ranks. Get the men down here. Form on me.’
Startled out of his automatic manouevre, Slaughter checked and began to herd the men into cover. Quickly the half-company of Grenadiers descended into the gulley, followed Steel’s example and pressed themselves hard against the cover of the far bank. Removing his hat, Steel peered gingerly over the top, up towards the fort. He could see them more clearly now. The figures in white coats up on the parapet. French infantry. They were standing quite still; drawn up in silence as if on parade. They made an eerie, unnerving contrast to the shouting mass of his own men that milled around him, pressing themselves into the muddy wall of the sunken road. Up on the fort Steel saw officers begin to shout commands. Saw the front rank of the French take one pace forward. He saw them reach behind and unbuckle a black pouch. Grenadiers. He knew all too well what was coming next. He turned to the men:
‘Keep well into the bank. For God’s sake, lads, keep well in and keep your heads down and you’ll be all right.’
Two smooth black spheres, smaller than roundshot and sputtering flame bowled by the defenders underarm, like cricket balls, came bouncing into the makeshift trench. Steel looked to see where they had landed and moved quickly away from them.
Men pushed themselves deeper into the muddy bank, trying in vain to make the ground swallow them up. The fuse of one of the round black bombs fizzed to a stop and failed to detonate. The other one though, which had come to rest by the far bank of the gulley, exploded in a hail of red-hot iron, instantly killing three of the Grenadiers and blinding another who lay shrieking in the mud, clutching at the bloody ruin of his face. Steel could hear the cries of other wounded men echoing from above, where behind them, among the second-wave assault troops on the lower slopes of the hill, more grenades had found their mark. There was only one thing to do now. He turned to Slaughter.
‘We’ve got to get out of this death trap. Now. Come on.’
Looking out again above the rim of the bank, Steel tried to find a way forward. To the left lay the bulk of the storming party, mired down in the torrent of shot, not knowing whether to stand or advance. He saw men stumbling forward into the ditch. All was confusion. He thought he saw Goors himself fall. To his right though, there was no one. He and the Grenadiers were the very end of the line. The extreme right wing. For an instant a wild idea entered his mind. Might not the French, observing that the allied attack was going in on their right, perhaps have grouped their men principally towards that area? Surely that would mean that they would have weakened their own left flank. The flank that now lay obliquely to his own command. He peered through the smoke and looked hard up at the battlements. He could see where they ended – in the great bulk of the old fort – and could see too the cannon placed high on its ramparts pointing into what would soon be the flank of the attackers. But to the right of the fort he could see nothing but some hastily prepared earthworks. There were troops behind them to be sure. More white-coated infantry. But, if he guessed right, this was only a skeleton force. A plan was starting to form in his mind. Perhaps … He looked for Slaughter.
‘Jacob. Have the men follow me. Tell them to remove their caps and keep their heads down and come on in single file. We’re not going forward, Jacob. We’re going sideways. We’re going to move along the gulley. They can’t see us here. But I know where they are. We’re going to give the French a bit of a surprise.’
Slaughter smiled. He saw instantly what Steel was about and began to send word down the line. Steel beckoned to Truman.
‘Go and find Mister Hansam. Tell him that we’re going to stay in the trench. We’re going to take the Frenchies in the flank. He’ll know what I mean. Hurry now and tell him to keep his head down and to get the men to take their caps off.’
Slowly, bent double and making sure to keep his own head well below the bank, Steel began to make his way along the ditch. He looked back and saw that the Grenadiers were following suit. After twenty yards the ditch turned sharply back down the hill, towards the allied army. For a ghastly moment Steel panicked. What if he were wrong? What if this gulley did not lead parallel to the fortifications, as he had guessed, but away from the French and the battle? What then? Desertion? Court martial? He began to sweat. There was nothing for it now though but to continue, whatever the consequences. He would take all the blame and exonerate Hansam. He would face the terrible charge of desertion in the face of the enemy on his own. Steel slipped on the muddy floor of the ditch, and swore. His thighs and back had begun to ache from the exertion of travelling bent over. They seemed to be taking an eternity to cover such a small distance. At length, after some eighty yards, they came to another junction. Steel saw that the main route of the gulley led left, back up the slope, towards the French lines. He muttered an imprecation of thanks to the Almighty under his breath. Heard Slaughter too, tucked in tight behind him: ‘Thank God.’
They followed the line of the new ditch, climbing steadily as they went. Another fifty yards and the gulley came to an abrupt dead end. This was it then. Steel turned back, still crouching, and motioned the men to stay down. It was quieter here, away from the cannonade that was still taking its toll of the main force away to their left. He signed to the Grenadiers to sling their fusils on their backs, unbutton their pouches and withdraw one of the three grenades that it contained. Then indicated by sign language that, once they were within range of the enemy, they should ignite the fuse of the missile from the slow-burning match that each man wore strapped to his wrist. Creeping over to the southern side of the gulley he peered over the top. As he had suspected, some 200 yards down the slope, he could make out the plumes and horses of the allied commanders, concealed in a similar gulley. He beckoned to a Grenadier: Pearson. Fastest runner in the company.
‘Take yourself off to Marlborough. He’s down there, see? Tell him that we’ve found a gap in the line. That I’m going to attack and the way is open. Got that? The way is open.’
The young man nodded and, crawling out of the ditch, was soon up and running for the allied lines. Steel crept back to the other side of the gulley. Then, taking a deep breath, he stood up, hauled himself up on top of the forward bank, placed his foot on the turf at the top, sprang out and straightened up. He found himself standing, horribly prone, not ten yards away from a stretch of crude, basketwork gabions, behind a shallow ditch. He had not realized that they might end up quite so close to the enemy lines. What was even more alarming though was the fact that he found himself staring directly into the terrified eyes of a French sentry. For a second both men stood stock still. Then, with one motion they both reached for their weapons.
The Frenchman fumbled with the lock of his musket. Steel, having returned his sword to its scabbard to travel down the gulley, pulled at a wide leather strap on his shoulder and grasped the stock of the short-barrelled fusil which was standard-issue to every officer of Grenadiers. His gun though, was subtly different. It had begun life as a fowling piece, whose ingenious maker had contrived somehow to create a weapon light enough to carry all day out in the hunting field. It was able to fire tight-packed game-shot or a single ball with equal ease and was cut to fit Steel alone. So that – whether his quarry might be a Frenchman or a partridge – when he raised it to his cheek it slipped as neatly into place as if it were an extension of his arm. To mount it was the work of less than a second. And he knew it to be loaded.
Feeling his heart beating hard against his ribs, he pulled back the cock with his right thumb. Felt the coldness of the barrel in his left hand and pressed his cheek close into the action. At that precise moment the Frenchman levelled his own weapon. Steel heard the crack of the man’s shot, saw the flash. He felt the ball as it scudded past his cheek and that same instant gave the gentlest squeeze of his own trigger and felt the reassuring recoil as the piece jumped back into his shoulder. The Frenchman dropped stone dead, a bullet in the centre of his forehead. But the two shots had roused the other enemy sentries and the defences in front of Steel now began to fill with men in white coats who looked with dumbstruck amazement at their dead comrade and the apparently suicidal solitary British officer standing before them. Hoisting
