For his part, Welbeck had a sneaking admiration for Daniel's daredevil streak, even though it sometimes threatened to bring a distinguished military career to a sudden end. He was also grateful to find one officer with whom he could talk on equal terms instead of having to adopt a deferential tone. When the two men were alone together, no rank existed between them. It was one of the few consolations in Welbeck's army career.
They were standing outside Daniel's tent on a warm July evening amid the routine clamour of camp life. When he heard the orders for the next day, Welbeck was contemptuous.
'We're attacking the Lines at Brabant?' he asked, eyes bulging.
'That's right, Henry.'
'Why doesn't the Duke simply issue us with razors so that we can all cut our throats? That's a much easier way to commit suicide than trying to storm well-defended French positions. They'll pick us off like so many rabbits.'
'The whole of the Lines are not fortified,' Daniel pointed out.
"That doesn't matter, Dan. As soon as we attack any part of it, Villeroi will rush troops to that particular spot and repel us.'
"They didn't repel us at Blenheim.'
'We had luck on our side that day.'
'I didn't think you believed in luck.'
'I don't believe in anything,' said Welbeck, gloomily. 'And I certainly don't believe in walking to certain death by leading my men against the Lines of Brabant.'
'You've led them into fierce skirmishes before now.'
"That was different. There was always a faint chance I'd come out alive, give or take a few nasty wounds.'
'You've certainly had your share of those, Henry.'
Whenever they'd bathed together in a river, Daniel had seen the injuries that Welbeck had collected over the years. Fearless in battle and driving his men on in the teeth of enemy fire, he had acquired many grotesque mementoes, including the marks on his thigh where a French musket ball had passed clean through and miraculously missed the bone. The slash of an enemy sword had been responsible for the gash on his cheek and the missing finger on one hand. His chest, back and shoulders were crisscrossed with other souvenirs of enemy blades. Only a strong man with a capacity to tolerate intense pain could have survived the battering taken by Henry Welbeck. He was a walking portrait of the perils of warfare.
'The Duke has finally taken leave of his senses,' he declared.
'He has a plan,' Daniel told him.
Welbeck sneered. 'Oh, yes, he always has a plan. He had a plan to strike into the heart of France through the Moselle valley but it came to nothing. All we did was to shiver in the cold and eat short rations because there wasn't enough food for us or the horses — so much for that brilliant fucking plan!'
'Have faith in him. As a soldier, he has no peer.'
'He's getting old, Dan. His judgement is starting to falter.'
'I disagree.'
'That's because you're so loyal to the Duke, you won't admit that he makes a wrong decision. I know he likes to give the impression that he's one of us and enjoys being called Corporal John, but we in the ranks pay for his mistakes. He gets off without a scratch.'
'His Grace is always ready to share our privations.'
'Yes — from the comfort of his coach.'
'You're being unfair, Henry.'
'I speak as I find,' said Welbeck, stoutly. 'You weren't there when we had to leave the Moselle in a hurry and charge all the way back up here to rescue the mutton-headed Dutch yet again. You went gallivanting off somewhere.'
'I was gathering intelligence on French soil.'
'Between the thighs of some trull, I daresay.'
Daniel chuckled. 'Well, yes,' he admitted. 'Except that she was no trull. Marie was a gorgeous young woman with a fondness for someone in a French uniform. Though, as it turned out, she was very reluctant to let me put it on.'
Welbeck raised a palm. 'Spare me the details, Dan. You know my view of females — they should be strangled at birth.'
'In that case, the human race would die out.'
'That's the best bloody thing that could possibly happen to it.'
He was about to launch into one of his tirades when he caught sight of a youth, walking briskly towards them with a regimental drum hanging at his side. Welbeck was irritated.
'Here's my latest affliction!' he said through clenched teeth.
'The drummer boy?'
'He's more than that, Dan. He's my nephew and he's got some lunatic idea that being a soldier is something to do with honour.'
'What's the lad's name?'
'Tom Hillier — he's my sister's boy.'
'You never told me that you had a sister.'
'It's something I try to forget.'
