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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
June, 1815. The Coldstream Guards and the third guards are waiting impatiently for orders to move into battle against Napoleon and his French army. Every day seems endless as the troops wait for Wellington's orders. When word is finally received, the path to glory it is not quite what the troops were hoping for. Hours of marching during the day are followed by restless nights' sleep in the rain, dampening their spirits and weakening morale. When the group eventually encounter the French in battle, a special command comes from Wellington himself to Colonel James Macdonell of the Coldstream Guards: hold the chateau at Hougoumont and do not let the French pass. What happens next is history.
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Seitenzahl: 355
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
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WATERLOO THE BRAVEST MAN
ANDREW SWANSTON
Contents
For my family
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Although this is a fictionalised account of the role played by James Macdonell and the Guards regiments in the battles of Quatre Bras and Waterloo and of the vital defence of the farm and chateau at Hougoumont, most of the characters in the story existed and much of it is true.
Accounts, even contemporary accounts, of the battles vary. Where I have had to choose, I have chosen that which best suited the narrative. Where there are gaps in the accounts, I have tried to fill them with something plausible. I have also used a little licence where it was necessary to the story.
If there are any errors of fact, they are mine alone.
‘Our battle on the 18th was one of giants; and our success was most complete, as you perceive. God grant that I may never see another.’
Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington to Marshal Prince Schwarzenberg
26th June 1815
CHAPTER ONE
1815
14th June
To James Macdonell’s expert eye the two were evenly matched. One huge and powerful, the other quick and clever. James had been taught to box by his brothers at home in Glengarry. He had fought at fairs in Fort William and Inverness – indeed, had defeated more than one local favourite – but at thirty-four and a lieutenant colonel, he no longer took to the ring. He did pride himself, however, on being able to pick the winner within half a minute of a bout starting. This time he could not choose between them.
Corporal James Graham, the biggest man in the Coldstreams, taller and heavier even than Macdonell himself, was built like a cavalry horse. He had never seen the flame-haired Irishman defeated. But five minutes into the fight and his opponent, a wiry young private from the 3rd Foot Guards, was more than holding his own. He was quick as a snake and had been landing three or four punches to every one of Graham’s. He ducked and weaved under Graham’s guard, jabbed fast, twisted his knuckles as they met cheek or nose, and skipped back out of range before Graham could respond. He did not carry Graham’s weight of punch but if he could avoid one of his thundering blows to the chin, he might just wear his man down.
Macdonell leant over to Francis Hepburn, his equivalent in the 3rd Guards – both regiments belonging to General Byng’s second battalion. To see over the heads of the spectators in front, Hepburn, a good head shorter, was standing on an upturned crate. ‘Good man of yours, Francis. On the balls of his feet and fast hands. What did you say his name was?’ He had to speak loudly to be heard.
Hepburn turned and grinned up into his friend’s face. He put his hand to his mouth and spoke into Macdonell’s ear. ‘Joseph Lester. Private. Fancy a guinea on your man?’
Despite his misgivings, Macdonell did not hesitate. ‘Make it two, Francis, and payment in full before supper, if you please.’
For its discreet location behind the town hall, the yard was the favoured place in Enghien for regimental prize fights and wrestling bouts. Since the guards had arrived in the town there had been many such bouts. Soldiers had to be kept busy. Today, for the match between the champion of the Coldstreams and the champion of the 3rd Guards, it was overflowing with spectators, not one of them impartial, and most shouting themselves hoarse.
The yard was formed on three sides by the tall houses that were typical of the town – three or even four storeys, brick-built, substantial – the houses of prosperous Belgian town officials and merchants. Their residents leant from every window, cheering for their favourite and hissing at his opponent. In the yard, small boys sat on their fathers’ shoulders or crawled between uniformed legs to get a view. Everyone liked a good fight.
Guards of both regiments in their red jackets and stovepipe shakos had linked arms to form a rough circle within which the fighters were obliged to keep. If either man was forced against the ring he would be shoved roughly back. If he left the ring he would be disqualified. A sergeant from each regiment stood behind the crowd, ready to restore order if it became too unruly.
In the warm evening sunshine sweat splattered off the bare chests and arms of the fighters, spraying the front row of spectators and making the cobbles treacherous. Above them a layer of pipe smoke hovered in the air, the sweet aroma of tobacco mingled with the sharp smells of effort and excitement.
