by Iain Gale
‘Yes, Captain Becker. It is my intention to do so, and I am equally certain that it will prove effective. But we must search for some other element.’
Steel had a sudden thought. ‘Sir.’
Webb looked at him. ‘Who are you, sir? Introduce yourself to the company.’
‘Captain Steel, sir, late of Farquharson’s Foot. I have the honour to command your Grenadier battalion.’
Webb looked at Steel long and hard. ‘So, you are the great Captain Steel. Well, I admire your candour and your bravery, sir. Your fame precedes you. You’re a Scot, are you not?’
‘Sir.’
‘A Highlander?’
‘No, sir. My family home lies southwest of Edinburgh.’
‘You’re no Covenanter then?’
‘Sir?’
‘Did your people come out against King Charles in the late civil war? Where did your sympathies lie?’
‘My family came out for the King, sir. That was my father’s wish. But we are as loyal to the present regime as we were to the last. Whoever is the rightful monarch as decreed by lineage and by Parliament.’
Webb laughed. ‘So you are a politician as well as a soldier, Captain.’
Steel thought of his brother and how he too would have laughed at their conversation. ‘No, sir. I try to stay away from politics as much as I can. I am a simple soldier.’
‘One thing I suspect you are not, Steel, is simple. You wished to make a comment on my plan of battle?’
‘Of course I agree with you, sir, that the woods are impassable to infantry and cavalry in formation. But I have walked them this past hour, General, and men can pass through them quite easily, if unformed.’
Webb laughed. ‘That may be, Captain, but what difference will that make to the French? An unformed unit can be of no threat to us, surely, any more than we can use the woods to attack the French?’
‘I was not thinking about the French passing through the woods, but our own men, sir. I ask you to place half of my Grenadiers on the left wing, concealed within the woods, and below them a unit of Prussians, the Brunswick Erbprinz regiment perhaps. And on the right place the remainder of the Grenadiers and another battalion, equally capable of such a manoeuvre.’ He indicated one of the Dutch commanders. ‘Might I suggest the Heukelom regiment under Colonel de Villegas here. They were first recruited, I believe, mostly from country men from Zealand. They would do well in such conditions.’
Webb looked interested. Steel went on. ‘In fact the woods are sufficiently dense to conceal both bodies of men. My plan is that the men of both units should hide themselves as best they can in the undergrowth so that the French have no idea that they exist. Then we play out the battle according to your orders, sir. Following the bombardment the fire-fight will commence and the French will advance towards our position, coming to halt with their flanks each resting on one of the woods. That is our moment, sir. At a given signal, the Prussians and my own Grenadiers on the left and the other half of the Grenadiers and the Dutch on the right will rise up and pour volley after volley into the French flanks. We wait, of course, until they are in thirty or forty yards from our line, and then the trap is sprung.’
Webb stood back and nodded, and there was a general murmur of approval. Eventually the general spoke. ‘Captain Steel, your plan is bizarre and not a trifle haphazard, and certainly not within the rules of war. But it seems to me that it is our only hope against such odds and with precious little horse and no cannon. If the Danes agree, then you may carry out your strategy.’
He looked towards Colonel Carlsen, who was nodding in approval.
‘Very well then. But do not forget that you are gambling with two precious battalions, a sixth of my force. If anything untoward should occur, I shall hold you personally responsible as the originator of the plan. Do you understand?’
‘Perfectly, sir. And thank you.’
Steel stood with half of his new battalion at their start line on a track which ran through the woods to the left of the position. Around him he had gathered a small knot of officers. Three of them were foreigners from the other contingents which made up his converged battalion, and the other two were familiar faces: Hansam and Tom Williams.
He looked over his temporary command. In the front he could see his own company in their familiar red coats and mitre caps, worn since leaving the siege lines at Lille. Behind them came the other detachments, Danes, Prussians and Dutchmen mostly. They would not, he supposed, for the most part understand what he was about to say to his own men. But they might at least feel the spirit in which the words were said and through that his intention and the extent of his resolution to stand their ground.
