Man of Honour

by Iain Gale

  Steel watched as they closed with the stragglers, taking them in the back with their long swords, keen to the battle and hungry for blood. On and on rode the English dragoons until, coming under fire from the village, they were forced to retire.

  Steel, still recovering his breath, sheathed his sword and took his leave of Captain Rodt. Then, cradling the bloody colours in his arms, he left the Hessian square, followed by Slaughter and the Grenadiers and walked across the allied lines towards the reformed remains of Rowe’s brigade. He found Sir James Farquharson, nursing a slight sword cut to his arm, in agitated conversation with Charles Frampton. As he approached, Steel saw Farquharson’s incredulous gaze fall on the bundle in his hands.

  ‘This is yours I believe, Sir.’

  He offered his Colonel the colour.

  Farquharson took the tattered square of red and gold embroidered silk and looked at Steel.

  ‘Lieutenant Steel. My word. Indeed.’ Pon my word. You are a hero, Sir. An honour to the regiment. To the army. The Captain-General shall hear of this. Well done, Sir.’

  He shoved the bloody rag at Frampton.

  ‘Frampton. What say you? Mister Steel has rescued the colour.’

  Frampton smiled.

  ‘Yes, Steel. Well done. Very well done.’

  He turned back to the Colonel.

  ‘As I was saying, Sir James, we must re-form. Lord Cutts commands that we must attack the village once more. He promises artillery support when it can be got but the ground is too infirm. We must go again, Sir.’

  Leaving them, Steel regained the ranks of the Grenadiers, who had now re-formed as a single company. The men had formed two ranks and Slaughter was taking a role-call. Close by he found a smiling Henry Hansam, his head wrapped in a bandage, improvised from a torn shirt, and Williams, who had taken a sword cut to his hand.

  ‘Are you hit, Tom?’

  ‘No sir, merely a scratch. I got the blaggard though.’

  ‘Well done. You had better bind it up. We’re going in again.’

  Hansam shook his head.

  ‘Surely not, Jack. Not without covering fire from our guns?’

  ‘I’m very much afraid so, Henry. Cutts’ orders. Though I cannot see an outcome any different from the last. It would seem, gentlemen, that we are to be sacrificed to divert the enemy’s attention from whatever the Duke intends to be his real coup de main.’

  From the rear came the sound of the drums beating the ‘stand-to’. Frampton’s voice rang out.

  ‘The battalion will form line of attack.’

  Steel saw him, standing with Sir James beneath the tattered colours, held now by the only two Ensigns of the regiment, apart from Williams, who still remained unhurt. As the ragged lines came together, Steel turned to the company.

  ‘Grenadiers. Right of the line.’

  He looked across to Hansam, Williams and Slaughter.

  ‘Good luck, all of you. We’re surely going to need it.’

  Six hundred yards away to the west from Steel’s position a redcoated officer stood on the short ridge that ran from above the village of Sonderheim to the banks of the Meulweyer, the little tributary of the Danube that flowed through Blenheim.

  For the past hour, just beyond the range and trajectory of Marlborough’s cannon, Aubrey Jennings had watched the British attack come in. Had seen the full extent of the slaughter inflicted by the batteries of twenty-four pounders directly below him and the white-coated infantry packed into the village. He had watched Rowe’s men go down in droves. And he had known. Farquharson’s was not an easy regiment to miss and at one point he had even picked out Sir James himself leading his men into battle. That, he had to admit, had been something of a surprise. He had always thought the man something of a coward. But then this had been a day of surprises. For peering down into the smoke-filled plain, he had found the Grenadiers and there, at their head had seen the distinctive, bareheaded, unlikely figure of Jack Steel.

  It was hard at first to think that he could be anything more than a ghost, so well had Jennings convinced himself that Steel was dead.

  That initial shock and fury had been tempered by the realization that Steel’s death could never have been as easy as he had imagined. The man was charmed. As much was evident from the way he lived his life on a knife edge and survived. Damn his luck.

