The French Dragoons were working their way steadily through the orchard, sheltering behind the fruit trees and using the mounds and hollows in the ground for cover. They were fighting like voltigeurs — fire, move, reload, fire — hard to see in the smoke and even harder to hit. Each Guard was getting off three or even four shots a minute, but they were firing almost blind. And at any moment, the French light guns might start spitting their lethal charges over the heads of their own men and into the garden and the farm.
James and Harry heard them before they saw them. A thundering of hooves and feet down the sunken lane, followed by the light companies of the 1st Brigade, Alexander Saltoun, mounted on a grey charger at their head, bursting out of the cover of the hedge and into the orchard. Major Sattler’s Hanoverians, screaming their ancient battle cries, followed behind.
Taken by surprise, the French Dragoons turned to face the new threat and exposed their backs to fire from the garden wall. Through the thinning smoke, Macdonell saw a number fall, killed by musket shot or skewered by a bayonet. He exchanged a glance with Harry, grinned and jumped down into the orchard. Harry and his company were quick to follow. They ran at the Dragoons, bayonets ready to strike, and yelling with glee. The enemy, hemmed in on all sides, had nowhere to hide and, bravely as they fought, were doomed. A few managed to break through the hedge and escape. Most went down, sliced, hacked or disembowelled by bayonet or sword.
A Dragoon captain was one of the last to fall. He stood with his back to an apple tree, using his sword to parry and thrust. He was a courageous man and a skilful one. The bodies of two Guards lay beside him, a third staggered off with an arm hanging by threads of skin. A Guard raised his musket and aimed at the captain’s head. ‘Hold your fire, man,’ yelled Macdonell. ‘We will make the captain our prisoner.’ He was too late. The Guard fired and the captain fell, a bullet in his brain.
Saltoun gave orders for the dead to be heaped in a corner of the orchard, the wounded to be taken to the barn while Major Sattler’s men set about patching up the hedge. It would not be long before the French returned to recover the ground they had held so briefly.
‘Well, James,’ said Saltoun, ‘I do not know what you are doing in my orchard but I am pleased to see you.’
‘And I you. Was there a change of orders?’
‘I really do not know. On our way back to the ridge we met Wellington who told us he knew of no order for us to leave Hougoumont and that we should stay where we were. A little later he rode down again and ordered us back into the fray. I can only think that the excellent General d’Aubremé, whose English is less than perfect, mistook the order to reinforce for one to replace.’ Saltoun looked about. ‘Just as well the Duke met us when he did, I’d say.’
From the direction of the chateau came more sounds of battle. Muskets fired and men screamed. Without another word, James turned and ran back through the yard and into the gardener’s house. He elbowed aside a Guard and looked out of a window. The French were attacking the south gate again.
For all the losses they had already suffered, their general had thrown them back at the gate. Out of the woods they came like sheep driven by their shepherd, firing, shouting, falling and dying. They climbed on and over the corpses of their comrades, apparently fearless and determined to smash their way through the gate. It was madness. Why did Jérôme not bring up his light artillery and blast a way through the door? Thick as it was, the oak would not stand many direct hits from four-pound cannon.
In the yard, the same thought had plainly occurred to Henry Gooch. He had ordered his company to keep away from the door and had concentrated his strength at the windows and on the roofs, from where they had clear lines of sight into the clearing. Gooch had taken a horse from the stable and, like Harry Wyndham, chosen to fight mounted. This gave him the advantage of height but made him an easy target for a French musket fired over the wall. So far, there had been none of those and Gooch was unharmed.
Macdonell walked over and took hold of the horse’s bridle. ‘You might wish to spend the remainder of the day on foot, Mister Gooch,’ he shouted over the crack and clamour. ‘I would not want to lose you so early.’
‘As you wish, Colonel,’ replied the ensign, dismounting. ‘I merely thought to follow His Grace’s example.’
‘You may do that when you are a general, Mister Gooch. For now, kindly stay alive and hold this gate.’
A shout came from the upper floor of the gardener’s house. Macdonell looked up to see Sergeant Dawson’s face at a window. ‘The frogs are in the lane,’ he called out, pointing to the west side of the farm. ‘A company, at least.’
Thank God Wellington had sent orders for the lane to be defended and James had moved a hundred men of the 3rd Guards there. They were light company men, well trained, tough and disciplined. And they were led by Charles Dashwood, a veteran of Maida and Toulouse.
Unless he left by the north gates and entered the lane in the rear of Dashwood’s company, the only way for Macdonell to see what was happening was to look over the top of the small west gate. There were no windows in the west walls of the barn or stables.
The men guarding the gate had found old crates and ammunition boxes on which to stand. Six of them were shoulder to shoulder, firing into the lane while another six reloaded. Macdonell stepped up onto a crate and looked down. Dashwood’s company had been pushed back halfway up the lane towards the north gate. The lane itself was narrow and defined by the farm walls and a four-foot bank on the other side. It was not difficult to defend but beyond it was open ground, over which the French had extended their line, forcing the light company to do the same. Without reinforcements they would not hold the lane for long.
Macdonell jumped down and ran to the north gates which, so far, had not been threatened. James Hervey, unlike Henry Gooch, was on foot. ‘Mister Hervey,’ shouted Macdonell, ‘Colonel Dashwood’s company will soon be outside the gates. Make ready to let them in and to close the gates immediately after them. Not a Frenchman must enter.’
‘Not one, Colonel,’ replied Hervey. ‘You may count upon it.’
‘Good. Send someone to fetch Captain Wyndham and Mister Gooch and anyone else who can be spared. Now.’ For the first time the north gates were about to come under attack. They too must be held.
A guard on the roof of the shed on the west side of the gates was the first to sound a warning. He filled his lungs and bellowed. ‘Open the gates. Colonel Dashwood’s company approaching. Open the gates.’
It took two men to lift the heavy cross-beam from its housings. They threw it to one side and joined the others pulling the doors open. Macdonell stood at the open gate, urging the retreating Guards inside. They began to withdraw to safety, backs to the farm and trying desperately to keep the pursuing French at bay. Muskets empty, they fought with broken butts and with their fists whilst trying to manouevre backwards through the gates. A Guard slipped in the mud and tripped the man in front of him. Both died at the point of a French sword. Charles Dashwood, at the front of his men, yelled at them to make haste. He took a blow to the shoulder from a musket, dropped his sword and fell to one knee. A Frenchman raised his own sword to strike at the colonel’s unprotected neck and let out a brutal cry of triumph. Two seconds later he was dead, killed by a shot from the roof of the cowshed. Above the clash and clamour, the shout could be heard clearly. ‘Got the bugger, filthy frog bastard.’ Macdonell looked up in surprise. Patrick Luke, of all people, had saved the life of Colonel Dashwood.