Brothers in Arms (5 page)

A noise burst across the valley, which to the new recruits in the regiment sounded curiously like the crackle of a fire in a hearth. Steel recognized it instantly as the sound of musketry. Two hundred muskets had opened up from a battalion of French infantry arrayed in line to the right of the cantering Hanoverian dragoons. They sang out in a concerted volley, belching smoke and flame, and a few of the Hanoverians seemed to leap in the saddle as they were struck and toppled from their mounts, a fair number of which also went down in the hail of bullets. But the volley had less effect than it might have done due to the pace of the fast-moving horsemen who rode on oblivious, for such now was their fury that most did not even notice the musketry any more than one might acknowledge the annoying bite of a mosquito. Steel watched as the dragoons kept going in their headlong rush, drawing ever closer to the panic-stricken target of the French horse astride the road. This, he thought, was precisely what these men had been trained to do. This was the moment of which any horseman and dragoon dreamed but never believed would actually happen – to find an army’s weakness, catch it off guard and exploit it at speed. It was textbook stuff and almost unbelievably simple, and when executed properly, as here, imbued with a savage grace.

Then Rantzau’s men were up and in the French lines, scattering the enemy in all directions, moving through them like a scythe through corn, their huge blades falling relentlessly on skulls and necks and, held á point, skewering troopers where they sat helpless while the attackers’ horses kicked and flared their nostrils and bit at the enemy’s chargers, and even the riderless mounts of the men who had fallen still bowled into the French and added their weight and fury to the chaos and carnage of the mêlée.

Steel could hear his men cheering now as they watched the enemy in their death agonies. There was no room for mercy in war, he thought. No pity here, now. There were merely winners and losers – the dead, the dying and those who managed to remain alive for one more day. The French cavalry were lost. Twenty squadrons of them were swept to oblivion because of one man’s refusal to admit that he might have been wrong. As Steel watched, the blue and red ranks simply seemed to melt away in a mayhem of screaming bodies and whinnying horses, while the great white wedge of the Hanoverians pushed further into them like a hot knife going into butter. And still the blades rose and fell, trailing gouts of blood as they went. Beneath the hooves of French cavalry that only a few minutes earlier had looked so proud and confident, patches of ground had turned to a red paste. It did not take long for Rantzau’s men to push through the bloody ruin of the cavalry, then they were out and in search of fresh quarry. And to Steel’s horror they did not stop.

Of course, he thought, they were dragoons, and they were only doing what dragoons did best. Get into the enemy on as unequal terms as you can, and then hack them to pieces until the blood runs free. He knew Jørgen Rantzau to be a brave and experienced soldier. But however well led any cavalry might be, however fearless, how could you control such men once their blood was up? Then no amount of shouted orders, no bugle calls could stop them. So Steel watched as the inevitable happened and Rantzau’s blood-crazed victors were countercharged by fresh French cavalry. The now panicked Hanoverian squadrons attempted to reform, only to be caught in the flank. Unable to stop himself, Steel stood transfixed by their nemesis.

There was a cough from his side. ‘Now that’s what I’d call a bloody shame, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so. But that’s cavalry for you. See, sir, they don’t know when to stop. But what a show they put on, eh, sir? That German cavalry. Really beat up the French. We all saw it back there. Bloody marvellous.’

‘Yes, bloody marvellous, Jacob. You’re right there. And you’re right about the cavalry. They don’t know when to stop. Same with our lot, mind you. Remember Hay’s dragoons after the Schellenberg? Roaring down that hill towards the town? The Danube ran red with enemy blood.’ He smiled, ‘But you’re a fine one to talk of restraint, Sar’nt. In our day we’ve not been much better. After Ramillies I thought the whole bloody company was going to chase the Frenchies back to Paris.’

Slaughter grinned. ‘Well, sir, sometimes you just can’t hold them. Aye, and we would’ve done that too, if the Duke hisself hadn’t stopped us. But we’ll do it today, sir. Chase ’em to Paris if you tell us to. If we ever get the chance, that is. Right to the gates of bloody Paris and down that ruddy river to Versailles. And give old Louis a bleeding nose.’

