Man of Honour

by Iain Gale

  Rum dadada rum dum, rum dadada rum dum, rum dadada rum dadada rum dum dum.

  Over and over it echoed across the field and there was no resisting it.

  Steel stepped out to the front of the half-company and found himself a few paces in front of one of the newer arrivals, Henderson, a Borders lad. Fond of fishing. The boy was shaking and Steel clasped his shoulder, speaking quietly and fast.

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. We all feel the same. Just stay with me.’

  He turned to the men.

  ‘Grenadiers. Follow me.’

  All along the battalion line now he knew that the other company officers, Laurent, McInnery, Frampton, all the familiar faces from the mess, would be mimicking his actions and his words.

  He saw Slaughter close behind him and Williams, his sword resting on his shoulder. Steel looked back towards the enemy and felt the familiar emptiness. The dryness in his throat. The sweat creeping across his body beneath the heavy red coat that seemed to drag him down with every step. He could hear Slaughter now:

  ‘Steady. Keep your ranks. Hold steady now.’

  Eyes fixed resolutely on the objective to his front, Steel began to increase his pace and gradually, with relentless, unquestioning certainty, the great red-coated mass of men that was the regiment began to move forward, taking the battle to the enemy.

  For the last two hours Aubrey Jennings had been wandering the ranks of the French army, interested to see what they made of this turn of events. Michelet had told him that there might be a battle, but the general opinion among the officers he had met at the dinner table had been that Marshal Tallard preferred not to fight. That Marlborough would take his army north, under their noses. And so he had gone to bed, hopeful now that he might reach the channel and England without having to stand and watch with mixed emotions as his countrymen were blown to pieces by the French.

  All that was changed. He had spent the night in a barn on the east side of the little village the French called Blindheim. Now he stood on a slight rise in the ground not far from the barn, from which he was able to observe the conduct of the opening moves of what promised to be a full-scale battle. Marlborough seemed to be about to attack and Jennings heard the familiar beat of the English drums driving the men on. He saw the colours moving to the centre. The officers to the front. He scanned the field and took in the light blue horde of the Bavarians on the left wing. The cavalry massed in the centre and the Dutch, the Hessians and to their left, the Guards. And there, over to his right, a little distance out from Blindheim, he saw the Saltire standard and red facings of Sir James Farquharson’s Regiment of Foot.

  A nagging doubt within him told him that that was where he belonged. Over there. On the opposite side of this soon-tobe-bloody field, with his men. For he was above all things, a British officer, loyal to his country and his Queen, if not to all her ministers. But no sooner had the thought come to him than another part of his conscience absolved him of his negligence of duty. Told him that what he had done was right and proper. That it was the only thing possible for a man of honour to have done. It would be the saving of his nation. Now he began to see just how unlucky he had been. How it was his great misfortune – a truly great sacrifice – to miss this experience among his own men. There would no doubt be other battles under other commanders. Jennings thought of the years to come. The campaigns in Spain in which the war would be decided as it should. Glorious victories to be gained far away from this sodden German plain. But still his heart was torn. He wished on the one hand for Marlborough’s disgrace. But somewhere within his tortured soul a voice still cried out that there should by right be no victors on this day save the British.

  TEN

  They were fifty yards out from the enemy now. No, forty, and still the French infantry in Blenheim had not opened fire. At the right of the line of the advancing battalion, Steel looked down its length. It was ragged now, showing the effect of walking over the rough ground. The men had fallen into their natural gait and sergeants moved along behind them, using their spontoons to coax the line back into order. At any moment now, he guessed, the French would open up and in the face of a volley of musket balls a disordered formation could easily crumple into a formless rabble. He waited for the spout of flame, the smoke and then the hail of death. Steel tried not to think about it but studied the objective.

  It was a sizeable village of perhaps 300 houses, some surrounded by what appeared to be small walled gardens. In the centre he could see the tower of a tall stone church. That, no doubt, would be the core of the French defensive position and would, he presumed, have a walled graveyard. The perfect improvised fortress.

