Thus the rule of the French in Milan was overthrown. Amidst the boundless rejoicings of the delivered city, Eugene made his entry into it, as its imperial governor. From this time the plans of Louis the Fourteenth were frustrated. He must have been sick enough with rage at the little abbé, for the pills he had had to swallow in Italy were bitter as gall. And still the triumphs of Germany over the French were not complete. While a small imperial force marched straight to Naples to harass the French there, Eugene and Victor Amadeus made ready to carry the war into Southern France. After an extremely arduous march over the Alps, they reached Valette, which lies about a half-hour’s march from Toulon, and went into camp there. During the following days Toulon was shelled by the Austrians. Nothing more was done, however, as the French were gathering in ever increasing numbers; so Eugene wisely withdrew. The fall of Toulon was the dearest wish of the English and Hollanders, but Eugene preferred not to burn his fingers in their interests. Besides, from the standpoint of the soldier, his retreat through the enemy’s country was a greater feat than the storming of Toulon would have been. On the road he casually took Susa; and he arrived again in Vienna in the Autumn of 1707, where he was greeted at court, as well as by the people, as the deliverer of Italy. He met with a brilliant and extremely friendly reception.
Chapter VIII
Malplaquet
The Duke of Marlborough had fought against France in the Netherlands in recent years, with more or less success. But latterly fortune had turned her back upon him; Ghent, Brussels, Bruges, and other fortified towns had again fallen into the hands of the French; for Marshal Vendôme and the Duke of Burgundy were very alert generals.
One of Marlborough’s letters to Lord Godolphin shows how deeply he felt the hopelessness of his situation. He wrote: “As there is a God in heaven I put my trust in Him, for without Him our prospects are truly terrible.” Eugene did not wish to desert the brave Duke in this great extremity. To be sure, money was scarce in Vienna; Hungary and Siebenbürgen could contribute nothing, the impoverished hereditary lands were just as unable to furnish sufficient ready money, and loans were to be had only at exorbitant rates. In addition, there was a split in the parties at court. They were weary of war, and one interfered with another’s counsels and plans. It was almost a miracle that it was possible for Eugene to impose his plans for war upon the Council, and to organize a well-trained army in the shortest possible time. It was, no doubt, Marlborough’s messengers of distress, and his own extreme sense of duty urging him not to desert his faithful brother-in-arms, which conquered all obstacles.
With indefatigable haste Eugene set out with his army, crossed the Moselle on the twenty-eighth of June, 1708, and joined the cavalry on the third of July at Düren. A few days later his army and Marlborough’s were united. This was help in time of need. The first meeting of the two generals was touching. Marlborough embraced Eugene and called him his saviour. The noble Savoyard directed his friend to trust in God. “With His help,” said he, “even though I pay the penalty with my life, I shall obtain satisfaction.”
Eugene next hurried to Brussels, which the French had again given up, into the arms of his mother, whom he had not seen since she was driven from France. What must have been the feelings of mother and son? Eugene had taken vengeance on their deadly enemy for her and the whole family of Soissons, and had punished and humiliated him. He had already twice entered France at the head of a victorious army, he had been successful in the Netherlands, and the road to Paris was open to him. Full of happiness and enthusiasm the mother parted from her heroic son. And soon new tidings of victory arrived to gladden the lonely widow. The aged woman passed away on the arrival of the news of the victory of Malplaquet (1709). She died happy, for her beloved son had avenged her husband and herself.
Marlborough and Eugene with eighty thousand men came upon the enemy at Oudenarde. The French leaders disagreed as thoroughly among themselves as the allies were united. They had forgotten to protect the bridges over the Scheldt. The allies used five of these and on the eleventh of July, 1708, crossed the river; as they arrived they placed themselves according to battalions in battle array.
How easily the French might have prevented this and have attacked the separated little companies and conquered them! They chose quite different tactics—they hastily intrenched themselves. It was the English Colonel Cadogan who first dealt with the enemy. He easily overthrew the twenty squadrons opposed to him, scattered four battalions of infantry, and in doing so he frightened three others so thoroughly that they ran away without firing a shot.
That was a merry introduction, but the real drama was to follow. Marlborough now advanced with the principal strength of the army. The French defended themselves with the utmost bravery; and as they were much more numerous, they forced the English back. But Marlborough was of a tenacious character. With all his might he again pressed forward, not only reconquering the lost ground, but continually advancing. Eugene knew how to gain successes of the same sort. The allies bore down ever more heavily upon the French. The battle became disorganized and ended in a series of bloody hand-to-hand skirmishes. But the English and Germans understood this kind of fighting also, for they had learned it under the murderous fire at Höchstädt.
Toward evening the Hollanders received orders to march round the French right wing, a task that they accomplished with remarkable quickness and precision. The allies then pressed forward in a great half-circle and overthrew the enemy. Seven of the enemy’s cavalry regiments were cut down, and Vendôme’s battalions of the guard, led by himself, were shattered by the iron knights of England. At sunset the day had been gloriously won; a victory like that of Höchstädt. Vendôme fled to Ghent, and there remained three days in bed to sleep off his chagrin.