friends in the regiment. Simultaneously, it also set him apart from his few enemies. One of them popped into his mind.
'How has Major Cracknell been treating you?' he asked.
'He's been the soul of kindness, Dan.'
'I refuse to believe that.'
'I was joking,' said Welbeck. The major is a conceited, spiteful, self-serving cunt but you already know that.'
'I've said as much to his face,' recalled Daniel, 'though not in those precise words. He tried to hit me.'
'Really — when was this?'
'The day I left here. I offered to fight but he thought better of it. To be honest, I expected him to challenge me to a duel.'
'He's not that stupid, Dan. The major has seen you practising with a sabre. He knows you'd cut him to shreds.'
'It's no more than he deserves, Henry. Is he still harassing your nephew?' Welbeck nodded. 'What's he been up to now?'
'He's still looking for another excuse to have the lad flogged again. Since he can't find one, he keeps reprimanding Tom for trivial bloody offences that were never committed in the first place. It's upsetting to watch,' said Welbeck. 'Can't the army find the major something more useful to do than hounding a harmless drummer?'
'It's going to find him something very soon.'
'What's that?'
'Fighting a battle,' replied Daniel. 'That's the one thing Major Cracknell can do with any distinction. When he's fulfilling his duties against the Frenchies, he won't have time to bother Tom Hillier.'
Welbeck was cynical. 'There's no earthly hope of a battle with those cowardly bastards,' he said. 'They'd much rather just look over the ramparts and wave at us.'
'That's where you're wrong, Henry. His Grace has every reason to believe that Marshal Villeroi is prepared to engage us this time.'
'It will never happen.'
'It will,' said Daniel. 'The marshal is as eager to bring this war to an end as we are. According to our latest reports, he has an army of 74 battalions and 128 squadrons. I don't think he'll keep a force of that size sitting on its hands. Marshal Villeroi has two very strong incentives,' he continued. 'The first is that he wishes — like everyone else in France — to avenge the defeat at Blenheim. That still rankles at Versailles.'
'So it should, Dan. We kicked their arses hard that day.'
'The second thing that drives him on is that conviction that he's a better commander than His Grace. He thinks he proved that last year at the River Yssche.'
'We were betrayed once again by the fucking Dutch!' said Welbeck, angrily. 'Villeroi was lucky. If we'd been allowed to attack, we'd have smashed his army to smithereens.'
'We may have a second chance to do that, Henry.'
'I won't believe it till I see it.'
'You've every right to be sceptical,' said Daniel. 'We've been in this position before and nothing happened. This time, however, I'm certain that it will. Prepare for battle, Henry. Marshal Villeroi simply wants to avenge Blenheim — we have a chance to repeat it!'
Corswaren was a little village that lay in a hollow beneath the whirring sails of its windmill. The Allied armies camped nearby. It was country they knew well from previous campaigns. At their back, less than twenty miles away, was the River Meuse, curving its way south. Ahead of them were the French lines. At 1 a.m. on 23 May, Marlborough sent off Brigadier-General Cadogan, one of his most trusted men, with an advance guard. Their orders were to reconnoitre the high ground between two rivers, the Mehaigne and the Little Gheete. Conditions were poor. After three days of pelting rain, there was a thick fog that night. Two hours after dispatching Cadogan, his quartermaster, Marlborough led the main body out of camp. Captain Daniel Rawson was with him.
The advance guard had ridden beyond the village of Merdorp when they encountered a French patrol. As soon as they heard distant firing, the patrol withdrew. Though there was full daylight now, mist was still swirling unpredictably around. Cadogan could see very little at first then something uncannily reminiscent of their experience at Blenheim occurred. The mist began to thin and lift. What he saw through his telescope was a wide sweep of open country with hardly any trees and hedges to impede movement. On a high ground some four miles off, he picked up clear signs of movement. Guessing that it was Villeroi's advance guard, Cadogan promptly sent a galloper to alert Marlborough. It was not until 10a. m that the brigadier- general and the commander-in-chief were able to survey the scene together. Marlborough was astonished at what he saw.
'It's just like Blenheim,' he said. 'It's a natural battlefield.'
He scrutinised it through his telescope. The vast expanse of land would allow huge numbers of soldiers to be aligned in rigid mass formation. It was a perfect arena for war. The rolling acres bore such a resemblance to the plain near Blenheim that Marlborough's spirits soared. As in all battles, his strategy was dictated by the nature of the terrain. Little discussion was required. It was obvious to him, his staff and the accompanying Allied officers that the engagement had to take place on the undulating plain between Taviers and Ramillies. All that remained was to deploy his cavalry and his troops. Three hours later, they were all in position. The battle of Ramillies was imminent.
'What are we waiting for?' asked Tom Hillier, holding his drum.
'Reinforcements,' said Hugh Dobbs. 'Some of our allies are late.'
'Where are they?'
'Shitting with fright behind a hedge, I expect. You can never trust foreigners, Tom. They always let you down.'
'Will there really be a battle this time?'
'That's what it looks like.'
'Who's going to win?'
'We are,' said Dobbs with a strained laugh.
He expected a comment from Hillier but his friend's attention had already wandered in a way that was wearisomely familiar. Since his flogging, Hillier had been withdrawn. Though he went through the drills with the other drummers and slept in the tent with his friends, he was no longer the fresh-faced, earnest young recruit. Eighty lashes had taken something out of him and replaced it with a brooding sadness. Instead of enjoying the company of the others, he was detached and melancholy. Nudging him in the ribs, Dobbs tried to bring him out of his dejection.
'This is what you joined the army for, Tom,' he said.
Hillier woke up. 'What's that?'
'You want to kick seven barrels of merde out of the Frenchies.'
'All we can do is to beat our drums.'
'Where would the rest of them be without us? We control the battle. It's the drum calls that tell the soldiers what to do.'
'It's not the same as holding a musket, Hugh.'
'Your time for doing that will come.'
'No, it won't,' said Hillier, flatly.
'I thought that was your ambition.'
'I don't have ambitions now.'
Once again Hillier's eyes glazed over as his mind drifted away. He was surrounded by thousands of men on the verge of battle yet he might have been somewhere entirely on his own. Dobbs had given up trying to understand his friend, still less hoping to talk him out of his prolonged misery. Even Hillier's uncle, Sergeant Welbeck, had failed to do that. The drummer was beyond help.
Dobbs didn't have to nudge his friend again. Someone rode up on a horse and turned the animal so that its flank knocked Hillier sideways, making him struggle to retain his balance. Looking down from the saddle was Major