He began. ‘We are to occupy the left wing of the position. This ground –’ He stamped his boot. ‘– right here.’ He sensed a stirring in the ranks and knew why. ‘No, men. I grant you that it is not our usual way to stand on the left of the line and that some of you may feel that is a dishonour. But let me tell you now, it is my doing and mine alone that we are here. I do not often take you into my confidence, but this time I shall. I intend to hold this position to the death. We are heavily outnumbered. I won’t pretend that we’re not. We have no artillery, and precious few cavalry, a hundred and fifty sabres in all. But we have something that the Frenchies never had. We have spirit. We can win, lads, just as we did at Blenheim and Ramillies and Oudenarde. And that we should win here today is vital, not only to the convoy but to the siege of Lille and, yes, to the entire war. If this convoy is taken then we may have to withdraw our lines at Lille and yield it to the French. But it’s not going to be taken. And we’re not going to yield. We’re going to fight in a new way today, lads. We’ll be fighting dirty and we’ll be fighting to the death. For one thing, we’re not going to show ourselves. Do not think the worse of any of this. It is still an honourable matter. But surprise is everything today. It is our task to take the enemy completely unawares.’
One of the men spoke up, Steel was not sure who. ‘An ambuscade then, sir.’
‘Well done, that man. An ambuscade indeed. Who’s a countryman here? A son of the soil. You, Macfarlane. You’re a farmer’s boy, aren’t you? Peebles, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Well then, you’ll know what I mean when I tell you to dig out forms. Use your bayonets for it. Make the sort of shallow hide that a hare would use. They don’t need to be too deep, but they need to fit your body. About half your girth. And that shouldn’t be a problem for most of you. I can’t see any man here who hasn’t lost a few pounds over the last few weeks.’
There was a short burst of laughter from those who could understand.
‘It’s the Duke’s new rations, sir.’
Slaughter growled, ‘Quiet, Stevens.’
Steel ignored the comment and those that followed it. ‘So you know what to do. Now be about it before the Frenchies come and spot us.’
Hardly had the men begun to dig themselves in than the French cannon opened up. Hansam’s watch showed two o’clock. Steel tried to count the guns from the individual shots and got to twenty before he gave up. Twenty cannon were more than enough when your own force was utterly lacking in artillery.
The guns hammered away again, but the Grenadiers, snug in their forms, remained unscathed.
Steel looked at the carnage on the open ground between the two woods.
Slaughter summed up his thoughts. ‘Poor buggers. He should have ’em lie down.’
Williams said, ‘Christ, how many times is that now?’
No one made a reply. He hadn’t expected one.
Another voice spoke, a Londoner: ‘We was happy to come away from Lille and the trenches and all that, but this ain’t any better, is it? I mean, just look at the poor sods.’
The voice came from one of the Grenadiers, crouching behind a laurel bush. Steel followed his line of sight and watched as a salvo of cannonballs rained down upon the infantry exposed in the centre of the position, cutting in half one man and bouncin
g on to disembowel another. At the same time another shot took off the moustachioed head of a Prussian musketeer and then the hindquarters of his commanding officer’s horse. Steel looked away.
‘Doesn’t do any good to complain, whoever said that. We’re all here to do a job. Your turn will come soon enough.’
Slaughter’s response came in a whisper: ‘That man there, you’re on a charge. And now shut it, Black. Think yourself lucky you’re not standing out there under that bloody barrage getting your bollocks shot away, and are nice and tucked up here instead. Get back in your hole.’
One of the men joined in. ‘That’s right, Chalky. Do what Captain Steel said. Imagine you’re a hare.’
‘And you, Wilson. I’ll give you bloody hare. Any more of your cheek and I’ll bloody well skin you alive meself.’
Black spoke again, his voice filled with fear. ‘They’re coming, Sar’nt. I can see them.’