  Now Jennings had watched the scene before him play out with a more particular interest. He looked carefully as each of the small red figures went down and tried to see if Steel was among them. He lost him in the smoke of another French volley and then found him again at the very gates of the village. The man was indestructible. Surely though, his luck was wearing thin. How many could withstand the fury of such fire?

  Jennings had watched the ebb and flow of the battle on the French right wing, casting the occasional glance across to his left where he was aware that the Imperial forces had taken the attack deep into the army of the Elector.

  He had seen the redcoats retreat from Blenheim, or Blindheim as the French insisted on calling the village. And, as the smoke had increased in volume, it had grown increasingly hard to discern any of the individual units, let alone a single man. When the French cavalry had gone in he had thought at first that the entire wing of the allied army must collapse. That French victory might come sooner than even he had imagined. But that had not happened. The French cavalry had come streaming back and once again the conflict might go either way. And whatever happened, he was powerless to play a part.

  Jennings was roused from his worries by the approach of four white-coated horsemen. Colonel Michelet, with two of his regimental officers and a trumpeter leading a riderless white horse, had ridden up on to the ridge from their position to the left and rear of Blenheim. He hailed Jennings.

  ‘Major. Good morning. I presumed that I might find you here. I trust that you slept as well as I. There is simply nothing to equal a fine cognac as an aid to the digestion, eh? I see that you have been watching our display of strength. I am afraid, Sir, that it does not go well for your army.’

  He wore a wide grin:

  ‘Look now. Your valiant redcoats intend to attack again. Don’t your commanders realize that it is quite futile? How can they prevail against such an army as ours, in such a position as this? You must find it very galling.’

  Jennings smiled.

  ‘My dear Colonel. I am touched by your sympathy. But really, it is quite unneccessary. The greater the number of our men that fall today, the speedier will be Lord Marlborough’s fall from grace. It is the price that we must pay for salvation.’

  ‘Oh, you English. Always you must bring your Protestant moral ethics into everything. Surely, the papers that you carry to England will be sufficient to engineer Lord Malbrook’s destruction?’

  ‘I am quite certain of it, Colonel. But as un gentilhomme militaire, you must surely appreciate that it can never do any harm to have the reassurance of a reserve?’

  The Colonel laughed and patted Jennings on the shoulder.

  ‘And now, my friend, to business. The reason that I have sought you out. My General, the Marquis de Clerambault – I believe you met him yesterday evening – would ask you for a small favour in exchange for our hospitality. It is evident from your conversation with him that you are a man of some standing. That you are perhaps privy to the dispositions of your army?’

  Jennings grinned nervously and tried to recall his boast of the previous evening. Exactly what he had told the pompous French General who reeked of brandy and stale eau de cologne.

  ‘Colonel.’

  Jennings guessed what was coming next.

  ‘Here to your front, I perceive from your demeanour, is your own regiment. You will surely know with whom it marches. In which brigade. You will know which of these regiments are the strongest, the elite, and which the most likely to break. My General would be most grateful if you would ride to him – we will provide you with a horse – and advise him if you would of every such thing that you know. We are send
ing in another ten battalions to Blindheim. We believe your Lord Malbrook’s attack to be a double bluff. He intends us to think the attack here is a feint and that he will come at our centre. But we believe that it is Blindheim that he will make the real focus of his assault. You, Major, have the knowledge to tell us whether that is indeed the case.’

  Jennings shook his head.

  ‘I am sorry, Colonel. You canot persuade me to betray my countrymen. You may continue to try, but I shall only continue to refuse. Horse or no horse. But let me ask you something. Are you quite certain that it’s wise to place twenty-seven battalions in so small a village?’

  Michelet laughed.

  ‘It is our way, Major. If we believe in a plan, we stay with it to the end. We reinforce in strength.’

  Jennings smiled at the Frenchman’s bluff arrogance.

