Brothers in Arms (29 page)

Steel laughed. ‘You will be rusty, Simpson. I’ll have one of my men look after you. Just in case.’

He turned to Williams, who, with Hansam and several other officers from the grenadier battalion, was sitting at a neighbouring table. ‘Tom, look here. Take care of Captain Simpson in the battle tomorrow, will you? He’s not used to this sort of fighting. I dare say he’s good with a sword, but strictly on a one-to-one basis. Look out for his back in particular.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure, sir. Though I didn’t actually know there was to be a battle. Are we to attack?’

‘Oh yes. We are to attack, Tom. You see, we have a bead drawn on our enemies. That’s for sure. Now it is merely a question of being able to find them.’

The boats came in under cover of darkness with their sails down and muffled oars. It was the best way. Steel had only once taken part in a amphibious assault, in Spain three years ago, and that had been a fiasco. The defenders had seen them coming a mile off and had thrown everything they could at them. Their little boats had been blown out of the water in a welter of foam, blood and flying debris. A third of their attacking strength had been lost before they had reached the shore. This time Steel was determined that it would be different. The darkness at least would give them some degree of cover and they would need every last bit of surprise if they were to have any chance at all of getting into the town.

They were coming in from the southeast. According to Simpson, the town was built around one main street running directly north – south. The defending British and Allied soldiers had thrown up barricades across the width of the outermost streets, while the French on their part had wasted no time in establishing a bridgehead near the shore. In a part of Europe renowned for its flatness, Leffinghe had been built on one of the land’s few hilltops and thus now occupied an island. To the south, left of Steel’s approach, a neighbouring knoll, now also an island, served the French as their battery position, and from there for the last three days their cannon had been raking the town with fire – shell and roundshot. As Steel’s men approached, the guns opened up again, sending more shells into the houses. He watched as they burst and, seeing one catch fire, instantly thought of Henrietta.

She had not been far from his thoughts since his conversation the previous evening with Simpson. He wondered whether there could be any truth in the rumour. His initial reaction had been to dismiss it as jealous chatter. But slowly an invidious suspicion had crept into his mind, and try as he might he could not rid himself of it. Perhaps, he thought, it was because Louisa, the pretty Bavarian girl he had taken home to England after Blenheim and whom he had thought that one day would become his wife, had also run off with a fellow officer. But he kept persuading himself that such things did not happen twice to the same man. He was sure it must be gossip. Nevertheless, Steel knew that as soon as he got into the town his first priority would be to find Henrietta. Just to make sure she was safe … be sure. Malbec, for the time being at least, he was content to leave to Simpson.

The little boat containing his half-company chopped its way through the water, the Royal Navy ratings pulling for shore with all their might. It was heading directly for the east side of the town and flanked by eleven similar craft, carrying the entire battalion, less the casualties they had left in Gistel.

Slaughter, predictably, was no happier now than he had been when they had first embarked. ‘These boats aren’t made for this work, sir. They’re for carrying grain, see, not taking soldiers into the attack. By the time we get off they’ll have seen us and then there’ll be merry hell.’

‘Well they haven’t seen us yet, Sar’nt, and we’ve only a couple of hundred yards to go. Have the men make ready.’

Steel’s plan was to land on the right flank of the attackers. That way, when they were seen, it would only be by a few of the French, and by the time word of their arrival had reached the enemy commanders they would be formed up on the beach and ready to engage the French line. His prime goal, of course, was not to get into a prolonged firefight. That would be suicide, outnumbered as he expected to be by at least ten to one. Rather he intended to get as many men as he could into the town. Clearly Marlborough would have despatched the larger relieving force proper by now, but Steel knew that they might take anything as long as another day to arrive. What was needed now was more guns inside the walls to help the defenders hold out until the relief column turned up. And that was what Steel intended to give them.

Slaughter reported in. ‘They’re ready, sir. Ready as they’ll ever be. But it still doesn’t feel right.’

