One of the men spoke up, Steel was not sure who. ‘An ambuscade then, sir.’
‘Well done, that man. An ambuscade indeed. Who’s a countryman here? A son of the soil. You, Macfarlane. You’re a farmer’s boy, aren’t you? Peebles, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Well then, you’ll know what I mean when I tell you to dig out forms. Use your bayonets for it. Make the sort of shallow hide that a hare would use. They don’t need to be too deep, but they need to fit your body. About half your girth. And that shouldn’t be a problem for most of you. I can’t see any man here who hasn’t lost a few pounds over the last few weeks.’
There was a short burst of laughter from those who could understand.
‘It’s the Duke’s new rations, sir.’
Slaughter growled, ‘Quiet, Stevens.’
Steel ignored the comment and those that followed it. ‘So you know what to do. Now be about it before the Frenchies come and spot us.’
Hardly had the men begun to dig themselves in than the French cannon opened up. Hansam’s watch showed two o’clock. Steel tried to count the guns from the individual shots and got to twenty before he gave up. Twenty cannon were more than enough when your own force was utterly lacking in artillery.
The guns hammered away again, but the Grenadiers, snug in their forms, remained unscathed.
Steel looked at the carnage on the open ground between the two woods.
Slaughter summed up his thoughts. ‘Poor buggers. He should have ’em lie down.’
Williams said, ‘Christ, how many times is that now?’
No one made a reply. He hadn’t expected one.
Another voice spoke, a Londoner: ‘We was happy to come away from Lille and the trenches and all that, but this ain’t any better, is it? I mean, just look at the poor sods.’
The voice came from one of the Grenadiers, crouching behind a laurel bush. Steel followed his line of sight and watched as a salvo of cannonballs rained down upon the infantry exposed in the centre of the position, cutting in half one man and bouncing on to disembowel another. At the same time another shot took off the moustachioed head of a Prussian musketeer and then the hindquarters of his commanding officer’s horse. Steel looked away.
‘Doesn’t do any good to complain, whoever said that. We’re all here to do a job. Your turn will come soon enough.’
Slaughter’s response came in a whisper: ‘That man there, you’re on a charge. And now shut it, Black. Think yourself lucky you’re not standing out there under that bloody barrage getting your bollocks shot away, and are nice and tucked up here instead. Get back in your hole.’
One of the men joined in. ‘That’s right, Chalky. Do what Captain Steel said. Imagine you’re a hare.’
‘And you, Wilson. I’ll give you bloody hare. Any more of your cheek and I’ll bloody well skin you alive meself.’
Black spoke again, his voice filled with fear. ‘They’re coming, Sar’nt. I can see them.’
Steel ordered, ‘Silence now. Quiet there, you men.’
It was five o’clock. Evening was falling fast now and it was clear that the French, having sustained their bombardment for some three hours, were keen to exploit the shock their guns had administered to the battered Allies.
Steel whispered to Williams, ‘Pass the word down the lines, Tom. Silent order till I give the command. Dead silent.’
The French came at them out of the twilight, the Walloons first, spectral forms in their off-white uniforms, their muskets held at the ready, advancing into a foe they presumed had been shattered by their artillery. Their drums were beating, and with their colours to the fore they came on down the side of the wood. And Steel waited. Waited until they were fifty, forty, thirty paces from the Allied lines. Until their front ranks were fully past him.
Steel stood up and peered into the darkness, and then, at last, he gave the command: ‘Now boys. Rise up, the Grenadiers! Present. Fire.’
As one, three hundred muskets opened fire from either side of the gap in the woods, into the French flanks.
Steel yelled, ‘Pour it on, boys. Let them have it. Reload. Present. Fire.’
Again the guns crashed out. The thick white smoke added to the confusion of the twilight. But there was no real need to see what was going on. The terrible shrieks of the French infantry told their own story.
