Man of Honour (3 page)

‘Take yourself off to Marlborough. He’s down there, see? Tell him that we’ve found a gap in the line. That I’m going to attack and the way is open. Got that? The way is open.’

The young man nodded and, crawling out of the ditch, was soon up and running for the allied lines. Steel crept back to the other side of the gulley. Then, taking a deep breath, he stood up, hauled himself up on top of the forward bank, placed his foot on the turf at the top, sprang out and straightened up. He found himself standing, horribly prone, not ten yards away from a stretch of crude, basketwork gabions, behind a shallow ditch. He had not realized that they might end up quite so close to the enemy lines. What was even more alarming though was the fact that he found himself staring directly into the terrified eyes of a French sentry. For a second both men stood stock still. Then, with one motion they both reached for their weapons.

The Frenchman fumbled with the lock of his musket. Steel, having returned his sword to its scabbard to travel down the gulley, pulled at a wide leather strap on his shoulder and grasped the stock of the short-barrelled fusil which was standard-issue to every officer of Grenadiers. His gun though, was subtly different. It had begun life as a fowling piece, whose ingenious maker had contrived somehow to create a weapon light enough to carry all day out in the hunting field. It was able to fire tight-packed game-shot or a single ball with equal ease and was cut to fit Steel alone. So that – whether his quarry might be a Frenchman or a partridge – when he raised it to his cheek it slipped as neatly into place as if it were an extension of his arm. To mount it was the work of less than a second. And he knew it to be loaded.

Feeling his heart beating hard against his ribs, he pulled
back the cock with his right thumb. Felt the coldness of the barrel in his left hand and pressed his cheek close into the action. At that precise moment the Frenchman levelled his own weapon. Steel heard the crack of the man’s shot, saw the flash. He felt the ball as it scudded past his cheek and that same instant gave the gentlest squeeze of his own trigger and felt the reassuring recoil as the piece jumped back into his shoulder. The Frenchman dropped stone dead, a bullet in the centre of his forehead. But the two shots had roused the other enemy sentries and the defences in front of Steel now began to fill with men in white coats who looked with dumbstruck amazement at their dead comrade and the apparently suicidal solitary British officer standing before them. Hoisting his gun coolly over his shoulder, Steel drew his sword from its sheath and turned to the redcoats in the gulley below him.

‘Grenadiers. With me. Kill the bastards.’

He turned to face the French. Raising the sword above his head, Steel turned its point towards the enemy.

‘Farquharson’s Foot, follow me. For Marlborough and Queen Anne.’

Suddenly Slaughter was up beside him. A corporal joined them and other men followed. And then, with a great cheer, they were all up and running with him towards the French defences. Steel saw out of the corner of his eye, Hansam charging forward at the head of his half-company; far beyond him on the left of the attack a milling mass of redcoats indicated that the main body of the assault was still floundering. The white-coated infantry, taken completely by surprise by the sea of redcoats that had appeared out of the ground, at last began to cock their weapons. A couple of them dropped their muskets and ran. An enemy officer appeared waving his sword and gesturing at the French Grenadiers.
Five yards to go now, thought Steel. Three. At two yards the French opened up, with a ragged volley. Three Grenadiers fell. The remainder carried on and, reaching the earthworks, hurled their fizzing grenades deep over the defences exploding in a hail of flying metal and the screams of unseen men. Steel climbed on to one of the gabions:

‘Come on. Follow me. Into them.’

Managing to scramble over the top of the parapet, and followed swiftly by Slaughter and a dozen British Grenadiers, Steel slashed blindly down with his sword. The huge weapon was, apart from his gun, the only thing he had brought out of his father’s house. His first cut severed the forearm of a white-coated infantryman who collapsed screaming in the mud.

To his left he was aware of a flash of metal as a Frenchman, attempting to thrust home his bayonet into Steel’s side, was beaten off by a Grenadier corporal who swiftly turned the deadly point and stabbed home with his own bayonet, deep into the man’s gut. Another Frenchman, a huge sapper armed with a hatchet, attempted a swipe at Steel’s feet but he jumped clear and brought down his blade, splitting the man’s skull in two so that his head fell apart like two halves of a melon. A French officer approached him warily. A man almost as tall as Steel himself, with the chiselled features of an aristocrat. For a moment Steel thought that the officer was about to challenge him to single combat. Then the Frenchman saw Steel’s great sword and stopped. He nodded his head, presented his own rapier-thin weapon in a salute, close to his face, and brought it down with a flourish to his side, before making a shallow bow and backing away. Doing so, and with his piercing gaze still fixed on Steel’s eyes, he called to what was left of his command. Then, quite suddenly, the defences were empty.

