The Summer Fields

  ‘It is not right though, is it? So many of these men will die today.’

  ‘Of course men will die, but many will survive. I have upset you needlessly by being contrary. Perhaps you’re right, we do have God on our side. If you truly believe He brought your captain down this road, why would he want to snabble him today?’

  ‘Our pastor at home is fond of telling me that His sovereign will is difficult for common mortals such as us to understand.’

  ‘Enough of that talk. I should not have encouraged it. You have as much, if not more courage than half the men out there on the plains. No man must see your tears or they will think you weak and I know you are not.’ Sarah gets to her feet and gestures to her to follow. ‘Stiffen up those shoulders, my little sparling. There, that’s better now.’

  * * *

  By the time Dr Argyll arrives, Elen has banished all signs of her earlier distress, although she still feels that the tears lie just below the surface. However, the doctor is in such high spirits, she thinks it unlikely that he would notice any change in her at all. When she gives her account of the appearance of Mordiford, he says, ‘That is capital news. What a shame that I was not here to greet him myself, but I have had a most invigorating morning. In fact, I took communion with the duke himself this very day. His Grace woke quite free from headaches and ready for today’s battle. His faith in me was amply demonstrated by the freedom with which his subordinates answered my questions about strategy. And His Grace has released me from attending him for the day, so I am here to assist Mr Barker. But first, before the battle begins, all of you must come to the top of the defile and look down on the spectacle that fills the plains.’

  ‘There is no need,’ Elen says. ‘We were up before dawn to see them marching.’

  ‘If that impressed you, wait until you look down on the plains of Höchstadt now. You are unlikely to see such a sight again in all your lives.’

  And so, as the first abrupt slams from the artillery are heard, Elen finds herself on top of another tumbrel, riding out to view the battle.

  * * *

  As the cart reaches the top of the rise, the doctor pulls on the reins to bring the horses to a halt. The sun is warm on Elen’s back, casting slender shadows across the grass of late summer, still beaded with morning dew.

  There’s a creak as Mr Barker gets slowly to his feet on the cart’s platform behind her and says in a solemn voice, ‘May God help us all.’ Sarah leans against her husband’s leg, wrapping her arm around his thigh. She looks up at him and nods, an expression of resignation on her face.

  Elen, seated beside the doctor, turns back to look down on the sunlit plain below. It is alive with colour and flashing with small reflections of light. At the centre of the plain, the vegetation is lush and green. Marshland, she thinks, for she can see the occasional glint of water and wet soil.

  ‘See the pioneers,’ the doctor says, pointing to a group of figures in the distance, as small and numerous as worker ants. ‘They are improving the crossings, filling them with fascines of brushwood and moving pontoons into position.’

  ‘Is that the Danube?’ she says.

  ‘No, my dear, that is the Nebel, little more than a robust tributary,’ he says. ‘The Danube is over there to the left of Blindheim, behind those trees. It’s a huge, fast flowing body of water, even at this time of year. Marlborough would never be able to cross his troops through the Danube, but the Nebel – he plans to attack across the Nebel.’

  ‘Where the French hold the strongest position?’ Mr Barker says. ‘He must be mad.’

  ‘Time will tell,’ the doctor says, turning in his seat to face Mr Barker. ‘I have been privy to much of his planning,’ he adds, drawing himself up a little and broadening his chest.

  The surgeon splutters. ‘The Duke of Marlborough discussed battle tactics with a country doctor?’ he says, more with surprise than condescension.

  ‘No, no. Not at all. But I was able to glean a deal of information from his subordinates.’

  ‘And they did not think you a French spy?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘I do believe you have been eavesdropping, doctor,’ Sarah says. There’s an edge of ribbing in her tone and Elen begins to smile.

  ‘That may be so,’ the doctor says, ‘but who would not show an interest in all the discussions on a day such as this? The duke is a man of uncommon penetration and presence of mind. His foe is the mighty Marshal of France. I believe today we will see history unfolding around us.’

  The surgeon and his wife fall silent. Perhaps, Elen thinks, having witnessed the horrors of Schellenberg, they do not agree with the doctor’s vision of victory when so many men must die today.