Daniel studied the approaching youth. Tom Hillier was tall, skinny and fair-haired with pleasant features yet to shake off all the signs of boyhood. His slender torso was emphasised by the fact that his uniform was too tight for him. From the look in his eyes, it was clear that he held his uncle in high regard.
Welbeck, however, stared at him with a mixture of distaste and resignation.
'What do you want?' he asked, gruffly.
'I just wanted to speak to you, Uncle Henry,' replied Hillier.
'This is an army engaged in a war, not a tavern where you can pass the day in idle chat.'
'I know that, Uncle.'
'Of course, you do,' said Daniel, looking him up and down. 'So you're Tom Hillier, are you?'
'Yes, Captain Rawson.'
Daniel was taken aback. 'You know who I am?'
'Everybody in the 24 ^th knows who you are, sir,' said the drummer with a sense of awe in his voice. 'On my first day here, I was told about some of your escapades.'
'And when was that, Tom?'
'Two weeks ago.'
'You've only been with us two weeks?
'Yes,' said Welbeck, sourly, 'and it's a fortnight too long. Tom ought to be at home, looking after his mother, instead of coming here to be butchered by the French.'
Hillier stiffened defensively. 'I'm not afraid of a fight, Uncle.'
'You can't kill anyone with a pair of drumsticks.'
'Strictly speaking, he can,' Daniel put in. 'Drums are vital instruments of war. Because they can be heard above the noise of battle, they're ideal for issuing commands. You know that as well as anyone, Henry. There was a time, many years ago, when you were merely a drummer boy.'
'That's why I joined this regiment,' Hillier explained. 'I wanted to follow my uncle's example. I've always looked up to him. I may begin with a drum but I hope to carry a musket in time.'
'More fool you, lad!' said Welbeck, scornfully.
'You couldn't have picked a better man on whom to pattern yourself,' Daniel observed. 'Henry Welbeck is the finest sergeant in the whole British army.' He winked at his friend. 'He's also the kindest and sweetest.'
Hillier smiled nervously. 'That's not what I've heard, sir.'
'Then you heard right,' said Welbeck. 'Look for no kindness from me, Tom, and expect no sweetness. Harsh words and a kick up that scrawny arse of yours are all you'll get from me or from any half-decent sergeant. We're here to mould recruits into good soldiers not to mollycoddle them. Your mother did you no favour, sending you here.'
'Mother tried to stop me joining the army.'
'Then you should have heeded her.'
'Why did you defy her?' asked Daniel.
'I've thought and dreamt of nothing else, Captain Rawson,' said Hillier, face igniting with pride. 'I love the sound of drums when a regiment is on parade. It stirs my blood. Back in England, I had a life of boredom on our farm. There's nothing heroic in doing all those chores. I want to see action on the battlefield. I want to fight against the French. I want to serve Queen and country.'
'Wait until the first musket ball whistles past your ear,' warned Welbeck. 'You'll change your mind then. Wait until you've filled your breeches with terror at the sight of an enemy attack. You'll forget all about Queen and bloody country.'
'I
think the lad's got more backbone than you give him credit for, Henry,' said Daniel, tolerantly. 'A willing volunteer should be nurtured. Welcome to the regiment, Tom,' he added, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. 'I'll leave you and your uncle alone to become more closely acquainted.'
'I don't want a closer acquaintance!' insisted Welbeck. 'I joined the army to get away from my family. As far as I'm concerned, they don't exist.' He glowered at Hillier. 'Did you hear that?'
'Yes, Uncle,' said the drummer, backing away. 'I'm sorry. Forgive me for intruding.'
After bidding them farewell, he turned on his heel and walked disconsolately away. Daniel watched him go.
'You're being very cruel to the lad, Henry,' he said.
'Tom needed to be told the truth.'
'He's your nephew!
'Yes,' said Welbeck, 'and that's what unnerves me. He reminds me of all the things I've struggled to put behind me.'
'Try to see it from his point of view.'
'He's a drummer, Dan. He doesn't have a point of view.'
'Tom is a callow youth, chasing his ambition. He's alone in a foreign country, cut off from his family and friends. He deserves a little guidance from his uncle. Is that too much to ask?'
