CHAPTER XI
THE HARDEST FIGHT OF THEM ALL
There had been an attempted descent on the shores of Scotland in 1708, the Old Pretender, under the auspices of Louis XIV, seeking to land 4,000 men in the Firth of Forth. Admiral Byng with sixteen vessels was ready for the French expedition, and their fear of the redoubtable sailor kept the enemy from doing anything, so that this attempt came to less even than that which followed seven years later.
Politics about this time demanded much of Marlborough's care and thought. The power of the Whigs was still growing, Harley, St. John, and others of the moderate Tories giving way to such strong and active Whigs as Somers, Walpole, and Orford. It was in 1709 that a violent quarrel took place between "Mrs. Morley" and "Mrs. Freeman." The Queen was becoming more than ever dissatisfied with Marlborough's policy. The overthrow of the Churchills was coming nearer.
Abroad matters did not improve. It was true that Stanhope, the English general, took Minorca. But the cause of Philip of Spain was now strong. When, therefore, the Whigs demanded that as a condition of peace Louis should turn his grandson out of Spain, Europe was astounded. The proposal was impossible, ludicrous. Philip prepared to go on with the conflict, saying, with fine spirit, "If I must continue the war, I will contend against my enemies rather than against my own family." Such was the state of things in the summer of 1709.
We have left a group of ladies and gentlemen standing in the lane all this time. Matthew had his sister in his arms in a moment, for one of the ladies was Mary Blackett.
"My sister," Fieldsend said, "and Miss Allan," by way of response to the inquiring looks of the newcomers. Then George and Matthew learnt many things that surprised them. They had had no news from home all the summer, the one letter that had been sent having miscarried. Binfield Towers was once more occupied, Mr. Fairburn having found an excellent tenant for the place in Mr. Allan, the eminent shipping-merchant of London, the very man into whose office George was to have gone. The little group laughed merrily at the thought of the gallant Captain Fairburn wielding a long quill in a dingy office. Mr. Allan, a widower, who had taken up his abode in the mansion, bringing with him his only daughter, Janet, had not been two months in the village before he had made an offer of marriage to the devoted Mrs. Maynard, and the old lady was now mistress of Binfield Towers. Mary Blackett had thereupon taken at their word the affectionate offer of the Fairburns, and was now to them as a daughter. Nor was this all. Fieldsend's old father had lately died, and the Major himself had succeeded to the baronetcy and had left the army. Brother and sister had accepted with pleasure the invitation that had come to them to spend a few weeks with the kindly Mr. and Mrs. Fairburn. Matthew was to make the same hospitable roof his abode.
"The good old dad will find it a bit of a squeeze," George ruminated, as he walked with the rest towards the family cottage. Cottage! He gave a jump when the home came into full view. It was a veritable mansion. The original nucleus was there, but so deftly added to and surrounded by a regular series of new wings, and so framed and embellished by wide lawn and flower-bed that George did not know this fine place. He remarked on the change when his mother came to his room at bedtime, to give him his good-night kiss as she had been wont to do in the days of old.
"Father wanted to make the place a bit more presentable now we have an officer son," the good dame explained, with simple and pardonable pride. "And we can afford it," she added, blushing like a shy schoolgirl as she made this whispered confession; "besides we had Mary to consider, too." It was all very charming, George thought.
The winter passed all too quickly. Mr. Allan proved to be a capital neighbour, and had a great liking for young people about him. So there were pleasant times, at the Towers—dinners, balls, shooting and hunting parties, and the like. All the eligible society of the country-side found its way to Binfield Towers. Yet somehow George Fairburn did not fall into a fit of the blues when Sir Mark Fieldsend took his sister back to their west-country home; in fact, strange to say, George rather rejoiced to see the back of the retired major, his old comrade-in-arms. Why this was so he would have found it hard to explain, for a more unassuming and agreeable fellow than the baronet it would not have been easy to find.
It was a real delight to everybody to hear how the Blackett pit was now prospering. Under Fairburn's management the colliery had made a clear profit of five thousand odd pounds in the course of a single year's working. It was astounding. "Mary and you will be rich folks again, my dears," the good Mrs. Fairburn remarked, in her own homely but kindly way, to the brother and sister, and Matthew felt a lump in his throat.
The wrench to George, when the time came for him and Matthew to return to the Continent, seemed somehow vastly greater than it had been on the two former occasions. However, once across the sea, he cast all else than his profession to the winds. He did not know it, of course, but the campaign that was coming was to prove to the Allies the most costly they had yet experienced. The negotiations for a peace had ended in nothing, and here was Marshal Villars, the only great French leader as yet unbeaten by Marlborough, ready with a force of no fewer than 110,000 men. True, many of his soldiers were raw recruits while those of his opponent were mostly seasoned veterans. True also, France was so crippled for money and munitions of war that it was rarely possible to give every man of the army a full breakfast. Yet Villars was a general that would have to be reckoned with, and this Marlborough well knew when he used every effort to swell the numbers of his troops in the Netherlands.
