Authors: Iain Gale
Sitting on the grass, in a hollow of ground that afforded them protection from the musket fire that poured constantly from the village, and surrounded by the remnants of his half-company, Steel looked down towards the Danube and wondered how long this respite might last.
Slaughter’s respectful cough brought him back to the present. The Sergeant was accompanied by two Grenadiers and between them stood what appeared to be a prisoner.
‘Mister Steel, Sir. Thought you might be interested in this one. Caught him down by the water, Sir. He was asking for you by name.’
The Sergeant, who Steel now saw to be grinning, stepped aside and he looked at the man they had brought in. He was dripping wet and clad merely in his shirt and breeches. Steel looked at his face and knew him instantly. There could be no mistaking Sergeant Stringer’s smile.
Marlborough too was smiling. And so he might. On the stretch of ground between Blenheim and Oberglau he had managed to assemble a full eighty squadrons of horse, principally English, and no less twenty-three battalions of foot. And some of the finest of them at that. He scoured the French lines with his glass then handed it to Cardonell.
‘Tell me what you see, Adam.’
‘I see cavalry, Sir. Around fifty squadrons. And infantry, Your Grace. Nine perhaps ten battalions.’
He handed the glass back to the Duke who snapped it shut and smiled.
‘Gentlemen, I believe that we have them. They are outnumbered by two if not three to one in the centre. There is not a moment to lose. Cadogan, give the order for a general advance.’
Slowly and deliberately, the great lines of horse and foot
which the Commander-in-Chief had so carefully marshalled between the villages, began to move across the plain. And the French, who had thought themselves to be in the ascendant, instantly saw that their fortunes had turned. The great mass of red and blue continued its march across the plain and up the slight slope towards the French lines. Marshal Tallard, back at last in the centre of his line after a protracted conference with Marsin, saw them come. He called for reinforcements, looked to his rear and saw nothing. Marsin turned to one of his aides. Where, he asked, were the reserves? Those twelve battalions of infantry he had earmarked specifically for this task. The aide looked at him and raised his eyebrows. He pointed and uttered but one word: ‘Clerambault’. Tallard followed the line of the man’s arm, down towards the right flank, towards the Danube and the little village of Blindheim. And in that single moment he knew that the battle was lost.
Steel could hardly credit his good fortune. If Stringer was to be believed, and there was no reason to doubt a man who would have bargained away his own mother for a tot of rum, then Jennings was in Blenheim.
‘And you saw him, Stringer?’
‘Clear as day, Sir. He’s there all right. Major Jennings in the flesh. They’ve given him a command too. An’ if I know him he’ll take it. He’s nothing but a liar, Mister Steel, Sir. Beggin, your pardon. But he lied to me, told me as you was a traitor, Sir. As I should kill you. It was never my idea, Sir. He lied all along. An’ I won’t be lied to, Sir. Not me.’
Whatever his motives, and despite the fact that in their recent encounter, Steel had almost emasculated him, Stringer had done as he was bidden by the Lieutenant and betrayed his former master.
‘You have give me what I need Stringer. No more will be said.’
‘Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Mister Steel. If there’s anything else I can do. Anything at all. Any way I can be of service …’
Slaughter cut in.
‘That’s enough, I think.’
Stringer looked at him, his eyes filled with hate. He clasped the bag of coins to his sodden chest.
Steel beckoned to Slaughter to come close as the two Grenadiers marched away, and Stringer moved apart from them in the cover of the knoll, counting his money.
‘Wait until he’s finished counting it, Jacob. Two minutes. Then, quick as you can, put him under arrest and have him taken to the rear. Colonel Hawkins’ orders.’
‘My pleasure, Sir.’
Slaughter walked slowly across towards the grinning, sodden Sergeant.
Steel needed to get into the village now. When, he wondered, would they go in again? For the last two hours they had played a frustrating and costly game of cat and mouse with the French defenders. The British and Hessians would advance by platoon and fire before retiring, while the French would periodically attempt a sortie, only to be spotted and beaten back. The ground before them was littered with redcoated corpses. But for half an hour now some of the allied cannon had also been playing upon the village, and God knew what conditions were now like behind those ramparts. It was a siege in miniature. A war of nerves. And Steel was beginning to lose his patience.
