waiting in the column, the rider pulled up short and Steel heard the boy’s shouted words high on the breeze.
‘Sir, my lord Argyle presents his compliments and would you lead the advance across the bridges forthwith.’
The ageing colonel looked somewhat put out by this ungentlemanly behaviour on a battlefield. Nevertheless, he nodded at the young man and, taking his thin sword from its scabbard with a conscious flourish so that it caught the sunlight and drew the eye, he made a half turn in the saddle. It was now the turn of his own low, gently cultivated Highland accent to ring out over their heads.
‘My boys. You’re luck’s in at last. We’ve been ordered to advance.’
He waited for the cheer, and come it did, just as loud and hearty as he had expected from his men.
‘Now’s your chance, my lads. Do your duty and bring honour to your Queen, to your country and most important to your regiment. We fight this day for Scotland and the Union, boys. For Queen Anne and the regiment. For my regiment. For me. Now follow me to glory and fortune, lads, and I’ll pay you all in beer and golden guineas. Officers, take posts. Drummers, if you please, your sticks. Major Frampton, advance the colours.’
The adjutant, Charles Frampton, stood high in his stirrups and waved his hat three times in the air. ‘Three cheers for the colonel and the regiment. Hip hip, huzzah. Hip hip, huzzah …’
The men’s voices rang out across the field and mingled with those from the other regiments in the vanguard of the brigade who at that moment were going through the same adrenaline-raising ritual. Steel turned to the Grenadiers and raised his voice.
‘Stay with me, boys. Look to your sergeants. Look to your officers. But most of all look to me. When we go in we’ll like as not leave the rest of the battalion standing. That’s why we’re here. First in, last out, lads. Stay with me. Sergeants, keep your lines straight until we close. Halt at sixty paces and give fire. And if you do that for me, boys, and if you stand when the enemy fires on us, then bugger what the colonel has to offer. I’ll stand any man a pitcher of rum that can beat me into the French lines.’
There was another huge cheer from the company, and then Slaughter and his sergeants and corporals were dressing the lines yet again, pushing them into attacking formation, a defile column of threes. This was the only way to cross the bridge. It was the most vulnerable formation for infantry, and looking at them standing fifteen ranks deep, spaced half open, Steel worried about the potential effect of enemy gunfire. Should a single cannonball find its mark in his advancing column it would not stop but would continue to hurtle through, taking with it heads and limbs, and killing or at the least maiming an entire file.
The drums beat up the march attack, the familiar rhythm of ‘British Grenadiers’.
Steel turned back to face the front. He said quietly to Williams, ‘All right, Tom? Ready for it now?’
‘Fine, sir, and as ready as ever.’
‘Then let’s be at them.’
With Argyle riding at their head, the brigade of redcoats moved off. Steel trod firmly onto the wooden bridge and marched as steadily as he could across its creaking, swaying structure as it moved from side to side across the string of pontoons in the river. Looking to his right and his left he could see on the four other similar bridges other officers leading their men in precisely the same way. Grenadiers to the fore, the mounted colonels behind them, bringing up the battalion. It was a heart-stopping sight, and it never failed to make him puff with pride: a full brigade of British infantry marching into battle. Surprisingly, his greatest fear was unfounded, and as they were crossing no French guns found them. Evidently the gunners felt themselves unable to fire for fear of hitting their own men. Once off the bridge they began to climb a shallow slope. Soon the entire battalion was following
‘Sir, my lord Argyle presents his compliments and would you lead the advance across the bridges forthwith.’
The ageing colonel looked somewhat put out by this ungentlemanly behaviour on a battlefield. Nevertheless, he nodded at the young man and, taking his thin sword from its scabbard with a conscious flourish so that it caught the sunlight and drew the eye, he made a half turn in the saddle. It was now the turn of his own low, gently cultivated Highland accent to ring out over their heads.
‘My boys. You’re luck’s in at last. We’ve been ordered to advance.’
He waited for the cheer, and come it did, just as loud and hearty as he had expected from his men.
‘Now’s your chance, my lads. Do your duty and bring honour to your Queen, to your country and most important to your regiment. We fight this day for Scotland and the Union, boys. For Queen Anne and the regiment. For my regiment. For me. Now follow me to glory and fortune, lads, and I’ll pay you all in beer and golden guineas. Officers, take posts. Drummers, if you please, your sticks. Major Frampton, advance the colours.’
The adjutant, Charles Frampton, stood high in his stirrups and waved his hat three times in the air. ‘Three cheers for the colonel and the regiment. Hip hip, huzzah. Hip hip, huzzah …’
The men’s voices rang out across the field and mingled with those from the other regiments in the vanguard of the brigade who at that moment were going through the same adrenaline-raising ritual. Steel turned to the Grenadiers and raised his voice.
‘Stay with me, boys. Look to your sergeants. Look to your officers. But most of all look to me. When we go in we’ll like as not leave the rest of the battalion standing. That’s why we’re here. First in, last out, lads. Stay with me. Sergeants, keep your lines straight until we close. Halt at sixty paces and give fire. And if you do that for me, boys, and if you stand when the enemy fires on us, then bugger what the colonel has to offer. I’ll stand any man a pitcher of rum that can beat me into the French lines.’
There was another huge cheer from the company, and then Slaughter and his sergeants and corporals were dressing the lines yet again, pushing them into attacking formation, a defile column of threes. This was the only way to cross the bridge. It was the most vulnerable formation for infantry, and looking at them standing fifteen ranks deep, spaced half open, Steel worried about the potential effect of enemy gunfire. Should a single cannonball find its mark in his advancing column it would not stop but would continue to hurtle through, taking with it heads and limbs, and killing or at the least maiming an entire file.
The drums beat up the march attack, the familiar rhythm of ‘British Grenadiers’.
Steel turned back to face the front. He said quietly to Williams, ‘All right, Tom? Ready for it now?’
‘Fine, sir, and as ready as ever.’
‘Then let’s be at them.’
With Argyle riding at their head, the brigade of redcoats moved off. Steel trod firmly onto the wooden bridge and marched as steadily as he could across its creaking, swaying structure as it moved from side to side across the string of pontoons in the river. Looking to his right and his left he could see on the four other similar bridges other officers leading their men in precisely the same way. Grenadiers to the fore, the mounted colonels behind them, bringing up the battalion. It was a heart-stopping sight, and it never failed to make him puff with pride: a full brigade of British infantry marching into battle. Surprisingly, his greatest fear was unfounded, and as they were crossing no French guns found them. Evidently the gunners felt themselves unable to fire for fear of hitting their own men. Once off the bridge they began to climb a shallow slope. Soon the entire battalion was following
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