Brothers in Arms. Iain Gale
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in attack, stood their ground and continued to go through the motions of loading their weapons.
As Steel looked on he saw a tall Frenchman raise his musket and take careful aim directly at him. There was nothing to do but stand and hope that the man’s skill was not as sound as his nerve. There was a crack and a flash and a moment later Steel felt a thump in his left arm. He knew instantly that he had been hit, and quite well. Wounds were nothing new to him but the unexpectedness and impact of this musket ball made him reel, and he fell momentarily against one of the Grenadiers, Mackay, clutching at his shoulder for support. The man turned to help him and, seeing the wound, yelled across to where Slaughter and Williams were standing staring at the unfolding drama.
‘Steady there, sir. Officer down!’
Williams, breaking away from the spectacle, came running, and Steel, dazed by the shock, was just aware that the French before them, including the lucky bastard who had shot him, were turning to run, panicked by the rapid advance of the Dutch. He turned, white-faced, to the lieutenant.
‘Mister Williams, follow up our attack. Get on, Tom. Get after them. Take the half-company. I’ll find you. Follow up, but don’t overreach yourself. And look out for their cavalry.’
Hardly had Steel got the words out before he sank down against a hedgerow. He was aware of Taylor kneeling beside him and removing his stock, trying to staunch the bleeding in his arm. Steel turned to him and babbled as the corporal tied the makeshift tourniquet, ‘Taylor. Matt Taylor. Corporal Taylor. Well done, Taylor. Thank you.’
He knew that it was vitally important that he should not pass out. He waited for the pain, but still it did not come. He grabbed at Taylor’s arm and pulled him down to whisper in his ear: ‘Go on, Matt. Go with them. I’ll find you.’
Taylor smiled at him and laid him back gently against the hedge. ‘With respect, sir, I don’t think you will. And if you want my opinion, sir, they’ll not be needing my help.’
Steel looked towards the retreating French and saw that the slope of the Boser Couter was now awash with a sea of Dutch and Danish grey. And then the pain kicked in.
A mile and a half back from the carnage, at an inn in the village square of Huysse, on its pretty wooded hill where the alder trees grew in profusion and where on any other day than this the birds sang in their branches, Marshal Vendôme, spattered in blood and filth, paced the cobbles and kicked a loose stone across the ground. The village church clock rang the half after eight, and through the dim light of the wet evening both sun and moon hung together in the darkening sky, looking down on the rivulets of blood that coloured the twin streams of the plain of Oudenarde and flowed into the Scheldt.
A party of horsemen trotted quickly into the square, the hot breath of their winded mounts heavy against the evening air. Leaving his horse with a groom, the Duke of Burgundy walked across to the Marshal.
‘We cannot hold them. The army is completely surrounded. Only the darkness can save us now. I—’
He was cut short by Vendôme. ‘Why did you not execute my order? At five o’clock I sent you an order to take your wing – your entire wing, thirty thousand men – and attack the Allied right. Why did you disobey me?’
Burgundy replied, ‘The Duc de Puységur informed me that the area across which I was to advance was a morass. He told me that the Allies could not advance across it and that neither should we.’
‘But I told you to advance.’
‘I sent word by messenger.’
‘I received no such message.’
‘I assure you—’
‘Assure me nothing, My Lord. Your Royal Highness must not forget that you came to this army on condition that you would obey me. By what right and in what name did you ignore my order?’
Burgundy shook his head. ‘Marshal Vendôme, do not forget yourself. You may be a Marshal of France but I am a Prince of the Blood.’
Vendôme fixed him with his eyes: ‘But here, My Lord, it is my blood that matters. That and the blood of those men out there – dying for you and the King. We cannot now win the day, My Lord. We must retire and regroup. All that we can hope to do now is to recommence this battle tomorrow.’
There was a respectful cough. Vendôme turned towards it. ‘D’Evreux?’
‘Sire, if I may be so bold. I do not truly believe that the army is of sufficient strength and constitution to be in any situation to fight tomorrow. Or indeed the day after that.’
Du Capistron said, ‘Sire, we have lost the battle. We have lost the army.’
Burgundy muttered, ‘I didn’t lose the army. It was Puységur’s fault. He lost the battle.’
Vendôme said nothing but looked at each man for a few moments before moving on to the next. When he had done with all of them he walked alone towards one of the half-timbered houses and pressed his hand hard against the wall. Then he turned and spoke: ‘This is a sad day for France. And a sad day for all of us … Very well, gentlemen. It would seem that you all wish to retire. So be it.’ He turned to Burgundy. ‘And I know that you, Monseigneur, have long wished to do so.’ Before the Prince of France could give voice to his indignation, Vendôme turned back to his staff. ‘Send word to what commanders we have left: Sauve qui peut. They are to make for the Ghent – Bruges canal. Come, gentlemen. Tonight we retire on Ghent. Why should we delay? To be sure, we have nothing else left to lose.’
Slaughter found Steel in the shade of a shattered tree, binding up the hole in his arm. ‘You all right, sir? Looks nasty, that. You should have someone take a proper look at it. Someone better qualified than Matt Taylor, maybe.’
‘Matt’s a good physician, Jacob, as good as any London quack doctor. Don’t fuss. I’ve had worse.’ He struggled to his feet and swayed unsteadily. ‘I’ll be back in the fight in a moment.’ He looked around himself at the field, empty save for the dead and dying and discarded weapons. ‘Where the devil is the company?’
‘Don’t you know, sir? The Frenchies have surrendered. Battle’s over. We’ve won.’
Steel leant backwards onto the hedge. ‘Well, thank God for that, then. I don’t think we could have managed that again, Jacob. So where are the men, Sar’nt?’
Slaughter produced a hand from behind his back and Steel saw that it contained a crumpled and torn piece of white and gold cloth. He reached out to touch it and felt silk and embroidery and gold wire. His face split open in a wide grin. ‘Tell me that’s what I think it is, Jacob.’
‘It is that, sir. That’s a French colour. Took it myself in the chase, with Mister Williams.’
‘Does the Colonel know?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘All in good time, then. Well done, Jacob. The regiment’s honour can come later. This is the Grenadiers’ moment. It’s their colour for now. Your colour, our colour, as much as the regiment’s.’ He noticed that Slaughter had a sheepish look about him. Steel recognized it of old. ‘Got something else to tell me, Jacob?’
‘Well, sir, you recall that as we advanced we passed a village that we’d retaken from the French and that in that village there was an inn.’
Steel looked at him. ‘Yes … vaguely.’
‘Well, sir, it wasn’t.’
‘What?’
‘An inn, sir. It wasn’t an inn.’
‘Well then, what was it?’
‘Well, sir, do you recall that you made a promise to the men?’
It came back to Steel. ‘Ah, yes. The inn. The rum, or beer, or what you will. What was it I promised them exactly?’
Slaughter grinned. ‘Well, I do remember you saying that they could ’ave anything