Harry was asleep. James unrolled the despatch and tried to read it. It was still too dark. He gave the fire a kick with his boot, sending sparks into the air, and exposing the ashes. When he held the paper close, they gave off just enough light.
General Byng acknowledged Macdonell’s report and informed him that the French had been driven back down the Charleroi Road and instructed him to hold his position until ordered otherwise. There was no mention of advancing further. It was disappointing. James read it twice to be sure he had not misunderstood. They had forced the French back down the road whence they came. Somewhere out in the darkness, in the woods and fields and farms, Allied troops would be itching to chase them all the way back to France. Why not press home their advantage? He would let Harry sleep for another hour before waking him with the news.
But for Harry and every other man in the camp there was no more sleep. An arrow of lightning lit up the night sky and thunder again rolled over their heads. Harry jumped up and grabbed his musket. ‘Only thunder, Harry,’ laughed Macdonell. ‘And we’ve had orders to stay put.’ He handed over the paper.
Harry rubbed sleep from his eyes. ‘What about the Prussians? Those deserters said Napoleon was after them.’
‘No news, but Blücher will stand and fight. He always has.’
‘What if he stood and fought and lost?’
‘Old Blücher? Come now, Harry. No one hates the frogs more than the Prussians.’
‘I hope you’re right, James.’ Another flash of lightning and the rain arrived again. It poured down in sheets and soon the camp was a muddy bog. Men scrambled back into their bivouacs and lay on their muskets.
For once, Harry’s good humour deserted him. ‘I’m heartily sick of this,’ he said, huddled again under their oilskin roof. ‘Damnable weather, damnable frogs. They could slip past us and be in Brussels before the rain stops. And we’ll never keep our muskets dry. Lie on them, point their barrels at the ground, wrap them in oilskin, they’ll still be wet.’ The first glimmerings of dawn were appearing. ‘Cup of gin all round? We’re likely in for another long day.’
‘Cup of gin it is. One only, mind.’ James picked up their kettle and tipped water into his mouth. A few drops ran down his chin. He wiped them off and inspected his hand. ‘Good God. It’s red. Where did it come from?’
‘The stream back beyond the farm,’ replied Harry.
James sniffed his hand. ‘Blood. It was not there yesterday. It must have come from upstream. Human or horse, do you think?’
‘No idea. Didn’t taste too bad last night but I’ll stick to gin this morning.’ Harry reached into his haversack and pulled out a brown bottle. He took a gulp and offered it to James who was about to take it when a man appeared out of the half-light. He was panting.
‘Private Mills, Colonel, on picket duty. Heard men in the rye ahead. Coming this way.’
‘How many, Private?’ asked Macdonell.
‘Small party, sir, perhaps half a dozen. Voltigeurs, I daresay, come to take a look at us.’
‘Right. Harry, collect the ensigns and eight men and we’ll give them a surprise for their breakfast.’ The men were quickly assembled. ‘Lead on, Private. Show us where you heard them.’ They moved slowly and quietly forward into the rye, muskets primed and loaded and held across their chests, a hand over the breech to keep out the rain and taking care to keep their heads below the level of the stalks. Macdonell unsheathed his sword and held it loosely at his side. At first, he could hear nothing but the breeze. But when the private stopped and pointed a little to their left, he caught the tiniest hint of movement through the rye, perhaps thirty yards ahead.
Macdonell nodded and signalled his men to fan out. If they could work their way round the voltigeurs, they could trap them like herring in a net. The Frenchmen would have expected sentries but must have thought they had avoided them. Whatever their purpose, they were alarmingly close to the camp.
Harry led five men back and to the left, James the other six to the right. Dawn was breaking but overhead more thunder clouds were gathering. One moment it was light, the next as dark as pitch. The breeze was becoming a wind. Taking advantage of its covering noise, James risked moving faster and hoped Harry was doing the same. It would be a pity not to catch the fish.
They circled the spot he thought the voltigeurs would have reached and he peeked over the rye. Through the rain he made out the back of a man’s head. He turned, lifted a finger to his lips and pointed. All six men nodded their understanding. He signalled for them to extend in line and move forward. They stood between the voltigeurs and their own lines. If Harry had managed to block their way forward, the Frenchies were as good as trapped.
Macdonell rose to his full height and charged through the rye, yelling for the others to follow. A second later, Harry Wyndham did the same. Thirteen men, muskets at the ready, ran at the voltigeurs from every direction. And stopped. They were not voltigeurs. Voltigeurs did not wear red jackets with white cross-belts. They were Guards.
Or at least they looked like Guards. At Albuera, Macdonell had very nearly been duped by a platoon of French infantrymen in British uniforms. Speaking in French, he asked the surrounded men to which battalion they belonged. There was no answer. He ordered them to put down their muskets. None of them moved. There was a lieutenant among them. ‘We are 3rd Foot Guards under the command of Colonel Hepburn,’ said the young man. ‘And, if I may ask, who the devil are you?’
Macdonell ignored the question. ‘Then you are fortunate Foot Guards. You were close to being shot by the light companies of your own battalion. What are you doing creeping about here?’
‘Colonel Hepburn sent us out to check that there were no French behind us. We are camped a quarter of a mile further south at the edge of the wood.’
‘Are you now? Then you may escort me to Colonel Hepburn. Captain Wyndham will accompany us. The rest of you return to camp and await our return. Tell Sergeant Dawson where we are.’
The bivouacs of the 3rd Foot Guards had been set up at the southern edge of the Bossu wood, where the Guards were lighting their fires and boiling their kettles. They found Francis Hepburn with a glass to his eye, sheltering under the branches of an oak and scanning the fields of rye that stretched south along the road to Charleroi. A young corporal stood beside him. ‘Damned if I can see anything in this rain,’ said Hepburn, passing the glass to the corporal, ‘You have a look, Corporal.’ Hepburn turned and saw them. ‘Well, damn me if it isn’t Colonel Macdonell and Captain Wyndham. I was wondering where you had got to. Corporal, find some tea for our guests.’
‘I assume you cleared the wood, Francis,’ said James.
‘We did. Bloody work. Saltoun’s battalion took heavy losses. At times there seemed to be a frog behind every tree. And telling friend from foe was not easy. Nasty fighting, but the Hanoverians are holding it now. No danger of the frogs attacking from there. And you, James, bloody work as well?’
‘It was. Nearly fifty men lost, but the ground is secure as far as the Gemioncourt Farm.’
‘Which the 90th now hold. And not a frog in sight. Do you suppose they have gone home?’
‘No.’ James peered into the distance. ‘They’re not far away and we’ll see them again today.’ The corporal returned with two mugs of tea. James took a sip and raised his eyebrows. ‘Excellent tea, Francis. Where did you get it?’
Hepburn blushed. ‘Er, Daisy gave it to me before we left. Said it would remind me of her.’
‘And does it?’
‘It does. Now, I suggest you strike camp and bring the light companies down here so that we are all ready to move off when the order to advance comes. It shouldn’t be long.’