‘Shall we be reinforced?’ asked Gooch, taking another loaded musket and firing.
Macdonell wiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘That will depend upon what is happening elsewhere. No doubt General Byng will send them if he can.’ A shot fizzed past his ear. ‘Meanwhile, we keep them out of Hougoumont.’
Such was the weight of fire thundering into them that Macdonell expected the attackers’ discipline to collapse into chaos. Yet, for all their losses, it did not. There was no sign of panic or retreat. Man after man reached the gate or the walls, fired through the loopholes and windows and climbed up to shoot down into the yard. They hacked at the gate with picks and axes, searching for a weak spot, while in the clearing behind them their officers sat tall in their saddles, inviting shots from the tower and the roofs and diverting fire away from them. Many fell. They were soon replaced and more attackers emerged from the wood. Jérôme had decided that this would be his final, successful attack.
Inside, the Guards too were falling. No longer was there a man to step forward when another fell and there was little time to reload. Where once there had been two men on each step, now, more often than not, there was one. The line was spread alarmingly thin. Macdonell looked to his left, wondering whether he dare leave his position to find out what was happening in the garden and orchard, when the butt of a French musket caught him a blow on the temple. He fell back, scrambled to his feet and smashed the hilt of his sword into the face that appeared over the wall. He put his hand to his temple. There was no blood but he could not focus his eyes and his head felt as if it had been stuffed with straw. He bent double, hands on knees, and breathed slowly. Gradually his vision cleared but the straw did not. Muskets, cannon, howitzers, the cries of dying men and terrified horses close by and far off piled one on top of the other inside his head.
He had a mouthful of water in his canteen. He managed to open it and tip the contents down his throat. It helped a little. A hand holding a tin cup appeared in front of his face. Unthinkingly, he took it and drank. It was gin. ‘I thought you could do with it, Colonel,’ said a voice. Macdonell tried desperately to focus his eyes. It was Sergeant Dawson. He nodded his thanks and climbed back onto the step. The straw was disappearing. He took a musket and fired at a French head. It exploded in a fountain of blood. That too helped. He could still kill Frenchmen.
A private, black from head to toe and nursing a broken right arm, arrived at the wall. He tapped Macdonell on the shoulder. ‘Beg pardon, Colonel. Captain Wyndham’s compliments and he says he will not be able to keep the French out of the garden much longer. The buggers are in the orchard again.’
‘Thank you, Private. Can you still fire a musket?’
‘No, sir, but I can load one and I can piss down a barrel to cool it.’
‘Good. Tell Captain Wyndham that I have asked for reinforcements. Until they come, he must hold the garden.’
Now what? Sacrifice the garden and bring Harry’s men back to the farm? What then about Saltoun? He would have to withdraw too, or make for the sunken lane. Macdonell could certainly not reinforce either of them.
From somewhere in the wood a howitzer barked. Its shell flew over the south gate and exploded over the yard, hurling sixty iron balls from its thin case. The balls struck with the strength of a musket shot at short range, killing six Guards outside the chateau and wounding more in the yard. Another bark and another explosion and more men fell. Jérôme, still careless of the safety of his own troops, had lost patience. Knowing that the Guards could not seek shelter from his guns and defend the walls at the same time, he had decided to blow them to bits — bits of bone, bits of flesh, bits of bodies. The yard was splattered with them.
From the slope behind them, General Byng’s cannon and Major Bull’s howitzers returned fire but they were firing blindly into the wood, hoping for a lucky shot. They could not pinpoint exactly where the French guns were nor could they risk firing into the clearing. Round shot or even shells landing short might do the French the favour of breaching the wall.
An axe thudded into the gate. Through the storm of noise Macdonald heard it splinter. He looked over the wall. A hole had appeared in the planking and the French were elbowing each other aside in a race to break through it. Two blue jackets had clambered onto the roof of the shed and were wrestling with a Guard. The Guard managed to push one of them off but the other flattened him with a punch to the jaw. He too fell into the melee below. The blue jacket raised his arms and bellowed in triumph before a musket shot tore into his back and he fell.
Cannons roared. Round shot crashed into the chateau and the farmer’s house and more men died. An eight-pound ball bounced into the base of the tower, tearing a great chunk out of the brickwork. Another landed on the stable on the west side, ripped through the roof and sent Guards dead and alive flying into the yard.
Along the walls, the Coldstreams were fighting a brutal battle for survival — shooting, hacking, smashing, skewering. But the French numbers had started to tell. Inside the farm and garden, bodies lay strewn in the yard and on paths and flower beds. It could not be much longer.
Behind Macdonell, another voice spoke. ‘They are on their way, Colonel.’ For a moment, Macdonell, still dazed, thought the man was talking about the French. ‘Reinforcements, Colonel. On their way. General Byng says so.’ The fog cleared. It was Lester.
‘Thank you, Private.’ Battalions of reinforcements, hopefully, and without a minute’s delay. Hougoumont was held, but by a thread.
The attackers had found their way around the west side of the farm and were threatening the north gates again. James Hervey was there with the Grahams and his troop. The French would not find it easy to break through those gates for a second time but that would not stop them trying. If nothing else, it tied up Guards who could have been used elsewhere.
The three companies which charged down the slope from General Byng’s position were led by Charles Woodford. Outside the north gates they drove into the enemy, hurtling them back down the west lane past the large barn. At the south wall, Macdonell heard the cheers and could not stop himself rushing to see what they were for. The French were disappearing into the woods and taking their cannon with them. He found the small west gate open and Woodford’s troops pouring into the yard.
‘Hard fighting we’ve had, Charles,’ said Macdonell by way of greeting. ‘You are not a moment too soon.’
‘I know,’ replied Woodford. ‘We could see some of it from the hill. The general was wondering whether to send us down when your man arrived. Good fellow, did well to get to us.’
Charles Woodford, colonel of the 2nd Battalion of the Coldstreams, was Macdonell’s superior. ‘Would you care to take over command, Charles?’ he asked. It was the proper thing to do.
‘Certainly not. You will remain in command. Where would you like us?’
A little surprised, Macdonell took a moment to gather his wits. ‘Harry Wyndham is under pressure in the garden. Two companies there, if you would. The other along the south wall.’ A shell exploded overhead, scattering its contents like lethal hailstones. ‘It’s safer by the walls.’
‘Very well. I will join Harry. General Byng is sending Francis Home with two companies from the 2nd Battalion to clear the frogs out of the orchard and the hedges around the lane. Two supply wagons have tried to reach you. Both were destroyed.’ Woodford gave the orders and led two of his companies to the garden.