“Now, gentlemen, to your posts.”  These words, quietly and pleasantly spoken by Marlborough, began the great battle of Blenheim.  It was about midday, August 13, 1704.  The Duke had been waiting till he heard that Prince Eugene was ready, and he had occupied the interval in breakfast and prayers.  Every man of his division was provided with a good meal.  He himself had attended divine service and had received the sacrament the evening before.

Lieutenant Blackett found himself one of a body of 8,000 cavalry, which were ordered to cross the Nebel so as to be within striking distance of Tallard’s troops drawn up beyond the brook.  This work of crossing was likely to be a long and tedious, not to say a difficult bit of business, the intervening ground being very boggy.  Matthew was far towards the rear of this large body of horse, and it was evident that it would be hours before his turn came to cross.  In company with hundreds of his comrades, he began to long for something more exciting.

The first division to get into serious action was that under the brave Lord Cutts, to the left of the allied forces.  Cutts went by the nickname of Salamander, so indifferent was he to danger when under fire.  This gallant leader led his men to attack the village of Blenheim.  Twice the assault was made with the utmost vigour and determination; twice Cutts was driven back.  The village was not only filled with an immense force of French, but was protected by a strong palisade.

A horseman was presently seen galloping towards the spot where the Duke was posted, and his movements were watched with interest by Blackett and others of the cavalry waiting their orders to cross.

“Seems to me he is wounded,” the lieutenant observed to a man near him; to which the other replied, “Yes, he does seem wobbly, doesn’t he?”

Hardly had the words been spoken when the advancing rider suddenly fell from his horse, which kept on, however, dragging his master along by the stirrup.  Without a second’s delay, Blackett threw his own beast across the track of the runaway steed, caught his head, and pulled him up.  Then in a moment the youngster was down on the ground to the assistance of the poor fellow who had fallen.

“To the Duke!” the man cried, glancing at a note he held tightly clutched in his hand.  “Quick!” he moaned; “I’m shot through the back, and done for!”

“Poor fellow!” murmured the lieutenant, and he seized the letter, sprang with a bound into his saddle, and was off like the wind, before his companions had quite realized what it all meant.  Thus for the second time within a few days Matthew Blackett presented himself before his commander in the part of unofficial aide-de-camp.  The Duke nodded as he recognized the lad, and, pencilling a few words of reply, said, “To Lord Cutts; then back to your post.”  And as Blackett rode off like the wind in a bee-line for Cutts’s division, Marlborough murmured, “A fearless fox-hunter, I’ll be bound.”  The order, it was afterwards found, was for Cutts to make no more attempts on Blenheim, but to hold himself in readiness when his services should again be requisitioned.