Rules of War (32 page)

‘Steel has but one company, James, and he is but one man. But they are Grenadiers and I'd rather have that one man with me than all the officers in King Louis' army.'

The narrow streets were choked with soldiers. Some wore the red coat of English or Scots regiments, others the white of France or Dutch blue. Many of them were wounded, some of them were dying. Most though were just struggling to stay alive. In fifteen years of soldiering Steel had seen little to match the chaos and savagery of this glorified street brawl. Not even the mayhem of Blenheim village could compare for sheer animal violence as men fought with anything that came to hand and even their bare fists to gain a few yards. He passed one street and saw Argyll's redcoats driving back the French. But on entering an adjoining alley he found himself caught up in the headlong rout of a half-company of English infantry. He had thought that the hottest fighting would be in the west, where the attack had come in. But it seemed now to be everywhere, and the further they moved into the south of the town, the more complex the combat seemed to become. He had thought that by now the battle might be won. The explosion of a main powder magazine might, in any other siege, have prompted the defenders to lay down their arms. But here it seemed, in this den of thieves, it had not
stunned the enemy into submission, but strengthened their resolve.

Steel turned to Slaughter: ‘What d'you make of this farrago, Jacob? Who's winning, do you reckon?'

‘Hard to say, sir. I thought once we were in the town we'd have had 'em. But something's got their dander up, Mister Steel. They don't seem that inclined to yield.'

Steel ducked as they crossed a junction where a firefight was taking place between two companies of opposing infantry. ‘Yes, I suspect that the duke's intelligence may be at fault. It seems to me there's more here than Walloons. Most of these men are regulars, Frenchmen. There's ten, fifteen different regiments. Probably came in after Ramillies. And then there's Trouin's lot.'

Steel began moving faster, dodging as best he could between the individual mêlées taking place it seemed at every turn. Vaguely recognizing a system of streets close to the church of Peter and Paul, he found himself standing at the foot of its great stone bulk and paused in the shadows for breath. They were almost there now; two, perhaps three streets away from the gate that led down to the Key and to Trouin's ships.

He half-turned to the men: ‘To me.'

But when he looked round, Steel found himself to be completely alone. He had outpaced the others and they had lost him in the warren of narrow, clogged and smoke-filled streets. He listened for their footsteps but could hear none distinct from the cacophony of the battle that seemed now to rage on all sides. Then he did hear something, and it froze his blood. The noise came from directly behind him. The unmistakeable, heart-stopping sound of the hammer of a musket being pulled back to half-cock, prior to being fired. He presumed that it must be a Frenchman, or one of Trouin's men. Or perhaps it was Trouin himself.

Without turning he spoke: ‘I am aware that you are there, whoever you are. I am a British officer and I am empowered to offer you quarter – if you drop your weapon. We have taken this town, or soon will and I guarantee that you will receive fair treatment. You have my word on it.'

There was a short, mocking laugh. ‘Your word, have I? I'm not sure that will be good enough for me, Mister Steel. You see, I have orders.'

Steel recognized the rasping voice of Sergeant McKellar, Argyll's butcher. ‘It's Captain Steel to you, McKellar. And I've no time to come with you to Argyll, if that's what you mean. I have urgent business.'

‘Well that would make two of us then sir, wouldn't it?'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘I'm sure you are sir, but not as sorry as you're going to be when I put this bullet in your brain.'

Steel paused: ‘You have orders to kill me? From Argyll, I presume.'

‘You might like to think that sir, if you will. I'm not at liberty to say.'

Steel played for time: ‘Would you oblige me then by telling me precisely why you have been asked to kill me?'

‘Treason, sir. Fraternizing with the enemy, in particular with Jacobites of which sympathy you are yourself suspected.'

‘By whom?'

‘Couldn't say, sir.'

‘By your master and by no one else. Don't be foolish, Sergeant. You and I have no quarrel. And you know that I'm no Jacobite. I have the ear of Marlborough himself.'

McKellar laughed again: ‘Lord Argyll says that the duke hisself might be a Jacobite. And wasn't he shut up in the Tower for it?'

It was true. Marlborough had been imprisoned for
suspected Jacobitism, fourteen years ago, though nothing had been proved.

Steel tried another tack: ‘How did you find me?'

