Waterloo (21 page)

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 into 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.

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.

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.

Some of the French had managed to slip round the west wall and up the lane towards the north gates. If they breached the gates and attacked the Guards from the rear, the battle would be over. Macdonell could only trust that Hervey and his small troop would keep them out. He had no inkling of what was happening in the garden or the orchard but as no French had yet appeared behind them, hoped that they were still held.

Their backs were now hard against the wall of the house and the shed beside it. Macdonell stood beside the portly figure of Sergeant Dawson under the arch of the gate. They could retreat no further without surrendering the farm and the chateau, so they would stand where they were. James Graham was still swinging the axe with brutal force, Dawson was thrusting his bayonet into stomachs and groins, every Guard and every Brunswicker was smashing, cutting and gouging at whatever he could.

And so was every Frenchman. Their commander had only to call his men back to allow his muskets a clear sight, and they would drop the Guards like a row of skittles. But the French attackers were not to be called back. They had suffered grievous casualties and would not allow them to have been in vain.
Neither order nor threat would deter them. They would have the glory of taking Hougoumont.

Sergeant Dawson thrust his bayonet at another French groin, lost his footing and fell face down in the mud. The butt of a musket smashed into the back of his head and he lay still. Macdonell grabbed the musket, tore it free and jammed it into its owner’s face, which dissolved into a mess of blood and bone. He stooped quickly to put a hand to Dawson’s neck. The sergeant was dead. As he rose, a blow slammed into his shoulder, sending a stab of pain down his wounded arm. He lashed out with his sword, felt it strike bone and lashed again. A Frenchman fell with blood spurting from his thigh. A thrust into his windpipe and he too was dead.

The first cries came from outside the orchard. At first Macdonell could not make out even if the voices were English or French. But as they increased, he thought he could hear what they were saying. It was not possible. He must be mistaken. The cry was taken up outside the garden. He listened harder. ‘
La Garde recule, La Garde recule.
’ Was it possible?

The French in the wood and the clearing heard it too. The Imperial Guard, Buonaparte’s
immortales
, never defeated in battle, were in retreat. Yet it could not be. The Emperor only sent forward his Guard when victory was assured. It was a perfidious British trick. They did not believe that the Guard were retreating and they would not be denied their victory. They launched themselves at the defenders with desperate fury. They would take Hougoumont.

The Guards and the Brunswickers stood firm. They knew what the cry meant and if it was true, there was still hope. Try
as they might, the furious French could not break their line.

Now the woods echoed with the cry.
La Garde recule. La
Garde recule
. And suddenly the Guards were facing French backs. It was as if the realisation that it was true had drained every ounce of courage from them. If the mighty Guard really had been put to flight, what hope was there for them? They ran back to the woods. The tiny figure of the drummer boy jumped out from behind a pile of bricks and sped after them.

‘Let them go,’ croaked Macdonell. ‘Where is Mister Gooch?’ Henry Gooch, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, raised his sword. He could not speak. ‘Mister Gooch, hold this position, if you please, until I order otherwise. Assume that the frogs will be back. Water and gin, muskets ready.’ Gooch nodded. ‘Corporal Graham, Sergeant Dawson is dead. You will take his place.’

The Irishman rested his huge hands on the axe handle and breathed deeply. He might have killed twenty Frenchmen. ‘Very good, Colonel.’

All along the garden wall, in the fields and the orchard, there was barely a blue jacket to be seen other than those lying dead or wounded. It was not until Macdonell reached the far end of the orchard that he could see what was happening. The entire French army was in full retreat. As he watched, squadrons of British cavalry set off in hot pursuit. He shuddered. A man with his back to charging cavalry would be lucky not to be sliced in half. But the retreat was total. He saw no attempt to stand and fight, no attempt to form square, certainly no counter-attack.

Down the slope the cavalry galloped, whooping and bellowing and brandishing their sabres. Somehow the wily Duke had kept them hidden for just this moment and they were going to make the most of it. All along the ridge behind them, the infantry and artillery teams cheered them on. And the French were running. The first of the cavalry reached them and the slaughter began. Macdonell turned away. He had seen enough blood spilt that day.

He could only guess at what the Duke had done but he would wager a hundred guineas he was right. Once again, the old fox had chosen his ground, concealed his strength and awaited his moment. And once again, the French had fallen for it. Having bombarded the ridge with his cannon and believing the battle as good as won, Buonaparte had sent his Imperial Guard forward to finish it off. They had been met first by artillery and then by cavalry they did not know existed. They had panicked and run, taking the rest of the French army with them.

‘Now that,’ said Harry Wyndham, who had left the garden to watch the spectacle, ‘is something I did not expect to see today. The Guard have indeed
reculed
, and so have the rest of them.’ James did not reply. The energy of battle had drained from him and he was too exhausted even to whisper. ‘Are you hurt, James?’ asked Harry. James shook his head. ‘I am happy for it. I too have been lucky. I dread to think how many were not. Did the Prussians arrive?’ James shrugged. He wanted only to lie down and sleep.

But he could not. There was still work to be done – the roll-call, the wounded to be taken to the dressing stations behind
the ridge, food and water to be found. He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, smiled weakly, and returned to the farm.

He had seen hundreds die that day, and many more wounded. He had killed a dozen himself. Yet he had survived with little more than burnt hands and a scratch on the arm. The capricious fortunes of war.

Outside the south wall, a Brunswicker corporal offered him a canteen of water. He tipped it down his rasping throat and managed to splutter his thanks. As instructed, Henry Gooch and James Graham had kept the troops at their posts. ‘Stand them down, Mister Gooch,’ he croaked. ‘It is over.’ Gooch, still unable to speak through his swollen mouth, nodded to Graham, who gave the order. A ragged cheer went up and every man sat or lay where he stood.