Man of Honour

by Iain Gale

  ‘Major Jennings, Colonel.’

  ‘Thank you, Henri. You may go. Major Jennings, allow me to present myself. I am Colonel Jean Martin Michelet of the regiment d’Artois. I bid you welcome.’

  He narrowed his eyes and attempted to get the measure of this curious Englishmen. He tried to ascertain from his appearance and manner whether this turncoat was the genuine article or simply one of Marlborough’s many spies.

  ‘Any enemy of Lord Malbrook is a friend here. Please, sit with me. A glass of wine? It has just arrived from France.’

  Jennings smiled at the Frenchman’s inability to pronounce Marlborough’s name, a common failing with his countrymen. Michelet was of medium build with a handsome, tanned face and a slim moustache in the Parisian fashion. His only distinguising mark was a thin scar which ran from the right side of his face, far under his chin.

  ‘Now, Major Jennings, I understand that you gave yourself up to my gendarmes of your own volition. That you say you have something of great importance to our cause.’

  Jennings sat and accepted the goblet of wine.

  ‘But, Major Jennings. You are an officer in the English army. You are surely not confessing to being a traitor?’

  He laughed.

  ‘D’you have French blood?’

  ‘No, Colonel. And I am certainly no traitor. But I am in the unique position of being able to do a great service both to my country and your own. I have certain information in my possession. Information which will bring down Marlborough and his friends.’

  ‘You interest me, Major. This information. I think that perhaps you will tell us when Lord Malbrook will attack and where? You will point out his dispositions? His elite regiments? His weaknesses?’

  ‘No. As an officer in the army of Queen Anne, and a gentleman, I cannot betray my countrymen. But I can offer you something much more precious. I have in my power the wherewithal to discredit the Duke forever. Papers with which to indict him as a Jacobite. A traitor to the crown. Naturally, they must be transported safely to England on the person of an English officer. Myself.’

  Michelet smiled. ‘Yes, Major. We knew of these papers. It was a curious case. A man who had been dealing with my supply officers brought them to our attention.’

  He laughed again.

  ‘A little less mundane than the shoes they had been used to getting. Very good shoes by the way. English made. The man told me about these papers and that a merchant had them. That he had planned a rendezvous with a British officer. Your name was mentioned. Naturally, we paid him for his information and I sent a force recover the papers. Grenadiers and hussars, under one of my finest officers. Your party ran into them in the village of Sattelberg and again at Bachweiden. You saw there how very efficient they can be. For that I am truly sorry. It was never my intention that these men should kill innocent civilians. Major Malbec is … his own master. It was … a real tragedy.’

  He smiled and called for more wine.

  ‘But, tell me, Major Jennings, the last that I heard of the papers, they had disappeared. Malbec was beaten off. I had thought them to be lost. If you really have them this is most welcome news.’

  Jennings knew that now was the time to state his own position. To emphasize the important part that only he could now play in making use of the incriminating letter.

  ‘All I ask is safe passage to the coast and an escort. If I can assist you by any other means of course, I would only be too happy. Although of course, I cannot take up arms against my own countrymen.’

  ‘Naturally. Who would ask any officer to do such a thing? But by the same token we cannot release you back to your army. Even if you should wish to go, which I perceive you do not. Tomorrow or perhaps the next day we will fight a great battle. Marshal Tallard prefers to sit on his arse and wait. But I know that Marshal Marsin’s argument will prevail. Tallard is no more than an old woman. His is not the way to lead an army of Frenchmen. I know that we will fight. And you, Major, will have a ringside seat for the spectacle. And then, after we have beaten your army and your Lord Malbrook, then we will give you safe passage to the coast. Now come. I perceive that you are an educated man, no? I shall have my clerk draw up your papers of parole. You will sign them and in the meantime have a little more of what I’m sure you will agree is a truly excellent Moselle and then perhaps you will join me and a few fellow officers for a little light supper? We have just imported a cook from Paris and this evening he has promised me a soup and a fresh chicken, with a few roasted vegetables. We have a really excellent cheese to follow and some fine brandy. It’s not much, I know, but then we cannot be too fussy. For once we have other cares than our bellies. Tomorrow, Major, we have a battle to win.’

