At what remained of the wall around the gate, Macdonell called for a stand. ‘Hold the wall,’ he bellowed. ‘Keep them out. Coldstreams with me. Brunswickers inside and on the wall.’ Captain Hellman led his Brunswickers through the gate and the wall. They climbed onto the fire steps and took up the muskets stacked there.
Outside the wall, a line of Coldstreams blocked the gate and the gaps in the wall. Some of them fell to French muskets, but the French could not break their line. They stabbed and sliced, punched and kicked, and gouged French eyes and mouths with their hands. Macdonell, in the centre of the line, drove the hilt of his sword into a lieutenant’s face and saw his nose disintegrate in a fountain of blood.
In the clearing the French were packed tight, elbowing each other aside in their haste to reach the farm. From behind the wall the Brunswickers poured fire into them, yet they came on, stepping over comrades’ bodies, ignoring the wounded, screaming for France and for Buonaparte. This time, at last, they would surely take Hougoumont.
Above the crack of muskets and the clash of steel and the cries of triumph and pain and death, Macdonell did not hear the howitzer fire. Major Bull had seen his chance and taken the risk. And he knew his business. The shell flew high over the wall, seemed to hover for a second above the clearing and crashed down into the very middle of the French troops. Its lethal charge of iron shot and scalding metal cut a swathe of death through them. Dozens fell, maimed or dead, shrieking in agony, uncomprehending. Without warning, death had rained on them from the sky.
More shells fell, more French died. The Coldstreams backed up against the wall, hoping that the Gunners’ aim would not falter, while the Brunswickers added their bullets to the mayhem. For the attackers, it was too much. The howitzers had their range and would go on blasting their shells until every one of them was dead. A French trumpet sounded the retreat.
The Guards slipped back into the yard. The Brunswickers jeered and hooted at French backs. Macdonell left them in the hands of Dawson and Gooch and went quickly to the garden. The gate and part of the farm wall had been destroyed by round shot and the garden was no longer recognisable. Not a blade of grass or a plant to be seen. Instead, corpses, mud, bricks, timbers and discarded muskets lay singly and in heaps. Along the wall lay the wounded, among them the huge figure of Joseph Graham. They were tended by the two women, Mrs Osborne and Mrs Rogers. Macdonell wondered fleetingly if their husbands were still alive.
Brunswickers and Guards stood and sat in clusters, attending to their muskets and sipping water from canteens. Harry Wyndham and Charles Woodford were at the far wall, from where there was a clear view of the orchard.
‘What news?’ called out Macdonell.
‘Hard fighting, James,’ replied Harry, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. ‘They came at us in droves. Thank God for the Brunswickers.’
‘As long as the wall is standing,’ added Charles, ‘we can hold the position. For now, we have enough men. What of the farm?’
‘Still burning, as you can see. The gate is broken and the south wall wrecked. Bloody work keeping them out. Bull’s howitzers rescued us. The frogs will try something else next time. And Francis? Has he held the orchard?’
‘Colonel Home now commands the orchard.’
‘Is Francis wounded?’
‘I do not know. They have twice had to face cavalry. It’s a wonder they still hold the ground.’
‘Ammunition?’
‘Getting low.’ From the field beyond the garden a round shot smashed against the wall. It was followed by musket fire. ‘Here they come again, James. Bonne chance.’ Macdonell raced back to the farm.
All four entrances to Hougoumont were under attack: Charles and Harry in the orchard; the north gates where James Hervey, without the advantage of the cowshed and stable, had men on steps, barrels and crates, firing down over the wall; the small west gate, which a French platoon were trying to set alight; and the south gate, the most vulnerable.
A quick look at the north and west gates and Macdonell ran past the smouldering chateau and back to the south yard. Hervey’s troop would have to fend for themselves. Gooch and Dawson were at the wall. Graham was encouraging the men, checking their muskets and ammunition and doling out gin from a small cask. Where he had found that, Macdonell had no idea.
Outside the wall, there was no sign of the French. Not a blue jacket in sight, except for the dead in the clearing. ‘Taken fright, Colonel, and hopped off back to Paris, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Dawson.
