward, the Frenchies were as good as trapped.

  Macdonell rose to his full height and charged through the rye, yelling for the others to follow. A second later, Harry Wyndham did the same. Thirteen men, muskets at the ready, ran at the voltigeurs from every direction. And stopped. They were not voltigeurs. Voltigeurs did not wear red jackets with white cross-belts. They were Guards.

  Or at least they looked like Guards. At Albuera, Macdonell had very nearly been duped by a platoon of French infantrymen in British uniforms. Speaking in French, he asked the surrounded men to which battalion they belonged. There was no answer. He ordered them to put down their muskets. None of them moved. There was a lieutenant among them. ‘We are 3rd Foot Guards under the command of Colonel Hepburn,’ said the young man. ‘And, if I may ask, who the devil are you?’

  Macdonell ignored the question. ‘Then you are fortunate Foot Guards. You were close to being shot by the light companies of your own battalion. What are you doing creeping about here?’

  ‘Colonel Hepburn sent us out to check that there were no French behind us. We are camped a quarter of a mile further south at the edge of the wood.’

  ‘Are you now? Then you may escort me to Colonel Hepburn. Captain Wyndham will accompany us. The rest of you return to camp and await our return. Tell Sergeant Dawson where we are.’

  The bivouacs of the 3rd Foot Guards had been set up at the southern edge of the Bossu wood, where the Guards were lighting their fires and boiling their kettles. They found Francis Hepburn with a glass to his eye, sheltering under the branches of an oak and scanning the fields of rye that stretched south along the road to Charleroi. A young corporal stood beside him. ‘Damned if I can see anything in this rain,’ said Hepburn, passing the glass to the corporal, ‘You have a look, Corporal.’ Hepburn turned and saw them. ‘Well, damn me if it isn’t Colonel Macdonell and Captain Wyndham. I was wondering where you had got to. Corporal, find some tea for our guests.’