Lester danced forward, thrust his left hand into Graham’s eye, anticipated the counter aimed at his head and ducked under it. He jabbed again with his right and drew blood from Graham’s lip. The 3rd Guards loved it. ‘Joe, that’s the way, man. Put the big ox on his arse.’
Graham grimaced and spat out blood. He jabbed out a huge left fist but landed only a glancing blow on his man’s shoulder. Lester’s knuckles were already red and raw from the punches he had landed, Graham’s barely marked. It looked to Macdonell that he was about to see his man lose for the first time and, what was more, be obliged to hand over two guineas.
Sensing a result, the crowd became even more raucous. The Coldstreams yelled at their man to land a punch that would end it, the 3rd Guards roared with delight every time theirs landed a blow or cleverly avoided one. Graham’s hair and chest were plastered with sweat. His nose was bleeding and his lip was split. Lester was unmarked and showing no sign of slowing. Very much a light company man, thought Macdonell. Quick, clever, elusive.
The Coldstreams tried to rally their man. ‘Imagine he’s a frog,’ yelled one. ‘Wipe the grin off his froggy face.’ But hard as he tried, Graham could not land a telling blow. Lester was in and under his guard before he knew it, landing a punch, stepping back and never taking his eye from his opponent. The 3rd Guards sensed victory.
Among the red and white uniforms in the crowd was a scattering of bonnets – wives and sweethearts who had travelled with their men from England and local mademoiselles who had attached themselves to one of the English officers who had been flooding into the country for nearly three months. Enghien was but one of a dozen towns in which a British regiment had been billeted. At home no respectable lady would attend a prize fight. Here it was different. Belgian society had its own rules.
A young woman detached herself from the crowd and made her way to where Francis and James were standing. She wore a pink bonnet and a flowing cotton dress embroidered with tiny blue violets and tied under the bosom with a white ribbon. ‘Colonel Hepburn, I wish you happiness,’ she greeted Francis with a curtsey.
Francis grinned and stepped down from the crate. ‘And I you, Miss Box. I had not thought to find you here.’ It was an effort to speak over the hubbub without shouting.
‘Indeed not. I would not have come had some of the ladies not pressed me. And who is this gentleman?’ She indicated James with her fan.
‘My colleague, Colonel James Macdonell of the Coldstream Guards. James, may I present Miss Daisy Box?’
James inclined his head and took the outstretched hand. ‘Enchanté, Miss Box. I wonder how it is that we have not previously met.’
‘I have not long been in the country, Colonel Macdonell, and came to Enghien only a few days since. My father is employed in the embassy in Brussels. I came across to visit him and have stayed a little longer than planned.’ She glanced at Francis, whose handsome side whiskers could not quite conceal a blush. ‘I have found the city most agreeable.’ Miss Box’s blonde curls peeped out from under her bonnet and when she smiled a dimple appeared in each cheek.
‘Then we must hope that the sun continues to shine and the country to amuse you,’ replied James, hoping he did not sound too pompous.
There was a huge roar from the crowd. They looked up. At last Graham had landed a worthwhile blow. Lester was down on one knee, wiping blood from his mouth. He spat out a tooth and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. ‘Now we’ll see how good he is,’ said James quietly.
As if he had heard the remark, Lester advanced to within striking distance, changed his angle of attack at the last second, and landed a solid punch on Graham’s nose. More blood gushed forth and Graham snarled. He wiped away the blood and snarled again. It was the sound of a wounded beast turning on its attacker. The direct hit on his nose had given him new purpose. The crowd sensed it and went quiet.
He circled his opponent, his eyes fixed on his target, feinted twice, saw that Lester’s reactions had slowed very slightly, took a long step forward, brushed aside his guard and smashed a huge fist into his face. Lester wobbled but did not fall. A fearsome uppercut jolted his head backwards. For a second a look of utter astonishment came over him. Then he did fall. Prostrate on the cobbles, he was not going to get up again.
The crowd cheered and groaned in equal measure. But when Lester did not move, it went silent. Two guards detached themselves from the ring and crouched over him. One of them used a towel to wipe blood from the stricken man’s mouth and nose. The other called for water, which came in a bucket and was tipped over Lester’s head. Still he did not move. Another bucket was fetched. A guard slapped him gently on the cheek and spoke quietly. ‘Up you get, Joe. It’s all over now.’