‘If the marines can do it then so can we, Jacob. Don’t mind getting your feet wet, do you?’

There was no moon, but as the barges grew closer to the shore the flashes from the cannon and the flames of the burning houses cast an unwelcome light in their direction. At fifty paces out Steel heard the cry he had been expecting.

‘
Aux armes! A droit
.’

He knew these now were the crucial moments. Timing was everything. The first of the barges beached against the hillside, and then the second. Steel felt his own vessel strike land and held tight to the side as it stopped. Then he was off, jumping down from the prow into the shallow water above the sodden grass, sword in hand, calf-deep, aware that his men were close behind. He heard Slaughter curse and then they were all splashing through the shallows and onto the hill. All down the length of the shoreline he could see that the other barges had made landfall and were now disgorging their own passengers.

He turned briefly. ‘Form up. To me. All of you, rally on me.’

As he spoke, Steel heard the first muskets crackle at them from the French ranks. They were too far off to be effective.But if they were to make it to the defences without being cut down Steel knew he would have to deal with them first.

‘Sar’nt, form the men up here. Line of battle.’

Within seconds the grenadiers were formed. Steel’s half-company had been joined by their comrades. Behind them a second line was formed by the Prussians, then came the Dutch. He stood for a moment, savouring the experience of looking over a battalion-sized command. Then, drawing his sword, he gave the order:

‘Advance.’

With Steel walking, sword flat against his shoulder, on the left flank of the company, the battalion began to move along the shoreline towards the French. At thirty paces the enemy opened fire for a second time. Steel braced himself and watched as two of his own men were hit and fell, to be passed over by the following ranks.

‘Steady. Keep going. Sar’nt Slaughter, halt at twenty paces. Fire by platoons.’

At twenty paces they stopped.

Again the French loosed off another volley. This time four men fell in the British ranks. It was a gamble, he thought, but if it paid off it would win them the shore and with it the time to get into the town. In a prearranged manoeuvre, the Prussian second rank moved at double time and split either side of Steel’s own stationary men, thus giving a two-company frontage in three ranks. He prayed that it would work.

‘First platoons, make ready. Present. Fire.’

One third of the muskets fired and thirty one-ounce lead balls flew towards the French, six of them finding their mark.

Hansam took up the command. ‘Second platoons, present. Fire.’

Another thirty guns spat flame, and another seven Frenchmen fell as they were still reloading. The echo had not stopped when the third platoon volley crashed out, felling more of the white-coated infantry. Then the first platoons were firing again. And so it went on. The French fired off a single, mass volley, but you could not really call it that, for now almost thirty Frenchmen were lying dead and wounded on the wet grass, slick with their blood, officers and sergeants among them, and those who were left in the three ranks were beginning to falter. Again the British and the Prussians fired their rolling volleys, and again the French failed to return fire. Then Steel saw two of the French infantry turn and run. That was all it took. Two men. Within seconds others had followed, and soon the battalion was streaming away from them down along the shoreline, their officers yelling for them to return, or joining in the rout themselves.

Steel turned to the Grenadiers. ‘Cease firing. Stand steady.’ Many of them, he could see, were eager to be after the enemy with the bayonet. He shouted, lest they should take the opportunity for glory, ‘No. Not this time, my boys. You’ll soon have time to complete your victory. Now, with me. Into the town.’

Turning back the way they had come, Steel was preparing to run to the head of the company when he felt a heavy blow on his left arm as if he had been hit with a hammer. Knowing instantly what it was, he spun round and, clutching at his shoulder, felt the blood and swore. The wound, he supposed, must have been around two inches above the one he had collected at Oudenarde, and it was probably not as bad, by half. Through the smoke he could make out the figure of a French officer, but the man, holding a still-smoking musket, turned and ran with his men before Steel had a chance to retaliate.

Slaughter came to his side. ‘You hit, sir?’

