WATERLOO
THE BRAVEST MAN
ANDREW SWANSTON
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.