Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 ..

EXPLANATIONS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Ram is intended to depict the life of an early eighteenth-century man. Not a typical man, since his birth and environment involve him in more adventures than were the lot of most of his real contemporaries.

Though he is fictional, the background is authentic, and many of the characters, even minor ones, were actual persons: The officers of Howe's Foot in Marlborough's campaigns; Alexander Hume in Bengal; most of the settlers in Georgia Colony, including the Highlanders, the spies, traitors and double-dealers, the officers and men of Oglethorpe's Regiment. And also Private Tom Faucett, who shot General Braddock.

Strangely, very little has been written about Oglethorpe's defeat of the invading Spaniards at the Bloody Marsh in 1742. Actually, it was one of the decisive fights in our colonial history, for after it the Spaniards at St. Augustine never again menaced the southern plantations.

My research for the book took me to the Public Record Office and the British Museum in London; to the Huntington Library and the Stanford University Library in California. My thanks go to the authorities of these institutions as well as to the Georgia Historical Society at Savannah, Georgia, I'm indebted to the University of Arizona Library and the Public Library of Tucson, both of which obtained for me many rare volumes through the Library Interloan system.

I assure students of Irish history I am well aware that actually Clare's Regiment served as Foot throughout its service with the Irish Brigade of the French Army, I have made it a mounted unit at Ramillies fight, not only because it suited my narrative better but because I have erred in good company. Thomas Davis' stirring poem "Clare's Dragoons" being my justification. I have followed the poet

rather than the historian O'Callaghan, who spent a hfetime assem-bhng the facts about the immortal Irish Brigade.

Finally, my thanks to Rosemary, my wife, who for a long while gave up her own writing to type and correct two entire drafts of the book.

Winchcombe Taylor

Tucson, Arizona. 

BOOK ONE

RED COAT

CHAPTER 1

THE ROAD TO LOUVAIN,

23rd MAY, 1706

At last Marie-Elise gave way to fear, for the men streaming past were no longer the wounded, but cowards deserting their colors.

Protectively she bent over the child curled up on the seat beside her. But now he was asleep, worn out by the stifling heat and the hours-long booming of guns. "Dream on, cher petit" she sighed, brushing a curl from his damp forehead.

Descending from the coach and without a glance up at Jacques or the Walloon lad holding the horses' heads, she crossed the ditch and gained the road. Beyond it, rising above the wheat fields, was an ancient tumulus called Ottomond's Tomb. An hour ago many officers had been watching the battle from its summit. Now all had gone, no doubt to defend smoking Ramillies village, which accursed Mal-brouck was attacking so fiercely.

"O Dieu" she breathed, "keep Brian safe!" She clutched the arm of a panting grenadier. "What of la brigade irlandaise?"

"Away, slut!" He shook her off and stumbled on rearward.

She gasped. These canailles, they were no longer soldiers but brutes! Yet—news, news! She stopped another and repeated her query. This one's neckcloth had gone and one gaiter trailed, but his reddened eyes swept over her appraisingly.

"The Irish Brigade? Wiped out—finished. What of it? Only Frenchmen should bed you. Come, let's reach Louvain. A fine jade like you needs—" His obscenities ended in a howl of terror as a band of riderless cavalry mounts smashed him to ground. She too would have gone down had Jacques not rushed forward in time to drag hex back across the ditch.

"Notre damey let's go while there's still time!" His slow Breton voice was urgent. "Monsieur le capitaine would wish it."

"No! If he's wounded, he'll come here seeking us."

"Mam'zelle Lise, the day's lost," he implored. "Let me drive you back to the inn, then I myself will return to await our captain. Also, this is no place for le petit monsieur.''

"Swiftly then!" Yes, above all, she must keep the boy safe.

He helped her back into the coach, growling because the Walloon had fled. Remounting the box, he looked around. "Madame, the road's blocked!" he called down. "But I see a track to take."

"Yes, yes!" She was desperate now to escape these horrors. Brian would understand, would insist that she and the boy escape.

A gun team swept past, its drivers flogging their straining, lathered horses. "The fiends are upon us!" one was screeching. "Make way! Make way, I say!" After it swarmed a rabble from the Royal Swiss and from a dozen famous French regiments. "Save yourselves! All's lost!" It was a devilish litany of fear.

