Читать книгу Brothers in Arms - Iain Gale, Iain Gale - Страница 6

The familiar, acrid stench of smoke and powder drifted with the staccato rattle of musket fire up towards them across the river. Captain Jack Steel, standing on one of the wooden pontoon bridges laid earlier that morning over the river Scheldt, was drawn away for a moment from the spectacle of battle unfolding before him by the sound of laughter.

Looking to the left and down towards the water, he saw three of his men pissing into the river, the pale streams of urine arcing against water and landscape as they competed to be the highest. Steel listened to their laughter and boastful claims and decided to allow them one more moment of innocent fun. For who knew if this day would be their last – or indeed his own? The remainder of Steel’s company of Grenadiers, fifty-one men all told, stood and sat at their ease directly to his rear, as they had been told they might. They talked among themselves, not of the battle going on below them, nor of anything to do with the war, but of other things: of women and booty and glory and the various virtues of English porter and Scottish ale. But gradually their diverting conversations were turning thin and more men became silent by the minute.

It was hardly surprising, thought Steel. They had been here for near on two hours now and it was not hard to see the telltale signs of impatience and growing unease that came when death was near. The long march to the guns had taken them sixty miles in fifty hours, some of it cross-country, and now those who chose to stand, drawn to the music of the battle, found themselves reluctant yet compelled spectators looking down on a bloody struggle. There was nothing worse than this for a soldier, thought Steel, save of course death itself, and maiming. Nothing worse than this waiting. For with it came the rising fear that clawed away at your guts and lurked like some evil spirit or canker inside your brain. The knowledge that soon, very soon he reckoned now, they too would be part of that maelstrom of hot lead, cold steel and all too yielding flesh down there in the little valley. And if that moment was to come, then he damned well wished it would come soon.

Steel turned to the men behind him and found at only a few paces distant the company’s young, rosy-cheeked ensign, Tom Williams, now aged twenty and no longer the gauche boy he had been when he had purchased into the battalion – Sir James Farquharson’s Regiment of Foot – four years ago this summer. Williams had joined the colours shortly before the great victory at Blenheim, Marlborough’s first great triumph in which the regiment and in particular Steel’s Grenadiers had won renown. Steel had grown to feel an almost fatherly obligation to Williams in that campaign and he felt no less close now, imparting when he could sage advice and reasoned reprimand where necessary.

‘Tom, I think that we might fall the men in again now. It shouldn’t be too long before we go, by the look of things. But we’d best keep them on their mettle, eh? You might inspect their weapons again. That sort of thing. I want every musket checked and re-checked. And make sure that their bayonets are all well greased. Oh, and before you do that get those three idiots back from the river. Their tackle might just prove too tempting a target for the French, and we don’t want to draw enemy fire without good cause.’

Williams laughed. He loved Steel’s wry wit and envied him his way with the men. It was the pinnacle to which he aspired. And what better model to have? The ability of this man to combine all the qualities of a gentleman with a genuine empathy with his troops picked him out as a natural leader. Yet at the same time it seemed that Steel always kept an implicit awareness of his own station and their place. In short, Jack Steel was everything that a soldier should be, thought Williams: cool in battle, ruthless and implacable in combat, level-headed, intuitive and pragmatic. Throw into the equation the fact that he was also enviably handsome, and at six foot tall a giant among men, and you had a worthy hero for any young subaltern. This was precisely how Williams hoped the men might see him when he too rose to the rank of captain in command of his own company – if he should manage to survive that long.

He knew that he mustn’t think that way. Hadn’t the sergeants told him so in his first battle? And Steel for that matter, more times than he could remember. But still he could not banish the dark thoughts from his mind. Like Steel, he knew that if there was any obvious target for the enemy it was sure to be an officer. And, like Steel, Tom Williams was tall for his time. Both men were remarkable in an age when the average height was a good ten inches less. But then these were grenadiers – a company of giants, hand-picked from the regiment and the army as much for their stature as their skill at arms. They were the storm troops of the army, the first into any fight and more than likely the last men out.

Williams turned to the company’s senior sergeant, a similarly tall, bluff Geordie with an infectious grin named Jacob Slaughter, whose hard-bitten face told of countless actions and larger engagements. ‘Sar’nt Slaughter. Those men there – discourage them from that, if you will.’

