Rules of War. Iain Gale

more than was to be had by most. Orkney, he knew, had not eaten for a day and perhaps Marlborough too. He had not woken in the brightest of spirits. But with the recollection of how complete their victory had been his aches and tiredness had gone. Now, as he drank, his mind raced with the prospect in hand. They must surely exploit this initiative over the French, but subtly and with no little care. Looking about him through the dawn, he saw a few yards off the distinctive figure of Marlborough, together with a few servants and several of the general staff. Hawkins handed the half-empty cup to Jagger and then, seeing how crestfallen the poor wretch looked, decided to keep the brew and went to join them.

      Adam Cardonnel, Marlborough’s personal secretary, was speaking animatedly and waving a piece of paper. ‘Everything is yours, Your Grace. We have taken eighty standards; fifty cannon, tents, baggage, the food still hot together with muskets without number and prisoners by the score. Lord Hay’s dragoons alone have captured two entire battalions of French foot. The Walloons are coming over to us by the hour. We are hard pressed to keep them safe, My Lord. The Danes would have revenge upon them for their treatment in Italy last month.’

      From the duke’s left Cadogan spoke up, quietly: ‘By my reckoning, sir, the French have lost near on thirteen thousand men, but some put it at near double that number, if we include the deserters and turncoats.’

      Cardonnel spoke again: ‘My Lord, we have even taken their famous negro kettle drummer of the Bavarian Horse Guards. Have I your permission to dispatch the man to the queen in London, sir? He would make her an elegant servant and a true prize.’

      Marlborough smiled and nodded: ‘Indeed, Adam. Send the blackamoor to the queen. That was a fine thought. Though in truth, I’d have liked to keep him as one of my own servants.’

      The company laughed, glad of the lightness at last in the duke’s voice. Like Hawkins, Marlborough had passed a restless night, having had only his cloak for a cover. He had slept badly and for company in his rustic bed had had only the tiresomely enthusiastic and over-opinionated van Goslinga who punctuated the night with anecdotes of the battle. Happily though, one of the footmen had found some chocolate in the French generals’ supplies and Marlborough now cradled the hot, richly aromatic liquid in the silver-mounted cup made from a coconut which he always carried in his personal baggage. As the laughter subsided, Cadogan spoke again.

      ‘Our own losses are light, Your Grace. Two colonels only killed and two score other officers and but a thousand men dead in all. It is a triumph. They will praise you throughout the realm, Your Grace. Your enemies in London had thought that the only news they would hear these few months would be from My Lord Peterborough in Spain. But now you have proved them wrong once again.’

      Marlborough smiled and took a sip of chocolate, which he had not offered to any of his generals. They did not expect it, such was his reputation for parsimony. For, if Mar-lborough was renowned for his care in his treatment of the soldiery he took equal pains to keep certain things purely to himself.

      Hawkins sipped again at his own acrid brew and winced and looked with envy at the steaming cup in the commander-in-chief’s hands.

      Marlborough put it down and spoke: ‘My Lord Peterborough may indeed prosper in his Spanish campaign, for it is there that his friends the Tories believe this war is to be won. But we know better, gentlemen. We know that if we beat the French here, in Flanders, then we shall send a shock through that misguided nation deeper than anything Peterborough may achieve. Perhaps now those in London will do as I ask and replace him with Lord Galway.’ He picked up the cup, took another sip and continued: ‘Their losses are not as great as they were after Blenheim, gentlemen. But I fancy that the effect is ten times as tumultuous.’

      He looked at each of them in turn. ‘But what now? Eh? What will the Sun King send against me now I wonder? We have the summer ahead of us and a campaign to conduct, at our leisure. We must make best use of that which God has provided.’

      A grunt from behind the duke made him turn. Lord Orkney stood with his arms folded. He was shaking his head. ‘The French are fools, Marlborough. What have they done? They have retreated behind the Dyle and then abandoned that position where they might have held us at bay.’

      Marlborough looked at him, blank-faced. ‘The French, My Lord Orkney, are no longer an army. They do have a line of defence, but they have nothing with which to defend it. Marshal Villeroi is beaten. We have but one objective. Now we must drive deep into the area of fortresses still held by the French and keep what army they may assemble from out-marching our flank and making the sea. God save us if they should, even in their parlous state, see our weakness there and flank us. We should be cut off from our only supply route with England. It is absolutely imperative that we isolate and if necessary besiege the port of Antwerp. But first we must take Ghent and Oudenarde.’

      Cadogan interjected: ‘And Ostend and Dunkirk also, Your Grace, d’you not think? Do not forget those ports. They harbour privateers in French employ. Neglect them and whatever port we use for our supplies will be harried and taken. Believe me sir. I have direct experience.’

      Marlborough laughed: ‘Yes, William. I am aware of your run-in with the privateers. But at least they let you away with your life. We shall have to see how it goes before we begin to besiege a port.’ The company laughed. All save van Goslinga who, not understanding the good-natured jibe, stared blankly.

      Marlborough too was staring now, into the middle-distance. He set his chin in his hand and after a while spoke again. ‘William, I do believe that you are right.’

      Orkney spoke up: ‘We’ll need the best of the army for that, Your Grace. Lord Argyll and his finest. And Lord Mordaunt too.’

      At last Hawkins spoke his mind: ‘We’ll need more than good tactical officers, sir. If we are to take Ostend and Dunkirk against privateers we will need guile and stealth by the measure. Might I suggest one more officer whom we might find most useful?’

      Marlborough looked intrigued: ‘Hmm? Yes, James?’

      ‘Captain Steel, Your Grace. That is, acting Captain Steel. Of Sir James Farquharson’s regiment. You will remember him from Blenheim, sir. He carried out a … most delicate task for us. You promoted him brevet rank. His elevation is not yet ratified.’

      ‘Indeed, Hawkins? Not yet? Of course, Captain Steel. By all means. Why did not I think of him sooner? Yes. He has wit as well as bravery, as I recollect. We shall as you say need every bit of guile we can muster. I hazard that in the taking of these places we shall not be dealing with your ordinary enemy. Privateers, mercenaries, and who will the French leave to command them, d’you think? You can be sure that Marshal Villeroi will have taken the cream of his own officers hobbling back to Versailles to plead their case to King Louis. No, we shall be dealing with the dregs. Passed-over officers left in charge of seemingly impregnable fortresses. Well, we shall show them that they are not so impregnable, eh, gentlemen? And now, if you would, allow me a moment. My head aches and I must write the news of our victory to the queen. William, take yourself off after the cavalry and ensure that the pursuit continues. My Lord Orkney, pray do the same with the foot. Force the march if you will. We must press them hard and take the Dyle by tonight. We cannot afford to rest. You know that the fate of all Europe hangs in the balance.’

       FOUR

      Steel stood quite still in the middle of the street and gazed at the windows of the houses up ahead. The single shot had come from somewhere in there, ringing out clear and long against this cool May morning, shocking the company to an abrupt halt. Behind him the men crouched apprehensively, eyes darting around. They were entering Wippendries, a small village a few miles north of Brussels.

      ‘See where it came from, Sarn’t?’

      ‘Couldn’t say for certain, sir. Third house on the left at a guess.’

      There was an uproar at the rear of the column: ‘Shit!’

      ‘Quiet, that man there!’

      ‘But Sarge. The bullet went through my bloody hat.