Return to Hougoumont
By
Shaun Parker
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Shaun Parker on Smashwords
Return to Hougoumont
Copyright © 2012 by Shaun Parker
Thank you for downloading this eBook.
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This book is a work of fiction but is based on true events that happened at the Battle of Waterloo. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination but loosely based on fact.
Historical Story
*****
Thanks go to my wife who has instilled in me the belief that I should at last write and create stories for the enjoyment of others, thank you Catherine.
*****
This
story started life as a very short story and is based on the events
of the fight for Hougoumont Farm at the battle of Waterloo. The farm
was pivotal to the success or failure for both sides and should the
French have taken the farm then it is likely that Napoleon would have
won the day. It was a bloody affair and the story that unfolds is
based on true events, as an author I have tried to recreate the
intensity of battle, the mixed fortunes, to ebb and flow, but more
than anything the sheer indiscriminate nature of death in battle.
*****
Return to Hougoumont
The
first thing Armand
noticed was the quiet almost still surroundings, there was little
sound save for the birds and the occasional farm animal that could be
heard from the fields that were all around. It had been a long
journey but at last the young Frenchman had reached his destination
and was now standing beside the remnants of a withered pine wood.
The once thriving green canopy was now a sorry collection of
blackened twisted trunks that stood starkly against a backdrop of
green meadows.
Armand had risen early that day to finish the last leg of his journey, it had been a long walk and he was now a little fatigued, his throat had a dryness that demanded moisture replenishment from his wooden water canteen. He slipped the canteen cord over his neck and admired the dark wooden bottle, it was hand carved and had been given to him by his uncle who fought with Napoleon in the Egyptian campaign of 1798. He removed the stopper and took a long drink, the water was still cool and refreshing as he had filled the canteen with cold spring water before daybreak.
Dropping to his haunches he paused for a moment of recollection, as he did so his body gave way to an involuntary shiver as emotion suddenly washed through him, feeling his eyes welling up he took a long deep breath and raised his gaze to the bright blue sky. The sun was shining with warmth that only a June morning can provide, not too hot yet enough to win over the heavy morning dew that always festoons the grass after a clear night.
He picked up a handful of dirt and let it trickle slowly through his fingers, his off white shirt sleeves were rolled up revealing large scars on his arms, those scars were still deep red and jagged. The five years that had passed since receiving them had seen him grow from boy to man but the scars stayed with him never seeming to heal.
He
stood up and slowly ambled towards some old wooden gates standing
before him, behind the gates there were also burnt timbers from
ruined stone outbuildings the jagged ends still black, scorched from
battle. “At last I am back!” He thought to himself - this was
Hougoumont farm and the very place he had travelled so far to visit.
Immediately recollections came flooding back, the last time he stood
on this very ground was for the storming of the north gate at the
battle of Waterloo the very gate that was now in front of him once
again.
He lifted his arms and touched the battle scarred wood,
he ran his hand across the grain tracing the contours slowly with his
fingertips whereupon a large splinter pierced his palm. He recoiled
sharply and prised the splinter from his skin, a thin rivulet of
blood trickled down his hand and it seemed for a moment that all the
scars he bore on his arms became tender and sore.
Armand
was close now close to the culmination of his journey, the hair on
his neck was standing on end as he slowly pushed the heavy gates
apart, all of a sudden he felt dizzy and his vision blurred a little,
in his head there was the commotion of battle, of musket fire of
cannon and of brave men crying in pain. In his nostrils he could
smell the smoke, gunpowder and burning cloth, but most of all he
could smell death! Nausea crept into him and he felt a little
unwell, it was time to rest his weary legs awhile.
He was in a walled courtyard he looked around and saw an old three legged stool and plonked himself down. The sun was hotter now and there were small beads of sweat forming on his brow. He knew instantly this was the spot, he checked his watch, it was 12.30 so he closed his eyes for he wanted to remember, to run events through his head and put the demons behind him once and for all. With his eyes now shut the commotion of battle flooded his thoughts once again, and he was back at Hougoumont in 1815 at the Battle of Waterloo. He was a drummer boy and in the frontline with elements of 1st Legere French infantry who with bravery and vicious fighting driving the British Guards from the pine wood next to the farm. The defeated soldiers were some of the finest the British could field but now they were retreating back through the great pine wood and towards the gates and into Hougoumont farm.
