"OUR OWN MEN, SIR!"
Marlborough was late in taking the field that year. Important matters
engaged his attention at home. He saw more clearly than ever that the
Whigs alone were the real supporters of him and his war plans. The
party even passed a resolution to the effect that they would not hear
of peace so long as a Bourbon ruled over Spain. Then there were the
intrigues at work that were undermining the influence of the Duchess
of Marlborough, and consequently of the Duke himself, at Court. Harley
was known to be working for the overthrow of Marlborough. He was
preparing to introduce a formidable rival to the Duchess in Anne's
regards.
The young men were nothing loth to go back to their respective
regiments, to say truth, when the time came. Inaction did not seem to
agree with their young blood. Matthew, his wound now quite healed, was
eager to get his next step. Fieldsend was already captain, and hoped
ere the close of the 1707 campaign to get his majority. As for George
Fairburn, he was quite content to be a soldier for soldiering's sake,
yet would thankfully take promotion if it came his way. Blackett had
paid a visit to the west-country home of the Fieldsends, and it was
whispered that he had there found a mighty attraction. But more of
this may come later.
The year, to the bitter disappointment of our young officers, proved
an unlucky one. In all directions things went wrong. As for
Marlborough, from the very opening he experienced the old Dutch
thwartings and oppositions, and, after a short and vexatious summer,
he closed the campaign almost abruptly, and much earlier than in
former years. There was to be no promotion for anybody yet awhile.
In Spain there was an overwhelming disaster. The French and Spanish
forces, commanded by the redoubtable Berwick, completely defeated the
combined English, Dutch, and Portuguese troops under Galway, at
Almanza. So great a misfortune was this that Galway declared that
Spain would have to be evacuated by the Allies. The cause of the
Archduke Charles was to all intents and purposes lost, and the
Bourbons were henceforth firmly seated on the throne of Spain.
Misfortune trod on the heels of misfortune. Prince Eugene attempted to
take Toulon, the chief naval station in the Mediterranean, but failed
to accomplish the task he had set himself. On the Rhine the Prince of
Baden was badly defeated by Villars, at Stollhofen, the disaster
laying Germany open to invasion by Louis. The gallant Sir Cloudesley
Shovel, who had risen from the position of cabin-boy, was drowned in a
great storm off the Scilly Islands, England thereby losing one of her
ablest admirals.
Glad were George and Matthew when, after a dull winter, the Duke
opened his campaign of 1708. The young men were now greater friends
than ever, and not unnaturally so, after all that had happened and was
happening. The reports they had occasionally from the elder Fairburn
were in the highest degree cheering. The two ladies were well; the
pits were prospering marvellously.
The feeling at home, rumour said, was setting strongly in favour of
ending the war and coming to terms with France. This discontent at
home was supplemented by murmurings among the troops quartered at
Antwerp, and still more by the uneasiness of the Dutch, who were
disposed to make a separate treaty with France and drop out of the
conflict. Marlborough felt that he must achieve some brilliant success
before that campaign was ended.
"There is going to be hot work for us, that is plain," the two
lieutenants said to each other, "and, if we have luck, we shall get
the promotion we have been waiting so long for."
Bruges and Ghent had gone back to the French allegiance, and Louis
determined to make an attempt to secure Oudenarde also, an important
fortress lying between the French borders and Brabant. The French army
boasted two generals, the royal Duke of Burgundy, an incapable leader,
and the Duke of Vendôme, a most capable one. A more unfortunate
partnership could not well be imagined; Burgundy and Vendôme were in
everything the opposite of each other, and the quarrels between them
were as numerous as they were bitter, so that the army of Louis XIV
was handicapped at the very outset.
It was three in the afternoon of July 11. The Allies were fagged out
with the marchings and the heat of the day when they came in sight of
the enemy's forces near Oudenarde.
"Precious glad of a rest!" Matthew Blackett remarked when the signal
to halt came. To his surprise and dismay the order to form immediately
followed.
"Just like the Duke," commented his friend Fairburn.