Lester opened his eyes and blinked. He spluttered and retched and struggled up, supported by a guard on either side. Vomit ran down his chest on to the cobbles. He shook his head like a dog with a rat and cursed. ‘Lucky Irish bugger. I slipped. He was all but done for.’ The crowd laughed with relief. It was a fight they had come to see, not a death.
James Graham, who had stood quietly watching his stricken opponent, went over to help him to his feet. One of his eyes was swollen and closed and his nose was still bleeding. A cloth was held out to him. He wiped his face and hands and threw it into the crowd. ‘The luck of the Irish, was it?’ he asked in his lilting brogue. ‘It’s a strange thing I’ve learnt now – the harder I hit the luckier I am.’
Lester held out a hand. ‘And that’s the hardest I’ve ever been hit. I’ll take more care in future.’
‘You do that and you’ll be a champion,’ replied Graham with a painful smile. ‘Although not in Ireland.’ He took the proffered hand, put an arm around Lester’s shoulders and led him through the crowd. ‘Now, come and we’ll spend some of the purse.’
James and Francis watched the two men go. ‘Stout fellows, both of them,’ said Francis.
‘Stout indeed. And we shall need plenty like them when Boney arrives,’ agreed James, holding out his hand. ‘Two guineas, was it not?’ Francis produced two coins from his pocket and passed them over. ‘Perhaps Miss Box would care to join us for supper?’
‘How gallant, Colonel Macdonell.’ Daisy beamed at him. ‘I should indeed care to.’ She slipped an arm through his. ‘Come along, Francis, all this excitement has given me quite an appetite.’
They were about to leave the yard when there was a yell of pain from behind them. They stopped and turned. A scuffle had broken out. A punch was thrown and a woman shrieked. In a trice, guard was fighting guard. A sergeant swiftly rounded up the ladies and ushered them away like a shepherd with his flock. Macdonell recognised two of the brawlers – both Coldstreams and both cut from the same shabby cloth – frequently drunk and forever in trouble. There were rotten apples in every orchard and Privates William Vindle and Patrick Luke were as foul and maggoty as any. He was on the point of stepping in when Francis tapped his elbow and turned away. ‘Time for our supper, James. The sergeants will sort it out.’ He strode off, leaving James to escort Daisy.
Since arriving in Enghien, Macdonell had had ample time to explore. A man could not spend every hour training and studying. He had discovered a town of fine avenues and narrow streets, tall houses and ancient churches. Twenty-two or so miles south-east of Brussels it was close enough to attract visitors but distant enough not to be overwhelmed by them. Town officials made sure the streets were clean and petty crime was swiftly dealt with, so shopkeepers and merchants prospered. Much as he missed home he had come to like the place.
The avenue down which they strolled ran from north to south almost the length of the town and was lined with stalls selling cakes, cheeses, chocolate and sweet drinks. In the shade of a plane tree, they drank punch. ‘Now, then,’ said Francis when their glasses were empty. ‘To the Grand Café, I fancy. For a few francs we shall have a good supper and another glass of punch. Advance.’
The Grand Café, a favourite with British officers and Enghien burghers alike, was a short walk down the avenue. Outside it, tables and chairs – mostly occupied – had been set for those who preferred to dine in the evening sunshine. Waiters in aprons, carrying plates and trays, bustled about trying to keep their customers happy. Wine flowed and voices were raised. James and Francis nodded to officers they recognised and smiled at their admiring glances. Daisy pretended not to notice and led them to a table. ‘Today I shall eat veal,’ she announced. ‘I do so enjoy it and we seldom see it at home.’
They ordered their meal and more punch. The food was good and the punch strong. James did not have to make much of an effort at conversation, leaving Daisy to chatter away happily. She was born in Hampshire, her mother had died when she was a girl, her father was a senior official in the embassy, and she had insisted on crossing the Channel to visit him and to see a little of the country. She hoped there would be no fighting to spoil her visit. Francis Hepburn assured her that there would be no fighting for some weeks, if at all, and that she should concentrate on enjoying herself.
She waxed lyrical about Brussels restaurants, its elegant squares and parks and the courtesy of its people. ‘Such a change from England,’ she declared. ‘I had not before realised how uncouth we English can be.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘I do not mean to offend, Colonel Macdonell. Although you of course are from Scotland, are you not?’
‘I am, madam, and I rather agree with you. The Englishman is a rough type, unlike his cousins to the north. We can only hope he is not found wanting when Buonaparte arrives. The Corsican comes from much the same sort of stock.’