  ‘How can you be sure that I will not break my parole? Any British officer who vouchsafed such information as you have just told me would now be honour bound to ride back to his own lines and alert his commanding officer.’

  ‘But, Major Jennings, you and I have the measure of one another and I think that we are both aware that you are not “any British officer”. You are a particular type of officer. The sort of officer who might not be bound by honour, if the “salvation” of his country, and his own advancement in particular, might be served by a course of action which might otherwise be seen as “dishonour”?’

  Jennings stared at the man. He was tempted for an instant to call him out. But then he remembered where he was and it also began to dawn upon his clouded mind that Michelet was right. In doing all that he had done, he had overturned the accepted code of honour and replaced it with one of his own making. A moral code for the modern age. He knew now that there could be no going back. Michelet made to ride off and then turned:

  ‘Oh, Major. I do have one other small request. I know that you will not take up arms against your own countrymen. Nor would I expect that, even from you. But we have a problem that perhaps you can help us with. In the fields to the rear of Blindheim there is a unit, a company, of what you might call “turncoats”. Deserters from your army. They are mostly English, Irish and Scotchmen. I would be obliged, Major, if you would take them under your care. Bring them out of the village and advance them to the centre of the line, but well back. Out of danger. I assure you that there, according to the current dispositions, you will merely have to fight against Dutchmen and Prussians, if at all.’

  Jennings nodded his head and smiled at the irony that he should be asked to command a detachment of deserters.

  ‘You are a clever man, Colonel. Of course I shall do as you ask. What else could I do? It is a small price to pay for victory. And anyway, from what you say, Colonel, the battle is as good as won.’

  Michelet laughed.

  ‘Yes, Major. I do believe that there can now be no doubt about it. We are winning.’

  ELEVEN

  Marlborough shook his head and looked to Cardonell.

  ‘Adam, ride to General Cutts if you would. Tell him most expressly that he is not to attack Blenheim again without my specific orders. He is to retire to … eighty yards and maintain a steady fire. He must keep the French pinned down in their positions within the village. Tell him to do so by moving forward his platoons in succession to give fire and then to retire each of them out of range of the French. In so doing he will subject the French to a constant, rolling fire. On no account is Lord Cutts to attack the position. He is merely to keep the enemy occupied and to prevent them from leaving. You understand?’

  ‘Entirely, Your Grace.’

  As Cardonell rode off, Marlborough turned to Cadogan.

  You see, George, that way we will be able to occupy close on a half of their entire force. Tallard must have 25,000 men in there. And we shall keep them there while expending but half their number.’

  The Duke stared down at the carnage unfolding before him. He turned to Hawkins: ‘I think, James, that we can leave General Cutts to handle Blenheim. He has his orders.’

  Hawkins pointed towards the right wing where the rising palls of white smoke rose against the sky:

  ‘Prince Eugene it would seem also has a fight on his hands, Your Grace.’

  ‘His purpose is to occupy as many of the enemy as possible. He is quite aware of that. I am sure that he will not falter.’

  Marlborough looked towards the centre of the enemy line. It was hard to make out how the fight was progressing.

  ‘What think you, James. Is the village ours?’

  Hawkins put a glass to his eye and looked out towards Oberglau. Against his advice, Marlborough, bound by his alliances and promises, had given command of this crucial attack to the young Prince of Holstein-Beck, a strip of a lad who had arrived with them only yesterday. As far as both men were aware, he was utterly inexperienced as an officer. From what Hawkins could see it seemed that events had not gone as he had planned. The French had advanced out of the village and at their front both men watched as one of their battalions went crashing into Holstein-Beck’s brigade. Again Hawkins put the spyglass to his eye and looked closely at their standards. Three in particular caught his eye. A white cross with opposite quarters of green and yellow inset with crowned golden harps.

  ‘Irishmen, Your Grace.’

  Marlborough grimaced. These were the famous ‘Wild Geese’, exiled Jacobites, who for the last twelve years had fought in French service. He knew well to beware of them and their burning need to atone for their countrymens’ flight at the Boyne, but this was beyond what he had expected from even these desperate men. As he watched the red-coated Irish infantry continued their advance directly into the two leading Dutch battalions, who instantly fell back in disorder.