Quickly the cavalry were got together for a charge.
"The old fellow doesn't intend the Frenchmen to slip away without
fighting," the men remarked to one another.
Suddenly, almost before the whole body of horse was ready, Marlborough
directed a charge to be made. For the first time our lieutenants found
themselves not in the Duke's own division. The commander of the right
wing, a very strong force, was Prince Eugene, who, having now nothing
to do in Italy, had hurried northwards to join his friend. In such hot
haste had the Prince travelled, indeed, that he had out-stripped his
own army. Here was Prince Eugene, but not Prince Eugene's men. His
wing at Oudenarde consisted entirely of English troops, while
Marlborough's own wing was composed of men of various other
nationalities.
Almost all writers on military tactics agree that the battle of
Oudenarde was one of the most involved and intricate on record, and
that it is well nigh impossible to give any detailed account of the
puzzling movements. The leading points were these.
Marlborough's force crossed the Scheldt; then the opposing wing of the
French left the high ground they occupied and swooped down upon him,
endeavouring to force the Allies back into the river. A terrible
hand-to-hand encounter followed, bayonet and sword alone being used
for the most part in such cramped quarters. In the thick of it the
Duke sent the Dutch general with a strong detachment to seize the
vantage ground on the rise which the enemy had lately left. The move
was successful, and the French found themselves between two fires.
It was growing dusk. Eugene and his men had forced back their
opponents and were now following hard after them. Suddenly shots came
flying in, and in the dimness of the departing day an advancing column
was observed to be moving towards them. What could it mean? Apparently
that the enemy had rallied and were once more facing them. It was an
entirely unexpected change of front, but Eugene prepared to meet the
shock once more. George Fairburn took a long look, shading his eyes
with his hands.
"By Heaven, sir!" he said, addressing Colonel Rhodes, "they are our
own men!"
"Impossible, Fairburn!" the colonel answered. But Blackett and others
backed up George's opinion. The word ran quickly along the line that
the shots came from friends, not from the foe, and some consternation
prevailed.
The next moment, at a nod of assent from the colonel in answer to
their eager request, Lieutenants Blackett and Fairburn were galloping
madly across the intervening space, each with his handkerchief
fastened to the point of his sword, and both shouting and
gesticulating. Bullets began to patter around them, but heedless they
dashed on. It seemed impossible they could reach the advancing column
alive.
Half the distance had been covered, when the two horsemen saw on their
left a great body of troops tearing along towards them in furious
haste. "The French!" George exclaimed; "there's no mistake about
them!" On the two flew towards their friends, for the men towards whom
they were speeding had by this time discovered their mistake and had
ceased firing. It was a neck and neck race, and a very near thing. As
the horsemen cleared the open space and dashed safe into the arms of
their friends, a huge rabble of demoralized French swept across the
path they had just been following. No narrower escape had the two
young fellows yet had.
The truth was at once evident. The Dutchman's division, having driven
the enemy from the high ground, had wheeled, and was thus meeting the
Prince's wing, which in its turn had advanced along a curving line.
Each body in the growing darkness had mistaken the other for the
enemy. The plucky dash made by the two young fellows, though happily
not in the end needed, nevertheless received high praise from their
brother officers, and especially from the colonel himself.
For the next half-hour the fleeing French poured headlong through the
gap across which the lieutenants had galloped, between the Dutchman's
division and the Prince's. Darkness alone prevented the slaughter from
being greater than it was. The numbers of those who fell on the field
of Oudenarde, important as the battle was, were in fact far short of
those killed at Blenheim or Ramillies.
What was there now to prevent Marlborough from marching straight on
Paris itself? He was actually on the borders of France, victorious,
the French army behind him. He was eager; the home Government would
almost certainly have approved of the step. The heart of many a young
fellow under the great leader beat high, when he thought of the mighty
possibilities before him. But it was not to be. The Prince raised the
strongest objections to the Duke's bold plan, and the Dutch were
terrified at the bare thought of it. So Marlborough turned him to
another task, the siege of the great stronghold of Lille. It may be
observed in passing that Vendôme wanted to fight again the next day
after Oudenarde, but Burgundy refused. Vendôme in a rage declared that
they must then retreat, adding, "and I know that you have long wished
to do so," a bitter morsel for a royal duke to swallow.