Musketry lit up the night, and in the brightest of the flashes he could glimpse the enemy now. Line after line of them, six or ten of infantry, with squadrons of cavalry massed to their rear. But it was what he saw at the front of their lines that made his heart leap. The space between the woods had been turned into a pile of dead and dying men.
The French were bewildered, caught in a murderous crossfire from spectral and unseen figures in the woods on both flanks. They began to panic. Steel watched as men turned in all directions before being spun round dead by a bullet. The next man would then take up the infectious error, and so it spread until a whole battalion was running, and then another. Weapons were being thrown away, packs torn off in the scramble to escape the relentless, faceless musket fire.
Steel looked to his left and heard, before he saw, the jingle of harness that told him that a body of horse was advancing behind the Allied lines. For a terrible moment he imagined that it must be de la Motte’s cavalry which had got round their flank, but then he saw the guidon of a regiment of English horse and knew that these were not the enemy but reinforcements sent by Marlborough from the main army, and that the day was theirs. The Allied infantry began to cheer and then the silver sabres were slashing down again and again on the men in the white coats. The French retreat turned into a rout.
At the head of the troopers Steel glimpsed the figure of Cadogan, and wondered to which general Marlborough would ascribe the victory, his friend the Irishman or the Jacobite Webb.
Steel knew that it had been yet another demonstration of the power of Marlborough’s infantry. Having stood their ground under the French bombardment, the Prussians and Hanoverians had taken up the Dutch and British form of platoon firing, and that surely had been the initial cause of victory. But, he thought, more than this had won the day. Their triumph had been assured by the grenadiers, and through their use of unorthodox tactics. It was a lesson in the art of war, not least for himself.
Over and above all this, Steel had achieved a personal goal. He had commanded an entire battalion in action. It had felt good, as if it might have been the job he had been made for. Indeed, if he thought about it, he had actually commanded a brigade, for his plan had involved three battalions. The Prussians he had never doubted, and he wondered how the Dutch had fared on the left and prayed that they had not come to grief. He wondered whether he might ever have such an opportunity again – whether perhaps one day he might be Colonel Steel? He was still unsure where his future might lie, and the last few days had only muddled his head still further. On the one hand, there was the thrill of the encounter, and nothing could ever vie with the unique exhilaration of winning an engagement, particularly one such as this.
He had still heard nothing from either Marlborough or Hawkins about the success or failure of the Paris operation, but he presumed that he must not be entirely out of favour with the command, having been appointed to direct the converged Grenadiers.
He walked through the woods, sharing the occasional word or two with one of the men. Tarling had been shot and lost a finger, but it was on his left hand and not vital. He would fight again, thought Steel. Others had been scratched by ricocheting bullets, and one man’s leg was punctured by a piece of flying wood, blown off a tree by a French musket-ball. For the most part, though, they were in good spirits, savouring the pleasure in being alive that always follows a fight. He found Slaughter standing over one of the dead.
‘What are our losses, Sar’nt?’
‘Well, I reckon the General’s lost some nine hundred men all told, sir. As for us, our half of the battalion has lost thirty men killed, wounded and missing.’
‘What of our own company?’
‘I count four dead and six wounded, one of them as won’t last the night.’
‘Who’s gone?’
‘Connolly, sir, and Patterson. And young Wilson.’
New blood, all of them.
‘That’s a shame, Sar’nt.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘You were fond of him, weren’t you?’
‘Wouldn’t put it that strong, sir. Thought he might have had the makings of a good ’un, though. Pity.’
Behind them the English dragoons were still going about their grisly business, and the night echoed to sporadic gunshots and the cries of wounded men. To Steel’s right a Prussian band had started up, playing a victory march, and in the dead centre of the field a Dutch regiment had ordered their arms and were singing a psalm.
Steel took off his hat and scratched his head, wiping the powder smoke from around his eyes. ‘I’ve said it before, and no doubt you’ll catch me saying it again, Jacob, but there’s few stranger places on this earth than a battlefield.’ The psalmists’ voices rose to a crescendo and Steel grimaced and shook his head. ‘I never could stand that caterwauling.’
