‘He did indeed,’ confirmed Daniel. ‘Where are they now?’
‘Awaiting execution — they faced a court martial.’
‘Yes,’ added Marlborough. ‘Had you been here, they’d have been hanged already. We felt that both you and the sergeant would like to be present when those rogues dance on the scaffold. It will serve as a warning to anyone else contemplating desertion.’
‘What’s happened here in my absence?’ asked Daniel.
‘Nothing,’ said Cardonnel, pursing his lips, ‘absolutely nothing. It’s been a case of hesitation and inactivity. I fancy that the French are trying to bore us into submission. The impasse has been going on for weeks now.’
‘I had the dubious pleasure of meeting their commander — in-chief in company with the duc de Vendome. My impression was that there was some discord between them,’ said Daniel. ‘If they are bickering about what strategy to employ, that could explain their indecision.’
‘It’s a mixture of indecision and natural caution, Daniel,’ said Marlborough. ‘We saw how Vendome played his hand last year. He’d rather hold on to what they already have than risk a major battle. When I saw the size of his army, I hoped that he’d at last come out of his shell but he seems far too snug inside it.’
Daniel gave a hollow laugh. ‘Snug is not a word I’d apply to him, Your Grace,’ said Daniel. ‘He struck me as a man who’d prefer action. All that he requires is approval from Versailles.’
‘There’s the rub. The French have to get word from King Louis before they can move and we must have our strategy ratified by our allies. Neither of us can act independently. It’s the besetting sin of war by coalition.’
‘We could never win on our own, Your Grace.’
‘I know,’ said Marlborough with a melancholy sigh. ‘Allies are a necessary evil. I’d find them less of a hindrance if they managed to arrive on time. After all these weeks, Prince Eugene has still not made an appearance. Latest reports put his troops somewhere between here and the Moselle.’
‘Their movements will at least distract the French.’
‘We need them here, Daniel.’
‘I agree, Your Grace.’
‘If we are to save Brussels, we require all our troops.’
‘Only if the French launch an attack, and there seems to be very little indication of that happening.’
‘There’s none at all,’ said Marlborough. ‘There was a time when their armies were the finest in Europe, sweeping aside all before them. Now they seem to have lost their stomach for a fight.’
‘We sapped their strength at Ramillies,’ observed Cardonnel.
‘We did, Adam. Their appetite for war has never fully been regained. What possible hope do we have of ever bringing this conflict to a satisfactory conclusion when the enemy simply cools its heels and watches us? It’s soul-destroying,’ said Marlborough, shaking his head. ‘The French refuse to budge.’
On 5 July, 1708 the French moved with speed and precision. After the long lull, they burst into life in the most unexpected way. While advance guards hurried on ahead of them, they left Braine l’Alleud with dramatic suddenness and marched westwards. Their first prize was the beautiful town of Bruges. Knowing of the general discontent felt towards the Confederate army, French sympathisers had worked hard to win over the citizens. They’d been forewarned of the dash to the west and, as soon as the army appeared before Bruges, its gates were flung open and the French were hailed as deliverers. A major prize had fallen into enemy hands without a shot being fired.
Ghent was a slightly more problematical target in that it had a garrison of three hundred British soldiers under the command of Major General Murray. They were not there merely to protect the city but to suppress any dissident elements within it. In the event of attack, they’d offer stout resistance. Careful planning was the secret of French success. General de Chemerault and his men infiltrated the city, disguised as peasants, with the aid of the former Grand Bailiff, M de Fouille. Its gates were firmly shut against the British. They were isolated in their castle and besieged by a French army whose numbers swelled by the hour. After holding out bravely for a couple of days, Murray and his men were forced to surrender.
Two places of great strategic importance had changed hands at a stroke. What the British had thought were foraging expeditions were, in fact, armies with specific targets in mind. Marlborough had been completely outfoxed. The French had made themselves masters of the middle reaches of the River Scheldt and of the canals leading to the coast. Marlborough was decisively cut off from his North Sea base at Ostend, the port with the shortest route from England. Any supplies coming from there would henceforth be involved in a longer and more onerous voyage.
Burgundy and Vendome had earlier had their differences over which tactics to employ. What this operation showed was that they could combine their men into a highly effective fighting force. The capture of Bruges and Ghent delivered more than a profound shock to the Allies. They had to stand by and watch nearly all the gains made at the battle of Ramillies taken ruthlessly from them. Marlborough was rocked. The disastrous news stunned him. The French had achieved the kind of swift, unheralded, brilliant victory that was more usually associated with the captain general of the Allies.
The Duke of Marlborough had been beaten at his own game.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Reeling from the shock of the French victories, the Allied armies took time to recover. Their morale was visibly lowered. They’d been led for so many years by the outstanding military mind of his day and, as a consequence, enjoyed a magnificent record of success. The sudden reversal of fortunes called that success into question. Marlborough had failed them. There could be no equivocation about that. His prestige — so vital a factor in controlling an army of British, Dutch, Austrian, Hanoverian, Prussian and Danish soldiers — had been severely weakened.
Henry Welbeck was never a man to mince his words.
‘What’s got into the bloody man?’ he demanded. ‘We work our balls off to hold onto Bruges and Ghent then he hands them over to the French on a silver plate.’
‘That’s not what happened,’ said Daniel.
‘Well, that’s what it looks like to me, Dan. While we’re stuck here, waiting for signs of life from the enemy, they race off and capture two major towns. Why didn’t His Grace see it coming? Is he blind as well as fucking stupid?’
‘Moderate your language, Henry.’
‘I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking.’
‘Nobody can accuse His Grace of stupidity,’ said Daniel, roused to defend Marlborough. ‘He’s a man of exceptional gifts who’s waged this war with exemplary skill.’
‘Until now, that is.’
‘Even the best horse stumbles. I concede that mistakes were made but let me say this in extenuation. His Grace has been ill since the start of this campaign. I’ve never seen him in such poor health. To his credit,’ Daniel went on, ‘he’s never simply taken to his bed and abandoned his responsibilities. He’s forced himself to press on and give us the leadership that we need.’
‘We don’t need a leader who gives territory away.’
‘You’re being far too harsh.’
‘I’m being honest, Dan,’ said Welbeck, fiercely. ‘Our captain general has lost his way and I’ve lost my faith in him.’
Daniel was upset to hear such biting criticism of Marlborough from someone as experienced as the sergeant. It was symptomatic of a deep malaise that had spread throughout the ranks. The Allied armies had met with setbacks before but they’d never been blamed on its commander-in-chief. This was different. Such was the scale of their loss that Marlborough was being singled out as the scapegoat. Daniel felt that it was unjust.
They were trying to hold their conversation above the turmoil all round them. The army was striking camp. Along with all the other regiments, the 24^th Foot would soon be on the march but they’d do so with a diminished confidence in their leader.