The line had covered about fifty yards when there was a shout of warning from the left. Macdonell turned. Sergeant Dawson was bellowing at the top of his voice. From somewhere French cavalry had appeared. They were Lancers — probably the same troop they had encountered earlier — and must have been hiding in one of the many sunken lanes that criss-crossed the area, waiting for the light companies to emerge from the wood in line. A ragged, extended line at that.
It was a trap. Twenty horseman, lances extended, galloped towards them. There was no time to form squares. They had been caught in the open and would be slaughtered.
‘Run!’ Macdonell shouted, waving his arms and pointing back to the wood. The men needed no urging. The sight of French cavalry who would soon be close enough for them to see the grins on the riders’ faces and the bared teeth of their mounts was enough to send even the slowest of them running like rabbits back to the trees.
Most of them made it. Some, Macdonell among them, did not. He had lagged behind to encourage the stragglers and was five yards from safety when the first of the Lancers reached them. The leading lancer must have seen his colonel’s epaulettes because he ignored the others and charged straight at Macdonell. He held his lance on his right side, his arm fully extended and ready to thrust its point into his prey’s face or chest. Macdonell turned towards him, stood with sword raised and watched him bearing down. To turn one’s back on a lancer was to invite certain death. The lance was no more than six feet from him when he hurled himself across the path of the horse. So late did he leave it that he felt the outside of the horse’s hoof touch the sole of his boot. He rolled over once and rose to his feet, the sword still in his hand. The lancer, with no time to react, galloped on until he could rein in his mount and turn back for the kill.
Macdonell saw two men slain by merciless strikes of French sabres, one almost beheaded, the other speared through the back. Three others, including Sergeant Dawson, were desperately trying to reach the woods. He ran after them and would have made it had he not stumbled and fallen a few yards from the treeline. He was on his knees when he heard a shot and a lancer landed beside him. A bullet had entered the lancer’s head just above the left eye. A little dazed, Macdonell was struggling to his feet when two strong arms hoisted him up and dragged him to safety. ‘Now that was a trifle close for comfort,’ said a lilting Irish voice.
Lying on the ground, Macdonell peered up into the man’s face. He could not tell. ‘Joseph?’ he muttered.
‘Bless you, sir, no. Joseph would more likely have shot you, his aim is so bad.’
‘James, then. My thanks. Help me to my feet, please, and we will see what is to be done.’
Still dazed, Macdonell managed to stand. Harry Wyndham emerged from behind a tree. ‘Very acrobatic, Colonel. Are you hurt?’
‘I am not.’ The Lancers, doubtless disappointed at not catching more of the Guards, were milling about a hundred yards from the wood. They knew that was the extreme limit of a musket’s accurate range and the risk of a lucky shot was slight. ‘Tell them to hold their fire unless the brutes come closer,’ ordered Macdonell. They were quite safe where they were — trees and cavalry did not mix well.
Macdonell could not be sure but he thought that the lancer who tired of doing nothing and trotted forward to within fifty yards of the treeline was the one who had first charged at him. He was shouting angrily and gesticulating with his sabre. He did not, it seemed, approve of their strategy of hiding in the woods. ‘Stupid frog,’ muttered Harry, raising a musket and firing. The lancer’s horse, shot through the neck, fell to the ground, shuddered and died. The lancer, beside himself with fury, ran towards them, shaking his fists and yelling something about ‘mon empereur’. Another shot rang out and the lancer fell. The man was a fool. Nor was he much good to his emperor now. ‘Now what, Colonel?’ he asked. ‘Wait for help to arrive or charge the bastards?’
‘I need half a dozen of our best sharpshooters,’ replied Macdonell. ‘Vindle was a poacher, if I’m not mistaken. Make him one of them.’
Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Even Vindle won’t hit anything at this range.’
‘Then we shall have to make it easier for him. And have a hundred men hidden on the edge of the treeline, muskets cocked and ready to fire.’
Among the six who presented themselves to Macdonell were Vindle and two others who had been convicted of poaching and sentenced to hang, only to escape the noose by joining the army. Poachers were good shots. Macdonell instructed them to check their muskets and to follow his orders exactly. ‘We will advance into the open, form up and, on my command, fire a volley. Aim for the horses. As soon as you have fired, run back here. Do not stop to help a fallen man, and if your musket slows you down remember that a wild-eyed Frenchman with a bloody great sabre is right behind you. Clear?’
It was clear. Ignoring Vindle’s look of pure venom, Macdonell took the musket that Harry had prepared for him, lined up the six of them behind him, took one look round, let out an ear-shattering highland cry and dashed out into the field. The French cavalry simply sat on their horses and stared in astonishment. The volley, which brought down two horses and one rider, galvanised them. Macdonell and his shooting party were no more than halfway back to the woods when the Lancers charged.
He had judged it nicely. As the seven men dived into the trees, a hundred musket balls struck their pursuers, bringing them down in a screaming heap. Ten men died instantly, and as many horses. The wounded, legs and arms lacerated and broken by musket balls and falling horses, did their best to scramble out of danger. It was as Macdonell had hoped. The French Lancers, true to their reputation for pride and impetuosity, had brought death upon themselves.
From the safety of the trees they watched the Lancers turn their mounts and canter back through the cornfield towards the woods beyond. ‘Well, Colonel,’ said Harry Wyndham, standing beside Macdonell. ‘Fancy Lancers running away twice in one afternoon. Perhaps they feared you were about to sing one of your Scottish songs.’
Macdonell pointed to a party of horsemen cantering towards them from the west. Their jackets were blue and gold and their blue shakos were adorned with red cockades. They were British Light Dragoons. ‘There is your reason, Harry. My tuneful singing had nothing to do with it.’
As they approached, Macdonell stepped out of the trees. The Dragoon captain rode up to him. The flanks of his mount were glistening with sweat. ‘Colonel Macdonell?’ he inquired, holding his long, curved cavalry sword upright.
Macdonell nodded. ‘I am Macdonell, Captain, and pleased to see you.’
‘We were told we might find you here, Colonel,’ said the captain. He pointed with his sword to the dead Lancers and horses. ‘Although it does not look as if you need our assistance.’ There was a thunderous explosion from the direction of the crossroads at Quatre Bras. The captain’s mount started in fright and did its best to throw him. It took the captain a good minute to bring the beast under control. ‘He’s been skittery all day,’ explained the captain. ‘And that must have been a shell hitting a powder wagon.’
‘Then let us hope that the powder was French.’
‘Indeed. Colonel, General Byng’s orders are for you to push on through the cornfield and into the woods. The 90th and a company of Jägers will attack the farm at Gemioncourt from the south and west. You are to clear the woods on this side of the farm.’
Macdonell thanked the captain and wished him luck for the day. Harry was standing at his shoulder. ‘Ten minutes rest, check muskets, and then it’s more work for us, Harry. Pass the word. And find Captain Hellman.’