Harry’s filth-covered face lit up in a grin. ‘I certainly hope not.’
In the distance, apart from the drums, it had gone strangely quiet, as if the French Gunners were leaving the stage to their emperor’s Imperial Guard. Few muskets fired, even fewer cannon. The drums beat out the march and, in his mind’s eye, Macdonell saw the solid blue columns advancing up the slope. He was almost tempted to go to the orchard to watch them. The rhythm of the drums quickened. The Guard was charging. He swallowed hard and tried to shout. ‘Mister Gooch, all muskets at the wall and eyes on the woods, if you please. Corporal Graham, kindly take a look at the north gate. Mister Hervey might be in need of assistance. Sergeant Dawson, distribute whatever ammunition we have left.’ He paused. ‘And gin if there is any.’
With the Guard on the ridge, Jérôme might well decide that he had one last chance to take Hougoumont. He had been trying all day and with a final attack by his rampaging, exultant infantry he would expect finally to succeed.
James Graham had returned from the north gates. ‘The gates are secure, Colonel,’ he reported. ‘Mister Hervey has seventy men but is short of powder.’
‘Can’t do much to help there, I fear. James, if the Guard is on the ridge, we are likely to face another attack. I do not want it to end inside the walls. When the frogs appear, you and I will lead a charge. Every man we’ve got, Brunswickers and Guards. Colonel Woodford will defend the garden.’
‘A fine plan, Colonel. One more go at them it shall be.’
The small west gate had never seriously been threatened and with the north gates secure under Mister Hervey, he would throw every man still standing into the charge. There was no point in a roll-call. At a rough guess, he had one hundred and fifty light company men and one hundred Brunswickers. The rest he had sent to the garden. Two hundred and fifty against whatever Jérôme sent against them — five hundred? A thousand? More? They were very low on powder and shot, worn out and in dire need of food and water. The French would be rested and fed.
‘I doubt it will be much of a fight, James,’ replied Macdonell. ‘We shall squash the French like ants.’ General Byng’s artillery had stopped firing over them. The Duke must have moved them to their left, from where they would be able to fire on the advancing French columns. The threat of an attack on his right flank had been superseded by the threat to his centre. ‘Mister Gooch, Sergeant Dawson, gather all the troops save those at the north and west gates in the yard.’ Hougoumont could be held no longer but there was one last fight to be won.
The chateau and chapel were still burning. The barn and farmer’s house and stables were little more than heaps of smouldering ashes. There really was very little left to defend. Macdonell absently brushed ash from his jacket, and yelped. His palms were agony. He would not be able to hold a sword. The body of a jacketless French corporal lay on top of the heap by the chapel. Being careful to use only his fingers, he ripped open the corporal’s shirt. ‘Allow me, Colonel,’ said a voice behind him.
Macdonell looked round. ‘Thank you, James. I was just trying to work out how to do it without crying like a baby.’
James Graham used his bayonet to cut two strips from the shirt. ‘Hands out, if you please, Colonel.’ It was embarrassing, but he had no choice. Macdonell held out his hands, palms up, and watched Graham tie a strip of cloth around each one. ‘Try that, Colonel,’ said Graham, holding out his own hands. Macdonell grasped them and grimaced. Holding a sword would be possible but not easy.
‘You would have made a fine surgeon, Corporal,’ he said.
Graham laughed. ‘Now there’s a thought, Colonel. When I go back to Ireland and I’m too old for soldiering, I might just take to studying medicine. I’d be the first doctor in the family.’
There was a shout of warning from the window of the gardener’s house, followed by a long roll of drums. They were coming. ‘Every man in the yard. Muskets checked and ready,’ yelled Macdonell. ‘On my order, we will advance. There will be only one shot each, so aim well. Our task is to kill as many of them as we can.’
The Guards watching from the gardener’s house ran down the stairs to join them. The yard was full. Macdonell made his way to the gate. The wood was full of blue jackets, spilling out into the clearing. Among the leafless trees, mounted officers stood ready to join the attack. It was the same as far as he could see to his left. For the length of the garden and beyond, lines of French infantry awaited the order to charge.
But James Macdonell would not allow them to charge. The Guards would beat them to it. He turned to face them. ‘Fill your lungs, aim well and hit hard,’ he shouted. ‘With me, now. Charge!’ He hopped over the broken wall, the Guards and Brunswickers screaming and shrieking behind him.
The leading Guards had almost crossed the clearing before they put their left shoulders forward and fired. The Brunswickers did the same. Dozens of blue jackets fell. Dozens more returned fire and ran forward to receive the Guards’ charge. Once again, the clearing was a battlefield.
Macdonell felt a surge of energy flow through him — that special energy of battle, which could give a man the strength to go on however tired he was. He raised his sword and hacked down on a French head. Blood spurted and the man fell. He smashed the hilt into a face and thrust the point into a stomach. All around him Guard fought Frenchman and Frenchman fought Brunswicker. The clearing was a heaving, struggling, bellowing crush of bodies. Muskets slammed into noses and chests, swords hacked at heads and limbs and bayonets sliced into flesh and bone. Whatever was happening on the ridge was forgotten. Each man could think only of his own battle to kill and survive, or die.
The energy that gave strength also dulled pain. The bandages had gone from his hands yet Macdonell felt nothing. Again and again he used his sword to thrust and slice and his height and reach to defend himself from the butts of muskets and the points of bayonets.
Two Frenchmen were falling for every Brunswicker or Guard, but bravely as they fought, the Guards could not hold back the tide of Frenchmen for ever. Gradually, inevitably, they were forced back towards the wall, leaving their dead and wounded lying in churned, blood-soaked, guts-splattered earth. Macdonell found himself beside the towering figure of James Graham who had appropriated the axe of the giant sous-lieutenant and was using it to fell any Frenchman who came within striking distance. Twice, Macdonell stepped back sharply to avoid the arc of its blade and twice saw a French head fly from a French body as cleanly as if its owner had met his end on the guillotine.
Some of the French had managed to slip round the west wall and up the lane towards the north gates. If they breached the gates and attacked the Guards from the rear, the battle would be over. Macdonell could only trust that Hervey and his small troop would keep them out. He had no inkling of what was happening in the garden or the orchard but as no French had yet appeared behind them, hoped that they were still held.
Their backs were now hard against the wall of the house and the shed beside it. Macdonell stood beside the portly figure of Sergeant Dawson under the arch of the gate. They could retreat no further without surrendering the farm and the chateau, so they would stand where they were. James Graham was still swinging the axe with brutal force, Dawson was thrusting his bayonet into stomachs and groins, every Guard and every Brunswicker was smashing, cutting and gouging at whatever he could.
And so was every Frenchman. Their commander had only to call his men back to allow his muskets a clear sight, and they would drop the Guards like a row of skittles. But the French attackers were not to be called back. They had suffered grievous casualties and would not allow them to have been in vain. Neither order nor threat would deter them. They would have the glory of taking Hougoumont.