'Yes, it is.'
'Even you are not that hard-hearted, Henry.'
'I don't want him here.'
'Why ever not?' said Daniel.
'Because he's a responsibility — Tom is someone I ought to care for, Dan. As soon as I do that, I know I'm going to be hurt. Let myself grow fond of the lad,' said Welbeck, ruefully, 'and what will happen? He'll be shot to pieces or trampled to death by a cavalry charge at the Lines of Brabant and I'll be the one who has to write to his mother.'
'You could at least be civil to the lad.'
'He has to respect my rank. Tom has to look at me as an army sergeant and not as a relative of his. If he were my own brother, I'd treat him the same way.'
'Blood is thicker than water, Henry.'
'It can be spilt just as easily.'
'Encouragement was all that Tom was after.'
'Well he won't get it from me,' said Welbeck, firmly. 'I'd never encourage anyone to join the army. It's a dog's life and my nephew will soon find that out — if he manages to stay alive long enough, that is. When he sees how many French regiments are defending the Lines of Brabant, he'll wish he stayed at home on the bloody farm.'
John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, was nothing if not a supreme strategist. Having lost the initiative in the Moselle valley, he knew that he had to regain it swiftly in the Low Countries. First, however, he was obliged to have a council of war with his Dutch allies. Seated around a table in his tent, they did not show great confidence in his plan. They believed that the Lines of Brabant — a series of strongholds, ramparts, palisades, redoubts and trenches running all the way from Antwerp to Namur — were an insurmountable barrier. To cross anywhere along its seventy-mile extent would, in their opinion, be to court certain defeat and heavy losses.
As usual, the general who led the opposition to Marlborough's proposal was Frederik Johan van Baer, Lord of Slangenberg, a proud and resolute man of sixty. He stood out from his colleagues for a number of reasons, including the fact that he was a staunch Roman Catholic in an avowedly Protestant army. From the very start of the war, he had been a thorn in the side of the commander-in-chief, questioning his every move, delaying his campaigns and refusing to acknowledge the victory at Blenheim as Marlborough's crowning achievement. It made for frosty relations between the two men.
'I dislike the idea intensely,' said Slangenberg, stroking his beard with aristocratic disdain. 'It's fatally flawed and will not deceive the French for a moment.'
'I believe that it will,' countered Marlborough. 'You prevented me from forcing the Lines two years ago and it was a costly mistake. I mean to break through them near Leau. Marshal Villeroi will then be drawn to that sector, allowing your forces, General Slangenberg, to find an easy way through the weakened defences near the Meuse.'
'It will not work.'
'My feint will deceive the French.'
'It would not deceive a child,' said Slangenberg, snapping his fingers. 'Marshal Villeroi will stay where he is and we'll find ourselves up against his strongest battalions. It's a foolish plan.'
Marlborough stifled a sigh and exchanged a glance with Adam Cardonnel. Councils of war were invariably a contest between British boldness and Dutch caution. To Marlborough's consternation, those contests were often lost and some of his most daring projects never outlived discussion. Another strategy now seemed in danger of being overruled. Fortunately, Marshal Overkirk, commander-in-chief of Dutch forces, came to Marlborough's aid.
'It's a sensible plan,' he claimed, 'and well worth trying.'
'You've always argued against an assault on the Lines in the past,' said Slangenberg, pointedly, 'and rightly so. Geography favours the French. Where they've not built fortifications, they have natural defences of mountains, hills and rivers.'
'Those natural defences can be pierced.'
'Not when we're outnumbered, Marshal.'
'There's no possibility of that,' said Overkirk, meeting his gaze. 'Many of the regiments will have been withdrawn to stiffen resistance near Leau. We'll have a numerical advantage.'
'Nonsense!' cried Slangenberg.
'Try to moderate your language, General.'
'It's complete and utter nonsense!'
'We must agree to differ,' said Marlborough shooting Overkirk a look of gratitude for his support. 'I have the greatest respect for your military experience, General Slangenberg, but, if I'd listened to your advice in the past, I'd never have ventured outside Dutch territory and secured advances elsewhere in Europe.'
