Once again, the road was jam-packed with men and horses, artillery and carts, the injured and the exhausted. Wagons carrying the most seriously wounded followed each regiment, clanking over the rough road and through the blankets of dust thrown up by marching feet. For all the rain that had fallen, the road was still hard and dry. Artillery pieces were dragged along by teams of tired horses. Officers dismounted to give their mounts a rest. Villagers — squat, round-faced, glum — watched in silence. The British and their allies were leaving. Very soon French soldiers would arrive, take what they wanted and march on. It had happened before.
‘Did we lose the battle?’ asked Harry. ‘And there was I thinking we had done exactly what the peer asked of us and pushed the frogs back down the road to France.’
‘Neither won nor lost, I suppose,’ replied James. ‘But the next battle we must win. I doubt we’ll get another chance.’
‘If we have to fight without the Prussians, it won’t be easy. Outnumbered, outgunned and outsupplied we’ll be.’
‘Not to mention having an army made up of Dutchmen, Belgians and Germans as well as us. I hear that the Duke has even rounded up some companies from the Indies. Perhaps their black faces will frighten the frogs.’
‘West Indies or East Indies?’ asked Macdonell, who had served for a year in the Caribbean.
‘No idea, James. Both, hopefully. We’ll need every one of them.’
It was no time for defeatism. ‘Come along now, Harry,’ said James. ‘We have work to do.’
The light companies had found a small stand of trees to the west of the village, in which to settle down and light their fires. As usual, the Grahams were sitting together with mugs of tea in their hands. They rose to greet the colonel. ‘Tea, Colonel?’ asked Joseph. ‘I fear we have nothing stronger.’
Macdonell laughed. ‘I’ll wager you have, Corporal. But keep it for later. You will need it.’ A third man had been sitting with the brothers. He looked familiar. ‘And who is this?’ asked Macdonell.
‘Private Lester, Colonel,’ replied the man. ‘Third Foot Guards, light company.’
Macdonell remembered. The man who had so nearly defeated James Graham at Enghien. ‘Recovered from the fight, Corporal?’
‘Yes, thank you, Colonel. Lucky punch, no more. James was beaten otherwise.’
‘You fought well, Lester. As we all must tomorrow or the day after.’
‘Will Boney attack, sir?’ asked Joseph.
‘He will, you may count upon it. The risk he took in splitting his own force has paid off. Now he has split ours by defeating the Prussians. He will march to join Marshal Ney in a full assault on us.’
‘Will their strength be greater, Colonel?’ asked Lester.
‘It will, but in numbers only. In all other ways we will of course be superior. Shall we not, Corporals?’ Given the raw inexperience of so much of the Allied army, it was a doubtful proposition, but necessary.
‘That we shall, Colonel.’ The brothers spoke as one.
‘We are to march at the rear of the line,’ Harry told them. ‘We shall have cavalry cover, of course, and our job is to keep the frogs at bay.’
‘We expected as much,’ said James Graham. ‘Someone has to do it and it might as well be us.’
‘Indeed,’ replied Macdonell. ‘Be ready to move off by noon. Pass the word and tell them to eat and drink what they can. There will be no stopping once we go.’
A fighting retreat was notoriously difficult to carry off successfully. Look what had happened on the march to Corunna — loss of discipline, disorder and a retreat very nearly turned into a rout. He had not been there himself but he had heard enough from those who had. Here they would not be climbing mountains and wading through snow, but with the French cavalry in hot pursuit, it would be tempting to go too fast. That was the risk. If marching men became running men, they would be lost.
Much would depend on the cavalry shielding them. Forming square would not be easy on the march, and even if they managed it, they would fall behind the main body and might be cut off. He would order it only as a last resort. And if the French brought their artillery up quickly enough, they would be sitting ducks for their Gunners. Buonaparte himself had been an artillery man and had always insisted on training, training and more training for his gun teams. That was why they were so devastatingly accurate.
Macdonell looked at his pocket watch. It was eleven o’clock. Ney’s voltigeurs would soon discover that the farm at Gemioncourt had been abandoned and the woods deserted. Even Ney — the bravest of the brave, they called him, and just as headstrong — would be wary of a trick. He would, of course, know that the Prussians had been routed, but feigned retreats, just like the one the guards had conducted in the woods, were not uncommon. That would hold him up for a while, but it would not be long before his cavalry scouts came to reconnoitre. Once Ney was sure that the Allies really were leaving, he would send his artillery forward to bombard the village. The light companies, at the rear of the column, had better be on their way before that happened.
The word came at fifteen minutes before noon. The light companies of the Coldstream and 3rd Foot Guards were to follow the 1st Battalion out of Quatre Bras and to fall back slowly on the village of Genappe, guarding the right wing of the retreating army. Two battalions of Brunswickers would be on the left. A squadron from the 2nd Brunswicker Hussars would cover them. An army that frequently did things badly was managing the withdrawal with calm competence.
Macdonell’s mule had disappeared but his charger had survived and been stabled in the village. He brushed himself down, mounted and watched the companies preparing to march. Harry Wyndham, assisted by the ensigns, supervised their formation — some one hundred and thirty pairs, deployed behind and to the right of the Brunswickers. They must move forward whilst watching their backs and be ready to protect themselves and those in front of them against attacks by French cavalry — a cavalry doubtless abrim with confidence at seeing the backs of their enemies and all too anxious to get amongst them with lance and sabre. The dream of every lancer and cuirassier in the French army.
Macdonell allowed himself a moment of pride. They had marched more than twenty-five miles on little sleep or food, fought in the rye and in the woods for four hours, withstood attacks by cannon and cavalry, been fried by the sun and drenched by the rain and suffered torments of dust and thirst. Yet few heads were down. Their work was far from over and they would keep going until it was.
Two miles on and, as if knowing that the last of the army had left the shelter of the village, the heavens opened again. Down came the rain, threatening to render muskets and cartridges useless. Every man did his best to keep them dry but until they were tested he would not know if he had succeeded. By then it might be too late. Shoes splashed through puddles and water streamed off shakos. They could not stop. To do so might be fatal.
Macdonell could see for no more than two hundred yards. He turned his mount and cantered back along the road for about half a mile. Peering through the gloom, he saw no sign of cavalry and quickly rejoined the column. ‘Anything?’ asked Harry, wiping his eyes.