  Steel lay awake in the darkness, listening to the flies as they buzzed about the tent. He watched as two of them settled on the grease congealing on the pewter plates from which he and Louisa had eaten their meagre supper of bread and beans, and which now awaited Nate’s attention before the army broke camp. He had excused his soldier-servant his evening duties as was his custom on what might be the last night before a battle. He picked up one of the tin cups which stood beside the plates, brushed another fly from its rim and took a deep draught, determined to drain what he could of the dregs of the evening’s wine. Steel looked across at Louisa’s sleeping form and allowed his eyes to follow the gentle contours of her body beneath the blanket. He listened to her breathing, shallow and rhythmic. From time to time she would mumble in her sleep. Words he did not understand. He knew now how troubled she really was and he hated himself for having forbidden her to seek out Jennings herself. But how could he possibly allow this girl, the one girl since Arabella for whom, he now reasoned, he felt true feelings, to experience a battle. How could be expose her to that horror, that circus of death, where only fate governed who would perish or survive?

  With difficulty, and taking care not to wake Louisa, Steel swung himself from the bed and managed to get to his feet. Pulling on his breeches and wrapping himself in the scarlet coat, he fastened a single button and walked barefoot to the entrance. Stepping out into the cool night, he looked up into the clear, cloudless sky. The moon sat low and against the black firmament Steel could make out the constellations which, since boyhood, had exercised his mind and stirred his imagination.

  There was the Pole Star, shining high in the north, at the head of the Plough and beside that the Great Bear. He turned towards the south and, as he had known he would, saw Orion, a great sword hanging from his belt. The Greeks, he knew, believed the moon’s pale light to represent the grief of Artemis, Orion’s lover, fooled into killing him by her brother Apollo. Steel prayed that tomorrow would not see two more lovers touched by tragedy. The form of the hunter hung in the sky over the silent camp: a sea of moonlit canvas, beneath which the men were getting what rest they could before the coming day’s march to join the Imperial forces.

  From his left the sound of hooves and a jingle of horse harness announced the approach of a group of riders. Instinctively Steel grabbed for where his sword would have hung. He found nothing and felt relief when, peering into the night, he heard English voices. A lone sentry had challenged the riders and, as he snapped to attention, they rode on towards Steel. There were perhaps ten men, most of them in red coats, the remainder in blue. As they drew closer the moonlight caught their features and he recognized the foremost horseman. Marlborough spoke:

  ‘Mister Steel. You keep late company. You’ll have no time for sleep, we rise at two of the morning, in but three hours’ time. You’d best find some rest. I see that your Sergeant has already taken my advice. I bid you goodnight, Lieutenant.’

  As the Duke and his entourage rode off down the lines, Steel looked across at Slaughter, who, wrapped in a blanket, was snoring gently across the entrance where he had posted himself throughout the evening lest anyone should attempt to disturb Steel and Louisa. A footfall behind him made Steel turn. Tom Williams smiled at him through the darkness.

  ‘Tom?’
>
  ‘Couldn’t sleep, Sir. Don’t know why. It must be the battle I suppose. I can hardly wait. I have thought of it in my mind, so many times.’

  ‘It’ll be here soon enough, Tom. Then you won’t need to imagine. Remember, whatever you do, try to keep your eyes on me. Look to your men, but do as I do and all will be well.’

  Steel thought back to his own first real battle. To a young Ensign, barely eighteen, standing beneath the billowing crimson colours of the Foot Guards on the windswept plain of Steenkirke. August the third, 1692, as the army of King William surprised the French after a bold night march. He could almost feel again the bite in the air and the sense of astonishment and terror as the morning mist rolled back to reveal thousands of white and red clad infantry; Frenchmen and Swiss mercenaries in the pay of King Louis, standing before him in a mirror image of their own lines. He saw the cannonballs, visible at first as black dots, quickly accelerating in speed and growing in size to sear through the files in gouts of blood and flesh. No glorious victory that day, but a headlong retreat. But then they had not had Marlborough at their head. Tomorrow, he knew, or the next day, whenever they found the French, would be very different.