‘Well, seeing as you ask, it was a stroke of luck. His Lordship had just said to me, “McKellar, I want that traitor Steel. Dead or alive, now. Head for wherever the fighting's fiercest. Steel's sure to be there.” So there I was, about to set off when up runs a young officer. Smart-looking lad, recognized him at once as one of yours.'

‘Williams,' said Steel.

‘That's it, sir. Mister Williams. He finds Lord Argyll and he asks him to send reinforcements to you. Tells him that you're to be found by the Key gate. Asks him to send word too to Marlborough. Something about a pirate going to capture a bombship and guns being turned and to be sure to warn the fleet.'

For a moment Steel's thoughts wandered from his own plight to a grander scale of horror. ‘And did he? Did he warn the fleet?'

‘Did he my arse! No sooner has Williams left us than His Lordship says to me he'll be damned if he's going to save a few sods of wet bobs. Now off you go and find that traitor Steel. So here I came. And here you are, just as he said.'

Steel heard the hammer being cocked back to its full tension and, still unable to fathom a way out, played a final delaying tactic. ‘I presume you'll call this accidental.'

‘Or enemy action, sir. All the same in a battle, ain't it?'

Steel was well aware of the uses of ‘accidents' in the fog of war. How many unpopular officers were there whose families slept soundly believing them to have died with honour bravely in the field, but had later been found to have received a bullet wound to the back of the head? It was understood that someone must have discharged their piece half-cock. An
accident. But Steel knew better. They all did. It was how the army cleansed itself of bad blood and rotten officers. So the commanders turned a blind eye and the sergeants said among themselves that it was the most honourable way for any such useless an article to meet his maker.

But Steel was damned if he was going to join their ranks. Yet at this moment there seemed little choice. He winced as he heard McKellar move, easing the gun into his shoulder, preparing to squeeze the trigger.

‘I'm sorry, sir. Just following orders.'

Steel closed his eyes and braced himself.

The shot rang out. Then – nothing. He opened his eyes and turned to the rear, expecting at any moment to feel the agony of a ball entering his brain. Instead, he saw Sergeant McKellar lying face down in a pool of his own blood. Standing over him was the welcome sight of Dan Cussiter, his gun smoking as he bit the top off another cartridge.

Cussiter spat out the paper and spoke: ‘Lucky I came along, sir. Saw what he was trying to do, sir.'

‘Thank you, Dan. I am in your debt.'

‘Why was he going to kill you, sir? One of our own men.'

‘It's a long story, Dan. Someone in the high command, someone very powerful indeed would like to have me killed it seems. Apparently I am an enemy of the state.'

Cussiter laughed as he rammed home the bullet: ‘You're the best officer we have.'

Steel pushed at McKellar's corpse with his foot. ‘Not according to his master.'

There was a clatter of running feet and round the corner appeared Slaughter, Lejeune and the missing Grenadiers. The sergeant spoke: ‘Sir, we thought we'd lost you.'

‘You almost did, had it not been for Cussiter here and his keen eye. Any sign of Trouin?'

‘None. And there's fewer of his men now too. The Walloons are surrendering in droves. Some of the French too.'

‘The Key Gate is around the next bend. It's my betting Trouin will have left men to guard it. If we can take it quickly enough we've got a chance of getting across the bridge over the ditch and on to the Key. God knows what we'll find there. Stick close to me. You too, Lejeune.' The lieutenant nodded. ‘And, Jacob. I know you're old, but keep up. Don't lose me again. Right. Now.'

Running as fast as he could manage, Steel led the party round the back of the great church and on to the wide street which ran just inside the walls of the town. Directly opposite them stood a tall bastion at the top of which men in red and white coats were in the throes of a life-and-death fight. He remembered the place from when he and Slaughter had first come ashore from the little rowing boat. Sure enough, as he looked along the wall to the left he saw a gate – the Key Gate – and as he had predicted two of Trouin's men stood guard. He turned and to his relief saw that his party were all still with him. Then waving two fingers in the air to beckon them on, he darted from the shadow and across the boulevard into the darkness at the foot of the bastion. Within seconds the others too were safely across. Slowly, Steel edged round the curtain wall and looked towards the gate. Trouin's guards were talking to each other now. Both held muskets which he knew would be loaded. Ducking back, Steel unslung his gun before moving forward again and dropping to one knee. He pulled back the hammer to full cock and whispered to the rear.

