Sergeant Dawson thrust his bayonet at another French groin, lost his footing and fell face down in the mud. The butt of a musket smashed into the back of his head and he lay still. Macdonell grabbed the musket, tore it free and jammed it into its owner’s face, which dissolved into a mess of blood and bone. He stooped quickly to put a hand to Dawson’s neck. The sergeant was dead. As he rose, a blow slammed into his shoulder, sending a stab of pain down his wounded arm. He lashed out with his sword, felt it strike bone and lashed again. A Frenchman fell with blood spurting from his thigh. A thrust into his windpipe and he too was dead.
The first cries came from outside the orchard. At first Macdonell could not make out even if the voices were English or French. But as they increased, he thought he could hear what they were saying. It was not possible. He must be mistaken. The cry was taken up outside the garden. He listened harder. ‘La Garde recule, La Garde recule.’ Was it possible?
The French in the wood and the clearing heard it too. The Imperial Guard, Buonaparte’s immortales, never defeated in battle, were in retreat. Yet it could not be. The Emperor only sent forward his Guard when victory was assured. It was a perfidious British trick. They did not believe that the Guard were retreating and they would not be denied their victory. They launched themselves at the defenders with desperate fury. They would take Hougoumont.
The Guards and the Brunswickers stood firm. They knew what the cry meant and if it was true, there was still hope. Try as they might, the furious French could not break their line.
Now the woods echoed with the cry. La Garde recule. La Garde recule. And suddenly the Guards were facing French backs. It was as if the realisation that it was true had drained every ounce of courage from them. If the mighty Guard really had been put to flight, what hope was there for them? They ran back to the woods. The tiny figure of the drummer boy jumped out from behind a pile of bricks and sped after them.
‘Let them go,’ croaked Macdonell. ‘Where is Mister Gooch?’ Henry Gooch, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, raised his sword. He could not speak. ‘Mister Gooch, hold this position, if you please, until I order otherwise. Assume that the frogs will be back. Water and gin, muskets ready.’ Gooch nodded. ‘Corporal Graham, Sergeant Dawson is dead. You will take his place.’
The Irishman rested his huge hands on the axe handle and breathed deeply. He might have killed twenty Frenchmen. ‘Very good, Colonel.’
All along the garden wall, in the fields and the orchard, there was barely a blue jacket to be seen other than those lying dead or wounded. It was not until Macdonell reached the far end of the orchard that he could see what was happening. The entire French army was in full retreat. As he watched, squadrons of British cavalry set off in hot pursuit. He shuddered. A man with his back to charging cavalry would be lucky not to be sliced in half. But the retreat was total. He saw no attempt to stand and fight, no attempt to form square, certainly no counter-attack.
Down the slope the cavalry galloped, whooping and bellowing and brandishing their sabres. Somehow the wily Duke had kept them hidden for just this moment and they were going to make the most of it. All along the ridge behind them, the infantry and artillery teams cheered them on. And the French were running. The first of the cavalry reached them and the slaughter began. Macdonell turned away. He had seen enough blood spilt that day.
He could only guess at what the Duke had done but he would wager a hundred guineas he was right. Once again, the old fox had chosen his ground, concealed his strength and awaited his moment. And once again, the French had fallen for it. Having bombarded the ridge with his cannon and believing the battle as good as won, Buonaparte had sent his Imperial Guard forward to finish it off. They had been met first by artillery and then by cavalry they did not know existed. They had panicked and run, taking the rest of the French army with them.
‘Now that,’ said Harry Wyndham, who had left the garden to watch the spectacle, ‘is something I did not expect to see today. The Guard have indeed reculed, and so have the rest of them.’ James did not reply. The energy of battle had drained from him and he was too exhausted even to whisper. ‘Are you hurt, James?’ asked Harry. James shook his head. ‘I am happy for it. I too have been lucky. I dread to think how many were not. Did the Prussians arrive?’ James shrugged. He wanted only to lie down and sleep.
But he could not. There was still work to be done — the roll-call, the wounded to be taken to the dressing stations behind the ridge, food and water to be found. He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, smiled weakly, and returned to the farm.
He had seen hundreds die that day, and many more wounded. He had killed a dozen himself. Yet he had survived with little more than burnt hands and a scratch on the arm. The capricious fortunes of war.
Outside the south wall, a Brunswicker corporal offered him a canteen of water. He tipped it down his rasping throat and managed to splutter his thanks. As instructed, Henry Gooch and James Graham had kept the troops at their posts. ‘Stand them down, Mister Gooch,’ he croaked. ‘It is over.’ Gooch, still unable to speak through his swollen mouth, nodded to Graham, who gave the order. A ragged cheer went up and every man sat or lay where he stood.
Hougoumont was a smoking ruin. The clearing outside the south gate was a graveyard. The remains of the barn were a charnel house. In the yard heaps of bodies lay awaiting burial. They would have to wait. Macdonell would order burial pits dug the next morning. In the garden Sellers was doing his best for the wounded. Macdonell found Mrs Osborne, her dress soaked in blood from her wound. Mrs Rogers was with her. ‘The battle is over, ladies,’ he said, ‘and we are victorious. Do your husbands live?’
‘They do, Colonel,’ replied Mrs Rogers. ‘Both safe, thank the good Lord.’
‘And you, Mrs Osborne, how do you fare?’
‘A bullet through my breast and into my shoulder, Colonel. The surgeon says he will extract it and I will live to be an old lady.’
‘I am glad of it. How did you get to Hougoumont without my knowing?’
‘We slipped down with the men when you were with the Duke, Colonel. We wanted to be with them,’ replied Mrs Rogers with a grin.
Macdonell nodded and moved on. He exchanged a word or two with each wounded man until he came to Joseph Graham. His thigh had been bandaged with a pair of trousers. He was deathly pale. ‘Corporal Graham?’ whispered Macdonell. The Irishman opened his eyes briefly. He showed no sign of recognising his colonel. Macdonell left him to sleep.
James Hervey and his troops were in the north yard, inside the gates. ‘I think we may open the gates now, Mister Hervey,’ said Macdonell. ‘We must get the wounded up to the dressing stations.’
Two guards lifted the cross-beam off its housings and pushed open the gates. Outside them, the lane was full of French bodies. ‘Check for wounded, Mister Hervey. If there are any, send them up too.’
‘I will, Colonel.’
‘And send a foraging party up to the ridge. Food and water, whatever they can find.’
Darkness was falling and the clash of battle had been replaced by the cries of the wounded. Macdonell found James Graham in the south yard. ‘James, we need wagons for the wounded. Send a party to fetch some. Your brother is in the garden. Make sure he and Mrs Osborne are on the first wagon. Are you hurt?’