Steel knew at once. Malbec was here. Instinctively, he turned back to the oncoming French. They were cresting the barricades now, and all around him the thin ranks of red-, grey- and blue-coated men were falling back towards the town. There was no question about it: the Allies were losing. But fear was dispelled in Steel’s mind by another emotion. A red mist seemed to cloud his vision as the hate boiled up inside him, masking sadness too and any thoughts of pity.
He turned to Slaughter. ‘Ten guineas for any man who can find me the French major.’
‘Sir?’
‘Malbec. He commands the Grenadiers Rouges. Find them and you’ll find him now. He’s done what he came to do. Ten guineas.’
Slaughter looked at him with concern. He had never seen Steel like this – irrational, caught up in rage, his reason clouded. This was not the officer he had known for the last six years.
‘I’ll tell them, sir. But don’t you think we should attend to all the French first? There’s a fair few of them. More than just a major.’
Steel snapped at him, ‘What business is it of yours who I choose to kill? I’ll kill who I like. Malbec, his whore, their bloody king and all his blessed generals, and the damned Pretender too. It’s all madness, Jacob. War. Love. Loyalty. All that’s left is death. There’s no virtue. No justice. Only death and blood.’
As he spoke, Steel ranged around in the rear of the ranks, seemingly unable to decide where he should place himself. Slaughter stared at him. He wondered for a moment whether he was fit to command, whether he should inform Hansam.
But the lieutenant had already seen for himself. He placed a gentle hand on Steel’s shoulder. ‘Jack. Steady. You must command. We must fall back into the town, to the second line. Maclean is hit, and Kidd’s dead. We need your help, Jack. The men need you. Your battalion needs you. For Christ’s sake, listen to me, Jack. Your battalion.’
Steel spun round on him and Hansam, seeing the hate in his eyes, let go and took a pace back.
For an instant both Hansam and Slaughter wondered what might happen, and then, almost as suddenly as it had come upon him, the mood left Steel. He looked at both of them in turn.
‘Well, what are you looking at? Pull the men back to the second line. Where’s Maclean, d’you say?’
‘He’s in a house. Second road on the right. He’s hit bad, Jack. Might not make it.’
Steel nodded. ‘Jacob, I want an orderly withdrawal, in two ranks, bayonets fixed. Withdraw by platoon. Second platoons to keep up a covering fire. Alternate movement by platoon. Clear?’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Clear, sir.’
But as Slaughter turned to go, Steel added a coda: ‘And don’t forget about the ten guineas. I meant it. Henry, we’ll fight the battalion by company. Keep the companies independent. I want what’s left of the best men: us, the Prussians and the Danes on this side, the south. All of them here with me. The others can form a third defensive line to the north, with the wounded. And then we just pray for Marlborough.’
Drunk with the elation of killing Simpson, Malbec had skirted the north of the town along the shoreline and come round to the south by way of the west. Now, he thought, to complete this perfect day he would lead his men across the barricades, finish the English and take the town for a grateful King. He could see his regiment now, at the front of the battle, pushing on at the defences. Malbec ran the last few yards and, drawing his sword, placed himself on their left flank. And that was where Steel saw him.
For a single moment their eyes met, and it was enough. Steel grabbed a musket from the man to his right. Within seconds, despite his painful wound, he had its butt up and at his good shoulder, the weapon cradled in his left hand, cocked and ready to fire. His right index finger caressed the trigger and squeezed. But as it did so the smoke from new volleys clouded the target and he lost the Frenchman in its white mist. Cursing, Steel returned the musket to its owner and drew his sword. The early morning mist had combined with the powder smoke now, and the mêlée around them was no less than mayhem, a tangled mass of men, unsure as to who was on which side.
Steel plunged in and made towards the spot where he had seen Malbec. Another volley rang out from their left as the second platoon attempted to disengage from the enemy. Steel heard Slaughter’s voice ordering the men to reload, and at the same moment he glimpsed a fleeting form to his front. It was as if a ghost had crossed his path, but he was certain of what he had seen. Certain enough at least to shout after it: ‘Malbec.’
The shape stopped and turned, and again their eyes met. Steel came
en garde
and the Frenchman rushed at him through the smoke, sword raised. Their blades met with a fury that sent a jolt up Steel’s arm. He turned his wrist and deflected Malbec’s sword, managing a riposte that just connected with his shin. Malbec stepped back and, disentangling his blade, attempted another cut. Again Steel parried but was slower than before and his stroke aimed at Malbec’s arm fell short, so that his sword hung in the air. Malbec reacted quickly, with a short lunge, and whipped his blade along Steel’s left side, tearing a gash through the red coat.
Another volley ripped the morning air, and with it came a different sound. It was the unmistakable whistle and rat-a-tat of fife and drum, and both men had no doubt what it meant. They circled each other, neither of them attempting another attack.
Steel watched Malbec for a few moments longer before shouting to him above the din, ‘You’re finished, Malbec. D’you hear that? Those drums? They’re playing your funeral march. Those are Marlborough’s men, come to take back this place. The convoy’s safe, Malbec. Lille’s a doomed city, and you’re a dead man.’
A ragged cheer from the mists confirmed the truth of his words. It was enough. Malbec lunged wildly at Steel’s chest and Steel parried the blade, anticipating its direction so that Malbec’s sword pointed into the smoke. And then, with all his force, Steel thrust hard towards Malbec’s chest. The well-tempered Italian blade slid easily below the Frenchman’s breastbone and he stared at Steel in disbelief. He gasped a word, but nothing came from his mouth but a trickle of blood. Steel slid the blade clear of his body and the tall Frenchman stood motionless, his sword hanging at his side, limp in his weakened grasp. He began to sway from front to back and as he did so his head began to nod, giving him the appearance of a grotesque marionette. And then he gave Steel a smile that he was never to forget. For with it, from Malbec’s clouding eyes, came a look not of hatred, but of thanks. Then it was gone and Steel was standing over Malbec’s body.
