by Shaun Parker
Return to Hougoumont
By
Shaun Parker
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PUBLISHED BY:
Return to Hougoumont
Copyright © 2012 by Shaun Parker
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This book is a work of fiction but is based on true events that happened at the Battle of Waterloo. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination but loosely based on fact.
Historical Story
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Thanks go to my wife who has instilled in me the belief that I should at last write and create stories for the enjoyment of others, thank you Catherine.
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This story started life as a very short story and is based on the events of the fight for Hougoumont Farm at the battle of Waterloo. The farm was pivotal to the success or failure for both sides and should the French have taken the farm then it is likely that Napoleon would have won the day. It was a bloody affair and the story that unfolds is based on true events, as an author I have tried to recreate the intensity of battle, the mixed fortunes, to ebb and flow, but more than anything the sheer indiscriminate nature of death in battle.
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Return to Hougoumont
The first thing Armand noticed was the quiet almost still surroundings, there was little sound save for the birds and the occasional farm animal that could be heard from the fields that were all around. It had been a long journey but at last the young Frenchman had reached his destination and was now standing beside the remnants of a withered pine wood. The once thriving green canopy was now a sorry collection of blackened twisted trunks that stood starkly against a backdrop of green meadows.
Armand had risen early that day to finish the last leg of his journey, it had been a long walk and he was now a little fatigued, his throat had a dryness that demanded moisture replenishment from his wooden water canteen. He slipped the canteen cord over his neck and admired the dark wooden bottle, it was hand carved and had been given to him by his uncle who fought with Napoleon in the Egyptian campaign of 1798. He removed the stopper and took a long drink, the water was still cool and refreshing as he had filled the canteen with cold spring water before daybreak.
Dropping to his haunches he paused for a moment of recollection, as he did so his body gave way to an involuntary shiver as emotion suddenly washed through him, feeling his eyes welling up he took a long deep breath and raised his gaze to the bright blue sky. The sun was shining with warmth that only a June morning can provide, not too hot yet enough to win over the heavy morning dew that always festoons the grass after a clear night.
He picked up a handful of dirt and let it trickle slowly through his fingers, his off white shirt sleeves were rolled up revealing large scars on his arms, those scars were still deep red and jagged. The five years that had passed since receiving them had seen him grow from boy to man but the scars stayed with him never seeming to heal.
He stood up and slowly ambled towards some old wooden gates standing before him, behind the gates there were also burnt timbers from ruined stone outbuildings the jagged ends still black, scorched from battle. “At last I am back!” He thought to himself - this was Hougoumont farm and the very place he had travelled so far to visit. Immediately recollections came flooding back, the last time he stood on this very ground was for the storming of the north gate at the battle of Waterloo the very gate that was now in front of him once again.
He lifted his arms and touched the battle scarred wood, he ran his hand across the grain tracing the contours slowly with his fingertips whereupon a large splinter pierced his palm. He recoiled sharply and prised the splinter from his skin, a thin rivulet of blood trickled down his hand and it seemed for a moment that all the scars he bore on his arms became tender and sore.
Armand was close now close to the culmination of his journey, the hair on his neck was standing on end as he slowly pushed the heavy gates apart, all of a sudden he felt dizzy and his vision blurred a little, in his head there was the commotion of battle, of musket fire of cannon and of brave men crying in pain. In his nostrils he could smell the smoke, gunpowder and burning cloth, but most of all he could smell death! Nausea crept into him and he felt a little unwell, it was time to rest his weary legs awhile.
He was in a walled courtyard he looked around and saw an old three legged stool and plonked himself down. The sun was hotter now and there were small beads of sweat forming on his brow. He knew instantly this was the spot, he checked his watch, it was 12.30 so he closed his eyes for he wanted to remember, to run events through his head and put the demons behind him once and for all. With his eyes now shut the commotion of battle flooded his thoughts once again, and he was back at Hougoumont in 1815 at the Battle of Waterloo. He was a drummer boy and in the frontline with elements of 1st Legere French infantry who with bravery and vicious fighting driving the British Guards from the pine wood next to the farm. The defeated soldiers were some of the finest the British could field but now they were retreating back through the great pine wood and towards the gates and into Hougoumont farm.
As the French soldiers surged through the wood Armand noticed layers of musket smoke hanging like pockets of dense fog interspersed through the pine trees. Through the murky gloom flashes of bright orange spat out from behind the ghostly brown trunks as the Coldstream Guards fell back to the farm in good order. Armand could hear all around the fizz of musket balls, some thudded with a dull metronome sound into the lines of immovable wooden obelisks whilst others had a disturbing sound that he likened to pebbles landing in mud! The air was filled with eerie echoes drifting through the pine trees, cries of anguish came out of nowhere from all around and yet no real direction could be discerned.
Armand was running, tripping, climbing to his feet, running again, sweat stung his eyes and the acrid smell from the palls of smoke seemed to burn his throat. Even in the mid June day the forest was still dark, the pine canopy and the smoke made it more so. All of a sudden the musket shots stopped and within seconds Armand found himself almost blinded by the sun as he breached the edge of the forest and ran into the bright sunlight. Blinking fast he was dazed and disorientated for a few seconds before a sharp pain seared his arm, it brought him to his senses as he realised a musket ball had cut across his arm. It was painful and bloody yet superficial, he looked to the left and saw red tunics piling through a large gateway to the safety of a walled farm – Hougoumont!