Steel looked left and right and through the smoke could see nothing but white-coated bodies. He turned one over with his foot: the coat collar and cuffs were all white, the pockets cut in the upright. He searched his memory. That could mean one of three regiments: Espagny, Bandeville or Nettancourt. All of them seasoned regiments of line infantry. What were they doing here? He had been told that the place would be garrisoned by inexperienced Bavarians. Steel looked around at his own men. There were a few British down. Three looked dead for sure. One was sitting clutching a bleeding stomach wound and another had lost an eye. But the important point was that, as far as Steel could see, no one, thank God, was standing before them. He prayed that Pearson had made it through to Marlborough. That reinforcements would be with them soon. Steel turned to Slaughter. ‘Form the men up, Sarn’t. See to the wounded. We’re going to hold this place till help comes.’

Hansam appeared, covered in soot and mud, the lace hanging from his coat. ‘By God, Jack. That was hot stuff. Clever idea of yours. But what now?’

‘I’ve sent a runner for reinforcements. All we can do is stand and wait.’

Both men were looking towards the left wing at the centre of the battle. Through the drifting smoke they caught glimpses of the fighting. Men engaged at close quarters; beating each other with musket butts. Clawing at faces, gouging eyes. Then, as their vision cleared they were able to make out a body of red-clad infantry, apparently making directly for them. Hansam spoke first:

‘I sincerely hope that we don’t have long to wait.’

Steel saw what he meant.

‘Oh God. Dragoons.’ He called out: ‘Sarn’t Slaughter.’

For the French too had seen the vulnerability of their open
flank and now several squadrons of their confusingly redcoated dragoons, dismounted but as deadly as ever, were advancing with calm precision to retake the salient. But they were, he guessed, still just far enough away. Steel barked an order.

‘Grenadiers. Form lines of half ranks.’

With hard-learned routine, Steel’s men formed into three ranks. Hansam too was manouevering his platoon into formation and as the men moved quickly in response, Steel sheathed his sword and unslung his fusil. Taking up a position to the right of the formation, he shouted another command:

‘Make ready.’

In as close as they were able to manage to a coordinated move, the second rank of each platoon of Grenadiers cocked their muskets while the front rank knelt down and placed the butts of their weapons on the ground, being careful to keep their thumbs on the cock and their fingers on the triggers. One of them, a recent recruit, dropped his musket and recovered it in embarassment. Slaughter growled.

‘That man. Steady. Pick it up, lad.’

The rear rank closed up behind the second, their arms at high port and, as the manual directed, locked their feet closely with those standing immediately before them. Judging the distance of the closing dragoons, Steel continued.

‘Present.’

In a single disciplined movement, eighty men eased their thumbs away from the cock of their muskets and at the same time moved their right feet a short step back, keeping the knee quite stiff, before placing the butts of their weapons in the hollow between chest and shoulder. The dragoons were almost on them now. Steel could see their faces: tanned and with thick moustaches beneath fur-topped red bonnets.

He waited. Thirty paces. Twenty now.

‘Fire!’

The centre rank of Grenadiers opened up and as they began to reload the rank kneeling in front stood up and delivered their own deadly volley before turning neatly on the left foot and moving past the rank behind. As they did so the third rank brought their muskets down and through the gaps in the ranks to deliver a third salvo. This was the new way. The proper way to use the new muskets. This was why their ‘Corporal John’ had schooled them all so carefully. This, thought Steel, was real artistry. This was modern war. Seconds later he was proved right as the smoke cleared on a pile of red-coated bodies. The second rank of French dragoons, its officers and NCSs gone in the inferno of musketry, had come to a halt and stood staring at their enemy, unsure of what to do next. Among the British ranks corporals yelled orders:

‘Reload … Re-form.’

Looking beyond the hesitant, decimated Frenchmen, Steel could now see more infantry in red coats advancing across the plateau. A second squadron with fresh officers.