‘And will he arrive, do you think, Colonel?’
‘Despite what Francis has told you, I fear that he will. But we shall be ready, shall we not, Francis?’
‘Naturally, we shall. If he comes anywhere near the border, he will find us blocking his path. I daresay he will turn his army around and run back to Paris.’
Macdonell raised an eyebrow. ‘Let us hope so.’ He rose and excused himself. He was duty officer the next day and must be up soon after dawn. He left Francis to entertain Miss Box and returned to his billet in the Château Enghien.
Supper had been good, the evening was agreeably warm and the town was quiet. Yet he found as he walked that neither the prize fight nor Miss Box had lifted his spirits. He was sick of waiting, sick of trying to find ways of keeping the men occupied and out of trouble, sick of the tedium. For three months Wellington and Napoleon had been building their strength. Now, surely, they were ready. Napoleon would cross the border and the Allies would march to face him. Very soon they would be at war and Francis Hepburn knew it as well as he did.
CHAPTER TWO
15th June
Macdonell was woken by his servant with a mug of sweet tea and the regimental order book. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and checked his pocket watch, a gold hunter made in Paris by M. Lepine, and of which he was uncommonly proud. It was five o’clock. He had slept little. He had still not adjusted to a bed which was six inches too short for him – at three inches over six feet, most beds were too short for him – and just before he retired a galloper had arrived to report that Napoleon’s Armée du Nord was on the march and seemed to be heading for Charleroi on the River Sambre. If the French attacked the town and crossed the river they would have committed an act of war and would be on their way to Brussels, a city that Wellington had vowed to defend. Major General Sir George Cooke, commander of the 1st Infantry Division stationed at Enghien, had immediately sent a despatch to the Duke, summarising the news and requesting orders. As a reply would take several hours to arrive, James had retired in the vain hope of sleep.
He swallowed a few mouthfuls of tea and took the order book from the servant. ‘Any news?’ he inquired hopefully.
‘None that I know of, sir.’
‘Shouldn’t be long.’ In a neat hand he entered the first order for the day. The light companies would parade at eight o’clock in marching order. Sixty rounds to be issued to each man and all horses to be thoroughly exercised and fed. He signed the order Lt Col J Macdonell, Coldstream Guards, and handed it back.
‘Sick to report to the infirmary as usual, Private,’ he said. ‘We shall not want any stragglers. And ask Captain Wyndham to have every musket cleaned and tested. Every one, especially the flints. The last batch was useless.’ Faulty flints supplied by unscrupulous dealers were a constant source of complaint.
‘Yes, Colonel. There is one other matter, sir.’
‘What is that?’
‘Vindle and Luke, sir. Fighting. Sergeant Dawson instructed me to tell you.’
‘For the love of God, not again. Drunk?’ The very pair who had been at the prize fight.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell Sergeant Dawson that I will see them before parade.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The private saluted smartly and left. James hurriedly drank the remains of his tea, splashed water over his face, ran a comb through his mop of sandy hair and struggled into his new uniform, already brushed by the servant. It was as fine a uniform as any in the army. A red jacket with a high blue collar and blue cuffs, white breeches, cross-belt from right shoulder to left hip and calf-length black boots. The jacket was laced with gold braid. He checked his appearance in a mirror. He was ready. And if the French were on the Sambre, he would need to be.
On the first day of March, Napoleon Buonaparte had landed with about a thousand men at Golfe Juan on the southern French coast. Ironically, the Duke of Wellington had been in Vienna, discussing with the other European powers how best to ensure peace and stability for all after twenty years of conflict. Boney, not for the first time, had caught them napping and by the sound of it he might be about to do so again.
Macdonell had been with the regiment in Brussels when the news arrived. At first, some of his fellow officers did not take it seriously. They thought that Boney would get no further than Lyon. They did not believe that the veterans who had left their wives and families to fight for him and had seen so many of their comrades die in Spain and Russia would dust off their uniforms, sharpen their swords and make ready to follow him again.
Others did not accept the threat Napoleon posed because they did not want to. They were enjoying themselves too much in the glittering hotels and salons of Brussels to want to go to war, and so persuaded themselves that the little Corsican would simply go away.
