Waterloo (3 page)

That morning they were ten – Byng, Lt Col Alexander Woodford, who had command of the 2nd Battalion and was thus Macdonell’s immediate superior, Francis Hepburn, Captain Charles Dashwood of the 2nd Battalion, Harry Wyndham, four other captains and Macdonell. At seven exactly, Byng entered the dining room and invited them all to be seated. Fortunately, the long mahogany dining table and twelve curved-back chairs had survived the demise of the chateau.

Sir John Byng, veteran of Vittoria, Pamplona, Ireland and Toulouse, was the most courteous of men. ‘Before we eat, gentlemen,’ he began in his gentle, almost scholarly manner, ‘I know you will be wanting news.’ At the table there were murmurs of assent. ‘The position this morning is as follows. Ney’s Armée du Nord is still on the eastern bank of the River Sambre, facing the town of Charleroi.
The three main bridges over the Sambre are, we understand, intact. The Duke expects Ney, in due course, to cross the river and advance towards the town of Mons to our southwest but he will not commit us until he is sure. We are to be ready to march at short notice, although it may be days, even weeks, before we do.’ He looked around the table. ‘I see the disappointment on your faces, gentlemen. I, too, would prefer to wait no longer, but you will see the sense in the Duke’s strategy. He wants Napoleon to show his hand before acting. Are there any questions?’

‘Can we still count on Marshal Blücher?’ asked Woodford.

‘Marshal Blücher and his Prussians are guarding the eastern approaches to Brussels at Ligny and Liège. The marshal may be over seventy but there is no more gallant commander. He will not fail us.’

‘What is his strength now, General?’ This time it was Francis Hepburn.

‘About the same as our own, some seventy thousand. The French, His Grace estimates, number one hundred and twenty thousand. The Russians and the Austrians will advance from the east but are unlikely to arrive before the end of the month.’ Byng looked at Macdonell, seated next to him. ‘What do you think, James?’ he asked. The general had a habit of seeking the views of his officers, not always having regard to their rank.

‘If I were Napoleon,’ replied Macdonell, who had lain awake thinking about just this, ‘I would rely upon the element of surprise. I would move quickly to drive a wedge between the Prussians and ourselves. I would attack Charleroi and advance
without delay on Brussels. Surprise has always been a tactic he favours.’

‘You would not go west to Mons or east to Ligny?’

‘I would not, General, especially if it meant splitting my force.’

For a long moment, Byng gazed at Macdonell. ‘And perhaps that is just what he will do. We shall know soon enough. And how would you respond to this threat?’

‘I would march at once, join the Prussians and seek to take the initiative.’

Byng looked doubtful. ‘Hm. Would you now? Defender turned aggressor, eh?’ He paused and looked around the table again. ‘Does anyone else agree with Colonel Macdonell? No, on second thoughts, do not answer that. The Duke has decided and that is that. Now let us take our breakfast.’ He rose and went to a sideboard on which silver pots of tea and coffee, plates of brioches and French bread and slabs of pound cake had been laid out. The officers followed him, loaded their plates and returned to the table. None of them would start the day on an empty stomach.

When they were all seated again, Byng turned to Woodford. ‘My carriage will be departing at seven this evening for the Duchess’s Ball, Alexander. Would you care to join me?’ The rule against carriages in the town had been lifted for the evening.

‘That would be most kind, General,’ replied Woodford.

‘Excellent. You, too, Harry. We have room for three. General Cooke, I understand, will be leaving earlier. He has an afternoon engagement in Brussels.’ The officers suppressed smiles. Wellington himself was known to be fond of afternoon engagements. In Paris he was even rumoured
to have conducted simultaneous affairs with an opera singer and an actress, both of whom had previously been lovers of Buonaparte. ‘I am unhappy at leaving Enghien at this time, gentlemen, but the Duke is insistent that we attend the Duchess of Richmond’s Ball. It has been weeks in preparation and he does not wish Her Grace to be disappointed.’ He smiled kindly. ‘And I know I shall be leaving matters in the most capable hands.’