  She looks out across the valley. A small village is burning in the centre of the plain, the smoke rising up into the still air. Then she notices a row of red coats lying on the ground near the village, then another, and another, their white splatter dashes brilliant in the long grass beneath the morning sun.

  She clutches at the doctor’s arm. ‘Those soldiers,’ she says, ‘down there, by the burning village. Are they all dead?’

  ‘No, my dear. I do not believe the battle has yet begun. I think that is the village of Untergläu. Apparently, the French set fire to it.’ The doctor begins to chuckle. ‘The first thing the French saw on waking this morning was the plain full of enemy. What a shock! I imagine they thought the fires would hamper our advance. Little wonder the French are so reviled by the locals. Those villagers gave them food and shelter last night and the French repaid them by setting fire to their village.’ Dr Argyll turns to the others, laughing at his wry observations, but his amusement cannot lift the air of gloom that grips his companions.

  He clears his throat with a slight cough. He’s feeling peevish, Elen thinks. He continues speaking pointedly to her, ignoring the Barkers. ‘The soldiers you see upon the ground have probably been told to lie down to keep them out of danger from the French guns. I expect the duke is still getting his men into position. See there, the cavalry seem to be forming behind the infantry.’

  She lifts herself in the seat to see where he points. By the cavalry she knows he means the dragoons.

  ‘I expect they too will be instructed to lie down with their mounts,’ the doctor says.

  Mordiford is out there, she thinks. Perhaps he’s by that burning village, lying against the flank of his horse in that damp shelter of marshy ground, waiting for the order to ride into battle. To distract herself from the swooping weakness the thought produces, she says, ‘Where will the duke be?’

  ‘Today?’ the doctor says proudly. ‘He will be everywhere. Before he rode out this morning, after receiving the Holy Sacrament, he mounted his horse and said, “This day I conquer or die.” He was the epitome of Christian and hero on his white mount, wearing his scarlet coat and blue ribbon of the Garter. He will be visible to all, especially the French gunners.’

  ‘Complete insanity,’ Mr Barker mutters from behind.

  ‘It is his courage that will win the battle.’

  ‘If the battle is to be won by anyone,’ the surgeon says, ‘it is the cannon fodder he sends into the teeth of the French muskets that will do it. What’s left of them will be returned to me to make of what I can.’

  Mordiford must ride towards those muskets, she thinks. How can he live, how can any man survive such weapons?

  ‘Come now, Mr Barker,’ his wife says softly. ‘Let us not have talk like that so early in the day.’

  Ignoring the surgeon’s outburst, the doctor continues as if he were conducting a tour of an ancient monument. ‘Right over there, Miss Griffiths,’ he says. ‘You can just make out the village of Blindheim, or Blenheim, as the soldiers insist on calling it. Over there, is the body of the Franco–Bavarian army.’ He points into the distance. ‘This is ideal cavalry country. The French will try to keep control of the three villages, but the feeling this morning among the commanders was that they have spread themselves too wide.’

 
Elen winces as the batteries begin to hammer away to their right.

  ‘That is the French,’ the doctor cries over the noise.

  She hears a thunder of answering fire to the left.

  ‘English cannons!’ the doctor shouts, pointing to the fresh gouts of smoke rising up from the plains. ‘That’ll be Colonel Blood.’

  ‘Enough, Argyll,’ the surgeon bellows. ‘It is time we made our way back to our posts.’

  At that moment, Elen sees a horseman galloping hard along the top of the plain. Within minutes the soldiers rise from the shelter of the corn and start to advance.

  ‘The battle has begun,’ Dr Argyll cries. ‘They head for Blenheim.’ He points towards the town in the distance.

  Elen holds her breath. The soldiers cross the stream. Still the enemy does not fire. With an awful concentration, she cannot turn away. The sheer number of soldiers make her forget momentarily that each moving splash of red and white is an individual human being; a man as real as herself, whose life is as precious to someone as Captain Mordiford’s is to her. The red coats are nearing the mass of cut trees and overturned wagons packed around the perimeter wall of the village.

  ‘They are approaching the fortifications,’ the doctor says.