Marlborough's aim was that of the previous year, to force his way into France and to its capital. In order that such a step might be made possible, it was necessary that no stronghold should be left behind. Accordingly the Allies set about reducing the three that still remained,—Mons, Valenciennes, and Tournai, not forgetting that they had also Villars to deal with. A beginning was made with Tournai, an enormously strong place, and reckoned to be of the best of all Vauban's works.
Marlborough employed stratagem, and it succeeded as usual. He made a pretence of advancing, and Villars, to strengthen his force, withdrew a number of troops from Tournai. Then the Duke, with a swift night movement, invested the town. The garrison made a stout defence, and our two captains had their work cut out for them. Never in all his career had George Fairburn been so careless of his own safety, his brother officers declared. It was not that he despised danger, or was ignorant of its existence; he simply did not think of it, his mind being occupied solely with the problem of reducing this impregnable fortress.
"Be not rash, gentlemen," Colonel Rhodes thought it advisable to say to the younger men among his officers. "There are mines in all directions, if rumour is to be believed. Do not expose yourselves to needless risk. We are already losing heavily, and men are not to be had for the whistling." And privately the kindly old fellow—the youngsters called him old, though he was still short of fifty—added an extra word of caution to George. "You are a born soldier, Fairburn, but you never seem to be able to remember when you are in danger; you forget it like a thoughtless schoolboy. Well, now, for our sakes, if not for your own, take care of yourself, so far as it is possible, there's a good fellow." And with a kindly smile and a fatherly shake of the hand, the colonel turned away. He had said the last word he was ever to say to George.
An hour later a terrific explosion was heard; a cloud of dust flew into the air. A mine had been exploded, and the report came in that more than a hundred poor fellows of Marlborough's forces had perished. George Fairburn was more than ever determined to do what he could to discover hidden mines.
That very afternoon a company of men, who had prosecuted their search in spite of the deadly hail of bullets that came from a neighbouring battery, found another mine, a particularly formidable affair. Eagerly George Fairburn pressed forward, his friend Matthew close behind. Suddenly Colonel Rhodes dashed up, crying, "Fall back, for Heaven's sake! There's another mine below this, I have just learnt. For your lives!" And the brave man galloped off, his retreat followed by a startled rush for safety on the part of the men.
"Come along, George! What are you after?" cried Matthew, observing that his friend did not budge.
"I'm not going till I've settled this mine," Fairburn answered.
Even as they spoke the ground heaved with a mighty convulsion beneath their feet, and an appalling roar rent the air, the echo resounding far and near.
"Ah! You're feeling better? That's right."
George Fairburn opened his eyes and beheld the face of none other than the Duke himself gazing kindly down upon him! It was the evening after the fearful explosion, and Marlborough was making a tour of the hospital wards, where lay long rows of wounded men. George had been unconscious, and the Duke's words were caused by the fact that the young man happened to open his eyes for the first time as the General passed him. Before the sick man could answer a word, Marlborough had passed on, with a quiet remark to Major Wilson, "I know the lad's face well."
"Where's Blackett?" George now inquired. The Major shook his head. "And the Colonel?" Another mournful shake. George closed his eyes dazed, stupefied.
Three hundred poor fellows had perished in that double explosion. Colonel Rhodes's battered body had been picked up; Blackett's could not be distinguished, but doubtless the gallant lad was one of the mass of victims whose remains were mangled beyond recognition.
Captain Fairburn took no further part in the siege of Tournai. After a month of terrible fighting, all but the citadel was captured by the Allies, and five weeks saw that also in their possession.
There was a long glade or clearing between two extensive plantations. At the southern end of this glade, behind strong entrenchments, the great army of Villars was drawn up, every man eager to fight, for every Frenchman believed in the Marshal's luck, and that his presence would certainly bring them victory. Away to the north was Marlborough, equally eager to begin the combat, Eugene and the Dutch generals with him. In deference to the wishes of the Prince the Duke had made the fatal mistake of waiting two days, and all that time the enemy had been throwing up their formidable trenches. It was the famous field of Malplaquet, the last on which Marlborough was fated to fight a pitched battle. The object of Villars was to prevent the Allies from taking Mons, not far away, to northwards, the siege of which was in progress. Marlborough had lost heavily at Tournai; Villars, behind his defences, had suffered comparatively little. But on the other hand the Prince of Hesse had broken through the strong line of defence works which the French had rapidly and skilfully thrown up. Now, here, at Malplaquet, the Allies had a hard task before them. Villars held not only the glade but the woods on either side, and, moreover, sat in safety behind his extensive entrenchments.
