Brothers in Arms. Iain Gale
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short and Steel heard the boy’s shouted words high on the breeze.
‘Sir, my lord Argyle presents his compliments and would you lead the advance across the bridges forthwith.’
The ageing colonel looked somewhat put out by this ungentlemanly behaviour on a battlefield. Nevertheless, he nodded at the young man and, taking his thin sword from its scabbard with a conscious flourish so that it caught the sunlight and drew the eye, he made a half turn in the saddle. It was now the turn of his own low, gently cultivated Highland accent to ring out over their heads.
‘My boys. You’re luck’s in at last. We’ve been ordered to advance.’
He waited for the cheer, and come it did, just as loud and hearty as he had expected from his men.
‘Now’s your chance, my lads. Do your duty and bring honour to your Queen, to your country and most important to your regiment. We fight this day for Scotland and the Union, boys. For Queen Anne and the regiment. For my regiment. For me. Now follow me to glory and fortune, lads, and I’ll pay you all in beer and golden guineas. Officers, take posts. Drummers, if you please, your sticks. Major Frampton, advance the colours.’
The adjutant, Charles Frampton, stood high in his stirrups and waved his hat three times in the air. ‘Three cheers for the colonel and the regiment. Hip hip, huzzah. Hip hip, huzzah …’
The men’s voices rang out across the field and mingled with those from the other regiments in the vanguard of the brigade who at that moment were going through the same adrenaline-raising ritual. Steel turned to the Grenadiers and raised his voice.
‘Stay with me, boys. Look to your sergeants. Look to your officers. But most of all look to me. When we go in we’ll like as not leave the rest of the battalion standing. That’s why we’re here. First in, last out, lads. Stay with me. Sergeants, keep your lines straight until we close. Halt at sixty paces and give fire. And if you do that for me, boys, and if you stand when the enemy fires on us, then bugger what the colonel has to offer. I’ll stand any man a pitcher of rum that can beat me into the French lines.’
There was another huge cheer from the company, and then Slaughter and his sergeants and corporals were dressing the lines yet again, pushing them into attacking formation, a defile column of threes. This was the only way to cross the bridge. It was the most vulnerable formation for infantry, and looking at them standing fifteen ranks deep, spaced half open, Steel worried about the potential effect of enemy gunfire. Should a single cannonball find its mark in his advancing column it would not stop but would continue to hurtle through, taking with it heads and limbs, and killing or at the least maiming an entire file.
The drums beat up the march attack, the familiar rhythm of ‘British Grenadiers’.
Steel turned back to face the front. He said quietly to Williams, ‘All right, Tom? Ready for it now?’
‘Fine, sir, and as ready as ever.’
‘Then let’s be at them.’
With Argyle riding at their head, the brigade of redcoats moved off. Steel trod firmly onto the wooden bridge and marched as steadily as he could across its creaking, swaying structure as it moved from side to side across the string of pontoons in the river. Looking to his right and his left he could see on the four other similar bridges other officers leading their men in precisely the same way. Grenadiers to the fore, the mounted colonels behind them, bringing up the battalion. It was a heart-stopping sight, and it never failed to make him puff with pride: a full brigade of British infantry marching into battle. Surprisingly, his greatest fear was unfounded, and as they were crossing no French guns found them. Evidently the gunners felt themselves unable to fire for fear of hitting their own men. Once off the bridge they began to climb a shallow slope. Soon the entire battalion was following them.
From behind he heard the adjutant taking command of the regiment: ‘’tallion will form line. Right about.’
Steel half-turned his head and in turn shouted an order to the company: ‘Form line. Right wheel. Number two platoon mark time. Form on the left.’
Steel watched as Hansam deftly guided his half-company away from Steel’s and took it to the left flank of the advancing regiment, thus ensuring that each flank was covered by half of the elite grenadiers.
Williams took up the general order, followed by Slaughter and the sergeants, and instantly Steel’s Grenadiers began to wheel to the right, followed by the other eight companies of the regiment, pivoting on the right-hand man of each rank so that within seconds they were marching towards the east. Steel led them on. Sixty paces. A hundred. That would do it.
‘Left wheel.’
Again the Grenadiers turned, this time moving on the left-hand man, and as if by a miracle of choreography found themselves again facing the front and the French lines. To their left the remaining eight companies of the regiment were spaced at roughly equal distances, having managed the same manoeuvre.
Steel let himself relax for an instant. That was the first task done. Slaughter went along the front of the line, dressing it with his halberd. Steel saw Colonel Farquharson ride to the front, accompanied by Major Frampton and the battalion drummer boys, ashen-faced with terror in their gorgeous gold and blue livery. Again the colonel lifted his hand in the air and brought it down towards the enemy. Then slowly he yelled the order to his regiment:
‘Advance!’
Steel raised his own sword high in the air and flourished it over his head three times. It was a little showy perhaps, slightly Frenchified even, but he had become used to the gesture and the men seemed to approve and be fired up. He shouted the command: ‘Advance!’ Steel lingered on the first syllable and on the last brought down the sword so that was pointing directly towards the enemy. Then he laid it gently on his shoulder. With the drums beating the steady rhythm of the Grenadiers’ march, the entire line, close on five thousand men, began to climb the hill from the river. Soon they found themselves parallel with a road running across the battlefield, southwest to northeast, lined on both sides with tall poplar trees.
Steel reckoned that they were now halfway to the French lines, and as he began to calculate the distance and how long it might take them to make contact should they continue their advance the guns on the hill in front of them opened up. He called out, ‘Steady!’ But hardly had he said it than the first cannonball whistled into their line and cut a swathe through the Grenadiers.
‘Steady, lads. With me.’
He wondered how many batteries the French had ranged against them. Cursed himself for not having counted them when he could have. Behind him the rank and file continued their advance, despite the lethal rain of shot now flying towards them. Good, he thought: words of encouragement, camaraderie and most importantly the hard pikestaffs of the sergeants were doing, had done, their job. Another fifty paces. A hundred and they were getting close enough to see the regimental facings of the enemy infantry when the drifting smoke allowed. The smell of powder invaded his nostrils and he wondered whether perhaps he shouldn’t have accepted Hansam’s generous offer of some snuff. Perhaps he would take it up before the next battle. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought. Not long until they felt the sting of musket fire from those men on the hill. Looking to the right he could see that they were beginning to draw parallel with what remained of Cadogan’s original holding force.
Suddenly, from his left three horsmen appeared. Steel recognized one of them as the Duke of Argyle. From behind he heard Frampton’s shouted battalion command and a change in the drum beat: ‘Wheel to your right.’
As one, the line of redcoats began to turn, and then, led by the Scottish general, continued to advance up the slope, obliquely towards the French guns.
This was new madness, thought Steel. A cannonball tossed at them now would bowl through them like ninepins. And, sure enough, the roundshot began to pour in. There was a cry from his rear and Steel turned momentarily to see the body of a Grenadier crumple to the ground minus its head and gouting blood, its gaiters still stained yellow with vomit. One of the new lads, he thought. Poor bugger. But at the same time, like any soldier under fire, he was