‘Not finished?’ Harry was horrified. ‘What else would you have us do?’
‘Not us, Captain, His Grace. We’ve an idea he has more work for us before we get a rest.’
‘What work would that be?’
Joseph scratched his beard and looked thoughtful. ‘We do not know, Captain. It’s just a feeling.’
‘Well, I do hope you are mistaken.’ The brothers sucked on their pipes and looked doubtful.
Sergeant Dawson, even with help from Joseph Lester, was struggling with his bivouac. James noticed that he was favouring his right arm and cursed. He had forgotten. ‘Sergeant Dawson,’ he called out, ‘your arm. Let me see it, please.’ The sergeant let his blanket fall and hurried over. He rolled up his sleeve and held out his arm. The wound had not healed. It was red and swollen and oozing a yellow pus. Macdonell lifted the arm and sniffed it. No trace of gangrene yet, but it needed attention quickly. Without it, the arm would go and then the patient. ‘You must have it attended to at once.’
‘Oh no, Colonel. I hate hospitals and surgeons. Some of their weapons are worse than sabres. The arm will be good as new in the morning.’
‘Nonsense, Sergeant.’ He summoned Joseph Lester. ‘Escort the sergeant to the nearest dressing station and stay with him until his wound has been stitched and dressed.’
‘Yes, sir. If he tries to escape I’ll shoot him. Come on, Sergeant, you’re my prisoner now.’ Dawson fired a furious look at his colonel and trudged off with Lester.
James turned to Harry. ‘Brave as a lion in battle yet terrified of surgeons. In that he is not alone. Now, gin, I rather fancy, Harry. Would you care to take a foraging party to find a quartermaster who has some and tell him it’s badly needed here? Exaggerate our numbers a little if you have to.’
‘Delighted, Colonel,’ replied Harry. ‘And what else would you like for your supper?’
‘Beef and potatoes would serve, but I’ll settle for whatever you can find.’
‘Very good, Colonel. Leave it to me.’
James had not yet caught sight of Francis Hepburn. Unless he had found himself a more comfortable billet, Francis should be there. His battalion left Quatre Bras well before the light companies and he should by now be safely bivouacked. He asked a corporal in the Foot Guards where Hepburn might be found. ‘Gone to the hospital, Colonel,’ replied the corporal. ‘Said he would be back soon.’
‘Is he wounded?’ asked Macdonell.
‘Don’t think so, Colonel.’
‘Then why has he gone to the hospital?’
‘Couldn’t say, Colonel.’
‘And I do not imagine you know where the hospital is, Corporal.’
‘No, Colonel, I don’t.’ Francis Hepburn’s whereabouts would have to wait. A strangely disgruntled Macdonell returned to his duties.
So much for new uniforms. Mud-splattered, ripped, sopping. Ruined beyond repair. And still it was raining. If it rained all night, would they be able to fight? Would a single musket fire or cannon roar? Would heavy cavalry horses not sink into the mud and gun carriages stick fast? A bizarre image of chess pieces immersed in bloody water crossed Macdonell’s mind.
The Grahams were still making no effort to erect a bivouac. ‘Muskets and powder dry, if you please, Corporals,’ he said, ‘even if you are as wet as an Irish summer.’
‘Dry as tinder, Colonel,’ replied Joseph, holding up his oilskin-covered musket for inspection.
‘And in Ireland the sun always shines,’ added his brother. ‘It’s just that you can’t always see it.’
A troop of engineers had been touring the countryside and returned with their wagons loaded high with fence posts, doors, window frames, furniture and farm gates. They dumped the timber in heaps around the camp. The reverse side of the ridge was soon lit by scores of fires fuelled by dry wood and strong enough to resist the rain. Away to their right, towards the farm, James had noticed through the trees a huge fire had been lit. He wondered what the Duke would make of it.
Something rubbed against his thigh. The bullet. He pulled it out of his pocket and examined it again. Definitely too big to be French. It was time he had a word with Vindle.
Private Vindle was cowering in his bivouac, as ever with his accomplice Luke. ‘Up, both of you,’ he ordered, peering under the blanket. The two of them muttered something he could not hear and slithered out of the bivouac. ‘You might as well hear this too, Luke,’ he said, standing so close to them that they had to strain to see his face. He held out the bullet in his palm. ‘I found this in my pack. It is a British bullet and it knocked me down when we were feigning retreat in the wood. Fortunately for me the idiot who fired it did not use enough powder and it was almost spent by the time it hit my pack.’ He stared at Vindle. ‘Did you fire it, Vindle?’
Vindle wiped his few strands of greasy hair from his eyes and tried to look affronted. ‘I bloody well did not, Colonel. If I had mistaken you for a frog and fired in error, I would have said as much at the time and taken my punishment like a man. Luke will support me in that, won’t you, Patrick?’
‘I will, Colonel. A good soldier is Private Vindle and not one to mistake a red coat for a blue one or to spill his powder on the ground.’
Macdonell’s temper was rising. Vindle had tried to kill him but he could not prove it. ‘He is also a troublemaker and a thief, Private Luke, as are you,’ he snarled. ‘I trust neither of you and nor do Captain Wyndham and Sergeant Dawson. Tomorrow we will face Buonaparte. If you survive the day, we will speak of this again.’ Leaving them standing in the rain, he stormed off.
Francis Hepburn was still nowhere to be seen. Macdonell asked another guard about him and received the same reply. It was worrying. He would not put it past Francis to hide a wound from his men and only seek medical help when there was no fighting to be done.
He was wondering whether to visit the hospital himself, wherever it was, to find Francis, when Harry returned. Three of his foraging party had sacks slung over their shoulders, the other two carried a large wooden cask. All six of them looked as cheerful as if they had been promoted to generals. ‘Miserable lot, quartermasters, Colonel,’ said Harry as he approached. ‘Nothing but stale bread and biscuit and took a deal of persuading to let us have a drop of gin. He’ll have watered it, of course. Put it there, gentlemen, please.’ They placed the cask carefully on the ground and threw the sacks down beside it.
Macdonell prised open the lid of the cask and peered in. It was full. He lifted a sack and tipped its contents out. Loaves of bread, cheeses and a roasted chicken fell out. ‘Funny-looking biscuit,’ he said, and looked suspiciously at Harry. ‘Where did you get it?’ In Wellington’s army, theft from local people was an offence, although everyone knew that it happened all the time. Buonaparte, on the other hand, expected his troops to survive off the land by taking what they wanted. That was why they were better fed than the British.
Harry shuffled his feet. ‘Local man selling his wares. I happened to find a few shillings someone had dropped and used them to pay him.’
Macdonell believed him for not a second. Harry Wyndham had dipped into his own pocket, deep admittedly, to buy the food. ‘A lucky chance, indeed, Captain. Doubtless your health will be drunk around many fires this evening.’
From the direction of the crossroads the captain of the Life Guards who had directed them to their division trotted down the lane. ‘Colonel Macdonell, His Grace offers his compliments and requests that you send the light companies of the 2nd Guards to the chateau at Hougoumont, on our right.’ He pointed down the slope to the woods Macdonell had noticed earlier. The Château Hougoumont must be there. ‘His Grace asks that they go immediately. Lord Saltoun will be following with the light companies of the 1st Guards. You are to occupy and fortify the chateau, farm and grounds. When you have given the order to move, kindly attend His Grace. He awaits you at his quarters in Waterloo.’