‘I am but a humble soldier, Alexander,’ replied James with a smile. ‘Such questions are for politicians. Now, if you would excuse me, I must be gone. We will be using the large barn for the wounded. There is dry straw in there. I am hoping for a surgeon and an assistant or two. Send your wounded there.’
‘Thank you, James. Until tomorrow.’
Despite the rain a fire had been lit in the yard over which the pig was being cooked on a makeshift spit. While Sergeant Dawson kept a line of hungry soldiers at bay, the Grahams were hacking chunks off the beast. Two men were fighting over a scrap of meat that had fallen on the ground. One of them was the weasel-faced Patrick Luke. Another was complaining loudly that he had been given only a bit of pig’s head, barely cooked and foul-smelling. ‘If you had waited until the bloody thing was cooked,’ yelled the sergeant, ‘it would have tasted a sight better.’ He was ignored. The aroma of roasting meat was too much for men who had eaten almost nothing for two days. They stuffed whatever they could get into their mouths and tried to swallow it whole. Some retched and coughed their prize into the dirt, others managed to wash it down with a cup of water or gin. Macdonell, who had enjoyed several slices of well-cooked beef, could not help feeling a little guilty.
‘It’s a full-grown pig,’ he told Dawson. ‘Enough to go round, and do not forget the guards in the orchard.’
In the chateau, the men stationed at the windows were sitting with their backs to the wall, leaving just one to keep watch. They had seen nothing outside the south gate or in the wood. It was the same in the tower, where Private Lester was playing a tune on a child’s whistle while his comrades sat or lay on the floor. Macdonell told them to send a man down to fetch their share of the pig and to get what rest they could.
Inside the south gate, Ensign Gooch’s troop was standing to arms, ready to act if a warning came from the gardener’s house above it. They had used thick timbers as props for the gate. ‘Have them rest in the house, Mister Gooch,’ Macdonell ordered. ‘As much rest as possible for every man. Including yourself.’
Ensign Hervey at the north gate had already sent half of his troop to the barn, while he kept watch with the remainder. ‘It will be light at four, Colonel,’ he said. ‘I intend two hours on guard and three hours rest in the barn for each man.’
In the garden Harry had placed a man at every loophole and sent the rest to find shelter. ‘How did the meeting with Lord Saltoun go?’ he asked. ‘I looked in on the farmer’s house to make sure all was well but you had finished.’
‘It did not take long,’ replied Macdonell.
‘No, indeed. Surprising choice of claret, though.’ They must have left the empty bottles there.
‘Would you believe me if I told you that we found the bottles in the house?’
‘No.’
‘Then I won’t. Have you managed to build sufficient fire steps?’
‘Barely. We have a shortage of nails, not to mention carpenters. Some of the steps look like the bell tower in Pisa. Have you seen it?’
‘Never, although I know it is still standing, despite being crooked. Have faith, Harry. And don’t forget to get some rest yourself.’
The faint sound of singing reached them from the direction of the wood. ‘There, James, can you hear them?’ asked Harry. ‘They’ve been at it for an hour. Singing away like choirboys.’
‘They are camped without shelter in a narrow valley beyond the wood. They’re singing to keep their spirits up. As long as they don’t keep us awake, let them sing.’
For the first time, Macdonell realised how tired he was. Until then the need to keep going had driven him on. Now, suddenly, his eyelids were drooping and an irresistible urge to sleep took over. He found a place in the barn, kicked straw into a pile and lay down. Around him, exhausted men snored, scratched and grunted. Their colonel heard nothing. Within seconds he too was asleep.
He was woken by someone gently shaking his shoulder. He struggled briefly back to consciousness. There was an urgent voice in his ear. ‘Colonel, General Byng is here.’ It sounded like Hervey. His eyes closed and he was asleep again. The voice was insistent. ‘Colonel, General Byng.’ With a huge effort he pushed himself up. He shook sleep from his head and stood up. Stupid oaf, he thought, I should never have allowed myself to lie down.
‘Where is the general?’ he croaked. Hervey passed him a canteen of water.
‘At the north gate, Colonel.’
He tipped water down his throat and splashed a little on his face. It helped. ‘Brush me down, if you please, Hervey.’ Hervey used his hand to sweep straw from Macdonell’s jacket and trousers. ‘What is the time?’
‘Two o’clock. It will be light in two hours.’
Byng had ridden down from the ridge and was waiting in the small yard inside the north gate. An aide was holding his horse. ‘Ah, James, getting some rest, I trust.’
‘I was, sir. At least here we have some cover from the rain.’
‘You do. Bivouacs are little use in these conditions. Our only consolation is that the French must be just as wet.’
‘What are their movements, General?’
‘They have been bringing up troops during the night. Their front line is centred on the inn at La Belle Alliance. The Duke is convinced that Buonaparte will try to take Hougoumont before launching his main attack. Reille will of course have artillery and cavalry as well as infantry. You may expect all three.’
‘We will be ready, General, although the orchard is vulnerable.’
‘I know. Saltoun will keep them out for as long as he can. Above all we must hold the farm and chateau. Take no risks. You will need every man you’ve got. Patch up the wounded and send them back to work.’
‘We could do with medical staff, General. We have none.’
‘None? An oversight, I imagine. I will find you a surgeon. Anything else?’
‘Nails, General, please. For the fire steps. We asked for more but they haven’t come.’
Byng laughed. ‘That’s the first time I’ve been asked for nails. I’ll see what I can do.’ He turned to his aide. ‘Nails and medics, Thomas. Don’t forget.’
‘I will not forget, General.’
‘My artillery is in place on the hill behind us,’ went on Byng. ‘Major Bull’s howitzers will be joining us when it is light. We will do everything we can to support you.’
‘Thank you, General.’
‘It is you whom I look forward to thanking tomorrow night, James. Bonne chance.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
18th June
Dawn was breaking and the rain, at long last, had stopped. For James Macdonell there had been no more sleep. He had spent the two hours since General Byng’s visit checking and rechecking their defences, trying to think of anything more they could do, and searching for words of encouragement for five hundred weary, miserable men.
From the top of the tower there was a cry of ‘cavalry’. He ran through the garden gate to the wall and climbed onto a fire step. Two hundred yards away a squadron of cuirassiers, the rising sun glinting off their breastplates and helmets, had appeared from behind the wood. He watched them come closer until they were just within musket range, where they halted. A cuirassier officer took out a glass and ran his eye over the garden wall and the hedge around the orchard. ‘Hold your fire,’ shouted Macdonell. The chances of a correct shot were slim and there was no point in revealing their firing positions. The cuirassiers soon turned their mounts and cantered back to their lines.
Harry Wyndham appeared beside James. ‘Fortunate that a box of iron nails came down in an ammunition wagon last night, James,’ he said, ‘otherwise that step would not have held your weight.’