Steel ordered, ‘Silence now. Quiet there, you men.’
It was five o’clock. Evening was falling fast now and it was clear that the French, having sustained their bombardment for some three hours, were keen to exploit the shock their guns had administered to the battered Allies.
Steel whispered to Williams, ‘Pass the word down the lines, Tom. Silent order till I give the command. Dead silent.’
The French came at them out of the twilight, the Walloons first, spectral forms in their off-white uniforms, their muskets held at the ready, advancing into a foe they presumed had been shattered by their artillery. Their drums were beating, and with their colours to the fore they came on down the side of the wood. And Steel waited. Waited until they were fifty, forty, thirty paces from the Allied lines. Until their front ranks were fully past him.
Steel stood up and peered into the darkness, and then, at last, he gave the command: ‘Now boys. Rise up, the Grenadiers! Present. Fire.’
As one, three hundred muskets opened fire from either side of the gap in the woods, into the French flanks.
Steel yelled, ‘Pour it on, boys. Let them have it. Reload. Present. Fire.’
Again the guns crashed out. The thick white smoke added to the confusion of the twilight. But there was no real need to see what was going on. The terrible shrieks of the French infantry told their own story.
Musketry lit up the night, and in the brightest of the flashes he could glimpse the enemy now. Line after line of them, six or ten of infantry, with squadrons of cavalry massed to their rear. But it was what he saw at the front of their lines that made his heart leap. The space between the woods had been turned into a pile of dead and dying men.
The French were bewildered, caught in a murderous crossfire from spectral and unseen figures in the woods on both flanks. They began to panic. Steel watched as men turned in all directions before being spun round dead by a bullet. The next man would then take up the infectious error, and so it spread until a whole battalion was running, and then another. Weapons were being thrown away, packs torn off in the scramble to escape the relentless, faceless musket fire.
Steel looked to his left and heard, before he saw, the jingle of harness that told him that a body of horse was advancing behind the Allied lines. For a terrible moment he imagined that it must be de la Motte’s cavalry which had got round their flank, but then he saw the guidon of a regiment of English horse and knew that these were not the enemy but reinforcements sent by Marlborough from the main army, and that the day was theirs. The Allied infantry began to cheer and then the silver sabres were slashing down again and again on the men in the white coats. The French retreat turned into a rout.
At the head of the troopers Steel glimpsed the figure of Cadogan, and wondered to which general Marlborough would ascribe the victory, his friend the Irishman or the Jacobite Webb.
Steel knew that it had been yet another demonstration of the power of Marlborough’s infantry. Having stood their ground under the French bombardment, the Prussians and Hanoverians had taken up the Dutch and British form of platoon firing, and that surely had been the initial cause of victory. But, he thought, more than this had won the day. Their triumph had been assured by the grenadiers, and through their use of unorthodox tactics. It was a lesson in the art of war, not least for himself.
Over and above all this, Steel had achieved a personal goal. He had commanded an entire battalion in action. It had felt good, as if it might have been the job he had been made for. Indeed, if he thought about it, he had actually commanded a brigade, for his plan had involved three battalions. The Prussians he had never doubted, and he wondered how the Dutch had fared on the left and prayed that they had not come to grief. He wondered whether he might ever have such an opportunity again – whether perhaps one day he might be Colonel Steel? He was still unsure where his future might lie, and the last few days had only muddled his head still further. On the one hand, there was the thrill of the encounter, and nothing could ever vie with the unique exhilaration of winning an engagement, particularly one such as this.
He had still heard nothing from either Marlborough or Hawkins about the success or failure of the Paris operation, but he presumed that he must not be entirely out of favour with the command, having been appointed to direct the converged Grenadiers.
He walked through the woods, sharing the occasional word or two with one of the men. Tarling had been shot and lost a finger, but it was on his left hand and not vital. He would fight again, thought Steel. Others had been scratched by ricocheting bullets, and one man’s leg was punctured by a piece of flying wood, blown off a tree by a French musket-ball. For the most part, though, they were in good spirits, savouring the pleasure in being alive that always follows a fight. He found Slaughter standing over one of the dead.
