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All four entrances to Hougoumont were under attack: Charles and Harry in the orchard; the north gates where James Hervey, without the advantage of the cowshed and stable, had men on steps, barrels and crates, firing down over the wall; the small west gate, which a French platoon were trying to set alight; and the south gate, the most vulnerable.

A quick look at the north and west gates and Macdonell ran past the smouldering chateau and back to the south yard. Hervey’s troop would have to fend for themselves. Gooch and Dawson were at the wall. Graham was encouraging the men, checking their muskets and ammunition and doling out gin from a small cask. Where he had found that, Macdonell had no idea.

Outside the wall, there was no sign of the French. Not a blue jacket in sight, except for the dead in the clearing. ‘Taken fright, Colonel, and hopped off back to Paris, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Dawson.

‘Would that you were right, Sergeant. Alas, I fear not. Although I confess I do not know what they are up to. The other gates are under attack and so is the garden, yet this is our most vulnerable spot and the frogs know it.’

The answer came almost immediately. Cantering around the wood came a troop of Dragoons. Macdonell counted — there were fifty. Their mounts were jet black with a blaze of white, their black-tasselled helmets gleamed in the evening sun, their green jackets were spotless, and they were armed with short-barrelled carbines and straight-bladed swords. Not for them the awkward curved swords of the cuirassiers and the Lancers. Dragoons were cavalry, but as ready to fight on foot as on horseback. These Dragoons were fresh and drawn from Buonaparte’s elite reserves. France’s finest. Behind them, a column of infantry emerged from the shattered wood.

Forming square would be fatal. The Dragoons would simply race past the squares and into the farm. The troops at the north and west gates would be slaughtered like pigs. Having disposed of them, the Dragoons would turn back to the south gates to join their infantry. The infantry who had failed and failed again to take Hougoumont. Their mood would be murderous.

‘Sergeant Dawson,’ yelled Macdonell, ‘every step manned and ready to fire the moment they come. Aim for the horses. And muskets behind every door, wall and window with a clear view of the yard. Hurry.’ Captain Hellman was in the garden. There was no time for the niceties of command. ‘Brunswickers with me at the wall. Hold your fire until I give the word. If they get in we’ll hit them from the rear. Corporal Graham, by the chateau, if you please. They must not get through the yard.’ Between the chateau and the smouldering remains of the barn, a mounted man might get through to the north gate.

He ran into the gardener’s house and up the stairs. The Dragoons were gathering on the edge of the wood. Their captain sat a pace ahead of the line, his gaze fixed on the wall. The infantry had formed up behind them. It was the same as far as he could see along the garden wall — a line of Dragoons, supported by infantry. The garden wall was still intact. They would find it more difficult to break in there. The farm and chateau were another matter.

He dashed back to the yard and took a place with the Brunswickers. A private offered him a musket. He shook his head and withdrew the heavy sword from its scabbard. The sword had met cavalry before. It knew what to do with them.

In less than a minute they were ready. James Graham was by the chateau wall with six men. He raised a hand to Macdonell and smiled. Sergeant Dawson, on a fire step, adjusted his shako and stood as tall as he could. Henry Gooch checked that his sword would come free from its scabbard. A Brunswicker lieutenant shouted something in German. Two hundred men lined the walls and waited.

The charge came without warning. Hooves thundered over the ground and the French captain galloped through the broken gate and into the yard. His Dragoons took the wreckage of the wall like steeplechasers and flooded in behind him. Not one fell to the muskets at the wall. Suddenly the yard was full of horses, perhaps thirty of them, the rest forcing their way in behind.

If they found a way through to the north gate, Hougoumont would be lost. Macdonell gave the order and muskets fired from every door and window. Half the horses in the yard fell, their riders crushed under them or thrown into the melee.

Caught in the trap and half their number killed or wounded, the remaining Dragoons should have surrendered or been swiftly despatched. But these were elite troops, proud and disciplined. Their carbines spat bullets into enemy faces. The private who had offered Macdonell a musket screamed and fell. The Dragoon captain barked an order. His men drew their swords. He barked another order and the Dragoons hurriedly formed themselves into a rough square among the dead in the middle of the yard. Macdonell shouted and the Guards charged.

The Dragoons were brave men and sold their lives dearly. When the last of them fell, nine Guards had died. Macdonell’s sword dripped blood and his arm ached from wielding it. Injured horses were despatched with a single shot, the few which had escaped injury were herded back through the gate.

The Brunswickers at the wall had held their fire. Now they turned it on the French infantry who were waiting for a signal to advance. The French saw the frightened horses and knew what had happened. They quickly disappeared back into the wood.

Sergeant Graham organised the clearing of the dead. The Dragoons joined the pile by the chapel, their horses were dragged to the wall. Macdonell checked the west gate and the north gates again. They were secure.

So was the garden. The French cavalry had been blasted by Major Bull’s howitzers and been driven off. Charles Woodford and Harry Wyndham were unhurt. Captain Hellman was dead, struck in the chest by a musket ball. Mrs Osborne had also been wounded. A shot had entered her breast and lodged in her shoulder. She lay beside her husband whose left eye had gone.

In the yards and the farm buildings, not one of them untouched by fire or cannon, in the garden and at the walls, men lay spent among the dead. Blue jackets, black, red and green sprawled in a macabre embrace of death. Idly, Macdonell pulled out his pocket watch. It was twenty minutes after seven o’clock.

Then he heard it. Even half a mile distant it was unmistakeable. The booming, threatening, unrelenting roll of drums that announced the advance of Buonaparte’s Imperial Guard. In the centre of each column of marching guards, drummers beat out the rhythm of the advance. The Emperor sensed victory. He only released his beloved Guard when the enemy were on the point of defeat. That, in part, was why they were known as Les Immortales.

The Guards had defended Hougoumont for over eight hours. All day they had held the chateau and the farm and the garden. They had faced artillery, cavalry and infantry and refused to be beaten. Yet now the Imperial Guard was on the move. The French had won. It had been in vain.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Harry Wyndham had left the garden and found James leaning against the chapel wall. ‘Can you hear it?’ he asked. James nodded. ‘Does it mean what I think it means?’

‘I fear so.’ He could barely get the words out.

‘What’s to be done?’

James pushed himself upright. His legs shook and the wound in his arm throbbed. He could not see out of his blood-caked right eye and his throat was on fire. ‘Until we are ordered otherwise, we will stay here,’ he croaked. ‘If the frogs come again, we will kill as many of them as we can. After that …’ The thought hung in the air.

‘Woodford said you would say that. He wants you to know that he agrees. We will hold the garden until we receive word.’

‘Tell him that we will do the same.’ He waved a hand around the yard. ‘Not that there is much left to hold.’ He held out the hand to Harry. ‘Your first battle, Harry, and you will never fight a tougher one.’