In appearance, the third man, Sergeant George Dawson, was rather different. Barely an inch over five feet, pug-nosed and barrel-chested, he might have been about forty years old. No uniform had ever quite fitted him, however skilful its maker. He was a tough borderer from the town of Hawick who carried his lack of height with a certain panache. Dawson, too, had been at Maida and in that odd, short battle, had fought bravely and by word and deed had encouraged others to do the same. That was why he now wore a sergeant’s crimson sash.
‘Good morning, Colonel,’ replied the sergeant. ‘You find us making ready for the day.’
‘Joy of the morning to you, Colonel,’ added James. ‘Mug of fine Irish tea?’
‘No thank you, Corporal. Good fight. Well done. How are the wounds?’
James raised a hand to his face. ‘Wounds, Colonel? Just a few scratches and my hands are good as new. Joe’s a fine mess, poor fellow. Hope he can hold his musket.’
‘So do I. How was the night?’
‘Long, Colonel. We expected news.’ This time it was Joseph.
‘Will we be marching today, Colonel?’ asked Dawson. ‘The men are asking.’
‘I expect so. Full parade at eight. Be sure to kick the drunks and dreamers awake and in to line.’
The corporals smiled their lopsided smiles. ‘That we will, sir,’ replied Dawson. ‘Are you aware of Vindle and Luke fighting again?’
‘I am, Sergeant, and I will deal with them after breakfast.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Macdonell nodded and went on his way.
A cloudless sky and already he could feel the warmth of the coming day on his face. God willing, the order to march would come that morning. If they were off to fight, the men should not be kept on parade for too long. Knapsack, blanket, sixty balls, powder, musket, bayonet and three days’ biscuit weighed nearly sixty pounds. As a young ensign he remembered finding the load heavier when standing still than when marching or fighting. Mind you, when it came to battle, the light companies he commanded would carry nothing but their guns, ammunition and a light oilskin haversack. Speed and stealth were the skirmishers’ best weapons.
Beyond the rows of tents the park stretched out towards distant woods. Sweeps of grass, close-cropped by the horses, were fringed with lines of poplars. All semblance of a garden had long disappeared, although there were paintings in the chateau of what had once been spectacular beds of roses and tulips. Macdonell made his way towards a stream that ran through the park and into Lac d’Enghien. On the banks of the stream grew willows, their branches draped over the water and, here and there, stooping so low that they might have been trying to drink. Just once he had seen a kingfisher there. It had swooped so fast to spear its prey that it had been no more than a blur of green and red; it was only when it emerged with a stickleback in its beak that he had been sure of what he had seen.
Macdonell liked that spot. He went there to watch dragonflies and waterboatmen and, occasionally, to take off his boots and dangle his feet in the cool water of the stream. Although no more than a few hundred yards from the noise and bustle of the camp, it was peaceful. It was a good place to think. Army life allowed little time for private thought. And it reminded him of home — Glengarry, where the river ran down to the loch and on to the Great Glen above Fort William. He had been born there, grew up there with his brothers, learnt to catch salmon, stalk deer and shoot pheasant there. At school in Douai he had missed the lochs and glens of Scotland almost as much as his family. And he missed them now. He stooped to pick up a pebble and threw it into the stream. He watched the circles it made in the water as they expanded outwards, eventually to be swallowed up by the current. He used to do the same in Glengarry when the river was slow.
For him, the Netherlands and Northern France were too flat to lift the heart, too much of a muchness. He craved the wildness of the highlands, snow on the peaks, icy streams, crofters’ cottages, the sweet smell of burning peat, yellow gorse and purple heather on the slopes. God willing, it would not be many days before he saw them again.
As the third son of a Catholic highland family, his father dead, he had chosen a military life for himself. The family estate had passed to the eldest brother Alasdair, the second was content with his writing and his books, which left James. He had considered the Church, politics, travel, exploration, and had settled on the army. It had been a wise decision. The discipline and order suited him. He enjoyed the company and fellowship of soldiers. And he had acquitted himself with distinction in battle, enjoying the irony of a member of a staunch Jacobite family serving a German king who sat on a throne in London.
A knot of tension was growing in his stomach. He had felt that same knot in Italy and in the Peninsula. Not fear, not excitement, more a sharpening of the senses, an acute alertness that presaged action and danger. Today, surely, they would march. The Duke of Wellington would give the order and they would march to meet Napoleon. Napoleon, who could not acknowledge defeat, had risen again and, if he were not stopped, would sweep through the Netherlands to the coast where he would gaze across the Channel to England. And then what?
Dragging himself from his reverie, he turned and walked briskly back to the camp. The camp stirrings had taken on a new energy and he knew at once that the tension was not his alone. He could see it, hear it, even smell it among the men. It was there in the urgency of their movements, it was there in their gruff voices and it was there in their faces. They were going to war and they wanted to get on with it. Wellington had called them, admiringly, the scum of the earth — scum who had taken the King’s shilling rather than see their wives and children starve, or to avoid the horrors of Newgate or Bridgewall. It worried the Duke and his officers that so many had never hefted a sword or fired a musket in anger, but they were at least survivors, scrappers who the army had trained to fight as a unit and had turned into proud members of a proud regiment. Like as not, Macdonell’s light companies would be first into battle and first to draw blood.
Unwilling to face more questions, Macdonell skirted the camp and returned to the chateau. General Byng was a man who insisted always on exactness and accuracy. Breakfast at seven o’clock meant just that and woe betide the officer who was late.
CHAPTER THREE
That morning they were ten — Byng, Lt Col Alexander Woodford, who had command of the 2nd Battalion and was thus Macdonell’s immediate superior, Francis Hepburn, Captain Charles Dashwood of the 2nd Battalion, Harry Wyndham, four other captains and Macdonell. At seven exactly, Byng entered the dining room and invited them all to be seated. Fortunately, the long mahogany dining table and twelve curved-back chairs had survived the demise of the chateau.
Sir John Byng, veteran of Vittoria, Pamplona, Ireland and Toulouse, was the most courteous of men. ‘Before we eat, gentlemen,’ he began in his gentle, almost scholarly manner, ‘I know you will be wanting news.’ At the table there were murmurs of assent. ‘The position this morning is as follows. Ney’s Armée du Nord is still on the eastern bank of the River Sambre, facing the town of Charleroi. The three main bridges over the Sambre are, we understand, intact. The Duke expects Ney, in due course, to cross the river and advance towards the town of Mons to our southwest but he will not commit us until he is sure. We are to be ready to march at short notice, although it may be days, even weeks, before we do.’ He looked around the table. ‘I see the disappointment on your faces, gentlemen. I, too, would prefer to wait no longer, but you will see the sense in the Duke’s strategy. He wants Napoleon to show his hand before acting. Are there any questions?’