Slaughter peered into the night. ‘D’you suppose that convoy had more than powder on board? I’ve a terrible thirst on me.’
Steel laughed. ‘You’re not alone there, Jacob. But you won’t catch it now. It’s three days’ march back to Lille. Come on. We’ve a company to find.’
It had always been one of Steel’s basic tenets as an officer that he should share in all the hardships which his men had to endure. Surely if they enjoyed the glories of victory together, they should also be as one in moments of adversity. And today he knew was one of those moments. He was standing with Sergeant Slaughter in the forward trench before the defences of Lille. It was shortly after noon and the enemy had only recently ceased their morning bombardment. It had become customary during the lull for the company to take the opportunity to find their dinner, and Slaughter and Steel were staring disconsolately into the bottom of a small black metal cauldron.
The sergeant was unusually agitated. ‘D’you see what I mean, sir? How can the lads be expected to eat that? I ask you. That there’s nothing more than a few stewed potatoes and turnip heads. Cattle feed, that is, sir. No good for nowt but cattle and pigs.’
Steel peered into the thin, unappetizing broth. He lifted a ladle of it out and sniffed at it, before letting it trickle back into the pot. ‘Yes, Sar’nt, I do see what you mean. Well, I also know that serving up such swill is not something that the Duke would do willingly, Jacob. I can only think that we must have a problem with supply.’
‘I thought we’d sorted that, sir. The fight in the woods and all that. Those Frenchies were fair beat, weren’t they? The supply column got through here, didn’t it?’
‘It did, Jacob, and we beat the French all the way back to Bruges. But remember, that was over a week ago. And d’you know what was in that column? It may have had enough powder and shells to supply our guns for a month, but you may be sure that the space they occupied on the wagons had to be at the expense of other provisions. In truth I suspected that this might happen. The Duke has always been careful with our food and drink. But why d’you think you’ve all been getting extra pay these past few weeks? Mr Williams had a word with me yesterday. In the place of vittles. That’s the answer. The Commissary’s been instructed to compensate the men with money for the shortage of food. You might say that was admirable of the Duke, and you’d be right. He’s one of the fairest men I know. But battalion stores are running dangerously low in all things, and I can only suppose it must be because the French have again cut our lines. For now all we can do is accept it and make do.’
‘Oh, I know that, sir. You know I do. I’m the first one to draw in my belt. An’ I don’t need rum to fight the Frenchies. But I don’t speak for myself, Captain. It’s the men. You know as well as I do that their bellies need to be filled for a fight.’ He paused. ‘And they were complaining last night about there being no rum.’
Steel looked alarmed. ‘No rum? That’s a different matter. That’s serious. Any officer, from the Duke downwards, knows that no matter how brave they might be, and they are, Jacob, it’s rum that gives the men the spirit to climb from the trenches and take the fight to the enemy. It’s rum that makes them stand. No matter what I tell them about Queen and country. By Christ, Jacob, no rum! Give it a few days and we’ll have a mutiny on our hands.’
‘Aye, sir. I’m with you there, an’ all. Seen it before. Ugly business. Waste of good men at the end. Oh, I dare say most of our lads are sound enough. But I can’t speak for the other battalions in the line, nor even for the other companies of the battalion, aside from our own.’
‘Leave it with me, Sar’nt. I’ll see what can be done.’
Steel now knew what had to be done. For some days now, since they had returned from Wynendael, he had been toying with the idea of going to see Colonel Hawkins at headquarters, principally with the intention of asking him if he had any news from Paris. But he had wondered whether it was his place to be so forward with his superior and mentor. This new crisis, however, had provided the excuse he needed. He would visit Hawkins to ask after the rum and in passing enquire as to the fate of the letter to Louis.