He had learnt his style of command direct from Steel, and the coolly laconic order still did not sit quite as easily as he would have liked on his lips. The sergeant smiled at the boy’s attempt, confident in the knowledge that Williams could do no better than model himself on Captain Steel, and in turn barked a command towards the clowns on the river bank.

The three men suddenly went quiet and hurriedly buttoned their breeches. Then, turning back towards the company, they scrambled up the muddy slope and returned to the grinning ranks. As they passed their captain, Steel nodded and ensured that they could see his gaze, half disapproving, half amused. As they hurried into rank Slaughter shouted further commands, which were echoed by the other sergeants and corporals of the company. Then, careful to be firm but not too forceful, he began to use the wooden staff of the long sergeant’s half-pike to urge the files back into line and dress the ranks, ready for the long-awaited march attack.

Steel knew of course that all their muskets were clean and had been checked. In fact they had been cleaned and checked these past two hours, and at all the halts on the long march that had brought them to this place. He knew too that every man’s razor-sharp socket bayonet, newly issued to replace the old plug variety, was slick to perfection with grease so that it would slide smoothly from the scabbard when the time came and slot with ease on the steel nipples at the end of their muskets before slipping just as easily between the ribs of the French when eventually they met them on the field below. But he knew too that in their present condition anything must be done to keep the men’s minds off the carnage now so evidently taking place to their front.

Steel stared back into the smoke of the battle. He heard the crash of musketry again and the distant cries of anguish caught on the wind that he knew would also be only too audible to the men. Behind him, as if to affirm his fears, one of the younger recruits to his largely veteran company vomited onto the white-gaitered legs of the man to his front, who, naturally, turned and swore at the youngster and, even though he carried his musket at the high porte, still attempted to swing a punch. Sergeant Slaughter shouted to both of them and, mouthing oaths, went to help the terrified and now mortified recruit to regain his composure and wipe the dribbles of vomit from his scarlet coat. Steel turned back towards the enemy. He would give almost anything now to propel his men into a state of readiness, bursting to be at the enemy. Yet at the same time he wanted to make them feel at ease. It was a hard trick, this balancing act. But, he told himself, hadn’t he done it many times before? And didn’t he know most of these men like his own family? Better, now he thought of it. He turned to Williams.

‘A song, I think, Tom. Let’s have a song. Who’s the best voice in the company, would you say? Taylor? Dan Cussiter?’

‘It must be Corporal Taylor, sir, to be sure.’

‘Then Matt Taylor it shall be.’

Steel scoured the ranks for the man.

‘Taylor. Where are you? Come on, Matt. Give us all a tune. Sing up above the guns. And be sure to make it a good ’un. “The Rochester Recruit” or something similar.’

Corporal Matthew Taylor, a gangly, bankrupted clerk from Hounsditch and for the last six years, since the start of this war, the company’s invaluable and learned apothecary and medical expert on account of his knowledge of herbals, cleared his throat and began to sing in a hearty tenor:

‘Oh a bold fusilier came marching down through Rochester,

Bound for the wars in the Low Countries.

And he sang as he marched

Through the crowded streets of Rochester,

“Who’ll be a soldier for Marlborough and me?”’

As one the company joined in, with the familiar chorus:

‘Who’ll be a soldier, who’ll be a soldier,

Who’ll be a soldier for Marlborough and me?’

Steel smiled to see how, as ever, the magic worked so quickly on the terrified men. That was the answer, for now at least: the way to kill a few more idle moments. Set them thinking about their beloved ‘Corporal John’ – John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, ennobled by the Queen after Blenheim – about how he had won so many great victories for them and how today was sure to be another. Blenheim, Ramillies and … What, he wondered was the name of that little hamlet to their front?

‘Tom. What’s the name of that village?’

‘Place called Eename, sir.’

No, thought Steel, that would not do. It hardly had a martial ring to it. Better of course the larger place to their left. Oudenarde. That would look better in the history books and on the broadsheets in the London coffee houses. Blenheim, Ramillies and Oudenarde. Not forgetting Ostend, the lines of Brabant …

From behind him, above the singing and the noise from the valley, Steel caught the sound of a loud sneeze, and he had no need to guess from whom it emanated. Henry Hansam, his second-in-command, had found his own cure for the battlefield terrors yet again and was indulging in it as ever before an engagement. Hansam took snuff, and at such times as these in such quantities that his consumption increased tenfold. While in other companies and battalions the men might have advanced to the ring of huzzahs and the beating of drums, in Steel’s, for the past six years, the accompaniment to any attack had been embellished with a succession of Hansam’s explosive sneezes.

