Man of Honour (30 page)

Steel and the others had moved behind the ranks now to just within the square. Looking between the Hessians, he could see the French quite clearly. And there in their midst he saw the captive colour. It was better than he could have hoped. All the logic of war dictated that whoever captured an enemy colour should instantly return with it to the rear to present it to the commander and receive the deserved honours. But the Frenchmen were carrying it back into battle. Steel looked for Slaughter.

‘Jacob? We have one chance.’

The Sergeant smiled. Steel turned to Rodt.

‘Captain. I have an idea.’

The French, advancing steadily now, were confident of an easy victory. A square, properly formed, might hold off cavalry of the line or irregulars. But they were the king’s men, the Gens d’Armes of France, and such squares as this, poorly formed and half their size in number, was no great challenge. They would advance towards one side of the square only and once within twenty paces of its face would pull up and wheel round as if they were fleeing to the rear. At this stage of course the square would open fire and perhaps five of the cavalry would fall. But then, at a given signal the survivors would turn and, with the infantry busily reloading, they would charge straight into the men and with another wave close behind them, ride down the side of the square. The rest would be as easy as sticking pigs.

As the cavalry grew closer, to within twenty-five paces, Captain Rodt ordered the ‘Present’ and twenty Hessians raised their fusils to their shoulders.

Steel followed suit.

‘Grenadiers, make ready,’

But instead of presenting their weapons, each of the redcoats delved into their pouches for a small black orb.

‘Light grenades.’

They touched the fuses and the bombs sputtered into life.

Some of the French cavalry saw what was happening and, almost at the moment at which they had been intending to make their feint, turned to retreat. It was too late.

‘Fire!’

With a crash the line opened up. And as it did the twelve British Grenadiers hurled their grenades, full toss. There was a brief instant in which the world seemed to stand still. Then the bombs exploded and the pride of the French cavalry dissolved in a sea of flame and blood.

Through the smoke Steel saw the carnage. Horses falling on one another and crashing into those in front. He turned to Slaughter.

‘Come on.’

Together the two men ducked between the three ranks of the front of the British square and waded into the nightmare. Now the jubilant Frenchman who had taken the colour and slain the Ensign lay trapped with his prize beneath his disembowelled horse. Panic had seized the highly strung mounts of the Gens d’Armes, who yet remained unhurt, and they were galloping in every direction, unseating their riders and flailing wildly with lethal hooves that broke skulls and shattered limbs, indiscriminate of their uniform.

In all the unfolding misery though, Steel’s attention was only focused on one man. He stood over the Gen d’Arme and saw the despair in his eyes as the great blade of the Ferrara sword swung upwards and cut the Frenchman through his upper arm and deep into his chin, cleaving his face in two. Putting his other hand to the bleeding wreck,
the cavalryman dropped the standard and was finished by Slaughter with a blast from his gun. Steel picked up the fallen silken square on its pole and clutching it to himself ran back towards the lines. Another Frenchman rode out of the mass and reached to cut at Steel’s back, but Slaughter had seen him and, thrusting up with the short sword, skewered him through the belly. More Grenadiers were with them now, deep in the mêlée and pulling the horsemen from their saddles. But Steel knew that was no time to get carried away.

‘Grenadiers, to me.’

They followed instantly, as one, not hesitating to question his command. Secure in their faith and trust. Racing for the lines, Steel, Slaughter and the men who had rushed out to help them, reached the safety of the Hessian square. The ranks opened barely wide enough to admit them and had only just closed when Rodt barked the command:

‘Fire.’

Another volley sang out and what remained of four squadrons of the cream of the French cavalry turned and fled, leaving their dead and dying strewn on the ground before the breathless British and German infantry. From his right Steel heard hoofbeats and the echo of a hurrah. Into his line of sight erupted more red-coated cavalry, unmistakably English this time, General Wyndham’s Horse, five squadrons of them, charging across the scrub in pursuit of the broken Gens d’Armes. The French still outnumbered them by almost seven to five, but for all their boasted pomp they were no match for the British horsemen. It was a perfect display of the power of disciplined use of the cavalry. The British allowed the Frenchmen to outflank their three centre squadrons and then came at them from three directions, broke and routed the flanks, and then smashed into the centre.

