‘I assume you cleared the wood, Francis,’ said James.
‘We did. Bloody work. Saltoun’s battalion took heavy losses. At times there seemed to be a frog behind every tree. And telling friend from foe was not easy. Nasty fighting, but the Hanoverians are holding it now. No danger of the frogs attacking from there. And you, James, bloody work as well?’
‘It was. Nearly fifty men lost, but the ground is secure as far as the Gemioncourt Farm.’
‘Which the 90th now hold. And not a frog in sight. Do you suppose they have gone home?’
‘No.’ James peered into the distance. ‘They’re not far away and we’ll see them again today.’ The corporal returned with two mugs of tea. James took a sip and raised his eyebrows. ‘Excellent tea, Francis. Where did you get it?’
Hepburn blushed. ‘Er, Daisy gave it to me before we left. Said it would remind me of her.’
‘And does it?’
‘It does. Now, I suggest you strike camp and bring the light companies down here so that we are all ready to move off when the order to advance comes. It shouldn’t be long.’
Far to the south a cannon cracked and moments later an eight-pound ball landed twenty yards in front of them. Had the ground been dry it would have bounced and might have killed all of them. Fortunately, it stuck in the sodden earth and did no damage. ‘A shot to clear the barrel,’ said Harry, wiping his brow with a sleeve, ‘and the sooner we get at them the better.’
More cannon fired and more round shot plummeted into the ground in front of them or smashed against trees, sending shards of timber and bark flying through the camp. One man shrieked and fell to the ground with a twelve-inch needle sticking out of his arm. ‘They are only clearing their throats,’ shouted Hepburn. ‘Lie flat until it’s done.’ He turned to James. ‘And we’d better do the same.’
They lay on the ground under cover of the wood and waited for the throat-clearing to finish. ‘Will you return fire?’ asked James.
‘No,’ replied Francis. ‘Waste of ammunition and the peer disapproves of what he calls long-distance duelling. Likes us to save our best for the infantry.’
For thirty minutes cannon fired, rain fell in torrents and drenched men found what shelter they could from both. It was still raining when a small troop of Light Dragoons came cantering down the road. Their captain dismounted and led his mount to the edge of the woods. Over his uniform he wore an oilskin cloak and carried a messenger bag, also oilskin. He tethered his horse and approached the camp. ‘I have urgent orders for Colonel Hepburn from General Byng,’ he announced, taking a packet from his bag. ‘And I am told Colonel Macdonell commanding the light companies is also here.’
Francis strode up to the dragoon. ‘I am Colonel Hepburn, Captain. And this is Colonel Macdonell.’
The captain handed his packet to Francis. It was rolled in oilskin and tied with cotton thread. General Byng was taking no chances with the rain. ‘Your orders, sir,’ said the Dragoon. ‘And now we will go to the farmhouse.’
‘Are the orders for the 90th the same?’ asked James.
‘They are, Colonel.’
That was encouraging. A general advance down the road to Charleroi, where the French would be chased back over the river. Francis unwrapped it and extracted a single sheet of paper. It did not take him long to read the order. Without a word he passed it to James. Then he swore. ‘Bugger it, James. We’ve cleared the frogs out of the woods and fields, taken the farmhouse, sent them packing and held the road north. Why in the name of our German king are we now being ordered to withdraw?’
‘Francis,’ replied James with a shrug of resignation, ‘I have no more idea than you. But the order is clear and emphatic. We are to return with our companies to Quatre Bras at once.’
‘Damn and blast. God knows what the men will make of it. Bloody fighting, comrades killed and wounded, and now we are to turn tail and run for it.’
‘It says withdraw, not run.’
‘Bloody withdraw, then. What’s the difference?’
Macdonell did not reply. ‘I must return to my company, Francis. Thank you for the tea.’
Back they trudged, splashing through puddles, unable to think of anything to say. Harry gave the order to strike camp and make ready to march. ‘Going to chase the frogs back to Paris, are we?’ asked James Graham, rubbing his hands. He and his brother had come through the day unharmed.
