Four Days in June. Iain Gale
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prepared to brew their tea, Bowles approached Macdonell, dismounted, leading his horse. He was looking, evidently, for his servant and his baggage which had been strapped, as Macdonell’s was, to a single mule – the transport allowance of every field officer of the Guards. Bowles saw the big Scotsman and, having hallooed him across the field, came shambling over – a difficult feat in his improbable court dress – through the mud and trampled crops.
‘James. James. Have you seen Hughes? Where’s the man gone? I must have my valise. Look at me. This ridiculous costume. And it’s utterly ruined. Another visit to my tailor.’
For once he did not exaggerate. His white silk stockings hung in a sodden, crumpled mess, leaving a gap of bare leg below once-white breeches. On his feet he wore a pair of what had been dancing pumps, one missing a gold buckle.
‘Well, George. You know as well as I do that what pleases the ladies in the ballroom will not suit you for dancing along the road towards the French. And no, I have not seen your man. But now do tell me, as you promised last night. Continue your account, and I myself promise that I in turn will lend you a pair of my own grey overalls.’
‘In your debt, James. Once again. In your debt.’
They were old friends. Had served together through Spain. This was not the first time that one had come to the other’s rescue.
‘And yes, you are quite right, James. I was with the Peer last night. We were at supper at the Duchess’s ball when the Prince of Orange, our dear “slender Billy”, entered the room and spoke a few words in his ear. Wellington told him to go to bed. To bed, James. I heard him myself. In full view of the General Staff. “Go to bed,” he said. And d’you know what the sprat did? He went to bed. Straightway.
‘Well, we sat on. For a half hour. And then Wellington turns to Richmond and declares that he thinks that he himself will go to his own bed. Well, James. I knew what was up and I was having none of it. And sure enough. For no sooner had our old commander made his goodnights and left the ballroom than, as if by some prearranged sign, there was a general exodus of all the senior staff – Daddy Hill, Picton, Kempt, Ponsonby, Uxbridge. Some officers too had already begun to make their own farewells – or I dare say their arrangements for the night, so to speak. But James, I stayed, for I was determined to know more. And sure enough, ten minutes later my good friend Richmond appears from within the house, across the yard from the dancing room, and beckons to me. The Peer, it seems, had asked him for his best map of the area. “Well, George,” says he, “he laid it on a table and, standing before us all, declared as cool as you like: ‘Gentlemen. Napoleon has humbugged me, by God. He has gained twenty-four hours’ march on me.”’
‘James, Bonaparte has attacked at Charleroi and driven back the Prussians. The battle is on. I tell you, we will not rest here, but must march on – to Nivelles. And then further still. To a crossroads – Les Quatre-Bras. That is where Wellington first intends to hold the French. We have a march ahead of us and a battle at the end of it.’
He paused. But only briefly.
‘More than this, though, James. And here is the real route of our destiny. Richmond showed me the map itself and the place on it where the Peer had placed his mark. Had dug it in hard with his thumbnail. It is a long ridge, James. A ridge. Barossa over again. He had seen it, ridden the very ground, he told Richmond, not a year ago. He had marked it out and had the engineers draw up a map of it and kept it in his mind. A ridge. It is to the north of the crossroads. Runs in a line below a road between two villages. That, my friend, is where Wellington intends us to defeat Bonaparte. Between those two villages – Genappe and Waterloo. I cannot find the latter one on the map, but I am sure that is the name Richmond gave.
‘And now, James, if you please. The overalls.’
As Bowles was speaking, Macdonell had been turning over the earth at his feet with the end of a stick. Had drawn, in effect, his own small map of the country described. He stared at it and wondered. Will this indeed be our destiny? My destiny? Will it end there? Will I end? Will we prevail? He looked up. Threw down the stick. Rubbed the earth plan away into the ground with his boot.
‘Ah yes. The overalls. Quite. Well, all in good time, George.’
Bowles frowned. Could see what was coming.
‘You see, George, you shall have your overalls – just as soon as Smith has found my own valise. You shall have them then. As promised.’
Bowles smiled. ‘James, you quite outdo me. I swear we shall yet turn you from a heathen Highland savage into a Guards officer. I wonder whether you’ve not been taking lessons from Mackinnon.’
Macdonell too was smiling, thinking. If you but knew, dear boy. I was taking lessons in guile from my father’s ghillie when you were still in the womb.
Bowles continued: ‘Very well, James. I await your signal.’
He bowed – quite aware of the absurdity of his dress – in an exaggerated ballroom gesture, before leading his horse further into the temporary camp. Macdonell, catching the smile passing over Biddle’s face, straightened his own. Watched as his friend stumbled across the field. Could still hear his voice as, walking away, he passed the small, huddled groups of men: ‘Hughes. Hughes. Dammit. Where is my damned valise? Confound the man. Hughes.’
Macdonell covered his smile with a hand. ‘Colour Sar’nt. Be ready to stand the men to. I expect an order within the half-hour.’
So this was it. Merely the start of a gruelling march. And then not one, but two battles at the end.
‘Tea, sir?’ It was Miller, with the offer of a steaming brew in a dented tin mug.
‘Thank you, no. But thank you, Miller.’
Gooch appeared again. Eager. Shining. Agitated.
‘Colonel. Is it true, sir? Have the French really attacked?’
‘My dear Henry. If they have, they have not attacked us. They have not attacked here. Why don’t you go and find yourself some breakfast? You’re going to need it. I believe that Sar’nt Miller here knows the whereabouts of some good eggs and coffee.’
The sergeant nodded: ‘Sir.’
‘And don’t worry, Henry. You’ll find the French soon enough.’
Or they you, he thought. Better look out for that one. Over-keen. Might find himself on the wrong end of a bayonet. Macdonell sat down on a tree-stump by the low hedge at the roadside, looked at his men. His family. His life. A good life. A warrior’s life. What other life could there be for the son of a Highland chief? His was a family of warriors. Hadn’t his grandfather, Angus Macdonell of Invergarry, been slain by the English at Falkirk in 1746, fighting for the same Jacobite cause to which his brother Alasdair now drank bucolic and secret, sentimental toasts? Wasn’t his brother Lewis a captain in the 43rd? Hadn’t another brother, poor Somerled, named after the Lord of the Isles, perished from fever in the West Indies, an officer in His Majesty’s Navy? Why, even his late brother-in-law Jack Dowling had been a soldier. A Peninsular man like himself. Jack had died in Spain.
Two minutes’ rest, Macdonell decided. He pulled down the brim of his shako and closed his eyes. Of course he had not always been with the Guards, although his countrymen accounted for a good portion of their officers, as they did throughout the army. No. His first commission had been with the Highlanders. He still felt a keen attachment to his own regiment – the 78th – and to all those who went into battle wearing the kilt.
He recalled his days as a new lad of that great regiment. The thrill of donning for the first time the plaid; the feather bonnet. But for all their fine appearance they had seen little action and his real apprenticeship had been in the cavalry. For nine years he had served in the 17th Light Dragoons. Had learnt the skills of swordplay. No great need to learn. He had always been a fine fencer. Had won the praise of his tutor at Oxford for his prowess in the salle. The cavalry had taken him from Ostend to the West Indies. But the Highlanders had always held his attention, and when in 1804 the 78th had