by Iain Gale
The Frenchman spoke: ‘Captain Simpson, at last we meet. I am honoured to make your acquaintance, although I suspect that ours will be an all-too-fleeting friendship.’
Simpson smiled and noticed that in his left hand Malbec held a second pistol, the pair of the one with which he had killed the Grenadier. It was trained directly at his head.
‘Major Malbec. And I had thought you lost. You have simply no idea how hard I have been trying to find you. You do me a favour, sir. I am much in your debt.’
Malbec shook his head. ‘How I love your English bravado. No matter how long I know the English, I shall never understand them. At heart, though, they are still a nation of heartless sons of whores.’
‘Come come, Major. You allow your emotions to run away with you, sir. You should take care with your insults. After all, there is a lady present.’
‘You seem to forget, Captain Simpson, that I hold the only pistol and that it is currently pointing at your head.’
For the first time Henrietta spoke. ‘And you seem to forget, sir, that you have only one bullet and there are two of us.’
Malbec laughed. ‘How brave! I’m sorry to mock you, madame, but I hardly think you are a threat to me. After I dispatch the captain here I may merely slit your throat with my sword.’
Simpson said with a smile, ‘Ah, what exquisite irony! To suffer the same fate as your own dear lady.’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
Simpson reached into his pocket and Malbec cocked the trigger of the pistol.
‘No, no, Major, do not worry. I have no hidden weapons. Merely this.’ Slowly, gauging Malbec’s reaction, he brought out the emerald pendant.
Malbec gasped and very nearly dropped the pistol. Gazing at the pendant his hand trembled, and Henrietta saw her only chance. With a single swift movement she raised her hand and threw its contents, a pot of white foundation powder, straight into Malbec’s face. Half blinded, the Frenchman screamed and instinctively pulled the trigger. The shot hit Henrietta in the chest and penetrated her heart, killing her instantly. Her body slumped to the floor. Malbec dropped the pistol and rubbed at his eyes, and as he did so Simpson thrust with his sword and cut the major on his forearm, drawing blood in a long line. Malbec groaned, but, managing now to see sufficiently to draw his own weapon, quickly parried Simpson’s next and potentially lethal thrust to his groin and riposted to his adversary’s thigh. The Englishman recoiled with an oath as a trickle of blood began to flow down his breeches. Looking up, he could see the hate in Malbec’s eyes now, and in that second he knew that, as Steel had said, his swordsmanship could easily be outmatched. His only chance was in pitting wit against brute force. He came en garde and the two men circled each other in the small room.
Simpson took the initiative. ‘Major, come come. Shall we not settle this like gentlemen? Shall we allow ourselves a little more air?’
Malbec shrugged. ‘Why not? It makes no difference to me where you die, as long as I can make your death long and exquisitely painful.’
Simpson shivered and gradually, as if by mutual agreement, the two men edged out of the door and along the corridor until they stood at the top of the staircase. The tavern was deserted now, cleared by the shot from Malbec’s pistol.
‘Does this suit you better, Captain? Is this a good enough place to die?’
Simpson lunged. It was a competent enough move, but the French officer parried it easily, before riposting with a deep lunge. The spy stepped back and brought up his blade in what he had hoped would be a neat counterattack, but Malbec had anticipated him and extended his arm so that Simpson simply walked onto the blade, embedding it deep in his side. He gasped, wide-eyed, as Malbec withdrew it.
‘Don’t worry, Captain. That was not a lethal thrust. Nor is this.’
Before Simpson had a chance to recover, Malbec was on him again, this time aiming for his head. He cut him across the left eye, cutting into the retina and blinding it. Simpson screamed and, clasping his left hand to the bloody wound, slashed at the Frenchman. But Malbec stepped back and manoeuvred neatly, without making a hit, deciding where to make the next cut.
He’s playing with me, thought Simpson. The pain was beginning to kick in now. He’s killing me inch by bloody inch. Summoning all his strength, he lunged again, but Malbec easily tipped his blade away with the lightest of touches and, extending his boot, kicked him hard in the groin so that with a yell Simpson fell backwards and went tumbling down the staircase. Malbec stood at the top for a few moments, looking down at him. Simpson could not move. He knew that something bad had happened to his leg during the fall and, quite apart from the excruciating pain in his eye and that in his side, that something was very wrong.