‘Yes. The damned coward shot me in the back. Ran away, damn him.’

‘Got no manners, these Frenchies, have they, sir? Here, let me have a look.’ Slaughter gently took Steel’s injured shoulder and peeled away the red cloth, now stained with blood: ‘You’re lucky, sir. Passed clean through, just under the bone. Nasty hole, though. Looks sore, too.’

Steel gritted his teeth: ‘It is, Sar’nt, a little, and too damn near the hit I took at Oudenarde.’

Between the two of them they contrived a dressing from a piece of shirting, and Steel walked to the head of the company, which had turned sharply and formed into a column of threes. He turned to them and, having sheathed his sword, raised his hat in the air. ‘With me, men. Into the town.’

In double time they raced up the hill towards a road he had spotted when they had landed, yelling all the time, ‘Hello, up there. In the town. Hold your fire. We’re British. Hold your fire.’

He could hear cheering now, and soon saw a group of the defenders, grey and red coats among them, with their arms and weapons held up over their heads. Evidently they had seen the firefight, and as the Grenadiers approached their makeshift barricade of furniture, barrels and flotsam they began to pull it apart to make a gap through which Steel’s men could pass. Steel was the first, clapped on the back by the defenders and cheered with loud huzzahs. He found a sergeant of English infantry, his face blackened with powder scorches.

‘By God, sir. It’s good to see you. Where are the others?’

‘It’s just us for the time being, I’m afraid, Sar’nt. But we’re better than nothing, wouldn’t you say? There’s more on their way. Where’s your officer?’

The sergeant pointed to the right. ‘Major Kidd’s two streets along that way, sir, and the officer commanding’s in the main square, up there.’

Steel decided to make for the overall commander and set off up the street, followed by his half-company. All about them lay the debris of a siege. The street was littered with stones, cobbles, bricks, broken window frames, possessions blown or thrown from houses, and the occasional corpse of a dead soldier or civilian. It was Ostend all over again, and he hoped that Henrietta, wherever she was, was not too scared or touched by the memories of that place.

He arrived at the town square and walked into a vision of hell. On two sides were dead bodies: soldiers, men, women and children had been laid out in stiff rows. On the other two sides lay the wounded. Some of the townswomen were attempting to tend their wounds, but Steel could see that there was little they could do. Off to the left a small group of officers in red and grey coats stood in conversation. He hurried across and introduced himself.

‘Captain Steel. To whom do I have the honour to report?’

One of the redcoats looked up. He was a good-looking young man of about Steel’s own age with an angular, chiselled jaw and jet black hair which he wore drawn back in a queue as did Steel, although in this man’s case it was less an idiosyncrasy than accepted fashion, on account of his being in the dragoons.

‘I command here. Maclean. Major, Hay’s Dragoons. You are most welcome, Captain Steel. You are the advance guard?’

‘In a manner of speaking, Major. I command an independent combined battalion of grenadiers. We were in Gistel when we heard of your predicament. We are thus not, so to speak, with the relieving force, but I do know that they will be here soon.’

The major frowned. ‘Ah well, better some than none at all. How many are you?’

‘All told, with casualties, we number some three hundred muskets. All grenadiers, sir.’

As he said it a roundshot came howling in over high their heads and buried itself in a timber-framed building at the back of the square, carrying away a good portion of the first-storey wall and windows. Instinctively the men ducked, save Steel and Maclean who carried on speaking quite calmly.

‘I would ask you to split your force, Captain. You will move half of your men to the left flank, where you came in. The remainder I would place to the south. It is there that the French clearly plan to make their main attack.’ He noticed Steel’s wound. ‘You’re hit. It’s not bad?’

‘Nothing, sir. I’ll live.’

‘Fine. Divide yourselves now as you will. Good day to you, Captain.’ And with that he turned back to the Dutch officer to whom he had been speaking on Steel’s arrival.