James knew they were wrong. The highlander’s instinct that had served him well on battlefield and Scottish hillside alike told him that it would not be many weeks before they were at war again. He had fought in Italy and with Wellington in the Peninsula. He had seen French Lancers destroy an infantry line in a matter of minutes, he had watched helpless as French artillery had turned an infantry square into a mess of blood and bodies, and on dark nights he could still hear the remorseless drumming that signalled the advance of the French Imperial Guard.
Napoleon would not have left his exile on Elba without being confident that these tough veterans of his Russian and Spanish campaigns would follow him once more. Macdonell had even bet a guinea on it with Francis Hepburn. The guinea was paid the day they heard that Marshal Ney, commander of the Imperial Guard, and so-called ‘bravest of the brave’, had declared his support for the Emperor. If Napoleon’s beloved ‘immortals’, complete with their pigtails and earrings, were with him, not a man in France would entertain the remotest possibility of defeat.
Within two days of Ney’s declaration, King Louis XVIII had fled with his family to Bruges, and their emperor, to the joy of the people, had entered Paris. The Allies declared war on France and Wellington made haste to Brussels. Macdonell had heard the Duke say that he wished a more distant island had been found for Napoleon. St Lucia in the Caribbean, perhaps, where yellow fever or malaria might have done for him, or even the lonely island of St Helena, stuck out by itself in the middle of the Atlantic. And the Duke had been proved right. For Napoleon, Elba in the Mediterranean had been no more than a stepping stone back to France.
The Château Enghien stood at the north-eastern edge of the town beside a heart-shaped lake fringed with willow and oak. Once a magnificent building with a grand park, it had long ago fallen into disrepair. Nevertheless it had provided the officers of the 2nd Brigade with more than adequate accommodation. The walls might be peeling and much of the furniture broken, but it was dry and comfortable enough. James had tried, and failed, to imagine it as it must have been in its glory days – the scene, surely, of lavish banquets, grand balls and glittering musical gatherings. Just the things Napoleon was known to hate.
He strode out of the chateau, down a broad flight of stone steps and set off around the lake. A good walk before joining General Sir John Byng for breakfast and to be briefed on the night’s news would help clear his head. It was Sir John’s habit to take breakfast with his senior officers. Unlike Major General Peregrine Maitland who commanded the 1st Brigade, Byng liked to extol the merits of a good breakfast. The fastidious Maitland dismissed it as an unwelcome new habit and insisted that a man should do at least two hours work before breaking his fast.
Macdonell worked better on a full stomach. He had more energy and thought more clearly. And if they were to march, a clear head would be needed. Mobilising troops who had been in quarters for as long as they had would not be easy.
Among the rows of tents the first stirrings were apparent. Grizzled heads appeared, sniffed the air like hunting dogs, relieved themselves and retreated back inside. Fires were being lit and water boiled for tea. Most would breakfast on their ration of boiled beef and biscuit. A few might have scrounged an egg or some bread. In front of a tent at the head of a line, two large figures and an unusually small one were busy preparing their food.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Macdonell greeted them. All three immediately snapped to attention. Macdonell grinned. He could not help grinning when he saw the Graham brothers together. They were so alike that they could have been twins, although today James bore the marks of the fight. One eye was swollen and both cheeks bruised. Six and a half feet tall, broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, hewn from the hardest Irish granite, and inseparable. Macdonell often thought that if the army had just ten thousand like the corporals Graham, Napoleon would be wise to turn tail and run.
In appearance, the third man, Sergeant George Dawson, was rather different. Barely an inch over five feet, pug-nosed and barrel-chested, he might have been about forty years old. No uniform had ever quite fitted him, however skilful its maker. He was a tough borderer from the town of Hawick who carried his lack of height with a certain panache. Dawson, too, had been at Maida and in that odd, short battle, had fought bravely and by word and deed had encouraged others to do the same. That was why he now wore a sergeant’s crimson sash.
‘Good morning, Colonel,’ replied the sergeant. ‘You find us making ready for the day.’
‘Joy of the morning to you, Colonel,’ added James. ‘Mug of fine Irish tea?’
‘No thank you, Corporal. Good fight. Well done. How are the wounds?’
James raised a hand to his face. ‘Wounds, Colonel? Just a few scratches and my hands are good as new. Joe’s a fine mess, poor fellow. Hope he can hold his musket.’
‘So do I. How was the night?’
‘Long, Colonel. We expected news.’ This time it was Joseph.
‘Will we be marching today, Colonel?’ asked Dawson. ‘The men are asking.’
‘I expect so. Full parade at eight. Be sure to kick the drunks and dreamers awake and in to line.’
