Highest Stakes (15 page)

  "'Tis an abscess, right enough. The good news is that the ailment is completely curable. I'll drill into the sole a wee bit, and a few days of mud packed with Epsom salts and vinegar will draw out the purulence. He'll soon be sound enough to march, but the bad news is he shan't be running any race today. You must find yourself another mount, Devington."

  "Confound it all! I've no time! I've no doubt the captain's Hawke would give it a go, but I daren't push him such a distance with his old injury. This trial needs a swift athlete, a horse with grit to his very bones. Where can I find such a one with so little time?"

  "If it's high spirits and an iron will you desire, I can think of only one such animal in this camp," the captain replied slowly.

  "Indeed. There is one." The corporal and the captain exchanged knowing looks.

  "You
can't
mean that notorious gray," Winthrop responded, incredulous. "Besides, Bainbridge will never allow it."

  "Bainbridge answers to Lord Stair," Captain Drake interjected. "You said the field marshal offered up
any horse
in his army. Why should this preclude Major Bainbridge's stallion? Needs must when the devil drives. Besides, all will be forgiven, providing Devington wins."

  "One would hope you know what you are about with
that one
, Devington," Winthrop said.

  "It can be no other," he answered. With everything to gain— and everything to lose—he took up his riding tack and marched purposefully to the gray's stables, where he found the stallion pacing restlessly in his stall. Recognizing Devington at once, he uttered a low nicker in greeting, but then, as if remembering himself, he followed with a more menacing snort.

  "I'm glad to see you too, my man, though I would wish it were under other circumstances. I require a boon, you see."

Accompanied by their seconds, much as a pair of duelists, the riders were appointed to meet at the Aschaffenburg bridge at precisely eight o'clock in the morning. Each rider departed his respective camp, dressed in his parade uniform and carrying his sword, pistols, and regimental standard.

  While every attempt had been made to keep the matter quiet, word had spread in excited whispers, growing and swelling in rippling waves throughout the Pragmatic camps. Hundreds upon hundreds of British, Hanoverians, and Austrians formed a miles-long line, beginning at the bridge, crowding the streets, and skirting along the river path, which the riders would eventually follow nearly eight miles to Dettingen and back.

  As the contenders advanced to the bridge, a party of British troopers hoisted the Union Jack and broke into a jubilant if unharmonious chorus of
Hail Britannia
! Devington paused his excitedly prancing horse to salute his country's flag, and the exultant Englishmen cheered. The startled gray reared, but Devington maintained his seat and calmly circled his agitated mount a few times to resettle him.

  Arriving at the bridge, Devington and his opponent, one Captain Ranzau, faced one another appraisingly. Ranzau sat atop his largeboned, heavily muscled black charger. Standing well over sixteen hands, the splendid stallion towered over Devington and his lighter, lither gray, who danced, pawed, and snorted challengingly at his Goliath of an adversary.

  "He's a fine one," Devington remarked appreciatively of the captain's black.

  "He is
Sohn
of His Majesty's own
Gyldenstein,
one of the twelve best stallions
von
all Europe."

  "That may well be true,
Kapitän
, but England is
not
part of Europe."

  The Hanoverian flushed. "You English have so conceit of your horses, but we shall soon prove otherwise."

  A trumpet sounded unexpectedly, startling both men and their horses. The herald caused a great commotion among the amassed soldiers, and the two riders regarded one another speculatively. Following a second trump, a group of riders came into view, now easily recognizable as an assemblage of His Majesty's Life Guards. The guards approached, headed by a portly, florid-faced young man in a highly decorated uniform.

  "'Tis the Duke of Cumberland," Captain Drake reported quietly to Devington.

  Abashed by the royal arrival and anxious of the repercussions, Devington and Ranzau moved to dismount, but the duke arrested them.

  "As you were, gentleman," His Grace said to the pair. "I have come to verify for myself the report I received this morning of a challenge between His Majesty's British and Hanoverian Cavalries. Now, I would judge the rumor to be true." He spoke sternly, raking them with cool blue eyes. "Here we sit on half rations, with our supply lines cut and French all about us, and our troops would run a horse race?"

  Captain Drake stepped forward. "Your Grace, Corporal Devington is not to be faulted. 'Twas I who issued the challenge, to avoid what might otherwise have been a nasty confrontation between your British and Hanoverian troops."

  "And in so doing, you have marshaled the men and boosted pitifully low morale in both camps. I commend you, Captain. And now, I request the honor of commencing this race."

  At the sound of the trump, the riders spurred their horses into action, clamoring down the crowded cobbles in a fierce flurry of hooves, accompanied by waving hats and a deafening cacophony of English and German cheers. The race was unlike any other Devington had ridden. The rules were simple: to be the first to reach the village of Dettingen and return, with the course completely determined by the riders.

  Side-by-side, they galloped northeastward through the streets of Aschaffenburg until breaking into the open fields where the masses of British infantry and artillery were going about their morning routines.

  Devington and Ranzau blazed through the middle of the encampment, causing men to scatter their weaponry and scurry out of the way. Hurtling now through the artillery, Devington heard the rumble of iron wheels and cracking of whips before he actually perceived the line of limbers and caissons stuck in the mud and blocking their path all the way to the riverfront. Hesitating, he pulled up his horse, looking right and left for an opening, while with a triumphant cry, the Hanoverian spurred his charger ever faster, and with a great and powerful spring, they cleared the cannon with the grace of a stag.