  Looking to his left and right he could also see a small stream that ran through the village. That too would provide the defenders with a useful obstacle. His earlier presentiments that the French would have spent some time strengthening their position now proved horribly justified. Before him he could see the shapes of basketwork gabions and chevaux de frise – tree trunks on to which bayonets and swords had been fixed to create ghastly, impenetrable obstacles. Alongside them barriers had been constructed from anything that the defenders had been able to call into service. Upturned carts. Wooden packing cases, logs and branches of trees. And anything they had been able to pull from the houses, whose inhabitants were now long gone: tables placed upon their sides, a chest of drawers, a piano and the ubiquitous grandfather clocks. He saw the glint of sunshine on metal and realized that the French were poking their bayonets through the improvised embrasures they had punched through their wooden defences. It might have taken them time to realize the enemy’s presence, but the French had been far from idle.

  Most worryingly, they had erected stout-looking wooden palisades before every entrance to the village and continued the line until it formed a curtain wall that stretched past the village itself down to the river.

  Slaughter was at his side:

  ‘By Christ, Sir. How in the name of God in all his Glory are we going to take that?

  And without any support from the guns?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Jacob. I can only presume that Lord Cutts considers that we must be as fiery as he himself. Perhaps he intends to burn it down with his salamander breath.’

  They were thirty-five yards out now. Still the drums gave out their relentless beat. He could hear those of the French now, answering. Curious, he thought how utterly different the sound. The timbre and the rhythm instantly recognizable as something quite un-British.

  Still the muskets did not fire. The going was devilishly slow and he saw one of his men stumble:

  ‘Come on there, McLaurence. Get on, lad. They’re waiting for us.’

  He was suddenly aware that the French cannonballs were no longer falling on his company, or indeed on any of the brigade. Williams came up by his side.

  ‘Why don’t they shoot at us, Sir? It seems very strange.’

  ‘It’s not strange, Tom. They’re just holding their fire until we get nice and close. Close enough to be sure that they don’t miss. Don’t worry. They will.’

  Of course he was lying. What else could he do? What use to them was a terrified boy with a sword. He had to keep Williams convinced of his own immortality. Always believe in that. I cannot be hit. It will not be me. But he knew in his soul that somewhere there was a bullet which would one day find its way straight to his heart.

  Williams spoke again:

  ‘But what about their artillery, Sir? The siege guns up on the hill. Their shots are all falling behind us. Far behind. They seem to be over-shooting, Sir.’

  ‘No, Tom. It’s just that they daren’t fire directly at us any more for fear of hitting their own men in the village. And even if their men are expendable, one of those big buggers falling on the French defences and we’d have a ready-made breach.’

  It was a blessed respite from the harrowing cannonfire they had endured for the last three hours. But Steel knew that at any moment an equally deadly fire was about to pour out on them
from behind the defences. He could see the French infantry quite plainly now, their light grey coats and the red waistcoats. Who were they? The Navarrois, he guessed. Or the regiment d’Artois. He saw too the gleaming brass bands around the musket barrels, poked menacingly through the wooden walls. Come on, he thought, you must open fire now. Fire, damn you. In answer, almost immediately from behind the barricades, at just under thirty yards, came the first crack of musketry. The red-hot, half-inch diameter lead balls flew into the line of redcoats. Too many found a target. Steel saw men plucked from their positions as if by some unseen hand and thrown back against the advancing tide.

  A musket ball shot past Steel’s head and hit the man to his left in his first rank, McLaren, clean in the temple, killing him outright.

  And still the gaps in the line were swiftly closed up by the cool-headed sergeants. The Grenadiers kept their ranks. They stared straight ahead, stepping over their dead and dying comrades. Slaughter was right. This was madness. To storm such a heavily fortified position in full view of the enemy, with unsupported infantry. The guns were giving what fire they could. But the range was too distant and Marlborough had other pressing concerns. It was worse even than the Schellenberg. There they had cut and run. Here though he could see the press of men at the ramparts. They would not run here. Could not. They would stand and give fire until the redcoats were upon them. If we make it that far, he thought. He could hear the French officers issuing commands now. Their own drums fell silent and the drummers moved to the rear and in that instant he heard distinctly above the noise a single French voice:

  ‘Tirez.’

