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passing minute. It was a ploy that Steel knew well, and had used many times. But this morning, for some inexplicable reason, it had as yet eluded him. He was sweating hard now. His thick coat felt ever heavier about him and the gun slung over his back seemed to drag him down and slow his pace. While he was relieved that their own guns were laying down a heavy bombardment, there had been no respite from the French cannon fire and with almost every step that they took towards the enemy it seemed to Steel that another redcoated figure tumbled from their ranks in a ragged heap. Ahead of him and to the left, he could see, through the thick white smoke, the tall frame of George Hamilton, Earl of Orkney, conspicuous in the plate armour which covered the upper half of his body, advancing on foot at the head of the brigade. Here, thought Steel, was a soldier to reckon with. A man towards whose station any officer would aspire. Not only was Orkney a sound tactician, he was brave. And for Steel the latter counted just as muchin battle as any technical or military skills. They had moved with surprising ease at first over the boggy ground and Steel wondered why he had doubted Marlborough’s judgement in choosing this terrain. Certainly their pace had slowed, and the stream had at one point seemed to be impassable. But they had come through that and managed to cut their way through the vicious hedge of chevaux de frise , a barrier of bayonets stuck into treetrunks, which the French defenders had laid across the path of their assault.
    Now they were trampling on bramble thickets as they bridged the valley of the Petite Gheete, the stream which flowed directly in front of the village of Autre-Eglise and as they advanced French and Walloon sharpshooters took their toll on the redcoated ranks before dropping back towards the enemy lines. Most of them, he reckoned, were Walloons – French-speaking Netherlanders, and their loyalty and steadfastness he knew to rank as nothing compared to any French regulars, unquestioningly loyal to the Sun King. Even as he looked, an entire company of Walloon infantry turned and streamed back towards the French lines.
    As they ran a cheer went up from the British line. One of the Grenadiers, Dan Cussiter, shouted after them: ‘Go on. Bugger off back to Paris before we kick your arses.’
    The men, desperate in their terror to laugh at anything, cheered his bravado and Steel heard Slaughter’s booming voice. ‘That’s enough, there. You’ll be in Paris yourselves as soon as likely. But not if you don’t dress your ranks. There’ll be time for cheering soon enough, my lads.’
    It was vital to preserve discipline now, lest the men, fired by the sight of the retreating infantry, should break ranks and give chase only to find themselves faced by what Steel knew to lie head up the slight hill: the full might of the French battle lines. As the Grenadiers began to find themselves onfirm ground, Steel, gradually regaining his composure, shook his limbs and tried to settle his nerves. And as he did so he heard a command from the left: the unmistakable tones of Major Charles Frampton, the adjutant: ‘’Tallion halt. Form your ranks. Prepare to attack.’
    The command was taken up by the other field officers and as one the men came to a stop. They were still a good hundred yards out from the French but Steel knew that this was only a temporary halt.
    He looked back and found Slaughter. ‘We advance on the command, Sarn’t!’
    A roundshot came crashing past his head and smashed into the ranks behind, disembowelling one of the Grenadiers, Donaldson, a bluff, pleasant lad from Edinburgh, and taking the leg off another, Ned Tite. As the man lay writhing on the ground, his screams unsettling his comrades, Steel motioned to Slaughter to have him hauled away. They could not stand here long, he thought, would not endure much of this pasting. As if in answer to his