Yet so it was; the
commander of Louis's army in Spain being the Duke of Berwick, a son of
James II and Arabella Churchill, Marlborough's sister. The two
generals were well matched, according to the opinion that prevailed
among the troops.
Weeks passed, and as yet George Fairburn had seen no actual fighting.
He was all eager to get into action, and was not much comforted by the
declaration of the old sergeant under whom he marched.
"Bide your time, my lad," the veteran would say, "you will get your
full share of fighting; enough to satisfy even a fire-eater such as I
can see you're going to be."
One evening, to his intense delight, the lad was sent forward with a
skirmishing party, a report having come in that the enemy was
concealed somewhere in one of the wooded valleys of the neighbourhood.
After a cautious march of three or four miles, the little company,
commanded by a lieutenant of foot, dropped down into a dingle, at the
bottom of which ran a stream almost everywhere hidden by the thick
growth of trees. The men were startled, on turning a corner in the
break-neck path, to see below them the French flag flying from what
appeared to be an old mill. Scattered about were the roofs of a dozen
cottages, and at the doors could be perceived a number of soldiers
lolling at their ease.
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