or abandoned on the march from Enghien, and now, including officers, numbered two hundred and thirty-six.
It had nearly been sixty-five lost. Macdonell slipped the bullet into his pocket. There was no proof, Vindle would protesthis innocence and this was not the time to risk divisions among the men. He would wait for the right moment.
Night had fallen when the watering party returned laden with kettles of water. Macdonell swallowed several gulps, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and belched loudly. ‘Sweet as a highland burn. Send another party to fill the kettles for the morning.’
Lightning flashed, thunder rolled and the rain came down in sheets. Shivering soldiers huddled under their bivouacs and did what they could to keep themselves and their weapons dry. The pickets could not even do that. Out in the rye they crouched or lay flat, watching and listening for any sign of movement. If they sensed danger they would scuttle back to the camp.
The two of them sat cross-legged under blankets stretched between branches cut from a tall beech hedge and listened to the rain splashing on the rye and on their meagre roof. ‘Anything to eat while we wait for the main course?’ asked Macdonell. Harry fished in his pouch and pulled out a chunk of hard tack.
‘Try that. The navy swear by it.’
‘So I believe.’ Macdonell shook a family of weevils out of the tack and broke off a corner. It was hard as stone and almost tasteless. ‘Glad I’m not a sailor.’
‘If the rain goes on like this, we’ll need sailors. It’ll be a naval battle.’
As if the heavens had heard him, there was a break in the rain and a large figure emerged out of the darkness. ‘Saved the best for you, Colonel.’ James Graham handed Macdonell a chunk of horsemeat. ‘Juicy slice of rump.’
‘Thank you, Corporal. Is there enough for all?’
‘Yes, sir. A little each. I’ll save some for the sentries.’
Harry nursed their fire to life and cut the meat in half with a knife. They skewered the two pieces on bayonets and held them over the flame. Their mouths filled with saliva. The meat was still raw and bloody when they took their first bites. While they chewed, the rest went back over the fire. ‘Boney was right about an army marching on its stomach,’ spluttered Harry with his mouth full. ‘The French always get better food than us because they steal it.’
A shriek of pure, shivering agony split the night. And then sobbing, a man calling out to his God, and silence. The voice had been French. ‘They still die like us,’ observed James drily, ‘well fed or not.’ The wretched man must have been left for dead on the roadside.
‘That they do. Now, shall we share the night? You get some rest and I will wake you in three hours.’
‘I fear sleep will prove elusive, but I shall try. Wake me if there is any news. And make sure the pickets are alert.’
‘Of course.’ Harry pushed himself to his feet and went to inspect the camp, leaving James with enough room to stretch out his legs under the oilskin. In the distance thunder rumbled, warning that another storm was sweeping in from the west.
CHAPTER SEVEN
17th June
Sure enough, James did no more than doze and when Harry shook him gently he was more awake than asleep. ‘An hour after midnight, James,’ whispered Harry. ‘All quiet and the storm has passed. I have changed the pickets.’
Macdonell stood up and very nearly fell down again. His head ached and his stomach heaved. He retched, spat out a piece of meat and tipped water from the kettle into his mouth. It steadied him a little. ‘Thank you, Harry. Time I stretched my legs. Has that private returned yet?’
‘I’m afraid not. Lost, deserted or dead, I fear.’
‘Damn. I thought he would serve. I’ll send another.’
‘Might be better to wait until morning.’
James considered. Harry was right. It would be light in three hours. He would send another man then.
The camp was quiet, although few were sleeping. It
It had nearly been sixty-five lost. Macdonell slipped the bullet into his pocket. There was no proof, Vindle would protesthis innocence and this was not the time to risk divisions among the men. He would wait for the right moment.
Night had fallen when the watering party returned laden with kettles of water. Macdonell swallowed several gulps, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and belched loudly. ‘Sweet as a highland burn. Send another party to fill the kettles for the morning.’
Lightning flashed, thunder rolled and the rain came down in sheets. Shivering soldiers huddled under their bivouacs and did what they could to keep themselves and their weapons dry. The pickets could not even do that. Out in the rye they crouched or lay flat, watching and listening for any sign of movement. If they sensed danger they would scuttle back to the camp.
The two of them sat cross-legged under blankets stretched between branches cut from a tall beech hedge and listened to the rain splashing on the rye and on their meagre roof. ‘Anything to eat while we wait for the main course?’ asked Macdonell. Harry fished in his pouch and pulled out a chunk of hard tack.
‘Try that. The navy swear by it.’
‘So I believe.’ Macdonell shook a family of weevils out of the tack and broke off a corner. It was hard as stone and almost tasteless. ‘Glad I’m not a sailor.’
‘If the rain goes on like this, we’ll need sailors. It’ll be a naval battle.’
As if the heavens had heard him, there was a break in the rain and a large figure emerged out of the darkness. ‘Saved the best for you, Colonel.’ James Graham handed Macdonell a chunk of horsemeat. ‘Juicy slice of rump.’
‘Thank you, Corporal. Is there enough for all?’
‘Yes, sir. A little each. I’ll save some for the sentries.’
Harry nursed their fire to life and cut the meat in half with a knife. They skewered the two pieces on bayonets and held them over the flame. Their mouths filled with saliva. The meat was still raw and bloody when they took their first bites. While they chewed, the rest went back over the fire. ‘Boney was right about an army marching on its stomach,’ spluttered Harry with his mouth full. ‘The French always get better food than us because they steal it.’
A shriek of pure, shivering agony split the night. And then sobbing, a man calling out to his God, and silence. The voice had been French. ‘They still die like us,’ observed James drily, ‘well fed or not.’ The wretched man must have been left for dead on the roadside.
‘That they do. Now, shall we share the night? You get some rest and I will wake you in three hours.’
‘I fear sleep will prove elusive, but I shall try. Wake me if there is any news. And make sure the pickets are alert.’
‘Of course.’ Harry pushed himself to his feet and went to inspect the camp, leaving James with enough room to stretch out his legs under the oilskin. In the distance thunder rumbled, warning that another storm was sweeping in from the west.
CHAPTER SEVEN
17th June
Sure enough, James did no more than doze and when Harry shook him gently he was more awake than asleep. ‘An hour after midnight, James,’ whispered Harry. ‘All quiet and the storm has passed. I have changed the pickets.’
Macdonell stood up and very nearly fell down again. His head ached and his stomach heaved. He retched, spat out a piece of meat and tipped water from the kettle into his mouth. It steadied him a little. ‘Thank you, Harry. Time I stretched my legs. Has that private returned yet?’
‘I’m afraid not. Lost, deserted or dead, I fear.’
‘Damn. I thought he would serve. I’ll send another.’
‘Might be better to wait until morning.’
James considered. Harry was right. It would be light in three hours. He would send another man then.
The camp was quiet, although few were sleeping. It
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