‘There you are, Private,’ said the surgeon. ‘Mrs Osborne will bind it.’
‘Mrs Osborne?’ demanded Macdonell. ‘I was not aware that a woman was here.’
‘Were you not, Colonel? Two women, in fact, Mrs Osborne and Mrs Rogers.’ Sellers did not look up from examining a chest wound. ‘And we are grateful for their help, are we not, North?’
‘We are, sir,’ replied the bandsman, who had had the good sense to cover his uniform with a length of sacking tucked into his collar. The sacking was streaked with blood and decorated with bits of flesh.
Macdonell looked about. ‘Where are they? I do not see them.’
‘They are in the chateau, Colonel,’ replied North. ‘We are sending the minor wounds to them for dressing. It speeds things up.’
Macdonell shook his head. He had seen no women in the chateau and for all that they were useful, he wanted to know how the devil they had got there without his knowing. He would pay them a visit.
He let his eye wander over the faces waiting their turn. Many he knew by name or by sight. Most stared back blankly. Some – the lucky ones who expected to survive – managed a weak smile. Few spoke, fewer still made any sound of distress. It was as if each man had withdrawn within himself to concentrate solely on bearing his pain without complaint. Even soldiers given to grumbling about the smallest inconvenience had the capacity to suffer stoically. Private Vindle, his face a gruesome mess of bone and flesh, sat quietly, eyes closed and arms crossed. Beside him, Joseph Graham saw Macdonell and smiled. He was holding his right thigh with both hands, trying to stem the flow of blood. Macdonell hoped it was no more than a sabre cut. If it was a musket ball he might lose the leg.
From the yard outside the barn came the sounds of desperate fighting – musket fire and voices raised in alarm. Macdonell dashed out. To his horror, the north gate was open again and James Hervey’s troops were outside, their muskets pointing up the lane. As he ran to the gate, a cheer went up and a wagon pulled by two horses and driven by a single, hatless man, thundered down the lane and in through the gates. The Guards followed it in and secured the cross-beam.
Both horses had been wounded by fire from the voltigeurs hidden in the hedgerows but the driver, miraculously, was unhurt. He jumped down and called for help in unloading his wagon. When he saw Macdonell, he saluted smartly. ‘Private Brewer, Colonel, Royal Waggon Train.’
‘Do you bring us ammunition, Private Brewer?’ asked Macdonell.
‘I do, sir.’
‘Good man. Now you are here, you’d best stay here. Mister Hervey will find you a musket.’
‘Very good, sir.’
A brave man, Private Brewer, and a fortunate one to have survived his dash down the lane. ‘Distribute the ammunition at once, Mister Hervey. Captain Wyndham in the orchard would appreciate it and so would Mister Gooch.’ Macdonell barked the order. There was no time to spare.
Almost immediately, the howitzer in the wood fired and a shell flew over the wall. It did not explode above their heads but landed in the yard and shattered. Its contents, burning clumps of pitch, gunpowder and turpentine, spilt into the yard, where they spluttered and died in the mud.
Macdonell swore. Mrs Osborne and Mrs Rogers would have to wait. The French had turned to carcass shot.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The man who invented carcass shot was certainly spawned by the devil. A plain canvas sack, strengthened by iron hoops and filled with a hellish mixture of turpentine, tallow, saltpetre and pitch, it burst on impact, creating fires which were nigh on impossible to extinguish. As James Macdonell knew all too well.
More carcass landed in the yards and on the roofs of the farm buildings. The guards stumbled from one shell to another, slipping in the mud and on the bloody cobbles in their haste to put out the fires. They tried urinating on them, stamping on them and throwing blankets over them. Nothing worked. The terrible things would burn until they expired and they did not expire easily. It was only a matter of time before the flame from one of them caught dry timber and Hougoumont was on fire.