He might not have been far wrong, thought Steel. France was only fifteen miles away. If they could really prevail here today, if fate was kind to them, and for the last few years the gods of war certainly seemed to have been on their side, there was just the chance that some time soon he might be leading his men into Paris in a victory march. And what a day that would be. He laughed with the sergeant. ‘Let’s hope so, Jacob. All we can do now is hope.’

He looked again across the river. To his astonishment it appeared that the French, emboldened by their success against the repulsed Hanoverians, many of whom thankfully appeared to have managed to retire in good order to the Allied left, had begun to counterattack down the Ghent road, towards Oudenarde.

He shook his head. ‘What on earth do they mean now? Can’t they see we’re here in force?’

Both men watched as four huge columns of pale-grey-uniformed French infantry crossed the little stream of the Diepenbeek and without any opposition took the village of the same name which lay to Cadogan’s left. Steel could make out more detail among the French now. He could see their officers and sergeants quite clearly with their spear-tipped spontoons and axe-headed halberds and the frothy confections of white and silver lace in their black tricorns. The French were getting close, being drawn into Cadogan’s cauldron. At once both men guessed that their time had come at last.

‘Stand the men to, Sar’nt. I believe that we may be about to advance.’

It was approaching four o’clock by Hansam’s pocket watch and, as he had suspected, Steel did not have long to wait. Even as Slaughter and the other company sergeants were busy herding the men back into neat files, he saw a galloper from the high command racing along the hillside, making for the towering figure of Colonel Farquharson. Finding his path impeded by the sheer volume of men waiting in the column, the rider pulled up short and Steel heard the boy’s shouted words high on the breeze.

‘Sir, my lord Argyle presents his compliments and would you lead the advance across the bridges forthwith.’

The ageing colonel looked somewhat put out by this ungentlemanly behaviour on a battlefield. Nevertheless, he nodded at the young man and, taking his thin sword from its scabbard with a conscious flourish so that it caught the sunlight and drew the eye, he made a half turn in the saddle. It was now the turn of his own low, gently cultivated Highland accent to ring out over their heads.

‘My boys. You’re luck’s in at last. We’ve been ordered to advance.’

He waited for the cheer, and come it did, just as loud and hearty as he had expected from his men.

‘Now’s your chance, my lads. Do your duty and bring honour to your Queen, to your country and most important to your regiment. We fight this day for Scotland and the Union, boys. For Queen Anne and the regiment. For my regiment. For me. Now follow me to glory and fortune, lads, and I’ll pay you all in beer and golden guineas. Officers, take posts. Drummers, if you please, your sticks. Major Frampton, advance the colours.’

The adjutant, Charles Frampton, stood high in his stirrups and waved his hat three times in the air. ‘Three cheers for the colonel and the regiment. Hip hip, huzzah. Hip hip, huzzah …’

The men’s voices rang out across the field and mingled with those from the other regiments in the vanguard of the brigade who at that moment were going through the same adrenaline-raising ritual. Steel turned to the Grenadiers and raised his voice.

‘Stay with me, boys. Look to your sergeants. Look to your officers. But most of all look to me. When we go in we’ll like as not leave the rest of the battalion standing. That’s why we’re here. First in, last out, lads. Stay with me. Sergeants, keep your lines straight until we close. Halt at sixty paces and give fire. And if you do that for me, boys, and if you stand when the enemy fires on us, then bugger what the colonel has to offer. I’ll stand any man a pitcher of rum that can beat me into the French lines.’

There was another huge cheer from the company, and then Slaughter and his sergeants and corporals were dressing the lines yet again, pushing them into attacking formation, a defile column of threes. This was the only way to cross the bridge. It was the most vulnerable formation for infantry, and looking at them standing fifteen ranks deep, spaced half open, Steel worried about the potential effect of enemy gunfire. Should a single cannonball find its mark in his advancing column it would not stop but would continue to hurtle through, taking with it heads and limbs, and killing or at the least maiming an entire file.

