In the garden, Harry Wyndham’s troops still lined the walls, desperately beating back every French assault with musket and blade and fist, while the Dragoons waited and watched from the safety of the treeline.
Seeing, hearing, speaking, even thinking, became harder with each round shot, each shell, each musket ball. They brought not only death and disfigurement but mind-numbing, ear-shattering noise and smoke so foul and dense that a man could barely keep his eyes open or take a breath without retching.
On both sides of the walls men died. The luckiest were dead before they fell. Many lay helpless and pleading for release from their agony. Some of the French even called on their enemies to shoot them. One heap of bodies grew so high that a fearless Frenchman, ignoring the screams of pain under his feet, clambered up it to get to the top of the wall. He leant over to take aim only to fall back onto the heap with blood pouring from his throat.
And on it went. Somewhere in the valley of smoke, now invisible even from the tower of the chateau, the battle for Hougoumont was being replicated a thousand times. Cannon fired, men died and very soon Buonaparte would unleash his cavalry. Macdonell forced that persistent and intrusive thought from his head. Hougoumont must be held.
The bombardment ended suddenly. One minute round shot was crashing into the walls of the chateau and the farm buildings, the next the guns were silent. Despite the noise of the battle being fought away to their left, for the newest of the guards it was an eerie moment of relief. For the veterans, the silence was a warning.
Miraculously, the gate was still standing. Its thick oak timbers had stood up to French cannon. Now it would have to stand up to another attack by French muskets. The assault was coming.
Macdonell yelled for the barricades to be strengthened, all muskets to be checked and a cup of gin issued to each man. Sergeant Dawson, his face black from powder and smoke, supervised the distribution. Harry Wyndham, in the garden, went from man to man with a few words of encouragement and warning. For all his lack of experience, he too knew what was coming.
Henry Gooch, his mouth bloody from a French fist, had his men collect more broken timbers and rubble and use them to strengthen the south gate. In the chateau, the farm, the garden and the orchard, some seven hundred exhausted, filthy, parched men made ready. From the top of the tower came the sound of singing, hoarse and rough, but more or less in tune and accompanied by a child’s whistle. ‘Lilliburlero’ again. Joseph Lester was not the only musician at Hougoumont.
The faces of the troops who advanced from the wood were unmarked by powder or smoke and their uniforms were clean. Fresh men – perhaps a full battalion – as many as Macdonell had under his command. In extended line from the western edge of the wood, along the walls of the farm and garden as far as the Dragoons opposite the orchard, officers mounted, infantry poised with muskets primed and loaded, they waited for the order to charge.
Inside the walls, every man stood ready. A musket peeped from each loophole, the fire steps were manned and every roof and window hid three or four of the light companies’ best sharpshooters. Macdonell had instructed them not to expose themselves to the first French volleys and to fire only when the enemy were at the walls.
He did not see or hear the order. Without warning, the French charged forward, firing at windows and loopholes, allowing those behind them to pass, reloading, advancing and firing again. The manoeuvre was well executed and met with little resistance. Very few of the defenders panicked and fired too soon. The front rank of the French had reached the walls and those behind them were in the middle of the clearing before the Guards opened fire. Their first volley, from muskets carefully cleaned and loaded, found scores of targets. The second found even more, piling yet more dead and wounded onto the heaps outside.
But every musket had to be reloaded and the Guards were tired. Shaking fingers fumbled with cartridge and ball, eyes half-blinded by smoke missed their aim and the French came on. Henry Gooch was beside Macdonell, firing over the corner of the garden wall where it turned towards the house, from where they had a good view of the clearing, the woods and the south gate. ‘Eight hundred, at least, Colonel, do you not think?’ he spluttered through his swollen mouth.
‘I do, Mister Gooch. Eight hundred fully occupied here, so not available elsewhere.’ He took a loaded musket from a private behind them, cocked it, aimed quickly and fired. Another Frenchman died. ‘Subtlety was never Boney’s strong point. Men, men and more men is his motto.’ He took another musket and fired again, wincing from the jolt to his wounded arm. ‘All the more targets for us.’