  A courier rode towards the Duke. A Dutch cavalry officer.

  ‘I bring word from the Prince of Holstein-Beck, Your Grace. He is in grave need of cavalry, Sir. He asks me to tell you that he asked General Fugger some time ago to send cavalry. But, Your Grace, Fugger will not send the men. He says that he cannot make any new dispositions without express word from Prince Eugene.’

  Marlborough put a hand to his head.

  ‘It was as I feared. While Prince Eugene and I have the strongest of understandings, his generals will take no direct orders from mine.’

  Cadogan spoke:

  ‘We must act at once, Your Grace. The Irish and the French to their rear will break our centre. The line will be cut in two.’

  Marlborough called for paper and pencil and began to write. He thrust the note into the Dutchman’s hand:

  ‘Quickly. Take this to Prince Eugene. Direct from me. Make sure that he reads it. It orders him to send Fugger’s cavalry directly to Holstein-Beck. Then ride and tell Holstein-Beck that Fugger’s Cuirassiers are on their way. He must needs hold the line only until they arrive.’

  As the man rode away Hawkins prayed that it would not be too late. Then, turning back to re-appraise the struggle in the centre of the line, he gasped and clenched his hands tight together about the pommel of his saddle. For the sight that now met his eyes told quite clearly that, for Holstein-Beck’s brigade at least, the promise of Fugger’s cavalry could no longer be of any help.

  As they looked on, Marsin’s cavalry began to pour through the gap created by the Irishmen. Hawkins tried to determine numbers. Marlborough too:

  ‘James. How many of their squadrons do you count?’

  ‘Thirty, Sir. Possibly more.’

  Thirty squadrons. Everywhere the blue- and red-coated horsemen were chopping down at the heads of the allied infantry. Within just a few seconds Holstein-Beck’s brigade had simply ceased to exist.

  Cadogan saw it too.

  ‘Good God. They’ve broke our centre. Sir, the line is broke. D’you see?’

  Marlborough spoke, still staring at the slaughter taking place down on the plain as the French cavalry whooped and hollered and cut without mercy into the dying Dutch and Swiss.

  ‘Yes, I can see, George.’r />
  Now their entire centre was open and exposed. Within moments it seemed possible that the enemy might be about to drive a great wedge between the two wings of his army. They were about to lose the initiative. It was beyond doubt. The French were winning. There was only one thing to do and the Duke too could see it.

  ‘Follow me.’

  Spurring the grey horse into a trot and then a gallop, Marlborough picked his way, followed by the six men of his staff and retinue, down the slope to one of the bridges built earlier that morning by the pioneers, and rode across the Nebel.

  An officer rode up, covered in blood.

  ‘Your Grace, Holstein-Beck is wounded, and captured. All is lost, Sir.’

  Marlborough turned away from him, to an aide.

  ‘Charles, bring forward the Hanoverians from the reserve. All three battalions. The Danish horse too. As many squadrons as you can find. And have Colonel Blood bring a battery, no, two batteries of cannon, across that bridge. Tell him not to worry. It will bear their weight.’

  Even as the man rode off, there was movement to the right as Fugger’s Imperial Cuirassiers at last made their advance. The huge men, in their distinctive buff coats and shining silver-black cuirasses and lobster-tail helmets, mounted on horses chosen for their stature, rode down the slope from the right wing. Before their eyes all twelve of their squadrons crashed into the left flank of Marsin’s massed cavalry, taking them in that place that every cavalryman feared most, on his bridle-arm side, his most vulnerable area where his own sword arm could not swing to full effect. For a moment, Hawkins thought, it was as if a wall of steel had come up against a great blue and red rock. And then the rock began to give way, pushed back by the Cuirassiers clean into the centre of the French army. Marlborough turned to Cardonell.