On Whit Sunday, the famous 23rd of May, 1706, my young lord first came
under the fire of the enemy, whom we found posted in order of battle,
their lines extending three miles or more, over the high ground behind the
little Gheet river, and having on his left the little village of Anderkirk
or Autre-église, and on his right Ramillies, which has given its name to
one of the most brilliant and disastrous days of battle that history ever
hath recorded.
Our duke here once more met his old enemy of Blenheim, the Bavarian
Elector and the Mareschal Villeroy, over whom the Prince of Savoy had
gained the famous victory of Chiari. What Englishman or Frenchman doth not
know the issue of that day? Having chosen his own ground, having a force
superior to the English, and besides the excellent Spanish and Bavarian
troops, the whole Maison-du-Roy with him, the most splendid body of horse
in the world,—in an hour (and in spite of the prodigious gallantry of the
French Royal Household, who charged through the centre of our line and
broke it), this magnificent army of Villeroy was utterly routed by troops
that had been marching for twelve hours, and by the intrepid skill of a
commander, who did, indeed, seem in the presence of the enemy to be the
very Genius of Victory.
I think it was more from conviction than policy, though that policy was
surely the most prudent in the world, that the great duke always spoke of
his victories with an extraordinary modesty, and as if it was not so much
his own admirable genius and courage which achieved these amazing
successes, but as if he was a special and fatal instrument in the hands of
Providence, that willed irresistibly the enemy’s overthrow. Before his
actions he always had the church service read solemnly, and professed an
undoubting belief that our queen’s arms were blessed and our victory sure.
All the letters which he writ after his battles show awe rather than
exultation; and he attributes the glory of these achievements, about which
I have heard mere petty officers and men bragging with a pardonable
vainglory, in no wise to his own bravery or skill, but to the
superintending protection of Heaven, which he ever seemed to think was our
especial ally. And our army got to believe so, and the enemy learnt to
think so too; for we never entered into a battle without a perfect
confidence that it was to end in a victory; nor did the French, after the
issue of Blenheim, and that astonishing triumph of Ramillies, ever meet us
without feeling that the game was lost before it was begun to be played,
and that our general’s fortune was irresistible. Here, as at Blenheim, the
duke’s charger was shot, and ’twas thought for a moment he was dead. As he
mounted another, Binfield, his master of the horse, kneeling to hold his
grace’s stirrup, had his head shot away by a cannon-ball. A French
gentleman of the Royal Household, that was a prisoner with us, told the
writer that at the time of the charge of the Household, when their horse
and ours were mingled, an Irish officer recognized the Prince-Duke, and
calling out—“Marlborough, Marlborough!” fired his pistol at him _à bout
portant_, and that a score more carbines and pistols were discharged at
him. Not one touched him: he rode through the French Cuirassiers sword in
hand, and entirely unhurt, and calm and smiling rallied the German horse,
that was reeling before the enemy, brought these and twenty squadrons of
Orkney’s back upon them, and drove the French across the river
again—leading the charge himself, and defeating the only dangerous move
the French made that day.
Major-General Webb commanded on the left of our line, and had his own
regiment under the orders of their beloved colonel. Neither he nor they
belied their character for gallantry on this occasion; but it was about
his dear young lord that Esmond was anxious, never having sight of him
save once, in the whole course of the day, when he brought an order from
the commander-in-chief to Mr. Webb. When our horse, having charged round
the right flank of the enemy by Overkirk, had thrown him into entire
confusion, a general advance was made, and our whole line of foot,
crossing the little river and the morass, ascended the high ground where
the French were posted, cheering as they went, the enemy retreating before
them. ’Twas a service of more glory than danger, the French battalions
never waiting to exchange push of pike or bayonet with ours; and the
gunners flying from their pieces which our line left behind us as they
advanced, and the French fell back.
At first it was a retreat orderly enough; but presently the retreat became
a rout, and a frightful slaughter of the French ensued on this panic; so
that an army of sixty thousand men was utterly crushed and destroyed in
the course of a couple of hours. It was as if a hurricane had seized a
compact and numerous fleet, flung it all to the winds, shattered, sunk,
and annihilated it; _afflavit Deus, et dissipati sunt_. The French army of
Flanders was gone, their artillery, their standards, their treasure,
provisions, and ammunition were all left behind them: the poor devils had
even fled without their soup-kettles, which are as much the palladia of
the French infantry as of the Grand Signor’s Janizaries, and round which
they rally even more than round their lilies.
The pursuit, and a dreadful carnage which ensued (for the dregs of a
battle, however brilliant, are ever a base residue of rapine, cruelty, and
drunken plunder), was carried far beyond the field of Ramillies.