For some reason not well understood the Duke for the first time began the battle, though it would have seemed clearly his best policy to endeavour to draw Villars from the strong position he held. There was little in the way of fine tactics displayed, or even possible, on either side; it was a question simply of sheer pluck and dogged determination. The Highlanders, for the first time, had joined the army of the Allies, and they and the famous Irish Brigade under Villars specially distinguished themselves, if any detachment can be said to have gained special distinction in a fight where all showed such conspicuous gallantry.
Eugene was wounded behind the ear, but refused to withdraw and have his wound dressed. "No," said he, "it will be time enough for that when the fight is over." Villars was also badly hurt, yet he had a chair brought, in which he sat to direct his men till he fainted. Boufflers, the hero of Lille, took his place.
Charge after charge was made by the Allies into the woods, and desperate fighting took place. Once and again Marlborough's troops were repulsed with awful loss; as often they returned to the attack. After four hours of heavy fighting the French fell back, and the victory remained with the Allies.
Just before Villars sounded his retreat George Fairburn, who had charged and fought all the while with his usual forgetfulness of himself and of danger, found himself just outside the eastern edge of the wood Taisnière, in company with the others of his troop. He was almost exhausted with his efforts, and, besides, was hardly himself again yet, after his terrible experience at Tournai, and he sat for a moment half listlessly in his saddle. A cry near him drew his attention, and, turning his head, he beheld Major Wilson in the act of falling from his charger. He had received a bullet in the leg. Before George could get to this side, Wilson was on the ground, his horse galloping away.
At the same instant a fierce shout was heard, and George saw dashing to the spot one of the redoubtable Irish Brigade. Like lightning the young captain leapt from his horse, lifted Wilson from the ground, and by main strength threw him across the animal, crying, "Off with you!" giving the horse a thump with his fist on the quarters to start him into a gallop. Then, looking round, he found the Irishman bearing down upon him at desperate speed, and but a yard or two away.
In a trice Fairburn darted behind the trunk of a fine tree at his elbow. It was an oak, from which ran out some magnificent limbs parallel with and at a distance of six or eight feet from the ground. Nothing heeding, the Irishman kept on, his sword ready for a mighty stroke. Then instantly he was swept violently from his horse, and backwards over the tail, his chest having come into contact with one of the great boughs. All this had passed like a flash.
George made a grab at the bridle, but, missing it, fell sprawling to the ground. Springing up, he found his fallen antagonist risen and upon him. "English dog!" roared the Irishman, and the next moment the two men were at it, both excited, both reckless.
How long they fought they never knew. Apparently the spot was deserted save for themselves and sundry wounded who lay around. It was a desperate encounter. The Irishman had the advantage in height and strength, Fairburn in youth and activity. In the matter of swordsmanship there was little to choose between the two; in respect of courage nothing. It was to be a duel to the death.
The moments flew by, each man had received injuries, and the blood was flowing freely. Still the swords flashed in the air. Then suddenly the Irishman's weapon snapped at the hilt, and the gallant fellow dropped at the same moment to the ground. Instantly George set his foot on the prostrate man's chest, and cried, "Now your life is at my mercy! What say you?"
"If I must die, I must," the Irishman answered doggedly, "but," he added quickly, a sudden thought striking him, "take this first, and see it put into the hands of the person mentioned on it, sir." The trooper pulled from his breast a piece of paper soiled and crumpled, and George, wondering much, took it at the man's hands. His foot still on his fallen foe, Fairburn unfolded the dirty and tattered paper. It was the cover of a letter, and he read with staring eyes the address on it, "To Captain M. Blackett,—Dragoons." The handwriting he well knew; it was that of Mary Blackett.
"Great Heaven!" the reader cried, "where did you get this?"
"It was given me by a poor fellow, an officer, who escaped from the big explosion at Tournai. He blundered by mistake into our lines, and our fellows were about to finish him—leastways one chap was, but I landed him one between his two eyes, and that stopped his game."
"And you saved the Englishman's life?"
"I did, sir; I thought it hard luck when the young fellow had just escaped that terrific blow up as he had, to put an end to him the minute after."
"Get up, for God's sake, man; you have saved the life of my dearest friend!" And seizing the Irishman's arm, George pulled him to his feet, and wrung the hand hard in his own. "You are a fine fellow, a right fine fellow. What is your name? I shall never forget you."
"Sergeant Oborne, sir, at your service. But you have not read the paper yet."
"True," and George deciphered the line or two written in pencil on the back of the paper. "I am alive and well, but a prisoner with the French. Be easy about me; I am well treated. M.B."