As
the French soldiers surged through the wood Armand noticed layers of
musket smoke hanging like pockets of dense fog interspersed through
the pine trees. Through the murky gloom flashes of bright orange
spat out from behind the ghostly brown trunks as the Coldstream
Guards fell back to the farm in good order. Armand could hear all
around the fizz of musket balls, some thudded with a dull metronome
sound into the lines of immovable wooden obelisks whilst others had a
disturbing sound that he likened to pebbles landing in mud! The air
was filled with eerie echoes drifting through the pine trees, cries
of anguish came out of nowhere from all around and yet no real
direction could be discerned.
Armand was running, tripping, climbing to his feet, running again, sweat stung his eyes and the acrid smell from the palls of smoke seemed to burn his throat. Even in the mid June day the forest was still dark, the pine canopy and the smoke made it more so. All of a sudden the musket shots stopped and within seconds Armand found himself almost blinded by the sun as he breached the edge of the forest and ran into the bright sunlight. Blinking fast he was dazed and disorientated for a few seconds before a sharp pain seared his arm, it brought him to his senses as he realised a musket ball had cut across his arm. It was painful and bloody yet superficial, he looked to the left and saw red tunics piling through a large gateway to the safety of a walled farm – Hougoumont!
Suddenly he was joined by a commotion of fellow Frenchman and above the noise of battle a great shout rang out – “To the gate! To the gate!” It was sous-lieutenant Legros, he was a giant of a Frenchman and stood head and shoulders above those around him. Legros had a great presence and Armand and his friends looked up to him with great respect. Armand had always wondered why the French comrades referred to him as L’enfonceur and he was about to find out.
Legros stormed towards the gate and his comrades raised the shout and followed with a great fervour. Immediately French muskets all around him spat out their deadly gifts towards the last red coated targets at the gate. As musket balls landed several men fell, then others fell trying to stumble over the writhing bodies as they tried desperately to gain the safety of the farm. The acrid smoke from musket fire was choking and with his eyes streaming yet again Armand followed his brave companions to the gate.
The
fallen guards were now a human barricade to their desperate
companions and a sense
of panic consumed the last of the Coldstreamers now stumbling over
the bloodied corpses and the dying wounded.
Armand had about 30 or so comrades in front of him as he ran almost breathless with the throng of cheering French soldiers towards the gate. To the front hand to hand fighting broke out, red uniforms and blue uniforms fell to the ground in the desperate melee of life and death. At the last moment the great wooden doors shut and the valiant French attack floundered against the gate. Immediately the sound of British sharpshooter musket balls could be heard fizzing through the air as gasps, moans and the dull thud of lead balls finding their targets filled the air.
With a deafening yell the great Frenchman Legros showed why he was called L’enfonceur as he charged through the melee wielding a massive two handed axe. Legros buried the axe into the heavy oak doors, again and again with a wild swinging motion, heavy thuds, splinters, loud grunts, his eyes were glazed and he seemed to have the strength of a dozen men. Either side of Armand men fell to musket shot and all around him were the screams of the dying. Another musket ball tore through his tunic ripping his forearm open, then just as the searing pain shot through his body an almighty roar rang out as with one last mighty swing of the axe the gates burst open. The brave French soldiers flooded into the courtyard and Armand was carried forth among the melee, a crescendo of Vive L’empereur repeatedly rang out and a sense of euphoria swept through the Frenchmen as they fanned out into the Hougoumont courtyard with bayonets at the ready.
The drummer boy managed momentarily to steady himself and as he looked up he was filled with horror, the courtyard was lined with British soldiers, every window every wall and every obstacle had a musket at the ready. These were not just ordinary infantry but The Coldstream Guards and battle hardened with it. In one blinding flash the whole courtyard lit up and a wall of lead slew through the gallant French soldiers, a red mist of blood and tissue spewed like a huge veil in all directions and the glorious charge was stopped in its tracks.
