When he spotted a copse off to the right, he guided the cart towards it and vanished into the trees, swerving past their gnarled trunks, ducking low branches and seeing bushes thrash at the sides of the vehicle. For a few minutes, the canopy blocked out the light. As he emerged once more into the sunshine, he saw that he was in a field that rose gently towards a ridge. Going halfway up it, Daniel brought his horses in a complete circle and headed back towards the copse. When the soldiers came galloping out of the trees, therefore, they saw the cart aimed directly at them. One of the horses flew into a panic, rearing up on its hind legs then bolting so uncontrollably that its rider struggled to stay in the saddle.
Daniel tugged on the reins and brought the cart skidding to a halt, sending clods of earth spinning into the air. Then he picked up his sword, jumped into the rear of the cart and beat off the attack from the other soldier. Hacking away at him, the man was trying to dislodge his weapon so that he could overpower him and take him prisoner. Daniel had no time for the niceties of swordplay. Snatching up the rope that had earlier held him, he lashed out at the horse’s head and made the animal neigh in terror. As it tossed its head sideways and came round in a half circle, Daniel ducked under the swishing sabre that was aimed at his shoulder then thrust upwards with his own sword. Its point went deep into the stomach of the soldier and caused him to drop his weapon.
Swearing loudly, he fell into Daniel’s arms and used the last of his strength to beat feebly at his chest. Daniel lowered him to the ground, withdrew his sword and thrust it through his heart to spare him a lingering death. Then he mounted the horse and rode off at a gallop with blood still dripping from his sword.
* * *
Vendôme was pleased to welcome Sophie Prunier back into the French camp and to hear a full account of her adventures. He was grateful for the detail she was able to provide of the enemy and was amused at the way she’d deceived even the Duke of Marlborough.
‘I’d be the first to admit that I never expected you to be rescued by Captain Rawson,’ he said, ‘but I feel that it worked out to our benefit in the end. You are to be congratulated.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ she said.
‘I think you’ve earned a reunion with your husband now. You’ll find Lieutenant Bouteron waiting for you in his quarters.’
‘Before I go, I must give you a warning. Captain Rawson set out for this camp for the second time. According to what I was told, he’s anxious to retrieve his sword.’
Vendôme gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I assisted him,’ he said. ‘The captain was arrested and brought before me. Since he was so keen to have his sword, I sent it with him to Versailles. I’ve left it to His Majesty to determine the fate of Daniel Rawson. My guess is that we shall never hear of the fellow again.’
Henry Welbeck ate the last of the cheese then washed it down with a swig of wine. The loaded pistol lay beside him. He was sitting in the darkness on top of the hill near the farmhouse used by the deserters as their refuge. His thighs were smarting and his crotch felt as if it were on fire. He’d never ridden so hard or so recklessly as he had when he fled from the scene of the ambush, and he vowed that he’d never do so again. One of the horses had had to be left behind. The other was now munching what was left of the hay stored at the farmhouse.
He heard the jingle of a harness first. The slow clip-clop of hooves followed. Pistol in hand, Welbeck was ready to shoot. Then he saw a familiar profile coming out of the gloom and laughed happily.
‘Here he is at long last,’ he teased. ‘What kept you, Dan?’
The first thing that Daniel did when they returned to camp was to seek out Amalia Janssen in her tent and assure her that he was safe. He gave her only an attenuated version of what had happened and – when he showed it to her – his sword had been wiped clean of blood. Daniel was shocked to learn that Sophie Prunier had fled and shaken to realise that he’d been taken in so completely.
‘I should have been more careful,’ he said.
‘It was my fault,’ said Amalia. ‘I was the one who urged you to bring her with us when we escaped from the French camp. The person who has really been left with a red face is Lieutenant Ainley.’
Daniel smiled tolerantly. ‘That’s not unexpected,’ he said. ‘The sight of a gorgeous woman usually makes Jonathan blush and so his judgement is impaired. Like the rest of us, he was cleverly exploited by Mademoiselle Prunier. It took another woman to unmask her in the end. Your instincts were sound, Amalia.’