Somewhere in those houses, not 200 yards to his front, lay documents vital to the allied cause and to the fate of his Commander-in-Chief. Documents too on whose safe retrieval depended his own future and his honour. And they lay with
the man who had violated the woman he loved. Steel was not about to not let a few thousand Frenchmen stand in his way. Somehow, he was determined to find a way into Blenheim. To find Aubrey Jennings and to settle their quarrel once and for all.
From the position back on the eminence above Oberglau, among Marlborough’s staff, Hawkins was able to observe the advance of the centre. The cavalry under Lumley and Hompesch were moving forward steadily in three waves at a smart trot, their ranks thigh to thigh, swords drawn as had been directed. Marlborough spoke:
‘You see, James, how they have been forced to form square against our cavalry. Now we shall see wherein lies the true talent of Colonel Blood.’
As he finished a battery of nine English cannon opened up on seven large battalion squares of French infantry. It was a valiant stand, but even from this distance the results were clearly evident.
‘Partridge shot at a hundred yards, James. By God, but that man is the very father of artillery. Look.’
Holcroft Blood, Marlborough’s redoubtable Colonel-in-Chief of artillery, had loaded his cannon with partridge shot – a linen bag, containing dozens of musket balls or those more normally used in game shooting. The effect at close range was almost always devastating, killing and maiming scores of men with every shot. Two of the French squares, so bombarded, had now been reduced to little more than a rabble, attempting to form. The other had taken heavy casualties, but still appeared largely intact and was attempting to move to the rear.
Marlborough turned to Cadogan.
‘Have you the time, George?’
‘I believe that it is close on six o’clock.’
‘Send a message to Lord Cutts. Ask him if he will oblige me once more by holding the enemy a little longer. He may, if he thinks it prudent, wish to make an assault upon the village. If he cares to look he will see that Blenheim will shortly be surrounded.’
He was right.
Looking across the plain Hawkins could see the first elements of the allied cavalry sweeping across the open ground between Oberglau and Blenheim, driving before them the ragged mass of Tallard’s and Marsin’s combined horse and dragoons.
Marlborough grinned.
‘Gentlemen, I think now that I might allow myself to commune with the remaining squadrons of our horse as they take the field.’
For the first time that day, the Duke drew his own sword and raised it high in the air.
He turned his head.
‘Trumpeter. Sound ‘Charge’. Gentlemen, will you join me? We have a victory to complete.’
The order to renew the attack on the village had come as a merciful release. Like all of Cutts’ beleagured infantry, waiting on the outskirts of Blenheim, Steel and the Grenadiers could hear the unmistakable ten rising notes of the cavalry charge flooding the battlefield as squadron after squadron poured though the ever-widening gap in the centre of the French line.
One of the youngest of the Grenadiers, Collins, a Hampshire ploughboy, tapped Slaughter on the arm:
‘Look Sergeant. Look over there. The French are retreating. Look. It’s a miracle, Sergeant.’
‘If it’s a miracle then it’s His Grace the saintly Duke of Marlborough as is the miracle worker. That’s no bloody miracle, lad. That, Collins, is just the British army doing what it came here to do. Murder the bloody French. Now stop looking, lad and get killing. This place is still full of the buggers.’
There was truth in Slaughter’s brutal words. The centre might have broken, but the battle was far from over in the village. There was still plenty of time for men to die. Steel knew how many they might lose assaulting such a place. And yet, from what he had seen on previous forays, he guessed that now their losses might not be as crippling as they could have been. For if the French had fortified well then their infantry were in despair. He could not believe the folly. Their commanders had crammed men into every house and every street with the result that few of the infantry would be able to gain a clear field of fire to shoot at the advancing English.
He heard Frampton’s voice at the rear of the battalion:
‘Stand-to. Officers, take positions.’
This was it then. Once more and they would be in there. And then he would find Jennings. He looked across to Hansam.
‘Henry, I’ll take half the company to the left. We’ll move around the south of the village. The Guards have taken the barricade and appear to be sweeping up the flank.’
