Away to their right, the roar of cannon had intensified and another monstrous explosion ripped through the air, sending flames towering into the sky. With his musket slung over a shoulder and his hands over his ears, Captain Hellman appeared. ‘Colonel, you sent for me?’ he asked.
‘I did, Captain. We are ordered to cross the field and enter those woods, where the French are hiding. Would you and your men care to join us, or will you return to your battalion? It sounds as if you might be needed there.’
Captain Hellman shook his head. ‘My men are foresters and farmers. They are at home in fields and woods. We will accompany you, Colonel.’
‘Very well. Five minutes more and we will advance.’
They crossed the field at the double, every man keeping an eye open for French cavalry and ready to form square instantly. Much of the corn had been trampled by men and horses, making their advance easier. Where the corn ended, they came to a low hedge which concealed another narrow, low-lying lane. Macdonell led them along it, keeping one bank of the lane and the wood on their left.
A thin stream ran alongside the lane. Forgetting how close they were to the enemy, the men took turns to lie on their stomachs and used their hands and shakos to scoop water into their mouths. Biting the ends off powder cartridges turned a man’s mouth and throat to burning sand. Macdonell made no attempt to stop them. He had not fired many rounds, yet his own throat was as rough as pine bark.
The worst of their thirst slaked, they moved on. At a point where the bank had crumbled, Macdonell sent Captain Hellman and his Brunswickers up and into the trees. In the gloom of the wood their black coats rendered them almost invisible.
Further on he found another place where access to the wood was easy. He left half the company in the lane with Harry Wyndham with orders to stay there to cover their backs, and led the other half into the wood. At the top of the bank they spread out, crouching low and moving as quietly as the undergrowth allowed. At first the trees were widely spaced and thin, allowing light to penetrate the canopy and offering scant cover. Further in they became thick and dense. In the gloom, shapes and shadows danced among them. Here a man might easily fire at nothing or, more worryingly, at a friend.
Macdonell was nervous. Very few men of the light companies had served in the American War. Like him, they had fought on plains and in mountains but never in woods like these. He hated fighting in the dark or where he could not see his enemy and these woods were dark and forbidding. And full of Frenchmen. Voltigeurs and tirailleurs would be lurking behind trees and in the undergrowth, eyes accustomed to the dark and muskets poised to spit a bullet into an enemy face. For all Macdonell knew, they were watching him now, waiting for a certain kill shot, just as he would have waited for such a shot on a Scottish hillside. A finger of fear ran down his spine. He took a deep breath and moved cautiously forward.
They were fifty yards into the wood when a musket fired, echoing among the trees and bringing a howl of pain as it struck home. Then another, this time from a little behind and to the left. So the French were not evenly deployed but were scattered around the wood. Another musket fired from somewhere in the gloom ahead of him and a ball slammed into a tree no more than a hand’s breadth from his head. Voltigeurs, like light company men, always looked for the officers first. Suddenly the whole wood was alive with musket fire. Men yelled warnings and screamed in agony. Bullets tore into flesh and ripped bark from the trees. The voltigeurs had allowed them to enter deep into the wood and were now all around them. Shadowy blue figures slipped through the trees, using the smoke as cover, always on the move, pausing only to reload and fire. Outside the wood, where the sun still beat down on exhausted soldiers, cannon crashed and thundered, bringing instant death to unseen enemies. Inside it, in the shade of the trees, muskets cracked and spat and killed just as surely.
Macdonell cursed. He should not have led them into this trap. He sensed a man at his shoulder. ‘It’s like shooting at ghosts, Colonel,’ said a lowland voice. Another shot whistled over their heads, close enough to make them duck behind a fallen oak.
‘It is, Sergeant. Any ideas?’
‘Yes, Colonel. Get among them with our bayonets. Slice a few faces and fillet some bellies. They’ll squeal like babes.’ Dawson was right. Hand-to-hand fighting would give them a better chance than waiting to be picked off by invisible sharpshooters. The problem was how to get among them. As if he had read his colonel’s mind, the sergeant continued, ‘If you call for a retreat, we could run back towards the edge of the wood where it is more open and hope they chase us. If they do, we will let them get close, then turn and charge.’ He paused and grinned. ‘Bayonets fixed, of course.’
‘And if they do not, at least we will have regrouped for another go at the brutes. Do your best to pass the word. Rapid retreat on my call in two minutes. Fix bayonets. Let them get close. Shriek like stuck pigs. Fear and panic. Halt at the lane. Turn and face them. One volley and charge.’
Macdonell filled his lungs and shouted. ‘Fall back. Light companies retreat.’ Twice he shouted the order before clattering back through the undergrowth himself. He kept shouting to encourage the men to do the same and in the hope that the French would hear him and take an officer’s flight as a signal to give chase. All around him men sped back through the woods. Some stumbled and fell, others ripped their jackets on brambles, one stepped on a snare and howled in anguish when its iron teeth bit into his ankle. He managed to prise it open and hobbled after the others, cursing French poachers, French farmers and anything else French he could think of.
Macdonell passed a man on his knees, fiddling with his musket. ‘Leave it, Private,’ he ordered. ‘Get back to the lane.’ The private looked up, startled. It was Vindle. Macdonell ran on. Idiot. If the French chopped him in half, it would be his own fault.
A few yards further on he came to a small clearing. He had almost crossed it when a musket ball thudded into his back and sent him flying. Lying dazed on a heap of fallen leaves, he was aware of feet running past him. He struggled to his knees. There was no pain and no sign of blood. His pack had saved him. The charge must have been weak and the shot had buried itself in his blanket. He ran on.
At the southern edge of the wood, all but a handful halted. A few, having either not received or having misunderstood the order, jumped into the lane. The rest halted, turned and waited for blue coats to appear.
They soon did. Muskets flashed and men fell. The blue coats were everywhere but they used the thin trees as cover and did not come close enough. Macdonell wondered fleetingly if the plan was going to backfire. For a charge to be successful, they must lure the French nearer. If not, they would be back in the lane where the French would use them for musket practice.
Some way to his left, he glimpsed movement in the trees. More dark coats. Beside him, James Hervey had also seen them and aimed his musket in their direction. As he pulled the trigger, Macdonell grabbed the barrel and pulled it skywards. The shot went high into the trees. Hervey looked at his colonel in astonishment. ‘Look again at those jackets, Ensign,’ said Macdonell.
Hervey peered through the smoke. The jackets were not blue but black. Captain Hellman and his Brunswickers burst out of cover and charged through the trees. A second later, Macdonell and the light company did the same, followed by Harry Wyndham’s men who had scrambled up the bank to join them.
Some of the French turned to face the threat to their flank. The others stood to take the full force of the light companies’ charge. None of them ran. They were brave men, well trained and proud.