‘Shall we be reinforced?’ asked Gooch, taking another loaded musket and firing.
Macdonell wiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘That will depend upon what is happening elsewhere. No doubt General Byng will send them if he can.’ A shot fizzed past his ear. ‘Meanwhile, we keep them out of Hougoumont.’
Such was the weight of fire thundering into them that Macdonell expected the attackers’ discipline to collapse into chaos. Yet, for all their losses, it did not. There was no sign of panic or retreat. Man after man reached the gate or the walls, fired through the loopholes and windows and climbed up to shoot down into the yard. They hacked at the gate with picks and axes, searching for a weak spot, while in the clearing behind them their officers sat tall in their saddles, inviting shots from the tower and the roofs and diverting fire away from them. Many fell. They were soon replaced and more attackers emerged from the wood. Jérôme had decided that this would be his final, successful attack.
Inside, the Guards too were falling. No longer was there a man to step forward when another fell and there was little time to reload. Where once there had been two men on each step, now, more often than not, there was one. The line was spread alarmingly thin. Macdonell looked to his left, wondering whether he dare leave his position to find out what was happening in the garden and orchard, when the butt of a French musket caught him a blow on the temple. He fell back, scrambled to his feet and smashed the hilt of his sword into the face that appeared over the wall. He put his hand to his temple. There was no blood but he could not focus his eyes and his head felt as if it had been stuffed with straw. He bent double, hands on knees, and breathed slowly. Gradually his vision cleared but the straw did not. Muskets, cannon, howitzers, the cries of dying men and terrified horses close by and far off piled one on top of the other inside his head.
He had a mouthful of water in his canteen. He managed to open it and tip the contents down his throat. It helped a little. A hand holding a tin cup appeared in front of his face. Unthinkingly, he took it and drank. It was gin. ‘I thought you could do with it, Colonel,’ said a voice. Macdonell tried desperately to focus his eyes. It was Sergeant Dawson. He nodded his thanks and climbed back onto the step. The straw was disappearing. He took a musket and fired at a French head. It exploded in a fountain of blood. That too helped. He could still kill Frenchmen.
A private, black from head to toe and nursing a broken right arm, arrived at the wall. He tapped Macdonell on the shoulder. ‘Beg pardon, Colonel. Captain Wyndham’s compliments and he says he will not be able to keep the French out of the garden much longer. The buggers are in the orchard again.’
‘Thank you, Private. Can you still fire a musket?’
‘No, sir, but I can load one and I can piss down a barrel to cool it.’
‘Good. Tell Captain Wyndham that I have asked for reinforcements. Until they come, he must hold the garden.’
Now what? Sacrifice the garden and bring Harry’s men back to the farm? What then about Saltoun? He would have to withdraw too, or make for the sunken lane. Macdonell could certainly not reinforce either of them.
From somewhere in the wood a howitzer barked. Its shell flew over the south gate and exploded over the yard, hurling sixty iron balls from its thin case. The balls struck with the strength of a musket shot at short range, killing six Guards outside the chateau and wounding more in the yard. Another bark and another explosion and more men fe
ll. Jérôme, still careless of the safety of his own troops, had lost patience. Knowing that the Guards could not seek shelter from his guns and defend the walls at the same time, he had decided to blow them to bits – bits of bone, bits of flesh, bits of bodies. The yard was splattered with them.
From the slope behind them, General Byng’s cannon and Major Bull’s howitzers returned fire but they were firing blindly into the wood, hoping for a lucky shot. They could not pinpoint exactly where the French guns were nor could they risk firing into the clearing. Round shot or even shells landing short might do the French the favour of breaching the wall.
An axe thudded into the gate. Through the storm of noise Macdonald heard it splinter. He looked over the wall. A hole had appeared in the planking and the French were elbowing each other aside in a race to break through it. Two blue jackets had clambered onto the roof of the shed and were wrestling with a Guard. The Guard managed to push one of them off but the other flattened him with a punch to the jaw. He too fell into the melee below. The blue jacket raised his arms and bellowed in triumph before a musket shot tore into his back and he fell.
