Waterloo by Andrew Swanston Page A

was a strange thing. A man could march all day carrying his musket and pack and wishing for nothing more than rest, yet, when the opportunity came, be unable to sleep. Eventually his mind and body would surrender but Macdonell had seen men go without sleep for two or three days and still be sharp and ready to fight.
    He found Sergeant Dawson sitting with his back against a tree. He had taken off his jacket and was dabbing with a piece of cloth at his arm. He scrambled to his feet when he saw Macdonell and held the cloth behind his back. ‘Sergeant Dawson, a wound?’
    ‘A scratch, Colonel, no more. Probably a thorn bush.’
    ‘Show me, please,’ insisted Macdonell. Reluctantly Dawson held out his arm. A long cut from elbow to wrist was dripping blood. ‘Thorn bush, Sergeant? French sword, I’d say. Why have you not had it bandaged?’
    ‘Didn’t seem worth it, Colonel. I’ll bind it up myself.’
    ‘Take it to a surgeon as soon as there’s one available. Let him sew it up.’
    Dawson blanched. ‘I hardly like to trouble a surgeon, Colonel. There’ll be many worse than me needing his attention.’
    ‘There will. But kindly do as I say. Understood?’
    The sergeant could not look his colonel in the eye. ‘Understood, Colonel,’ he mumbled.
    The Grahams were lying back-to-back in their bivouac. They were too tall to sit or squat under their blankets and were excused having to share with two others. He motioned to them not to stand and squatted down beside them. ‘Any sign of trouble?’ he asked.
    ‘None, Colonel,’ replied Joseph. ‘Frenchies are sleeping like babes.’
    ‘But you are not.’
    ‘No, Colonel,’ said James. ‘We are telling the stories our mother told us about imps and devils and ghostly creatures.’
    ‘Much more frightening than a few Frenchies,’ added Joseph, and laughed his gurgling laugh.
    ‘Better tell that to the young ones,’ replied Macdonell. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, we’re in for some hard fighting today.’
    ‘That we are,’ agreed James.
    ‘Don’t worry, Colonel,’ said Joseph. ‘We’ve good men in the company. They’ll look out for the boys.’
    Macdonell stood. ‘I know they will.’ He went from fire to fire, exchanging words with those awake and reminding them that a faulty flint or a damp charge could kill a man as surely as a French sabre.
    Without warning, there was a commotion from somewhere behind them. Macdonell made his way towards it, half-expecting a scuffle or an argument over a scrap of horsemeat.
    It was neither. The young private sent with his despatch to General Byng had hobbled into the camp and stumbled over a sleeping soldier. The soldier had panicked and assumed they were being attacked. Happily he had recognised the boy just in time. ‘Are you wounded, Private?’ asked Macdonell.
    ‘No, sir,’ gasped the boy. ‘My ankle twisted in a hole in the road. I did not see it.’
    ‘Did you deliver my despatch to the general?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ The boy took a rolled sheet of paper from under his shirt and handed it to Macdonell. ‘This is the general’s reply.’
    ‘Did you see anything of the enemy?’
    ‘No, sir.’ That was something, at least. No Frenchmen behind them.
    Macdonell turned to the man who had been woken. ‘Get him food and water and put him on the first wagon going north.’ The private began to protest. ‘Enough, Private.’ Macdonell’s voice was sharp. ‘You’re no use to us if you can’t walk, let alone run.’ He turned and strode back to his bivouac.
    Harry was asleep. James unrolled the despatch and tried to read it. It was still too dark. He gave the fire a kick with his boot, sending sparks into the air, and exposing the ashes. When he held the paper close, they gave off just enough light.
    General Byng acknowledged Macdonell’s report and informed him that the French had been driven back down the Charleroi Road and instructed him to hold his position until ordered otherwise. There was no mention of