For several weeks Steel had felt a growing sense of bitterness the like of which he had not known. He was dissatisfied, not with his men or with himself – both of those things, though rare, were nothing new – but with those who controlled him. What he had said to Slaughter was true. He had long considered the Duke one of the fairest and most even-handed men alive. Yet, although he had delivered his report to Marlborough and Hawkins immediately on his return from the French capital, he had still heard nothing about the success or failure of the plan to coerce a French surrender or at least an armistice. And he had a nagging need to know. Previously, he might have let it be, but since his marriage to Henrietta, Steel was aware that he had changed within himself. The future, which before he had allowed to take care of itself, living every day as it came, within reason, providing he had made provision for his men, now seemed to be altogether more immediate. His head was filled with new and undreamt-of plans and possibilities.
Perhaps the biggest of these was the question as to whether he would always remain a soldier. Seen through newly domesticated eyes, the world suddenly seemed a much larger place. But before he could decide which course to take, he had to know the fate of the war. And there were too many other loose ends in his life which compounded the problem. What, he did not cease to wonder, had been Simpson’s fate? And what of Major Charpentier? Of his brother, of course, his superiors could know nothing – unless Simpson had discovered anything new. He wondered whether Alexander’s complicity in his escape had been discovered by the French, and in particular by Malbec. If Alexander were dead then the blame would lie with Steel, and for that alone his conscience demanded satisfaction. And there was more. He burned with the need to settle his account with Malbec and the Marquise. Steel knew that, whatever he might decide to do in his life with Henrietta, in the immediate future he would have no rest until both the French major and his woman were dead.
‘O’Brien.’
Steel’s servant came hurrying up. He was a young Irishman, only recently transferred to Farquharson’s from a now defunct regiment of foot, disbanded through heavy casualties and the loss of their colonel, and he seemed willing enough. Steel had only taken him on since the last engagement when his last lad had been wounded.
‘O’Brien, my horse if you please. I’ve an appointment with the Captain General.’
As Steel rode away from the support trench and up towards the lines of command and the wagon park, complex feelings had begun to take hold within him. By the time he crested the hill they had risen almost to boiling point. Realizing what was happening, he reined in and gave himself a moment’s pause. There would be no point in seeking an audience with the commander in chief in such a frame of mind. He would have to be lucid in his arguments and reasoned in his indignation. It was not Steel’s manner to be insubordinate, and it would serve no purpose.
He turned his horse so that he was facing back down the hill. She was a good, sound animal but not a patch on Meg, the pretty little bay mare that he had lost in Paris. He thought about how such change seemed inevitable, how he clung on to everyday things and resented that which interfered with routine, even though in his heart he detested the mundanities of company book-keeping. He supposed that it was natural in a world where any moment your life might be snatched away. There was a reassurance in familiar faces and simple rituals. That was how the army worked, in a sense. It gave you the routine, got you used to it, so that when your world fell apart, when your friends were blasted to atoms, the bones of a structure would still be there. Looking down on the siege lines, the truth of this thought was laid out before him.
From up here it seemed that so many ants had built their colonies and were busy about their daily chores. The fields, what was left of them, were criss-crossed with trenches and saps, zig-zagging their distinctive way through the shattered land. He saw the lines of circumvallation and the parallels, curved around the extent of the city, mimicking its boundaries. They were connected by communication trenches dug in short, angled sections to ensure that if a trench were taken its occupants could not be enfiladed. Everywhere there was frantic activity, from the labourers filling fresh wicker gabions with earth to the officers sighting cannon, infantry at drill and the normally unseen, unsung sinews of the army driving on to their common goal. It was an impressive sight and one that could only have been seen in Marlborough’s army. This, thought Steel, was the sum of what the Duke had achieved: the ability to work together, fast and efficiently, to counter the might and manpower of France with an unprecedented professionalism. This was what won the Duke his battles. This, Steel hoped, was what would bring them Lille.
However, no amount of pride could divert his feelings. He continued to brood on the command’s apparent disregard for his interest, and by the time he had arrived in the tent lines around the Allied headquarters, much against his will, his sense of injustice had risen to a crescendo.
