James coughed and stood up straight. ‘Away with you. Our mother hits harder than that.’ Led by James Hervey, the remaining Guards had joined them. Through the hole, Macdonell took them into the field of rye beyond. They formed two ranks facing the enemy positions in the wood. The French fired again. There were shrieks of pain and two men went down. One was holding what was left of his nose, the other’s shattered arm hung uselessly from his shoulder. The Guards got off a volley but they were firing uphill from close on a hundred paces. A direct hit would be more luck than marksmanship. Macdonell hesitated. The wise course would be to withdraw back behind the hedge and wait for the cannon to arrive. But if they did and the enemy chose to attack the farm, the cannon might be intercepted and they could be trapped. They would have to stay where they were.
He called for the wounded to be taken back to the farm and for two lines to re-form in pairs and spread out to give the French muskets less to aim at. It was a manouevre they had practised in the dull days at Enghien and they carried it out perfectly. He sensed relief among them. They were light infantrymen, skirmishers, will o’ the wisps, unaccustomed to fighting in lines. He took a position from where he could observe the accuracy of their shots and watch the reactions of the enemy.
A competent infantryman could get off three shots a minute as long as he had a pouch full of prepared cartridges. The drill was always the same and they had practised it a thousand times. Make sure the barrel and breech were clean, bite off the end of the cartridge paper, hold the ball in your mouth, set the hammer to half-cock, tip a little powder in, shut the hammer, pour the rest of the powder down the barrel, follow it with the ball and the paper for wadding, ram it home with the ramrod, cock and fire. After half a dozen shots a man’s mouth was dry as tinder from the powder and his head throbbing from the smoke and noise. It made no difference. He was trained to go on loading and firing, reloading and firing again until he had run out of cartridges or was dead.
The pairs worked together, one loading, the other firing. After every six shots they moved to a new position — a little back, a little forward or to the side. It made a Frenchman’s aim just a bit more difficult — a bit that might save their lives.
The cannon soon arrived — four six-pounders that had been hauled up the slope and around the house. Within a minute, the gun teams had loaded, primed and fired. The first salvo was short. The second landed among the French, sending bodies and muskets flying into the air. They watched the blue coats turn and flee, and Macdonell signalled the advance. Shrieking and yelling, through the smoke and the rye they ran, most of it trampled and lying flat. Yet more bodies lay everywhere — infantry and cavalry, French and British and Brunswickers. And horses, dozens of them. Men and beasts alike had suffered and died here.
On the far side of the field, they came to another house and garden surrounded by a fence. There corpses were piled high and covered in a black cloud of flies. The headless torso of a young infantry officer in bright-scarlet jacket with crimson lace lay slightly to one side. Highlanders had fought there too. Kilted bodies lay about, some obscenely exposed.
They skirted the house and garden and carried on through the rye, crouching low and making themselves as small a target as they could. They stepped over more mangled bodies and more blood-soaked limbs. ‘Eyes on the enemy,’ shouted Macdonell. ‘We can do nothing for these souls now.’ There were no wounded. Either they had managed to crawl to safety or they had been despatched by the point of a bayonet.
A cannon roared and a six-pound shell whistled over their heads. The French had brought up artillery. Another landed a little to their right, sending up a spray of earth but doing no damage. Instinctively, the men moved left and spread out. Almost immediately there was a shout of ‘cavalry’. The French also had cavalry and had anticipated their manoeuvre. Macdonell yelled the order. ‘Form square. Prepare to meet cavalry.’ The troops ran towards their appointed leaders and began to form irregular-shaped but tightly packed squares around them, with the front line kneeling and bayonets pointing outwards. It was another manoeuvre they had practised and practised until they could do it blindfolded and it was all that stood between them and death at the point of a lance or the edge of a sabre. No horse would run in to or try to jump a line of bayonets.
The French cavalrymen, in their fine plumed helmets and green jackets and breeches, were expert and ruthless. Two of the slowest of Macdonell’s men were caught in the open and cut down with scything swipes of a sabre. The remainder had scrambled into the squares when the first of the French cavalry reached them, the last of them diving head first over a kneeling front line. Sure enough, the horses shied away and their riders were forced to bear off. But as soon as they were clear, more artillery shells exploded around the square. A phalanx of stationary soldiers made a tempting target for a Gunner.
A shell landed just in front of the first rank, broke into pieces and killed two men instantly. Their bodies were dragged aside and the gap they left closed. From the middle of his square, Macdonell shouted an order and it crabbed sideways and forwards. The others followed suit. The French cavalry stood a hundred yards away, waiting for the squares to break. If they did, they would be on their prey in a trice, sabres held in extended arms, ready to thrust and hack at defenceless heads and bodies.
The next shell fell harmlessly in the place they had vacated. Another shouted order and again the squares crabbed sideways. Macdonell had the strange sensation of acting out a play in front of a mounted audience. Receive cannon shot, move, keep the square tight, more shot, move again. Hold the square. Never give the audience a chance to attack. More like a dance, perhaps, than a play. Men went down, blood streaming from their heads and chests. One called pitifully for his mother. Another looked Macdonell in the eye, swore mightily and died. No one moved to help the wounded. The square must be held or they would all die.
There was a break in the cannon fire and the cavalry came closer, shouting insults and daring the infantrymen to fire at them. When they retreated, the French artillery started up again. Macdonell, keeping an eye on the cavalry, tried to gauge the moment to form line and charge at the infantry. Too soon and the cavalry would reach them before they were among the enemy and into the woods behind them, too late and they would be easy meat for the French muskets.
He was spared the decision. Captain Tanner’s artillery teams had dragged their cannon over the field and around the charnel house of the farm. The captain’s first shot was aimed at the cavalry. It sent horses and riders, earth, debris and bodies cartwheeling into the air. The survivors did not wait for a second shot, but turned their mounts and galloped for cover. The light companies’ charge was instant, so fast that Macdonell did not know whether the men had waited for his order or not. Screaming their battle cries, they ran at the French line, driving it backwards into the wood. Fifty yards short of the treeline, he halted them and called for them to spread out in their pairs in the tall rye. They would give the French something to think about in case they were considering another attack.