Brothers in Arms. Iain Gale
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in chief.
‘Marshal Vendôme?’
One of the Marshal’s own aides directed the boy towards him.
‘Sire, I bring an urgent request from General Biron. He is under attack, sire.’
Vendôme stared at the young man and grabbed the proffered dispatch. Wiping his greasy fingers on the tail of his grey coat, he opened the paper and began to read, muttering as he did so: ‘Allied units. English … Prussians. Large numbers.’ He paused. ‘What large numbers? Overwhelmed? Overwelmed by what? By how many?’
The young man stammered: ‘Why by … by the enemy, sire. The redcoats are there. Infantry and horse too. We are being pushed back. They have crossed the Scheldt at Oudenarde.’
Vendôme crushed the message into a small ball in the palm of his hand and muttered under his breath: ‘Oudenarde. I’d have taken it in two days and avoided all this.’ He frowned at the terrified aide and spoke louder. ‘Biron is asking me for reinforcements, is he not? Well, you may tell General Biron that the Allied army is nowhere near us. If they are anywhere near his positions then the devil must have carried them there, for such a march is impossible.’
The aide, unsure what to do, decided magnanimously that the probable sacrifice of his military career was justified by saving thousands of French lives. He shook his head and stood his ground. ‘I beg you, sire. Look again to the south. I swear to you, sire, the Allied army is there, at least a considerable part of it. A full vanguard of redcoats, sire. Foot and horse, with artillery too. They are pushing us back from Oudenarde. They have already seen off a regiment of Swiss foot and will surely be doing us more damage as we speak.’
Vendôme cursed the man under his breath, but he had not been a soldier for thirty-six years and a score of them a general not to know when it was prudent to take advice. Putting down his goblet of wine, he grabbed another chicken leg and walked across the road, past where the officers were conferring, to the crest of the hill.
What he saw on the low horizon stopped him in his tracks and nearly made him choke on his mouthful of chicken. Below him in the valley of the Scheldt a huge dust storm appeared to have arisen. Vendôme might have been confident, but he was no fool. He knew the signs of an army and of unavoidable battle when he saw them. He swore, turned quickly and walked smartly back to the messenger.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry to have doubted you, Lieutenant. Yes, I do see now. Take a message to General Biron at Heurne. Tell him not to worry. He must attack the force to his front with all possible speed. I myself shall lead the cavalry to our left wing in support. Wait there a moment.’ He looked across to the group of officers. ‘Puységur.’
Vendôme’s Chief of Staff walked across.
‘Puységur, go with this officer. You’re to ride to General Biron. Order him to stand where he is for the moment. We have insufficient cavalry in his vicinity to offer immediate support. He is to wait for the horse before he advances any further. And be sure to tell him that he may allow their great general Marlbrook to come across with as many of the enemy as he likes.’
Both the Chief of Staff and the courier looked askance.
Vendôme continued: ‘Don’t look so bemused, gentlemen. It is all part of my plan to trap the enemy. Now go.’
He called to his private secretary. ‘Du Capistron. Take a message to my lord Burgundy. He must move the infantry of the entire left wing directly behind my advance with the horse.’
Vendôme crossed to the table and took a swig of the wine he had abandoned. He patted one of the dogs and smiled as he congratulated himself on his swift action. For once Marlborough had blundered. If Vendôme could act now he would trap him and a good deal of his army on the wrong side of the Scheldt. Pin him down with superior numbers and the natural obstacle of the river at his back. At the very least he would drive them back over their bridges and into the Scheldt. And all that his generals had to do was to act together. Surely that was not too much to ask of anyone? Even of that idiot Burgundy?
A large black fly had settled on a morsel of the bread on his plate, and picking up a huge pewter ladle from the table he brought it down on the insect, squashing it into the metal. He would crush this Allied vanguard just as easily as he had killed that fly. And then, before my lord Marlbrook could reinforce his ailing line he, Vendôme, would be in command of the river and its strongpoints. Then their great British general would be routed from the field and a grateful King would surely reward his wholly forgiven and ever-faithful Marshal.
Vendôme turned to the group of officers. ‘Come, gentlemen. Chevalier, if you please. D’Evreux. All of you. This is no time for lunch or gossip. Dinner is at an end. Come on. We have much work to do and a battle to win.’
There can be few more spectacular sights on any field of battle than that of a brigade of cavalry in full cry, and Steel was thankful for the diversion. With the French gunners having gauged their range, his men were beginning to suffer more than the psychological hurt of their tortured minds which had plagued them for the last few hours of waiting on this hill. Now at least there was something to offer them as amusement.
Steel and Slaughter, Hansam, Williams and as many of the company as were able to find a suitable vantage point watched, with the rest of the battalion’s front rank and other regiments close to the front of the brigade, as from the Allied left wing rank upon rank of high-stepping cavalry broke out across the field. They advanced sedately at first, at a slow trot, and then, when their intention became evident to the enemy, broke into a canter and a gallop, coming on steadily towards the French right flank.
Steel looked towards their goal and saw, sitting quite still and apparently unaware across the Ghent road, a glorious body of French cavalry; dragoons and horse in elaborate blue and red coats. They seemed utterly oblivious to the men moving towards them at an increasing pace. Steel could only assume that they had been informed by their commander that the ground to their right was impassable. The Frenchmen must have seen the Hanoverian horse assembling to begin their advance. He pictured their squadron commanders, sitting high and proud on some of the finest horses to be found in France, laughing in genial conversation, although they must have been quite aware of the movement on their flank. He watched them. He too had gauged the lie of the land and had noticed the marshes that ringed the position, presuming them impassable.
He found Williams and Hansam standing at his side. ‘Well, gentlemen, what d’you make of that then? Have our generals gone quite mad? First they keep us here the best part of the day, and now it seems they intend to send the best of our cavalry into a bog.’
Williams, apparently ignoring or unaware of Steel’s comments, spoke with curious and undisguised reverence as he stared at the cavalry’s advance. ‘It’s quite brilliant. Incredible.’
Steel looked at him quizzically. ‘Tom? Is it catching, this madness? Don’t bring it near me. What the devil are you talking about? You can see as well as I that that ground is utterly unsuited to cavalry. It’s a marsh, for God’s sake. Why, even the foot would be hard pressed to pass through that quagmire. It’s madness.’
Williams spoke in a tone appropriate to his junior position, yet firm in its purpose. ‘No, sir, it’s not mad. You see, that marsh is not what it seems. I had the truth of it this morning from Harrington. I don’t think you know him. He’s a cornet in Hay’s Dragoons, attached to the staff. Sound fellow.’
‘Get on with it.’
‘Sorry, sir. Fact is, though, it’s firm ground. As firm as that on which we stand ourselves.’ He stamped his foot. ‘It merely looks like a bog from the sheen of water that it keeps on its surface. Like oil floating in a bath, if you know what I mean.’
Steel stared at him and wondered quite when the young man had taken a bath in scented oils.
Williams continued. ‘Harrington says the engineers told him it could support a train of artillery and more. It’s brilliant, sir. D’you see? For the French are not aware of the truth of the matter. They’ll be cut to ribbons.’
Steel