Rules of War. Iain Gale

yet. I had not seen you for a fortnight and simply wanted to make sure that you still lived. Keep yourself safe this day, Jack, I shall have need of you ere long.’

      Orkney had left to rejoin his staff and as Cadogan mounted up and Hawkins went to join him, he cast a glance back over his shoulder. ‘Oh, and Jack, I forgot to wish you good luck. Though it always seems to run with you.’

      Steel smiled and nodded. Even as the French battery continued to fire, the shot coming in just above their heads and crashing into the walls of the surrounding houses, he strode across to where Slaughter and the men still stood at attention.

      ‘Stand down, Sarn’t.’

      Hansam approached him, eager-eyed: ‘So, do we attack?’

      Steel stared at the ground, and drew with his sword in the dirt. ‘No. We’re moving out.’

      Slaughter spoke up: ‘After the French already, sir. Is the battle won then?’

      ‘Not exactly, Jacob. We’re to move backwards and to the left – not forward. We are to withdraw and proceed to the centre.’

      Hansam shook his head, laughed and reached for his snuff box.

      The sergeant spoke in disbelief: ‘What, after taking the village and climbing up that bloody hill? And with all those men dead?’

      ‘Those are our orders. We are seconded to a Dutch battalion. I’d take it as an honour if I were you, Sarn’t.’

      Steel could see the logic in Marlborough’s strategy, although he could not condone the decision not to vouchsafe the plan to Orkney, and he sympathized with the general’s indignation. If you were to mount a convincing feint upon the enemy’s flank intended to draw out his reserves, what better way to do it than persuade your own men that it was in earnest? It was not fair – but then, thought Steel, what was fair in this new warfare in which every fight brought some new surprise. As much had been plain to him in Bavaria before Blenheim, and since then he had seen time and again evidence of a changing attitude which directed their actions in every theatre of the present conflict, from Flanders down to Spain and Portugal.

      He stopped drawing maps in the dirt and looked up: ‘Move the men out, Sarn’t. Column of threes. And try to keep the files at a little distance. We don’t want to present too good a target to the French gunners.’

      Slaughter, still seething at the inexplicable order to move back, took out his fury on the Grenadiers. ‘You heard the officer. Marching formation in threes. And look sharp about it. You there, Sullivan. Get in step, damn your eyes! I said move.’ To emphasize the need for haste he prodded another particularly slow Grenadier, whose stature made up for his lack of wit, with the haft of his halberd. ‘Come on Milligan, you lump of lard. We don’t want you to be late for the next dance, do we? Let’s give the Frenchies back their village now. Quick as you can, lads. Mustn’t keep ’em waiting.’

      They marched off to the left and down a narrow street and out of the village, slightly to the south and west of the way they had come up, but still close enough to see the limp red mounds which were the bodies of their fallen comrades. Slaughter noticed the nervous glances cast towards the dead: ‘Eyes front now. Pick up the pace there, Tarling. The Frenchies won’t wait all day for us. You don’t want a bayonet up your arse, do you?’

      As they made their way down the slope and towards the centre of the allied line Steel realized that they were marching in a dip in the ground and thus quite invisible to the enemy, even positioned as they were on the higher ground. There was no way in fact that the French could possibly know that Marlborough was moving the right wing into the centre or what he intended. Casting a glance to his left, up to the British lines, Steel saw that the regimental colours of every battalion in Orkney’s brigade were still in place with their escort on the ridge-line. On Marlborough’s instruction a token force had been left there quite deliberately so that to the untutored eye what remained on the crest would present the appearance of several battalions in close order. He realized too that it was quite brilliant. Steel knew in that moment that his confidence in the duke had not been misplaced and he knew too that soon Orkney would understand. Within minutes the duke would have a huge advantage of numbers in the centre of the battlefield. And then they would see what happened.

      Ahead of them now Steel could see the flank of a Dutch battalion, blue-coated and poker-straight, standing quite still, despite the withering fire from the French cannon on the rising ground to their left. Steel spotted the officer and waved the men on.

      Major Henk van Cutzem was very nearly Steel’s equal in height, with a shock of long blond hair which he wore tied back like Steel, although in his case such was its volume that most of those who did not know him took it for a full wig. He wore a slim, fair moustache and beneath it for an instant, Steel fancied that he caught the faintest shadow of a smile. He nodded in greeting.

      ‘Captain Steel?’ The Dutchman’s English was impeccable.

      ‘Major.’

      ‘Welcome. You may fall your men in on the right of our line.’

      Steel bowed: ‘You do me an honour, Major. My thanks. But I should not like to unsettle your own Grenadiers.’

      ‘On the contrary, Captain Steel. The honour is ours. You come with a reputation. You are a hero, a veritable Achilles. They say that at Blenheim you led your company to rescue your regiment’s standard – from the French cavalry, no less. King Louis’ own bodyguard?’

      Steel nodded.

      ‘You led infantry against cavalry to save the colour?’

      ‘I led Grenadiers, Major.’

      ‘Quite so, Captain. But this is not within the rules of war. It goes against all logic. Why did you do it?’

      ‘A question of honour. Couldn’t allow the French to get away with our colour.’

      ‘Quite so. Honour.’ He paused. ‘Do you believe in honour, Mister Steel?’

      Steel winced at being called ‘Mister’, a lieutenant’s title. He felt sure that the Dutchman had not intended it callously, but nevertheless it reminded him sharply that his captaincy, won so hard at Blenheim, still remained merely a brevet rank.

      ‘I believe in it with all my heart, Major. Why else do we fight save for honour? The honour of our regiment. The honour of our country and that of our monarchy. The honour, surely, of ourselves?’

      Van Cutzem nodded and smiled. ‘Of course, Captain. We fight for honour. Although I of course fight also to save my homeland from the French. Speaking of whom, I believe we are about to witness an example of honour at work.’

      Opposite them, before the solid rank of motionless, white-coated French infantry, stood two officers. From such a distance Steel could not tell their rank. As he and the Dutchman watched both of the Frenchmen drew their swords. With a flourish they brought up the blades in the salute before lowering them alternately to the left and to the right. Then they replaced the swords in their scabbards and gave a formal bow towards Steel and the Major in turn. Steel nodded in return and smiled and was about to say something droll to van Cutzem when to his surprise the Dutchman took a pace forward and removed his hat. Bending over in an exaggerated bow which brought his fair hair almost in contact with the ground, van Cutzem swept his hand and hat before him with a flourish and straightened up.

      Steel watched him closely, smiling at the polite salute. Van Cutzem turned and rejoined Steel. He noticed the smile: ‘You find something amusing, Captain?’

      ‘D’you really, honestly think it helps? All that? Surely we’re here to fight them? To kill the French. Of course we give them fair quarter. But why bother with the dramatics?’

      ‘You don’t ever make the formal salute? Never? I am surprised, Mister Steel. If you hold honour as dear as you say, then surely this must be part of your code also?’

      ‘I don’t believe in bowing to the enemy, Major. I’d sooner lick their boots.’

      ‘Then it