Steel turned towards him. The lieutenant saw him and spoke over the resounding noise of the men’s singing.

‘Care for a pinch, Jack? Newly arrived consignment from England, via Ostend. Finest Spanish, and I’m reliably informed that it originates from that very shipment taken by Admiral Hobson off Vigo in 1702. Superb stuff. You’re quite sure that you won’t …?’

‘No, thank you, Henry. And no matter how you may press me, and whatever its divine provenance, you know quite well that the day will never dawn when I descend to pushing that filthy stuff up my nose. Drink is my vice. And perhaps a round of piquet or whist.’

‘And you only have eyes for one lady now, Jack. The lovely Mrs Steel has all your attention. Gone are the days –’

Steel, laughing, interrupted him. ‘Quite so, Henry. All my roving done. A simple life is what I crave. Glory, promotion, riches. The love of a good woman and the company of such men as I am proud to serve with. I ask for nothing more.’

Hansam laughed. ‘Well, please yourself. But you don’t know what you’re missing. Rare stuff this. Very sweet. Fragrant as lavender. Calms the nerves.’

‘Sweet, Henry? That muck’s as rank as a Holborn sewer. And from the amount of it you shove into your nostrils, I’m surprised you have any nerves left that need to be calmed.’

Hansam smiled and his face contorted as he was consumed by another sneeze, even more violent than the last. Steel laughed again and was pleased to see Slaughter and his men, for all their singing, grinning as they picked up on catches of the officers’ conversation. It always made them feel relaxed to see their superiors appear so phlegmatic in the face of the enemy. To keep one’s head in battle, as now in the moments before it began, was one of the prime requisites for any officer. An officer, they knew, was bred to such a role. Bred to be a gentleman by birth and by inclination. And with that went a natural confidence. An officer, a real officer, was unassailable, indestructible. And while he might not have been born into any great wealth, Jack Steel, the hard-pressed gentleman-farmer’s son from Lowland Scotland, was surely a natural officer in their eyes. Purchased into the army by his former lover, a court lady at St James’s and wife of an elderly nobleman, Steel had established a reputation for his sang-froid. Yet behind the façade, if truth be told, there still lurked as unwelcome a heart-freezing terror as afflicted the greenest recruit. Who could not be afraid at such a moment?

Steel cast an eye over the company and beyond his men to the others of the regiment and took in their parade of well-known, unshaven faces beneath their tall mitre hats, the symbol of their elite status, blue and red embroidery emblazoned with gold wire and white lace. The hats, worn only by grenadiers, were designed to facilitate the throwing of the bombs from which they took their name, and they carried those weapons still, even though those unpredictable weapons were used increasingly less often in battle. Each man carried in a black leather case three of the small black metal orbs, named after the Spanish word for pomegranate, which when lit by a fuse and hurled like a cricket ball were still capable of doing damage to an entrenched position and wreaking havoc within a tightly packed body of troops.

Steel knew all these men and their individual characteristics, from Mackay’s thick-set farmer’s frame and Taylor’s scrawny, guttersnipe physique, to Yorkshireman Dan Cussiter’s high-boned bird-like features and Thorogood’s over-long arms, so effective with a grenade. He felt deep affection for most. He had fought alongside many before and was prepared to do everything he could to make sure they got through this war intact of mind and body and emerge with booty and honour. It was no less and no more than he hoped for himself.

Beyond the grenadiers, high above the Battalion Major’s company, waved the silken squares of the regimental colours. One of them was tattered now, looking no more than a rag, after so long in the field. It was the Colonel’s colour, red and gold above the cipher of their commander, Sir James Farquharson. The other, only recently presented, bore the new Union flag of the united kingdom of England, Scotland and Ireland, in its centre a crown. Lest anyone should be in doubt, the colour made the matter plain. Farquharson might have raised a regiment of Scottish foot who at Blenheim and Ramillies had fought beneath the blue and white of his native country’s saltire, but since last year these were Britain’s infantry. British grenadiers. Proud to serve not only their Queen but their newly united nation. Steel watched the colours catch the sunlight as they rippled in the breeze.