‘It seems not, Corporal,’ replied Harry. ‘At least not yet. We are returning to the crossroads.’
‘Won’t find many frogs there,’ growled Joseph, ‘except the green ones they eat.’
The French artillery, now fully awake, had started up again, and their Gunners were firing at the woods, the road and the Gemioncourt farm. On top of the cannonade, thunder boomed, lightning flashed and miserable soldiers packed up their bivouacs, collected their few possessions together, helped each other into their sodden packs and prepared to march. Having taken all the ground for the best part of a mile south of the Quatre Bras crossroads, they were now, it seemed, going to give it back.
The road was thronged with men, horses and artillery heading north. Behind them French guns fired at their backs as if mocking their retreat, and all along the roadside the bodies of the dead lay heaped. Blue uniforms, the black of the Brunswickers, green Riflemen, kilted Highlanders, the blue of the French Infantry and the red of their Hussars. Bodies crushed, mangled, butchered. Skin flensed from faces and hands. Horses, gun carriages, muskets, swords – the tools of war. And, here and there, a woman – a soldier’s wife who had remained at her husband’s side. The looters had already been out – packs lay open and discarded, pockets emptied and jackets cut from backs – rich pickings for the scavengers.
At the crossroads it was worse. The dead and dying lay together on the road, propped against blood-spattered walls, and in doorways. Exhausted medical staff were still hard at work, moving from body to body, searching for signs of life. The wounded were heaped onto wagons to be sent north, the dead piled in gardens and on patches of bare ground. A kilted Highlander whose left arm was a bloody stump sat, silent and blank-eyed, watching his leg being sawn off. Mutilated horses were despatched with a single musket shot. Soldiers trudged through the village, too weary to do more than put one foot in front of the other. Knots of infantrymen from the 28th and 32nd regiments sat, silent and unmoving, around improvised campfires. And from everywhere came the sounds of men and women weeping.
General Cooke had set up his headquarters in a room of the farm, which was also being used as a hospital. There Macdonell found him, seated, head in hands, at a plain pine table. Beside him stood General Byng, General Maitland, Lord Saltoun and Colonel Woodford. Francis Hepburn was there too, having ridden hard in his impatience to find out what was happening. A map was spread out in front of them. ‘Ah, Macdonell,’ General Cooke greeted him, ‘I am delighted to see you unharmed. What is your strength?’
‘Two hundred and thirty-six, General, including officers,’ replied Macdonell, ‘Sixty-four dead or wounded. What is our present situation?’
Cooke cleared his throat. ‘We have taken heavy losses, but so have the French. Yesterday, however, Field Marshal Blücher and his Prussians were engaged by the French under Buonaparte at the town of Ligny.’ He pointed to the map. ‘They were badly mauled and forced to retreat.’
So that was it. The retreating Prussians had left Wellington’s left flank exposed. If his centre did not also retreat, it would be cut off and destroyed. ‘Have the Prussians gone east or north?’ asked Hepburn.
‘A good question, Colonel,’ replied Byng. ‘We do not know. We do know, however, that Blücher has given his word to the Duke that he will wheel to join our main force.’
‘And the sooner the better,’ added Maitland.
‘Meanwhile, gentlemen,’ went on Cooke, ‘you are to lead your battalions north up the road to Brussels, towards the town of Waterloo. South of the town, the Duke is establishing a strong defensive position on a ridge known as Mo
nt St Jean. That is where we shall next meet Buonaparte.’ Macdonell and Hepburn turned to leave. ‘One more thing, Colonel Macdonell,’ said Cooke. ‘You will have cavalry cover, but I want the light companies at the rear of the line.’
‘Of course, General.’ The rear of the line was the most dangerous position in a withdrawal, and this would be a fighting withdrawal. Macdonell expected nothing less than that his light companies would bear the brunt of it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
For the present they were out of range of the French artillery, and the rain, thankfully, had eased. Macdonell stood with Harry and watched the sad procession heading north. Regiment after regiment converged on the crossroads and streamed back up the Brussels road. Dutch Nassauers, German Jägers, Brunswickers and Hanoverians, Dragoons and Militia, followed by General Picton’s 5th Division, General Cooke’s 1st and General Alten’s 3rd. Thousands of soldiers heading miserably back the way they had come. Their white trousers turned pink by the dye running from their red jackets somehow made the spectacle even worse. It was as if the jackets themselves were weeping.
