‘When you were still at your mother’s teat,’ muttered Slaughter.
There was a short hurrah from the ranks which betrayed more about their boredom and fear than it said about their confidence. Like Ramillies, thought Steel. Perhaps it would be like Ramillies. Like Bleneim too, maybe. But Marlborough’s past triumphs seemed an age away now, as he stood on the bridge – almost another country after all that had happened to him since.
Before then he had not known his wife, Henrietta. Lady Henrietta Vaughan, to give her her full title. And this was the name by which she would forever be known, it seemed. He himself found it hard to imagine her as ‘Lady Henrietta Steel’. Would he ever become used to it? For she was his wife of little less than a year, now safely billeted in Brussels. He had not wanted her to come out with him from England, but she had prevailed, saying that other wives did as much so why should she not follow her beloved captain?
Captain Steel. Now that was a style he had no difficulty in adopting. His part in the taking of Ostend had been rewarded at Court with the confirmation of his brevet rank as a full captaincy, by no less a person than the Queen herself. He had been paraded through the streets of London as a hero of the campaign. His praises had been sung by balladeers from Covent Garden to Holborn and talked of by old campaigners in White’s, at Old Man’s coffee house and the late king’s new military hospital at Chelsea.
He had wondered at the time what his brother’s reaction might have been had he but seen him in such pomp. His elder brother Charles, that was, who had always called him ‘Jack the good for nothing’, who had introduced him as ‘Jack my hapless brother who will come to naught’. To him Steel would forever be the failed lawyer’s clerk, a penniless soldier who had accepted the commission purchased by his mistress. What would he say now to Captain Steel, the hero of Ostend?
For a moment too he thought of his younger brother, Alexander, a professed Jacobite whose ideals had split the family – what was left of it. Alexander, the baby of the three brothers, two years his junior, who had left home to join the exiled King James at his court outside Paris. Steel had not had news of him now for five years and wondered what might have become of him. Was he still alive? Had he fought for his king? In truth Steel half expected to encounter him on a battlefield in the uniform of the ‘Wild Geese’, those Irish regiments in French service who fought so well for a vanquished dynasty and a conquered land. Perhaps he was wounded or maimed. Steel was overcome by melancholy and a sense of emptiness and the understanding that now, more than ever before, he had left his childhood, youth and roots far behind in Scotland when he had taken the old king’s shilling and joined the Guards as a young lieutenant at his lover’s behest. Now he knew that his real family were those men who stood behind him on this field – them and the pretty, headstrong girl who waited for him in their small and unaffordably expensive apartment in Brussels.
Although rank and fortune were central to the plan that he had long nurtured for his career, Steel could not help but think that his real prize in the bloody affair at Ostend had been Henrietta. He had rescued her from the hands of a French privateer – no more than a pirate – in the service of the Sun King. That man had held both of them captive as together they had stared death in the face and watched a good man die horribly in an underground torture chamber. Steel had taken her out of that place, and she loved him for that. That was beyond doubt. And now, as the years went by, it would be his task to persuade her to love him for whatever else he was as a man – those virtues she had not yet seen, whatever she and her constant love had the power to make him. It was all very well to fight for yourself, to fight just to stay alive and to make a life as a soldier. But it was quite another thing to fight when you knew that back beyond the baggage lines someone was waiting. He was happy and proud that she had chosen to follow him to Flanders, though in truth he would have expected no less from her stubborn, feisty character. Marlborough’s army always brought in its wake the gaggle of camp followers that came with any army – women, children, wives and lovers. But not many of those who came were attached to officers. It was one of the things he admired about Henrietta, her independent spirit that was intertwined with an unmissable sexuality. He hoped he had made the right choice for the wife of an officer of the Grenadiers. It was clear that his men had taken to her. They saw her as a natural part of the regimental family. They were aware too of what she had gone through, and respected her for it. Besides, she was Captain Steel’s wife.
A captain he might be, and on the not ungenerous sum of £170 a year, but Steel was again hungry for promotion. For, as lovely as she was, Henrietta had already begun to make something more than an emotional impact on his life. Steel had not previously been aware just how expensive a woman could be. True, she had brought with her a small dowry, but it was hardly in line with her status as the eldest daughter of the Duke of Rumney, and Steel wondered whether her father, knowing his modest station and uncertain prospects, might not have deliberately held back a portion in case of some … unseen eventuality. In addition, a great deal more money had now been necessitated by Henrietta having insisted on bringing a maid from England and her declaration that they must live in an entire suite of rooms. Where, previously, a town billet for Steel as a bachelor officer had meant a simple bed in a tavern room, it now seemed that they must live in some style and be able to entertain. Two bedchambers, a salon, an office and a dining room were the bare minimum, according to his wife. Not to mention the maid and a share in the cook and the kitchens. Not to mention her other requirements. Steel had not known that women could accumulate such … stuff. His life had been transformed, and as much as he adored Henrietta, Steel found it an added burden and began to understand what Slaughter had meant when he had advised him long ago that soldiering and matrimony did not make happy bedfellows.
