James stepped down. ‘Bonjour, Harry. Let us hope the general sends down a surgeon as well as the nails. How was the night?’
‘Uncomfortable, but quiet. Those are the first frogs we have seen today. Most of us managed a little rest. I have ordered fires. If there is any food, it would be welcome. No more of that pig, though. It was foul.’
‘We should get some food soon. The supply wagons are back and forth like flies.’ He looked up at the sky. It was clear. ‘No more rain, I think. Order powder and flints checked and barrels cleared.’
‘There will be some beyond help,’ replied Harry. ‘Their springs will be wet and useless.’
‘Replace them from the spares in the chateau.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Is it not Sunday, today?’
‘It is, James. The Duke has chosen a Sunday for his battle. And I think I shall have a shave. I might be too busy later.’
James strode back to the chateau. The tiny red-brick chapel beside its south face could not have accommodated more than a dozen worshippers.
He thought at first that it was completely empty. No altar, no lectern, no seat of any kind. He knelt on the stone floor with his back to the door and recited the Lord’s Prayer. He could think of no other. He longed to stay there but there was much to be done.
He rose to leave and glanced up. The chapel was not quite empty. Above the door a wooden carving of Christ on the cross had been attached to the wall. It was almost life-size and undamaged. He bowed his head. It was a good sign.
In the barn, in the chateau, in the houses and sheds and the stables, those who were not standing to arms were eating whatever they had — biscuit, a scrap of meat, a lump of bread — writing letters, and checking their weapons. No food or drink had arrived from the quartermaster’s stores behind the lines on the ridge. In the yards and the garden, they sat around fires, or stretched their backs and legs to rid them of the night’s stiffness. Here and there, Macdonell heard a prayer being recited. Very soon every man would be standing to arms.
The south gate, under Henry Gooch, was closed and barricaded. A rusty iron bedstead had been wedged against the timbers. It was a single-panel gate, perhaps eight feet wide and ten feet high. The French would move heaven and earth to force it. The guards would defend it with tooth and nail and fist and foot.
The north gates, where James Hervey commanded twenty men, were open for the wagons still trundling down the sunken lane. As Macdonell watched, a wagon carrying medical supplies arrived. In it sat three men — a scarlet-coated surgeon and two bandsmen to act as assistants. They jumped out and presented themselves. The surgeon introduced himself as Sellers. He carried two saws, his assistants held canvas bags in which there would be a variety of probing tools, pliers, needles, thread, knives and dressings. There was a small pile of blankets in the wagon. ‘We have set aside the lower floor of the chateau and the barn to your right for the wounded,’ Macdonell told them. ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘We have the tools of our trade, Colonel,’ replied Sellers, holding up a saw. ‘No opiates or spirits, I’m afraid, but the locals have donated blankets. If you have gin it would be welcome.’
‘If we have, it will be delivered to you. And there is a little water in the well. The Duke’s orders are to minimise casualties and to throw any man who can fire a musket back into the fray. Put them back together, sir, if you please, and send them out.’
Sellers nodded. ‘We will, Colonel.’
The sun had risen and the French might attack at any time. It was time to close the north gates. Macdonell gave the order and left Hervey to carry it out. Bring in the guards, bar the gates and defend them from the wall and the roofs. No French foot must be allowed to enter the yard. Open the gates only for a supply wagon or reinforcements and close them again at once.
From the shed in the south-west corner of the enclosure came the sounds of voices raised in anger. Macdonell strode over. ‘I don’t give a bucket of shit if you have a bellyache, you foul worm. Get up and take your place on the roof.’
‘Have a care, Sergeant. I can hardly stand for the pain, never mind climb onto the roof.’ The voice was unmistakeable. Vindle.
Macdonell entered. Vindle was cowering in a corner, his knees tucked up under his chin. Sergeant Dawson stood over him. ‘I’ll count to three, Private,’ bellowed the sergeant, ‘and if you are not on your feet and on the ladder by then, I will shoot you. Is that clear? One …’
Vindle saw Macdonell in the doorway. ‘You know me, Colonel. I’m not one to shirk a fight. Tell the sergeant.’
‘Two …’
‘Do as Sergeant Dawson has told you, man, or I will shoot you too. And with a full measure of powder.’
Dawson unslung his musket and cocked it. ‘Three.’ Vindle was on his feet in a trice and on the bottom rung of the ladder. Two seconds later he had disappeared through the hole in the roof.
‘Cowardice?’ asked Macdonell.
‘No, sir,’ replied the sergeant. ‘He’s a thief and a liar, but he’s not a coward. Probably ate too much pig. But we need every man we’ve got.’
‘I believe he might have tried to shoot me in the wood at Gemioncourt. Luckily the shot was weak and lodged in my pack. He denies it, of course.’
‘I’d better keep an eye on the evil creature, sir. If he so much as thinks of trying it again, I’ll shoot him.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. Apart from bellyaches, is all well and prepared here?’
‘It is, sir. Mister Gooch has kept us busy most of the night. No frog will get past us.’
‘Where are the Grahams?’ asked Macdonell. ‘I haven’t seen them this morning.’
‘They asked permission to visit the chapel, sir, it being a Sunday. They will be there.’ Like himself, the Graham brothers were Catholics. They too would take comfort from the wooden carving above the door.
The two men sitting upright on their mounts, heads steady and eyes forward, who walked slowly down from the ridge and around the outside of the orchard and the garden, appeared impervious to the enemy not many yards away. Macdonell, looking out from the tower, recognised one of them instantly. Wellington, almost casual in blue coat, white buckskin breeches, white cravat and cocked hat, had come to see Hougoumont for himself. His companion wore the uniform of a Prussian general. Macdonell did not know him.
The two riders made their way around the hedge to the south gate, oblivious to the danger of tirailleurs or voltigeurs in the woods. In the clearing outside the gate they halted briefly before retracing their steps back up the slope. A little piqued that the Duke had not sought him out, Macdonell watched the two men go. Then it occurred to him. The Duke had not sent for him because he would not have wanted to divert attention from the preparations going on within the enclosure.
In the orchard, Saltoun’s men were already standing to arms. At intervals of no more than five yards, clusters of Guards prepared to meet the first attack. When it came, the French would be subjected to continuous musket fire through and over the hedge. When they broke through, as they would, they would be met by the needle-sharp points of the Guards’ bayonets.
Saltoun himself was in fine spirits. ‘Good morning, James,’ he yelled from the far end of the orchard. ‘Are you rested and ready for the day?’
‘Well enough, I trust. Did you see the Duke?’
‘I did, with General Müffling, Blücher’s liaison officer. I thought they had come to wish us a good day, but it seems not. Just taking a look.’ Saltoun pulled out a gold pocket watch. ‘It is nine o’clock. When do you suppose the first attack will come?’