Brothers in Arms. Iain Gale

an Irishman named Mulligan, chasing a woman across the battlefield. Steel and Slaughter stared at them for a moment until they vanished from sight. Then Steel spoke. ‘What was that? Was that a woman?’

      ‘Well, it’s good to see that you’ve still got your senses, sir.’

      ‘Jacob, you’re not telling me something.’

      More women appeared, a party of three this time, pursued by two red-coated musketeers. They walked arm in arm as they passed Steel and Slaughter, whom they ignored, and it was clear from their laughter that they were not entirely sober. Their faces were black with powder soot, below which it was still possible to detect traces of rouge. Their voluminous clothes hung loosely about them, in one case to the point of leaving little to the imagination.

      Steel shook his head and wondered whether he was delirious. ‘Jacob, what the devil are such women doing on a battlefield? This is no place for a lady.’

      ‘But these women, sir, if you’ll excuse me, they ain’t no ladies. That’s what I was trying to tell you, sir.’

      ‘No, Sar’nt. Let me guess who they are and why they’re here.’

      ‘Well, it seems that we’ve just taken their home, sir.’

      ‘Their home. The inn, I suppose?’

      ‘Right first time, sir. The inn as we supposed it might be. In effect, sir, it’s what you might call a house of ill repute. A bordello. Reckon that the girls must’ve heard that soldiers were coming and thought it might be good for their business, and then when the battle started it was too late to run, so they hid in the cellar.’

      ‘Good God. You’d better make bloody sure that no more of the men see them.’

      ‘Well, thing is, sir, it’s a bit late for that.’

      ‘I’ll have any man who so much as handles one of those women flogged in front of the battalion.’

      ‘Wouldn’t do, sir.’

      ‘No?’

      ‘No, sir. Seeing as you promised the men anything that was on the menu at the “inn”, so to speak.’

      ‘I did, didn’t I?’

      ‘You did, sir.’

      ‘Christ almighty, Jacob. The British army wins a glorious victory, and what part does my company play in it? We liberate a bloody brothel!’

      ‘And we’ve taken a colour, sir.’

      Steel looked a the crestfallen sergeant. He knew that there was only one way out. ‘You know that I’m a man of my word, Sar’nt.’

      ‘Loyal, sir. That’s you through and through. Loyal.’

      ‘Well, make damn sure that no one else hears about it – Major Frampton or the colonel. And before they enjoy themselves at my expense they can damn well get busy collecting weapons. God knows there are enough of them.’

      ‘Very good, sir. The men’ll be well pleased.’

      ‘No one, Sar’nt. No one’s to know. And if any of them catches the pox I’ll have them out of the company. They can decide what risks they want to take.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘And you’d better have Mister Williams take that colour to the rear once the men have seen it. Tell him to find Marlborough and to tell him which regiment took it. And, Jacob, be sure to tell him to say that it was Captain Steel’s company.’

      If Steel had thought that his trophy might have been presented to the Duke in splendid isolation, he was wrong. A little to the east and rear of the final position of Farquharson’s Grenadiers, Marlborough stood at the centre of a small group of officers, flanked by Prince Eugene, who had commanded the right wing throughout the battle. They were gazing at something on the ground at the Captain General’s feet: a pile of French colours to which every few minutes others were being added.

      Cadogan smiled and knelt to touch the silk of one of the captured banners before standing and turning to the Duke. ‘A victory, Your Grace. And, may I say, a victory like no other. Something new for London to shout about. And what an honour for the Queen. I am informed that the enemy have lost fifteen thousand men all told, perhaps as many as twenty. Ten thousand more, they say, have deserted and run for France. On our part we have taken only three thousand casualties, perhaps a thousand killed. It was a day well won, your Grace.’