As Jacques released the brake, the coach horses, caught by the contagion, flung themselves against their collars and the heavy vehicle lurched over the ditch, crossed the road and reached a rutted track that already had its quota of runaways. At once the old Breton lashed his animals desperately, for a squadron of close-ranked Danes was cantering across the fields from the right and must overwhelm the coach unless it could race clear. Faster and faster spun the wheels, with the blue-coated troopers coming on like an onrushing thundercloud.

"Sainte Viergel" he prayed. And with scant yards to spare he won free, the enemy pounding across that section of the track the four-wheeler had just vacated.

He was breathing his thanks when a round, black object hurtled at him with incredible speed—a chance cannonball.

His right side disintegrated and his spouting body pitched onto the already goaded horses. The impact and the smell of blood frenzied them and, as the mangled corpse fell under their thudding hoofs, they swerved into the wheat. For a hundred yards they raced, the coach bounding as if without bulk or substance. Then the off-wheeler became entangled in the trailing reins and went down. The right wheels

rose so high as they passed over him that the vehicle toppled onto its left side.

A single piercing scream from within; then silence, save for the pitiful lashing of the near-wheeler, whose legs were crushed, and the mournful whinny of one of the leaders.

Cursing, Dick Anstruther trudged back up the slope behind his men. The old wound that ran from the parting of his wig to his left temple often throbbed when he was in drink; but only, as now, when he was goaded into fury, did it stab so agonizingly and bring a red mist before his eyes.

Why, why had they been withdrawn when they'd been within eighty yards of the French? The entire first line of the right wing had, under heavy fire, struggled unflinchingly through a quagmire and up the hill to assault Offus village, only to have the drums beat the retreat!

His voice hoarse, he ordered his company to come into line with the rest of Howe's Foot, which was already faced about again to stare, baffled, at the now-distant enemy.

"To your right about! Halt! Dress to the right! Stand steady, ye whoresons!" This last was without rancor, for he knew the men were as bewildered and spent as himself. Even the least heroic was stunned that the Old Corporal had blundered and robbed himself—and them —of still another victory.

"At your ease," he ordered. "Mr. Edwardes, give our losses."

Lieutenant Frank Edwardes marched up to him and doffed his bnt. "Two killed, sir, and three wounded remaining on duty."

''Good." Dick turned back to face the front. He was shaking from overexertion and longed to lie down and rest. But, no. The men must remain in their ranks, even though they'd made a twenty-mile forced march before undertaking this abortive attack.

His pain subsided into a dull throb as he stared across the valley. From Autreglise on the far right, through Offus and thence to Ramillies at the valley's head and ending at Taviers on the plateau southward, stretched a four-mile bow of infantry, cavalry and belching guns. This was Louis XIV's army, over 60,000 strong, the same which the Duke of Marlborough had so often foxed and beaten. Yet today he'd blundered!

Dick grunted sourly. Of his almost thirty-six years, he'd spent seventeen in a red coat. Yet he was only the regiment's captain-lieutenant, a mere mock captain with a lieutenant's pay, commanding the company of ever absent Colonel Howe. Had the fight been hot, with losses among the senior officers, he might have won an earned promotion today.

"Sir, the whole second line's marching off!" Ensign Drew called from the rear. " 'Tis odds it's one of Duke John's tricks!"

Dick joined him svdftly. Yes, the second line, which had followed the first into the valley but not crossed the quagmire, was moving rearward and vanishing into a shallow depression. There, masked from French eyes, its van was already swinging south along it, preceded by the horse.

"The chord!" Dick slapped his thigh. "Aye, Old John's hand's in it. We but feinted here. Now we'll slip away south and burst through their right." By "chord" he meant that the French position formed a bent bow, of which the Allies' line was the chord oi string. Troops could march faster along the straight string than the curved bow.

Lord Orkney had reined in near by, accompanied by other general officers. His voice rose angrily. "I call you to witness, gentlemen. We'd all but done the work. 'Tis infamous!"

An officer galloped to him, swaying in his saddle. Dick knew him well: Captain Rivers, an aide-de-camp.

