Rules of War (16 page)

He turned to Ajax: ‘We shall see what transpires, my friend, shall we not, once the bombs begin to fall and the townspeople begin to die. You see, Ajax, in many ways I am like Major Malbec. I do not care what might be the fate of these miserable wretches. But unlike him, I have other, less emotional, what you might call more rational reasons. Once the civilians begin to die here the governor will be desperate to find a way to make the British stop their shelling. And I think that I may know just the way.'

For there was one thing of which he was certain. The great René Duglay-Trouin had no intention of being taken by the English and tried as a pirate. He would not hang in chains at the harbour mouth like poor Kidd at Execution Dock, as a warning to sailors not to follow his example. He would set the example. He would win this battle against the great English general, their precious Lord Malbrook. Then he and
his pirates would sail away from Ostend with as much of her treasure as they could carry and no doubt a few of her fine people to sell into slavery. And who knew, perhaps one of them might be the English countess. They would see.

Steel sat at the small wooden camp-table in front of his tent in the lines and dipped the quill pen into the pot of black ink. He glanced up at the morning sky and scanned the comings and goings along the ‘street'– the wide, mud-churned alleyway that divided the officers' tents from those of the company's men. This was his least favourite aspect of soldiering; company accounts, bookkeeping. A clerk's work; but still a necessary part of any captain's job.

He gazed down at the paper before him, sighed and beginning to scribble, found his mind straying back to the brief, unhappy time in his youth that he had spent as a junior clerk in his uncle's lawyers' office in Edinburgh. Memories of apathy, boredom and the crushing despair of his mother's death came flooding into his mind, unbidden and unwanted. The army had taken him away from all that. The army and Arabella. Away from Scotland, from his roots, to a new life which was his alone to mould, as he wished.

Fifteen years of soldiering had taken him through the Guards and the King of Sweden's army, across Europe and had seen him grow from boy to man. He thanked God for
his good fortune and that he had survived when he had seen so many good men die around him. His mind turned again to the coming assault and he wondered if perhaps today would see the end. Every soldier knew that there was an allotted time for him to meet his death. You could not avoid fate. But sometimes, thought Steel, perhaps you could play the devil at his own game and stall him for just one more day. He wondered if there was any truth in what the men said – that the life of the man you killed would appease the gods of war and ensure that you would live another day.

The thought sickened him and he returned to the business in hand: requisition of stockings for a half-company. Requisition of shirts –five, coats – two. They'd be lucky to see any of those within a year. The men's coats, bright scarlet when they had left Dover four years ago, were now more a dirty brick-red. He continued scribbling. Requisition of shoes. Those at least he knew he might expect to have. It might not matter that their coats were running with dye, that their hats were holed and turned-down and their stockings stained with mud, but the duke was most particular that his men should be well shod. Well-armed too. Steel had already indented for extra ammunition for the assault – musketballs and grenades. He intended personally to inspect every man's gun. There must be no chance of a misfire at the most crucial moment. Steel rubbed at his temples and continued scratching on the ledger paper. It was hard to keep the mind focused on such mundanities when the prospect of death or glory in the assault loomed so large. And then there was the other matter to take care of for Colonel Hawkins. He would see to it immediately after drill parade.

Slaughter appeared before him and stood to attention: ‘Men are all present sir and ready for you when you will.'

Steel smiled: ‘Very good, Sarn't. Just as well to put them through their paces before we go.'

‘You're right there, sir. We've been sitting in this camp that long, they'll have forgotten how to march.'

‘Just as long as they haven't forgotten how to shoot, Jacob. That's all I ask of them now.'

‘They're restless, Mister Steel. Need to see action.'

Steel closed the company ledger and rose from the table: ‘They'll get it soon enough. Come on, Jacob. Let's see just how bad they've become.'

They walked across to where the company was drawn up in line, two ranks deep, a short distance beyond the tents. Steel could see that Slaughter had already done a good job with them. They were standing rigidly to attention and although their appearance would have probably had him cashiered at a St James's parade, here, in the field, they would do.

‘Carry on Sarn't.'

Slaughter stepped to the right flank of the company, placing his spontoon firmly on the ground and his hand on his hip: ‘Ready.'

The twenty-four muskets of the front rank were handled up to the angle between thigh and breastbone.

‘Pree …
sent
.'

Two dozen guns smacked neatly into the crook of the right shoulder.

‘Fire!'