Behind them, curving back through the marshland and up the hill towards the village of Eename, he saw the mass of the column – a polyglot force, waiting here behind Farquharson’s, to step off in turn from the flimsy wooden bridges resting on tin boats. Among them, he knew, stood some of the finest infantry in the world: Lord Herbert’s Foot, and with them Gibson’s, Farrington’s, Meredith’s and Holland’s. Behind them came Princess Anne’s, Granville’s, Clifton’s and Douglas’s, and those other regiments which like his own had lately made up the Scots army: the Royals, the newly christened North British Fusiliers and the Earl of Angus’s Foot. All of them names that would surely be writ forever in the history of this army.

To the right of the British brigades were the Allies: the Prussians and Hessians in their distinctive blue, Hanoverians and Swiss in red, and the grey-coated Danes. Singing and swearing in a half-dozen languages, they had all come to this place on the orders of their great general. This was an encyclopedia of Europe’s tribes and races: English, Irish, Scots and Welsh, pale-skinned Scandinavians, men from the Italian and German states and exiled French Huguenots.

For some time now, too many of the men had been silent. They were watching as their comrades who had arrived earlier that morning met the enemy down in the valley and gave fire and stood to take it and charged and fought and died. They were all powerless, of course. They had been ordered to wait, and increasingly there was no alternative but to watch. Steel realized with a start, however, that his own men were still far from silent and Taylor had not yet finished his song. Or perhaps he has started afresh, thought Steel, and I have not noticed, being so lost in my own daydreams. He listened now as they sang out, mid-verse:

‘To be paid in the powder and rattle of the cannonballs Wages for soldiers like Marlborough and me.’

It might, he thought, have been the song of his own life – a life paid in powder and shot. Such had been Steel’s wages since the age of seventeen. He had come to this war as a lieutenant, transferred by his own request and to the dismay of his fellow officers from the Guards, and he had risen to his present rank not by purchase, as was the usual way, but by proving himself in battle.

By that, and his new-found skill as an ‘intelligencer’. For Steel had become one of the new breed of officers now emerging who could act as the eyes and ears of their commander. Before Blenheim, four years ago now this summer, Steel had single-handedly foiled a conspiracy against Marlborough, designed to discredit the Duke as a Jacobite traitor and remove him from command. Then two years back he had played a key part in the clandestine taking of Ostend, now the British army’s key point of contact with the homeland and conduit for vital supplies.

Steel looked at the loops of silver lace that only in the past few weeks he had been reluctantly persuaded to have sewn onto his red coat. He had once sworn that he would do everything he could to avoid using such blatant badges of rank. Not for the simple reason that he might make a better target for the enemy’s best shots, but because he considered himself better than the preening popinjays which so many officers soon became. Steel was a fighter. Just that. What need had he of finery? But then what else could one do but acquiesce when the Queen herself presented you with your promotion?

Still he refused to conform on other points of his appearance. He would not wear the cumbersome full wig sported by other officers, but preferred to have his own hair tied back in a queue, as was the manner with the dragoons. In fact his model in this had been the man who was his inspiration as a young subaltern. Francis Hawley had been a captain in the First Foot Guards and some years Steel’s senior. When Steel had purchased into the regiment, Hawley had been given command of a recently formed grenadier company. Although Hawley had transferred soon afterwards to Berkeley’s Dragoons, Steel and he had kept up their friendship, and at Steenkirk in 1692, as Steel had received his baptism of fire in one of the English and Scots army’s worst defeats at the hands of the French, he had watched in disbelief as Hawley had charged to his death on the bloody strand. Steel had never forgotten Hawley, and as he had grown into the army and adopted his own distinctive fashion, as all officers did, he had always sought to emulate his friend and mentor. It was through Hawley’s example too that he chose not to wear gaiters and spats but preferred more comfortable and hardy half boots.

