‘That we will, Colonel.’ Once more it was said in unison.
In mid-afternoon, having marched well over twenty miles since dawn, they reached open land on the western edge of Nivelles, where General Cooke sent forward orders that they were to halt and set up camp. ‘Looks a good enough place to spend the night, Harry,’ observed Macdonell, pointing to a copse of oak and chestnut. ‘Plenty of wood for cooking fires and there might be a stream in those woods. Send out watering parties and get fires lit. Let us hope that is it for the day. I’m worn out and I’ve been sitting on a horse all day.’
‘Pity there’s no pond around,’ replied Harry. ‘I’d strip off and jump in.’
‘Well, at least we’re spared that.’ While Harry organised watering parties and wood collectors, Macdonell stretched his legs by wandering among the men. Like them, he was plastered in dust and sweat. He ran his hand over the stubble on his cheeks and scratched his groin where his trousers, damp with sweat, had chaffed the skin. The muscles in his back and thighs were shaking from ten hours in the saddle and his throat was on fire. Unlike them, he had not been on his feet carrying sixty pounds of weapons and equipment. No wonder many of them had thrown off their cumbersome wooden-framed packs, unbuttoned their jackets and stretched out on whatever strip of grass they could find. A few looked actually to be asleep. William Vindle and Patrick Luke were among them. Macdonell kicked them awake and told them to fetch wood for a fire. Muttering bitterly, they struggled to their feet and staggered off in the direction of the wood. No matter if they never came back.
Some of the younger men had taken off their shoes and were busy washing sores and picking at blisters. The older and wiser of them had left their shoes on, knowing that if they took them off their feet would swell from the heat and they might not be able to get them on again. If by chance they did have to move on that evening, they did not want to do so in bare feet.
The Grahams had lit their fire and were preparing to eat. From their packs they had retrieved the scraps of meat and biscuit distributed at Enghien and were occupied in making them edible. James cut out the filthiest bits and handed the rest to Joseph who swilled them in a cup of water and laid them out on the grass. All around, groups of men were doing much the same. ‘It’s a fair way off, Colonel,’ said James Graham, ‘but that is cannon fire I can hear, is it not?’
‘I believe it is, Corporal. But do not let it spoil your supper. I doubt we’ll be needed today,’ replied Macdonell, not believing it. They were upwind of the cannon, which would make the guns seem further away than they really were. He reckoned they might be no more than two miles off.
Macdonell walked on, greeting the men he knew by name and offering a word of encouragement to the youngest. He accepted a sip or two of gin and a mouthful of weevily biscuit and when the first group returned with water, drank a cupful and splashed a little on his face.
At last they could eat and rest properly, and he would try to find out what was happening beyond Nivelles. General Cooke would have sent a rider forward to announce their arrival. He would bring back news.
What the rider actually brought back, however, were orders to advance at once through the town. The general, much invigorated, in turn sent orders out for the drums to sound the call to arms and for the battalions to fall in. Miserable, complaining soldiers doused their fires, packed up their knapsacks, buttoned up their jackets and prepared to march again. Under instructions from the corporals, they checked their flints and counted off ten rounds of ammunition.
Every one of them knew that the time had come. They had marched all day and now they were going into battle. If they had not been needed, they would have been allowed to rest. The Emperor’s troops, hard, well equipped and impatient to avenge past defeats, awaited them.
Macdonell watched old soldiers encouraging new ones to take a swig of gin. He listened to throats tormented by the heat and dust, retching and coughing as if fit to rip themselves open. He listened to prayers spoken aloud and snatches of hymns croaked tunelessly out. And, in the distance, despite the wind, he caught the unmistakeable smell of cannon. And of a battlefield.
As at Braine-le-Comte, the Nivelles streets were choked with wagons, artillery pieces and the wounded, pleading pitifully for water, help, or their mothers. Many had lost an arm or a leg, some both. Others held their hands to their stomachs, as if trying to keep their guts from falling out. There were no surgeons with them. They would be too busy further forward to accompany the wagon train. Carriages, ambulances and fourgons, left behind by Netherlanders and Belgian Jägers in their rush to reach Quatre Bras, added to the confusion. The light companies scrambled over and round them as best they could.
A company of Highlanders seeking temporary respite from the battle taunted them as they went by. ‘What’s your hurry, laddie? The Frenchies will wait for you.’ ‘Remember your manners and say bonjour to m’sieur.’
‘Hop on my back, man, if you’re tired. I’ll take you to meet m’sieur,’ shouted back Joseph Graham.
The wind shifted and suddenly the cannon sounded very close. A number of men fell back, and from exhaustion or fear collapsed onto the roadside. Harry Wyndham, in a fine tenor voice, belted out the first verse of a song about the lovely ladies of London Town. Those with the energy joined in with the chorus.
On the other side of the town the watering parties caught up with them. Macdonell, his throat still burning from the dust, took a gulp from a bottle offered to him by a Foot Guard. It was not water but ale. ‘Kind lady outside the inn,’ grinned the private. Macdonell took another gulp and handed the bottle back. A stray shell whistled overhead and landed in a field. ‘Nearly there,’ he croaked.
The air was becoming so thick with dust that it was difficult to see or breathe. Carts carrying more wounded trundled towards them. Clouds of flies buzzed around open wounds. A company of Belgians lay in a ditch, trying to scoop its filthy water into their mouths. They had little to say except that Wellington himself had arrived that afternoon and that it had been bloody work. They had been battered by French artillery and had narrowly survived several cavalry charges by hastily forming square or dashing into nearby woods. They did not know if the crossroads were still held or what was happening further south.
Macdonell urged the light companies on. More overheated and exhausted men fell by the wayside. They were left where they fell, Captain Wyndham quickly ordering the columns to close ranks. Surprisingly, Vindle and Luke were still going. For all their thieving and drunkenness, they were a tough pair of weasels.
They found the crossroads and the buildings around it still held by companies of Jägers, Nassauers and Brunswickers. But the French artillery had been at its terrible work and the defenders had paid a terrible price. Hundreds of bodies were strewn in all directions. Many were headless or in bits. Medical orderlies scurried about doing what little they could for the wounded. A field hospital had been set up in a house on the Nivelles road. Inside and outside it, blood-soaked surgeons amputated limbs and stitched up stomachs. In German, Dutch and English men pleaded pitifully for water. Mutilated horses lay still attached to overturned gun carriages. Dogs sniffed hopefully at corpses and black crows circled overhead. The stench of death — a stench like no other — filled the air. And from the south, French artillery, not yet satiated, hurled more death at them.
In the fields to their left, British cavalry had been deployed in line. Macdonell took a glass from his pack and put it to his eye. Unless he was mistaken, General Picton’s cavalry division had indeed arrived and the general himself, easily recognised in blue coat, white stock and black hat, was at their head. Despite the carnage around him, he could not help smiling. If there was a fight to be had, General Thomas Picton would be among the first there.