The lane leading to the chateau ran along the crest of the ridge for three hundred yards. Macdonell picked his way carefully along it and down the incline, already churned to mud by the coming and goings of men and horses and wagons. He joined a sunken lane which ran between thick thorn hedges separating it from a corn field to his left and a grassy slope to his right. The top of the slope would be where General Byng would place his artillery, complete with Major Bull’s fearsome howitzers.
Once in the sunken lane he could see very little of his surroundings, but then very little would be seen of him. The lane ran for about a hundred and fifty yards before opening into a clearing in front of the north gate of the farm. It would make an excellent position for troops hidden in the hedge.
It was a thick oak gate, with two panels ten feet high and iron fixings, open to allow access to a constant flow of traffic. It was attached on one side to the wall of a long stable or cowshed and on the other to a small brick outhouse. A troop of Nassauers stood guard in the clearing. Inside the gates, a wagon parked in the yard alongside an ancient draw well was being unloaded by Nassauers and Hanoverians and its supply of ammunition moved into the farm grounds by a chain passing boxes of powder and shot from one to another. To Macdonell’s surprise, the operation was being supervised by Sergeant Dawson. He dismounted and asked a private to take his horse to a stable. ‘Sergeant Dawson, may I take it that you have attended a dressing station?’ he demanded.
‘I have, Colonel, and been passed fit.’ Dawson rolled back his sleeve to reveal his arm, now covered by a well-used bandage. ‘Stitched up nicely, it is. No need for the forceps, thank the Lord. I’d rather face a French lancer than a surgeon with forceps.’
‘As would we all, Sergeant. Is there any water in the well?’
‘A little, Colonel, from the rain.’
‘Ration it carefully. Where is Captain Wyndham?’
‘In the house, Colonel, seeing to the dispositions. There are two stables for the horses and a cowshed. Plenty of cover for us, too.’
‘Good. Carry on, Sergeant.’ Macdonell crossed the yard to the entrance of the house. It was a modest chateau, no larger than Glengarry, brick-built and, in parts, ancient. A tall tower, once perhaps a watchtower, stood on the north-east corner with a tiny chapel nearby. The entrance hall was dark and dusty and smelt of rats. There was no furniture and no decoration on the walls. It must have lain empty for some years.
A narrow flight of stairs led to the upper floor. Macdonell took them two at a time. In a bedroom facing south he found Harry Wyndham with Gooch and Hervey. They had opened the window shutters and were aiming muskets out towards the wood.
‘Not much chance of hitting anything from up here,’ said Harry, ‘unless they break into the yard. Even then, we’d just as likely kill some of our own.’
James looked for himself. Harry was right. The chateau was high enough to afford a clear line of fire over the walls surrounding the farm, but only into the wood. An attacker between the edge of the wood and the wall of the farm would be safe. ‘Two men at each window in case they do break in,’ he ordered, ‘and the lower floor will do for the wounded if we need it. We’ll use the large barn by the north gate first for casualties. If you would see to that, Captain Wyndham, we will inspect the rest of our billet. Follow me, gentlemen.’
They retraced their steps and climbed a second staircase, this one narrow and spiral, to the top of the tower. There Harry had already stationed four men, who had heaved boxes of ammunition up the stairs and were busy preparing their position. One of them was Private Lester. ‘Good evening, Lester,’ Macdonell greeted him. ‘Comfortable billet for you, I see. Should be able to land a few solid blows from here.’
‘That we will, Colonel,’ replied Lester. ‘Fish in a barrel, they’ll be. We can hardly wait to get started.’
‘Watch the woods. That’s where they’ll come from and they’ll have to cross open ground to get to the gate. Take care, though. If there is any risk of hitting a red jacket, hold your fire.’ Macdonell looked out of the window. A house built above a gate on the south side blocked his view but he could see over the roofs of the two buildings either side of it and, to his left, over the garden and orchard towards the ridge at Mont St Jean. In the fading light he could just make out the fires of the troops stationed on the crest of the ridge. From here it was possible to shoot into the clearing outside the gate.
‘Rely on us, sir.’
‘Make haste, gentlemen. We must complete our inspection before dark.’ Macdonell led the two ensigns back down the stairs and into a second courtyard, where the ammunition boxes were being opened and their contents distributed. Men were running in and out of the three buildings that formed the south wall of the enclosure.
‘Small stable on the left, storage shed on the right, gardener’s house in the middle over the gate, Colonel,’ pointed out Gooch. ‘No windows in the first two, so we’re making loopholes in the brick, but the house is well placed to defend the gate. I have ordered some of the floorboards above the gate to be pulled up to make firing holes.’
‘Have the gate opened, please,’ said Macdonell. ‘I must see it from outside, as the French will see it.’ Unlike the north gate, this one consisted of a single oak panel.
‘Colonel, French voltigeurs may be in the woods,’ said Hervey. ‘You might be better advised to stay within the walls.’
Macdonell stared hard at the ensign. ‘Nonsense, Hervey. And when you are in command of a battalion, I trust you too will venture outside walls. Kindly open the gate.’ Hervey mumbled an apology and ordered the crossbar lifted and the gates unlocked.
Ignoring the crack of musket fire, which they could now clearly hear, they stood in an open clearing about thirty yards long with their backs to the wood, and inspected the outside walls. They too were red brick, certainly not proof against round shot but adequate cover from muskets. The house had five windows on the upper level above the gate and three to one side below. The garden wall extended out at right angles from the house. ‘This is where they will attack in force. As many muskets as you can in the windows,’ ordered Macdonell. ‘We shall need unbroken fire from the moment they show their faces. Who have we in the woods?’
‘Hanoverians, Lüneburgs and Nassauer Jägers,’ replied Gooch, as if he had ordered them there himself. The Hanoverians and Lüneburgs were good troops — sharpshooters of whom many had been gamekeepers. The Dutch Nassauers were less reliable.
‘Have either of you been in to take a look?’ asked Macdonell. Neither of them had. ‘Then you will wish to accompany me after our inspection.’
Back inside the walls, they made their way across the yard to a narrow gate leading to the formal garden of which Wellington had spoken admiringly. Surrounded by a brick wall about seven feet high, it had been laid out in four square parterres separated by gravel paths and each planted with flowers of a different colour. Adjoining the wall by the south gate, a small kitchen garden had been planted with cabbages, onions and peas. Until that day it would have been as fine a garden as any of them had seen. Now the beds were trampled and strewn with debris and the paths covered in soil and pitted with potholes and ruts. ‘Quite a contrast to the chateau it must have been,’ Macdonell said. ‘And I fear it has little time left.’
‘Someone has more love for the garden than the house,’ agreed Hervey. ‘Perhaps the gardener still lives in the house over the gate.’