Read Online Waterloo by Andrew Swanston - Free Book Online Page A

Macdonell halted his men. He had caught sight of a farmhouse roof over the ridge of the slope. There would be more frogs there. He did not want to lead the Guards headlong into a trap. But his orders were to clear the farm of the enemy. They would advance cautiously.
    They moved slowly around the trees, keeping low and watching the farm. For the new men, this was their first fight. Macdonell knew how nervous they would be. Charging flat out at an enemy was one thing. Advancing slowly towards muskets they could not see was quite another. There was a risk that one would panic and run. If that happened, the panic would spread. He found he was holding his breath.
    This time the voltigeurs waited until their attackers werealmost at the low farm wall before opening fire. Then they let loose. There were more French in the farm. From windows and doors a storm of bullets hit the guards. A dozen fell, dead or wounded. Fifty reached the wall and crouched behind it. The rest lay flat and fired at the windows. Macdonell peered over the wall. A shot fizzed past his head. A blue jacket was hanging out of a window. Another was on his stomach by a door, blood seeping through his uniform. He could see no others.
    He vaulted over the wall and ran for the farmhouse. There were no shots. He called to Harry who signalled the fifty men to follow him and the rest to stay where they were. They skirted the house and turned up the side. Around the farmyard at the back stood a small barn, sheds and an empty pigsty. There was a haystack in one corner and a gate beside it.
    Macdonell led them through the gate, which opened into another, larger yard. They stopped and stared. This yard was strewn with bodies, mostly Brunswickers in their black jackets and Nassauers in green. Many of the dead were twisted into grotesque shapes, their stomachs ripped open by sword or sabre. A dead horse lay in one corner, its legs buckled under its body and blood covering its flank. Another, headless, lay beside it. Carrion crows had lost no time in beginning their feast. They hopped on and around the corpses, pecking at eyes and squabbling over scraps. Even when they were disturbed, they carried on gorging themselves. The sight of the birds and the smell of blood and death were too much for some. They fell to their knees and emptied their stomachs on to the bloody ground. Henry Gooch was one of them.
    The French had left the farm but they would not be faraway. Macdonell sent James Hervey back to bring the Guards forward. Stepping carefully over bodies, he led the fifty men into a vegetable garden enclosed by a thick beech hedge. Without warning they were under fire again. Beyond the hedge there was a small field sloping up to another wood, this one much thicker and larger than the copse on the slope. The French were firing from it.
    They ran doubled up to the far end of the garden. James turned and looked for the Graham brothers. They were there. He beckoned them forwards. ‘Make a gap in the hedge about here. Just big enough for a man to get through.’
    The brothers took out their bayonets and hacked at the branches of the hedge. They heaved on the roots and bent the branches back but the beechwood was thick and did not yield easily. They exchanged a look. ‘You push,’ said James. Joseph nodded. James took off his shako and stood with his back to the hedge, his arms folded over his chest. The moment he said ‘ready’, Joseph lowered his shoulder, charged forward and knocked him backwards through the hedge. James was back on his feet and safely on the right side of the hedge in a trice. He bent over to catch his breath. Joseph put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Not too hard, was it?’
    James coughed and stood up straight. ‘Away with you. Our mother hits harder than that.’ Led by James Hervey, the remaining Guards had joined them. Through the hole, Macdonell took them into the field of rye beyond. They formed two ranks facing the enemy positions in the wood. The