Once again, the road was jam-packed with men and horses, artillery and carts, the injured and the exhausted. Wagons carrying the most seriously wounded followed each regiment, clanking over the rough road and through the blankets of dust thrown up by marching feet. For all the rain that had fallen, the road was still hard and dry. Artillery pieces were dragged along by teams of tired horses. Officers dismounted to give their mounts a rest. Villagers – squat, round-faced, glum – watched in silence. The British and their allies were leaving. Very soon French soldiers would arrive, take what they wanted and march on. It had happened before.
‘Did we lose the battle?’ asked Harry. ‘And there was I thinking we had done exactly what the peer asked of us and pushed the frogs back down the road to France.’
‘Neither won nor lost, I suppose,’ replied James. ‘But the next battle we must win. I doubt we’ll get another chance.’
‘If we have to fight without the Prussians, it won’t be easy. Outnumbered, outgunned and outsupplied we’ll be.’
‘Not to mention having an army made up of Dutchmen, Belgians and Germans as well as us. I hear that the Duke has even rounded up some companies from the Indies. Perhaps their black faces will frighten the frogs.’
‘West Indies or East Indies?’ asked Macdonell, who had served for a year in the Caribbean.
‘No idea, James. Both, hopefully. We’ll need every one of them.’
It was no time for defeatism. ‘Come along now, Harry,’ said James. ‘We have work to do.’
The light companies had found a small stand of trees to the west of the village, in which to settle down and light their fires. As usual, the Grahams were sitting together with mugs of tea in their hands. They rose to greet the colonel. ‘Tea, Colonel?’ asked Joseph. ‘I fear we have nothing stronger.’
Macdonell laughed. ‘I’ll wager you have, Corporal. But keep it for later. You will need it.’ A third man had been sitting with the brothers. He looked familiar. ‘And who is this?’ asked Macdonell.
‘Private Lester, Colonel,’ replied the man. ‘Third Foot Guards, light company.’
Macdonell remembered. The man who had so nearly defeated James Graham at Enghien. ‘Recovered from the fight, Corporal?’
‘Yes, thank you, Colonel. Lucky punch, no more. James was beaten otherwise.’
‘You fought well, Lester. As we all must tomorrow or the day after.’
‘Will Boney attack, sir?’ asked Joseph.
‘He will, you may count upon it. The risk he took in splitting his own force has paid off. Now he has split ours by defeating the Prussians. He will march to join Marshal Ney in a full assault on us.’
‘Will their strength be greater, Colonel?’ asked Lester.
‘It will, but in numbers only. In all other ways we will of course be superior. Shall we not, Corporals?’ Given the raw inexperience of so much of the Allied army, it was a doubtful proposition, but necessary.
‘That we shall, Colonel.’ The brothers spoke as one.
‘We are to march at the rear of the line,’ Harry told them. ‘We shall have cavalry cover, of course, and our job is to keep the frogs at bay.’
‘We expected as much,’ said James Graham. ‘Someone has to do it and it might as well be us.’
‘Indeed,’ replied Macdonell. ‘Be ready to move off by noon. Pass the word and tell them to eat and drink what they can. There will be no stopping once we go.’
A fighting retreat was notoriously difficult to carry off successfully. Look what had happened on the march to Corunna – loss of discipline, disorder and a retreat very nearly turned into a rout. He had not been there himself but he had heard enough from those who had. Here they would not be climbing mountains and wading through snow, but with the French cavalry in hot pursuit, it would be tempting to go too fast. That was the risk. If marching men became running men, they would be lost.
