‘I see them. Francis, I came to tell you our orders. We are to hold the chateau for as long as we can and then withdraw into the garden to join Charles Woodford and Harry Wyndham. You will be at our back.’
‘I do hope so. At least that will mean we are still alive.’
There was a huge explosion from the farm. A box of ammunition must have gone up. ‘We cannot fight the fire and the French at the same time, Francis,’ said James, ‘whatever the peer expects of us.’
‘I know you, James. You will find a way.’ He paused. ‘Do you know, I rather think that this might be the first battle ever in which there are no survivors at all. The carnage on the ridge is beyond words.’
‘The carnage everywhere must be beyond words. We have hundreds dead. I fear Lester is among them, your champion. I saw him fall.’ Macdonell looked over Hepburn’s shoulder. ‘It seems your Lancers are leaving.’
Francis turned to look. ‘So they are. Ah, there’s the reason.’ Down the slope from the ridge, marching steadily in line, was a battalion of green-jacketed infantry. They were followed by a second battalion. Nearly two thousand men in all. ‘King’s German Legion. Excellent troops. Now your rear will be secure, James.’
‘Good. But much of the farm has been destroyed and the chateau is on fire. I will leave the Germans to you.’
They were fighting not one battle to defend Hougoumont, but four — in the orchard, the garden, the farm and the chateau. Hold Hougoumont, the Duke had said, and the battle will be won. From the ridge he would have seen enough to know what was happening there. He knew the chateau was on fire and the farm and garden under bombardment. He probably knew or could guess that they had no food or water. He knew they were exhausted. He would have a good idea of their depleted numbers. He had sent two battalions of German veterans to reinforce the orchard. And he had sent down clear orders. Hougoumont must be held.
The latest attack on the south gate, like the others, had failed. The French had withdrawn to lick their wounds before trying again. In the distance cannon roared and muskets fired, but around the farm there was a strange quiet. Not silence — in battle there was never silence — but the sounds of voices and movement rather than guns.
Sergeant Dawson was sitting in the mud, his back to the wall, trying to open a cartridge of powder with his teeth. It was something he had done hundreds, thousands of times. But he could not do it. His mouth was too dry. Macdonell took the cartridge from him and bit off the end. Although he had fired less than half the number of rounds that the sergeant and his men had, his mouth too was like tinder. Dawson nodded his thanks.
There was no water. Those who could, emptied their bladders down the barrels of their muskets to cool them. Those who could not, threw their gun down and went in search for a replacement. Bleeding lips were dosed with drops of gin. Sweat and dust were rubbed from streaming eyes. Hands and fingers rubbed raw were wrapped in scraps of cloth. Macdonell inspected his own hands. They were red and sore from the barn floor. He forced a drop of saliva into his mouth and spat on them. That would have to do.
Henry Gooch, now barely recognisable, was on his feet, moving painfully from man to man, patting shoulders and shaking hands. ‘Seriously wounded to the garden, Mister Gooch,’ ordered Macdonell. ‘Everyone else to make ready for the next attack. It won’t be long coming.’ Gooch raised a hand in acknowledgement.
The roof of the chateau was still blazing but had not yet fallen in, nor had the fire spread below the top floor. The chapel and the gardener’s house were alight. The tower had gone.
At the north gates, James Hervey was bustling about, inspecting wounds and checking muskets. James Graham was on a step at the wall. From the slump of his shoulders, even he looked exhausted. His brother was propped against the draw well. His eyes were closed but his thigh had been strapped and he was losing no more blood.
Macdonell called up to Graham. ‘Take your brother to the garden, Corporal Graham. The surgeon will do what he can there. Be quick now.’ Graham stepped clumsily down and stumbled to the well. ‘Mister Hervey, I rather think we are in for another dose of angry Frenchmen and this one even nastier than the last. Are you prepared?’
From a face streaked with powder and dirt, Macdonell saw a tiny glint of teeth. A man who could smile or even try to smile after fighting for nearly six hours deserved to survive. ‘We are, Colonel, as best we can. Primed and loaded.’ The words rasped in his throat.
‘Very well. Colonel Woodford and Captain Wyndham are in the garden. I shall be at the south gate. God be with you.’
‘And with you, Colonel.’
They both knew that the next French attack would be the last. With his two thousand Germans, Francis Hepburn might hold the orchard but if Jérôme was calling up yet more troops, Hougoumont was surely doomed. A few hundred tired men could hold it no longer. They would be forced to withdraw to the garden.
The fire was still raging. The barn was gone, and the cowshed, and the stables. The chateau roof had finally collapsed, dropping timbers on to the floor below and setting it alight. The chapel was burning, the farmer’s house was burning. Round shot had destroyed the tower and reduced the yards to piles of rubble. The dead lay among bricks and timbers and ashes. There was no time to move them. Carnage, Francis Hepburn had said. It was the right word.
The captain who trotted down the lane from the ridge at the head of three companies of black-clad Brunswickers and led them through the north gates into the farm was tall and fair. Macdonell recognised him at once. ‘Captain Hellman, we meet again.’
The captain grinned and handed him a canteen of water. ‘It is my pleasure, Colonel. I have five hundred men. Where would you like them?’
Macdonell tipped water into his mouth and swilled it around before swallowing. ‘A hundred at the north gate, Captain, two hundred in the garden and the remainder here in the south yard, if you please. Do you have enough water for all?’
‘Two canteens each.’
Another volley of four-pound balls crashed into the wall. ‘Make haste, Captain. The enemy are at the gates.’
With Captain Hellman’s Brunswickers, there were now about a thousand men in the farm and the garden. Francis Hepburn, reinforced by the Germans, would have over two thousand in the orchard. How many would Jérôme hurl at them?
It did not take the light cannon much longer. Jérôme had lost patience. He wanted the affair over. Volley after volley struck the south wall, smashing holes in the brickwork and breaking it open. The holes soon became gaps large enough for one man to get through, then two, then three. The gate hung loose on its hinges. Macdonell stood with the Guards and the Brunswickers waiting for the moment. He had ordered every spare musket loaded and stacked by the fire steps along the wall. The Duke had sent reinforcements and must now be expecting them to fight on in the farm. Perhaps the Prussians had at last arrived. If so, they would be threatening the French right wing. If the Guards and Brunswickers could keep Jérôme’s troops at the burning Hougoumont, it would reduce Buonaparte’s options. Now there would be no withdrawal to the garden.
The first warning came from the men on the fire steps by the gate. Prince Jérôme might well have demanded more men but he had decided, as if to atone for not having done so earlier, to blast what remained of Hougoumont to dust. He had brought up a fresh artillery team with four-pound guns — the very guns he had used to good effect before Woodford arrived and that Macdonell himself would have gone on using. Why the Prince had not done so was a mystery.