It did not take long. A stack of hay had been piled against the wall of the cowshed and covered by a canvas sheet. Until then Macdonell had given it no thought. But when he saw the stack engulfed in flames, he cursed himself for not having done so. The canvas had kept the hay dry and it burnt fast. The flames caught the shed and spread inside, where they were fuelled by straw and timber. Three Nassauers on the roof jumped off, landing awkwardly in the yard but avoiding the flames.
Men ran to help but there was little to be done. Even if there had been water in the draw well it would not have been much use. The fire was too strong. Within minutes the farmer’s house, where James and Alexander Saltoun had shared beef and claret, was alight. Blazing timbers fell into the yard and around the garden gate, shooting sparks into the sky and setting fire to the barricades. Burning men ripped off their jackets and rolled in the mud. In the stables and the cowshed, the horses caught the smell of fire and screamed in terror. Several charged into the yards and ran around in blind panic. One forced his way through the gate and into the garden where he was caught by a brave Nassauer. The rest, hopelessly confused, ran back into the stables.
Macdonald yelled at Sergeant Dawson to ignore the fire and keep his men at the south wall, where the French were launching another attack. At the north gate he found Hervey making a futile attempt to put out the fire which was now scorching the tiles on the cowshed roof. ‘Leave it, Mister Hervey,’ he bellowed. ‘Concentrate on the gate. Do not allow the gate to burn.’
Once it had taken hold, the fire spread with astonishing speed. The smoke was everywhere – thick, black, suffocating. Eyes streamed, lungs filled with soot and men fell choking. Sparks caught hair and flesh and melted them. A box of cartridges exploded, killing four men nearby. The flames crossed the yard and threatened the chateau. The French were attacking from north, south and east and Hougoumont was burning. The French had seen the smoke and flames, known that the fire was out of control and changed back to round shot. The shots thundered over the walls, killing, wounding and hammering into stone and brick. The tower took a shot about halfway up. Many more like it and the tower would fall.
Macdonell ran through the chateau door, jumped over the wounded men lying in the hallway and dashed up the stairs. Private Lester and three other guards were at the top windows, firing at the enemy emerging from the wood. ‘Hold this position, Lester,’ shouted Macdonell. ‘Do not leave the house on any account.’ Without waiting for an acknowledgement he ran back down the stairs and into the yard. Even if they lost the orchard, the garden and the farm buildings, they must hold the chateau. From there, they would be able to continue harrying the French and perhaps prevent them sweeping up the slope towards Byng’s artillery.
The garden, although safe from the fire, was again being attacked on every side. In the clamour and confusion Macdonell could not make out much of what was happening but through the smoke he saw that in places the walls had collapsed, leaving gaps through which faceless blue jackets were trying to fight their way, while equally faceless red ones stood and knelt in the gaps, firing volley after volley into them and hurling back those who managed to reach the wall. The bloody bodies of Frenchmen and Englishmen and Germans lay heaped together without distinction in the dirt, not only at the wall but also among the parterres and on the paths. So some Frenchmen had got inside and had died there.
Harry had abandoned his horse and was at the wall where it met the gardener’s house near the south gate – the place Macdonell had chosen for himself earlier in the day – slashing and cutting with his sword at any face that appeared over the wall. As the wall there was over seven feet high, the French must have been climbing on each other’s shoulders to get to the top of it. Macdonell had not yet seen a ladder being used. There was no time to check the orchard. He turned to go back to the farm. As he did so, an eight-pound shot landed behind him, spewing up earth and stones from a parterre. The soft ground took m
ost of the shot’s momentum and it bounced only once before embedding itself. A garden that had once bloomed with flowers was now littered with ugly iron balls.
In the few minutes Macdonell had been in the garden, the fire had spread. Flames were playing around the stables, the sheds and the chateau itself. Again he bellowed at the Guards at the south gate not to leave their positions. That was what the French were counting on. The fire would have to take its course. Sergeant Dawson was standing on a step, firing down into the clearing. A private was handing him up musket after musket. Over the gate and along the wall, the men worked in pairs – firing, reloading, firing again. The crack of muskets had become a continuous barrage of noise and smoke. Macdonell climbed onto a crate. The clearing had become a graveyard, filled with French bodies from the treeline to the gate. Yet still they came on. Hundreds of them, shrieking for their emperor, for France, for victory. Prince Jérôme had set light to Hougoumont and now he was pounding it with round shot and throwing troops at the gates. And he would go on doing so until he took it. He could not disappoint his brother.