Sir James’s voice rent the air:
‘ ’Talion will advance. March attack.’
They had no drums to play them on now, for two of the drummer boys had been killed and the others who were not wounded had been detailed to collect and tend any wounded out of range of the French. As one, the regiment stepped off and immediately the French infantry in the village opened up. The musket balls came screaming in like a swarm of bees.
Steel turned his head and shouted at the men, all of whom were advancing with their heads down as if in a rainstorm:
‘Forward. Keep on. Come on, with me.’
Some had gone down, but there was no time now to see who. They must be almost at the barricades now. The French reloaded again and levelled their muskets. Steel kept his gaze focused on the wooden wall. Only a few more yards. They were running now, their great red tailcoats billowing out behind them, bayonets levelled in the headlong rush. He heard the crash of the French volley and saw the flash and the smoke. Feeling a sudden stinging pain in his left arm he looked, instinctively, as he ran. A musket ball had touched his upper arm, leaving a small, smoking hole in his coat. No time now. Push on. Five yards out. They hit the barricade with an audible thud and then they were on top of it. They knew where to find a foothold now and threw themselves off the top down into the white-coated defenders. Some of the Frenchmen turned and tried to run, but caught in the press of ranks behind them, were spitted in the back on English bayonets. Others stood their ground and thrusting upwards with their own weapons, impaled their attackers as they jumped. But now the tables had turned and Steel saw that in the first rush enough redcoats had managed to find a place within the walls. He shouted to Slaughter:
‘Push on, Jacob. Just push forward.’
The battle became a struggle between individual men. A trial of strength in which musket butts cracked open skulls and bayonets, unseen at close quarters, struck home with surprise. Some men used their fists, while others gouged at their opponents’ eyes and faces, tearing away flesh. Steel stood face to face with a French soldier. He could smell his breath and stared hard into the man’s brown eyes as he ground his sword hilt hard into his jaw. He pushed with all
his strength and the man moved his head away for an instant. Steel did not miss the chance. Drawing back his sword arm he let fly a punch, using the heavy metal sword guard as a knuckleduster. It took the man square between the eyes and split his forehead wide open. He fell to the ground and Steel walked over his body to confront the man behind him. But the Frenchman did not stand. Turning, he pushed against the ranks behind him and urged them to retreat. From the rear of the disordered French infantry an officer’s voice was shouting commands. Whether they were to stand or to retire Steel never knew, but suddenly, as one, the mass of Frenchmen before the redcoats gave way and began to move back. A moment later and they were streaming westward, abandoning the streets on the eastern edge of the village. Steel knew the danger of premature pursuit. He shouted to Slaughter:
‘Sarn’t. Take the first two streets. No further.’
Steel urged the men forward. They worked their way cautiously down the narrow street, half crouching to present the smallest target, as he had taught them and looking from time to time up at the windows for the merest sign of a musket barrel. They rounded the corner of the last house in the street and emerged into a small square. Directly opposite them stood another house, its yard enclosed by a four-foot-high moss-covered stone wall. It was lined with white-coated infantry wearing bearskin caps. Steel yelled:
‘Christ almighty. Take cover.’
As the redcoats split left and right, the enemy, who in fact were almost as surprised as the British, opened up with a single volley from some thirty muskets. But his men had learnt well from Steel and moved fast. Just five of their number fell in the street, Cussiter and Collins among the wounded.
Instantly, Steel shouted.
‘Now, Grenadiers, with me.’
He knew that such was the press of men that the French could not possibly bring forward a fresh line of fire and would have to reload before they shot again. Now was their only chance. As the redcoats emerged from their cover behind the houses to the left and right of the narrow street, Steel could see that the French, guessing his tactic, had been uncommonly quick in their action. Most of the men in white had managed to prime their muskets and as he watched were busily ramming home their charges. He reckoned that he would have at the most five seconds. Heart thudding, Steel began to run for his life, stretching his long legs as wide as they would manage. Loping across the cobbles towards the French line he noticed his men doing the same, despite their long and cumbersome coats. Steel heard himself shouting.