‘Would that you were right, Sergeant. Alas, I fear not. Although I confess I do not know what they are up to. The other gates are under attack and so is the garden, yet this is our most vulnerable spot and the frogs know it.’
The answer came almost immediately. Cantering around the wood came a troop of Dragoons. Macdonell counted – there were fifty. Their mounts were jet black with a blaze of white, their black-tasselled helmets gleamed in the evening sun, their green jackets were spotless, and they were armed with short-barrelled carbines and straight-bladed swords. Not for them the awkward curved swords of the cuirassiers and the Lancers. Dragoons were cavalry, but as ready to fight on foot as on horseback. These Dragoons were fresh and drawn from Buonaparte’s elite reserves. France’s finest. Behind them, a column of infantry emerged from the shattered wood.
Forming square would be fatal. The Dragoons would simply race past the squares and into the farm. The troops at the north and west gates would be slaughtered like pigs. Having disposed of them, the Dragoons would turn back to the south gates to join their infantry. The infantry who had failed and failed again to take Hougoumont. Their mood would be murderous.
‘Sergeant Dawson,’ yelled Macdonell, ‘every step manned and ready to fire the moment they come. Aim for the horses. And muskets behind every door, wall and window with a clear view of the yard. Hurry.’ Captain Hellman was in the garden. There was no time for the niceties of command. ‘Brunswickers with me at the wall. Hold your fire until I give the word. If they get in we’ll hit them from the rear. Corporal Graham, by the chateau, if you please. They must not get through the yard.’ Between the chateau and the smouldering remains of the barn, a mounted man might get through to the north gate.
He ran into the gardener’s house and up the stairs. The Dragoons were gathering on the edge of the wood. Their captain sat a pace ahead of the line, his gaze fixed on the wall. The infantry had formed up behind them. It was the same as far as he could see along the garden wall – a line of Dragoons, supported by infantry. The garden wall was still intact. They would find it more difficult to break in there. The farm and chateau were another matter.
He dashed back to the yard and took a place with the Brunswickers. A private offered him a musket. He shook his head and withdrew the heavy sword from its scabbard. The sword had met cavalry before. It knew what to do with them.
In less than a minute they were ready. James Graham was by the chateau wall with six men. He raised a hand to Macdonell and smiled. Sergeant Dawson, on a fire step, adjusted his shako and stood as tall as he could. Henry Gooch checked that his sword would come free from its scabbard. A Brunswicker lieutenant shouted something in German. Two hundred men lined the walls and waited.
The charge came without warning. Hooves thundered over the ground and the French captain galloped through the broken gate and into the yard. His Dragoons took the wreckage of the wall like steeplechasers and flooded in behind him. Not one fell to the muskets at the wall. Suddenly the yard was full of horses, perhaps thirty of them, the rest forcing their way in behind.
If they found a way through to the north gate, Hougoumont would be lost. Macdonell gave the order and muskets fired from every door and window. Half the horses in the yard fell, their riders crushed under them or thrown into the melee.
Caught in the trap and half their number killed or wounded, the remaining Dragoons should have surrendered or been swiftly despatched. But these were elite troops, proud and disciplined. Their carbines spat bullets int
o enemy faces. The private who had offered Macdonell a musket screamed and fell. The Dragoon captain barked an order. His men drew their swords. He barked another order and the Dragoons hurriedly formed themselves into a rough square among the dead in the middle of the yard. Macdonell shouted and the Guards charged.
The Dragoons were brave men and sold their lives dearly. When the last of them fell, nine Guards had died. Macdonell’s sword dripped blood and his arm ached from wielding it. Injured horses were despatched with a single shot, the few which had escaped injury were herded back through the gate.
The Brunswickers at the wall had held their fire. Now they turned it on the French infantry who were waiting for a signal to advance. The French saw the frightened horses and knew what had happened. They quickly disappeared back into the wood.
Sergeant Graham organised the clearing of the dead. The Dragoons joined the pile by the chapel, their horses were dragged to the wall. Macdonell checked the west gate and the north gates again. They were secure.