The British guards charged into the writhing mass with bayonets and lay forth a furious melee on the remaining Frenchmen, slashing and stabbing in hand to hand combat. The sound of bones breaking from rifle butts and the piercing screams as cold steel butchered bodies was all around. Suddenly the great gates were forced shut by three British guardsmen and the fate of the gallant French was sealed.
The drummer boy stood firm with chaos all around, then two guardsmen charged at him with bayonets already bloodied from the fight, he stood there transfixed awaiting the sensation of steel entering his body. At the last second a huge axe swung over his head and into the first guardsman killing him instantly, it was L’enfonceur, he bundled the drummer boy aside and swung the axe again at the second British soldier who parried the blow with his rifle butt breaking the shaft of the mighty axe. The drummer boy could see Legros was already badly wounded but he grappled in mortal combat with the guardsman clawing, punching, biting, screaming with blood streaming from both men, matted hair and desperate wild eyes, gradually exhaustion started to win and Legros fell to his knees fighting for air.
A flash of steel glinted and Armand saw the bayonet start to enter the heaving chest of Legros, he gripped it with his immense hands, the Guardsman pushed hard screaming, still Legros held the steel from going deeper, a most desperate struggle, slowly his strength sapped, he looked into Armand’s eyes as the cold blade started its inevitable journey to his heart. One last push slid the bayonet through the giant French hands almost severing his fingers, he gasped, he died, still kneeling.
Armand
cried out with anguish, a cry of hopelessness, in his voice was the
lament of a brief moment of glory that was now total carnage.
Armand looked around, all the French were now dead and dying and the
drummer boy sat back in the bloody dirt. The red coated soldier now
turned his bayonet towards him, accepting his fate he awaiting the
searing pain of death when a loud Scottish voice bellowed “Spare
the drummer boy!” The guardsman turned his bayonet away and the
hard wooden butt swooped towards Armand’s head.
Suddenly there was a loud crack! The leg of the stool broke and he was back to his senses, no longer a drummer boy in battle but a young man revisiting the spot where his life was saved. He spent a minute gathering his senses, Armand composed himself and stood up, there was a reason he had returned to Hougoumont he wanted to honour Sous-Lieutenant Legros.
Slowly he walked back out of the courtyard and over to the edge of the wood, on his back he had a knapsack which he opened and out of it he took a small wooden box and then the head of a very large axe with about 9 inches of shaft attached. Retrieving a small key from his pocket he opened the box and removed a small parchment, after the battle he had put his life to good use and learnt to read and write. Legros had given him a chance to live life, a chance that so many others had forfeit in the melee of battle, Armand had made his mind up to live his life to the best he could.
Armand was now married he had his own family, he worked hard but there was not a day that went past where he didn’t think about that fateful day. He unfolded the parchment still confused 5 years after the battle, why did he live and so many of his friends and comrades die?
This
was his tribute to Legros:
Wherever valour abounds, midst blood, tears and grief stricken sounds.
Where shot and musket ply their wares, whilst dying men whisper prayers.
Where the selfless deeds of the brave send valiant soldiers to their graves.
Indiscriminately you will live or die with no rules as to how, or when, or why.
God will decide, be it life or death, be it musket, shot or shrapnel’s breath.
There were three very large trees on the edge of the wood, most of the others were broken and scorched but these three trees stood firm though very battle scarred. At the foot of the tallest tree he dug down with the axe, then replacing the parchment he kissed the box and placed it at the bottom of the hole, he then laid the axe on top of the box and filled the hole in with his hands.
He stood for a minute or two and then stepped back, “goodbye L’enfonceur, I will remember you always”.
The sun was now very warm and Armand closed his eyes once more. His thoughts were now calm, the demons seemed to have gone, he was aware of the tranquil surroundings once more and his ears were now listening to the merry Skylarks as they spiralled on the warm breeze.
Armand turned, he looked back at Hougoumont once more and then went on his way, he never returned again.
*****
End
I hope you enjoyed your read, this is the first of a series of stories I am writing that are all based on historical fact and of course there are historical interpretations and points of view that this story will stimulate. I always say that vigorous debate is good and especially where points of contention centre on the historical events that shaped history.
I can be contacted at shaunparker@btinternet.com
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