Far to the south a cannon cracked and moments later an eight-pound ball landed twenty yards in front of them. Had the ground been dry it would have bounced and might have killed all of them. Fortunately, it stuck in the sodden earth and did no damage. ‘A shot to clear the barrel,’ said Harry, wiping his brow with a sleeve, ‘and the sooner we get at them the better.’
More cannon fired and more round shot plummeted into the ground in front of them or smashed against trees, sending shards of timber and bark flying through the camp. One man shrieked and fell to the ground with a twelve-inch needle sticking out of his arm. ‘They are only clearing their throats,’ shouted Hepburn. ‘Lie flat until it’s done.’ He turned to James. ‘And we’d better do the same.’
They lay on the ground under cover of the wood and waited for the throat-clearing to finish. ‘Will you return fire?’ asked James.
‘No,’ replied Francis. ‘Waste of ammunition and the peer disapproves of what he calls long-distance duelling. Likes us to save our best for the infantry.’
For thirty minutes cannon fired, rain fell in torrents and drenched men found what shelter they could from both. It was still raining when a small troop of Light Dragoons came cantering down the road. Their captain dismounted and led his mount to the edge of the woods. Over his uniform he wore an oilskin cloak and carried a messenger bag, also oilskin. He tethered his horse and approached the camp. ‘I have urgent orders for Colonel Hepburn from General Byng,’ he announced, taking a packet from his bag. ‘And I am told Colonel Macdonell commanding the light companies is also here.’
Francis strode up to the dragoon. ‘I am Colonel Hepburn, Captain. And this is Colonel Macdonell.’
The captain handed his packet to Francis. It was rolled in oilskin and tied with cotton thread. General Byng was taking no chances with the rain. ‘Your orders, sir,’ said the Dragoon. ‘And now we will go to the farmhouse.’
‘Are the orders for the 90th the same?’ asked James.
‘They are, Colonel.’
That was encouraging. A general advance down the road to Charleroi, where the French would be chased back over the river. Francis unwrapped it and extracted a single sheet of paper. It did not take him long to read the order. Without a word he passed it to James. Then he swore. ‘Bugger it, James. We’ve cleared the frogs out of the woods and fields, taken the farmhouse, sent them packing and held the road north. Why in the name of our German king are we now being ordered to withdraw?’
‘Francis,’ replied James with a shrug of resignation, ‘I have no more idea than you. But the order is clear and emphatic. We are to return with our companies to Quatre Bras at once.’
‘Damn and blast. God knows what the men will make of it. Bloody fighting, comrades killed and wounded, and now we are to turn tail and run for it.’
‘It says withdraw, not run.’
‘Bloody withdraw, then. What’s the difference?’
Macdonell did not reply. ‘I must return to my company, Francis. Thank you for the tea.’
Back they trudged, splashing through puddles, unable to think of anything to say. Harry gave the order to strike camp and make ready to march. ‘Going to chase the frogs back to Paris, are we?’ asked James Graham, rubbing his hands. He and his brother had come through the day unharmed.
‘It seems not, Corporal,’ replied Harry. ‘At least not yet. We are returning to the crossroads.’
‘Won’t find many frogs there,’ growled Joseph, ‘except the green ones they eat.’
The French artillery, now fully awake, had started up again, and their Gunners were firing at the woods, the road and the Gemioncourt farm. On top of the cannonade, thunder boomed, lightning flashed and miserable soldiers packed up their bivouacs, collected their few possessions together, helped each other into their sodden packs and prepared to march. Having taken all the ground for the best part of a mile south of the Quatre Bras crossroads, they were now, it seemed, going to give it back.
The road was thronged with men, horses and artillery heading north. Behind them French guns fired at their backs as if mocking their retreat, and all along the roadside the bodies of the dead lay heaped. Blue uniforms, the black of the Brunswickers, green Riflemen, kilted Highlanders, the blue of the French Infantry and the red of their Hussars. Bodies crushed, mangled, butchered. Skin flensed from faces and hands. Horses, gun carriages, muskets, swords — the tools of war. And, here and there, a woman — a soldier’s wife who had remained at her husband’s side. The looters had already been out — packs lay open and discarded, pockets emptied and jackets cut from backs — rich pickings for the scavengers.
At the crossroads it was worse. The dead and dying lay together on the road, propped against blood-spattered walls, and in doorways. Exhausted medical staff were still hard at work, moving from body to body, searching for signs of life. The wounded were heaped onto wagons to be sent north, the dead piled in gardens and on patches of bare ground. A kilted Highlander whose left arm was a bloody stump sat, silent and blank-eyed, watching his leg being sawn off. Mutilated horses were despatched with a single musket shot. Soldiers trudged through the village, too weary to do more than put one foot in front of the other. Knots of infantrymen from the 28th and 32nd regiments sat, silent and unmoving, around improvised campfires. And from everywhere came the sounds of men and women weeping.
General Cooke had set up his headquarters in a room of the farm, which was also being used as a hospital. There Macdonell found him, seated, head in hands, at a plain pine table. Beside him stood General Byng, General Maitland, Lord Saltoun and Colonel Woodford. Francis Hepburn was there too, having ridden hard in his impatience to find out what was happening. A map was spread out in front of them. ‘Ah, Macdonell,’ General Cooke greeted him, ‘I am delighted to see you unharmed. What is your strength?’
‘Two hundred and thirty-six, General, including officers,’ replied Macdonell, ‘Sixty-four dead or wounded. What is our present situation?’
Cooke cleared his throat. ‘We have taken heavy losses, but so have the French. Yesterday, however, Field Marshal Blücher and his Prussians were engaged by the French under Buonaparte at the town of Ligny.’ He pointed to the map. ‘They were badly mauled and forced to retreat.’
So that was it. The retreating Prussians had left Wellington’s left flank exposed. If his centre did not also retreat, it would be cut off and destroyed. ‘Have the Prussians gone east or north?’ asked Hepburn.
‘A good question, Colonel,’ replied Byng. ‘We do not know. We do know, however, that Blücher has given his word to the Duke that he will wheel to join our main force.’
‘And the sooner the better,’ added Maitland.
‘Meanwhile, gentlemen,’ went on Cooke, ‘you are to lead your battalions north up the road to Brussels, towards the town of Waterloo. South of the town, the Duke is establishing a strong defensive position on a ridge known as Mont St Jean. That is where we shall next meet Buonaparte.’ Macdonell and Hepburn turned to leave. ‘One more thing, Colonel Macdonell,’ said Cooke. ‘You will have cavalry cover, but I want the light companies at the rear of the line.’
‘Of course, General.’ The rear of the line was the most dangerous position in a withdrawal, and this would be a fighting withdrawal. Macdonell expected nothing less than that his light companies would bear the brunt of it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
For the present they were out of range of the French artillery, and the rain, thankfully, had eased. Macdonell stood with Harry and watched the sad procession heading north. Regiment after regiment converged on the crossroads and streamed back up the Brussels road. Dutch Nassauers, German Jägers, Brunswickers and Hanoverians, Dragoons and Militia, followed by General Picton’s 5th Division, General Cooke’s 1st and General Alten’s 3rd. Thousands of soldiers heading miserably back the way they had come. Their white trousers turned pink by the dye running from their red jackets somehow made the spectacle even worse. It was as if the jackets themselves were weeping.