Much would depend on the cavalry shielding them. Forming square would not be easy on the march, and even if they managed it, they would fall behind the main body and might be cut off. He would order it only as a last resort. And if the French brought their artillery up quickly enough, they would be sitting ducks for their Gunners. Buonaparte himself had been an artillery man and had always insisted on training, training and more training for his gun teams. That was why they were so devastatingly accurate.
Macdonell looked at his pocket watch. It was eleven o’clock. Ney’s voltigeurs would soon discover that the farm at Gemioncourt had been abandoned and the woods deserted. Even Ney – the bravest of the brave, they called him, and just as headstrong – would be wary of a trick. He would, of course, know that the Prussians had been routed, but feigned retreats, just like the one the guards had conducted in the woods, were not uncommon. That would hold him up for a while, but it would not be long before his cavalry scouts came to reconnoitre. Once Ney was sure that the Allies really were leaving, he would send his artillery forward to bombard the village. The light companies, at the rear of the column, had better be on their way before that happened.
The word came at fifteen minutes before noon. The light companies of the Coldstream and 3rd Foot Guards were to follow the 1st Battalion out of Quatre Bras and to fall back slowly on the village of Genappe, guarding the right wing of the retreating army. Two battalions of Brunswickers would be on the left. A squadron from the 2nd Brunswicker Hussars would cover them. An army that frequently did things badly was managing the withdrawal with calm competence.
Macdonell’s mule had disappeared but his charger had survived and been stabled in the village. He brushed himself down, mounted and watched the companies preparing to march. Harry Wyndham, assisted by the ensigns, supervised their formation – some one hundred and thirty pairs, deployed behind and to the right of the Brunswickers. They must move forward whilst watching their backs and be ready to protect themselves and those in front of them against attacks by French cavalry – a cavalry doubtless abrim with confidence at seeing the backs of their enemies and all too anxious to get amongst them with lance and sabre. The dream of every lancer and cuirassier in the French army.
Macdonell allowed himself a moment of pride. They had marched more than twenty-five miles on little sleep or food, fought in the rye and in the woods for four hours, withstood attacks by cannon and cavalry, been fried by the sun and drenched by the rain and suffered torments of dust and thirst. Yet few heads were down. Their work was far from over and they would keep going until it was.
Two miles on and, as if knowing that the last of the army had left the shelter of the village, the heavens opened again. Down came the rain, threatening to render muskets and cartridges useless. Every man did his best to keep them dry but until they were tested he would not know if he had succeeded. By then it might be too late. Shoes splashed through puddles and water streamed off shakos. They could not stop. To do so might be fatal.
Macdonell could see for no more
than two hundred yards. He turned his mount and cantered back along the road for about half a mile. Peering through the gloom, he saw no sign of cavalry and quickly rejoined the column. ‘Anything?’ asked Harry, wiping his eyes.
‘Nothing. How far to Genappe, Harry?’
‘About two miles, I think. An hour at this pace. Keep them moving but slow and steady. No point in coming up against the traffic in front.’
It was still pouring down when they reached the outskirts of Genappe. There the Hussars rode a short way back down the road. Macdonell ordered the light companies to take up defensive positions guarding the entrances to the village. If the French arrived he could only hope that their muskets would fire.
In the village, he found the inevitable chaos. The narrow streets were crammed with men and wagons and angry officers barked orders as their horses shied at the crush of bodies around them. It would take time to clear a route. Like it or not, the light companies would have to stay where they were, keeping watch and keeping out of trouble.
Gradually the rain eased. Harry ordered muskets fired and flints checked. There was no shortage of water to wash down a dry biscuit or a scrap of meat; those who had some took a mouthful or two of gin or rum, and he gave permission for jackets to be removed and shaken out. His own trousers had shrunk so much that he feared he would have to cut them off. Sergeant Dawson went from group to group, examining muskets and counting cartridges. Macdonell saw him and remembered. ‘Sergeant Dawson,’ he called out. ‘Have you had your arm treated?’
The sergeant jumped. ‘Quite forgot, Colonel,’ he said sheepishly, ‘I’ll do it at the next opportunity.’
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