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enjoying the warm evening air and listening to the muffled sounds of soldiers preparing to sleep. Two familiar figures approached from his left. ‘Corporals,’ he greeted them. ‘An evening stroll?’
    ‘Yes, Colonel,’ replied James Graham. ‘Not quite ready to sleep. We’ve been talking and we agree.’
    ‘Agree about what?’
    ‘That we’ll march tomorrow,’ said Joseph. ‘We are sure of it.’
    ‘Then let us hope the ball is over before we do. Goodnight.’
    ‘Goodnight, Colonel.’ It was said in unison.

CHAPTER FOUR
    16th June
    The news arrived by galloper an hour after midnight. The French had crossed the Sambre, taken Charleroi and were advancing rapidly towards the town of Ligny. Having delivered his report to Francis Hepburn as the duty officer, the galloper changed horses and sped on to Brussels. A second galloper had taken the direct road there but a message of such importance was commonly carried by more than one man. The Duchess’s Ball would be ending rather earlier than planned.
    His servant had no need to rouse Macdonell who had been awake since retiring soon after eight. Five hours of anxious tossing and turning had done little for his humour. With a flood of relief that the waiting was over, he barely touched the mug of tea on his writing table and was up and out of the chateau within minutes. Francis Hepburn was waiting for him by the steps.
    ‘Bonjour, James,’ he greeted Macdonell. ‘It seems you wereright. Boney has caught us napping. I have ordered the drums to beat to arms but I suppose we had better wait for the dancers to return before marching.’
    ‘Let us be ready when they do.’
    A bugler sounded reveille. The drummers thumped out the call to arms. In moments, the camp was awake and about its business. Torches were lit. Sergeants and corporals shouted orders and half-dressed men scurried about, getting in each other’s way and tripping over tent ropes in their haste to make ready. Red-jacketed guards poured from outbuildings, hoisting up trousers, struggling into overalls and fumbling with buttons.
    By the flickering light of the torches Macdonell watched Joseph Graham help a nervous young private do up his jacket buttons. The boy was one of the many who were about to face their first battle. For every veteran of Spain or Italy, there were four or five in General Cooke’s Division who had never fired a shot in anger. Corporals strode up and down the lines urging the slowest to hurry. Sergeant Dawson aimed a kick at Private Vindle’s backside and received a gratifying yelp in reply. Campfires were lit and water boiled. It was over thirty miles to Charleroi. A long enough march, too long without beef and tea in a man’s stomach.
    Within the hour, chaos had turned to order and purpose. Every man had eaten, checked his musket and cartridges, packed a clean shirt and linen into his knapsack and strapped his blanket to it. Sir John Byng’s Second Brigade, the light companies at their head, formed columns outside the chateau and were ready to go to war. It needed only the return of thegeneral himself and they would march to meet the French.
    For another hour, they stood ready. Just after three, as the first glimmerings of a summer dawn began to lighten the sky, carriages started arriving from Brussels. Byng, Woodford and Wyndham were in the first of them. Their cabriolet came to a halt outside the chateau and they jumped out. ‘I see you have made ready, James,’ said Byng. ‘Good. We will march in ten minutes. I do not care to fight in dancing shoes.’
    ‘Nor I,’ agreed Woodford, before taking the steps two at a time and disappearing into the chateau.
    ‘My apologies, James,’ said Harry Wyndham, sounding not in the least apologetic. ‘Perhaps I should have stayed here. And the ball was tedious. Too much talk of Buonaparte and very little waltzing. Not to my taste at all.’
    ‘No more than you deserve, Harry,’ replied Macdonell with a grin. ‘Be off with you and