Rules of War. Iain Gale

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      ‘Hard to say, sir. I know that a score of the lads went down on the hill and I dare say we may have lost half as much again in the fight.’

      ‘Yes. I thought as much.’

      Still, he thought, thirty per cent casualties was what you might expect in a frontal attack and of them perhaps a third again would have been fatal. Ten good men dead then from his company and the day still young. Who, he wondered, had gone down? Was Williams hit? Or Hansam? Steel wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and looked about. His fears were quelled as from a neighbouring street the young ensign approached him. There was a cut on his right arm, his sleeve was drenched in blood and his face was quite white.

      ‘Tom. Are you hit?’

      ‘It’s nothing, sir. A scratch. French officer. I sent him off, sir. Pity. Damned fine swordsman.’

      He winced as the pain in his arm cut in and managed a weak smile which told Steel that his wound, though serious, was not life-threatening.

      ‘I’m sending you to the rear. Best get that wound dressed before an infection sets in. Don’t want you to lose that arm, eh?’

      Williams nodded and began to walk towards the lines.

      ‘He’ll do well, sir, that one. General, likely as not.’

      ‘If he manages to stay alive long enough, Jacob.’

      From their left a tall figure approached – a senior officer. There was no mistaking the chiselled features of Lord Orkney. There was blood on his breeches and he had lost his sash. Otherwise, thought Steel, the youthful, forty-year-old general appeared miraculously unhurt.

      ‘Sarn’t, stand the men to attention. Officer approaching.’

      ‘Officer approaching. Stand to there.’

      The Grenadiers straightened up and shuffled into three lines.

      Orkney nodded to Steel. ‘You did well, Captain.’

      ‘Thank you, My Lord. But it was my men’s doing. The Grenadiers, sir.’

      Orkney peered into Steel’s face. ‘Captain Steel is it not? The hero of Blenheim? Well, whoever claims the glory, it was as well done today as then. We have the village and I do not intend to give it up lightly. I have left your colonel in the centre of the position. Take your Grenadiers and join with those of the First Guards and General Fergusson’s regiment. Place yourselves on the side of the village closest to the French lines. Have your men construct defences. When they come on again, as they are sure to do, we’ll give them a taste of their own style, eh?’

      ‘Indeed, My Lord. You may rely upon us.’

      Orkney was about to compliment Steel further when both men noticed five horsemen approaching from the allied lines. All were dressed in the elaborate uniform of the general staff and all appeared to be aides. It was as unlikely a sight as either of them had ever seen on any battlefield.

      ‘What d’you make of this, Captain Steel? A group of young gentlemen about town and dressed for the court? By God! Do I see red heels? What the devil shall we make of it?’

      ‘I do not know, My Lord. But I hazard that we are about to discover.’

      The horsemen reined in before Orkney and the two leading riders dismounted. Steel recognized one of them as Benjamin Harley, an aide-de-camp to Marlborough himself. The young man made an exaggeratedly low bow to Orkney and began to speak. His accent was disarmingly soft and quite out of character with the battle raging around them.

      ‘My Lord. You are to disengage the enemy forthwith and retire two hundred yards.’

      Orkney’s bushy eyebrows arched high above widening eyes and his face took on the hue of his coat. For an instant he was speechless. Then, as the aide waited in silence, he found his voice. ‘Disengage? Retire? Are you quite mad, sir? We have the village. This ground is ours. And, God please you, so too will be the day. I shall not disengage, sir. No, sir. I shall not retire.’ He spat the words in contempt. ‘On whose authority have you this order?’

      The aide smiled, smugly. ‘It comes direct on the Lord Marlborough’s authority My Lord. It is his express wish that you should disengage the enemy with all speed and return to your starting line.’

      Orkney stared at him in disbelief. For an instant Steel wondered whether the general was about to strike the young aide. And in truth he too felt rising indignation. This was too much to take. The duke he trusted implicitly, would follow to the ends of the earth. But to take this order from a young aide, without proper explanation for what seemed utter folly? Orkney took a pace towards the aide.

      Steel saw that the boy’s hand had fallen to his sword hilt. This was getting dangerous. Now was not the time for such an argument. He intervened: ‘Sir – if the order has come from the duke himself, d’you not think that it might be prudent to obey? No matter how galling.’

      Orkney, his eyes ablaze with rage, turned on him: ‘Captain Steel, I do not need your advice. I … and you, Steel, have left good men lying dead and dying back there. Men who died to take this place. Will you betray them now? We do not retreat. How can you agree with this madness? We are the victors, dammit. We have taken our objective. We have this ground. I shall not surrender it, not even for My Lord Marlborough.’

      ‘Indeed I too will never betray any of my men, sir, dead or alive. But it is an order, My Lord.’

      Orkney regained his composure and, turned again to the white-faced ensign. ‘What is its purpose then? According to the rules of engagement the duty of a commander is to win battles, not to yield at a whim whatever ground he gains. For what possible reason could My Lord Marlborough desire me to retreat?’

      Steel noticed that the other aides had now dismounted. One of them, slightly older than Harley, moved forward to speak. ‘Excuse me. Lieutenant the Honourable Greville Bennett, My Lord. It is not a retreat, Lord Orkney. Merely a tactical withdrawal.’

      Orkney smashed his fist into the palm of his left hand: ‘Tactical withdrawal?’ He spat the words. ‘Marlborough sends me five of his liverish boys to tell me this. To tell me to retreat. For it is a retreat, dammit, man. No less. Why, I should …’

      Again Harley’s hand darted nervously to his sidearm. Steel was about to stand between them when from the mouth of a sidestreet two further horsemen appeared. One was unmistakable as William Cadogan, the Duke of Marlborough’s right-hand man and quartermaster-general. At his side rode another officer, slightly more portly than Cadogan and older. Steel recognized him at once; Colonel James Hawkins, attached to Marlborough’s staff and one of the duke’s oldest friends, had been instrumental in Steel’s advancement to date. He was as good a mentor as he had ever had, but one whom he had not seen these past few weeks.

      Hawkins and Cadogan rode up to Orkney and both men dismounted. Cadogan greeted the seething general with a smile. ‘What ho, George. You look as if you may have gone beyond yourself for once. Hold up. Have you not had the duke’s instructions? You are to retire and regroup, My Lord.’

      Orkney seemed to stagger. He shook his head. ‘Do not tell me, William, that what this … boy has said is truly the case. That I am indeed ordered to abandon this place. It is my victory, Cadogan. We have the ground. Look for yourself.’

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