Authors: Iain Gale
Jennings stared at the man. He was tempted for an instant to call him out. But then he remembered where he was and it also began to dawn upon his clouded mind that Michelet was right. In doing all that he had done, he had overturned the accepted code of honour and replaced it with one of his own making. A moral code for the modern age. He knew now that there could be no going back. Michelet made to ride off and then turned:
‘Oh, Major. I do have one other small request. I know that you will not take up arms against your own countrymen. Nor would I expect that, even from you. But we have a problem that perhaps you can help us with. In the fields to the rear of Blindheim there is a unit, a company, of what you might call “turncoats”. Deserters from your army. They are mostly English, Irish and Scotchmen. I would be obliged,
Major, if you would take them under your care. Bring them out of the village and advance them to the centre of the line, but well back. Out of danger. I assure you that there, according to the current dispositions, you will merely have to fight against Dutchmen and Prussians, if at all.’
Jennings nodded his head and smiled at the irony that he should be asked to command a detachment of deserters.
‘You are a clever man, Colonel. Of course I shall do as you ask. What else could I do? It is a small price to pay for victory. And anyway, from what you say, Colonel, the battle is as good as won.’
Michelet laughed.
‘Yes, Major. I do believe that there can now be no doubt about it. We are winning.’
Marlborough shook his head and looked to Cardonell.
‘Adam, ride to General Cutts if you would. Tell him most expressly that he is not to attack Blenheim again without my specific orders. He is to retire to … eighty yards and maintain a steady fire. He must keep the French pinned down in their positions within the village. Tell him to do so by moving forward his platoons in succession to give fire and then to retire each of them out of range of the French. In so doing he will subject the French to a constant, rolling fire. On no account is Lord Cutts to attack the position. He is merely to keep the enemy occupied and to prevent them from leaving. You understand?’
‘Entirely, Your Grace.’
As Cardonell rode off, Marlborough turned to Cadogan.
You see, George, that way we will be able to occupy close on a half of their entire force. Tallard must have 25,000 men in there. And we shall keep them there while expending but half their number.’
The Duke stared down at the carnage unfolding before him. He turned to Hawkins: ‘I think, James, that we can
leave General Cutts to handle Blenheim. He has his orders.’
Hawkins pointed towards the right wing where the rising palls of white smoke rose against the sky:
‘Prince Eugene it would seem also has a fight on his hands, Your Grace.’
‘His purpose is to occupy as many of the enemy as possible. He is quite aware of that. I am sure that he will not falter.’
Marlborough looked towards the centre of the enemy line. It was hard to make out how the fight was progressing.
‘What think you, James. Is the village ours?’
Hawkins put a glass to his eye and looked out towards Oberglau. Against his advice, Marlborough, bound by his alliances and promises, had given command of this crucial attack to the young Prince of Holstein-Beck, a strip of a lad who had arrived with them only yesterday. As far as both men were aware, he was utterly inexperienced as an officer. From what Hawkins could see it seemed that events had not gone as he had planned. The French had advanced out of the village and at their front both men watched as one of their battalions went crashing into Holstein-Beck’s brigade. Again Hawkins put the spyglass to his eye and looked closely at their standards. Three in particular caught his eye. A white cross with opposite quarters of green and yellow inset with crowned golden harps.
‘Irishmen, Your Grace.’
Marlborough grimaced. These were the famous ‘Wild Geese’, exiled Jacobites, who for the last twelve years had fought in French service. He knew well to beware of them and their burning need to atone for their countrymens’ flight at the Boyne, but this was beyond what he had expected from even these desperate men. As he watched the red-coated Irish infantry continued their advance directly into the two leading Dutch battalions, who instantly fell back in disorder.
A courier rode towards the Duke. A Dutch cavalry officer.
‘I bring word from the Prince of Holstein-Beck, Your Grace. He is in grave need of cavalry, Sir. He asks me to tell you that he asked General Fugger some time ago to send cavalry. But, Your Grace, Fugger will not send the men. He says that he cannot make any new dispositions without express word from Prince Eugene.’
Marlborough put a hand to his head.
‘It was as I feared. While Prince Eugene and I have the strongest of understandings, his generals will take no direct orders from mine.’
Cadogan spoke:
‘We must act at once, Your Grace. The Irish and the French to their rear will break our centre. The line will be cut in two.’
Marlborough called for paper and pencil and began to write. He thrust the note into the Dutchman’s hand:
‘Quickly. Take this to Prince Eugene. Direct from me. Make sure that he reads it. It orders him to send Fugger’s cavalry directly to Holstein-Beck. Then ride and tell Holstein-Beck that Fugger’s Cuirassiers are on their way. He must needs hold the line only until they arrive.’