Malbec began to descend the staircase, taking his time, smiling and swishing his blade from side to side as he went. ‘You sad little man. Did you really think you could win against me? You think I am heartbroken about the Marquise? Well, I will tell you, I have no love left in me for that. You British killed all the love in me years ago. I’m sad for her, yes. She was a good woman. But not for me. And what was it for? Because we killed your little popsy? Was that why? Revenge? I know all about revenge, Captain. Let me show you how nicely it can be taken.’
Simpson thrashed about on the floor, but try as he might he could not move his legs. He made a supreme effort and raised his sword towards Malbec. The Frenchman roared with laughter and walked a few paces more until he was standing directly over Simpson. He brought the tip of his blade down until it rested at Simpson’s throat and said nothing, but looked down into his enemy’s eyes. It seemed to Simpson that the gaze lasted forever, and that was Malbec’s intention, although it was not as long as he would have liked. Suddenly his attention was distracted by a noise from outside the inn: gunfire, closer and in greater quantity than previously. Sensing that the battle was reaching its climax, he gazed down at Simpson.
‘Oh dear. Our time is over, Captain. Unless, of course, you’d care to beg.’
Simpson shook his head and made another pathetic attempt to hit Malbec with his blade. The Frenchman kicked the sword aside and was distracted again by the sound of gunfire, closer now. He shook his head, shrugged and smiled, and then slowly leant down on his own weapon which was still poised over Simpson’s throat until he felt its tip pierce flesh and bone and embed itself in the floor of the inn. Then, equally slowly, he drew out the blade and, wiping it against the dead man’s breeches, slipped it back into his scabbard and made for the door.
The southern barricade of Leffinghe was a butcher’s block of dead and dying flesh. The bodies of French, British, Danes and Prussians lay draped across its top and sides, and above their lifeless forms the battle raged on. The noise was deafening, but by now, after three long hours, it seemed to those involved to be as natural as birdsong. Standing on a broken upturned chair, keeping his balance with his left hand, Steel thrust again with his sword and, parrying the bayonet of a French grenadier, struck home. The man fell back with a look of astonishment, clutching desperately at his stomach, while to his right another of his comrades was struck down by a cut from Hansam’s sword.
The lieutenant recovered his weapon and spoke to Steel without turning, coming to the ready for the next attacker: ‘Hot work, Jack. Where the devil is the Duke? Any longer and we’ll all be dead.’
‘He’ll come, Henry, just as soon as he can. Have patience. Just kill the buggers.’
It seemed that they were faced by an endless white tide of French infantry. As quickly as they managed to cut one man down another would spring up in his place. It was clear that the French must prevail by sheer force of numbers if Marlborough did not come soon. Steel lunged up with his sword and dealt another French infantryman a fatal blow through the chin.
Slaughter was at his side now. Momentarily without an enemy directly to his front, Steel turned to him. ‘Jacob. All well?’
The sergeant looked at him and did not move, and Steel saw a look in his eyes that he had not
often seen, but was able to recognize: fear mixed with unaccountable grief.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m truly sorry.’
‘My wife?’
‘Sir. And Mister Simpson, sir. I’m sorry.’
Steel staggered from the barricade and took a few moments to recover his bearing. ‘How?’
‘Shot, sir, and Macdonald with her. Clean, sir. She can’t have known about it. Mister Simpson’s a bit of a mess, though. All carved up, he is. Killed in cold blood, by the look of it. Killed slow, sir.’
Steel knew at once. Malbec was here. Instinctively, he turned back to the oncoming French. They were cresting the barricades now, and all around him the thin ranks of red-, grey- and blue-coated men were falling back towards the town. There was no question about it: the Allies were losing. But fear was dispelled in Steel’s mind by another emotion. A red mist seemed to cloud his vision as the hate boiled up inside him, masking sadness too and any thoughts of pity.
