He made his way carefully into the middle of the garden, stepping over bodies and closing his ears to the cries of the wounded. The French canister had done its terrible work, cleaving open heads and tearing flesh from bodies. The dead lay everywhere. Without Woodford’s help, Harry’s company would already have been wiped out. And the canister kept coming and coming, hurling its fearful contents into faces and limbs.
Charles Woodford was at the orchard end of the garden, firing over the wall into the field. ‘By God, James,’ he croaked, wiping powder from his mouth, ‘this is terrible work. There’s no end to them. The more we kill, the more they come. And we’re losing too many men to the canister. I see the fire is still raging. How much longer can we hold on?’ A shell exploded nearby. Instinctively, they ducked their heads as iron balls and shards of red-hot metal flew past them. Hidden by the smoke, a man cried out for his mother.
Macdonell had to shout. ‘The chateau is on fire. I will have the wounded brought into the garden. We will hold the house and the farm as long as we can and then join you here. Saltoun will hold the orchard.’
‘Saltoun’s gone. Francis Hepburn has taken over the orchard with the 3rd Guards. They cleared the lane to get there.’
Macdonell shook his head in surprise. He had no idea that Saltoun had been replaced. In the confusion, he had seen nothing and no word had reached him. Women, Saltoun, what else did the officer in charge of the defence of Hougoumont not know? Yet it was hardly surprising. The 1st Guards in the orchard had had the very worst of the fighting and must have been exhausted. ‘Then we shall be in Francis’s hands and if we hold the lane there is a chance of reinforcements.’
‘A chance. Your plan is sound, James. You have my support.’
‘Thank you. Please tell Harry, wherever he is.’
‘I will.’
At the north gates, the foul stench of burning flesh still hung heavy in the air. The roof and walls of the barn were no more, exposing its gruesome contents for all to see. Among the ashes and embers, the fire had left blackened, scorched, twisted reminders of the terror and agony it had brought.
James Hervey had lost the advantage of the cowshed roof, now a heap of smouldering timbers, but the gates were still intact. Macdonell stood on a half-barrel and looked over the wall. His arm throbbed and the palms of his hands were raw. He ignored them. French bodies covered the clearing. He stepped down and told Hervey his plan. ‘You will remain here until I send orders to withdraw into the garden,’ he said. ‘Bring with you all the muskets and ammunition you can carry. French or British, either will do. Make two trips if you have to, but be quick. The order will come only at the last minute.’
Hervey nodded. ‘I understand, Colonel.’
A shout came from a man at the wall. ‘Single rider coming down the lane, sir. Uniform of a major.’
‘Let him in,’ shouted back Macdonell. A single rider was unlikely to be a French trick.
The gates were briefly opened and the major ushered in. He did not dismount. ‘Major Andrew Hamilton,’ he introduced himself. ‘I have an order for Colonel Macdonell from His Grace.’
‘I am Macdonell. What is the order?’ The major handed him a rolled sheet of goatskin. The order was in the Duke’s hand and written in pencil. Macdonell read it twice. ‘Thank you, Major. Please assure His Grace that I shall do exactly as he orders.’ Hamilton saluted and turned his mount to leave. ‘Before you go, Major,’ called out Macdonell, ‘what news can you give us?’
‘The artillery bombardment continues, as you can hear. French cavalry threaten our squares. The farm at La Haye Sainte is barely held. His Grace believes the battle will be decided here at Hougoumont.’
‘And the Prussians?’
‘An hour away at least. Good luck, Colonel.’
‘Well, well,’ said Macdonell, when the major had gone. ‘His Grace orders us to hold the chateau, being careful to avoid falling timbers, and to retire to the garden when we have to. A happy coincidence, don’t you agree, Hervey?’
Hervey grinned. ‘I do, sir. No room for doubt or dispute.’
‘Quite. But remember. Only when I give the order and then at the run.’
The flames had reached the chapel and were playing around the door. The roof of the chateau was on fire and the top of the tower had disappeared. Henry Gooch, still unable to speak, had returned to the south gate. Macdonell gave him his orders and returned to the chateau. From there he would get the best view and would know when the moment to withdraw to the garden had come.
The hallway where the wounded had lain — those lucky enough not to have been in the barn — was, for the moment, intact. He remembered the women. He found them in the dining room, tending to rows of wounded men lying on the floor. One was dressing the stump of an arm, the other bandaging a head. ‘I am surprised to find you here, ladies,’ he shouted over the cannon and muskets, ‘although you are not unwelcome. The barn has gone and the roof of this house is on fire. I have ordered the wounded taken to the garden and treated there. You must go there yourselves. The surgeon’s assistants are dead.’
‘As you wish, Colonel,’ replied the younger woman. ‘Osborne — my husband — is in the orchard.’
‘And mine,’ added the other. ‘Tom Rogers, private.’
‘Go at once. The house is not safe. These men will be carried there.’ The women nodded.
He climbed the stairs, also intact but unsteady under his weight, and reached the upper floor. Private Lester and his three comrades were still there, firing from the windows into the wood and the far end of the clearing. Above their heads, the roof timbers were spitting and crackling in the flames. With hardly a break, the four men had been there for over four hours, relatively safe from enemy muskets but at the mercy of cannon and now from fire.
Macdonell repeated his orders to Lester. ‘We will hold the house to the last minute before withdrawing to the garden. I have ordered the wounded taken there. Is that clear, Private?’
Joseph Lester straightened up from ramming a ball into the barrel of a musket, his back to a window. In the fury of the battle outside, Macdonell did not hear the shot. It could only have been a lucky one, aimed in the general direction of the chateau. Lester fell forward, blood spurting from his shoulder.
Macdonell sighed. ‘I cannot spare another man. You must manage as you are.’ He was gone before any of them could reply.
To reach the orchard he ran back through the garden and clambered over the wall. As Charles Woodford had said, Saltoun had returned to the ridge and left the orchard and the lane in the hands of Francis Hepburn and his 3rd Guards. Beyond the hedge, so ragged it was more like a broken row of scrubby bushes, and the ditch, now a common grave, Lancers milled about in the field, preparing for their next attack. The orchard had changed hands three or four times that day and there was no saying that it would not do so again.
Francis was supervising the cleaning of muskets and distribution of ammunition. He saw James making his way between what was left of the fruit trees and waved a hand. ‘You come at a good time, James,’ he shouted. ‘A lull in the fighting, brief no doubt, and we’re in need of every man we can get.’
Macdonell came up to him. ‘As are we all. I was not aware that you had replaced Saltoun.’
‘The message probably went astray. Saltoun’s men were out on their feet and could do no more. The peer sent us down to take over. We’ve seen off one attack and we’re expecting another.’ He pointed at the Lancers in the field. ‘Look at the devils getting ready.’