Nevertheless, when he lay down in their marriage bed and held her small, softly naked form, all such thoughts left Steel’s mind and he was lost in such delights as he had never dreamed of. He had thought he might have grown soft during those months away from the war, nestling in the luxury of a feather bed and the arms of his wife. But in the past few weeks he had learnt that the regiment had seen little action, and he had passed up no chance of glory.
The shrill whine of a cannonball passing overhead snapped him back to the present. But even as he looked absently at the continuing battle his mind still pondered the prospect that before the year was out he would have to find some means of improving his situation. Promotion to major would help, bringing in another hundred a year. However, it would, he realized, as likely as not take him from his beloved Grenadiers. Unless, of course, the regimental adjutant should come to grief in the present campaign. Steel had never liked Charles Frampton, and after that episode following Ramillies with the major’s now hushed-up part in the distribution of scurrilous pamphlets against Marlborough the man was still less appealing. Naturally the business had been all but forgotten. Frampton was too good a soldier in the field to be lost. His accomplice, in truth the instigator of the scheme, had been punished and Frampton given a severe reprimand and encouraged to donate several hundred guineas to the regimental funds. Steel could hardly wish his brother officer, any officer, such ill will on the field of battle. Nevertheless, for a man in Steel’s position with mounting debts and precious little money, filling dead men’s shoes was the simplest way to get on. Perhaps, he thought, there might be booty. Marlborough might have forbidden any man to loot thus far on any campaign, on pain of death, but it seemed likely there would be legitimate plunder to be had if they prevailed this day and advanced into France. ‘If they prevailed.’ He smiled. Steel had become used to winning. But how could they win if they could not fight?
He turned to Hansam. ‘Damn whoever it is that makes us wait. Aye, even Marlborough for once for his infernal caution. Surely, Henry, we must go soon? Look at the men.’
He tested the bridge with his boot. He felt the wooden timbers give and heard them creak as they swayed and strained against the ropes that lashed them to the pontoons.
Hansam spoke. ‘It seems strong enough, Jack.’
‘It had better be. There’s an entire brigade to pass over it soon.’ Very soon, he prayed. He pointed across the river. ‘Look there, Henry. Down on the field. What d’you see?’
‘Why, our men outnumbered by the French. That surely is why we are here.’
‘But we must wait. Malborough is too clever. His plan lies in drawing out the French as quickly as possible. He shows Vendôme a part of his army as a temptation. He dares him to come and destroy Cadogan before they should arrive in force.’
‘It is bold, Jack. What if the French should succeed? If they are too quick off the mark?’
‘Then, my dear fellow, we shall have marched here for naught. For all will be up with our army and we shall need to double back up that hill to Lessines faster than we came. But imagine, Henry, should the plan succeed. If those men down there with Cadogan can hold off for just a little longer and draw in just enough of the French army without yielding, then here will be a moment when Marlborough can come up with the bulk of the army on his terms. Timing, you see, is everything. But that makes it no easier for us or the rest of the brigade. All we may do is watch and wait.’
There was a respectful cough at his side. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but when shall we go, d’you suppose? I can’t hardly remember seeing the men so peevish. They’re like terriers by a warren. Don’t know what to do with the’selves.’
Sergeant Slaughter was with him, as he had ever been since Steel had transferred into the regiment some seven years ago. Since then the two men had shared a bond of friendship of the sort that could only be forged in battle and which transcended the usual relationship between officer and sergeant. Indeed, some of Steel’s brother officers made no attempt to disguise the fact that they found it distasteful and inappropriate. But for Steel this was the way a war should be fought and the proper way for a company or a regiment to function. Hierarchy and order were vital, of course. But to share such an empathy as he had with a man like Slaughter was something rare: a bond of brotherhood that no one could know who had not been a part of it.
The French gunners on the opposite slope had changed their trajectory now, and the balls were beginning to creep closer to Steel’s brigade. A ranging shot struck the river bank and was stopped dead by the mud.
Steel turned to Slaughter. ‘That’s the last we’ll see like that. They’re just gauging our distance. The next one will strike home. Henry, time to take posts, I think.’
