Of French cavalry there was now no sign. The artillery volley had spooked them and rather than attack the guns they had gone in search of easier prey. And the French artillery was as good as useless against skirmishers their gun captains could not see. It was tempting to seize the opportunity and charge straight at them. But Macdonell did not know their strength and a headlong dash into the woods might prove disastrous.
Off to their right, he knew from the remorseless crash of cannon that the fighting in the centre of their lines was ferocious. Wellington would have demanded reinforcements for the beleaguered troops at Quatre Bras and would have thrown everything in to his defence of the crossroads and the road to Brussels; Ney would have used his heavy artillery, followed by his cavalry, to break it. Macdonell could only hope that the defence had held and that he and his light companies were not cut off. There was no time to dwell on it. He had his own battle to fight.
From their left a small company of black-clad Brunswickers arrived. Their captain presented himself to Macdonell. He was a man of about Macdonell’s age, almost as tall and fair-haired. ‘Captain Hellman, Colonel. We saw you from our position and thought you would appreciate some help.’
‘Pleased to have you with us, Captain. How many are you?’
‘Forty, Colonel.’ Despite their taste for dog meat, the Brunswickers were good soldiers who hated the French. Many Brunswick families had suffered greatly from the deprivations of the feared Imperial Guard, to whom Napoleon always gave free rein after a victory. Forty of them would make a difference.
‘Our orders are to clear the area of the enemy and push them back beyond the farm at Gemioncourt.’
Through the rye and up the slope they went, heads low and muskets held across chests. Macdonell had placed Captain Hellman on his left wing. Harry was on the right and he in the centre, Gooch and Hervey with him. He had been too occupied to keep an eye on the ensigns but they were still standing and appeared unharmed. Advancing in an irregular line made life more difficult for the French marksmen, but if the cavalry reappeared, they would be in trouble. It was a calculated risk.
A few shots whistled over their heads, mostly to Macdonell’s left where the Brunswickers were impatient to get at the French. They advanced ahead of the line, drawing sporadic French fire but never wavering.
At the top of the field they came to a low, straggly hedge. Beyond the hedge was a sunken track. In the hedge and on the bank of the track, flies swarmed over yet more bodies of dead and wounded men. There were dozens of them. The wounded spoke of the battering they had taken that morning. Macdonell ordered them to be moved into the shade of the oak and birch that grew along the side of the track and to be given water and blankets. Firing from the wood had ceased and the cannon had gone. Either the French were up to one of their tricks or they had withdrawn through the wood.
Macdonell found Captain Hellman and his company well placed on the bank of the track where the undergrowth was dense. The captain was intent on the wood. ‘Any sign of movement, Captain?’ he asked.
‘None, Colonel. But they might be in there waiting for us.’
‘Indeed they might. What do you suggest, Captain?’
‘I could take some men and try to get round the side of the wood without being seen. If we see any movement, we’ll know they are in there.’
‘Very well, Captain. I’ll give you twenty minutes.’
Captain Hellman grinned. ‘Leave it to me, Colonel. We’ll soon see what they’re up to.’ He gathered four men and set off. Macdonell returned to his place in the middle of the line, where he found Harry waiting for him.
‘Orders, James?’ he asked.
‘Captain Hellman has slipped round the wood to see if there are any Frenchies still lurking in it. I’ll send word when he returns.’
Away to their right around the Charleroi Road, artillery started up again. The crash of heavy cannon reverberated through the trees, hammering eardrums and blocking out all other sound. Rooks shrieked in alarm. The men on the bank of the sunken track lay down their muskets and covered their ears.
When Captain Hellman returned he had to cup his hands and all but shout into Macdonell’s ear to make himself heard. ‘The devils have withdrawn but they might have left a small party to cover their retreat. If you were to hold back your centre, Colonel, and allow both wings to advance through the wood at an oblique angle, we should take any ambushers by surprise.’
Macdonell considered. It was a sensible plan but he did not like the idea of holding back. ‘No, Captain, we will all advance together, making as much noise as we can. We’ll beat them out of the wood like pheasants. If the main body has withdrawn the rest will surely follow.’
If Captain Hellman was surprised he did not show it. ‘I had forgotten the British penchant for frightening birds half to death before shooting them,’ he said, ‘It will be an interesting experience for us.’
Macdonell ordered the men to be lined up in a crescent formation with instructions to yell, scream, rattle their swords and beat their muskets against their kettles. Anything to make enough noise to frighten an enemy who could not see them into thinking there were thousands of them and running for the safety of their own lines as fast as they could. Anything, that was, except fire their muskets. The risk of accidents and ricochets in woods was too great.
Macdonell gave the signal and off they went. The light companies of the Coldstream and 3rd Guards, trained to move silently in any terrain, crashed into the trees and through the undergrowth, shouting, hammering and rattling into the wood. Rooks shot into the sky like black rockets, squawking and screeching in fury.
They followed the trails left by gun carriages being hastily dragged back through the undergrowth, until, in the middle of the wood, they came across the remains of campfires. Macdonell held his hand over a small pile of ashes. They were warm. The French had camped there, but there was now no sign of them.
Further on, they came to a clearing. In the middle of it lay the body of a Nassauer infantryman, face down, his back covered in congealed blood. Thinking it might be some sort of French trick, Macdonell halted the line and approached the body cautiously. A thick cloud of flies rose briefly from their work before settling back down on the corpse. He waved them away and turned the body over. The man’s face was covered in burn marks. Macdonell swore. The demands of war he understood. A soldier killed because he had to. It was his duty. But here a captured soldier had suffered for the amusement of the French and his body had been left as a warning to others. That was beyond his understanding. Damn them to hell.
They carried on through the wood until they reached its southern edge where trees gave way to open land and, a little further on, a field of corn. They had seen neither Frenchman nor pheasant, just gruesome evidence of the enemy’s barbarity. Captain Hellman found Macdonell peering through his glass at the cornfield. ‘Any sign of them, Colonel?’ he asked.
Macdonell shook his head. ‘Can’t see any, but the corn is high. They might be in there.’ On three sides of them, cannon continued to hurl their deadly charges at enemies seen and unseen, explosions ripped through the morning air and men would be dying in their hundreds. Macdonell did not give it a thought. All his attention — his eyes and ears and mind — was focused on the field in front of him. He searched in vain for movement in the corn. There was none. The French infantry had withdrawn still further. He signalled the advance.
In a ragged line, the men of the light company and the Brunswickers moved forward into the open. If the French were hiding in the corn they would flush them out. If not, they would take up a position at the far end of the field and await orders. Beyond it a low hedge separated it from another wood.