Henry Gooch was on his knees, struggling to get up. Macdonell reached down and pulled him to his feet, wincing when the wound in his arm protested. The ensign’s face was a bloody mask, his mouth absurdly swollen, his eyes almost closed and one cheek sliced to the bone. He could scarcely breathe. ‘To the barn with you, Mister Gooch,’ ordered Macdonell in a rasping voice. Gooch shook his head. ‘Do as I say, sir, or you will be disobeying an order.’ Gooch tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. Instead, he gestured with an arm to the dead and wounded lying in the yard. ‘I know, Mister Gooch, we need every man we have but you are in no state to fight. Go now. Tell the surgeon I want you back sharpish.’
Macdonell’s head was throbbing and his throat on fire from the smoke and powder. He craved water but there was none. His canteen was dry, the well was dry. Their casualties were mounting with every French attack. Harry Wyndham in the garden was under ferocious pressure. Alexander Saltoun can only have been hanging on to the orchard by his fingertips. And Hougoumont was burning.
From beyond the chateau an arrow of flame shot skywards. He ran back to the north yard. The barn was alight. The fire had leapt from the cowshed across the yard to the barn. As he watched, the roof collapsed and burning timbers fell inside. Many of the wounded inside could not walk and would be trapped in the inferno. Their terrified screams could be heard over the crackling of timber and straw.
The barn door had disappeared and the entrance was a wall of flame. The fire had taken so quickly that very few had got out. Sellers and his assistants emerged, coughing and retching and each carrying a wounded man. They set them down in the yard and went back into the barn. A tiny, filthy figure followed them out. At least the drummer boy had escaped. A voice at Macdonell’s side spoke. ‘Permission to fall out, Colonel, if you please.’ It was James Graham.
‘Why, Corporal? You are needed at the gate.’ It was a surprising request from a soldier as dutiful as Graham.
‘My brother is in the barn, Colonel. He took a bullet in the leg.’
Macdonell remembered seeing him inside. He clapped Graham on the shoulder. ‘Then be quick, for his sake and ours.’ Graham ran straight through the flames at the entrance and disappeared into the blazing barn.
The surgeon staggered out again. He was carrying no one and his jacket was on fire. Macdonell leapt at him, pushed him to the ground and rolled him in the mud. The fire died and the surgeon rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Your assistants?’ asked Macdonell. Sellers shook his head. The barn was collapsing and James and Joseph Graham were in there and so was Henry Gooch.
The stench of burning flesh was overpowering. Macdonell ripped off his jacket, held it over his face and crashed through the flames into the barn. Even without a roof it was full of smoke. He could see almost nothing. He blundered blindly forward. God willing, there was someone still alive whom he might be able to carry to safety. A huge figure loomed out of the smoke and stumbled past him. The figure seemed to be carrying a body over his shoulder. Macdonell groped his way forward. A spark caught his hair, making it crackle. He managed to smother it with his jacket and pressed on. A blazing timber fell from the roof. He tripped over it and landed on the stone floor. The heat of the stone scorched his hands, forcing him back to his feet. He fell again. This time his hands met not stone but flesh. A body, and one that was alive. It grunted and moved. Macdonell hoisted it onto his shoulder and made for the entrance. At least he hoped he was making for the entrance. In the heat and smoke he had lost his sense of direction. He took a dozen unsteady steps, saw a glimmer of daylight, threw himself and his burden through the entrance and fell into the yard.
His eyes opened when earth was thrown over him. A stab of pain shot through them and he quickly closed them again. He lay in the yard trying to breathe. Someone pulled off his boots. Someone else tipped a few drops of water down his throat. Gradually his mind cleared and he could open his eyes. The crash of musket fire and the screams of wounded men and burning horses filled his head. The north gate was again under threat. He pushed himself to his knees and looked about. The barn was a smouldering heap of wood and flesh and bone.