‘Where will she be now?’
‘Someone will have helped her to get back to Braine l’Alleud and she’ll be laughing at our expense. However,’ he went on, kissing her, ‘I can’t stay. His Grace will be expecting a report.’
Amalia smiled. ‘In the space of a couple of days,’ she observed, ‘he lost Sophie Prunier but gained Daniel Rawson. He’ll consider that a profitable exchange.’
Marlborough received a much more detailed account of what had happened in the French camp. While playing down his own role in the escape, Daniel emphasised how heroic and imaginative Henry Welbeck had been. Without the sergeant’s ambush, he stressed, he would have been taken all the way to Versailles for an unpleasant confrontation with the French king.
‘That’s an honour I’m happy to forego,’ said Daniel.
‘I’m sure that he’d have been very interested to meet you,’ said Marlborough. ‘Your escapades at the Bastille have made you a marked man, Daniel. Make no more visits to the enemy camp – that’s an order rather than a suggestion.’
‘It’s one that I’m happy to obey.’
‘We heard about your part in the arrest of the deserters,’ said Cardonnel. ‘Sergeant Welbeck featured there as well, I believe.’
‘He did indeed,’ confirmed Daniel. ‘Where are they now?’
‘Awaiting execution – they faced a court martial.’
‘Yes,’ added Marlborough. ‘Had you been here, they’d have been hanged already. We felt that both you and the sergeant would like to be present when those rogues dance on the scaffold. It will serve as a warning to anyone else contemplating desertion.’
‘What’s happened here in my absence?’ asked Daniel.
‘Nothing,’ said Cardonnel, pursing his lips, ‘absolutely nothing. It’s been a case of hesitation and inactivity. I fancy that the French are trying to bore us into submission. The impasse has been going on for weeks now.’
‘I had the dubious pleasure of meeting their commander-in-chief in company with the duc de Vendôme. My impression was that there was some discord between them,’ said Daniel. ‘If they are bickering about what strategy to employ, that could explain their indecision.’
‘It’s a mixture of indecision and natural caution, Daniel,’ said Marlborough. ‘We saw how Vendôme played his hand last year. He’d rather hold on to what they already have than risk a major battle. When I saw the size of his army, I hoped that he’d at last come out of his shell but he seems far too snug inside it.’
Daniel gave a hollow laugh. ‘Snug is not a word I’d apply to him, Your Grace,’ said Daniel. ‘He struck me as a man who’d prefer action. All that he requires is approval from Versailles.’
‘There’s the rub. The French have to get word from King Louis before they can move and we must have our strategy ratified by our allies. Neither of us can act independently. It’s the besetting sin of war by coalition.’
‘We could never win on our own, Your Grace.’
‘I know,’ said Marlborough with a melancholy sigh. ‘Allies are a necessary evil. I’d find them less of a hindrance if they managed to arrive on time. After all these weeks, Prince Eugene has still not made an appearance. Latest reports put his troops somewhere between here and the Moselle.’
‘Their movements will at least distract the French.’
‘We need them here, Daniel.’
‘I agree, Your Grace.’
‘If we are to save Brussels, we require all our troops.’
‘Only if the F
rench launch an attack, and there seems to be very little indication of that happening.’
‘There’s none at all,’ said Marlborough. ‘There was a time when their armies were the finest in Europe, sweeping aside all before them. Now they seem to have lost their stomach for a fight.’
‘We sapped their strength at Ramillies,’ observed Cardonnel.
‘We did, Adam. Their appetite for war has never fully been regained. What possible hope do we have of ever bringing this conflict to a satisfactory conclusion when the enemy simply cools its heels and watches us? It’s soul-destroying,’ said Marlborough, shaking his head. ‘The French refuse to budge.’
* * *
On 5 July, 1708 the French moved with speed and precision. After the long lull, they burst into life in the most unexpected way. While advance guards hurried on ahead of them, they left Braine l’Alleud with dramatic suddenness and marched westwards. Their first prize was the beautiful town of Bruges. Knowing of the general discontent felt towards the Confederate army, French sympathisers had worked hard to win over the citizens. They’d been forewarned of the dash to the west and, as soon as the army appeared before Bruges, its gates were flung open and the French were hailed as deliverers. A major prize had fallen into enemy hands without a shot being fired.