He had hardly finished speaking when all three men saw puffs of smoke from the enemy guns, instantly followed by the unmistakable black dots of fast-approaching cannonballs. Four ranged to their left, finding targets in the next battalion, but the remaining four came directly towards Steel and his men. There was no time to avoid them. No point. The only thing to do was to stand your ground and pray that your luck would hold. Steel watched as each black dot became a circle, then an orb, one of which, approaching him at an unthinkable speed, magically lifted at the last moment to pass over their heads, sucking the air into a vacuum as it passed. Steel breathed out audibly with relief. A few files away a sudden cry told him that others of the company had not been so lucky.
Steel turned to the sergeant again. ‘I wish to God that we were gone, Jacob. I can’t think the men can stand it much longer. They’ll lose heart or they’ll lose their edge.’
‘Aye, sir, or they’ll lose their heads.’
Another roundshot came perilously close to the company but thankfully veered right to carry away the head of the horse ridden by a field officer of Meredith’s, together with the lower portion of the unfortunate man’s leg. Steel nodded at Slaughter and noticed one of his corporals patting one of the recruits on the shoulder and placing him firmly back in the line. ‘The new lads seem to be wobbling, Jacob. Will they carry it off?’
‘They’ll do it, sir. Don’t doubt that they will. But I’m with you, sir. We must go soon.’
A ragged fanfare of bugles made them look to the left where a great cloud of dust thrown up from the earth proclaimed the beginnings of a movement of cavalry. Both men focused their attention on the ground over to the left across the river.
Slaughter spoke. ‘That’s cavalry, sir. And a good lot of them. They can’t surely intend to attack us, can they? Must be intended for the poor buggers on the edge of that village.’
Steel peered into the settling dust cloud, straining to see the uniforms and from where they came. ‘No, they’re ours, Jacob. Hanoverians. And it’s none of our men they’re making for. They’re moving up towards the French. Thank God for that, at least. Now we’ll see some sport.’
Sitting at the folding wooden table that had been set up outside a small inn on the edge of the village of Gavre, on the road to Huysse, Louis Joseph de Bourbon, Duc de Vendôme and Marshal of France, sucked the last of the meat from a chicken bone and tossed it to his dogs. He would not be parted from the two pointers that had accompanied him throughout this campaigning season and the last, and he had come to regard them as lucky talismans. Behind the Marshal the little group of French staff officers grew restless. Vendôme ignored them; said nothing; not so much as turned his head to acknowledge them, even though among their number were the Duc de Berry, the King’s fat grandson, and James Francis Edward Stuart, claimant to the British throne. In fact, he mused, his own pedigree was hardly less august. He was the grandson of Henry IV of France and by right a Royal Prince himself. And what, he reasoned, could there possibly be to say to them? None of them had accepted his invitation to dine. Vendôme despaired of his generals and advisors almost as much as he did of his army. Oh, the French elements of his force of 85,000 – ninety battalions of foot and 170 squadrons of horse – were sound enough, most of them. It was the foreigners who supplemented their strength that caused him concern: the Swiss, the Spaniards, the Walloons and mercenaries from various German states.
At least the Duke of Burgundy, son of Louis, was not among them. Vendôme was sure the Prince, apparently sent to learn the art of war, had in fact been sent to spy on him. He had not seen eye to eye with the Sun King since Italy, Louis it seemed being more inclined to take the advice of the Elector, Max Emmanuel, than the most experienced and loyal of his generals. Continuing to eat, Vendôme spat out a piece of fat. Well, he thought, soon the King would see just how expert Vendôme was at the art of war. And then he would listen.
Somewhere out there with the enemy, Vendôme’s cousin, Prince Eugene of Savoy, was manoeuvring his troops with his master Marlborough, attempting to bring battle on their terms. But the Marshal was not overly concerned. Hadn’t he defeated Eugene three years ago at Cassano in Italy? If only that ass Burgundy were not with the French army now, and ostensibly his equal in rank. For the first time Vendôme sensed the faintest whisker of a possibility of defeat, but dared not let it invade his mind. At fifty-four years of age and after four decades with the colours he was well aware that state of mind was everything in command. He looked down at the dogs, begging for scraps. Their luck would hold, and his generalship. He must trust to fate and experience, and think positively.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats made him look up to see a horseman, an aide-de-camp to the staff by the look of it. The man had pulled up at the inn and, on foot now, was casting around for the commander in chief.
‘Marshal Vendôme?’
One of the Marshal’s own aides directed the boy towards him.
‘Sire, I bring an urgent request from General Biron. He is under attack, sire.’
