‘When Boney’s had his breakfast and judged the ground firm enough for his cavalry, I imagine. Mind you, the longer he waits, the better the chances of the Prussians arriving.’
From the sunken lane to their left came the sounds of rattling muskets and marching men. Through the hedge they caught glimpses of shakos hurrying down towards the north gate. ‘It seems that the peer’s visit was not merely social. He has sent us reinforcements. Just in time, I daresay,’ said Saltoun.
The Nassauer staff officer who strode up to them saluted smartly. ‘Major Sattler, gentlemen. I have a battalion of six hundred of our men and a company of Hanoverians waiting outside the gates. We have been sent from Papelotte to take over the defence of the orchard and to reinforce the troops in the wood,’ he told them in heavily accented English. ‘Lord Saltoun is to take the light companies back to the ridge to rejoin the 1st Guards.’
James and Alexander exchanged a look of astonishment. ‘On whose orders, sir?’ asked James.
‘My orders came from General d’Aubremé of our 2nd Brigade, and his from the Duke of Wellington,’ replied the major. ‘His Grace also orders that half the company of the 3rd Guards who are in the garden should be moved to defend the west side of the chateau.’
That at least made sense. If the west side of the farm was held, the enemy would not be able to get around the chateau to attack them from the north or go on up the slope in their rear where General Byng had placed his artillery. But why would Wellington replace the experienced 1st Guards with Nassauers and Hanoverians?
‘Are you quite sure of this?’ asked Saltoun, his handsome face flushed with anger.
The major looked affronted. ‘Entirely sure, sir. I am not in the habit of misunderstanding orders.’ It was absurd. Reinforcements would of course be welcome, but to send Saltoun’s companies back to the ridge after they had spent the night fortifying the orchard made no sense at all. Yet the major was adamant. He was to replace them with his own troops.
‘Do you have your orders in writing, Major?’ asked James.
‘I do not, Colonel. General d’Aubremé seldom commits his orders to paper.’
Saltoun exploded. ‘Dammit, James, there is something amiss here. This is where we are most needed. Why would Wellington move us now?’
‘Doubtless the Duke has his reasons, although I am damned if I know what they are,’ replied James. ‘But if Major Sattler is certain of his orders you had better do as you are bid.’
Saltoun swore and trudged off to give the orders. Within a few minutes two hundred disbelieving men had left their carefully prepared positions and set off through the garden gate and back to the ridge. God alone knew what they were thinking. As soon as they had gone, Major Sattler sent the Hanoverians into the wood and led his Nassauers into the orchard, where he began placing them around the hedge. James left him to it.
In the barn, the surgeon and his two orderlies had laid out their instruments on one table and cleared another for their work. One of the orderlies was busy sharpening the knives and saws that would be used for amputations, the other was using a nail to scrape blood off the probes and forceps they would use to extract musket balls and giving them a polish on his sleeve. Sellers patted his operating table and greeted Macdonell with a confident grin. ‘All ready, Colonel, and we’ll have them sewn up and back to work just as quick as we can. The minor wounds will take priority. Stomachs and limbs will have to wait their turn.’
‘Today, sir,’ replied Macdonell, ‘you will be busier than you have ever been. Have you everything you need?’
‘Ten more orderlies would be welcome, Colonel, but I doubt I’ll get them. We’ll manage as we are.’
It was mid-morning. The bands of both armies had been doing their best to lift the spirits of their men for over an hour, yet still no shot had been fired. Carried on the wind from the ridge came the drums and flutes playing ‘Lilliburlero’ and ‘The Grenadiers’ March’. The bandsmen were working hard, although they would work harder tending to the wounded when the battle started. James climbed the stairs to the top of the tower again and stood at a window.
To his right he made out the inn at La Belle Alliance and the blue of French infantry brigades on the low ridge running westwards from it. Beyond the inn, hidden by the rise of the land, there would be cavalry and Buonaparte’s fearsome artillery — rows and rows of howitzers, mortars and cannon, the largest of which could hurl a twelve-pound ball a mile.
To the left, troops and artillery pieces were visible on the south side of the long ridge that straddled the road to Brussels and behind which most of the Allied army had spent the night. The wretches within sight of the French guns were in for a bloody time. If James’s guess was right, they would be the first to be bombarded by the guns before the cavalry charged up the hill to cut whatever was left of them to shreds. Wellington would sacrifice them to show that he was inviting battle but keeping his main force hidden and protected by the ridge. It was exactly what he had done so successfully in the peninsula and he would do it again. Buonaparte might suspect it, but there was little he could do about it unless he attacked from the flanks. That was why Hougoumont must be held.
He descended the stairs and stood in the yard inside the south gate. On every roof, at every window and over the walls, muskets pointed out at the woods, where the Jägers waited for the first of the French infantry to attack. He wondered how long the Jägers would hold out before being forced back behind the walls. Not long, probably, and then the French would sweep through the wood and hurl themselves at the south wall. Prince Jérôme, desperate to win his brother’s praise, would take no account of casualties. He would blast the farm and chateau with his artillery and drive his troops forward and forward again until they stormed the gates and claimed victory.
To hold them off, Macdonell had four hundred men of the light companies in the chateau and farm, six hundred under Major Sattler in the orchard and about the same number in the wood. He checked his watch again. It was fifteen minutes past eleven o’clock. From the direction of the valley beyond the wood a cannon roared and round shot screeched over their heads.
It had started.
CHAPTER TWELVE
There was no foreplay, no caress, no gentle exploration. In their dozens, the French guns thundered, their teams reloaded and they thundered again. It was sudden and brutal and for Macdonell’s Guards there was no respite and no escape. The first of them went down, struck by bouncing round shot or stabbed by splinters of timber and brick ripped from the walls of the chateau and the farm buildings. In no time the yard was a swamp of blood, mud and debris and the air full of the cries of the injured.
The wounded who could walk to the barn did so; those who could not were helped there by comrades. The dead were carried to a corner of the yard near the tower. For an infantryman this was the very worst time. Against cavalry he could form square, against infantry he could fight with musket and bayonet or his bare hands. Against artillery fire he could do nothing but pray. Like them, Macdonell hated it.
In the yard he stood and listened and watched. He was watching his men, assessing their spirits, observing their reactions to the onslaught. He had known good men crumble in the face of round shot or canister and he knew the signs. Here there were none. And he was listening. Listening for an end to the artillery bombardment that would signal the advance of the infantry.
From the hill behind them General Byng’s cannon returned fire. Their height gave them an advantage and, ignoring the Duke’s standing instructions never to engage in long-range artillery battles, they fired over the wood and into the valley behind. The French Gunners immediately altered their aim and the Guards in the garden and the farm and the Nassauers and Hanoverians in the orchard found themselves watching shot hurtling over their heads from both front and rear.