He turned to Slaughter. ‘Ten guineas for any man who can find me the French major.’
‘Sir?’
‘Malbec. He commands the Grenadiers Rouges. Find them and you’ll find him now. He’s done what he came to do. Ten guineas.’
Slaughter looked at him with concern. He had never seen Steel like this – irrational, caught up in rage, his reason clouded. This was not the officer he had known for the last six years.
‘I’ll tell them, sir. But don’t you think we should attend to all the French first? There’s a fair few of them. More than just a major.’
Steel snapped at him, ‘What business is it of yours who I choose to kill? I’ll kill who I like. Malbec, his whore, their bloody king and all his blessed generals, and the damned Pretender too. It’s all madness, Jacob. War. Love. Loyalty. All that’s left is death. There’s no virtue. No justice. Only death and blood.’
As he spoke, Steel ranged around in the rear of the ranks, seemingly unable to decide where he should place himself. Slaughter stared at him. He wondered for a moment whether he was fit to command, whether he should inform Hansam.
But the lieutenant had already seen for himself. He placed a gentle hand on Steel’s shoulder. ‘Jack. Steady. You must command. We must fall back into the town, to the second line. Maclean is hit, and Kidd’s dead. We need your help, Jack. The men need you. Your battalion needs you. For Christ’s sake, listen to me, Jack. Your battalion.’
Steel spun round on him and Hansam, seeing the hate in his eyes, let go and took a pace back.
For an instant both Hansam and Slaughter wondered what might happen, and then, almost as suddenly as it had come upon him, the mood left Steel. He looked at both of them in turn.
‘Well, what are you looking at? Pull the men back to the second line. Where’s Maclean, d’you say?’
‘He’s in a house. Second road on the right. He’s hit bad, Jack. Might not make it.’
Steel nodded. ‘Jacob, I want an orderly withdrawal, in two ranks, bayonets fixed. Withdraw by platoon. Second platoons to keep up a covering fire. Alternate movement by platoon. Clear?’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Clear, sir.’
But as Slaughter turned to go, Steel added a coda: ‘And don’t forget about the ten guineas. I meant it. Henry, we’ll fight the battalion by company. Keep the companies independent. I want what’s left of the best men: us, the Prussians and the Danes on this side, the south. All of them here with me. The others can form a third defensive line to the north, with the wounded. And then we just pray for Marlborough.’
Drunk with the elation of killing Simpson, Malbec had skirted the north of the town along the shoreline and come round to the south by way of the west. Now, he thought, to complete this perfect day he would lead his men across the barricades, finish the English and take the town for a grateful King. He could see his regiment now, at the front of the battle, pushing on at the defences. Malbec ran the last few yards and, drawing his sword, placed himself on their left flank. And that was where Steel saw him.
For a single moment their eyes met, and it was enough. Steel grabbed a musket from the man to his right. Within seconds, despite his painful wound, he had its butt up and at his good shoulder, the weapon cradled in his left hand, cocked and ready to fire. His right index finger caressed the trigger and squeezed. But as it did so the smoke from new volleys clouded the target and he lost the Frenchman in its white mist. Cursing, Steel returned the musket to its owner and drew his sword. The early morning mist had combined with the powder smoke now, and the mêlée around them was no less than mayhem, a tangled mass of men, unsure as to who was on which side.
Steel plunged in and made towards the spot where he had seen Malbec. Another volley rang out from their left as the second platoon attempted to disengage from the enemy. Steel heard Slaughter’s voice ordering the men to reload, and at the same moment he glimpsed a fleeting form to his front. It was as if a ghost had crossed his path, but he was certain of what he had seen. Certain enough at least to shout after it: ‘Malbec.’
The shape stopped and turned, and again their eyes met. Steel came en garde and the Frenchman rushed at him through the smoke, sword raised. Their blades met with a fury that sent a jolt up Steel’s arm. He turned his wrist and deflected Malbec’s sword, managing a riposte that just connected with his shin. Malbec stepped back and, disentangling his blade, attempted another cut. Again Steel parried but was slower than before and his stroke aimed at Malbec’s arm fell short, so that his sword hung in the air. Malbec reacted quickly, with a short lunge, and whipped his blade along Steel’s left side, tearing a gash through the red coat.
