Hansam appeared, covered in soot and mud, the lace hanging from his coat. ‘By God, Jack. That was hot stuff. Clever idea of yours. But what now?’
‘I’ve sent a runner for reinforcements. All we can do is stand and wait.’
Both men were looking towards the left wing at the centre of the battle. Through the drifting smoke they caught glimpses of the fighting. Men engaged at close quarters; beating each other with musket butts. Clawing at faces, gouging eyes. Then, as their vision cleared they were able to make out a body of red-clad infantry, apparently making directly for them. Hansam spoke first:
‘I sincerely hope that we don’t have long to wait.’
Steel saw what he meant.
‘Oh God. Dragoons.’ He called out: ‘Sarn’t Slaughter.’
For the French too had seen the vulnerability of their open flank and now several squadrons of their confusingly red-coated dragoons, dismounted but as deadly as ever, were advancing with calm precision to retake the salient. But they were, he guessed, still just far enough away. Steel barked an order.
‘Grenadiers. Form lines of half ranks.’
With hard-learned routine, Steel’s men formed into three ranks. Hansam too was manouevering his platoon into formation and as the men moved quickly in response, Steel sheathed his sword and unslung his fusil. Taking up a position to the right of the formation, he shouted another command:
‘Make ready.’
In as close as they were able to manage to a coordinated move, the second rank of each platoon of Grenadiers cocked their muskets while the front rank knelt down and placed the butts of their weapons on the ground, being careful to keep their thumbs on the cock and their fingers on the triggers. One of them, a recent recruit, dropped his musket and recovered it in embarassment. Slaughter growled.
‘That man. Steady. Pick it up, lad.’
The rear rank closed up behind the second, their arms at high port and, as the manual directed, locked their feet closely with those standing immediately before them. Judging the distance of the closing dragoons, Steel continued.
‘Present.’
In a single disciplined movement, eighty men eased their thumbs away from the cock of their muskets and at the same time moved their right feet a short step back, keeping the knee quite stiff, before placing the butts of their weapons in the hollow between chest and shoulder. The dragoons were almost on them now. Steel could see their faces: tanned and with thick moustaches beneath fur-topped red bonnets.
He waited. Thirty paces. Twenty now.
‘Fire!’
The centre rank of Grenadiers opened up and as they began to reload the rank kneeling in front stood up and delivered their own deadly volley before turning neatly on the left foot and moving past the rank behind. As they did so the third rank brought their muskets down and through the gaps in the ranks to deliver a third salvo. This was the new way. The proper way to use the new muskets. This was why their ‘Corporal John’ had schooled them all so carefully. This, thought Steel, was real artistry. This was modern war. Seconds later he was proved right as the smoke cleared on a pile of red-coated bodies. The second rank of French dragoons, its officers and NCSs gone in the inferno of musketry, had come to a halt and stood staring at their enemy, unsure of what to do next. Among the British ranks corporals yelled orders:
‘Reload … Re-form.’
Looking beyond the hesitant, decimated Frenchmen, Steel could now see more infantry in red coats advancing across the plateau. A second squadron with fresh officers.
He turned to Slaughter:
‘Look. More of the buggers. Fall back on the gabions. We have to hold them, Jacob.’
He turned and peered towards the allied lines down in the valley.
‘Where the hell is that relief force?’
Quickly the two platoons of British Grenadiers fell back together towards the parapet.
Steel looked for Hansam. Smiling, he shouted across to him:
‘Can you do it, Henry? Can we hold them?’
‘I’d invite them to surrender, Jack, but I think they might have other plans.’
Steel laughed, grimly, and turned to Slaughter.
‘Right, Jacob. As you will. Let’s show them how it’s done.’
Again the Grenadiers assumed their three-rank formation and again, the red ranks began to close. Desperate, Steel turned to look down towards the allied lines. Pearson had failed. There was no one coming to help them. No last minute reprieve. So much for his brilliant plan. Their only way out was to take as many French with them to hell as they could. He strained his eyes in hope but was rewarded only with horror.
‘Oh, good God, no!’
Through the smoke, advancing up the slope towards their position, Steel began to make out tall, white-coated figures marching in close order. French infantry. A battalion. No, an entire brigade. Slaughter had seen them too:
‘Christ almighty, Sir. How the hell? They’ve got round behind us.’
Steel flung himself back against the parapet and closed his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Jacob. This wasn’t meant to happen.’
‘Nothing’s meant to happen in war, Mister Steel. It just does.’
Instinctively Steel started to turn the men. If one rank could about-face there might just be a chance to hold off the French in both directions. At least for a little while.
But he knew that it was too late. The white-coated infantry were too close. Steel cast down his gun and drew his sword. As he prepared for the worst, a lone, foreign voice floated up towards him from the white ranks:
‘Hallo there, in the defences. Are you English?’
This, surely was the final insult. To be asked for his surrender in such a way. Well, that was one thing at least he would not concede.
‘We’re Scots. Most of us. And we hold this place in the name of Queen Anne.’
‘Then thank God, my friend. We have come to save you.’
He couldn’t place the accent, but as the man stepped out of the smoke, Steel knew instantly. These were not French but Imperial infantry and Grenadiers, like themselves. He began to laugh.
‘Christ, but I’m glad to see you. We thought you were French.’
The Austrian officer looked aghast.
‘No, my friend. We are not French. We hate the French. Excuse me. Captain Wendt, Regiment von Diesbach.’
The Imperial infantry were among them now and as they climbed in through the gabions Steel’s men clapped them on the back. But the French were still advancing.
‘Take position.’
Slaughter had seen the danger. Again the ranks formed, joined now by the long line of Wendt’s men. The French, shocked by the sudden appearance of so many of the enemy, came again to an abrupt halt. This time, Steel knew, they would not wait for the volley.
‘Fire!’
Three hundred muskets crashed in unison and the red-coated Frenchmen, caught in the act of turning, fell in scores. Then Steel was up