Most importantly of all, Steel cherished his weapons. Unusually for an officer, along with his sword he carried a fusil slung across his shoulder, a short-barrelled musket which in his case had originally been a fowling piece. The sword itself was far from regulation issue but a heavy cutting weapon better suited to a cavalryman, with a wicked, razor-sharp blade. Steel alone, with his advantage of height, was able to use it to similar effect. It was a Scottish Highland broadsword, basket-hilted and straight-bladed, made in Italy, that had hung on the wall of his family home in the Lowlands and which more than anything about him betrayed his origins. It had not failed him yet, and had cut a bloody swathe across the battlefields of Europe. Its weight alone was enough to cleave a man, though in Steel’s hand it was as light as a feather, and those who made its acquaintance as enemies seldom lived to tell the tale.

A noise like distant rolling thunder announced the presence of artillery and made Steel turn his head. But he had already missed the flash of the shot and failed to spot the exact whereabouts of the guns. No ball had passed near them as yet, and it still seemed to him as if they might be watching a distant spectacle with the indifference of a theatre audience. But Steel knew that this was all too easy. He conjured a picture in his mind of the gunners on the opposite slope sweating at the hot barrels, stripped to their shirtsleeves, sponging out, loading, ramming home, damping down their overheated guns. He pictured the cannon bouncing back on their wooden trails with shouts of warning and saw in his mind the shot leaving the muzzle and crossing in an arc high above the battlefield to find its unlucky target. The noise of the cannon provided a bass line to the symphony of battle, the deep boom of artillery beneath the percussive rattle of musketry a sound as familiar to him as London’s musical choruses were to the ear of his opera-mad wife. His hearing was attuned to the pitch of the current melody, the sound of the guns. There was no theatre here on the battlefield. These men were not actors. Yet Steel wondered when the curtain would rise on the next scene and give his men their cue.

It was, he thought, a battle unlike any he had witnessed before. For the best part of twenty years, from here in Flanders to the plains of Denmark and down among the scalding, sun-bleached rocks of the Spanish peninsula, Steel had watched as battles had begun and developed in their distinctive styles. The opening salvoes; the advance to contact; the salute from one line to the other; and then the neatly dressed lines blown into bloody raggedness and then the mêlée and the rout. But this … this was something new. This battle had not been the usual mise en scène but had rather grown piecemeal. The Allies had arrived slowly and been fed into the action as and when they had appeared. The vanguard had excelled itself in a holding action, and by the time Steel and his men had arrived here some two hours before, the fighting had been going on for four hours. Even then it had not been fully committed. It had seemed to him like two dogs circling one another in an alley, vying for possession of territory, taking tentative snaps in the air, edging closer and then backing off. But Steel knew that it was not Marlborough’s intention to allow his adversary to leave this field without a serious bloodletting.

Cadogan had built his bridges and then had used them effectively to take his men – horse and foot – over the great river and deep into the ground before the enemy position. Steel had huge admiration for the Irish general. He might have been Marlborough’s second-in-command with a prestigious position on the staff, but on the day of battle Cadogan could be counted on to fight like a trooper, leading from the front and giving as good an account of himself as a listed man. And his men knew it.

Steel could see Cadogan’s scarlet-clad battalions now, British and Hanoverian infantry, as they clustered around the village of Eyne, eight hundred yards to their front and right. That place would surely now be his own objective, and the aim of his brigade would be to shore up the clearly ailing forces of Cadogan, thus reinforcing the entire Allied line. He looked to his right and saw that yet more Allied troops were arriving along the road from Lessines, being disposed according to Marlborough’s wishes with apparent improvisation. It showed the true genius of Corporal John, who had guided them through six years of war, first in Bavaria in the great victory at Blenheim and then back up here in Flanders.

He caught another snatch of Taylor’s song and again the words rang true:

‘For starvation and danger it will be my destiny To seek fresh employment with Marlborough and me.

Who’ll be a soldier, who’ll be a soldier …’

The singing had spread now to the other companies of the battalion and beyond to the other British regiments in the brigade who stood in line behind the grenadiers, waiting at the bridge. Waiting.

And so the afternoon wore on, and fear and frustration in their turn took hold in the minds of Steel and his men and all the others. And the men in the valley continued to die, singly at times and at times in parcels of four or six or ten, as fate directed the fall of the shot. Steel watched them as they fought in the village, in its fields and orchards and on the plain. He cursed at his commanders’ inaction and wiped his brow of sweat in the sultry July sunshine that played across the scene. Yet still they were not ordered into the attack.

He called across to Hansam, as he had done at intervals throughout the day: ‘Henry, what time d’you have?’

