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James Macdonell was a strong man.
    They marched between fields of corn and rye as high as a man’s shoulder. In grassland red and yellow poppies and blue cornflowers danced in the breeze, and in low hedgerows mallows and loosestrife took shelter from the sun. Flat the land might be, but fertile and pretty enough.
    Outside the village of Braine-le-Comte the Division halted. They had marched twelve miles in four hours and needed food and rest. Seven men from the 2nd Battalion had already fallen by the wayside and Macdonell did not want to lose more. He had ordered them to be left with sufficient water and instructions to rejoin their companies when they could. If they were malingerers intending to disappear, they would not be missed.
    While the men boiled their kettles and ate their beef and biscuit, he trotted back down the line to find General Byng. The further back he went the thicker the dust and the greater the number of men who had succumbed and been left to fend for themselves. Behind them, General Maitland’s 1st Division must have been suffering even more.
    He found Byng with Colonel Woodford. ‘I have halted the light companies, sir,’ he reported. ‘Are we to enter the town or await orders?’
    ‘I wish I knew,’ replied Byng gently. ‘We believe that the Prince of Orange has set up his headquarters in the town but General Cooke has as yet received no orders from him. The general is becoming impatient.’
    ‘A party has been despatched to find the Prince,’ added Woodford. ‘They should have returned by now.’
    ‘Shall I return to my battalion, sir?’
    ‘Might as well stay here until we know more, James,’ replied Byng. ‘How is morale?’
    ‘It is good, sir, but if we are to fight today, it will be with tired men.’
    From the rear of the column, a party of riders trotted towards them. One of them carried the 1st Division’s standard. ‘Ah,’ said Woodford, ‘here is General Cooke.’
    Whether mounted or on foot, Major General George Cooke was a man of formidable presence and looked a good deal less than his forty-seven years. Square-jawed and broad-shouldered, he would not have been out of place in a prize fight. He had found time since leaving Brussels to change into his usual black jacket and white breeches. As he approached, he leant forward in his saddle and thundered, ‘Does anyone know what the devil’s going on? Because I certainly do not.’
    ‘Can the Prince not be found, General?’ asked Byng.
    ‘No, dammit, he cannot. My scouts report that the Hôtel du Miroir, where he is supposed to be, is deserted. The locals say that men and artillery have been passing through the village all night and the streets, I gather, are still full of them. But not a word from the young frog.’ Prince Willem Frederik vanOranje-Nassau GCB, old Etonian, friend of the Prince Regent and Commander of 1 Corps of the Allied army, was known variously as His Royal Highness, slender Billy or the young frog.
    ‘Where has he gone, General?’ asked Byng.
    ‘He and his aides left on the Nivelles road, but whether I’m supposed to follow him or stay here, I am at a loss to know. Two Brigades, four thousand men and equipment, and no orders. It’s as bad as Flanders twenty years ago. What do you recommend, gentlemen?’
    Macdonell cleared his throat. ‘If I may, General, if the streets are blocked it will take us some time to get through, but the men need rest. If we are ordered to make haste to Nivelles, it would be better to be on the other side of the town.’
    General Cooke stroked his chin. ‘Very well. We will march on through Braine-le-Comte and then rest until noon. By then the Prince might have remembered to send us his orders. If not, we will go on to Nivelles. Proceed, gentlemen.’
    At the front of the line, Macdonell found Harry Wyndham drinking tea with Sergeant Dawson. They jumped up when they saw him. ‘We’re on the move again, Harry,’ he said. ‘We’re to rest on the other side of the