Four Days in June

by Iain Gale

  The sergeant spoke: ‘By the Lord above. Jesus, Mary and the bloody Devil. Would you look at that.’

  As the smoke blew across the open field beyond the wall, Macdonell was able to make out through its drifting white mist the tall forms of thousands of cavalrymen. Cuirassiers, green-coated dragoons, and the bearskin-clad giants of the Garde cavalry. As he watched their pace increased, a trot giving way to a canter. On the wind, above the low boom of the guns, dozens of trumpeters sounded the unmistakable notes of the charge. It was, he knew, the most splendid sight he had seen in a lifetime of soldiering. And it was as mad as it was glorious. Looking up the hill to the left he could see white smoke rising over the crest of the ridge, and as he looked hundreds more French cavalrymen, cuirassiers, lancers, chasseurs tumbled pell-mell down the slope. Others on foot slipped and tumbled through the mud. Riderless horses ran in all directions.

  Macdonell stared, incredulous. While they had been preoccupied with defending the château, the French had attacked with a vast force of massed cavalry. Driving straight up the muddy slope into the very heart of Wellington’s position. If the Allied infantry had formed square, then the cavalry, however many there were, must surely be impotent. This he presumed might explain the retreating mass on the hill. But why then was Napoleon sending more of them in? It was as mad as it was spectacular. The new wave swept past him, barely thirty yards away. He was galvanized into action.

  ‘Any man who can do so, shoot at their horses. Bring down as many as you can.’

  The hedge was lined with redcoats now, drawn as he had been to this dramatic sideshow. They began to loose off shots into the flank of the attacking cavalry.

  Macdonell walked away, back through the trees and into the garden. Found Colour Sergeant Biddle gathering ammunition pouches from the dead Frenchmen. The sergeant rose to his feet.

  ‘Colour Sar’nt.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘How are we for ammunition?’

  ‘Precious little, sir. We’re running low.’

  Macdonell saw a passing officer, moving towards the orchard. Called to him. ‘You there? Who are you, sir?’

  ‘Drummond, sir. Ensign, 3rd Guards. Gazetted acting Battalion-Major.’

  Macdonell had him now. William Drummond. Clever boy. Peninsular veteran. ‘Ah, yes. Major Drummond. Take yourself on a run up the hill, if you would. Find someone on the staff. No matter who. Tell them that we need ammunition. That Colonel Macdonell requests ammunition. That we’re damn near out of ammunition.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The lieutenant went scurrying off, back towards the sunken lane. Well, thought Macdonell, he has a better chance than many. He saw Gooch, agitated, running towards them, down the garden path from the château.

  ‘I think you had better come, sir.’

  He did not need to ask why. As the three men walked towards the château it seemed as if the entire complex must be alight. Thick, black smoke spewed from the windows and cinders flew through the air, stinging their faces as they entered through the garden gate. Macdonell put a hand over his mouth and walked through the smoke towards where the flames looked their fiercest, over by the great barn. Badly burned, wounded men, those able to walk, were staggering from the blazing building. The stench was indescribable. Burning timber and human flesh, gunpowder and filth. From deep within the crackling, hissing din of the fire came the awful screams of men burning alive. He found that Woodford was with him. Both men walked slowly towards the door of the barn, only to be beaten back by the heat. Woodford coughed, then spoke.

  ‘Macdonell. What on earth can we do? The wounded. It’s impossible. They’re burning to death. Poor beggars. Dear God.’

  A soldier snapped to attention before him. ‘Sir. Permission to fall out.’ James Graham.

  ‘What on earth for, Graham? Why now, man?’

  ‘My brother, sir. He’s in there, sir. In the stables and if I don’t get him out then he’ll burn, sir. With respect, sir.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake go and help him. Quick, man. You’ve no time to lose.’

  They watched as, apparently impervious to the heat, Graham fought his way through the smoke and flames.

  Macdonell shouted across the yard: ‘Put out the fires. Get anything. Your kettles. Canteens. Find water anywhere.’