The lieutenant drew out his prized timepiece, a gold chronometer taken from the body of a dead French officer after Blenheim: ‘Four o’clock and thirty minutes.’

Steel nodded his thanks, swatted a fly away from his face and tucked a finger inside the sweat-stained collar band of his shirt, which had again become home to a colony of lice. He had lost them in England and kept clean too while in Brussels, but since they had been on the march the little buggers had come back – and it seemed to Steel that they were making up for their absence. What he would give for a clean shirt, a long soak in a bath, a pitcher of ale and the chance to sleep! Above all sleep. He ran his hand across his stubbled chin. That and perhaps a shave and a chance to lie with his new wife.

He noticed that he was sweating heavily now. The day had crept up on them, and the noise from the valley seemed to amplify the heat. How much longer would they stand here? he thought. Taylor and his men had long since finished their song and silence again descended upon the ranks, letting the fears back in.

Steel drew himself up and spoke in a clear voice, intending the men to hear him: ‘That was a fine piece of singing back there, Corporal Taylor. Would you mind very much if we should call upon your talents again ere long?’

Taylor grinned. ‘At your disposal as always, Captain Steel, sir. Lifts the spirits, does a song. That’s what I always say, sir.’ And by way of an afterthought he added: ‘Can’t abide this waiting though, sir.’

Slaughter glared at him. But Steel was not one, as were some officers, to chide petty impertinence, particularly at such a time as this and from one of his veterans such as Taylor. He nodded. ‘Nor I, Taylor. And you’re right about singing. We’ll hear from you again. But I dare say we’ll be at them soon. Don’t you worry.’

The man next to Taylor in the company’s front rank, a normally dour Lowland Scot, like Steel himself, named John Mackay, spoke up: ‘And we’ll see ’em off today, sir, won’t we? Just like we did at Ramillies, eh boys?’

‘When you were still at your mother’s teat,’ muttered Slaughter.

There was a short hurrah from the ranks which betrayed more about their boredom and fear than it said about their confidence. Like Ramillies, thought Steel. Perhaps it would be like Ramillies. Like Bleneim too, maybe. But Marlborough’s past triumphs seemed an age away now, as he stood on the bridge – almost another country after all that had happened to him since.

Before then he had not known his wife, Henrietta. Lady Henrietta Vaughan, to give her her full title. And this was the name by which she would forever be known, it seemed. He himself found it hard to imagine her as ‘Lady Henrietta Steel’. Would he ever become used to it? For she was his wife of little less than a year, now safely billeted in Brussels. He had not wanted her to come out with him from England, but she had prevailed, saying that other wives did as much so why should she not follow her beloved captain?

Captain Steel. Now that was a style he had no difficulty in adopting. His part in the taking of Ostend had been rewarded at Court with the confirmation of his brevet rank as a full captaincy, by no less a person than the Queen herself. He had been paraded through the streets of London as a hero of the campaign. His praises had been sung by balladeers from Covent Garden to Holborn and talked of by old campaigners in White’s, at Old Man’s coffee house and the late king’s new military hospital at Chelsea.

He had wondered at the time what his brother’s reaction might have been had he but seen him in such pomp. His elder brother Charles, that was, who had always called him ‘Jack the good for nothing’, who had introduced him as ‘Jack my hapless brother who will come to naught’. To him Steel would forever be the failed lawyer’s clerk, a penniless soldier who had accepted the commission purchased by his mistress. What would he say now to Captain Steel, the hero of Ostend?

For a moment too he thought of his younger brother, Alexander, a professed Jacobite whose ideals had split the family – what was left of it. Alexander, the baby of the three brothers, two years his junior, who had left home to join the exiled King James at his court outside Paris. Steel had not had news of him now for five years and wondered what might have become of him. Was he still alive? Had he fought for his king? In truth Steel half expected to encounter him on a battlefield in the uniform of the ‘Wild Geese’, those Irish regiments in French service who fought so well for a vanquished dynasty and a conquered land. Perhaps he was wounded or maimed. Steel was overcome by melancholy and a sense of emptiness and the understanding that now, more than ever before, he had left his childhood, youth and roots far behind in Scotland when he had taken the old king’s shilling and joined the Guards as a young lieutenant at his lover’s behest. Now he knew that his real family were those men who stood behind him on this field – them and the pretty, headstrong girl who waited for him in their small and unaffordably expensive apartment in Brussels.

