Then everything changed. The French withdrew to the trees and brought up a pair of four-pounders, placed them just inside the treeline and began firing over the heads of their own troops into the gardener’s house and the yard beyond. Unlike the gun teams behind the wood, these could see where they were aiming. And the Gunners were skilled in their work. Their first salvo crashed through the upper windows of the gardener’s house, the second blasted the roof of the stable.
Macdonell ran back to the farm. He had been expecting this. Indeed, if he had been in Jérôme’s shoes, he would have brought up his light cannon as soon as he had possession of the wood. It can only have been the Prince’s pride that led him to believe he could take Hougoumont without destroying it. To win the praise of his brother, the man had been prepared to sacrifice hundreds, even thousands of French lives. Now he had been forced to change his tactics.
The cannon fired and fired again. It could not go on. A single breach in the wall and the French would be inside. Worse, enough direct hits and the south gate would be blasted into firewood. Macdonell found Sergeant Dawson and asked for a man to take a message to General Byng. The man must be quick and nimble. The sergeant handed him a blood-soaked bandage for his arm and went to find a man suitable.
The cannon roared again and the stable wall took two more hits. The horses had been moved to the cowshed by the north gate, but that was scant comfort. Muskets fired from the gardener’s house and the roofs. They had no effect. The gun teams went busily about their work, making ready the cannon, loading, aiming and firing.
Macdonell was struggling with the bandage when there was a quiet voice behind him. ‘You sent for me, Colonel.’
He turned. It was Joseph Lester. Dawson had made a good choice. ‘I did, Private. Slip out of the west gate and through the woods behind us. You will find General Byng on the ridge near the Nivelles Road. Ask him if we might have a little assistance.’
‘Yes, Colonel. Can I help with your bandage?’
‘I’ll manage. Quick as you like, Private.’
Macdonell hated seeking help but there was nothing else for it. If he led an attack on the guns from the farm, the gate would have to be opened. That was too big a risk. If he did nothing, there would soon be no gate. Help it would have to be.
A round shot whistled over the roof of the gardener’s house and exploded against the wall of the chateau, sending bricks and debris flying across the yard. A man screamed and grasped his stomach. Another, struck on the head by a brick, fell to the ground without a sound. The French heavy artillery had started up again. Howitzers, light cannon, and now heavy cannon. Jérôme was taking the risk of killing his own men. But he would kill a thousand Frenchmen with his own hands if it meant taking Hougoumont. C’était la guerre.
In the garden, Harry Wyndham’s troops still lined the walls, desperately beating back every French assault with musket and blade and fist, while the Dragoons waited and watched from the safety of the treeline.
Seeing, hearing, speaking, even thinking, became harder with each round shot, each shell, each musket ball. They brought not only death and disfigurement but mind-numbing, ear-shattering noise and smoke so foul and dense that a man could barely keep his eyes open or take a breath without retching.
On both sides of the walls men died. The luckiest were dead before they fell. Many lay helpless and pleading for release from their agony. Some of the French even called on their enemies to shoot them. One heap of bodies grew so high that a fearless Frenchman, ignoring the screams of pain under his feet, clambered up it to get to the top of the wall. He leant over to take aim only to fall back onto the heap with blood pouring from his throat.
And on it went. Somewhere in the valley of smoke, now invisible even from the tower of the chateau, the battle for Hougoumont was being replicated a thousand times. Cannon fired, men died and very soon Buonaparte would unleash his cavalry. Macdonell forced that persistent and intrusive thought from his head. Hougoumont must be held.
The bombardment ended suddenly. One minute round shot was crashing into the walls of the chateau and the farm buildings, the next the guns were silent. Despite the noise of the battle being fought away to their left, for the newest of the guards it was an eerie moment of relief. For the veterans, the silence was a warning.
Miraculously, the gate was still standing. Its thick oak timbers had stood up to French cannon. Now it would have to stand up to another attack by French muskets. The assault was coming.
Macdonell yelled for the barricades to be strengthened, all muskets to be checked and a cup of gin issued to each man. Sergeant Dawson, his face black from powder and smoke, supervised the distribution. Harry Wyndham, in the garden, went from man to man with a few words of encouragement and warning. For all his lack of experience, he too knew what was coming.
Henry Gooch, his mouth bloody from a French fist, had his men collect more broken timbers and rubble and use them to strengthen the south gate. In the chateau, the farm, the garden and the orchard, some seven hundred exhausted, filthy, parched men made ready. From the top of the tower came the sound of singing, hoarse and rough, but more or less in tune and accompanied by a child’s whistle. ‘Lilliburlero’ again. Joseph Lester was not the only musician at Hougoumont.
The faces of the troops who advanced from the wood were unmarked by powder or smoke and their uniforms were clean. Fresh men — perhaps a full battalion — as many as Macdonell had under his command. In extended line from the western edge of the wood, along the walls of the farm and garden as far as the Dragoons opposite the orchard, officers mounted, infantry poised with muskets primed and loaded, they waited for the order to charge.
Inside the walls, every man stood ready. A musket peeped from each loophole, the fire steps were manned and every roof and window hid three or four of the light companies’ best sharpshooters. Macdonell had instructed them not to expose themselves to the first French volleys and to fire only when the enemy were at the walls.
He did not see or hear the order. Without warning, the French charged forward, firing at windows and loopholes, allowing those behind them to pass, reloading, advancing and firing again. The manoeuvre was well executed and met with little resistance. Very few of the defenders panicked and fired too soon. The front rank of the French had reached the walls and those behind them were in the middle of the clearing before the Guards opened fire. Their first volley, from muskets carefully cleaned and loaded, found scores of targets. The second found even more, piling yet more dead and wounded onto the heaps outside.
But every musket had to be reloaded and the Guards were tired. Shaking fingers fumbled with cartridge and ball, eyes half-blinded by smoke missed their aim and the French came on. Henry Gooch was beside Macdonell, firing over the corner of the garden wall where it turned towards the house, from where they had a good view of the clearing, the woods and the south gate. ‘Eight hundred, at least, Colonel, do you not think?’ he spluttered through his swollen mouth.
‘I do, Mister Gooch. Eight hundred fully occupied here, so not available elsewhere.’ He took a loaded musket from a private behind them, cocked it, aimed quickly and fired. Another Frenchman died. ‘Subtlety was never Boney’s strong point. Men, men and more men is his motto.’ He took another musket and fired again, wincing from the jolt to his wounded arm. ‘All the more targets for us.’