Man of Honour
Page 33
As Sir James finished the six drummers positioned directly behind the Grenadier company along with those on the left flank began to beat the regiment into the attack.
‘Rat tat dum, rat dum tidi dum. Rat ta dum, rat tum tidi dum.’ The unmistakable tattoo of the ‘British Grenadiers’.
Behind him, Steel sensed the men growing restless, swelling with pride and adrenalin. Now they would move on his command.
‘Grenadiers, with me. Let’s be at them, boys.’
Slaughter, his sergeant’s halberd with its gleaming axe-head poised at the diagonal above the end of file man, offered his own words of gentle encouragement. ‘Come on you lazy buggers! Get on. They won’t bloody wait. This is what we’re here for,’ ain’t it? Let’s get into them.’
As one the battalion stepped off. The slow march to attack, at a pace calculated to be just sufficient to preserve order in the ranks, yet as fast as possible on a field of battle. Hardly fast enough, thought Steel, and he waited for the French cannon to adjust their range for maximum effectiveness. There was the dreadful lull as they did so and then seconds later the balls came screaming in again. The drums were hammering harder now, urging the men on, their rhythm insistent even under the bombardment. Looking briefly to his left he saw the entire line of Orkney’s brigade swinging across the plain and down the hill towards the stream. We must cross that, thought Steel. Just get through those marshes and we will be fine. Just have to make it that far. Was that so much to ask? Dear God, he prayed, to no being in particular. Whatever you might be, grant me just that one wish. Get us across the stream and let us be at the French. And do not let me die. But if I must be hit then do for heaven’s sake please let me die. Do not let me be crippled. Let me live, for God’s sake, let me live to carry the battle to my enemies. Your enemies for all I know. The Queen’s enemies. Marlborough’s enemies. Let me live to kill the French. As he repeated the gruesome litany in his head, Steel realized that they had made it to the foot of the slope and were now on the edge of the marsh, close to the stream.
He turned to Williams. ‘Tom, for God’s sake, keep the men close together. Don’t let them become bogged down. You must keep formation.’
Slaughter’s voice too growled out the familiar words above the din of battle. ‘Close up. Right shoulders forward. Close your ranks, you buggers.’
Steel looked back to the front, into the rain of shot and mouthed his useless prayer. Although in his heart he knew that if this miserable Whitsunday were to be the moment he would die, it was ordained already and there was nothing any words could change about that. But he knew that he could fight and that if the fates let him reach the French lines he would do his damnedest to make sure that this day would surely not be his last.
About the Author
MAN OF HONOUR
Iain Gale has always had a passion for military history. He is the Editor of the National Trust for Scotland magazine and Art critic for Scotland on Sunday. He lives outside Edinburgh with his wife and children.
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Four Days in June
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