He bent down and, plucking the major’s cravat from round his neck, used it to wipe his blade clean of gore before returning it to its scabbard.
Then, throwing the bloody rag to the ground, he turned and began a slow walk up through the little Flemish town to find his wife and take her home.
The battle of Oudenarde was a pivotal point in the war. It had an instant effect on the morale of both armies. The French were forced back into France and never really recovered. It was the end of Louis’ great Imperial dream.
It gave the Duke of Marlborough an unprecedented opportunity to invade France. As detailed in
Brothers in Arms,
he was opposed by the Dutch and unusually by Eugene of Savoy, thus losing the chance to end the war. Had he managed to do so, the conclusion would undoubtedly have been a very different one to the eventual peace and the history of Europe might also have been changed. Instead he harried northern France much to Louis’ chagrin and provoked widespread panic in Paris.
In fact, Marlborough’s initial concept of the siege of Lille was that it should be taken quickly, as a prelude to an invasion of France which under such circumstances the Dutch could not oppose.
Lille however, became a whirlpool of death more akin to the prolonged trench warfare of the Great War than any conflict seen to date. Notably, the battle for France’s second city caused in one single day the same number of allied casualties as had been suffered at the battle of Oudenarde. Nevertheless, the siege of Lille has been unjustly ignored.
The battle of Wynendael is also one of the most fascinating smaller actions of the wars and General Webb a largely unsung British hero.
Converged grenadier battalions, such as that commanded by Steel, were not uncommon, thus giving a large body of elite troops. Certainly one was present at Wynendael and may have played a large part in Webb’s victory which was so essential in sustaining the siege.
The Earl of Cadogan appears to have taken much of the credit for this triumph and Marlborough’s opponents at home were to accused him of favouring his friend in his initial dispatch. Webb however subsequently received full credit and the thanks of Parliament for the action, and the following year he was promoted to Lieutenant-General. Nevertheless, from this point onwards Webb became the centre of Tory agitation against Marlborough.
The overtures of peace made to Louis are based on truth. Marlborough and Cadogan had established an extensive espionage network throughout Europe which kept them fed with information about French moves and plans. Independently of this however, we know that in May 1708 a Dutchman, Herman van Petkum, had visited Paris to negotiate a peace but that his demands were thought excessive. The Duke had himself made overtures to his nephew, the Duke of Berwick, one of Louis’ generals. But Louis preferred to deal with the Dutch. Ultimately the King and his generals could not bear to humble themselves before Marlborough.
The story of the blockade and the flooding of northern Flanders is wholly factual as is the use of barges by both sides in water-borne warfare. Leffinghe is another of those battles consigned to the margins of the history books, which played an important part in securing the allied lines. It lay in what Churchill terms ‘an archipelago of villages and unsubmerged hillocks’, of which it was the key. Following the relief of the garrison by Marlborough on 24th October, the relieving troops celebrated so well that they were surprised quite drunk by a French night assault and the village retaken. By that time though the precious convoy had been secured.
Steel of course had also left the village behind him and was en route to Lille.
Now, shaken by the deaths of his wife and his friend, he stands on the brink of Marlborough’s greatest and bloodiest campaign. Promised command of a full battalion, he is an independent man once more, all the more determined to further his career, having learnt that, while the life of a spy might hold its own dangers and rewards, he is better suited to that of a soldier, leading his men as he has always done, into the very heart of battle.
As always, I have relied where possible upon first hand accounts and this time I particular in the memoirs of the Duc de St Simon. My chief secondary sources once again were Trevelyan’s history of England in the reign of Queen Anne and Sir Winston Churchill’s history of his ancestor the Duke of Marlborough. Of more recent works, apart from the ubiquitous David Chandler, James Faulkner’s recent book on Marlborough’s sieges was very useful, as were Andrew Trout’s masterly ‘City on the Seine’ and Andrew Hussey’s history of Paris. Charles S Grant’s two volumes on uniforms of the wars were, as usual, invaluable.
Lille, like much of Flanders is much changed today, although it is still possible to discern important elements of the fortifications. Vauban’s astonishing models of his forts are on view in Lille and in Paris at the Musée de l’Armée. Steel’s Paris is now mostly gone, a victim of the great Haussman rebuilding of the 19th century. However, the Place Royale, now the Place des Vosges still exists and it is possible to find the historic house where Steel attended the soiree with Simpson.
This book was written during a very difficult period and countless people were extraordinarily kind and generous with their time and tangible help. Of these I would like in particular to thank Caroline Barty for her unstinting hospitality at Nerac (Puy Fort Eguile) and also in France, David and Kate November and Carly-Ann Montariol. A huge thank-you is due to those in Edinburgh who rallied round when the going got tough, in particular Susie Usher, Kate and David Oram, Polly Lambert, Catriona and Henry MacDermot, Tom and Kitty Bruce-Gardyne, Robin Gaze, Liza Stewart, Richard and Florence Ingleby and Patrick Barty. And last but not least an enormous thank you to my indefatigable editor Susan Watt at Harper Collins who understands only too well just how hard such times can be.
BROTHERS IN ARMS
Iain Gale has always had a life-long passion for military history. He is the Editor of the National Trust for Scotland magazine and Art critic for
Scotland on Sunday.
He lives outside Edinburgh with his wife and children.
‘A powerful novel of men at war. A triumph.’
BERNARD CORNWELL
‘Gale handles the military material superbly,
recreating the battle…very exciting’
DAILY TELEGRAPH