  He knew that the farm’s pond, its main water supply, lay outside the gates and that any concerted attempt to carry water from there was liable to provoke a French attack. They would have to make do with what they could find. But he knew too that the canteens were precious. That all the men must have the terrible thirst always brought on by smoke and gunpowder and fear. A man of the 1st Guards ran up to him.

  ‘Sir. The chapel’s on fire, sir. And there's wounded inside.’

  ‘Then get them out, man. Hurry. Soak your blankets. Piss on them if you can’t find water. Wrap them around the worst burned.’

  His defensive position was fast being reduced to little more than a pile of ash. A huge roof beam crashed down from the top storey of the château, narrowly missing Macdonell’s leg. He noticed Private Williams grinning at him.

  ‘I wouldn’t stand there, sir. You’re likely to get hurt.’

  ‘Thank you for that useful warning, Williams. And mind your tongue in future. Now get these fires out.’

  In truth there was no safe place in the yard. They were carrying some of the wounded away from the barn now. Laying them on the cobbles by the well. He recognized most of them. Saw Edward Mann, one of the most recent recruits. Too obsequious. Irritating habit of saying ‘sir’ after every second sentence. His face was ashen. Macdonell walked over to him. Noticed a wound on the side of his head. Ear half torn off. Still, he’d seen worse. Then to his horror he saw that Mann’s legs had been burned quite black. Beneath the crust, the skin was peeling off in strips. Strangely, he did not seem to be in any pain and was quite lucid:

  ‘I think we did well, sir, didn’t we?’

  ‘Very well, Mann. We did very well.’

  ‘Rotten night though, weren’t it, sir. Real wet it was.’

  ‘Yes, Mann. Very wet.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Can’t hear very well, sir. On account of my ear, sir. Being in part shot away, sir. Rotten bloody shoes. Sorry, sir. But rotten shoes is full of holes, sir. Rotten bloody wet last night, sir.’

  Macdonell nodded. Smiled. ‘We’ll soon have you out of here, Mann. Thank you.’

  He moved on. Around the corner of the chapel Henry Wyndham came clattering over the cobbles. Breathless, filthy with soot and mud.

  ‘We’ve fallen back, sir. They’ve taken the orchard again.’

  Macdonell pushed past him and back through the garden gate. Together they ran straight down the main path, for the east wall. The men were back in position. Firing down into the orchard.

  ‘Form a line along the wall. Close up. Use the fire steps.’

  Macdonell climbed on to a wooden fire step and at once could see the extent of their peril. Hepburn’s men had fallen back through the orchard to the hollow way and were desperately holding off the swarm of French who were now charging across the grass.

  ‘Steady.’ Macdonell called out to the men standing behind the wall and those already on the fire steps. ‘Fire down on them. Aim for the officers if you can. You two. Find more wood. We need more platforms.’

  He jumped down. Called across the yard. ‘More men over here. Defend the wall. Fire at will. Keep them pinned down.’

  The muskets were pouring a furious fire down on the heads of the attacking French. Macdonell turned to Biddle. ‘How much ammunition have we?’

  ‘Wouldn’t really like to say, sir. Perhaps we should just hope Colonel Hepburn pushes ’em back again, quick.’

  One of the Coldstreamers, a man from Number 2 Company he thought, called down from the fire step. ‘Colonel Macdonell, sir. They’re running. They’re retreating, sir.’

  ‘What’s going on? Tell me, man.’

  ‘Frogs is running away, sir. Only there’s none o
f our officers left, sir. They’ve all gone.’

  Macdonell hauled himself up on to a scrap of firing step. Peered over the wall. It was true. Hepburn’s men were advancing back into the orchard. Pushing the French back, inch by bloody inch. A sergeant of the 3rd Guards was leading the counter-attack, followed by two companies. The French were fleeing before them, back to the far hedge. Looking to his left, Macdonell saw that the field was littered with red-coated bodies, several of them officers. Beyond the orchard he could hear what could only be the noise of another great cavalry attack. How long could any one of them last? This battle was sucking them dry. Leaching away their men. Bleeding them into defeat.

  He climbed down into the garden and, followed closely by Biddle, made his way back towards the buildings. Entering the yard, he walked round the side of the burning house to where the wounded lay. Walked past Mann. The boy was dead. Macdonell noticed his feet. The holes in his shoes. The wet wouldn’t bother him now.

