There was a long glade or clearing between two extensive plantations.  At the southern end of this glade, behind strong entrenchments, the great army of Villars was drawn up, every man eager to fight, for every Frenchman believed in the Marshal’s luck, and that his presence would certainly bring them victory.  Away to the north was Marlborough, equally eager to begin the combat, Eugene and the Dutch generals with him.  In deference to the wishes of the Prince the Duke had made the fatal mistake of waiting two days, and all that time the enemy had been throwing up their formidable trenches.  It was the famous field of Malplaquet, the last on which Marlborough was fated to fight a pitched battle.  The object of Villars was to prevent the Allies from taking Mons, not far away, to northwards, the siege of which was in progress.  Marlborough had lost heavily at Tournai; Villars, behind his defences, had suffered comparatively little.  But on the other hand the Prince of Hesse had broken through the strong line of defence works which the French had rapidly and skilfully thrown up.  Now, here, at Malplaquet, the Allies had a hard task before them.  Villars held not only the glade but the woods on either side, and, moreover, sat in safety behind his extensive entrenchments.

For some reason not well understood the Duke for the first time began the battle, though it would have seemed clearly his best policy to endeavour to draw Villars from the strong position he held.  There was little in the way of fine tactics displayed, or even possible, on either side; it was a question simply of sheer pluck and dogged determination.  The Highlanders, for the first time, had joined the army of the Allies, and they and the famous Irish Brigade under Villars specially distinguished themselves, if any detachment can be said to have gained special distinction in a fight where all showed such conspicuous gallantry.

Eugene was wounded behind the ear, but refused to withdraw and have his wound dressed.  “No,” said he, “it will be time enough for that when the fight is over.”  Villars was also badly hurt, yet he had a chair brought, in which he sat to direct his men till he fainted.  Boufflers, the hero of Lille, took his place.

Charge after charge was made by the Allies into the woods, and desperate fighting took place.  Once and again Marlborough’s troops were repulsed with awful loss; as often they returned to the attack.  After four hours of heavy fighting the French fell back, and the victory remained with the Allies.

Just before Villars sounded his retreat George Fairburn, who had charged and fought all the while with his usual forgetfulness of himself and of danger, found himself just outside the eastern edge of the wood Taisniere, in company with the others of his troop.  He was almost exhausted with his efforts, and, besides, was hardly himself again yet, after his terrible experience at Tournai, and he sat for a moment half listlessly in his saddle.  A cry near him drew his attention, and, turning his head, he beheld Major Wilson in the act of falling from his charger.  He had received a bullet in the leg.  Before George could get to this side, Wilson was on the ground, his horse galloping away.