Brothers in Arms. Iain Gale

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       TWO

      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 up to see a horseman, an aide-de-camp to the staff by the look of it. The man had pulled up at the inn and, on foot now, was casting around for the commander in chief.

      ‘Marshal Vendôme?’

      One of the Marshal’s own aides directed the boy towards him.

      ‘Sire, I bring an urgent request from General Biron. He is under attack, sire.’

      Vendôme stared at the young man and grabbed the proffered dispatch. Wiping his greasy fingers on the tail of his grey coat, he opened the paper and began to read, muttering as he did so: ‘Allied units. English … Prussians. Large numbers.’ He paused. ‘What large numbers? Overwhelmed? Overwelmed by what? By how many?’

      The young man stammered: ‘Why by … by the enemy, sire. The redcoats are there. Infantry and horse too. We are being pushed back. They have crossed the Scheldt at Oudenarde.’

      Vendôme crushed the message into a small ball in the palm of his hand and muttered under his breath: ‘Oudenarde. I’d have taken it in two days and avoided all this.’ He frowned at the terrified aide and spoke louder. ‘Biron is asking me for reinforcements, is he not? Well, you may tell General Biron that the Allied army is nowhere near us. If they are anywhere near his positions then the devil must have carried them there, for such a march is impossible.’

      The aide, unsure what to do, decided magnanimously that the probable sacrifice of his military career was justified by saving thousands of French lives. He shook his head and stood his ground. ‘I beg you, sire. Look again to the south. I swear to you, sire, the Allied army is there, at least a considerable part of it. A full vanguard of redcoats, sire. Foot and horse, with artillery too. They are pushing us back from Oudenarde. They have already seen off a regiment of Swiss foot and will surely be doing us more damage as we speak.’

      Vendôme cursed the man under his breath, but he had not been a soldier for thirty-six years and a score of them a general not to know when it was prudent to take advice. Putting down his goblet of wine, he grabbed another chicken leg and walked across the road, past where the officers were conferring, to the crest of the hill.

      What he saw on the low horizon stopped him in his tracks and nearly made him choke on his mouthful of chicken. Below him in the valley of the Scheldt a huge dust storm appeared to have arisen. Vendôme might have been confident, but he was no fool. He knew the signs of an army and of unavoidable battle when he saw them. He swore, turned quickly and walked smartly back to the messenger.

      ‘Thank you. I’m sorry to have doubted you, Lieutenant. Yes, I do see now. Take a message to General Biron at Heurne. Tell him not to worry. He must attack the force to his front with all possible speed. I myself shall lead the cavalry to our left wing in support. Wait there a moment.’ He looked across to the group of officers. ‘Puységur.’

      Vendôme’s Chief of Staff walked across.

      ‘Puységur, go with this officer. You’re to ride to General Biron. Order him to stand where he is for the moment. We have insufficient cavalry in his vicinity to offer immediate support. He is to wait for the horse before he advances any further. And be sure to tell him that he may allow their great general Marlbrook to come across with as many of the enemy as he likes.’

      Both the Chief of Staff and the courier looked askance.

      Vendôme continued: ‘Don’t look so bemused, gentlemen. It is all part of my plan to trap the enemy. Now go.’

      He called to his private secretary. ‘Du Capistron. Take a message to my lord Burgundy. He must move the infantry of the entire left wing directly behind my advance with the horse.’

      Vendôme crossed to the table and took a swig of the wine he had abandoned. He patted one of the dogs and smiled as he congratulated himself on his swift action. For once Marlborough had blundered. If Vendôme could act now he would trap him and a good deal of his army on the wrong side of the Scheldt. Pin him down with superior numbers and the natural obstacle of the river at his back. At the very least he would drive them back over their bridges and into the Scheldt. And all that his generals had to do was to act together. Surely that was not too much to ask of anyone? Even of that idiot Burgundy?

      A large black fly had settled on a morsel of the bread on his plate, and picking up a huge pewter ladle from the table he brought it down on the insect, squashing it into the metal. He would crush this Allied vanguard just as easily as he had killed that fly. And then, before my lord Marlbrook could reinforce his ailing line he, Vendôme, would be in command of the river and its strongpoints. СКАЧАТЬ