So was the garden. The French cavalry had been blasted by Major Bull’s howitzers and been driven off. Charles Woodford and Harry Wyndham were unhurt. Captain Hellman was dead, struck in the chest by a musket ball. Mrs Osborne had also been wounded. A shot had entered her breast and lodged in her shoulder. She lay beside her husband whose left eye had gone.
In the yards and the farm buildings, not one of them untouched by fire or cannon, in the garden and at the walls, men lay spent among the dead. Blue jackets, black, red and green sprawled in a macabre embrace of death. Idly, Macdonell pulled out his pocket watch. It was twenty minutes after seven o’clock.
Then he heard it. Even half a mile distant it was unmistakeable. The booming, threatening, unrelenting roll of drums that announced the advance of Buonaparte’s Imperial Guard. In the centre of each column of marching guards, drummers beat out the rhythm of the advance. The Emperor sensed victory. He only released his beloved Guard when the enemy were on the point of defeat. That, in part, was why they were known as Les Immortales.
The Guards had defended Hougoumont for over eight hours. All day they had held the chateau and the farm and the garden. They had faced artillery, cavalry and infantry and refused to be beaten. Yet now the Imperial Guard was on the move. The French had won. It had been in vain.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Harry Wyndham had left the garden and found James leaning against the chapel wall. ‘Can you hear it?’ he asked. James nodded. ‘Does it mean what I think it means?’
‘I fear so.’ He could barely get the words out.
‘What’s to be done?’
James pushed himself upright. His legs shook and the wound in his arm throbbed. He could not see out of his blood-caked right eye and his throat was on fire. ‘Until we are ordered otherwise, we will stay here,’ he croaked. ‘If the frogs come again, we will kill as many of them as we can. After that …’ The thought hung in the air.
‘Woodford said you would say that. He wants you to know that he agrees. We will hold the garden until we receive word.’
‘Tell him that we will do the same.’ He waved a hand around the yard. ‘Not that there is much left to hold.’ He held out the hand to Harry. ‘Your first battle, Harry, and you will never fight a tougher one.’
Harry’s filth-covered face lit up in a grin. ‘I certainly hope not.’
In the distance, apart from the drums, it had gone strangely quiet, as if the French Gunners were leaving the stage to their emperor’s Imperial Guard. Few muskets fired, even fewer cannon. The drums beat out the march and, in his mind’s eye, Macdonell saw the solid blue columns advancing up the slope. He was almost tempted to go to the orchard to watch them. The rhythm of the drums quickened. The Guard was charging. He swallowed hard and tried to shout. ‘Mister Gooch, all muskets at the wall and eyes on the woods, if you please. Corporal Graham, kindly take a look at the north gate. Mister Hervey might be in need of assistance. Sergeant Dawson, distribute whatever ammunition we have left.’ He paused. ‘And gin if there is any.’
With the Guard on the ridge, Jérôme might well decide that he had one last chance to take Hougoumont. He had been trying all day and with a final attack by his rampaging, exultant infantry he would expect finally to succeed.
James Graham had returned from the north gates. ‘The gates are secure, Colonel,’ he reported. ‘Mister Hervey has seventy men but is short of powder.’
‘Can’t do much to help there, I fear. James, if the Guard is on the ridge, we are likely to face another attack. I do not want it to end inside the walls. When the frogs appear, you and I will lead a charge. Every man we’ve got, Brunswickers and Guards. Colonel Woodford will defend the garden.’
‘A fine plan, Colonel. One more go at them it shall be.’
The small west gate had never seriously been threatened and with the north gates secure under Mister Hervey, he would throw every man still standing into the charge. There was no point in a roll-call. At a rough guess, he had one hundred and fifty light company men and one hundred Brunswickers. The rest he had sent to the garden. Two hundred and fifty against whatever Jérôme sent against them – five hundred? A thousand? More? They were very low on powder and shot, worn out and in dire need of food and water. The French would be rested and fed.