Cannons roared. Round shot crashed into the chateau and the farmer’s house and more men died. An eight-pound ball bounced into the base of the tower, tearing a great chunk out of the brickwork. Another landed on the stable on the west side, ripped through the roof and sent Guards dead and alive flying into the yard.
Along the walls, the Coldstreams were fighting a brutal battle for survival – shooting, hacking, smashing, skewering. But the French numbers had started to tell. Inside the farm and garden, bodies lay strewn in the yard and on paths and flower beds. It could not be much longer.
Behind Macdonell, another voice spoke. ‘They are on their way, Colonel.’ For a moment, Macdonell, still dazed, thought the man was talking about the French. ‘Reinforcements, Colonel. On their way. General Byng says so.’ The fog cleared. It was Lester.
‘Thank you, Private.’ Battalions of reinforcements, hopefully, and without a minute’s delay. Hougoumont was held, but by a thread.
The attackers had found their way around the west side of the farm and were threatening the north gates again. James Hervey was there with the Grahams and his troop. The French would not find it easy to break through those gates for a second time but that would not stop them trying. If nothing else, it tied up Guards who could have been used elsewhere.
The three companies which charged down the slope from General Byng’s position were led by Charles Woodford. Outside the north gates they drove into the enemy, hurtling them back down the west lane past the large barn. At the south wall, Macdonell heard the cheers and could not stop himself rushing to see what they were for. The French were disappearing into the woods and taking their cannon with them. He found the small west gate open and Woodford’s troops pouring into the yard.
‘Hard fighting we’ve had, Charles,’ said Macdonell by way of greeting. ‘You are not a moment too soon.’
‘I know,’ replied Woodford. ‘We could see some of it from the hill. The general was wondering whether to send us down when your man arrived. Good fellow, did well to get to us.’
Charles Woodford, colonel of the 2nd Battalion of the Coldstreams, was Macdonell’s superior. ‘Would you care to take over command, Charles?’ he asked. It was the proper thing to do.
‘Certainly not. You will remain in command. Where would you like us?’
A little surprised, Macdonell took a moment to gather his wits. ‘Harry Wyndham is under pressure in the garden. Two companies there, if you would. The other along the south wall.’ A shell exploded overhead, scattering its contents like lethal hailstones. ‘It’s safer by the walls.’
‘Very well. I will join Harry. General Byng is sending Francis Home with two companies from the 2nd Battalion to clear the frogs out of the orchard and the hedges around the lane. Two supply wagons have tried to reach you. Both were destroyed.’ Woodford gave the orders and led two of his companies to the garden.
Three hundred fresh men made an immediate difference. The French could not withstand the force of their fire and were driven back into the woods. Lt Colonel Home, easily recognised on his white horse, led the attack on the lane and the orchard from north of the Nivelles Road. His two companies took the French by surprise and soon chased them back to join their comrades in the woods. Once again, the whole enclosure, including the orchard, was in their hands.
Like two exhausted prizefighters, both sides paused for breath. Even the French artillery, perhaps awaiting ammunition supplies, was silent. It was as if Prince Jérôme, his every attempt on Hougoumont so far having come to naught, was considering what to do next.
James Macdonell, however, knew exactly what to do. Clear the dead from the yards and buildings, get the wounded to the barn, check muskets and ammunition, repair defences. Before the French came again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
To the east, all along the low ridge that straddled the Brussels road, Buonaparte’s heavy cannon had been blasting away since soon after his brother had opened fire on Hougoumont. Having given his orders, Macdonell climbed the steps to the top of the tower. His glass had long since been lost but from there he would still get some view of the battlefield, albeit only through breaks in the foul smoke that filled the valley between the ridges. It was smoke so dense that a man might think he could reach out and grab a handful of it.
The four men at the window were cleaning their muskets and replacing their flints. They had had a relatively easy time of it so far, the nearest round shot having passed by the tower and over the north wall. Macdonell told them to ignore him and carry on with their preparations.