  ‘D’you really mean to kill him in the battle, Sir. Major Jennings?’

  Williams’ voice brought him back to the present. Steel nodded.

  He knew that somewhere in that hell of glory and destruction he would find Jennings. He had made sure of it.

  ‘You’re sure that Sergeant Stringer will lead you to him?’

  ‘Tom, if there’s one thing that little man’s good for it’s sniffing out vermin. He’s got a nose for rotten flesh. And Jennings is as rotten as they come. And besides, he only has my promise of a pardon until the job’s done.’

  He thought of his conversation earlier that day with Stringer. Understandably, given the unpleasant wound Steel had given him in Bachweiden, the Sergeant loathed him. The man’s company was equally odious to Steel and he had made it as quick a meeting as he could. With an eye to the future, Steel had not yet revealed to anyone Stringer’s part in Jennings’ attempt to murder him. For the moment he could maké good use of the man’s prodigious talent for deceit. He knew that Stringer, the lapdog turned Judas, knew no shame. Perhaps he thought that Steel might make a new master. But in that he could not be more mistaken.

  ‘I hope you find Major Jennings, Sir, and that you kill him.’

  ‘So do I, Tom, and now you’d best try to get some rest. Don’t want you falling asleep in the middle of your first battle, do we?’

  Williams limped back to his bivouac. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking. Steel walked slowly to the tent. He had discarded the walking stick now. He had no use for that in a battle. His leg felt firm. Firm enough anyway to carry him to the French.

  Reaching the tent he lowered his head to enter and ducked inside. He looked down at Louisa, her golden hair fanned across the pillow. Sensing his presence she opened her eyes, smiled and turned back the blanket.

  Later, as he held her in the ebbing blackness of the early morning, Steel felt her body move alongside his, disturbed in sleep by the irresistible rhythm of the waking army. Clinging to her harder now, he strove to shut out the insistent rattle of the drums and, closing his eyes again, tried in vain to wish away the dawn.

  NINE

  The mists that had hung low across the Danube marshes throughout the night were gradually being burnt off by the morning sun of what promised to be a more than usually hot August Sunday. Slowly the French cavalry scouts began to see that what they had thought to be the outlying troops of an army on the march, were nothing of the sort. From his vantage point on the rising ground to the north of Blenheim village, Marshal Tallard now found himself gazing in stupefaction upon the battle lines of the entire allied army, drawn up before him at a distance of just under a mile. At first his generals began to count the standards to estimate the number of battalions in the field. But as the numbers grew they began to realize the extent of the force and thought at last to rouse their men. At nine o’clock Tallard, panting from his exertions, joined Marshal Marsin and the Elector up in the church tower at Blenheim and the three commanders began to discuss how best they might complete their victory. For there was no doubt in any of their minds that this extraordinary action of the English milord could only bring about the utter destruction of his army.

  Across the plain, Marlborough, mounted on his favourite grey mare, and accompanied by a small entourage including Cadogan, Cardonell, Hawkins, and all his principle generals, continued his progress along the long lines of red-coated infantry. He moved with deliberate slowness, inspecting the men closely, making sure that as many of them as possible would have a clear view of him. They knew him well by sight. The grey horse, the rich red uniform with its abundance of lace and most distinctive of all, the blue sash of the Order of the Garter.

  This battle, a battle for his own survival as much as for the fate of Europe, would depend, Marlborough knew, upon the individual morale of every man. He looked at them with a genuinely personal interest. At their ragged hair and the week-old growths of beard. Their uniforms at least, while hardly the thing of a Horse Guards parade, were as fresh as they might be, given all that they had come through to arrive at this conclusion of the great adventure that had begun three months back in Flanders. Their shoes, too, he knew to be recently replaced and free from wear, their muskets clean and their powder dry and cartridges plentiful. They were well fed too. Bread and beer. Such were the things that made an army fit to beat the enemy. And now that day had come at last.