Steel watched as they closed with the stragglers, taking
them in the back with their long swords, keen to the battle and hungry for blood. On and on rode the English dragoons until, coming under fire from the village, they were forced to retire.

Steel, still recovering his breath, sheathed his sword and took his leave of Captain Rodt. Then, cradling the bloody colours in his arms, he left the Hessian square, followed by Slaughter and the Grenadiers and walked across the allied lines towards the reformed remains of Rowe’s brigade. He found Sir James Farquharson, nursing a slight sword cut to his arm, in agitated conversation with Charles Frampton. As he approached, Steel saw Farquharson’s incredulous gaze fall on the bundle in his hands.

‘This is yours I believe, Sir.’

He offered his Colonel the colour.

Farquharson took the tattered square of red and gold embroidered silk and looked at Steel.

‘Lieutenant Steel. My word. Indeed.’ Pon my word. You are a hero, Sir. An honour to the regiment. To the army. The Captain-General shall hear of this. Well done, Sir.’

He shoved the bloody rag at Frampton.

‘Frampton. What say you? Mister Steel has rescued the colour.’

Frampton smiled.

‘Yes, Steel. Well done. Very well done.’

He turned back to the Colonel.

‘As I was saying, Sir James, we must re-form. Lord Cutts commands that we must attack the village once more. He promises artillery support when it can be got but the ground is too infirm. We must go again, Sir.’

Leaving them, Steel regained the ranks of the Grenadiers, who had now re-formed as a single company. The men had formed two ranks and Slaughter was taking a role-call. Close
by he found a smiling Henry Hansam, his head wrapped in a bandage, improvised from a torn shirt, and Williams, who had taken a sword cut to his hand.

‘Are you hit, Tom?’

‘No sir, merely a scratch. I got the blaggard though.’

‘Well done. You had better bind it up. We’re going in again.’

Hansam shook his head.

‘Surely not, Jack. Not without covering fire from our guns?’

‘I’m very much afraid so, Henry. Cutts’ orders. Though I cannot see an outcome any different from the last. It would seem, gentlemen, that we are to be sacrificed to divert the enemy’s attention from whatever the Duke intends to be his real
coup de main
.’

From the rear came the sound of the drums beating the ‘stand-to’. Frampton’s voice rang out.

‘The battalion will form line of attack.’

Steel saw him, standing with Sir James beneath the tattered colours, held now by the only two Ensigns of the regiment, apart from Williams, who still remained unhurt. As the ragged lines came together, Steel turned to the company.

‘Grenadiers. Right of the line.’

He looked across to Hansam, Williams and Slaughter.

‘Good luck, all of you. We’re surely going to need it.’

Six hundred yards away to the west from Steel’s position a redcoated officer stood on the short ridge that ran from above the village of Sonderheim to the banks of the Meulweyer, the little tributary of the Danube that flowed through Blenheim.

For the past hour, just beyond the range and trajectory of Marlborough’s cannon, Aubrey Jennings had watched the British attack come in. Had seen the full extent of the slaughter inflicted by the batteries of twenty-four pounders directly
below him and the white-coated infantry packed into the village. He had watched Rowe’s men go down in droves. And he had known. Farquharson’s was not an easy regiment to miss and at one point he had even picked out Sir James himself leading his men into battle. That, he had to admit, had been something of a surprise. He had always thought the man something of a coward. But then this had been a day of surprises. For peering down into the smoke-filled plain, he had found the Grenadiers and there, at their head had seen the distinctive, bareheaded, unlikely figure of Jack Steel.

It was hard at first to think that he could be anything more than a ghost, so well had Jennings convinced himself that Steel was dead.

That initial shock and fury had been tempered by the realization that Steel’s death could never have been as easy as he had imagined. The man was charmed. As much was evident from the way he lived his life on a knife edge and survived. Damn his luck.