The drums beat up the march attack, the familiar rhythm of ‘British Grenadiers’.

Steel turned back to face the front. He said quietly to Williams, ‘All right, Tom? Ready for it now?’

‘Fine, sir, and as ready as ever.’

‘Then let’s be at them.’

With Argyle riding at their head, the brigade of redcoats moved off. Steel trod firmly onto the wooden bridge and marched as steadily as he could across its creaking, swaying structure as it moved from side to side across the string of pontoons in the river. Looking to his right and his left he could see on the four other similar bridges other officers leading their men in precisely the same way. Grenadiers to the fore, the mounted colonels behind them, bringing up the battalion. It was a heart-stopping sight, and it never failed to make him puff with pride: a full brigade of British infantry marching into battle. Surprisingly, his greatest fear was unfounded, and as they were crossing no French guns found them. Evidently the gunners felt themselves unable to fire for fear of hitting their own men. Once off the bridge they began to climb a shallow slope. Soon the entire battalion was following them.

From behind he heard the adjutant taking command of the regiment: ‘’tallion will form line. Right about.’

Steel half-turned his head and in turn shouted an order to the company: ‘Form line. Right wheel. Number two platoon mark time. Form on the left.’

Steel watched as Hansam deftly guided his half-company away from Steel’s and took it to the left flank of the advancing regiment, thus ensuring that each flank was covered by half of the elite grenadiers.

Williams took up the general order, followed by Slaughter and the sergeants, and instantly Steel’s Grenadiers began to wheel to the right, followed by the other eight companies of the regiment, pivoting on the right-hand man of each rank so that within seconds they were marching towards the east. Steel led them on. Sixty paces. A hundred. That would do it.

‘Left wheel.’

Again the Grenadiers turned, this time moving on the left-hand man, and as if by a miracle of choreography found themselves again facing the front and the French lines. To their left the remaining eight companies of the regiment were spaced at roughly equal distances, having managed the same manoeuvre.

Steel let himself relax for an instant. That was the first task done. Slaughter went along the front of the line, dressing it with his halberd. Steel saw Colonel Farquharson ride to the front, accompanied by Major Frampton and the battalion drummer boys, ashen-faced with terror in their gorgeous gold and blue livery. Again the colonel lifted his hand in the air and brought it down towards the enemy. Then slowly he yelled the order to his regiment:

‘Advance!’

Steel raised his own sword high in the air and flourished it over his head three times. It was a little showy perhaps, slightly Frenchified even, but he had become used to the gesture and the men seemed to approve and be fired up. He shouted the command: ‘Advance!’ Steel lingered on the first syllable and on the last brought down the sword so that was pointing directly towards the enemy. Then he laid it gently on his shoulder. With the drums beating the steady rhythm of the Grenadiers’ march, the entire line, close on five thousand men, began to climb the hill from the river. Soon they found themselves parallel with a road running across the battlefield, southwest to northeast, lined on both sides with tall poplar trees.

Steel reckoned that they were now halfway to the French lines, and as he began to calculate the distance and how long it might take them to make contact should they continue their advance the guns on the hill in front of them opened up. He called out, ‘Steady!’ But hardly had he said it than the first cannonball whistled into their line and cut a swathe through the Grenadiers.

‘Steady, lads. With me.’

He wondered how many batteries the French had ranged against them. Cursed himself for not having counted them when he could have. Behind him the rank and file continued their advance, despite the lethal rain of shot now flying towards them. Good, he thought: words of encouragement, camaraderie and most importantly the hard pikestaffs of the sergeants were doing, had done, their job. Another fifty paces. A hundred and they were getting close enough to see the regimental facings of the enemy infantry when the drifting smoke allowed. The smell of powder invaded his nostrils and he wondered whether perhaps he shouldn’t have accepted Hansam’s generous offer of some snuff. Perhaps he would take it up before the next battle. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought. Not long until they felt the sting of musket fire from those men on the hill. Looking to the right he could see that they were beginning to draw parallel with what remained of Cadogan’s original holding force.