"The Duke's compliments to my lord Orkney," Rivers began. "The first line is to remain in position . . . until—" He fell from his horse and Dick, the first to reach him, saw he had been hit high on the left side. Yet a recognizing grin touched his pale lips. "Friend Dick, there'll be no more dicing together. I—" Bloody froth dribbled from his mouth and his breath came in great, sobbing coughs.

"Get him to the surgeons," Orkney ordered. Four privates doubled forward while Dick and young Drew unwound Rivers' waist sash and, spreading it, lifted him upon it. Six feet long and half as wide, it made a convenient litter, though already its owner seemed beyond aid.

Perhaps because Dick had given that aid—who knows how a general's mind works?—Orkney called, "You, sir, d'ye ride?"

"Aye, my lord, since a babe in clouts," Dick managed.

"Then away to the Duke with this." Orkney was writing on his tablet. " Tis damnable we're left standing idle. Away!"

Weak-kneed, Dick bowed, then sprang upon Rivers' still heaving animal, digging in his spurless heels so hard that the animal shot forward like a hunted deer. Distinction! The word mushroomed in his brain as he galloped, the curls of his wig, stinking of dust and stale perfume, whipping his sweating face.

Ecod, he'd guessed aright: Feint on the right, holding attack on the center—Ramillies—and breakthrough on the left! And while Howe's and the rest merely pinned down the French reserves at Offus, he himself was seeing the whole battle. Captain-lieutenants rarely had such luck.

A mile more and he recognized his man, with two other officers in bright scarlet, amid a square of pikemen.

"The Duke!" he shouted, and ranks parted to let him in.

From afar, Dick had seen the Old Corporal at a dozen fights, but never before had he been close to John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, Captain-General of Queen Anne's armies and those of the Dutch Republics, and Commander in Chief of the grand alliance against mighty France.

Heart in mouth, he reined in beside his hero and handed him the dispatch. "From my lord Orkney, Your Grace."

Duke John read. "Lord Orkney still thinks I blunder," he commented to his two aides. "And poor Rivers has been sore hit." He turned to watch southward, gently stroking his mount's neck. "The Danes, they're past Taviers and ready for the turning movement!" He glanced around. "Bingfield, my spare charger. This poor beast is spent. Molesworth—no, you'd best stay with me till others return." He eyed Dick. "You, sir, do ye know this country?"

As if in a dream, Dick said: "Yes, Your Grace. I was here last year when you pierced the French lines on the Great Geet."

"Good." The Duke was already writing. "Swing through Taviers and overtake the Danes. This to the Duke of Wurtemburg. He's to re-form south of Ramillies and wait for General Overkirk's squadrons. He'll then conform to their attack."

"Yes, Your Grace." Dick bowed so low that his nose hit his horse's mane. "And then?"

"Rejoin your regiment, sir. Hard marching will be your lot, for we have 'em—the fight's won."

Speeding away, Dick exulted: My fortune's made! I've come to the Duke's notice at last! Soon he was swerving to avoid dead men and animals: Dutch horse, Danish dragoons, French cuirassiers, gens d'armes and red-coated gardes du corps. He smiled grimly, A blunder that of old Louis, to deck his choicest troops in red; it had often cost them dear when other French had mistaken them for English. Damme, even the traitor Irish who served Louis wore red!

He began riding more warily, lest he himself be mistaken for a guardsman or an Irish emigre. He skirted Taviers, the captured French right flank, through which heavy Allied cavalry now poured.

The Danish brigades were already past Ottomond's Tomb and he veered after them, crossing trampled wheat fields that showed few signs of combat, though he did notice an overturned coach near the fugitive-jammed Louvain road.

Soon he was on the Tomb's top, whence Wurtemburg was watching his Danes making a great wheel to bring them into line facing north. The general read the dispatch, barked orders, and trumpets blared the halt.

Dismounting, Dick saw that the enemy was now trying desperately to anchor its new right flank by bending it back around Ramillies, even though Allied foot were already storming the village. The French position had, in fact, become L-shaped.

Would Marlborough reward him, he wondered. There were but two ways to promotion: by purchase or patronage. For seventeen long years beardless juniors had bought promotion over him. His tightfisted mother could have given him the money many times over, but, no, she scrimped every guinea to buy more land. Why, with money he'd have been a major now! "Bitch!" he growled aloud. As for patronage, one needed a patron. But, today . . . ! Suppose Wurtemburg sent him back to Duke John with a message?