He turned to Slaughter:

‘Look. More of the buggers. Fall back on the gabions. We have to hold them, Jacob.’

He turned and peered towards the allied lines down in the valley.

‘Where the hell is that relief force?’

Quickly the two platoons of British Grenadiers fell back together towards the parapet.

Steel looked for Hansam. Smiling, he shouted across to him:

‘Can you do it, Henry? Can we hold them?’

‘I’d invite them to surrender, Jack, but I think they might have other plans.’

Steel laughed, grimly, and turned to Slaughter.

‘Right, Jacob. As you will. Let’s show them how it’s done.’

Again the Grenadiers assumed their three-rank formation and again, the red ranks began to close. Desperate, Steel turned to look down towards the allied lines. Pearson had failed. There was no one coming to help them. No last minute reprieve. So much for his brilliant plan. Their only way out was to take as many French with them to hell as they could. He strained his eyes in hope but was rewarded only with horror.

‘Oh, good God, no!’

Through the smoke, advancing up the slope towards their position, Steel began to make out tall, white-coated figures marching in close order. French infantry. A battalion. No, an entire brigade. Slaughter had seen them too:

‘Christ almighty, Sir. How the hell? They’ve got round behind us.’

Steel flung himself back against the parapet and closed his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Jacob. This wasn’t meant to happen.’

‘Nothing’s meant to happen in war, Mister Steel. It just does.’

Instinctively Steel started to turn the men. If one rank could about-face there might just be a chance to hold off the French in both directions. At least for a little while.

But he knew that it was too late. The white-coated infantry were too close. Steel cast down his gun and drew his sword. As he prepared for the worst, a lone, foreign voice floated up towards him from the white ranks:

‘Hallo there, in the defences. Are you English?’

This, surely was the final insult. To be asked for his surrender in such a way. Well, that was one thing at least he would not concede.

‘We’re Scots. Most of us. And we hold this place in the name of Queen Anne.’

‘Then thank God, my friend. We have come to save you.’

He couldn’t place the accent, but as the man stepped out of the smoke, Steel knew instantly. These were not French but Imperial infantry and Grenadiers, like themselves. He began to laugh.

‘Christ, but I’m glad to see you. We thought you were French.’

The Austrian officer looked aghast.

‘No, my friend. We are not French. We hate the French. Excuse me. Captain Wendt, Regiment von Diesbach.’

The Imperial infantry were among them now and as they climbed in through the gabions Steel’s men clapped them on the back. But the French were still advancing.

‘Take position.’

Slaughter had seen the danger. Again the ranks formed, joined now by the long line of Wendt’s men. The French, shocked by the sudden appearance of so many of the enemy, came again to an abrupt halt. This time, Steel knew, they would not wait for the volley.

‘Fire!’

Three hundred muskets crashed in unison and the redcoated Frenchmen, caught in the act of turning, fell in scores. Then Steel was up and in front of his men.

‘Now, Grenadiers! Now. Charge!’

With a great cheer the British redcoats rushed forward, smashing, bayonets levelled, into the remains of the dragoons. The second squadron did not stay to watch the carnage. Seeing his chance to press the advantage, Steel moved through the mêlée, waving his sword high above his head.

‘Grenadiers. To me. We’ve got them, boys. Follow up. Follow up. Come on. Follow me.’

Leaving the wounded French dragoons to the tender mercies of the Imperial infantry, the redcoats ran quickly to join Steel and Hansam, pouring pell-mell towards the centre of the fortification. To their left more Austrians were now climbing unhindered over the breastworks. There must, he thought, be a good 500 on the plateau by now. Yet the day was not yet complete. Suddenly, in a clatter of sword and harness, and with a chilling cheer, a squadron of red-coated cavalry swept past their right flank. At their head Steel recognized Lord John Hay. Marlborough was sending in the Scots dragoons. Some said they were the finest horsemen in Europe. Steel watched as their sabres swung and chopped at the heads of the French infantry like tops of barley. The Grenadiers pressed on now too, along the slope and directly into the exposed flank of the main French garrison. Then with a great cheer the entire allied line – the British and Dutch who for nigh on two hours had suffered at the hands of the defenders, broke in over the parapet. And then it was over. The French line simply fell to pieces.