Honest Lockwood, Esmond’s servant, no doubt wanted to be among the
marauders himself and take his share of the booty; for when, the action
over, and the troops got to their ground for the night, the captain bade
Lockwood get a horse, he asked, with a very rueful countenance, whether
his honour would have him come too; but his honour only bade him go about
his own business, and Jack hopped away quite delighted as soon as he saw
his master mounted. Esmond made his way, and not without danger and
difficulty, to his grace’s head quarters, and found for himself very
quickly where the aides de camp’s quarters were, in an outbuilding of a
farm, where several of these gentlemen were seated, drinking and singing,
and at supper. If he had any anxiety about his boy, ’twas relieved at
once. One of the gentlemen was singing a song to a tune that Mr. Farquhar
and Mr. Gay both had used in their admirable comedies, and very popular in
the army of that day; after the song came a chorus, “Over the hills and
far away”; and Esmond heard Frank’s fresh voice soaring, as it were, over
the songs of the rest of the young men—a voice that had always a certain
artless, indescribable pathos with it, and indeed which caused Mr.
Esmond’s eyes to fill with tears now, out of thankfulness to God the child
was safe and still alive to laugh and sing.
When the song was over Esmond entered the room, where he knew several of
the gentlemen present, and there sat my young lord, having taken off his
cuirass, his waistcoat open, his face flushed, his long yellow hair
hanging over his shoulders, drinking with the rest; the youngest, gayest,
handsomest there. As soon as he saw Esmond, he clapped down his glass, and
running towards his friend, put both his arms round him and embraced him.
The other’s voice trembled with joy as he greeted the lad; he had thought
but now as he stood in the courtyard under the clear-shining moonlight:
“Great God! what a scene of murder is here within a mile of us; what
hundreds and thousands have faced danger to-day; and here are these lads
singing over their cups, and the same moon that is shining over yonder
horrid field is looking down on Walcote very likely, while my lady sits
and thinks about her boy that is at the war.” As Esmond embraced his young
pupil now, ’twas with the feeling of quite religious thankfulness, and an
almost paternal pleasure that he beheld him.
Round his neck was a star with a striped ribbon, that was made of small
brilliants and might be worth a hundred crowns. “Look,” says he, “won’t
that be a pretty present for mother?”
“Who gave you the Order?” says Harry, saluting the gentleman: “did you win
it in battle?”
“I won it,” cried the other, “with my sword and my spear. There was a
mousquetaire that had it round his neck—such a big mousquetaire, as big as
General Webb. I called out to him to surrender, and that I’d give him
quarter: he called me a _petit polisson_, and fired his pistol at me, and
then sent it at my head with a curse. I rode at him, sir, drove my sword
right under his arm-hole, and broke it in the rascal’s body. I found a
purse in his holster with sixty-five louis in it, and a bundle of
love-letters, and a flask of Hungary-water. _Vive la guerre!_ there are
the ten pieces you lent me. I should like to have a fight every day;” and
he pulled at his little moustache and bade a servant bring a supper to
Captain Esmond.
Harry fell to with a very good appetite; he had tasted nothing since
twenty hours ago, at early dawn. Master Grandson, who read this, do you
look for the history of battles and sieges? Go, find them in the proper
books; this is only the story of your grandfather and his family. Far more
pleasant to him than the victory, though for that too he may say
_meminisse juvat_, it was to find that the day was over, and his dear
young Castlewood was unhurt.
And would you, sirrah, wish to know how it was that a sedate captain of
foot, a studious and rather solitary bachelor of eight or nine and twenty
years of age, who did not care very much for the jollities which his
comrades engaged in, and was never known to lose his heart in any garrison
town—should you wish to know why such a man had so prodigious a
tenderness, and tended so fondly a boy of eighteen, wait, my good friend,
until thou art in love with thy schoolfellow’s sister, and then see how
mighty tender thou wilt be towards him. Esmond’s general and his grace the
prince-duke were notoriously at variance, and the former’s friendship was
in no wise likely to advance any man’s promotion, of whose services Webb
spoke well; but rather likely to injure him, so the army said, in the
favour of the greater man. However, Mr. Esmond had the good fortune to be
mentioned very advantageously by Major-General Webb in his report after
the action; and the major of his regiment and two of the captains having
been killed upon the day of Ramillies, Esmond, who was second of the
lieutenants, got his company, and had the honour of serving as Captain
Esmond in the next campaign.
My lord went home in the winter, but Esmond was afraid to follow him. His
dear mistress wrote him letters more than once, thanking him, as mothers
know how to thank, for his care and protection of her boy, extolling
Esmond’s own merits with a great deal more praise than they deserved; for
he did his duty no better than any other officer; and speaking sometimes,
though gently and cautiously, of Beatrix. News came from home of at least
half a dozen grand matches that the beautiful maid of honour was about to
make. She was engaged to an earl, our gentlemen of St. James’s said, and
then jilted him for a duke, who, in his turn, had drawn off. Earl or duke
it might be who should win this Helen, Esmond knew she would never bestow
herself on a poor captain. Her conduct, it was clear, was little
satisfactory to her mother, who scarcely mentioned her, or else the kind
lady thought it was best to say nothing, and leave time to work out its
cure. At any rate, Harry was best away from the fatal object which always
wrought him so much mischief; and so he never asked for leave to go home,
but remained with his regiment that was garrisoned in Brussels, which city
fell into our hands when the victory of Ramillies drove the French out of
Flanders.