‘What are our losses, Sar’nt?’
‘Well, I reckon the General’s lost some nine hundred men all told, sir. As for us, our half of the battalion has lost thirty men killed, wounded and missing.’
‘What of our own company?’
‘I count four dead and six wounded, one of them as won’t last the night.’
‘Who’s gone?’
‘Connolly, sir, and Patterson. And young Wilson.’
New blood, all of them.
‘That’s a shame, Sar’nt.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘You were fond of him, weren’t you?’
‘Wouldn’t put it that strong, sir. Thought he might have had the makings of a good ’un, though. Pity.’
Behind them the English dragoons were still going about their grisly business, and the night echoed to sporadic gunshots and the cries of wounded men. To Steel’s right a Prussian band had started up, playing a victory march, and in the dead centre of the field a Dutch regiment had ordered their arms and were singing a psalm.
Steel took off his hat and scratched his head, wiping the powder smoke from around his eyes. ‘I’ve said it before, and no doubt you’ll catch me saying it again, Jacob, but there’s few stranger places on this earth than a battlefield.’ The psalmists’ voices rose to a crescendo and Steel grimaced and shook his head. ‘I never could stand that caterwauling.’
Slaughter peered into the night. ‘D’you suppose that convoy had more than powder on board? I’ve a terrible thirst on me.’
Steel laughed. ‘You’re not alone there, Jacob. But you won’t catch it now. It’s three days’ march back to Lille. Come on. We’ve a company to find.’
FOURTEEN
It had always been one of Steel’s basic tenets as an officer that he should share in all the hardships which his men had to endure. Surely if they enjoyed the glories of victory together, they should also be as one in moments of adversity. And today he knew was one of those moments. He was standing with Sergeant Slaughter in the forward trench before the defences of Lille. It was shortly after noon and the enemy had only recently ceased their morning bombardment. It had become customary during the lull for the company to take the opportunity to find their dinner, and Slaughter and Steel were staring disconsolately into
the bottom of a small black metal cauldron.
The sergeant was unusually agitated. ‘D’you see what I mean, sir? How can the lads be expected to eat that? I ask you. That there’s nothing more than a few stewed potatoes and turnip heads. Cattle feed, that is, sir. No good for nowt but cattle and pigs.’
Steel peered into the thin, unappetizing broth. He lifted a ladle of it out and sniffed at it, before letting it trickle back into the pot. ‘Yes, Sar’nt, I do see what you mean. Well, I also know that serving up such swill is not something that the Duke would do willingly, Jacob. I can only think that we must have a problem with supply.’
‘I thought we’d sorted that, sir. The fight in the woods and all that. Those Frenchies were fair beat, weren’t they? The supply column got through here, didn’t it?’
‘It did, Jacob, and we beat the French all the way back to Bruges. But remember, that was over a week ago. And d’you know what was in that column? It may have had enough powder and shells to supply our guns for a month, but you may be sure that the space they occupied on the wagons had to be at the expense of other provisions. In truth I suspected that this might happen. The Duke has always been careful with our food and drink. But why d’you think you’ve all been getting extra pay these past few weeks? Mr Williams had a word with me yesterday. In the place of vittles. That’s the answer. The Commissary’s been instructed to compensate the men with money for the shortage of food. You might say that was admirable of the Duke, and you’d be right. He’s one of the fairest men I know. But battalion stores are running dangerously low in all things, and I can only suppose it must be because the French have again cut our lines. For now all we can do is accept it and make do.’
‘Oh, I know that, sir. You know I do. I’m the first one to draw in my belt. An’ I don’t need rum to fight the Frenchies. But I don’t speak for myself, Captain. It’s the men. You know as well as I do that their bellies need to be filled for a fight.’ He paused. ‘And they were complaining last night about there being no rum.’