'To do that, Your Grace,' asserted Slangenberg, 'you gambled with the lives of Dutch soldiers.'
'The gamble paid off handsomely on the Danube last year.'
'It failed dismally this year on the Moselle.'
'We're bound to suffer reverses from time to time, General,' said Marlborough, stung by the comment but reining in his temper. 'We now have a chance to make amends for what happened on the Moselle. Behind the Lines of Brabant, the enemy feel that they are wholly invincible. Since they don't fear attack, we have the element of surprise on our side.'
'Then we must use it,' said Overkirk with an authority that silenced even Slangenberg. 'A clever strategy has been put to us by our commander-in-chief. We must adopt it bravely.'
There was a murmur of support from some of the Dutch generals but Slangenberg was unconvinced. He brooded sulkily. As the council broke up, British and Dutch commanders rose from their seats and dispersed. In the end, only Marlborough, Cardonnel and Overkirk remained. Marlborough shook hands with the Dutchman.
'Thank you,' he said. 'Your intervention was appreciated.'
Overkirk smiled. 'It's a brilliant strategy, Your Grace.'
'That's why you needed to understand the thinking behind it.'
'It was good of you to explain. Had you not done so, I would have been in the invidious position of having to agree with General Slangenberg. On the face of it, your plan is a poor one.'
'It will not deceive Villeroi for an instant,' said Marlborough. 'I'm counting on that fact.'
'I hope that he reacts in the way you anticipate.' 'We know the way that his mind works.' 'The marshal has one glaring fault, Your Grace,' remarked Cardonnel. 'He believes he knows the way that your mind works.'
Marlborough laughed. 'Then I'll take the utmost pleasure in disappointing him, Adam.'
Chapter Three
On 17 July, 1705, Marshal Overkirk led the Dutch forces towards the fortress of Namur at the southernmost tip of the Lines of Brabant. Allied engineers worked hard to build twenty pontoon bridges over the River Mehaigne so that the army could cross with its equipment. As soon as French scouts became aware of the operations, they sent urgent dispatches to Marshal Villeroi. He responded by marching a substantial part of his army — 40,000 soldiers
, in all — to a position between Merdorp and Namur. The first part of Marlborough's plan had worked perfectly. He had read the French commander's mind like a book. Instead of being distracted by what he assumed was a deliberate feint in the north, Villeroi hastened to repel an apparent attack in the south. He had swallowed the bait dangled so temptingly before him.
Marlborough acted promptly. Gathering his army of British, German and Danish troops, he hurried them north through the night in the direction of Elixhem. The advance was led by General Ingoldsby and Count Noyelles with 38 squadrons and 20 battalions supported by 600 pioneers. The cavalry carried large trusses of hay to serve as makeshift fascines when they met ditches or rivulets. Wider streams compelled them to make diversions.
Many complained about the rigours of a forced march through heavy mist and persistent drizzle but Captain Daniel Rawson was not one of them. Riding as part of Marlborough's staff, he was aware of the genius behind his commander's strategy. A double bluff had been used. Because there had been a feint near Leau in the north, Villeroi had been tricked into believing that the real danger lay in the south and the whole Dutch corps — with the exception of Marshal Overkirk — had also been misled. When they crossed the Mehaigne, they thought that they truly were the main strike force against the French. In fact, they merely acted as a decoy and would soon receive orders to withdraw.
By dawn on 18 July, Marlborough had reached his destination, a section of the Lines where the topography greatly favoured the French and where it had been reinforced with a series of fortifications. Had the defences been properly manned, it would have been virtually impossible to breach them. As it happened, they were more or less deserted. Scrambling over them, the advance guard sent the picquets scurrying away like startled animals. Pioneers laboured strenuously to level some of the ramparts to the ground and it was not long before Marlborough could take his cavalry and a detachment of foot soldiers over them. They dealt swiftly with any resistance and overwhelmed the defenders along a three-mile front, killing them, taking them prisoner or forcing a retreat. The dreaded Lines of Brabant, deemed impassable by the Dutch, had been broken apart with comparative ease. Progress had so far been rapid and largely unimpeded. It was a good omen.
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