He rode up to the large blue-and-white striped marquee marked out with a fluttering Union flag, which served as the Duke’s field headquarters. He dismounted and tethered his horse to a small rail, which had been erected for the purpose close by. Then on foot he walked towards the entrance. Two sentries snapped to attention and then levelled their muskets in the present. Steel stopped at the muzzles.
‘Where’s the officer of the guard? Find me whoever’s in charge.’
A lieutenant came hurrying out of a small white bell tent pitched close to that of the commander in chief, cramming his hat on to his head. From within the tent came the sound of laughter and the chink of glasses. The lieutenant stopped beside one of the sentries, who had not dropped their muskets.
‘What’s going on, Sar’nt Baker?’
‘This officer here, sir. Says he wants to speak to you, sir.’
The young man straightened up and then, taking in Steel’s rank, bowed. ‘Lieutenant Trevenning, sir. Her Majesty’s Foot Guards. May I ask your business here, Captain …?’
‘Steel, Lieutenant. Captain Jack Steel, of Farquharson’s. I would see the Captain General on a matter of some urgency.’
The lieutenant, recognizing Steel’s name, eyed him with interest, but did not move. ‘Might I enquire as to what that matter might be, sir?’
‘No you may not, sir. Merely tell His Grace that Captain Steel wishes to speak to him. And if you encounter any difficulty in doing so, you might find me Colonel Hawkins. In fact you may do so in any case, while you’re about it.’
The young man bristled. Hero or no hero, Steel’s manner was almost too much to bear. Besides, as a lieutenant in the Guards he ranked equal with any captain of a line regiment. But he realized, from all the accounts he had heard of the captain, that this was not the man to call out on a matter of honour – if, that was, he wanted to come away with his life. Instead he smiled.
‘I shall go and enquire, Captain, but I shouldn’t get your hopes up too high. The commander in chief is far too busy a man to deal with an unarranged appearance by any field officer. Wait where you are, Captain Steel, if you please. I shan’t be a moment.’ He nodded to the sentries to maintain their ‘present’ and entered the striped tent. When he emerged a few minutes later he wore a peeved expression, and he was not alone.
Colonel James Hawkins greeted Steel with a beaming smile. ‘Jack, m’boy. You have long been on my mind. Come in, come away in. Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all.’
Leaving the young man to fume, they went into the tent and Steel saw at once that they were alone.
Hawkins explained: ‘Marlborough’s at a meeting with the brigade commanders, observing the lines. He’s not in the best of tempers. But he won’t be long. You’ll take a glass, Jack?’
Steel stiffened. ‘Please.’
Hawkins summoned a servant and turned to Steel, cutting him short. ‘Now, Jack. I’m sure that you’ve been thinking to yourself, Why the devil haven’t they sent for me? You would like, no doubt, a report on whether fat King Louis swallowed the bait. And indeed as to whether the war will end. I’m sure you’re filled with questions.’
‘Well, yes, sir. I –’
Hawkins waved a hand at him. ‘Of course you are, and well you might be. By God, if I were sent on a dangerous mission behind the lines and then heard nothing more of it wouldn’t I be as angry as you are now, Jack? You are angry?’ He handed Steel a brimming goblet of the local red wine and took one for himself. ‘Your health, Jack, and may I say how glad I am to see you back here in one piece after that affair with General Webb. A triumph, I would call it. He mentioned you, you know. The general. Spoke very highly of your ability. Battalion commander, you were for the day? Eh, Jack? How did that feel? Good, I’ll bet.’ Hawkins winked at him.
Steel was at a loss for words. Hawkins had completely disarmed him. Was he now toying with his ambitions? Or was there some substance to the hint that one day Steel might have his own battalion?
‘And now, Jack, to business. What would you like to know first?’
As he spoke the tent flap flew back and Marlborough entered, accompanied by a servant who took his hat and cloak. Rubbing at his temples, he strode across the room towards a large table upon which lay a map of the region.