  Thick smoke pours across the advancing infantry. Moments later the thump and rip of the French cannons reaches her ears. Before the smoke of the gunfire veils the soldiers completely, she sees men sink to the ground, some spinning before they fall, others twitching and beating themselves in a macabre dumb show, the sounds of their distress muted by the roar of the cannons. She is overwhelmed by helplessness and dread.

  ‘That is canister shot,’ the surgeon announces gravely. ‘By our Lady, Argyll, take us back to the transit station. This is not a spectator sport. Men are being cannoned out there.’

  Elen ducks. Musket fire clatters from deep within the pall of smoke. Even at this distance, the sound is so loud it drowns Mr Barker’s words. As the echo of the next salvo of guns fades, the surgeon raises his voice and says, ‘They are firing from inside the town now. The losses will be monstrous.’

  ‘Take us back, Dr Argyll,’ Elen says. ‘I beg you.’

  ‘If any soldier has survived that terrible onslaught, I want to be waiting and ready to deal with his wounds,’ Mr Barker shouts from behind.

  The smell of sulphur and cordite is in the air, making the horses, already alarmed by the ferocious noise of the guns, skitter and plunge. She holds tight to the edge of her seat. Mr Barker sits down and shoves Dr Argyll on the shoulder to spring him into action. The doctor, muttering to himself, pulls on the reins, taking the cart over the edge of the rise and back in the direction of the road.

  The sound of the battle dims and swells as a hot wind blows along with the cart, a breeze really, she thinks, but animal, a whispering dragon of a wind. She hears the pop of musketry in the distance; a salvo closer to hand rasps like rending calico.

  ‘It is a great shame that we could not stay to see the cavalry charge,’ Dr Argyll shouts over his shoulder to his passengers.

  Elen looks behind and sees the surgeon roll his eyes. ‘You will be seeing our brave dragoons quite soon enough, I fear,’ he replies. Between the gunfire Elen catches the skirl of bagpipes, the sound blown on the warm wind across the plains.

  ‘Those must be Orkney’s battalions,’ Dr Argyll says, slowing the horses and cocking his head to listen. ‘Can you hear the pipes?’

  But Elen hears something else. She hears screams. Terrible, ghastly screams. She looks from left to right but cannot see where they are coming from.

  ‘Hurry!’ she says.

  The doctor slaps the horses with the reins. The cart rattles and jumps over the parched ruts in the path. The barns at the foot of the slope loom up in front of them.

  Now she sees where the noise comes from. The road is filled with running men, and as they run, they scream. Wherever she looks she sees horror; one man is missing an arm, another a cheek. One is almost naked, his body burned where his clothing has been ripped away. Another is trailing rags, peppered with canister shot and blooming red.

  The cart rattles into the courtyard and the noise – it is the noise of her childhood – but this is worse. This is the sound of a hundred cottage pigs, panicking and squealing and shrieking at the same time.

  Mr Barker leaps down from the back of the cart and runs forward, holding the horse by the bridle as it jerks its head up, rolling its eyes. ‘Get this cart back on the road, Argyll,’ he shouts. ‘Start picking them up. You girl, go with him.’ Elen stares at the horror, unable to move, no idea where to begin. ‘Get down then. Off!’ the surgeon shouts at her.

  Does he think her afraid? She is not. She is dumbfounded. She clambers off the cart and drops into the sea of injured. She is trembling. She thinks she is going to be sick. She looks for Sarah, her ally, her friend, but Sarah has gone. Elen stands immobile in the centre of the courtyard. Mr Barker stalks away from her, tearing his coat off, flinging it down onto a barrel at the entrance of the barn and disappears inside. A soldier is dragging himself through the dust towards her. He reaches his hand up and grasps at her apron. She tugs it from him. He leaves a great welt of blood and dirt and straw across the fabric.

  She stares down at him. He has no foot. Sarah is at the doorway of the barn and rushes out. The noise coming from the barn is louder, the panic keener in an enclosed space. Sarah shouts orders. ‘That man. That man there.’ An officer is limping away from the barn, his leg is trailing uselessly behind him. ‘Elen, bring him in. Now!’

  Elen does not move, she cannot move. Sarah grabs her by the shoulders, spins her round and pushes her towards the officer. Something springs open in Elen’s chest, as if iced water has poured over her, woken her. She rushes forward and grabs at him. ‘Here, sir,’ she says. ‘You must come with me.’

