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.’
Sitting at the folding wooden table that had been set up outside a small inn on the edge of the village of Gavre, on the road to Huysse, Louis Joseph de Bourbon, Duc de Vendôme and Marshal of France, sucked the last of the meat from a chicken bone and tossed it to his dogs. He would not be parted from the two pointers that had accompanied him throughout this campaigning season and the last, and he had come to regard them as lucky talismans. Behind the Marshal the little group of French staff officers grew restless. Vendôme ignored them; said nothing; not so much as turned his head to acknowledge them, even though among their number were the Duc de Berry, the King’s fat grandson, and James Francis Edward Stuart, claimant to the British throne. In fact, he mused, his own pedigree was hardly less august. He was the grandson of Henry IV of France and by right a Royal Prince himself. And what, he reasoned, could there possibly be to say to them? None of them had accepted his invitation to dine. Vendôme despaired of his generals and advisors almost as much as he did of his army. Oh, the French elements of his force of 85,000 – ninety battalions of foot and 170 squadrons of horse – were sound enough, most of them. It was the foreigners who supplemented their strength that caused him concern: the Swiss, the Spaniards, the Walloons and mercenaries from various German states.
At least the Duke of Burgundy, son of Louis, was not among them. Vendôme was sure the Prince, apparently sent to learn the art of war, had in fact been sent to spy on him. He had not seen eye to eye with the Sun King since Italy, Louis it seemed being more inclined to take the advice of the Elector, Max Emmanuel, than the most experienced and loyal of his generals. Continuing to eat, Vendôme spat out a piece of fat. Well, he thought, soon the King would see just how expert Vendôme was at the art of war. And then he would listen.
Somewhere out there with the enemy, Vendôme’s cousin, Prince Eugene of Savoy, was manoeuvring his troops with his master Marlborough, attempting to bring battle on their terms. But the Marshal was not overly concerned. Hadn’t he defeated Eugene three years ago at Cassano in Italy? If only that ass Burgundy were not with the French army now, and ostensibly his equal in rank. For the first time Vendôme sensed the faintest whisker of a possibility of defeat, but dared not let it invade his mind. At fifty-four years of age and after four decades with the colours he was well aware that state of mind was everything in command. He looked down at the dogs, begging for scraps. Their luck would hold, and his generalship. He must trust to fate and experience, and think positively.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats made him look