Free Brothers in Arms by Iain Gale Page A

cavalry attack. Nor was it in his plan to use the device of forming a square. That would not be necessary and he knew that Frampton would think likewise. With the new muskets and the platoon firing system, it must surely be possible to defeat the cavalry by musketry alone. In any case the cavalry were too laden to come at them very fast. No more than a gallop usually. It would be that last crucial, critical pause in the volley firing that always did for the infantry. But firing by platoons had made that a thing of the past. All they had to do once they had fired was to make sure that they recovered their muskets sufficiently fast to charge bayonets at chest height. Then he knew they would break any cavalry.
    Nevertheless, his heart trembled as he gave the command: ‘Prepare for cavalry.’
    Automatically the right half-company formed into three ranks as before, the front rank embedding their musket butts into the earth. It had begun to drizzle now and the earth was visibly softer. It had also become more difficult to see across the battlefield, and as he peered towards the oncoming cavalry it seemed to Steel as if they had stopped. He rubbed at his eyes and looked again, then turned to Williams.
    ‘Tom. Look over there. Look at the enemy horse and tell me what you can see.’
    There was a pause while the young lieutenant took in what lay before him. ‘I see enemy cavalry, sir. A great many of them. Impossible to tell the regiment with certainty. But they look like the Maison du Roi. Louis’ own horse guards. Good God, sir. They’re the finest cavalry in all France.’
    ‘Good. Well done, Tom. But tell me now, what are they doing, your fine cavalry?’
    Williams looked again. ‘Why, nothing, sir. They appear to have come to a halt.’
    Steel stared. It was true. They had stopped. This was a new and welcome madness in a battle of big surprises. Cavalry, bearing down in vastly superior numbers upon exhausted and outgunned infantry, did not halt. They pushed on, gained whatever impetus they could, drew their swords and went hell for leather at their target. They did not stop.
    He estimated their range. A hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards. What the devil had stopped them? Who had given the order?
    Slaughter came to his side. ‘Sir, shall we give them a volley?’
    ‘No, Sar’nt. Hold your fire. It may be a trick. They can cover that distance in just under a minute and they may think that we’ll spend our firepower before they get to us. I can’t fathom what they’re doing. What d you think, Sar’nt?’
    Slaughter grinned. ‘You know me, sir. I don’t think. Not unless I’m ordered to.’
    ‘Don’t be funny with me, Jacob. What d’you think they’re about?’
    ‘Well, if you really want my opinion, sir, just the same as you. That’s what I was asking myself. Why stop? You’ve got enough men to take out a brigade, let alone our little battalion. What in hell’s name’s stopping them?’
    It might have amused Slaughter to know that at precisely that moment the same question was being asked by the French commander in chief. For the past half hour Marshal Vendôme, sweating and filthy after having gone in himself on foot to take control of the desperate infantry fight in the centre of the French line around the village of Groenewald, had been recovering his humour on a tree stump on the edge of the village of Lede to the rear of the French position.
    It was fast approaching seven o’clock when he got up and turned to his secretary.
    ‘We’re winning, du Capistron. Winning. We’ve pushed them out of both villages and down towards the river. I thought Marlborough was supposed to be an intellectual. To have studied the great generals. He can’t have learnt much. He’s got a marsh and a river to his back. He’s trapped, du Capistron. We’ve got him. And now we must follow up. Speed is everything. Lose that and we risk losing the battle. Grasp the moment and we win.’
    He walked past the last few