Over the wood, so many of its oaks now leafless and broken by Major Bull’s howitzers, he looked out towards the inn at La Belle Alliance – the inn they had passed on the retreat from Quatre Bras less than twenty-four hours earlier, although it seemed like months ago. Squadrons of French artillery lined the low ridge as far as he sould see. Black smoke erupting from a gun barrel signalled yet another heavy shot on its way to the Allied lines where it would kill and maim the miserable troops standing or crouching in square against the threat from the Lancers and cuirassiers hovering below the ridge and dashing up to harass them. Artillery, cavalry, infantry. It was the order of battle.
There was very little response from the Allied artillery. Wellington abhorred what he called ‘long-range duels’ and the commander of an artillery squadron fired back at his own peril. The Dutch and Belgian battalions stationed on the south side of the ridge had disappeared – withdrawn perhaps but more likely destroyed. How long would the Duke allow this to go on? His infantry were doing no more than provide the French Gunners with target practice. Surely he would counter-attack soon.
To the north the fields beyond the orchard were seething with voltigeurs and tirailleurs, no longer hidden by the corn, which had been entirely trampled and flattened. They would be in the hedgerows, too, around the sunken lane and in the woods to the east. When Jérôme gave the signal, they would attack again.
Macdonell was about to leave the tower when, from beyond the Brussels road, he thought he caught the faint sound of drums beating the pas de charge. He could not see over the rise in the ground as it neared La Haye Sainte but the road was a good half-mile away and the wind blowing from the west. If he was right, there were hundreds of drums beating, which meant thousands of troops. Wellington’s line was about to be attacked by columns of infantry. He hurried back down the steps.
Sergeant Dawson was at the south gate with Henry Gooch, whose face was now so swollen that he could not speak at all. They had nailed a plank across the hole in the gate and found more timbers to reinforce it. ‘No frogs coming in this way, Colonel,’ said Dawson cheerily. The little man looked like a chimney sweep.
‘Any problems, Sergeant?’
‘None, sir. Poor Mister Gooch is lost for words, so I am doing all the talking.’ Gooch shrugged and nodded.
It was the same in th
e chateau, where the wounded now occupied the hallway, and in the garden, where Charles Woodford’s men, still recognisable as Guards, had joined Harry Wyndham’s around the wall. Harry, too, looked as if he had been wallowing in mud. ‘Grateful for the help, James,’ said Harry, ‘but we’re very short of ammunition. Don’t suppose there’s much chance of getting any more, is there?’
‘I doubt it, Harry,’ replied James. ‘The frogs are all around the lane. Have you recovered what you can from the casualties?’
‘We have but it will not last long. Is there anything else to hand? Crossbows, javelins, slingshots?’
Macdonell laughed. ‘Afraid not. You’ll just have to hope that the frogs take fright and run away when they see you.’
‘I thought I heard the pas de charge.’
‘You did. Boney’s infantry are on the move. Best be ready for another attack.’
‘We are ready, James. Let them come.’
With a twinge of guilt, Macdonell realised that apart from his brief sleep, he had not yet visited the barn, where most of the wounded had been taken. He left the garden and made his way to the north yard.
In the barn at least a hundred men stood, sat and lay on straw soaked with blood, urine and excrement. As good as his word, the surgeon and his assistants were attending first to those with minor wounds. Cuts from bayonets or swords were stitched and bandaged. With their fingers or a pair of forceps, they probed for musket balls in stomachs and chests, being careful to keep the patient as near as possible to the position he was in when he was shot. Most balls were safely extracted and many of the wounded went straight back to the battle. Arms and legs from which a ball could not be extracted had been removed and thrown onto a heap in the corner. The little French drummer boy sat beside it, his head on his knees, sobbing quietly. The surgeon glanced up from removing a shattered finger and saw Macdonell looking at them. ‘It is my practice to amputate as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘It reduces the chances of suppuration and gangrene. That and the generous letting of blood saves many lives.’ The finger came off and joined the pile in the corner. Macdonell nodded. He knew nothing of medical matters and was content to put his trust in those who did.
Waterloo Page 16