Harry Wyndham, second son of the Earl of Egremont, had received an invitation and, a little to Macdonell’s surprise, had accepted. The product of a grand English public school, determinedly independent in spirit and inveterate wag, Harry was twenty-five years old, and a captain in the light company of the Coldstreams. Despite the differences in age, rank and background, he and James had become friends. In fact, their ranks were not as different as it might have appeared to anyone not familiar with the strange ways of the Guards because James held not only the rank of lieutenant colonel but also the lesser one of major and Wyndham that of lieutenant colonel in addition to captain. To anyone outside the regiment, double-ranks were utterly confusing. Harry was always good company, an important quality in times of dreary inactivity, and found it difficult to take life seriously. Whenever James erred towards self-importance, Harry could be relied upon to find the
mot juste
. All he lacked was battle experience. It would not be long before he got it.

James feared that he too might be included in the Duchess’s guest list because of his family connections and had been
greatly relieved when he found that an ancient Scottish lineage was not enough to warrant an invitation. From the Coldstreams, Woodford, Wyndham and three young ensigns from distinguished families would be joining General Byng. Macdonell disliked all dancing other than a good Scottish reel, and would be very much happier at Enghien. True, a highland regiment was due to give an exhibition of sword dancing, but the guests would be gavotting and waltzing and quadrilling well into the early hours.

At fifteen minutes before eight, Byng carefully wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and rose from the table. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I will leave you now to be about your duties. If there is more news I will, of course, send word.’

James left the dining room with Francis Hepburn. ‘What did you make of it?’ he asked quietly.

‘I agree with you, James.’ replied Hepburn. ‘The peer is being too cautious. We should dictate terms by marching to join the Prussians and crushing Napoleon once and for all.’ He paused. ‘Still, His Grace is the field marshal and we are not. We’d best do as we are told.’

Macdonell laughed. ‘As we always do.’ At the bottom of the chateau steps, Sergeant Dawson was waiting for Macdonell. Another colonel might have left the matter to the company captain. Macdonell insisted on dealing with all disciplinary offences himself. ‘Very well, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘where are they?’

‘At the stables, Colonel. Corporal James Graham is with them.’ Macdonell had considered promoting one of the Grahams to make distinguishing between them easier but had decided that would not be fair on the other.

‘Good. Let us hear what they have to say for themselves this time.’

The Enghien stables, at the back of the chateau, were enormous, another legacy of bygone days. Graham and the two privates were waiting at the far end of the cobbled yard. ‘Thank you, Corporal,’ said Dawson, as they approached. ‘I will take over now. You make ready for parade.’

‘Very good, Sergeant.’ Graham saluted and marched off, leaving his charges to their fate. Privates William Vindle and Patrick Luke were as nasty a pair of ferret-faced, thieving, good-for-nothing drunks as could be found in any regiment of the British Army. Macdonell had never quite understood how any recruiting sergeant could have taken them into a Guards regiment and, had he been able to, he would long ago have thrown them out or, better still, hanged them from a Dutch elm. Between them they had caused more trouble than the rest of the battalion put together. ‘Right, Sergeant. What have they done?’

‘Drunk on watch, Colonel, and fighting.’

‘Fighting each other or some harmless old woman?’

‘Each other, Colonel.’

‘Why?’

Vindle, who might never have told the truth in his life, cleared his throat and rubbed his almost hairless head. His face was filthy and pockmarked. ‘It was nothing, Colonel. A little argument.’

‘Were you drunk?’

‘No, Colonel,’ replied Luke, in his slimy, weedly voice. ‘No more than a glass of rum to wet the throat.’ Macdonell stared
into the narrow eyes set under a low brow and either side of a twisted beak of a nose. They were red and rheumy from drink.

‘Sergeant Dawson says otherwise.’

‘Sergeant Dawson is wrong, Colonel,’ growled Vindle.

Macdonell took a step forward and bellowed into Vindle’s face. ‘No, Vindle, Sergeant Dawson is not wrong.’ He sniffed. ‘You stink of rum. You were drunk and you were fighting. Over who had stolen what from whom, I daresay. If I could, I would shoot you both myself. But we are going to war and you will be needed as targets for the French sharpshooters. I hope their aim is true.’ He turned to Dawson. ‘In the meantime, Sergeant, half rations, remove every bottle they have hidden in their tents and put the wretches to clearing out the stables. They can spend the day shovelling muck. Let me know if they stop for so much as ten seconds. And count yourselves fortunate, you two. If we were not about to fight the French you’d be locked in the cellar and left for the rats. No more chances. Next time it’ll be a whipping. Take them away, Sergeant, before I lose my temper and crack their heads together.’ Macdonell disliked public whippings but these two had used up all their lives.

