Three hundred fresh men made an immediate difference. The French could not withstand the force of their fire and were driven back into the woods. Lt Colonel Home, easily recognised on his white horse, led the attack on the lane and the orchard from north of the Nivelles Road. His two companies took the French by surprise and soon chased them back to join their comrades in the woods. Once again, the whole enclosure, including the orchard, was in their hands.
Like two exhausted prizefighters, both sides paused for breath. Even the French artillery, perhaps awaiting ammunition supplies, was silent. It was as if Prince Jérôme, his every attempt on Hougoumont so far having come to naught, was considering what to do next.
James Macdonell, however, knew exactly what to do. Clear the dead from the yards and buildings, get the wounded to the barn, check muskets and ammunition, repair defences. Before the French came again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
To the east, all along the low ridge that straddled the Brussels road, Buonaparte’s heavy cannon had been blasting away since soon after his brother had opened fire on Hougoumont. Having given his orders, Macdonell climbed the steps to the top of the tower. His glass had long since been lost but from there he would still get some view of the battlefield, albeit only through breaks in the foul smoke that filled the valley between the ridges. It was smoke so dense that a man might think he could reach out and grab a handful of it.
The four men at the window were cleaning their muskets and replacing their flints. They had had a relatively easy time of it so far, the nearest round shot having passed by the tower and over the north wall. Macdonell told them to ignore him and carry on with their preparations.
Over the wood, so many of its oaks now leafless and broken by Major Bull’s howitzers, he looked out towards the inn at La Belle Alliance — the inn they had passed on the retreat from Quatre Bras less than twenty-four hours earlier, although it seemed like months ago. Squadrons of French artillery lined the low ridge as far as he sould see. Black smoke erupting from a gun barrel signalled yet another heavy shot on its way to the Allied lines where it would kill and maim the miserable troops standing or crouching in square against the threat from the Lancers and cuirassiers hovering below the ridge and dashing up to harass them. Artillery, cavalry, infantry. It was the order of battle.
There was very little response from the Allied artillery. Wellington abhorred what he called ‘long-range duels’ and the commander of an artillery squadron fired back at his own peril. The Dutch and Belgian battalions stationed on the south side of the ridge had disappeared — withdrawn perhaps but more likely destroyed. How long would the Duke allow this to go on? His infantry were doing no more than provide the French Gunners with target practice. Surely he would counter-attack soon.
To the north the fields beyond the orchard were seething with voltigeurs and tirailleurs, no longer hidden by the corn, which had been entirely trampled and flattened. They would be in the hedgerows, too, around the sunken lane and in the woods to the east. When Jérôme gave the signal, they would attack again.
Macdonell was about to leave the tower when, from beyond the Brussels road, he thought he caught the faint sound of drums beating the pas de charge. He could not see over the rise in the ground as it neared La Haye Sainte but the road was a good half-mile away and the wind blowing from the west. If he was right, there were hundreds of drums beating, which meant thousands of troops. Wellington’s line was about to be attacked by columns of infantry. He hurried back down the steps.
Sergeant Dawson was at the south gate with Henry Gooch, whose face was now so swollen that he could not speak at all. They had nailed a plank across the hole in the gate and found more timbers to reinforce it. ‘No frogs coming in this way, Colonel,’ said Dawson cheerily. The little man looked like a chimney sweep.
‘Any problems, Sergeant?’
‘None, sir. Poor Mister Gooch is lost for words, so I am doing all the talking.’ Gooch shrugged and nodded.
It was the same in the chateau, where the wounded now occupied the hallway, and in the garden, where Charles Woodford’s men, still recognisable as Guards, had joined Harry Wyndham’s around the wall. Harry, too, looked as if he had been wallowing in mud. ‘Grateful for the help, James,’ said Harry, ‘but we’re very short of ammunition. Don’t suppose there’s much chance of getting any more, is there?’
‘I doubt it, Harry,’ replied James. ‘The frogs are all around the lane. Have you recovered what you can from the casualties?’
‘We have but it will not last long. Is there anything else to hand? Crossbows, javelins, slingshots?’
Macdonell laughed. ‘Afraid not. You’ll just have to hope that the frogs take fright and run away when they see you.’
‘I thought I heard the pas de charge.’
‘You did. Boney’s infantry are on the move. Best be ready for another attack.’
‘We are ready, James. Let them come.’
With a twinge of guilt, Macdonell realised that apart from his brief sleep, he had not yet visited the barn, where most of the wounded had been taken. He left the garden and made his way to the north yard.
In the barn at least a hundred men stood, sat and lay on straw soaked with blood, urine and excrement. As good as his word, the surgeon and his assistants were attending first to those with minor wounds. Cuts from bayonets or swords were stitched and bandaged. With their fingers or a pair of forceps, they probed for musket balls in stomachs and chests, being careful to keep the patient as near as possible to the position he was in when he was shot. Most balls were safely extracted and many of the wounded went straight back to the battle. Arms and legs from which a ball could not be extracted had been removed and thrown onto a heap in the corner. The little French drummer boy sat beside it, his head on his knees, sobbing quietly. The surgeon glanced up from removing a shattered finger and saw Macdonell looking at them. ‘It is my practice to amputate as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘It reduces the chances of suppuration and gangrene. That and the generous letting of blood saves many lives.’ The finger came off and joined the pile in the corner. Macdonell nodded. He knew nothing of medical matters and was content to put his trust in those who did.
‘There you are, Private,’ said the surgeon. ‘Mrs Osborne will bind it.’
‘Mrs Osborne?’ demanded Macdonell. ‘I was not aware that a woman was here.’
‘Were you not, Colonel? Two women, in fact, Mrs Osborne and Mrs Rogers.’ Sellers did not look up from examining a chest wound. ‘And we are grateful for their help, are we not, North?’
‘We are, sir,’ replied the bandsman, who had had the good sense to cover his uniform with a length of sacking tucked into his collar. The sacking was streaked with blood and decorated with bits of flesh.
Macdonell looked about. ‘Where are they? I do not see them.’
‘They are in the chateau, Colonel,’ replied North. ‘We are sending the minor wounds to them for dressing. It speeds things up.’
Macdonell shook his head. He had seen no women in the chateau and for all that they were useful, he wanted to know how the devil they had got there without his knowing. He would pay them a visit.
He let his eye wander over the faces waiting their turn. Many he knew by name or by sight. Most stared back blankly. Some — the lucky ones who expected to survive — managed a weak smile. Few spoke, fewer still made any sound of distress. It was as if each man had withdrawn within himself to concentrate solely on bearing his pain without complaint. Even soldiers given to grumbling about the smallest inconvenience had the capacity to suffer stoically. Private Vindle, his face a gruesome mess of bone and flesh, sat quietly, eyes closed and arms crossed. Beside him, Joseph Graham saw Macdonell and smiled. He was holding his right thigh with both hands, trying to stem the flow of blood. Macdonell hoped it was no more than a sabre cut. If it was a musket ball he might lose the leg.