Another volley ripped the morning air, and with it came a different sound. It was the unmistakable whistle and rat-a-tat of fife and drum, and both men had no doubt what it meant. They circled each other, neither of them attempting another attack.
Steel watched Malbec for a few moments longer before shouting to him above the din, ‘You’re finished, Malbec. D’you hear that? Those drums? They’re playing your funeral march. Those are Marlborough’s men, come to take back this place. The convoy’s safe, Malbec. Lille’s a doomed city, and you’re a dead man.’
A ragged cheer from the mists confirmed the truth of his words. It was enough. Malbec lunged wildly at Steel’s chest and Steel parried the blade, anticipating its direction so that Malbec’s sword pointed into the smoke. And then, with all his force, Steel thrust hard towards Malbec’s chest. The well-tempered Italian blade slid easily below the Frenchman’s breastbone and he stared at Steel in disbelief. He gasped a word, but nothing came from his mouth but a trickle of blood. Steel slid the blade clear of his body and the tall Frenchman stood motionless, his sword hanging at his side, limp in his weakened grasp. He began to sway from front to back and as he did so his head began to nod, giving him the appearance of a grotesque marionette. And then he gave Steel a smile that he was never to forget. For with it, from Malbec’s clouding eyes, came a look not of hatred, but of thanks. Then it was gone and Steel was standing over Malbec’s body.
He bent down and, plucking the major’s cravat from round his neck, used it to wipe his blade clean of gore before returning it to its scabbard.
Then, throwing the bloody rag to the ground, he turned and began a slow walk up through the little Flemish town to find his wife and take her home.
HISTORICAL NOTE
The battle of Oudenarde was a pivotal point in the war. It had an instant effect on the morale of both armies. The French were forced back into France and never really recovered. It was the end of Louis’ great Imperial dream.
It gave the Duke of Marlborough an unprecedented opportunity to invade France. As detailed in Brothers in Arms, he was opposed by the Dutch and unusually by Eugene of Savoy, thus losing the chance to end the war. Had he managed to do so, the conclusion would undoubtedly have been a very different one to the eventual peace and the history of Europe might also have been changed. Instead he harried northern France much to Louis’ chagrin and provoked widespread panic in Paris
.
In fact, Marlborough’s initial concept of the siege of Lille was that it should be taken quickly, as a prelude to an invasion of France which under such circumstances the Dutch could not oppose.
Lille however, became a whirlpool of death more akin to the prolonged trench warfare of the Great War than any conflict seen to date. Notably, the battle for France’s second city caused in one single day the same number of allied casualties as had been suffered at the battle of Oudenarde. Nevertheless, the siege of Lille has been unjustly ignored.
The battle of Wynendael is also one of the most fascinating smaller actions of the wars and General Webb a largely unsung British hero.
Converged grenadier battalions, such as that commanded by Steel, were not uncommon, thus giving a large body of elite troops. Certainly one was present at Wynendael and may have played a large part in Webb’s victory which was so essential in sustaining the siege.
The Earl of Cadogan appears to have taken much of the credit for this triumph and Marlborough’s opponents at home were to accused him of favouring his friend in his initial dispatch. Webb however subsequently received full credit and the thanks of Parliament for the action, and the following year he was promoted to Lieutenant-General. Nevertheless, from this point onwards Webb became the centre of Tory agitation against Marlborough.
The overtures of peace made to Louis are based on truth. Marlborough and Cadogan had established an extensive espionage network throughout Europe which kept them fed with information about French moves and plans. Independently of this however, we know that in May 1708 a Dutchman, Herman van Petkum, had visited Paris to negotiate a peace but that his demands were thought excessive. The Duke had himself made overtures to his nephew, the Duke of Berwick, one of Louis’ generals. But Louis preferred to deal with the Dutch. Ultimately the King and his generals could not bear to humble themselves before Marlborough.