  He puts his hand on her shoulder. His fingers are missing. ‘Leave me,’ he says. ‘Let me be. I will not go in. I will not lose my leg.’

  A terrible scream from inside the barn rises up, louder than all the rest. The whites of the officer’s eyes flash as he strains his head towards the noise.

  ‘Take me away,’ he says. ‘Help me. Get my boot off. I can still move my toes. Let the surgeon know I can still move my toes.’

  She nods her agreement. If she can help one soldier, she can begin to be of some use in this inferno of suffering. He leans heavily on her, hobbling along the wall of the barn until they are away from the crush. She helps him to the ground. He leans his back against the wall.

  ‘The cavalry,’ she says. ‘Have the cavalry charged yet?’

  He frowns at her and shrugs, looking down at the bloody pulp of his hand. ‘A cannon ball glanced off my leg. It is fine. Fine. It got my sword. Damned thing shivered to pieces from the blow, cut off my fingers.’ From the mash of skin and blood he raises an index finger, then his thumb. ‘Oh, look,’ he says. ‘Only three gone.’ He rests his head back against the wall and repeats wearily, ‘Only three.’

  Elen races back to the barn, unwinds some linen for his hand. Sarah shouts, ‘Here, Elen. Help us.’ She drops the bandaging into the dirt.

  Mr Barker is standing between two tables. A hole has been smashed in the side of the barn wall to let in more light. He is stripped down to his shirt, his waistcoat and wig hanging on a beam beside him, like a coat on a chapel hat peg. He has tied a piece of sacking around his waist. It is splashed with blood. He looks like a small mastiff, his pink tongue working along his lips as he concentrates. He snarls each time the knife snags.

  He’s working on a mountain of a man – three orderlies hold down his shoulders, two his pelvis. Sarah battles with the thigh. She looks up at Elen, her eyes entreating her to help. Elen comes forward, pushing between the orderlies like cows in a double byre and grasps the ankle.

  Mr Barker is already through the flesh. Elen cannot see the soldier’s face because of the press of bodies holding him down. He doesn’t scream. He growls savagely as Mr Barker set
s to with the saw. The man’s body rises, bucking and trembling. She pinions him harder. If the leg rocks the saw will take longer. She has taken a giant step back inside herself. She watches the leg thrash and quiver but the strength with which she holds it is not her own.

  The ankle is still. The leg is severed. An orderly lifts her hands free of the limb and drops it with a sodden clatter into the pail on the floor. Mr Barker pushes forward, catches her eye, and nods.

  Elen takes hold of the living knee, her hand slippery with blood. Mr Barker lashes the arteries. He wipes his hands down the sacking apron, turns to the peg where his waistcoat hangs and pushes his fingers into the pocket. He pulls out a handful of almonds and holds them out to her. She shakes her head. He shrugs, tosses them into his mouth and begins work on the patient behind.

  Sarah grabs Elen’s hand, pushes it into a tub of paste. It is dirty yellow and smells of turpentine. ‘Push it onto the wound,’ she says. ‘Press it in hard.’

  She turns to the soldier and says, ‘Oh, stop your thrashing man. If you want it sealed with hot oil, I’ll call one of those Prussian butchers over to you. They’ll be happy to oblige.’

  Chapter 12

  The wounded continue to arrive in wagonloads. All of them bleed. All of them stink. There is blood and dust and flies and muck. The suffering squeezes every other thought from Elen’s mind, except her fear for Mordiford. She wants Mordiford. She wants him here. She wants him safe.

  She stays close to Sarah. She follows what she does. There’s no time for sympathy, there are too many. She cannot listen to their entreaties. They beg her, plead with her: save me, save me from the knife, I have suffered enough.

  In the violence of the barn, where Mr Barker spins and slashes, the pail between his tables fills at twice the speed of any other surgeon. He’s so swift with his knife, she has to watch her fingers. He wraps his arm right round the limb and says, ‘Bite down.’ With barely a flick, he’s through the muscle and onto the bone. She cannot feel compassion or she will stop, and if she stops, someone else will take her place and pin the soldier down.