Free 4 Under Siege by Edward Marston Page A

after a battle but they seemed to be coming with more regularity now. It was worrying. He was ill, hurt and dejected. Only his secretary and his physician were ever allowed to see him in such a state. For everyone else, the mask of capability was kept firmly in place. Nobody saw even a glimpse of his weakness, his doubts and his periods of despair. Marlborough was resting in his quarters while Adam Cardonnel worked quietly at the table, reading and answering correspondence and doing his best to take the weight off the captain-general’s shoulders. Marlborough looked across at him.
    ‘You work too hard, Adam,’ he said.
    ‘I got that habit from you, Your Grace.’
    ‘Then it’s a bad one. Look where it’s got me. I’ve still two years to go before I reach sixty yet I already have one foot in the grave. I should have become a gentleman farmer and lived a life of ease.’
    ‘You won’t find many farmers calling it a life of ease,’ said Cardonnel. ‘They’re at the mercy of the weather and that can be a cruel master. The French have had a dreadful harvest this year – on and off the battlefield. You made the right decision, Your Grace.’
    ‘Did I?’
    ‘You were born to be a soldier.’
    ‘I actually thought that was a blessing at one time,’ confided Marlborough, ‘but I’m beginning to view it in its true light as a curse. My life has been a series of manoeuvres, counter-manoeuvres, councils of war, sudden offensives, sieges, skirmishes, battles, advances, retreats and betrayals by conniving politicians back home in England. What do I have to show for all those years in combat? It’s insufferable. I am under siege just as surely as Lille is, surrounded by generals who resent my being in command or who are too timid to accept any of the daring strategies I put forward. There’s no respite. Fresh responsibilities are loaded onto me every day and enemy forces threaten at every turn. It’s no wonder my head is splitting as if it’s been struck by a cannonball.’
    ‘The pain will ease off in time, Your Grace.’
    ‘That only means I have to climb back on the treadmill.’
    ‘As a rule, you leap willingly onto it.’
    ‘What clearer sign of madness could there be?’
    A voice called from outside, making Cardonnel rise to his feet.
    ‘Wait a moment,’ he said, giving Marlborough ample time to replace his wig and adjust his clothing. ‘Very well – you may come in.’
    A courier entered, took a despatch from a leather pouch and handed it over to the secretary. A nod sent him out again. Opening the despatch, Cardonnel read its contents.
    ‘What does it say?’ asked Marlborough.
    ‘Wait until you are ready for the treadmill again.’
    ‘If it’s important news, I want to hear it this minute. Does it concern the convoy?’
    ‘It does, Your Grace.’
    ‘Where is it?’
    Cardonnel passed the despatch to him. ‘It’s reached Menin without the least annoyance.’
    ‘God be praised!’
    ‘How is your headache now, Your Grace?’
    ‘It’s starting to fade already, Adam.’ He read the despatch and slapped his thigh. ‘William Cadogan is a genius. I knew that he’d get that siege train through.’
    ‘There’s still some way to go,’ Cardonnel reminded him, ‘and it’s moving slowly. You can’t transport artillery of that size at speed.’
    It was the first of two convoys coming from Brussels and hoping to travel the seventy miles to Lille without being intercepted. Vast and cumbersome, it required the services of a multitude of horses and mules. It stretched over such a long distance that, even with its protective army, it was vulnerable to attack. Somehow the French had failed to seize the initiative. Marlborough sought to explain the fact.
    ‘Vendôme is too lazy and Burgundy too slow. They spend so much time bickering that they cannot reach a prompt decision. As for my nephew,’ he went on, ‘Marshal Berwick must be still trying to find his way around Flanders. We’ve been very