Rules of War. Iain Gale
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ease at first over the boggy ground and Steel wondered why he had doubted Marlborough’s judgement in choosing this terrain. Certainly their pace had slowed, and the stream had at one point seemed to be impassable. But they had come through that and managed to cut their way through the vicious hedge of chevaux de frise, a barrier of bayonets stuck into treetrunks, which the French defenders had laid across the path of their assault.
Now they were trampling on bramble thickets as they bridged the valley of the Petite Gheete, the stream which flowed directly in front of the village of Autre-Eglise and as they advanced French and Walloon sharpshooters took their toll on the redcoated ranks before dropping back towards the enemy lines. Most of them, he reckoned, were Walloons – French-speaking Netherlanders, and their loyalty and steadfastness he knew to rank as nothing compared to any French regulars, unquestioningly loyal to the Sun King. Even as he looked, an entire company of Walloon infantry turned and streamed back towards the French lines.
As they ran a cheer went up from the British line. One of the Grenadiers, Dan Cussiter, shouted after them: ‘Go on. Bugger off back to Paris before we kick your arses.’
The men, desperate in their terror to laugh at anything, cheered his bravado and Steel heard Slaughter’s booming voice. ‘That’s enough, there. You’ll be in Paris yourselves as soon as likely. But not if you don’t dress your ranks. There’ll be time for cheering soon enough, my lads.’
It was vital to preserve discipline now, lest the men, fired by the sight of the retreating infantry, should break ranks and give chase only to find themselves faced by what Steel knew to lie head up the slight hill: the full might of the French battle lines. As the Grenadiers began to find themselves on firm ground, Steel, gradually regaining his composure, shook his limbs and tried to settle his nerves. And as he did so he heard a command from the left: the unmistakable tones of Major Charles Frampton, the adjutant: ‘’Tallion halt. Form your ranks. Prepare to attack.’
The command was taken up by the other field officers and as one the men came to a stop. They were still a good hundred yards out from the French but Steel knew that this was only a temporary halt.
He looked back and found Slaughter. ‘We advance on the command, Sarn’t!’
A roundshot came crashing past his head and smashed into the ranks behind, disembowelling one of the Grenadiers, Donaldson, a bluff, pleasant lad from Edinburgh, and taking the leg off another, Ned Tite. As the man lay writhing on the ground, his screams unsettling his comrades, Steel motioned to Slaughter to have him hauled away. They could not stand here long, he thought, would not endure much of this pasting. As if in answer to his concern another command came from the centre of the line.
‘’Tallion will prepare to advance. Charge your bayonets.’ The steel-tipped muskets which till now had been carried either at the high port or snugly in the shoulder, were brought down until they were level with the ground.
‘’Tallion – Advance!’
Again the drums struck up, this time a less noisome rattle. More of a tap, but a sound which when recognized, Steel knew, would bring a chill to the hearts of any enemy of Queen Anne. Grimly, the battalion moved up the hill and still the shot crashed down among them like a scythe reaping the corn. As they came up against the first houses of the little village of Autre-Eglise, it became obvious that the French had not been idle. Every street, every alleyway had been fortified with anything that had come to hand. Domestic furniture mainly, taken from the abandoned houses; prized possessions pressed into more practical service. But though hastily erected, Steel could see that the barricades had been made with experienced hands. Chairs and tables had been lashed together and stuck through with swords and bayonets – anything which would make their passage more hazardous.
Behind the fortifications stood the French and as the Grenadiers broke like a wave upon the wooden wall, the white-coated ranks let go with a devastating volley. But it was not enough to stop the red tide. Steel, seeing an opportunity, placed his foot on a table leg and leapt on top of a barricade. Below him a dark-skinned French infantryman looked up and attempted to stick him with his bayonet, but Steel was too quick and, parrying aside the weapon with his sword, brought its razor-sharp blade humming down into the man’s head, cleaving in half his black tricorne and with it the head within.
Exultant, Steel turned back momentarily towards the redcoats: ‘With me, Grenadiers. We’re in, lads. Death to the French.’
Followed by a half-dozen of his men, Steel threw himself over the wall and landed in a knot of white-coated soldiers. Such was their surprise that two of them dropped their muskets and ran back into the village. Of the others three were engaged by Steel’s men. Matt Taylor, a corporal and the company apothecary, used the butt of his musket like a club and hammered it hard into a Frenchman’s jaw. Steel winced at the crack. He found himself face to face with the tallest of the group, a huge mustachioed hulk of a man, a sergeant who wielded his spontoon like a farmer’s scythe and stood grinning just beyond the reach of Steel’s blade. Steel began to fence with him, cutting at the wooden staff and carefully sidestepping the stabs and swings of the evil pointed head. Treating the man’s weapon as if it were a sword, Steel cut to the left and parried it away and then with one swift movement lunged in fencing-salle style and skewered the big Frenchman squarely through the heart. The man stopped in mid-swing, stared wildly at the tall British officer and then, blood spouting from his mouth, fell backwards, stone dead.
Retrieving his sword from the corpse, Steel looked around. To his left more Grenadiers had succeeded in storming the village and were steadily pushing back the French and Walloon lines. He turned to his men: ‘The village is ours. Well done, lads.’ He looked to Slaughter: ‘Stand the men easy for a moment, Sarn’t; and post a guard. They’ll be back. We can be sure of that.’
Slaughter threw him a grin. ‘That was a fine fight, sir. Did you see ’em run?’
‘They ran all right. But we must have suffered in the assault. What’s our strength?’
‘Hard to say, sir. I know that a score of the lads went down on the hill and I dare say we may have lost half as much again in the fight.’
‘Yes. I thought as much.’
Still, he thought, thirty per cent casualties was what you might expect in a frontal attack and of them perhaps a third again would have been fatal. Ten good men dead then from his company and the day still young. Who, he wondered, had gone down? Was Williams hit? Or Hansam? Steel wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and looked about. His fears were quelled as from a neighbouring street the young ensign approached him. There was a cut on his right arm, his sleeve was drenched in blood and his face was quite white.
‘Tom. Are you hit?’
‘It’s nothing, sir. A scratch. French officer. I sent him off, sir. Pity. Damned fine swordsman.’
He winced as the pain in his arm cut in and managed a weak smile which told Steel that his wound, though serious, was not life-threatening.
‘I’m sending you to the rear. Best get that wound dressed before an infection sets in. Don’t want you to lose that arm, eh?’
Williams nodded and began to walk towards the lines.
‘He’ll do well, sir, that one. General, likely as not.’
‘If he manages to stay alive long enough, Jacob.’
From their left a tall figure approached – a senior officer. There was no mistaking the chiselled features of Lord Orkney. There was blood on his breeches and he had lost his sash. Otherwise, thought Steel, the youthful, forty-year-old general appeared miraculously unhurt.
‘Sarn’t, stand the men to attention. Officer approaching.’
‘Officer approaching. Stand to there.’
The Grenadiers straightened up and shuffled into three lines.
Orkney nodded to Steel. ‘You did well, Captain.’
‘Thank you, My Lord. But it was my men’s doing. The Grenadiers, sir.’
Orkney