Vendôme stared at the young man and grabbed the proffered dispatch. Wiping his greasy fingers on the tail of his grey coat, he opened the paper and began to read, muttering as he did so: ‘Allied units. English … Prussians. Large numbers.’ He paused. ‘What large numbers? Overwhelmed? Overwelmed by what? By how many?’
The young man stammered: ‘Why by … by the enemy, sire. The redcoats are there. Infantry and horse too. We are being pushed back. They have crossed the Scheldt at Oudenarde.’
Vendôme crushed the message into a small ball in the palm of his hand and muttered under his breath: ‘Oudenarde. I’d have taken it in two days and avoided all this.’ He frowned at the terrified aide and spoke louder. ‘Biron is asking me for reinforcements, is he not? Well, you may tell General Biron that the Allied army is nowhere near us. If they are anywhere near his positions then the devil must have carried them there, for such a march is impossible.’
The aide, unsure what to do, decided magnanimously that the probable sacrifice of his military career was justified by saving thousands of French lives. He shook his head and stood his ground. ‘I beg you, sire. Look again to the south. I swear to you, sire, the Allied army is there, at least a considerable part of it. A full vanguard of redcoats, sire. Foot and horse, with artillery too. They are pushing us back from Oudenarde. They have already seen off a regiment of Swiss foot and will surely be doing us more damage as we speak.’
Vendôme cursed the man under his breath, but he had not been a soldier for thirty-six years and a score of them a general not to know when it was prudent to take advice. Putting down his goblet of wine, he grabbed another chicken leg and walked across the road, past where the officers were conferring, to the crest of the hill.
What he saw on the low horizon stopped him in his tracks and nearly made him choke on his mouthful of chicken. Below him in the valley of the Scheldt a huge dust storm appeared to have arisen. Vendôme might have been confident, but he was no fool. He knew the signs of an army and of unavoidable battle when he saw them. He swore, turned quickly and walked smartly back to the messenger.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry to have doubted you, Lieutenant. Yes, I do see now. Take a message to General Biron at Heurne. Tell him not to worry. He must attack the force to his front with all possible speed. I myself shall lead the cavalry to our left wing in support. Wait there a moment.’ He looked across to the group of officers. ‘Puységur.’
Vendôme’s Chief of Staff walked across.
‘Puységur, go with this officer. You’re to ride to General Biron. Order him to stand where he is for the moment. We have insufficient cavalry in his vicinity to offer immediate support. He is to wait for the horse before he advances any further. And be sure to tell him that he may allow their great general Marlbrook to come across with as many of the enemy as he likes.’
Both the Chief of Staff and the courier looked askance.
Vendôme continued: ‘Don’t look so bemused, gentlemen. It is all part of my plan to trap the enemy. Now go.’
He called to his private secretary. ‘Du Capistron. Take a message to my lord Burgundy. He must move the infantry of the entire left wing directly behind my advance with the horse.’
Vendôme crossed to the table and took a swig of the wine he had abandoned. He patted one of the dogs and smiled as he congratulated himself on his swift action. For once Marlborough had blundered. If Vendôme could act now he would trap him and a good deal of his army on the wrong side of the Scheldt. Pin him down with superior numbers and the natural obstacle of the river at his back. At the very least he would drive them back over their bridges and into the Scheldt. And all that his generals had to do was to act together. Surely that was not too much to ask of anyone? Even of that idiot Burgundy?
A large black fly had settled on a morsel of the bread on his plate, and picking up a huge pewter ladle from the table he brought it down on the insect, squashing it into the metal. He would crush this Allied vanguard just as easily as he had killed that fly. And then, before my lord Marlbrook could reinforce his ailing line he, Vendôme, would be in command of the river and its strongpoints. Then their great British general would be routed from the field and a grateful King would surely reward his wholly forgiven and ever-faithful Marshal.
Vendôme turned to the group of officers. ‘Come, gentlemen. Chevalier, if you please. D’Evreux. All of you. This is no time for lunch or gossip. Dinner is at an end. Come on. We have much work to do and a battle to win.’
There can be few more spectacular sights on any field of battle than that of a brigade of cavalry in full cry, and Steel was thankful for the diversion. With the French gunners having gauged their range, his men were beginning to suffer more than the psychological hurt of their tortured minds which had plagued them for the last few hours of waiting on this hill. Now at least there was something to offer them as amusement.