  Marlborough had ridden with Prince Eugene out to the village of Wolperstetten in what he planned to make the centre of the allied line. They had climbed the church tower and through their spyglasses surveyed the enemy camp. Their conversation had been short and to the point. God, he thought, must surely have blessed him with this man for an ally. For Eugene was everything that Baden was not. Decisive, daring and above all, receptive to Marlborough’s plans.

  Now, as the little party neared the final company of Colonel Webb’s regiment, the Duke turned to Hawkins and Cadogan, who rode close beside him.

  ‘Prince Eugene assures me that he will hold the right flank against whatever the French and the Elector might throw at him there. He will thus leave us free to attack them in the centre. Just there.’

  He pointed across the plain, towards the extensive open area behind the village of Unterglau.

  ‘The key to this battle, gentlemen, are the villages.’ He drew his finger in an imaginary line from left to right:

  ‘Blenheim, Unterglau, Oberglau and Lutzingen. Take the villages and you take the field. They must be ours at all costs. At all costs, gentlemen. I do not use those words lightly.’

  They heard a village clock striking the hour. Eight o’clock. And as if on cue, on the French right flank a cannon opened fire. Its thunder was echoed by another and then another as the shot came flying in with terrible ferocity. Marlborough gazed coolly at the enemy guns.

  ‘So, it begins, gentlemen.’

  A roundshot flew directly towards the group of staff. One of them, seeing it coming had the sense to duck. The ball though fell short, and hit the recently ploughed earth to the left of Marlborough’s horse, throwing up clods of soil and covering his saddle and breeches. Feigning indifference, he ignored it and rode on. Instantly the regiment nearest to him – Meredith’s – began to cheer.

  Marlborough raised his hand and acknowledged them. Smiling he turned to a runner, one of several athletic, blue-coated boys that he habitually kept about him. The runners, dressed in their distinctive peaked skull caps, formed his principle means of communication with his commanders across the battlefield.

  ‘Take a message to Prince Eugene. Ask him whether he is now ready to advance. Tell him that it is of the utmost urgency. We shall, I perceive, very imminently be hard-pressed by the enemy cannon.’

  The boy took off at a sprint and as he did so another cannonball flew ove
r the head of General Orkney and did its deadly work among the cavalry drawn up to the rear, bisecting one mount and taking the hind legs of another as well as the foot of an unfortunate trooper.

  Cadogan spoke:

  ‘You are quite set on this plan of action, Your Grace? We run a dreadful risk if we do this, Sir. The enemy is heavily fortified and despite our best efforts, appears to have us at an advantage in numbers.’

  Marlborough smiled at his friend, and turned to Hawkins.

  ‘You may be surprised to learn, Hawkins, as was George, here,’ he smiled at Cadogan, ‘that I am quite well acquainted with the lie of this land. Major-General Natzmer, who commands a brigade of horse under Prince Eugene, fought here only last year. On the opposite side of that slope. Sadly, he was defeated by the French, but he has detailed knowledge of the ground to the rear of their position.’

  Orkney spoke:

  ‘That is as maybe, Your Grace. But from where I stand, the French appear to have placed themselves in an eminently strong position. Do you really think it wise to attack them here and when we are so evidently outnumbered?’ Marlborough pursed his lips:

  ‘My Lord Orkney, now is not the time to reconsider whether we should attack. Merely how. Yes, I grant you this is a strong position. As strong as any I have ever seen. But I tell you, we shall yet have the best of them.’

  He looked directly at Hawkins and Cadogan.

  ‘Have any of you yet noticed his mistake? Have you found Tallard’s Achilles heel?’

  The generals craned to see across the plain.

  ‘You do not need to peer, gentlemen. It’s obvious enough. Observe the centre of the line. Tallard and the Elector have camped not as one, but as two separate armies. With the horse on either wing of each. See how their horses are placed boot to boot in the centre of the field.’