The corporals smiled their lopsided smiles. ‘That we will, sir,’ replied Dawson. ‘Are you aware of Vindle and Luke fighting again?’
‘I am, Sergeant, and I will deal with them after breakfast.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Macdonell nodded and went on his way.
A cloudless sky and already he could feel the warmth of the coming day on his face. God willing, the order to march would come that morning. If they were off to fight, the men should not be kept on parade for too long. Knapsack, blanket, sixty balls, powder, musket, bayonet and three days’ biscuit weighed nearly sixty pounds. As a young ensign he remembered finding the load heavier when standing still than when marching or fighting. Mind you, when it came to battle, the light companies he commanded would carry nothing but their guns, ammunition and a light oilskin haversack. Speed and stealth were the skirmishers’ best weapons.
Beyond the rows of tents the park stretched out towards distant woods. Sweeps of grass, close-cropped by the horses, were fringed with lines of poplars. All semblance of a garden had long disappeared, although there were paintings in the chateau of what had once been spectacular beds of roses and tulips. Macdonell made his way towards a stream that ran through the park and into Lac d’Enghien. On the banks of the stream grew willows, their branches draped over the water and, here and there, stooping so low that they might have been trying to drink. Just once he had seen a kingfisher there. It had swooped so fast to spear its prey that it had been no more than a blur of green and red; it was only when it emerged with a stickleback in its beak that he had been sure of what he had seen.
Macdonell liked that spot. He went there to watch dragonflies and waterboatmen and, occasionally, to take off his boots and dangle his feet in the cool water of the stream. Although no more than a few hundred yards from the noise and bustle of the camp, it was peaceful. It was a good place to think. Army life allowed little time for private thought. And it reminded him of home – Glengarry, where the river ran down to the loch and on to the Great Glen above Fort William. He had been born there, grew up there with his brothers, learnt to catch salmon, stalk deer and shoot pheasant there. At school in Douai he had missed the lochs and glens of Scotland almost as much as his family. And he missed them now. He stooped to pick up a pebble and threw it into the stream. He watched the circles it made in the water as they expanded outwards, eventually to be swallowed up by the current. He used to do the same in Glengarry when the river was slow.
For him, the Netherlands and Northern France were too flat to lift the heart, too much of a muchness. He craved the wildness of the highlands, snow on the peaks, icy streams, crofters’ cottages, the sweet smell of burning peat, yellow gorse and purple heather on the slopes. God willing, it would not be many days before he saw them again.
As the third son of a Catholic highland family, his father dead, he had chosen a military life for himself. The family estate had passed to the eldest brother Alasdair, the second was content with his writing and his books, which left James. He had considered the Church, politics, travel, exploration, and had settled on the army. It had been a wise decision. The discipline and order suited him. He enjoyed the company and fellowship of soldiers. And he had acquitted himself with distinction in battle, enjoying the irony of a member of a staunch Jacobite family serving a German king who sat on a throne in London.
A knot of tension was growing in his stomach. He had felt that same knot in Italy and in the Peninsula. Not fear, not excitement, more a sharpening of the senses, an acute alertness that presaged action and danger. Today, surely, they would march. The Duke of Wellington would give the order and they would march to meet Napoleon. Napoleon, who could not acknowledge defeat, had risen again and, if he were not stopped, would sweep through the Netherlands to the coast where he would gaze across the Channel to England. And then what?
Dragging himself from his reverie, he turned and walked briskly back to the camp. The camp stirrings had taken on a new energy and he knew at once that the tension was not his alone. He could see it, hear it, even smell it among the men. It was there in the urgency of their movements, it was there in their gruff voices and it was there in their faces. They were going to war and they wanted to get on with it. Wellington had called them, admiringly, the scum of the earth – scum who had taken the King’s shilling rather than see their wives and children starve, or to avoid the horrors of Newgate or Bridgewall. It worried the Duke and his officers that so many had never hefted a sword or fired a musket in anger, but they were at least survivors, scrappers who the army had trained to fight as a unit and had turned into proud members of a proud regiment. Like as not, Macdonell’s light companies would be first into battle and first to draw blood.
Unwilling to face more questions, Macdonell skirted the camp and returned to the chateau. General Byng was a man who insisted always on exactness and accuracy. Breakfast at seven o’clock meant just that and woe betide the officer who was late.
CHAPTER THREE
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.