The ragged volley shattered the air and the balls crashed harmlessly into the trees which Slaughter had chosen as their target. A few men, instead of ramming their charges home, had adopted the widespread practice of thumping the butts of their guns on the ground and the balls rattled harmlessly in the barrels and dropped out.

Steel grimaced and shook his head: ‘Not good. Not good at all, Sarn't.'

He walked across to a man in the front rank whose ball lay on the ground before him. ‘Come on, Tarling. You know the drill.'

‘It's me ramrod, sir. Wood got wet last night, sir. It's all swelled up and won't fit down the barrel, sir.'

Next to him, Mulligan muttered, still staring straight ahead: ‘Always was your problem, Tarling. Yer rod swelling up like that.'

The company sniggered.

Slaughter thumped his spontoon on the ground. ‘Silence in the ranks there! Next man as speaks'll feel my bloody rod on their back.'

Steel shook his head again. ‘Thank you, Sarn't. Get this man another ramrod. He's no bloody use to me without one.'

Slaughter looked at Steel with the doleful expression of a dog that, wishing to please its master, senses there is something very wrong.

Steel addressed the company: ‘That was bloody awful.' He pointed across towards where Ostend lay in the pale morning sunlight. ‘Do that when we get in there and you're all dead men. Now, we'll go again. On my command.'

Steel knew that this battle, like most of them, would be a close-quarter affair. More so here, for they would be confined within streets. Besides, their muskets were only accurate to a hundred yards. It would be a blasting match. And whoever could get in the greatest number of volleys would be the victor. They would fire at twenty paces or fewer within the town. It took twenty seconds for a trained soldier to load a musket, and at present he reckoned they must be taking thirty. That was two shots a minute. They needed to make it three.

He called across to Hansam: ‘Henry, your timepiece, if you would be so kind as to oblige me.'

Hansam walked over and produced the pocket captured at Blenheim watch and handed it to Steel. ‘Do be careful with it, Jack. Shan't find another of its kind.'

‘I'll take care, Henry.' Steel took it and looked at the second hand. ‘Right. I'm going to time you. Make ready … Present … Fire!'

Once again the fusils crashed out and smoke and flame belched from the barrels. Steel looked at the watch: Twenty-six seconds. You're still dead men. Cussiter, show them how it's done. Two paces forward. Right, make ready. Musket set firm in the hollow of the right shoulder. Body straight with elbows in an equal line. Make your butt breast high. Head up and take care to have your left knee a little bent. That's it. Well done, Cussiter. Now, present. Thumb away from the cock. Right foot back a little now. Forefinger before the trigger. Don't touch it, mind. Make your right knee stiff now. And keep your muzzle lower than the butt. That way you'll hit your man in the centre of his body. Right, Dan. Aim at that group of trees. Fire!'

Cussiter squeezed the trigger and the ball flew from the gun and hit one of a group of three trees at around the height of a man's stomach.

‘Well done. Sarn't Slaughter, extra rum ration for Corporal Cussiter. And the same on my account for any man that can equal that. But within the time. Remember, twenty seconds only. Work 'em hard, Sarn't. Fire them off by ranks, rear and front. I'll be back within the hour.'

He walked down the length of the tent lines, row upon row of unbleached canvas. A miniature town made of sailcloth within whose walls were played out all the tragedies and ecstasies of any community: births and deaths; family
life, love and loneliness. The last few weeks had been a rare respite from the march. But Steel knew that with the coming assault, the illusion of domestic calm would be replaced again by a sea of pain.

Eventually he arrived at the lines of the larger, regimental officers' tents and in the centre found what he was looking for. He lifted the flap and entered the tent with its campaign furniture and cosy ambience.

Major Frampton turned to see his unexpected guest. ‘Steel. I don't recollect our having an appointment. How can I help?'

Steel knew this was no time for niceties. ‘I know what you're about, Frampton.'

The major frowned: ‘I'm sure I don't know to what you are referring, Captain Steel. And kindly use my title when addressing a superior officer.'

‘If I had my way you wouldn't be superior for any longer, nor have any title. The game's up.'

Frampton began to colour: ‘I warn you, Mister Steel. Unless you desist from this abhorrent behaviour I shall have no alternative but to place you under arrest. Now kindly remove yourself from my tent.'

Steel could smell the fear. He strode towards the adjutant until their faces were barely two feet apart. ‘Stop bluffing, Frampton. I know all about it.'

Steel cast his eyes about the tent and at last saw what he was looking for. A sheaf of printed papers protruding from the drawer of a wooden chest. He took a gamble. Pulling hard on the brass handle he tore open the drawer and reached inside for the papers. One glance was all it took. Frampton blanched.

