"To Hougoumont. Ramsay, where the devil has Byng's brigade got to?"
"In there, most of 'em," replied Ramsay, pointing to the Hougoumont enclosures. "They tell me the ditches are piled up with the dead: don't add to their number, if you can avoid it!"
"Damn you, I'm shaking with fright already!" called Audley over his shoulder.
Ramsay laughed, and waved him on. The last sight Colonel Audley had of him was sitting his horse beside his guns, as cool as though engaged on field manoeuvres, waving his hand, and laughing.
He set spurs to his horse, and galloped forward into the smoke and the heat of the fight round Hougoumont. He found himself soon among what seemed to be a steady stream of wounded, making their painful way to the rear. The lane behind the chateau, which was flanked by ditches and elm trees, was lined with some of the light companies of the Guards regiments, and in the orchard beyond a never-ending skirmish was going on. From the cover of the tree trunks, and the ditches, the Guards, stepping over their own dead, were upholding their proud reputation. The carnage was appalling, but Colonel Audley,.-making his way to the northern wicket leading into the chateau, could see no signs of dismay in even the youngest face. When a man fell, with a queer little grunt as the ball struck him, those near him would do no more than glance at him in the intervals of reloading their muskets. They were intent on their marksmanship, their strained eyes staring ahead through the drifting smoke, their muskets at the ready.
Except for a shot which carried away his horse's ear, and caused the poor beast to rear up, snorting and squealing, the Colonel reached the wicket gate without sustaining any injury, and penetrated into the courtyard.
The scene outside in the enclosures faded to insignificance before the inferno within the walls. The haystack was still blazing, and not only the roof of the chateau but also a cowshed where the wounded had been lying, had caught fire. The heat was overpowering; shells were falling on the buildings; horses, caught in flaming stables, were screaming; a few men, unrecognizable in torn and blackened uniforms, were working desperately to drag the last of the wounded out of the cowshed, while others, forming a chain, were pouring bucketful after bucketful of water on the smoking walls. On every side sounded the crash of falling timbers, the bursting of shells, and the groans of men, who, unable to move for shattered legs or ghastly stomach wounds, were scorched by the fire and driven mad by pain and thirst. A sergeant of the Coldstream shouted to Audley above the din that Colonel Macdonnell was in the garden, and thither Audley made his way, out of the heat and the fire, into what seemed an oasis set in the middle of hell.
Reille's guns were all trained on the courtyard and the surrounding buildings, and scarcely any shells had fallen in the neat garden which Barbara Childe had planned to visit again in the summer. Roses were blooming in the formal beds; the long turf walks between were shaded by fruit trees, and perfectly smooth. The Colonel had no time to waste in gazing on this refreshing scene; but its contrast with the horror of the courtyard most forcibly struck him as he strode towards the high brick wall on the southern side. Here the defenders were for the most part gathered, some firing through the rough loopholes, other mounted on the wooden platforms, and firing over the top of the wall into the infantry in the orchard and the fringe of the wood beyond. Colonel Audley soon found Macdonnell, and delivered the Duke's message. The big Scot read it, and gave a short laugh. "He need not worry: we can hold the place. But send more ammunition down to us, Audley, if you can: we're running damned short. How is it going along the rest of the line?"
"The 5th Division and the heavy brigades have repulsed an infantry attack on the left centre, sir. No one has it as hot as you, so far."
"Ah! Well, no one has troops like my fellows. Tell the Duke there's no talk of surrender here."