  To the left of Mann’s corpse, Tom Tarling, the company clown, was sitting up against the well, his right arm wrapped in what looked like a piece of shirt. He was covered in blood. ‘He’s dead, sir. Just now. Poor lad.’ Tarling winced with pain.

  ‘You should have that seen to, Tarling. Can you make it back up the hill? There’s a dressing station behind the lines.’

  ‘Sure, sir. Thank you kindly for your concern. But ye see, if ye send me back up there it’s certain the bloody surgeons will have me ruddy arm off before I can blink. No thank you, sir. I’ll stay here and take my chances. It saves them the trouble, you see.’

  Macdonell smiled. Turning away, he fancied that he could hear a child crying. Looking about he found the gardener’s daughter standing before the broken windows of her father’s house, one of the only buildings not yet afire. She was sobbing uncontrollably. Corporal Robinson was attempting to comfort her. Macdonell walked up to them.

  ‘I’ve tried to help her, sir. But she just don’t seem to understand English. I can’t find her father nowhere.’

  Macdonell looked the boy in the eye. Raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I swear it weren’t my fault, sir. Piece of shell just flew in the window. Killed the boy stone dead.’

  Macdonell walked past the girl and peered into the room where Robinson had been looking after her and the two captured French drummer boys. Of one there was no sign. The other, though, was sitting at the table, his back taut against a chair, his face staring in wide-eyed surprise. From his chest there protruded a large piece of shell. Before him on the table lay the carved toy soldier and a penny whistle. Macdonell walked back to the girl.

  ‘All right, Robinson, I’ll deal with her. Alors, calmez vous, ma petite. Ne vous dérangez pas. Je vous conduisez au arrière avec un de mes serjeants. Votre père vous attenderez maintenant. Sans doute.’

  Recognizing the words, the girl stopped her sobs. Looked at Macdonell with puzzled eyes.

  He turned to the corporal. ‘Find Sergeant Lloyd. Get him to take her to the rear. Quickly through the gate and up the hill and through the lines to the forest. This is no place for her now. Where’s her father?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. Last I saw he was helping with the fires.’

  ‘Well, find him too then and, if you can, persuade him to go with her. And see if you can find her something to eat. A few biscuits, at least.’

  A furious hammering at the gate. Surely the French hadn’t got round to the north again? Expecting another attack, Macdonell ran across the yard. Found Biddle.

  ‘Keep them out. Keep the gates shut. Guards, to me.’

  A guardsman on the wall shouted down to him. ‘It’s not the French, sir. It’s our lads. An officer, sir, and ammunition. A wagon-load of it.’

  ‘Then let them in. Open the gates. Quickly. Get them inside.’

  The great gates creaked open and in rolled a horse-drawn tumbril packed with barrels of powder and shot. Driving it was a man of the royal wagon train. Beside him sat Francis Drummond, grinning hugely. The Guards cheered them through the gate.

  Biddle sighed. ‘God be praised.’

  ‘Are you all right, Sar’nt?’

  ‘Well in truth, sir, I wasn’t sure how to tell you before. But we’re down to three rounds a man, Colonel. Two minutes more and we’d have been at them with nothing but the bayonet.’

  Macdonell smirked. Turned back to the gate. ‘Close the gates. And get that ammuntion unloaded and distributed. Biddle, you take charge.’

  Looking up the hill he could just see the distant figures of Sergeant Lloyd and the van Cutzem girl, as they reached the first of the British lines. She at least would be safe now. One less soul for death to claim in this charnel house.

  Her father, he realized, was not with them. Macdonell wondered where the man could be. Still helping with the futile attempt to control the fires? Attempting to rescue some precious fragments of his own property? He walked across to the south gate. Musketry snapped all around him, mingled with the staccato crackle of the flames. He shouted to the upper storey. ‘That’s it, Gooch. Keep up your fire.’