Although rank and fortune were central to the plan that he had long nurtured for his career, Steel could not help but think that his real prize in the bloody affair at Ostend had been Henrietta. He had rescued her from the hands of a French privateer – no more than a pirate – in the service of the Sun King. That man had held both of them captive as together they had stared death in the face and watched a good man die horribly in an underground torture chamber. Steel had taken her out of that place, and she loved him for that. That was beyond doubt. And now, as the years went by, it would be his task to persuade her to love him for whatever else he was as a man – those virtues she had not yet seen, whatever she and her constant love had the power to make him. It was all very well to fight for yourself, to fight just to stay alive and to make a life as a soldier. But it was quite another thing to fight when you knew that back beyond the baggage lines someone was waiting. He was happy and proud that she had chosen to follow him to Flanders, though in truth he would have expected no less from her stubborn, feisty character. Marlborough’s army always brought in its wake the gaggle of camp followers that came with any army – women, children, wives and lovers. But not many of those who came were attached to officers. It was one of the things he admired about Henrietta, her independent spirit that was intertwined with an unmissable sexuality. He hoped he had made the right choice for the wife of an officer of the Grenadiers. It was clear that his men had taken to her. They saw her as a natural part of the regimental family. They were aware too of what she had gone through, and respected her for it. Besides, she was Captain Steel’s wife.

A captain he might be, and on the not ungenerous sum of £170 a year, but Steel was again hungry for promotion. For, as lovely as she was, Henrietta had already begun to make something more than an emotional impact on his life. Steel had not previously been aware just how expensive a woman could be. True, she had brought with her a small dowry, but it was hardly in line with her status as the eldest daughter of the Duke of Rumney, and Steel wondered whether her father, knowing his modest station and uncertain prospects, might not have deliberately held back a portion in case of some … unseen eventuality. In addition, a great deal more money had now been necessitated by Henrietta having insisted on bringing a maid from England and her declaration that they must live in an entire suite of rooms. Where, previously, a town billet for Steel as a bachelor officer had meant a simple bed in a tavern room, it now seemed that they must live in some style and be able to entertain. Two bedchambers, a salon, an office and a dining room were the bare minimum, according to his wife. Not to mention the maid and a share in the cook and the kitchens. Not to mention her other requirements. Steel had not known that women could accumulate such … stuff. His life had been transformed, and as much as he adored Henrietta, Steel found it an added burden and began to understand what Slaughter had meant when he had advised him long ago that soldiering and matrimony did not make happy bedfellows.

Nevertheless, when he lay down in their marriage bed and held her small, softly naked form, all such thoughts left Steel’s mind and he was lost in such delights as he had never dreamed of. He had thought he might have grown soft during those months away from the war, nestling in the luxury of a feather bed and the arms of his wife. But in the past few weeks he had learnt that the regiment had seen little action, and he had passed up no chance of glory.

The shrill whine of a cannonball passing overhead snapped him back to the present. But even as he looked absently at the continuing battle his mind still pondered the prospect that before the year was out he would have to find some means of improving his situation. Promotion to major would help, bringing in another hundred a year. However, it would, he realized, as likely as not take him from his beloved Grenadiers. Unless, of course, the regimental adjutant should come to grief in the present campaign. Steel had never liked Charles Frampton, and after that episode following Ramillies with the major’s now hushed-up part in the distribution of scurrilous pamphlets against Marlborough the man was still less appealing. Naturally the business had been all but forgotten. Frampton was too good a soldier in the field to be lost. His accomplice, in truth the instigator of the scheme, had been punished and Frampton given a severe reprimand and encouraged to donate several hundred guineas to the regimental funds. Steel could hardly wish his brother officer, any officer, such ill will on the field of battle. Nevertheless, for a man in Steel’s position with mounting debts and precious little money, filling dead men’s shoes was the simplest way to get on. Perhaps, he thought, there might be booty. Marlborough might have forbidden any man to loot thus far on any campaign, on pain of death, but it seemed likely there would be legitimate plunder to be had if they prevailed this day and advanced into France. ‘If they prevailed.’ He smiled. Steel had become used to winning. But how could they win if they could not fight?

He turned to Hansam. ‘Damn whoever it is that makes us wait. Aye, even Marlborough for once for his infernal caution. Surely, Henry, we must go soon? Look at the men.’