Steel and Slaughter, Hansam, Williams and as many of the company as were able to find a suitable vantage point watched, with the rest of the battalion’s front rank and other regiments close to the front of the brigade, as from the Allied left wing rank upon rank of high-stepping cavalry broke out across the field. They advanced sedately at first, at a slow trot, and then, when their intention became evident to the enemy, broke into a canter and a gallop, coming on steadily towards the French right flank.
Steel looked towards their goal and saw, sitting quite still and apparently unaware across the Ghent road, a glorious body of French cavalry; dragoons and horse in elaborate blue and red coats. They seemed utterly oblivious to the men moving towards them at an increasing pace. Steel could only assume that they had been informed by their commander that the ground to their right was impassable. The Frenchmen must have seen the Hanoverian horse assembling to begin their advance. He pictured their squadron commanders, sitting high and proud on some of the finest horses to be found in France, laughing in genial conversation, although they must have been quite aware of the movement on their flank. He watched them. He too had gauged the lie of the land and had noticed the marshes that ringed the position, presuming them impassable.
He found Williams and Hansam standing at his side. ‘Well, gentlemen, what d’you make of that then? Have our generals gone quite mad? First they keep us here the best part of the day, and now it seems they intend to send the best of our cavalry into a bog.’
Williams, apparently ignoring or unaware of Steel’s comments, spoke with curious and undisguised reverence as he stared at the cavalry’s advance. ‘It’s quite brilliant. Incredible.’
Steel looked at him quizzically. ‘Tom? Is it catching, this madness? Don’t bring it near me. What the devil are you talking about? You can see as well as I that that ground is utterly unsuited to cavalry. It’s a marsh, for God’s sake. Why, even the foot would be hard pressed to pass through that quagmire. It’s madness.’
Williams spoke in a tone appropriate to his junior position, yet firm in its purpose. ‘No, sir, it’s not mad. You see, that marsh is not what it seems. I had the truth of it this morning from Harrington. I don’t think you know him. He’s a cornet in Hay’s Dragoons, attached to the staff. Sound fellow.’
‘Get on with it.’
‘Sorry, sir. Fact is, though, it’s firm ground. As firm as that on which we stand ourselves.’ He stamped his foot. ‘It merely looks like a bog from the sheen of water that it keeps on its surface. Like oil floating in a bath, if you know what I mean.’
Steel stared at him and wondered quite when the young man had taken a bath in scented oils.
Williams continued. ‘Harrington says the engineers told him it could support a train of artillery and more. It’s brilliant, sir. D’you see? For the French are not aware of the truth of the matter. They’ll be cut to ribbons.’
Steel looked again and saw that now several of the French cavalry officers were pointing in the direction of the advancing Germans. They were laughing. He presumed that they would be mocking the decision of the Hanoverian commander to send his horse into a marsh. ‘Christ almighty. You’re right. Look at them, Henry. They don’t know. Haven’t a clue. They’ll be caught off their guard. D’you see? It is brilliant. Well done, Tom.’
The Hanoverian horse were advancing at the gallop now, for, as usual on the field, the sheer weight of man and horse together did not allow them to break into a full charge. But Steel knew that they would still have more than sufficient momentum to smash into the French line with full effect. The French for their part still had not moved, even though the enemy were now apparently crossing the impassable marsh. As Steel looked on, though, he noticed some of the French officers beginning to turn their horses away from the assembly and to rejoin their squadrons and troops. Within a few moments he realized that the French would learn the salient lesson that in battle there can never be any substitute for diligent intelligence. It was a lesson that would cost many of them their lives.
He recognized the Hanoverians now, General Jørgen Rantzau’s brigade of dragoons, part of Cadogan’s own command, a blaze of white-uniformed German mercenaries in English pay whom he knew bore no love for the French or their Swiss allies stationed behind them, all of them mounted uniformly on huge bay horses. Eight squadrons of Hanoverian horse, some twelve hundred men. A sparkle of flashing light caught his eye, and Steel saw the sun glint off the long, straight cavalry swords which rested on their right shoulders, honed, he guessed, to an edge like a butcher’s cleaver and constructed specifically so that the slightest motion exerted at the hilt might make the blade fall like a hammer on whatever lay below: flesh, bone or sinew. He looked on, horribly fascinated, as the Hanoverian horse closed with the French, who still had not moved. He watched closely and saw the final moment at which the French at last realized their peril. He kept looking as in a horrible instant there was a commotion in their still static ranks. He saw the sudden movements as the unflappable officers screamed useless commands to wheel to the right, to face the oncoming enemy. To draw sabres. But it was too little and too late to save the French, and now, as the white-coated Hanoverians on the big horses drove on relentlessly, the final act of horror unfolded before him.