‘Can we still count on Marshal Blücher?’ asked Woodford.
‘Marshal Blücher and his Prussians are guarding the eastern approaches to Brussels at Ligny and Liège. The marshal may be over seventy but there is no more gallant commander. He will not fail us.’
‘What is his strength now, General?’ This time it was Francis Hepburn.
‘About the same as our own, some seventy thousand. The French, His Grace estimates, number one hundred and twenty thousand. The Russians and the Austrians will advance from the east but are unlikely to arrive before the end of the month.’ Byng looked at Macdonell, seated next to him. ‘What do you think, James?’ he asked. The general had a habit of seeking the views of his officers, not always having regard to their rank.
‘If I were Napoleon,’ replied Macdonell, who had lain awake thinking about just this, ‘I would rely upon the element of surprise. I would move quickly to drive a wedge between the Prussians and ourselves. I would attack Charleroi and advance without delay on Brussels. Surprise has always been a tactic he favours.’
‘You would not go west to Mons or east to Ligny?’
‘I would not, General, especially if it meant splitting my force.’
For a long moment, Byng gazed at Macdonell. ‘And perhaps that is just what he will do. We shall know soon enough. And how would you respond to this threat?’
‘I would march at once, join the Prussians and seek to take the initiative.’
Byng looked doubtful. ‘Hm. Would you now? Defender turned aggressor, eh?’ He paused and looked around the table again. ‘Does anyone else agree with Colonel Macdonell? No, on second thoughts, do not answer that. The Duke has decided and that is that. Now let us take our breakfast.’ He rose and went to a sideboard on which silver pots of tea and coffee, plates of brioches and French bread and slabs of pound cake had been laid out. The officers followed him, loaded their plates and returned to the table. None of them would start the day on an empty stomach.
When they were all seated again, Byng turned to Woodford. ‘My carriage will be departing at seven this evening for the Duchess’s Ball, Alexander. Would you care to join me?’ The rule against carriages in the town had been lifted for the evening.
‘That would be most kind, General,’ replied Woodford.
‘Excellent. You, too, Harry. We have room for three. General Cooke, I understand, will be leaving earlier. He has an afternoon engagement in Brussels.’ The officers suppressed smiles. Wellington himself was known to be fond of afternoon engagements. In Paris he was even rumoured to have conducted simultaneous affairs with an opera singer and an actress, both of whom had previously been lovers of Buonaparte. ‘I am unhappy at leaving Enghien at this time, gentlemen, but the Duke is insistent that we attend the Duchess of Richmond’s Ball. It has been weeks in preparation and he does not wish Her Grace to be disappointed.’ He smiled kindly. ‘And I know I shall be leaving matters in the most capable hands.’
Harry Wyndham, second son of the Earl of Egremont, had received an invitation and, a little to Macdonell’s surprise, had accepted. The product of a grand English public school, determinedly independent in spirit and inveterate wag, Harry was twenty-five years old, and a captain in the light company of the Coldstreams. Despite the differences in age, rank and background, he and James had become friends. In fact, their ranks were not as different as it might have appeared to anyone not familiar with the strange ways of the Guards because James held not only the rank of lieutenant colonel but also the lesser one of major and Wyndham that of lieutenant colonel in addition to captain. To anyone outside the regiment, double-ranks were utterly confusing. Harry was always good company, an important quality in times of dreary inactivity, and found it difficult to take life seriously. Whenever James erred towards self-importance, Harry could be relied upon to find the mot juste. All he lacked was battle experience. It would not be long before he got it.
James feared that he too might be included in the Duchess’s guest list because of his family connections and had been greatly relieved when he found that an ancient Scottish lineage was not enough to warrant an invitation. From the Coldstreams, Woodford, Wyndham and three young ensigns from distinguished families would be joining General Byng. Macdonell disliked all dancing other than a good Scottish reel, and would be very much happier at Enghien. True, a highland regiment was due to give an exhibition of sword dancing, but the guests would be gavotting and waltzing and quadrilling well into the early hours.
At fifteen minutes before eight, Byng carefully wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and rose from the table. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I will leave you now to be about your duties. If there is more news I will, of course, send word.’
James left the dining room with Francis Hepburn. ‘What did you make of it?’ he asked quietly.
‘I agree with you, James.’ replied Hepburn. ‘The peer is being too cautious. We should dictate terms by marching to join the Prussians and crushing Napoleon once and for all.’ He paused. ‘Still, His Grace is the field marshal and we are not. We’d best do as we are told.’
Macdonell laughed. ‘As we always do.’ At the bottom of the chateau steps, Sergeant Dawson was waiting for Macdonell. Another colonel might have left the matter to the company captain. Macdonell insisted on dealing with all disciplinary offences himself. ‘Very well, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘where are they?’
‘At the stables, Colonel. Corporal James Graham is with them.’ Macdonell had considered promoting one of the Grahams to make distinguishing between them easier but had decided that would not be fair on the other.
‘Good. Let us hear what they have to say for themselves this time.’
The Enghien stables, at the back of the chateau, were enormous, another legacy of bygone days. Graham and the two privates were waiting at the far end of the cobbled yard. ‘Thank you, Corporal,’ said Dawson, as they approached. ‘I will take over now. You make ready for parade.’
‘Very good, Sergeant.’ Graham saluted and marched off, leaving his charges to their fate. Privates William Vindle and Patrick Luke were as nasty a pair of ferret-faced, thieving, good-for-nothing drunks as could be found in any regiment of the British Army. Macdonell had never quite understood how any recruiting sergeant could have taken them into a Guards regiment and, had he been able to, he would long ago have thrown them out or, better still, hanged them from a Dutch elm. Between them they had caused more trouble than the rest of the battalion put together. ‘Right, Sergeant. What have they done?’
‘Drunk on watch, Colonel, and fighting.’
‘Fighting each other or some harmless old woman?’
‘Each other, Colonel.’
‘Why?’
Vindle, who might never have told the truth in his life, cleared his throat and rubbed his almost hairless head. His face was filthy and pockmarked. ‘It was nothing, Colonel. A little argument.’
‘Were you drunk?’
‘No, Colonel,’ replied Luke, in his slimy, weedly voice. ‘No more than a glass of rum to wet the throat.’ Macdonell stared into the narrow eyes set under a low brow and either side of a twisted beak of a nose. They were red and rheumy from drink.
‘Sergeant Dawson says otherwise.’
‘Sergeant Dawson is wrong, Colonel,’ growled Vindle.
Macdonell took a step forward and bellowed into Vindle’s face. ‘No, Vindle, Sergeant Dawson is not wrong.’ He sniffed. ‘You stink of rum. You were drunk and you were fighting. Over who had stolen what from whom, I daresay. If I could, I would shoot you both myself. But we are going to war and you will be needed as targets for the French sharpshooters. I hope their aim is true.’ He turned to Dawson. ‘In the meantime, Sergeant, half rations, remove every bottle they have hidden in their tents and put the wretches to clearing out the stables. They can spend the day shovelling muck. Let me know if they stop for so much as ten seconds. And count yourselves fortunate, you two. If we were not about to fight the French you’d be locked in the cellar and left for the rats. No more chances. Next time it’ll be a whipping. Take them away, Sergeant, before I lose my temper and crack their heads together.’ Macdonell disliked public whippings but these two had used up all their lives.