  Devington sat frozen, momentarily bedazzled by the magnificent performance; then snapping back to attention, he wheeled his own horse with a mind to follow suit. Cantering back about twenty paces, he urged the gray forward, directly toward the cannon. At the final second of the approach, the stallion realized what his rider demanded. Suddenly balking, the gray propped on the fore and pitched Devington headlong into an artillery wagon full of gun powder. With his once pristine uniform coated with the black residue that had cushioned his fall, Devington rose and wiped the soot from his eyes in angry swipes. The stallion looked on, snorting and tossing his head victoriously with the success of his caper.

  "I concede you've bested me once, my man, but 'tis a long ride yet to Dettingen." Gathering up his standard, Devington vaulted back onto the horse and squeezed narrowly through a break between the limbers and caissons.

  With a cloud of dust in his wake, the Hanoverian was now barely a speck in the distance. "Damn! Damn! Bloody damn! You see what you've done?" Devington swore and urged his horse once more into a furious gallop. The stallion at first hesitated, but as if deciding to enter into the spirit of the game, surged forward in zealous pursuit.

  Though yet ruffled by his unexpected unhorsing, Devington realized the Hanoverian had set far too aggressive a pace. The
kapitän's
vanity had compelled him to make a show as they ripped through the British camp, but their overzealous exertions would eventually tell. The captain, although on a stronger horse, was a much heavier rider than the corporal. Devington knew he had to gain lost ground, but there was no need to catch them. Not yet. For now, they would stalk.

  On they ran, following the deep, wheel-creviced path toward the Austrian and Hanoverian cantonments just north of the village of Klein Ostheim. Half a mile from the village, the narrow road forked right and left, with the left leading toward steeply wooded hills and the army camp, and the right sloping downward toward the village on the river. The going here was known to be low and level for nearly a league, but the bridge passing over a rivulet feeding into the river Main was completely blocked by a farmer driving a large herd of sheep across the narrow bridge. It was at this juncture that Devington caught his quarry.

  Cursing, gesticulating, and flailing his whip, the Hanoverian railed at the farmer, who shrugged in incomprehension and turned his attention back to his bleating charges. Arriving at the site, Devington surveyed the river, estimating the distance across at approximately twenty yards. The captain was not going to leap
this obstacle! Perceiving his chance
, Devington glanced down hesitatingly at the near-vertical embankment. Even if they could navigate the drop, the swirling currents made calculating the depth of the water impossible.

  Directing the gray's attention toward the river, he spoke reassuringly. "Though you may not yet have tried it, most horses are quite adequate swimmers, at least for a short distance."

  The gray snorted at the moving water but advanced unprompted toward the bank, where he stopped and licked his lips.

  "Thirsty are you, old chum? Let us have a drink, then." Leaning far back in his saddle to help the horse to balance himself down the sharp embankment, the corporal coaxed the horse forward, but as they stepped toward the edge of the churning water, the earth gave way beneath, sliding horse and rider into the icy river. Devington made a startled cry, wresting the captain's attention from the farmer.

  The snorting stallion floundered and splashed in an attempt to climb back up, but the footing was too loose and the incline too steep. Frustrated, he tossed his head angrily. Finding themselves belly-deep in water, Devington exclaimed, "It's sink or swim now, my boy!"

  Sliding from the horse's back, he took hold of the stallion's tail and urged him forward. Paddling dog-style, the pair made their way steadily across the tributary to a rocky place on the other side, where they scrambled onto dry land.

  With biped and quadruped both back on solid ground, the gray cast his rider a look of outrage then shook the water from his sopping charcoal coat. Soaked to his own chin, Devington pulled himself heavily back into the saddle, then stole a look over his shoulder to see the captain spurring and thrashing his horse, who refused to advance to the embankment.

  Glancing down at the water sloshing from the tops of his boots, the corporal remarked deprecatingly to himself, "No one said we must arrive dry. Let's go, boy!" and broke into an easy canter back to the road, holding his mount well in hand, nursing him along with the knowledge that they had gained at least ten minutes on their opponent in the crossing.

  Galloping in rolling strides, they continued onward past neat whitewashed cottages and golden cornfields, Devington glancing periodically over his shoulder for the Hanoverian. As he drew closer to Dettingen, Robert had become acutely aware of enemy activity across the river Main, catching sight through the trees of the French camps on the distant south side. Now, however, breaks in the wood revealed a glimpse of blue uniform on the
north
side!

  In growing alarm, the corporal pulled up his horse, taking cover behind a thick row of trees on a small hill skirting the north side of the road. His vantage point gave an unobstructed view of the surrounds—clumps of trees and detached farms that comprised the village, and the river beyond. Clearly visible now were countless blue uniforms crossing the river by bridges comprised of boats linked and anchored to each shore.

  The infantry had crossed and had already begun constructing trenches. Clearly the French were preparing to make their longawaited move.

  Pulling one of his pistols from its case, he realized its utter uselessness after having taken a swim in the river. Devington then withdrew his saber smoothly from its sheath and contemplated his next move.

  Sensing first the oncoming rider, his horse sidled excitedly beneath him. Devington moved to warn the Hanoverian of the danger, but the French infantryman leveled his musket and opened fire, crying, "
C'est un espion!"

  The shot, fired true, took Ranzau on the left shoulder, knocking him clean of his horse. Responding to the alarm, a half-dozen French infantrymen appeared within seconds to form an irregular semicircle around the hapless Hanoverian, who with unwavering valor, regained his feet and brandished his saber.