Ghent was a slightly more problematical target in that it had a garrison of three hundred British soldiers under the command of Major General Murray. They were not there merely to protect the city but to suppress any dissident elements within it. In the event of attack, they’d offer stout resistance. Careful planning was the secret of French success. General de Chemerault and his men infiltrated the city, disguised as peasants, with the aid of the former Grand Bailiff, M de Fouille. Its gates were firmly shut against the British. They were isolated in their castle and besieged by a French army whose numbers swelled by the hour. After holding out bravely for a couple of days, Murray and his men were forced to surrender.
Two places of great strategic importance had changed hands at a stroke. What the British had thought were foraging expeditions were, in fact, armies with specific targets in mind. Marlborough had been completely outfoxed. The French had made themselves masters of the middle reaches of the River Scheldt and of the canals leading to the coast. Marlborough was decisively cut off from his North Sea base at Ostend, the port with the shortest route from England. Any supplies coming from there would henceforth be involved in a longer and more onerous voyage.
Burgundy and Vendôme had earlier had their differences over which tactics to employ. What this operation showed was that they could combine their men into a highly effective fighting force. The capture of Bruges and Ghent delivered more than a profound shock to the Allies. They had to stand by and watch nearly all the gains made at the battle of Ramillies taken ruthlessly from them. Marlborough was rocked. The disastrous news stunned him. The French had achieved the kind of swift, unheralded, brilliant victory that was more usually associated with the captain general of the Allies.
The Duke of Marlborough had been beaten at his own game.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Reeling from the shock of the French victories, the Allied armies took time to recover. Their morale was visibly lowered. They’d been led for so many years by the outstanding military mind of his day and, as a consequence, enjoyed a magnificent record of success. The sudden reversal of fortunes called that success into question. Marlborough had failed them. There could be no equivocation about that. His prestige – so vital a factor in controlling an army of British, Dutch, Austrian, Hanoverian, Prussian and Danish soldiers – had been severely weakened.
Henry Welbeck was never a man to mince his words.
‘What’s got into the bloody man?’ he demanded. ‘We work our balls off to hold onto Bruges and Ghent then he hands them over to the French on a silver plate.’
‘That’s not what happened,’ said Daniel.
‘Well, that’s what it looks like to me, Dan. While we’re stuck here, waiting for signs of life from the enemy, they race off and capture two major towns. Why didn’t His Grace see it coming? Is he blind as well as fucking stupid?’
‘Moderate your language, Henry.’
‘I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking.’
‘Nobody can accuse His Grace of stupidity,’ said Daniel, roused to defend Marlborough. ‘He’s a man of exceptional gifts who’s waged this war with exemplary skill.’
‘Until now, that is.’
‘Even the best horse stumbles. I concede that mistakes were made but let me say this in extenuation. His Grace has been ill since the start of this campaign. I’ve never seen him in such poor health. To his credit,’ Daniel went on, ‘he’s never simply taken to his bed and abandoned his responsibilities. He’s forced himself to press on and give us the leadership that we need.’
‘We don’t need a leader who gives territory away.’
‘You’re being far too harsh.’
‘I’m being honest, Dan,’ said Welbeck, fiercely. ‘Our captain general has lost his way and I’ve lost my faith in him.’
Daniel was upset to hear such biting criticism of Marlborough from someone as experienced as the sergeant. It was symptomatic of a deep malaise that had spread throughout the ranks. The Allied armies had met with setbacks before but they’d never been blamed on its commander-in-chief. This was different. Such was the scale of their loss that Marlborough was being singled out as the scapegoat. Daniel felt that it was unjust.
They were trying to hold their conversation above the turmoil all round them. The army was striking camp. Along with all the other regiments, the 24th Foot would soon be on the march but they’d do so with a diminished confidence in their leader.
