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marked by a constant drumming – specific instructions from the high command to drive the enemy before them in fear. The noise had begun to irritate Steel, who was chewing on a large cud of tobacco as he rode, in a vain attempt to salve a headache. Tom Williams, his wound dressed and his arm in a sling, had rejoined them and was fired by the victory.
    For miles in the wake of the retreating French army the dead and wounded lay along the road. Steel’s men watched impassively as the French cried out for succour. Occasionally a kindly Grenadier would stop to give them some water. But for the most part they chose to ignore the cries. Hadn’t they suffered enough themselves at the hands of the French in Ramillies? They had left too many good men back on that field to admit thoughts of compassion. Not quite yet. Besides, they had been ordered to advance immediately by their commander. Such was the haste of the enemy’s flight that manyhad left their possessions back on the field and knew that they would not see them again.
    The French army being dispersed, many regiments had separated and drifted into leaderless groups. At times, as Steel’s men advanced through the darkness they would see isolated figures running ahead of them on the road, who at the sound of their approach would dart away into the open country. The French were everywhere, and yet nowhere. They were merely individual fugitives and deserters from an army that had effectively ceased to exist. The pursuit was bloody and relentless and if the British did not quite wear the countenances of murderers, then neither were they all gentlemen.
    Hansam rode up to join Steel: ‘It was a great victory, Jack. You may be certain that the bells will be rung in London and Lord Marlborough’s health drunk throughout the land.’
    Steel said nothing.
    They had halted for a moment in their hurried march towards the west on a rise in the ground above the village of Meldert, near on fifteen miles from the battlefield. Now the day was breaking about them. But this morning the dawn mingled with another glow which the company watched with interest and curiosity. It came from the northwest from the direction of the town of Louvain, a key crossing-place on the defence line of the River Dyle, which lay some seven miles off. While most of the men were puzzled at its source, offering a variety of opinions, Steel was in no doubt. He had seen similar sights too many times before.
    Hansam too saw the glow: ‘Fires, Jack? Have the French reformed, d’you think?’
    Williams was standing beside them now: ‘What d’you suppose it is, sir? Another battle? Have our cavalry caught up with the French rearguard?’
    Steel shook his head. ‘No, Tom. The French haven’t the stomach for another fight just yet. And our cavalry as I hear, are too far to the south. No, that is the sign of an army that has given up the fight. The French are burning their supplies lest they should fall into our hands. That’s the funeral pyre of Villeroi’s army.’
    Slaughter and two of the men, Mackay and Cussiter were standing watching the glow as they shared a piece of dried sausage one of them had found in a Frenchman’s haversack. Cussiter spoke as he chewed: ‘Did you see them surrendering? They just laid down their arms like so many fat poltroons and gave themselves up to us. Call themselves soldiers, indeed.’
    Mackay nodded: ‘Did you see ’em, Sarge? I couldn’t see nothing but the seats of their breeches.’
    Slaughter shook his head: ‘You’d best make what you can of it for now. You can be sure you’ll see more of them just as soon as King Louis can send them back. The French ain’t finished yet.’
    Cussiter spat into the fire: ‘It was the cavalry that decided it, weren’t it, Sarge. Never seen such horses. Crashed into the French like a blade goin’ through the corn.’ He