Brothers in Arms

High on the crest of a hill, above the little Belgian village of Eename, barely fifteen miles from the border with France, a tall rider in the distinctive, scarlet coat of an English staff officer, raised his broad frame high up in his stirrups and craned forward over the neck of his mount. Putting a spyglass to his eye, he gazed northwards across the verdant summer countryside and prayed for a miracle and with it a glimpse of his destiny.

Had they been looking closely, any one of the small group of horsemen who had accompanied him to his hilltop vantage point might have noticed the small smile that played across his features and in that instant would have known that they had found their goal.

William, first Earl of Cadogan, Chief of Staff and Quartermaster General to the army of his Grace the Duke of Marlboroough, had been in the saddle since one o’clock that morning, riding at the head of sixteen battalions of infantry and eight squadrons of cavalry. He had marched his little force at double time – some three miles to the hour – the thirteen miles from the town of Lessines, just to the north of Ath, to this spot. Below him and a little away to his left lay the town of Oudenarde, waking from its gentle slumbers, with its tall church, fanciful baroque
hotel de ville
and spreading, star-shaped fort. And pausing now, he wondered whether he had found what he and his advance column had been searching for. Through his telescope, even in the early light and clearing mists, Cadogan could clearly make out on the opposite slope, the small forms of men in pale grey coats and black tricorne hats trimmed with yellow lace as they went about the mundane business of an army in camp. French infantry. The advance guard perhaps of a mighty force which until lately had been preparing to lay siege to allied troops in Oudenarde. Clearly, their awareness of the proximity of Marlborough’s allied army had thwarted any such plan and they had moved to a fresh position where they would not themselves become encircled as was so often the case in such a siege. But, from their present behaviour, thought Cadogan, with growing satisfaction, it was clear that they could not believe that Marlborough’s men might be perilously close at hand on this brightening summer morning. And that was precisely what Cadogan and his Commander in Chief had hoped.

The town of Oudenarde lay astride the river Scheldt, inundated with wide-ranging marshland, and the most vital element of Cadogan’s modest force was the pontoon train with its team of skilled engineers: the means by which the great army of 70,000 men, horses and guns that came in his wake was to cross this formidable natural obstacle. But it was not to Oudenarde that Cadogan now turned his attention, but the wide valley of farmland beyond the river traversed by three streams and enclosed by three low hills.

It was as fine a morning as any of them had seen since the start of this campaigning season and the Belgian fields lay bathed in sunshine. It was, Cadogan guessed some time after eight o’clock on the eleventh day of July in the year 1708. And he was determined that this would be a date that would be remembered for evermore. A day that would be told of in England’s schoolrooms for centuries to come. A great day of British victory.

He had his orders. He was to sweep the road from Lessines clear of the enemy and then clear a crossing over the Scheldt. He must lay his five pontoon bridges hard by Oudenarde and form a bridgehead which he would hold until relieved by Marlborough – whenever he might arrive.

He turned to an aide: ‘Cassels, ride back to Colonel Harker and tell him to have his pioneers move down to the river as quickly as he can. He must lay his bridges there’. He pointed towards Oudenarde. ‘Hurry, man. We’ve no time to lose.’

As the young officer rode off, Cadogan looked again at the French on the opposite hill and wondered whether an enemy officer might at that same moment be watching him in a similar way and wondering at his purpose. He knew that the French too were spoiling for a fight. And he was aware that at no time in this war had a victory been so keenly needed by Marlborough as it was now.

It had been a dreadful year, spent mostly in sieges. The Dutch had insisted that it was the only way. Marlborough, Cadogan knew, was powerless without Dutch support. Of course, the Duke had not been idle in the last season. Was he ever? He had struck on a scheme to land Prince Eugene in southern France, at Toulon. It had been a bold plan. Too bold – and had come to nought. Yet for once it had not been the Dutch but their ally the Emperor of Austria himself who had forbidden it. It was said that the Emperor wished to sue for peace with the French. To treat with Louis? Cadogan, like Marlborough had been nonplussed. Certainly, now in its sixth year, this war was draining Europe dry, bathing the continent in blood. And to be sure neither of the English Generals wanted further carnage. But it was clear to any man with even the most modest military knowledge that before the French would accept any terms of armistice, a great victory must be won over them.

Then, in July disaster had struck when General Galway’s army had been routed at Almanza in Spain and the peninsula all but lost. After Marlborough’s triumphs in the Low Countries it scarcely seemed possible. A British-led army put to flight and half its men lost or taken captive. Finally, only a week ago, the vital strategic towns of Ghent and Bruges had been taken by the French. Or, in effect, had been lost to them by the treachery of their townspeople. Here was proof surely of the rumour that the Belgian people were growing tired of the allies and their great English General and would rather revert to French rule. So now, as a consequence of their perfidy, there was a real risk of the allied army’s communications and lines of supply being cut with England.

Cadogan broke off from his musings and spoke to one of the men at his side, a portly Colonel with an amiable, florid face: ‘Tell me, Colonel Hawkins. What think you of our predicament?’

‘My Lord, we are well placed to hold the French here. And, should we manage to engage them, I have no fear that we are equal to the task.’

Cadogan nodded: ‘No, Colonel. You mistake me. I am interested in your opinion of the campaign as a whole. You are aware that the French under Vendome have placed themselves behind the Bruges canal: that in effect, despite the fact that tactically we have them, or some of them, in our sights here, strategically they are in our rear. You know too that our intelligence has it from the most reliable sources that an army under Marshal Berwick is marching to join that of Vendome.’

‘If that is the case, my Lord, then we must act with all possible speed to engage Vendome. For against their combined strength we would surely have little hope.’

‘Quite so. That is Marlborough’s intention and that, you perceive is why we are here. It is our task to hold the attention of those men over there and their Marshal until Marlborough can reach us and give battle.’

‘And that we shall do, Sir. The plan was well conceived. To cross the Scheldt here, above Oudenarde is such a move as only the Duke could make. This is the stuff of Blenheim and Ramillies. D’you doubt him, my Lord?’

Cadogan frowned at him: ‘Would I ever question that man’s genius? No, Colonel Hawkins … James. Like you I am aware that in placing us here the Duke has taken position not only between the two enemy armies, but between Vendome and France itself. And yet, I am worried. Think of Ghent, James. Consider how easily it gave itself up to the French. What d’you suppose would happen if other towns should follow suit? What then if our army should find itself adrift in a hostile land with neither supply of ammunition nor provisions?’

Hawkins, knowing the full horror of the answer, said nothing. Again, Cadogan peered across at the tiny, pale grey figures busy opposite them and knew that the moment had come to take a gamble. A gamble on which would rest the fate of the entire allied army. There was no sure way of knowing the true extent of the French presence here but something told Cadogan – an instinct born of almost twenty years of campaigning – that over that hill lay the might of France. It must be so, he reasoned. Where else might Vendome be?

Banishing any doubts, he turned to the young officer on his left and spoke in a low, grave, emotional voice in which it was easy to detect the gentle lilt of his native Dublin: ‘Cornet Rodgers, take yourself off on a ride if you will back to the Captain General.’