Henry Gooch was sitting with his back to the draw well, bare-chested and bootless. Joseph Graham sat beside him, his leg twisted and bloody. Both were the colour of tar. ‘Corporal Graham, so your brother found you?’ growled Macdonell.
‘He did, Colonel. I am a lucky man, though the surgeon thinks my leg beyond saving.’
‘And you, Mister Gooch, how did you get out?’
Gooch could only whisper. ‘I believe you carried me, Colonel.’
‘Then I am glad of it. Help Corporal Graham to the chateau. Take the boy. There are wounded there.’
‘Should you not be there yourself, Colonel?’ asked Graham.
‘Later, Corporal.’ Another tower of flame shot into the sky. The roof of the chateau was alight. ‘On second thoughts, stay here. It’s as safe a place as any.’
The barn, the stables and cowshed and now the chateau. All burnt or burning. If the fire reached the gardener’s house or the shed beside it, the south gate would burn too. There was no water with which to fight the fire and nowhere to hide from the round shot still thundering over the wood and into the farm. Macdonell looked at his pocket watch. It was just after three o’clock. They had held Hougoumont for four hours. If General Blücher and his Prussians did not arrive very soon, the next hour would be their last.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On the hill behind them, General Byng and Major Bull were doing their best to keep the French artillery quiet. Cannon blasted ten-pound shot over the wood while the howitzers sent a stream of their deadly shells into it. For the attackers, just as for the defenders, there was little respite. Yet the French guns were far from silenced. The Gunners in the valley were loading canister as well as round shot, battering the chateau and the farm and raining death and mutilation onto the Guards in the yards and in the garden.
Macdonell made a decision. He would hold the chateau and defend the gates for as long as possible. Only when he had to, he would withdraw all his troops into the garden from where they would fire on the French entering the farm. Alexander Saltoun would hold the orchard behind them. He would move the wounded from the chateau to the garden immediately. They would be safer there and the surgeon would just have to do what he could for them. He had lost his bandsmen but the women, hopefully, were unharmed.
Almost without a break, the French infantry attacked the south gate and the walls. Wave after wave charged forward, screaming for their emperor, ignoring the losses they were taking, and forcing the Guards to expose themselves to French fire. The best soldiers could fire three or four shots a minute. The Guards were firing at least that.
But the pressure was beginning to tell. Shaking hands spilt powder. Barrels overheated. Flints failed to spark. Muskets misfired. Lungs craving air filled with smoke. Mouths craving water struggled to bite off the
end of yet another cartridge. Stomachs heaved and threw out what little contents they had. Sharpshooters in the woods and the clearing picked off heads that appeared over the wall. Men screamed and died. By force of numbers alone, the French would eventually break down the gate or destroy the wall. The Guards could not resist for ever.
It was the same in the garden. Harry Wyndham’s troops, supported by Charles Woodford’s two companies, were on the fire steps, at the loopholes, and even sitting astride the walls, in their efforts to keep the French at a distance. Macdonell could not see either of them through the smoke. One blackened uniform was much like another.
He made his way carefully into the middle of the garden, stepping over bodies and closing his ears to the cries of the wounded. The French canister had done its terrible work, cleaving open heads and tearing flesh from bodies. The dead lay everywhere. Without Woodford’s help, Harry’s company would already have been wiped out. And the canister kept coming and coming, hurling its fearful contents into faces and limbs.
Charles Woodford was at the orchard end of the garden, firing over the wall into the field. ‘By God, James,’ he croaked, wiping powder from his mouth, ‘this is terrible work. There’s no end to them. The more we kill, the more they come. And we’re losing too many men to the canister. I see the fire is still raging. How much longer can we hold on?’ A shell exploded nearby. Instinctively, they ducked their heads as iron balls and shards of red-hot metal flew past them. Hidden by the smoke, a man cried out for his mother.
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