Steel held the pamphlets before his face: ‘These, Frampton. I know that you are behind these lies.'

For a second Frampton panicked, then recovered: ‘Good heavens. How did those get in there? That is to say of course I know what they are. But what are you saying, Steel. Me? Behind them? Preposterous.'

‘Don't try to deny it, Major. I heard you that night in Brussels. In the inn.'

Frampton stared at him: ‘Heard me? Heard what?'

‘You. In your cups. I heard you plotting.'

‘You can't prove it was me.'

‘So, you admit it.'

‘Did I? No, I don't. It wasn't me, whoever you heard.'

‘You and another officer.'

‘Stapleton? You heard him?' Frampton stopped, realizing what he had said.

Steel smiled. ‘You'd never make a spy, Major. Stick to soldiering and pray God that you get your head blown off before you pay your way to general and kill any more of your own men.'

‘You didn't know. Did you?'

‘I knew about you. And now I know enough.'

Frampton was sweating now: ‘What do you intend to do? You'll inform Marlborough?'

‘I think not.'

Frampton looked puzzled: ‘Thank God. What then? What will you do?'

Steel laid the papers down on the chest and turned away from Frampton. ‘I have a proposal for you. Firstly you will stop printing these sheets. You may well feel passionately about the sentiments they express, but I advise you to forget them. As far as you are now concerned Marlborough is the only man fit for the job of finishing King Louis and that were best done in Flanders. Should I hear that one word of sedition has passed your lips, one word in support of Peterborough
and the Spanish adventure, then our understanding will be at an end and I shall make your part in this affair known to the duke. I do intend to commit the truth to paper, Major, so do not consider having me disposed of – either in or out of the coming fight. Secondly, you will settle my mess bill and stop hounding me for credit until I give you the word. Don't worry, I shan't bankrupt you. Consider it merely an extended loan. I honour all my debts. And no, I'm not going to give you up, Frampton. It's too close to battle for that. And it would unsettle the men, the honour of the regiment is at stake. Whatever my personal feelings might be. But as for Major Stapleton, now that is a different story. He is not of our family. He can go to the devil. Well, to Colonel Hawkins at least. But he'll get the same treatment.'

He walked to the entrance and turned. Frampton was sitting at the small desk, his head in his hands. Steel smiled: ‘Oh, and I would advise you to stay out of my way, Major. Should we meet have no fear that I shall not show you due deference, according to your rank. But bear in mind too what I know. And remember, don't try anything rash.'

Steel left the tent and retraced his steps through the regiment's lines to the training ground. Slaughter and the men were still hard at it. He stopped and watched, apparently unseen, and took Hansam's watch from his pocket.

Slaughter's voice rang out: ‘Load. Ram down your charge. Remove rammers. Make ready. Present. Fire!' Steel watched the seconds tick away. Five. Ten, Fifteen. Twenty … one … two. With a crash the company opened fire. A good clean volley that rattled into the trees and ripped away the leaves and the smaller of the boughs.

With the watch still in his hand, Steel reached his men. ‘Well done boys. Twenty seconds. That'll be three a minute. Keep that up and we'll give them a pasting they won't forget.'

There was a ragged cheer. Steel grinned: ‘You've earned your rum, lads. Better get it while you can. Major Frampton's kindly offered to pick up the bill.'

An hour later, at the rear of the encampment, where the large, striped marquees of the general staff stood apart from the rest of the army's tents, Stapleton drew back a flap of pin-striped canvas and ducked his tall frame into the interior. It reeked of wine and lavender and stale sweat. In the waning light he was able to make out the figure of a man, who turned and addressed him.

‘Ah, Major Stapleton. How good of you to come.' Colonel Hawkins walked forward from the shadow as Stapleton spoke.

‘Do forgive me, Colonel Hawkins. A trifle late. Just back from huntin'. Damned hounds put up a hind and lost it. Shame. Have you been out yet? Poor country this.'

‘Alas, rheumatics and corpulence no longer permit my indulgence in the thrill of the chase, Major. Not after deer, at any rate.' He smiled, but Stapleton watched as it quickly became a frown. ‘Major Stapleton, I have asked you here on a matter of some delicacy. You will be aware that of late certain pamphlets have been circulating in the camp and more importantly, throughout the country, which are nothing less than slanderous against His Grace the Duke of Marlborough. It has been brought to my attention by a most reliable source – and to the attention of the Duke – that you are none other than the author of said pamphlets. What have you to say?'