Waterloo by Andrew Swanston Page B

advancing further. It was disappointing. James read it twice to be sure he had not misunderstood. They had forced the French back down the road whence they came. Somewhere out in the darkness, in the woods and fields and farms, Allied troops would be itching to chase them all the way back to France. Why not press home their advantage? He would let Harry sleep for another hour before waking him with the news.
    But for Harry and every other man in the camp there was no more sleep. An arrow of lightning lit up the night sky and thunder again rolled over their heads. Harry jumped up and grabbed his musket. ‘Only thunder, Harry,’ laughed Macdonell. ‘And we’ve had orders to stay put.’ He handed over the paper.
    Harry rubbed sleep from his eyes. ‘What about the Prussians? Those deserters said Napoleon was after them.’
    ‘No news, but Blücher will stand and fight. He always has.’
    ‘What if he stood and fought and lost?’
    ‘Old Blücher? Come now, Harry. No one hates the frogs more than the Prussians.’
    ‘I hope you’re right, James.’ Another flash of lightning and the rain arrived again. It poured down in sheets and soon the camp was a muddy bog. Men scrambled back into their bivouacs and lay on their muskets.
    For once, Harry’s good humour deserted him. ‘I’m heartily sick of this,’ he said, huddled again under their oilskin roof. ‘Damnable weather, damnable frogs. They could slip past us and be in Brussels before the rain stops. And we’ll never keep our muskets dry. Lie on them, point their barrels at the ground, wrap them in oilskin, they’ll still be wet.’ The first glimmerings of dawn were appearing. ‘Cup of gin all round? We’re likely in for another long day.’
    ‘Cup of gin it is. One only, mind.’ James picked up their kettle and tipped water into his mouth. A few drops ran down his chin. He wiped them off and inspected his hand. ‘Good God. It’s red. Where did it come from?’
    ‘The stream back beyond the farm,’ replied Harry.
    James sniffed his hand. ‘Blood. It was not there yesterday. It must have come from upstream. Human or horse, do you think?’
    ‘No idea. Didn’t taste too bad last night but I’ll stick to gin this morning.’ Harry reached into his haversack and pulled out a brown bottle. He took a gulp and offered it to James who was about to take it when a man appeared out of the half-light. He was panting.
    ‘Private Mills, Colonel, on picket duty. Heard men in the rye ahead. Coming this way.’
    ‘How many, Private?’ asked Macdonell.
    ‘Small party, sir, perhaps half a dozen. Voltigeurs, I daresay, come to take a look at us.’
    ‘Right. Harry, collect the ensigns and eight men and we’ll give them a surprise for their breakfast.’ The men were quickly assembled. ‘Lead on, Private. Show us where you heard them.’ They moved slowly and quietly forward into the rye, muskets primed and loaded and held across their chests, a hand over the breech to keep out the rain and taking care to keep their heads below the level of the stalks. Macdonell unsheathed his sword and held it loosely at his side. At first, he could hear nothing but the breeze. But when the private stopped and pointed a little to their left, he caught the tiniest hint of movement through the rye, perhaps thirty yards ahead.
    Macdonell nodded and signalled his men to fan out. If they could work their way round the voltigeurs, they could trap them like herring in a net. The Frenchmen would have expected sentries but must have thought they had avoided them. Whatever their purpose, they were alarmingly close to the camp.
    Harry led five men back and to the left, James the other six to the right. Dawn was breaking but overhead more thunder clouds were gathering. One moment it was light, the next as dark as pitch. The breeze was becoming a wind. Taking advantage of its covering noise, James risked moving faster and hoped Harry was doing the same. It would be a pity not to catch the