‘I doubt it will be much of a fight, James,’ replied Macdonell. ‘We shall squash the French like ants.’ General Byng’s artillery had stopped firing over them. The Duke must have moved them to their left, from where they would be able to fire on the advancing French columns. The threat of an attack on his right flank had been superseded by the threat to his centre. ‘Mister Gooch, Sergeant Dawson, gather all the troops save those at the north and west gates in the yard.’ Hougoumont could be held no longer but there was one last fight to be won.
The chateau and chapel were still burning. The barn and farmer’s house and stables were little more than heaps of smouldering ashes. There really was very little left to defend. Macdonell absently brushed ash from his jacket, and yelped. His palms were agony. He would not be able to hold a sword. The body of a jacketless French corporal lay on top of the heap by the chapel. Being careful to use only his fingers, he ripped open the corporal’s shirt. ‘Allow me, Colonel,’ said a voice behind him.
Macdonell looked round. ‘Thank you, James. I was just trying to work out how to do it without crying like a baby.’
James Graham used his bayonet to cut two strips from the shirt. ‘Hands out, if you please, Colonel.’ It was embarrassing, but he had no choice. Macdonell held out his hands, palms up, and watched Graham tie a strip of cloth around each one. ‘Try that, Colonel,’ said Graham, holding out his own hands. Macdonell grasped them and grimaced. Holding a sword would be possible but not easy.
‘You would have made a fine surgeon, Corporal,’ he said.
Graham laughed. ‘Now there’s a thought, Colonel. When I go back to Ireland and I’m too old for soldiering, I might just take to studying medicine. I’d be the first doctor in the family.’
There was a shout of warning from the window of the gardener’s house, followed by a long roll of drums. They were coming. ‘Every man in the yard. Muskets checked and ready,’ yelled Macdonell. ‘On my order, we will advance. There will be only one shot each, so aim well. Our task is to kill as many of them as we can.’
The Guards watching from the gardener’s house ran down the stairs to join them. The yard was full. Macdonell made his way to the gate. The wood was full of blue jackets, spilling out into the clearing. Among the leafless trees, mounted officers stood ready to join the attack. It was the same as far as he could see to his left. For the length of the garden and beyond, lines of French infantry awaited the order to charge.
But James Macdonell would not allow them to charge. The Guards would beat them to it. He turned to face them. ‘Fill your lungs, aim well and hit hard,’ he shouted. ‘With me, now. Charge!’ He hopped over the broken wall, the Guards and Brunswickers screaming and shrieking behind him.
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The leading Guards had almost crossed the clearing before they put their left shoulders forward and fired. The Brunswickers did the same. Dozens of blue jackets fell. Dozens more returned fire and ran forward to receive the Guards’ charge. Once again, the clearing was a battlefield.
Macdonell felt a surge of energy flow through him – that special energy of battle, which could give a man the strength to go on however tired he was. He raised his sword and hacked down on a French head. Blood spurted and the man fell. He smashed the hilt into a face and thrust the point into a stomach. All around him Guard fought Frenchman and Frenchman fought Brunswicker. The clearing was a heaving, struggling, bellowing crush of bodies. Muskets slammed into noses and chests, swords hacked at heads and limbs and bayonets sliced into flesh and bone. Whatever was happening on the ridge was forgotten. Each man could think only of his own battle to kill and survive, or die.
The energy that gave strength also dulled pain. The bandages had gone from his hands yet Macdonell felt nothing. Again and again he used his sword to thrust and slice and his height and reach to defend himself from the butts of muskets and the points of bayonets.
Two Frenchmen were falling for every Brunswicker or Guard, but bravely as they fought, the Guards could not hold back the tide of Frenchmen for ever. Gradually, inevitably, they were forced back towards the wall, leaving their dead and wounded lying in churned, blood-soaked, guts-splattered earth. Macdonell found himself beside the towering figure of James Graham who had appropriated the axe of the giant sous-lieutenant and was using it to fell any Frenchman who came within striking distance. Twice, Macdonell stepped back sharply to avoid the arc of its blade and twice saw a French head fly from a French body as cleanly as if its owner had met his end on the guillotine.
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