  Turning the corner behind the chapel, Macdonell came upon the gardener. The man was kneeling on the ground, eyes tight shut, before the outside wall of the burning building. His hands were pressed together in silent prayer. He made an odd sight amid the frenzy which otherwise filled the courtyard. For a moment Macdonell watched him, careful lest he should disturb his devotions. Then he turned away. Stared blankly at the dead bodies littering the cobbles and tried to make sense of the two images. Was there yet a place for God in this hell? Was van Cutzem praying for his own salvation or for the souls of the dead? Or was he perhaps, as Macdonell had often done himself, simply asking ‘why’?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ohain, 6.00 p.m. Ziethen

  Ziethen was intrigued. Never before had he seen an Englishman quite so agitated, so utterly detached from that legendary coolness. Something was very wrong. Again he listened to the red-coated colonel, whose face now almost matched the colour of his uniform. Had his aide translate the hurried speech.

  ‘General von Ziethen, sir. I appreciate your need to adhere to your orders, but the fact of the matter is that the Duke of Wellington is urgently in need of your assistance. I beg of you, sir. You must send reinforcements. I implore you. However few you may have to spare. A mere 3,000 men. A single battalion. General, you are less than two miles from our lines. Listen to the guns, sir. How can you not march to help us?’

  He felt truly sorry for this man. It was a fact. They could hear the sound of the guns more clearly now than they had all day. They had marched through the sound of cannon fire. Now from Wavre, now from Wellington’s battle. There was no doubt as to whose were now the loudest. But were they British or French guns? Throughout the long day as they cut their way through the heavy country the reports had continued to come in. Napoleon had won. Ney had broken through with cavalry. Wellington had been killed. The Prince of Orange too. And now this English gentleman, this Colonel Freemantle, was telling him that none of it was true. That Napoleon was far from being victorious. That Wellington could still hold on, but for only an hour longer. This English officer was trying to persuade him, a general in the Prussian army, that he should disobey his orders. That he should go against everything in which he believed. Discipline. Obedience. Strict, unquestioning faith in his commander. That he should march not to reinforce Blücher, but Wellington. It was only half an hour since his new orders had come to turn away from his original line of march directly into Wellington’s flank and move south to assist Blücher at Plancenoit. In fact the plan to reinforce Wellington’s left flank had only ever been half-hearted.

  ‘March slowly,’ Gneisenau had told him. Clearly the Chief of Staff had not forgiven Wellington for withholding reinforcements from Ligny and was intent now on returning the compliment. He had qualified his instructions: ‘Of course we need to save the British, General von Ziethen, but not too soon. Pace yourself. Just in time will be fine.’

&n
bsp; Plancenoit, Gneisenau had said, was the key. Not Wellington. Take the village and we cut the French line of retreat. Catch them like rats. Then we shall carry the field for Prussia. Ziethen was not to have any part in the victory. The Second and Fourth Corps would do it. He recalled Gneisenau’s smug expression. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Ziethen. Go and help Wellington. Bülow and Pirch will manage Plancenoit.’

  Now, though, it seemed that Blücher was of a contrary opinion. He was needed after all, at Plancenoit. For once Ziethen was relieved. He thought of Ligny. Thirteen thousand of his men dead. Where had the British been then? Where was Wellington’s promised support? So now he would march to help Blücher, and the British would have to take their punishment. Just as his own men had at Ligny. He shook his head.

  ‘I am so sorry, Colonel Freemantle. You must understand. I would dearly love to help your Duke. But I cannot commit my corps against the enemy in small groups. Piecemeal, as you say. They would simply be defeated in detail. Believe me, as soon as I have assembled the majority of my men I will send some to help you. You must understand. My orders have been changed by immediate command of the Feldmarschall. You have met Major von Scharnhorst. He comes direct from Feldmarschall Blücher. He brings me explicit orders to turn south, towards Frischermont and Plancenoit. You see, surely, that I cannot go against them.’

  Freemantle shook his head. Closed his eyes.

  Ziethen shrugged.

  A Prussian officer rode up. Sweating, breathless. Ziethen couldn’t quite place him.

  ‘General. Sir. Wellington is retreating. He’s running. His army is in rout. I’ve seen it.’

  Von Scharnhorst glanced at him. Smiled at Freemantle. Spoke with confidence.

  ‘It is precisely as I told you, Herr General. I saw it myelf. The Allies are running away.’