Now Jennings had watched the scene before him play out with a more particular interest. He looked carefully as each of the small red figures went down and tried to see if Steel was among them. He lost him in the smoke of another French volley and then found him again at the very gates of the village. The man was indestructible. Surely though, his luck was wearing thin. How many could withstand the fury of such fire?

Jennings had watched the ebb and flow of the battle on the French right wing, casting the occasional glance across to his left where he was aware that the Imperial forces had taken the attack deep into the army of the Elector.

He had seen the redcoats retreat from Blenheim, or Blindheim as the French insisted on calling the village. And, as the smoke had increased in volume, it had grown increasingly
hard to discern any of the individual units, let alone a single man. When the French cavalry had gone in he had thought at first that the entire wing of the allied army must collapse. That French victory might come sooner than even he had imagined. But that had not happened. The French cavalry had come streaming back and once again the conflict might go either way. And whatever happened, he was powerless to play a part.

Jennings was roused from his worries by the approach of four white-coated horsemen. Colonel Michelet, with two of his regimental officers and a trumpeter leading a riderless white horse, had ridden up on to the ridge from their position to the left and rear of Blenheim. He hailed Jennings.

‘Major. Good morning. I presumed that I might find you here. I trust that you slept as well as I. There is simply nothing to equal a fine cognac as an aid to the digestion, eh? I see that you have been watching our display of strength. I am afraid, Sir, that it does not go well for your army.’

He wore a wide grin:

‘Look now. Your valiant redcoats intend to attack again. Don’t your commanders realize that it is quite futile? How can they prevail against such an army as ours, in such a position as this? You must find it very galling.’

Jennings smiled.

‘My dear Colonel. I am touched by your sympathy. But really, it is quite unneccessary. The greater the number of our men that fall today, the speedier will be Lord Marlborough’s fall from grace. It is the price that we must pay for salvation.’

‘Oh, you English. Always you must bring your Protestant moral ethics into everything. Surely, the papers that you carry to England will be sufficient to engineer Lord Malbrook’s destruction?’

‘I am quite certain of it, Colonel. But as
un gentilhomme
militaire
, you must surely appreciate that it can never do any harm to have the reassurance of a reserve?’

The Colonel laughed and patted Jennings on the shoulder.

‘And now, my friend, to business. The reason that I have sought you out. My General, the Marquis de Clerambault – I believe you met him yesterday evening – would ask you for a small favour in exchange for our hospitality. It is evident from your conversation with him that you are a man of some standing. That you are perhaps privy to the dispositions of your army?’

Jennings grinned nervously and tried to recall his boast of the previous evening. Exactly what he had told the pompous French General who reeked of brandy and stale eau de cologne.

‘Colonel.’

Jennings guessed what was coming next.

‘Here to your front, I perceive from your demeanour, is your own regiment. You will surely know with whom it marches. In which brigade. You will know which of these regiments are the strongest, the elite, and which the most likely to break. My General would be most grateful if you would ride to him – we will provide you with a horse – and advise him if you would of every such thing that you know. We are sending in another ten battalions to Blindheim. We believe your Lord Malbrook’s attack to be a double bluff. He intends us to think the attack here is a feint and that he will come at our centre. But we believe that it is Blindheim that he will make the real focus of his assault. You, Major, have the knowledge to tell us whether that is indeed the case.’

Jennings shook his head.

‘I am sorry, Colonel. You canot persuade me to betray my countrymen. You may continue to try, but I shall only
continue to refuse. Horse or no horse. But let me ask you something. Are you quite certain that it’s wise to place twenty-seven battalions in so small a village?’

Michelet laughed.

‘It is our way, Major. If we believe in a plan, we stay with it to the end. We reinforce in strength.’

Jennings smiled at the Frenchman’s bluff arrogance.

‘How can you be sure that I will not break my parole? Any British officer who vouchsafed such information as you have just told me would now be honour bound to ride back to his own lines and alert his commanding officer.’

‘But, Major Jennings, you and I have the measure of one another and I think that we are both aware that you are not “any British officer”. You are a particular type of officer. The sort of officer who might not be bound by honour, if the “salvation” of his country, and his own advancement in particular, might be served by a course of action which might otherwise be seen as “dishonour”?’