Brothers in Arms. Iain Gale

across the broad sweep of the battlefield, away to his right, Steel realized with an unpleasant start that the Grenadiers and a sizeable portion of the battalion companies of Farquharson’s regiment had got themselves ahead of the rest of the Allied line to their flank, which here mainly consisted of Hessian and Hanoverian foot, and which appeared to have been pushed back some way by the French. It would only be a matter of minutes now, he thought, before the enemy came on again. He could see the grey-coated Frenchmen pouring through the village to his right and centre, and it seemed that if they continued their advance they might push the entire Allied line back into the Scheldt.

      Hansam saw it too. ‘We appear to have exceeded ourselves, Jack.’

      ‘Quite so, Henry. And I wonder what the Duke intends to do about it. We’ve a marsh and the river to our rear. We cannot retire. The left certainly looks strong enough, but look over there.’

      He pointed, and both men stared up the rising ground to the right where a large body of scarlet-and-gold-clad enemy horse was advancing steadily behind their infantry. Just then a commotion from some distance to their rear, followed by the crack of splintering timber and screams, made both men turn to look. At first Steel thought that the French must have succeeded in shelling the flimsy pontoon bridges, but then he realized that it was sheer weight of numbers that had brought two of them crashing down. As he and Hansam watched, hundreds of Dutch infantry were thrown into the Scheldt in full kit, losing weapons and equipment and doing their best not to be sucked under the waters. More than a few did not succeed.

      Steel was thoughtful. ‘Now Marlborough will have to do something, Henry. This is going to hold up his plans. We’ll need to hold them here. It’s my guess that he intends to turn the French right using the Dutch. But now he’s going to be held up. The French need time. If they can find it and use it then they’ll turn our right flank and not we theirs. D’you see, Henry?’

      Hansam nodded. ‘So we’re going to have to make sure that they have no time. There’s nothing for it but to stand – here. Against whatever the French throw at us. That lot included.’

      He pointed again to where the French horse were moving steadily down the hill to their right. They had almost reached the line of the small stream that joined the one along which the battalion had taken up position. Within seconds it seemed they would be upon them.

      Steel turned to to Slaughter. ‘They’re coming, Jacob. Prepare to receive cavalry.’

      The command was echoed in shouts through and around the battalion, and Steel was aware of the horror that all infantrymen held in common of facing charging cavalry. It was the stuff of nightmares. But he knew, too, from his own experience in the Northern Wars fighting with the Swedes against the Tsar, that given the right frame of mind infantry could beat off a cavalry attack. Nor was it in his plan to use the device of forming a square. That would not be necessary and he knew that Frampton would think likewise. With the new muskets and the platoon firing system, it must surely be possible to defeat the cavalry by musketry alone. In any case the cavalry were too laden to come at them very fast. No more than a gallop usually. It would be that last crucial, critical pause in the volley firing that always did for the infantry. But firing by platoons had made that a thing of the past. All they had to do once they had fired was to make sure that they recovered their muskets sufficiently fast to charge bayonets at chest height. Then he knew they would break any cavalry.

      Nevertheless, his heart trembled as he gave the command: ‘Prepare for cavalry.’

      Automatically the right half-company formed into three ranks as before, the front rank embedding their musket butts into the earth. It had begun to drizzle now and the earth was visibly softer. It had also become more difficult to see across the battlefield, and as he peered towards the oncoming cavalry it seemed to Steel as if they had stopped. He rubbed at his eyes and looked again, then turned to Williams.

      ‘Tom. Look over there. Look at the enemy horse and tell me what you can see.’

      There was a pause while the young lieutenant took in what lay before him. ‘I see enemy cavalry, sir. A great many of them. Impossible to tell the regiment with certainty. But they look like the Maison du Roi. Louis’ own horse guards. Good God, sir. They’re the finest cavalry in all France.’

      ‘Good. Well done, Tom. But tell me now, what are they doing, your fine cavalry?’

      Williams looked again. ‘Why, nothing, sir. They appear to have come to a halt.’

      Steel stared. It was true. They had stopped. This was a new and welcome madness in a battle of big surprises. Cavalry, bearing down in vastly superior numbers upon exhausted and outgunned infantry, did not halt. They pushed on, gained whatever impetus they could, drew their swords and went hell for leather at their target. They did not stop.

      He estimated their range. A hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards. What the devil had stopped them? Who had given the order?

      Slaughter came to his side. ‘Sir, shall we give them a volley?’

      ‘No, Sar’nt. Hold your fire. It may be a trick. They can cover that distance in just under a minute and they may think that we’ll spend our firepower before they get to us. I can’t fathom what they’re doing. What d you think, Sar’nt?’

      Slaughter grinned. ‘You know me, sir. I don’t think. Not unless I’m ordered to.’

      ‘Don’t be funny with me, Jacob. What d’you think they’re about?’

      ‘Well, if you really want my opinion, sir, just the same as you. That’s what I was asking myself. Why stop? You’ve got enough men to take out a brigade, let alone our little battalion. What in hell’s name’s stopping them?’

      It might have amused Slaughter to know that at precisely that moment the same question was being asked by the French commander in chief. For the past half hour Marshal Vendôme, sweating and filthy after having gone in himself on foot to take control of the desperate infantry fight in the centre of the French line around the village of Groenewald, had been recovering his humour on a tree stump on the edge of the village of Lede to the rear of the French position.

      It was fast approaching seven o’clock when he got up and turned to his secretary.

      ‘We’re winning, du Capistron. Winning. We’ve pushed them out of both villages and down towards the river. I thought Marlborough was supposed to be an intellectual. To have studied the great generals. He can’t have learnt much. He’s got a marsh and a river to his back. He’s trapped, du Capistron. We’ve got him. And now we must follow up. Speed is everything. Lose that and we risk losing the battle. Grasp the moment and we win.’

      He walked past the last few houses in the village and stood above the stream that ran along the foot of the hill. It was becoming increasingly hard to see now through the rain, but gazing down at the left wing he thought he could pick out the shapes of men and horses on the dead ground before the village of Roygem. Several squadrons of them. Presumably, Burgundy had left them as a reserve when he had attacked Marlborough’s right. Vendôme continued to look, and as his eyes became accustomed to the light he saw that there were a great many more men on the plain than he had thought at first. Considerably more. He counted them off and it became evident that what he could see were not merely a few squadrons but the entire wing sitting there, drawn up in neat battle lines as they had been all day.

      Vendôme shook his head in disbelief and shouted to du Capistron, who ran to join his master: ‘What in God’s name are they doing? Why hasn’t he moved? The idiot! He should have taken them into the Allied right. I sent that order over an hour ago. Didn’t Burgundy get my order? Didn’t he, man? Take it again. He must attack! What are they doing there? They’re not moving. Are they mad? Quick, write this down.’

      But even as he was dictating the order Vendôme became instinctively aware that it was already too late. The moment had gone, and the opportunity was lost. Looking out across the valley he could see Marlborough’s right wing strengthened now with two full regiments of cavalry positioned hard against his vulnerable right flank. The moment had gone.

      He