‘What are we going to give to the French next?’ asked Welbeck, cynically. ‘Are we going to sacrifice Brussels to them as well?’
‘We’re going to do what we always do – fight back hard.’
‘We have to find the enemy first.’
‘Our scouts are already at work, Henry.’
‘Where were they when the Frenchies made their dash for Bruges and Ghent? Why didn’t they raise the alarm?’
‘There’s no point in dwelling on the mistakes of the past.’
‘There’s every point, Dan. It’s the only way to stop the mistakes being repeated. Everyone in this army knows that forewarned is forearmed. Yet we had no bloody warning at all.’
‘The French deceived us,’ conceded Daniel. ‘They disguised their initial movements as large-scale foraging and we were thrown off the scent. They achieved a remarkable coup.’
‘In other words, they have better generals than we do.’
‘No, Henry, it simply means that they caught us napping this time. It won’t happen again.’
Welbeck was unconvinced. ‘I wish I could believe that.’
‘There’s something you’re forgetting,’ said Daniel. ‘I was inside the French camp only days ago. I know when an army is about to go on the march and I saw no sign of that whatsoever.’
‘That’s easy to explain,’ said Welbeck, bluntly. ‘You were too busy looking for your damn sword to notice anything else.’
The sergeant went off to yell at some soldiers who were too slow in taking down their tent. Wounded by the tart comment, Daniel had to admit that there was some truth in it. His single-minded pursuit of the sword had blinkered him. On his second visit to the camp, he should have taken more notice of what was going on there. He was still reflecting on his failure when Jonathan Ainley came up to him.
‘We’re on the move at long last,’ said the lieutenant.
‘It’s going to be a forced march. We can’t let the French outmanoeuvre us again. I hear that their main army has already crossed the River Dender and their pioneers will no doubt be breaking down the bridges at places like Alost and Ninove.’
‘What sort of a mood is His Grace in?’
‘I’m more concerned about his health,’ said Daniel. ‘His mood is as defiant as ever
but he’s suffering from a fever as well as a migraine. His Grace is hardly in the best condition to wage a war.’
Marlborough put on his hat, straightened his back and adjusted his coat. He looked pale, drawn and in obvious pain. Alone with him in the tent, Cardonnel was anxious.
‘You shouldn’t push yourself like this, Your Grace,’ he said.
‘An army needs its captain general.’
‘Not if he’s indisposed. Your doctor advised complete rest.’
‘At a time like this,’ said Marlborough, ‘I can’t afford to rest.’
‘Your migraine has been worse than ever today.’
‘That’s why I’m so determined to strike back at those who gave it to me. Burgundy and Vendôme are the authors of my headache.’
‘Too much activity will only make it worse, Your Grace.’
‘Then I’ll have to endure it.’
‘I think it’s time that you put your health first for once.’
‘Stop fussing over me,’ said Marlborough, good-humouredly. ‘You’re sounding like my dear wife. If I so much as cough, she thinks that I’m about to expire. Take heart, Adam,’ he went on, ‘I’m not nearly as bad as I must look.’
Though he recognised it as a patent lie, Cardonnel said nothing. Nobody had been in such constant contact with Marlborough as his secretary and he’d been able to gauge the steady deterioration of the other’s health. More worryingly, he’d also seen him sink lower and lower into melancholy. Physical exhaustion was matched by a mental fatigue that had taken its toll on Marlborough’s brimming confidence. There’d been moments when he’d lapsed into unqualified despair.
For his part, Marlborough steeled himself to withstand the drumming inside his head and the creeping heat that turned his body into a furnace. In the face of a daring French strategy, he’d been found wanting and that had inflicted a deep wound on his pride. Accustomed to receiving unstinting praise, he was now being roundly condemned in some quarters. Ordinarily, when he walked around his camp, he floated on a wave of respect and affection. Both, he feared, had been forfeited. Silent reproach from his officers could be borne far more easily than his loss of esteem among the common soldiers. Corporal John had to earn back their regard immediately.
Fire and Sword Page 24
