Macdonell had seen French Lancers at their murderous work at Maida. Deceptively elegant in their blue uniforms, often with yellow collars and facings, they had ripped the heart out of an entire infantry battalion before it could form defensive squares, spearing the fleeing men with their lances, cutting and slashing with their sabres and butchering the wounded as they lay helpless on the ground. They had revelled in their ferocity, sparing not a man and shrieking for joy as they hacked at arms and faces. He had hoped never to witness such slaughter again.
The division should wait, of course, until the town was clear before entering it. The road was not wide enough to allow two columns to pass and the side streets were blocked. But if the Hanoverians were also coming, it would be some time before the division could proceed. And if the French cavalry were on the rampage, it was time they did not have.
Macdonell recovered his horse and made his way back to where Harry Wyndham was waiting for him. ‘The town is blocked, Harry,’ he reported, ‘but we cannot wait. Take twenty men and see what you can do to clear a way for us. Don’t mind too much about the locals — they seem to have turned against us, fickle buggers. Bundle them all into side streets if you have to. Ought to try a bit of fighting themselves. Take Hervey and Gooch and the Grahams with you.’
Harry, as ever, grinned. ‘Eighteen men and two Grahams makes thirty. Should be plenty, sir.’
‘Good. Off you go. We’ll wait here. Send word when it’s clear to march on. Oh, and Harry, they’ve had a bad time of it, but we must get past.’
‘Right, sir.’
While they waited, Macdonell ordered his men to lie down. Eat when you can, rest when you can. In the heat and dust of Spain it had been Wellington’s mantra. It was an hour before a light company private trotted back from the town with a message from Captain Wyndham that it was safe to proceed. Macdonell thanked the man and sent him straight back to report that they were coming.
In the town it was as if the entire population had been swept off the main street and crammed into the alleys and lanes running off it. Light infantrymen stood shoulder-to-shoulder across each junction, their muskets held across their chests, their backs to the main street, blithely ignoring the howls of fury and protest. An enormously fat man brandishing a leg of pork tried to push his way past a guard. He was sent crashing backwards into a cart by a sharp blow with the butt of a Brown Bess. The infantryman stepped nimbly forward, grabbed the leg of pork and stuffed it into his haversack before anyone else had moved.
The two ensigns were busy keeping an angry group of women armed with cooking pans from launching an attack from the town hall. James and Joseph Graham were marching up and down the street, lending their weight where it was needed. They nodded a greeting to Macdonell. ‘Just like herding the cows for milking,’ called out James.
‘Only cows do not throw cabbages,’ added Joseph, bending down to pick one up. He lobbed it to his brother. ‘Keep that for the pot, shall we?’
Macdonell found Harry at the far end of the town. Somehow the captain had managed to halt the retreating column outside it, clear the street, and pen the locals in the side streets. ‘How did you do it, Harry?’ asked Macdonell.
‘Bit of luck, Colonel,’ replied Wyndham. ‘Bumped in to an old friend in the Cambridgeshires, asked him to speak to his colonel. He did and the colonel was happy to oblige, even though he has lost an eye. Said he was not going to get it back in Brussels, so he might just as well wait for us to pass. He is halted outside the town until we go through.’
‘Are they badly cut up?’
‘Pretty bad,’ he said. ‘Netherlanders and Hanoverians took the worst of it. South of a crossroads called Les Quatre Bras. Outnumbered and short of cavalry. Charlie is escorting the wounded. Hopes reinforcements will reach the crossroads before they are all wiped out.’
‘Right, let us get through as fast as we can. We’ll halt beyond the town and wait for orders to march on.’
With the street clear, both brigades marched quickly through the town, ignoring missiles and abuse, until they emerged into the countryside on the southern edge, where the Cambridgeshires were waiting. Macdonell found Colonel Hamilton, his face swathed in bandages, lying in a wagon, apparently asleep. ‘He has lost his right eye,’ said a medical orderly. ‘The left is also in danger.’
‘Artillery shell?’ asked Macdonell.
‘Yes, sir. Killed four officers.’
‘Get him back to Brussels, if you can. And thank him for his cooperation.’
‘I will, sir. And good luck. Give the frogs what they deserve.’
The fields in which four thousand men gratefully threw off their packs, laid down their weapons and lit fires for their tea, sloped gently up from either side of the road. There was no shade and in the full glare of the sun it was burning hot. Jackets were unbuttoned and shakos removed. On the march, the buttons would be done up again and the shakos replaced. They left the wagons and artillery on the road rather than laboriously manhandle them into the fields. The horses were left in their traces with their nosebags strapped on and given water and fodder by the grooms. While they ate, farriers came forward from the rear to check their hooves and repair damaged shoes as best they could.
Enterprising traders, resentment apparently forgotten, appeared from the town with bottles of wine and loaves of fresh bread and moved among the resting men peddling their wares.
From a vantage point halfway up the slope on the left side of the road, Macdonell saw General Byng arrive at the rear of the 2nd Brigade. Byng dismounted, sat down on a camp stool provided by an aide and mopped his brow. Macdonell waited until the general had a glass in his hand before walking down.
‘Ah, James,’ Byng greeted him. ‘We are all through the town. Did you encounter any problems?’
‘A vegetable or two, sir, nothing more. Has the Prince sent orders?’
‘He has not, dammit. General Cooke has worked himself into a rare fury and I cannot say that I blame him. A poor chain of command almost guarantees failure.’ Byng lowered his voice. ‘And between you and me, I am not at all sure of the Netherlanders. They’ve seen the mess their militia battalions are in and some of them, we should not forget, were fighting for Napoleon not so long ago.’
‘We can hardly tell them to go home, General,’ replied Macdonell. ‘So I suppose we must hope for the best.’
‘Hope for the best. It’s about all we seem to do at the moment. Orders. That’s what we need. Orders to march and bloody some French noses.’
Macdonell had seldom seen the general so exercised. It must have been the heat. He spoke gently. ‘The men do need a rest, sir, and food. Doubtless our orders will arrive shortly.’
The general raised an eyebrow. ‘Go and drink your tea, James. I’ll send word.’
Harry Wyndham had brewed tea in a Flemish kettle. He handed Macdonell a mug. ‘Hot and sweet, James, just like those highland lassies. Any news?’
‘Still awaiting orders. Have you made a count? Has the battalion lost many?’
‘Thirty, I think.’ Out of nearly nine hundred, that was better than might have been expected. ‘Exhaustion, mostly, and foot sores.’
‘Morale?’