As the man rode away Hawkins prayed that it would not be too late. Then, turning back to re-appraise the struggle in the centre of the line, he gasped and clenched his hands tight together about the pommel of his saddle. For the sight that now met his eyes told quite clearly that, for Holstein-Beck’s brigade at least, the promise of Fugger’s cavalry could no longer be of any help.
As they looked on, Marsin’s cavalry began to pour through the gap created by the Irishmen. Hawkins tried to determine numbers. Marlborough too:
‘James. How many of their squadrons do you count?’
‘Thirty, Sir. Possibly more.’
Thirty squadrons. Everywhere the blue- and red-coated horsemen were chopping down at the heads of the allied infantry. Within just a few seconds Holstein-Beck’s brigade had simply ceased to exist.
Cadogan saw it too.
‘Good God. They’ve broke our centre. Sir, the line is broke. D’you see?’
Marlborough spoke, still staring at the slaughter taking place down on the plain as the French cavalry whooped and hollered and cut without mercy into the dying Dutch and Swiss.
‘Yes, I can see, George.’
Now their entire centre was open and exposed. Within moments it seemed possible that the enemy might be about to drive a great wedge between the two wings of his army. They were about to lose the initiative. It was beyond doubt. The French were winning. There was only one thing to do and the Duke too could see it.
‘Follow me.’
Spurring the grey horse into a trot and then a gallop, Marlborough picked his way, followed by the six men of his staff and retinue, down the slope to one of the bridges built earlier that morning by the pioneers, and rode across the Nebel.
An officer rode up, covered in blood.
‘Your Grace, Holstein-Beck is wounded, and captured. All is lost, Sir.’
Marlborough turned away from him, to an aide.
‘Charles, bring forward the Hanoverians from the reserve. All three battalions. The Danish horse too. As many squadrons as you can find. And have Colonel Blood bring a battery, no, two batteries of cannon, across that bridge. Tell him not to worry. It will bear their weight.’
Even as the man rode off, there was movement to the right as Fugger’s Imperial Cuirassiers at last made their advance. The huge men, in their distinctive buff coats and shining silver-black cuirasses and lobster-tail helmets, mounted on horses chosen for their stature, rode down the slope from the right wing. Before their eyes all twelve of their squadrons crashed into the left flank of Marsin’s massed cavalry, taking them in that place that every cavalryman feared most, on his bridle-arm side, his most vulnerable area where his own sword arm could not swing to full effect. For a moment, Hawkins thought, it was as if a wall of steel had come up against a great blue and red rock. And then the rock began to give way, pushed back by the Cuirassiers clean into the centre of the French army. Marlborough turned to Cardonell.
‘That, Adam, was probably the most selfless and courageous act by any general that you will ever witness. Prince Eugene’s wing is sorely pressed, yet he sends me all the cavalry I desire and doing so saves the day. I thank God for his friendship and loyalty.’
It was three o’clock and they had been fighting now for near on six hours. It was clear that the immediate threat to the British infantry had been forestalled, but Hawkins, like Marlborough, was also profoundly aware that what he was now experiencing was that moment of crisis that lay at the heart of every battle. The epicentre around which everything hung. Marlborough echoed his thoughts:
‘We must contain the enemy infantry in Oberglau. Lord Cutts prevents their leaving Blenheim. We must do the same in the centre.’
Hawkins surveyed the field. Everywhere troops appeared to be locked at a standstill. Ahead of them the long lines of cavalry faced each other, neither prepared to make the first move, while on the right wing, Eugene’s advance too had
come to a grinding halt. If we should leave the field now he thought, they would say at home that the army had been licked. But the Colonel knew that was not Marlborough’s way. The Duke had one more hand to play and Hawkins had an inkling as to what it might be.
Jennings stood in the garden of a small half-timbered house on the north-west side of Blenheim village and inspected the group of dishevelled and surly men whom he had been appointed to command. While most wore the red coat of Britain, within the ranks he could also discern Prussian blue, and Austrian and Danish grey. There were around fifty of them, all told. Unshaven and poorly equipped. Most had lost their hats and they carried a risible assortment of weaponry, ranging from standard issue English Brown Bess muskets to fusils, dragoon carbines, swords and axes. The men were about as far from Jennings’ idea of soldiery as it was possible to get. But for the next few hours at least, his life was inexorably tied to theirs.
From the direction of Sonderheim a knot of riders appeared.
At their head rode an officer of some rank and he looked vaguely familiar. He was slightly overweight and his blue coat was more heavily embroidered with more gold on the lapels and cuffs than on any uniform to be found in the British army.