He tested the bridge with his boot. He felt the wooden timbers give and heard them creak as they swayed and strained against the ropes that lashed them to the pontoons.

Hansam spoke. ‘It seems strong enough, Jack.’

‘It had better be. There’s an entire brigade to pass over it soon.’ Very soon, he prayed. He pointed across the river. ‘Look there, Henry. Down on the field. What d’you see?’

‘Why, our men outnumbered by the French. That surely is why we are here.’

‘But we must wait. Malborough is too clever. His plan lies in drawing out the French as quickly as possible. He shows Vendôme a part of his army as a temptation. He dares him to come and destroy Cadogan before they should arrive in force.’

‘It is bold, Jack. What if the French should succeed? If they are too quick off the mark?’

‘Then, my dear fellow, we shall have marched here for naught. For all will be up with our army and we shall need to double back up that hill to Lessines faster than we came. But imagine, Henry, should the plan succeed. If those men down there with Cadogan can hold off for just a little longer and draw in just enough of the French army without yielding, then here will be a moment when Marlborough can come up with the bulk of the army on his terms. Timing, you see, is everything. But that makes it no easier for us or the rest of the brigade. All we may do is watch and wait.’

There was a respectful cough at his side. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but when shall we go, d’you suppose? I can’t hardly remember seeing the men so peevish. They’re like terriers by a warren. Don’t know what to do with the’selves.’

Sergeant Slaughter was with him, as he had ever been since Steel had transferred into the regiment some seven years ago. Since then the two men had shared a bond of friendship of the sort that could only be forged in battle and which transcended the usual relationship between officer and sergeant. Indeed, some of Steel’s brother officers made no attempt to disguise the fact that they found it distasteful and inappropriate. But for Steel this was the way a war should be fought and the proper way for a company or a regiment to function. Hierarchy and order were vital, of course. But to share such an empathy as he had with a man like Slaughter was something rare: a bond of brotherhood that no one could know who had not been a part of it.

The French gunners on the opposite slope had changed their trajectory now, and the balls were beginning to creep closer to Steel’s brigade. A ranging shot struck the river bank and was stopped dead by the mud.

Steel turned to Slaughter. ‘That’s the last we’ll see like that. They’re just gauging our distance. The next one will strike home. Henry, time to take posts, I think.’

He had hardly finished speaking when all three men saw puffs of smoke from the enemy guns, instantly followed by the unmistakable black dots of fast-approaching cannonballs. Four ranged to their left, finding targets in the next battalion, but the remaining four came directly towards Steel and his men. There was no time to avoid them. No point. The only thing to do was to stand your ground and pray that your luck would hold. Steel watched as each black dot became a circle, then an orb, one of which, approaching him at an unthinkable speed, magically lifted at the last moment to pass over their heads, sucking the air into a vacuum as it passed. Steel breathed out audibly with relief. A few files away a sudden cry told him that others of the company had not been so lucky.

Steel turned to the sergeant again. ‘I wish to God that we were gone, Jacob. I can’t think the men can stand it much longer. They’ll lose heart or they’ll lose their edge.’

‘Aye, sir, or they’ll lose their heads.’

Another roundshot came perilously close to the company but thankfully veered right to carry away the head of the horse ridden by a field officer of Meredith’s, together with the lower portion of the unfortunate man’s leg. Steel nodded at Slaughter and noticed one of his corporals patting one of the recruits on the shoulder and placing him firmly back in the line. ‘The new lads seem to be wobbling, Jacob. Will they carry it off?’

‘They’ll do it, sir. Don’t doubt that they will. But I’m with you, sir. We must go soon.’

A ragged fanfare of bugles made them look to the left where a great cloud of dust thrown up from the earth proclaimed the beginnings of a movement of cavalry. Both men focused their attention on the ground over to the left across the river.

Slaughter spoke. ‘That’s cavalry, sir. And a good lot of them. They can’t surely intend to attack us, can they? Must be intended for the poor buggers on the edge of that village.’

Steel peered into the settling dust cloud, straining to see the uniforms and from where they came. ‘No, they’re ours, Jacob. Hanoverians. And it’s none of our men they’re making for. They’re moving up towards the French. Thank God for that, at least. Now we’ll see some sport.’