  Then all hell broke loose again as a fresh volley struck them with full force. To his left Steel saw one of his men instinctively raise his hand to his face as if sheltering from the rain. He vanished in a hail of lead. The French will not break, he thought. They will stand. Even against us. The finest troops in Marlborough’s army. Any army. Ingoldsby’s, North’s, Hamilton’s, Orkney’s and the Guards. Oh, yes, the French will stand. But we will make them pay.

  Fifteen yards to go and he turned his head towards the half-company:

  ‘Light your fuses.’

  Quickly, the forward-most Grenadiers each drew a single bomb from their ammunition pouches and touched its fuse to the glowing slow match fastened to their crossbelts.

  And then they were there. Up against the palisades. Steel saw Brigadier Rowe to his left strike hard against the wooden fence with the hilt of his sword. At the commanding officer’s signal the entire first line of his brigade came to a halt.

  Steel yelled above the din:

  ‘Grenadiers. Throw grenades.’

  As one, the leading men of the company hurled their bombs across the defences, then stepped back as the black metal spheres landed in the midst of the French. He counted eight explosions and heard the screams, but the grenades, though lethal, had fallen beyond the defences and failed to make any impression on the walls. Looking to his left, he caught sight of Rowe again now. Saw his sword strike once more against an overturned wagon which had been carefully incorporated into the complex fortifications. Those Grenadiers who had not thrown their bombs now took a pace to the front. Slaughter gave the command:

  ‘Make ready. Present.’

  As one, the entire brigade raised ready-loaded weapons to their shoulders.

  ‘Fire.’

  A ripple of flame eddied along the line and the world became an airless explosion of heat and smoke as close on 3,000 muskets crashed out against the French defenders. As the smoke cleared Steel knew what he must do next.

  ‘Grenadiers. Charge your bayonets. Follow me. Charge.’

  Not bothering to look to see who, if anyone, was following, his sword raised high in the air, the gun still slung across his back, Steel dashed forward against the wooden barrier. He sensed bodies behind him. Redcoats, their hands pushing past him to grasp something, anything of the wall, or in desperation the barrel of a protruding musket. Heard the curses close to his ear. He looked quickly for any purchase and found a narrow foothold on the axle of a cart. Steel managed to hoist himself up on it and propel himself across the top of the wickedly sharp points of the palisades and landed with a thump in a knot of Frenchmen. Five of his men had followed him, and another six behind them. Before him a French private raised his musket, bayonet at chest-height. Steel cut against it, parried it to the left and followed through with a quick lunge which took the man by surprise and pierced him in the heart. Withdrawing the big blade, Steel spun to the right where he was instantly conscious of movement and just managed to deflect another musket coming against his side. But this man was more quick-witted and circled around the great broadsword. Steel however had anticipated his action and cut again, feinting to the left this time, before making his genuine attack to the right, slashing deep into the man’s forearm, which fell hanging by a single ligament. Steel did not bother to observe his fate. The French were everywhere, packed into the defences in a milling crowd rather than anything resembling a discernable formation. He knew at once that there were simply too many of them and turned to the man closest to him.

  ‘McCance. We must retire. Tell the others. Follow me.’

  Backing up to the wooden wall, Steel made one final cut at an officer who lunged forward too far and suffered a deep cut across his eyes for his pains. Then, as the blinded man fell back into the throng, temporarily blocking their way, Steel leapt to the top of the fence and jumped down on to the other side. Seven of the eleven Grenadiers who had followed him managed to do the same. The fate of the others was only too evident.

  But even as Steel and his men made their escape, fresh French troops poured into the gaps in the defenders’ ranks and he had to move to avoid the points of two gleaming bayonets that thrust through the defences. It was beyond hopelessness. There was no way to get enough men into the defences at any one time to take on this many French.