As they rode past Jennings and into Blenheim through the only road still open that led directly from three French lines, the officer reined in. He looked at Jennings.
‘Who are you?’
‘Major Aubrey Jennings, Sir. Late of the army of Queen Anne. I am prisoner of your army, Sir. I have given my parole.’
One of the officer’s aides rode forward to Jennings:
‘Allow me to present His Highness General le Marquis de Clerambault.’
Jennings recognized his drinking partner of the previous evening. He removed his hat and bowed. The General continued.
‘And who are these men, Major?’
‘Deserters, Sir. They have been placed in my care. But I believe, Sir, that I already have the pleasure of your acquaintance. We met if you recall only yesterday evening in the camp at …’
Clerambault, whose recollections of their after-dinner conversation were evidently not as good, cut him short.
‘And what exactly do you intend to do with them?’
‘I have orders from one of your officers, Sir. Colonel Michelet of the regiment d’Artois, to conduct them to the centre of the line where they will fight for your cause.’
‘Have you now? Orders, eh?’
He turned to the aide.
‘Michelet. Did I give any such orders?’
‘No, General.’
‘No indeed. I did not give any such orders. These men may be deserters, but they are here in my sector of the field and here they will stay, Major. You observe, I cannot afford to send a single man elsewhere.’
‘But, my dear General. What then must I do? You cannot expect me, an Englishman, to fight my own countrymen, which I must surely do should we remain here, in Blenheim.’
Clerambault thought for a moment.
‘Well, I do see your point, Major. But I am afraid that there is nothing that I can do about it. Here you must stay. Move from the village and I shall consider it a sign that you have broken your parole. And then of course, we will have no alternative but to shoot you.’
Jennings knew when he had been beaten. He smiled at the General and nodded his head. Clerambault looked as smug as his habitually self-satisfied expression would allow.
‘Good day, Major. I wish you joy of it.’
Jennings gazed after the little group and called down a curse upon the General, then turned back and gazed again on his company of misfits. He could not now lead them away from here and yet he could not lead them to battle against Englishmen. He found a sergeant, an Irishman, in the uniform of Orkney’s regiment.
‘Sarn’t. See that the men are, erm, well rested. Find them some water if you can. I’m going to see if I can get a better view of the battle.’
The man did not move.
‘Sergeant. Did you hear me?’
‘If you please, Sir.’
There was an unpleasant inflection on the final word.
‘The men aren’t inclined to take orders from no one any more … Sir. Seeing as we’ll all be shot for desertion if we’re captured, and the easiest way not to get captured as we see it is to stay at the rear, Sir.’
‘Very well. We shall stay at the rear. But you’ll take your damned orders from me or you’ll end up at the front line. Now, just do as I ask. Keep a watch on the house. Keep the men together and keep them happy and I’ll make it worth your while. Understand, Sarn’t? There’s a quart of rum in it for any man who’ll obey me. I promise not to get you killed if I can help it and I’ll do my best not to get you captured. If you want me to, once this is all over and I’m in power, I’ll even get you a pardon. What d’you say?’
The disgraced Sergeant, summoning every ounce of what military spirit he had left in him, pulled himself up and snapped to attention. He turned to the men and began to
bark orders. To his surprise, Jennings saw that they obeyed. They too, he realized, must now live only by their own code of conduct.
He walked towards the house and, pushing open the door, took a final look at the deserters. One of them, though, he did not see. A small, weasel-faced man who had been standing in the shadows behind the rear rank as the new commander had approached them and who, with a skill learnt as a child in the alleyways of Holborn, had slipped away quickly and quietly through the backstreets before climbing down to the stream. There, stepping over the bodies of the wounded who had crawled there to die and colour its waters with their blood, he had cast off his coat and plunged in, intent on swimming across to the allied lines. For he had a message to deliver.
Steel rubbed at his face with his hands and tried to summon a glimmer of hope. As he had known it would, their second attack had foundered. Oh, they had pushed the French back from the ramparts. Had even in some cases penetrated the streets. But it had been in vain. Blenheim was a curious, straggling village. More a collection of individual farms, set side by side, each with its own yard and grounds, and each one making a highly defensible position. The place was packed with French infantry. There had to be 20,000 men in there. Faced with sheer weight of the enemy and too many strongpoints, there had been no alternative but to withdraw. And so they had pulled back to nurse their wounds and count their dead. Their casualties had been even worse than previously. The Grenadiers had begun to lose heavily. A total of seventeen were down now, of whom ten were certainly dead or dying. Worst of all, Nate Thomas had taken a ball in the chest and was dying slowly and painfully.