‘Very good, Colonel,’ replied Dawson.

Macdonell turned on his heel and strode off. It was time for the light companies to parade.

In appearance, Wellington’s army had changed in the few years since it had chased the French around Spain and over the Pyrenees. Then officers wore whatever they liked and soldiers whatever they could find. A dead Frenchman’s trousers were as good as any if they were intact. Wives and daughters were kept
busy darning and sewing and making up whatever they could from bits and pieces into shirts and jackets.

The three hundred men of the Coldstream and Third Guards Light Companies, however, had done no fighting for over a year and new uniforms had not long arrived from London. In their red jackets, white trousers, stovepipe shakos and good leather shoes, they had been formed up in four lines and looked as fine as if they were in Horse Guards Parade. The shoes, especially, were a godsend. The flimsy things they had worn in the Peninsula had lasted no time on rough Spanish roads. Each man held a musket and carried a bayonet, a pouch of cartridges, another of balls, a wooden canteen and an oilskin knapsack. Only the pattern of buttons on their jackets told the two companies apart.

These were the skirmishers, the ghosts and spirits who would work their way close to the enemy by hiding in fields and behind trees, and would pick off as many Frenchmen as they could before withdrawing quietly whence they came. Macdonell was proud of them and, in the expectation that they would march that morning, had prepared a few words of encouragement. Nothing grand, nothing Agincourt-like, just a quiet reminder of the great traditions of their regiment. But all he could tell them was that they were going nowhere until further orders arrived from Brussels. As he spoke, faces dropped and shoulders slumped. Another day hanging about with little to do, they were thinking, and he could hardly blame them. Three months in Enghien, not a Frenchman in sight and fingers itching to pull triggers. Last night, the news that the frogs
were at the Sambre would have been around the camp like the plague. Why were they not being sent to meet their advance? Would they have to wait until the frogs were hopping around the gates of Brussels before attacking?

James Macdonell, their colonel, who had fought in Spain, France and Italy, who wore the Gold Medal for Maida, could not tell them. He could only instruct Captain Wyndham to dismiss the parade and to find what work he could to keep them busy. It was not what he or they had expected.

Nor was it what the two young ensigns attached to the Coldstream Light Company had expected. Superficially alike – smart, ambitious, hard-working sons of well-to-do families – in temperament they were as far apart as beef and mutton. Henry Gooch, seldom lost for a word, boasted of being impatient to ‘make widows of a hundred French madames’. Thoughtful, devout James Hervey, when pressed, would say only that he prayed he would let neither his regiment nor his family down. Very different, yet perhaps no more than two sides of the same coin. A coin minted in fear of what was to come – one side braggadocio, the other prayer.

The two of them had been standing with Captain Wyndham during the parade. ‘Why are we not marching, Colonel?’ asked Gooch, as the men dispersed.

‘It is not for me to say, Mister Gooch,’ replied Macdonell, ‘nor for you to ask. We shall await orders.’

‘But, Colonel, if the French—’

‘Enough, sir. Your leadership skills will be tested today.’

‘I daresay the order to march will come soon enough,’ ventured Hervey, ‘It sounds like Buonaparte means to fight and
I wonder that the Duke did not receive earlier warning from his agents in Paris. Surely they would have known?’

‘An interesting point, Mister Hervey, and another to which I have no answer. Now, kindly be about your business, gentlemen. Find work for your companies and for yourselves. Muskets, drill, packs. Check and check again. Keep them busy.’

The ensigns saluted smartly and marched off towards the camp. Macdonell watched them go. Neither had seen battle and he doubted they had much inkling of what it was like to see the head of the man next to you blown to splinters of bone, or to face ranks of cheering cavalry whose sole intention is to slice you in half, or to stand in square and face artillery round shot without flinching. They would have heard stories but they would never know the awful horror of it until they experienced it for themselves. No one did.

The day dragged on. He walked again around the park. He watched the Coldstream band at practice. He had no ear for music and could only just tell the French horn from the serpent. Pipes and trumpets and drums and cymbals – the instruments of battle – were more to his liking.