Lille had been fortified by no less a person than the great master of
the art, Vauban himself. In charge of its garrison was Marshal
Boufflers, a splendid officer. Louis was as resolute to defend and
keep the place as the Allies were to take it. The actual investment of
the town was placed in the hands of Eugene, whose men had by this time
arrived, while Marlborough covered him. The siege train brought up by
the Duke and his generals stretched to a distance of thirteen miles.
Berwick and Vendôme were at no great distance away.
The siege of Lille lasted a full two months, and few military
operations have produced more splendid examples of individual dash and
courage.
Blackett and his friend found themselves one day taking part in a
risky bit of business. Throughout the siege there had been some
difficulty in procuring provisions for the Allies, and supplies were
drawn from Ostend. On this occasion an expected convoy had not arrived
to time, and a reconnoitring party had accordingly been sent out to
glean tidings of it. From a wooded knoll a glimpse of the missing
train was caught, and at the same moment a large body of French was
perceived approaching from the opposite direction. The Frenchmen had
not yet seen the convoy, being distant from it some miles, the
intervening country thickly studded with plantations. But in half an
hour the two bodies would have met, and the provisions sorely needed
would have fallen into the enemy's hands. It was a disconcerting pass,
and George Fairburn set his wits to work.
"I have a plan!" he cried a moment later, and he hastily told it to
the officer in command, Major Wilson. That gentleman gave an emphatic
approval.
Behold then, a quarter of an hour later, a couple of young peasants at
work in a hayfield down below. Stolidly they tossed the hay as they
slowly crossed the field, giving no heed to the tramp of horses near.
A voice, authoritative and impatient, caused them to look round in
wonderment, as a mounted officer came galloping up. He inquired of the
peasants whether they had seen anything of the convoy, describing its
probable appearance. The listeners grinned in response, and the face
of one of them lit up with intelligence, as he made answer in voluble
but countrified French.
"Where have you picked up such vile French?" inquired the officer.
"I'm from Dunkirk, please your honour," the man replied with another
grin, to which the other muttered, "Ah! I suppose the French of
Dunkirk is pretty bad!"
In another minute the yokels were leading the way through a
plantation, along which ran a little stream. At one spot the water was
very muddy, and the marks of hoofs were plentiful. "We are evidently
close upon them," remarked the officer jubilantly, and at a brisk trot
he and his men rode on, a gold louis jingling down at the feet of the
peasants as the party dashed away.
"Now for it!" whispered George, for he and Matthew were the two
rustics, "we can save the convoy. Our men, after trampling over the
burn here, will have turned as we agreed. We shall find them in the
next plantation."
He was right in his conjecture. The two regained their friends just as
the head of the convoy hove in sight. To lead the train in a different
direction, and to safety, was now easy. The supplies reached their
destination.
"Ton my honour, young sirs," the Colonel exclaimed, when he learnt the
story, "it was a smart trick, but a risky one--confoundedly risky,
gentlemen!"
The fall of Lille reduced France to desperation. Louis was at his
wits' end. To his credit, he sought earnestly to negotiate a peace for
his unhappy and exhausted country. The terms offered by the Allies,
however, were too exacting, and not a Frenchman but rose to the
occasion; this, however, was in the following year. So the campaign
ended, the enemy beaten and exhausted, but not in utter despair.
Captains Blackett and Fairburn were once more granted a term of leave
when late autumn came round. From London, which George saw now for the
first time, the two travelled all the way to Newcastle in the
wonderful stage-coach which ran from the English to the Scotch
capital.
In high spirits they hurried towards their native village. At the
entrance to it they came all at once upon a gentleman walking in the
company of three ladies.
"Fieldsend!" declared Matthew.
"Yes, by Jove!" cried George, "And with three ladies all to himself.
It's too much!"