  He saw Cussiter and Mackay attempting to tear down the wooden pales with their bare hands. Two more Grenadiers were with them, trying their best to keep the French at bay by thrusting their bayonets through the gaps. Looking to his left Steel heard a groan and watched as Brigadier Rowe fell, blood gouting from a long wound in his leg. Two of the General’s staff officers – Colonel Dalyell and Major Campbell – Scots whom Steel recognized, rushed over to retrieve the body. More muskets crashed out and almost simultaneously the two officers fell on top of the body of their dying Brigadier, their coats torn with more bullet holes than he could count at once. Somewhere in the thick white smoke he heard an officer’s voice shouting:

  ‘Retire. Pull back.’

  In an instant, the cry had been taken up along the length of the line. The men too began to shout:

  ‘Retreat. Save yourselves.’

  The Grenadiers looked to their front. Slaughter, his face covered with grime, looked to Steel, pleadingly but said nothing. The men stood their ground. Another French volley crashed out. Within the village the enemy had re-formed now, he thought. Stay here and we are dead men. Steel knew that there was only one thing they could do:

  ‘Grenadiers. Fall back on me. Retire.’

  Slowly and reluctantly the men pulled back from the defences. They edged backwards, still facing the enemy, over the ground which only a few minutes before they had taken at so dear a cost. The French, heartened by the sight of so many retreating redcoats, pushed forward. Some leapt from the firesteps and jumped on to the other side of the palisades in pursuit.

  Steel saw them: ‘Keep going. Don’t bother with them. Regain your positions. Retire to the lines.’

  He moved away from the wooden stakes with what was left of his party, retracing the line of their advance, their backs now to the enemy. He had to make as much ground as possible before any pursuit. Before the guns opened up again. The scrubland over which they had attacked was littered with red-coated bodies. Among the dead were scores of wounded men. Some, maimed beyond redemption, lifted their arms and called for aid. There was no t
ime. At around a hundred yards out from the walls Steel stopped and turned to face the enemy. Looking back at the walls, he could see Brigadier Rowe, lying where he had fallen. Trapped beneath the bodies of the two dead staff officers, he too had long since ceased to move.

  Steel wondered who now was at their head and tried to see what remained of his own command.

  ‘About face. Close up.’

  He found Slaughter:

  ‘What are our losses?’

  ‘Four left inside the walls, Sir, and there’s another four lying out there as won’t get up again. Then there’s Tarling and McLaurence. Both hit, Sir, but not so bad. That’s ten all told. And Baynes is missing.’

  Eleven men down out of his thirty-three. Exactly one in three. He looked along the brigade and guessed that it must be a similar tale with every company and regiment. He saw that beyond them, even Ferguson’s men had not taken their objective. The Guards he could see quite plainly, streaming back through a small orchard, their crimson colours shot to tatters. Surely they would not send the brigade in again to take the village. He knew that they could not manage it without artillery support. Cutts must see how impossible it would be.

  He had expected the French to open fire again almost immediately and waited every moment to feel the burning stab of a musket ball. None came. Aside from a few sporadic shots the French infantry had fallen silent. Those men who had sallied out of the defences had also now climbed back. He wondered too why the French artillery had not opened up on them with renewed fury.

  Slaughter put his thoughts into words: ‘Have you noticed, Sir? How they’ve stopped firing. All of them. I mean it’s too far for the infantry. But you’d have thought as the guns on the hill would have tore into us again. What’s going on, d’you think? They’re never giving up?’

  ‘I hardly think do, Sarn’t, do you? I wonder what we do now?’

  All too quickly, his question was answered. Towards the rear and slightly to the right of the battalion, he felt the ground began to tremble. Supposing at first that this might herald the arrival of the longed-for supporting artillery, Steel looked around and stopped dead. For it was not artillery that met his eyes, but horsemen. They wore red coats and they came from the direction of the allied lines. But instinctively Steel realized that these men were no friends. And then he saw that they were closing very fast. He turned to the men.