‘Dan. The one on the right's yours. Make it count.'

Cussiter, the keenest shot in the company, moved forward to join Steel and easing back the hammer of his own gun, took careful aim. The two shots rang out almost simul
taneously and as the smoke cleared they saw the effect. Both guards lay on the cobbles. Steel patted Cussiter on the back as the Grenadier was reloading then, pausing only to sling the still-smoking fusil over his shoulder, he loped along the wall and dashed through the gate. He had been half-expecting to see more of Trouin's men on the narrow bridge but it was quite deserted. Lejeune was up with him now, with Slaughter and rest close behind.

‘Well, Lieutenant. It looks like we're in luck.'

They moved fast across the bridge and reached the open space of the Key on to which he and Slaughter had first stepped when they had come here three days ago. It seemed an eternity. Little had changed; there was the same air of abandonment, the same broken packing crates and empty fishing nets. There was though, one important difference and as he saw it, Steel's heart sank. The two ships which had been moored here had gone – Trouin's ships. They were too late. Steel sat down on a packing case, ground his boot hard into the cobbles and spat.

‘Damn the man.' He looked towards the sea and walked over to the edge of the quay. There at the foot of some stone stairs a small dinghy bobbed at anchor. Steel turned and called to Lejeune and Slaughter, ‘How are your sea-legs, Lieutenant?'

‘I'm afraid that my only experience of rowing has been on the lake at Versailles.'

‘Sergeant?'

‘I'm no sailor, sir. But I'll have a go.'

Steel turned to the Grenadiers: ‘Come on lads. You've just volunteered for the marines.'

Claude Malbec, as he had told de la Motte, was a simple soldier, had been no more or less these past twenty years. He had a soldier's eye, a soldier's brain and above all a soldier's
instinct for knowing which way a battle was going. And at this moment, standing on the highest rampart of the western defences, Malbec knew that things were not going well for the French. Of course he had known all along that, barring a miracle, Ostend was already lost. That miracle, he had thought, might have been Duglay-Trouin and his ships. But as yet nothing had been seen of either and Malbec wondered whether the pirate had not simply cut and run with his men. After all, what was Ostend to him? He supposed that he should have known better than to have trusted the man. But he had seemed genuinely taken with the idea of sinking the English navy. And, naturally, Malbec had told him where to find Lejeune. He presumed the lieutenant must be dead by now. The young fool had it coming, though he hoped that Trouin had not been too savage. The boy had just not been cut out for the army, had never really understood it, or the way it worked. As far as Malbec was concerned if you didn't understand the system and play it to your best advantage; if you were too damn fair, then you would end up like Lejeune. Dead meat.

Malbec gazed along the fortifications and out to where the early evening sun glistened on the sea and the English ships bobbed at anchor. Turning back to the town he beheld a less serene scene. Far below him, both in the grass-covered ditch on one side and in the street on the other, the ground was covered with dead and dying men. Directly below him a company of Dutchmen were engaged in a close range firefight with a mixed bag of French infantry and Walloons. Malbec watched as the Dutch gave fire, dropping half a dozen men from the French ranks and then as they reloaded, saw the French do the same, with similar effect. And so, he thought, you will continue, until one side or the other has had enough and turns tail. That was how it happened, how it always
happened. How it had happened before his eyes for two decades. He surprised himself by wondering whether men might not one day find a better way of settling their differences. In this case it looked as if the Dutch would win. Perhaps he thought, he could do better. Malbec turned to the matter in hand, to his own men, the half-company of veteran French infantry drawn up at right angles to the walls, facing directly along the parapet behind half a dozen stout, earth-filled wicker gabions. Malbec knew that, if the enemy were to take this vital area of the town then they would first have to secure this spot. And he intended to refuse it to them. He doubted whether he would survive, but the past few days had served to remind him that he had little left to live for. Just as well to die here, in Ostend as anywhere else. He tightened his sash and brushed his coat where smuts from the cinders and ashes floating on the air had settled and wondered again whether Trouin would attack the flotilla. Well, it was probably too late now, certainly to save him and his men. A cacophony from the staircase told him that soon, once again, he would be plunged into the deadly lottery of firefight and mêlée. He saw his sergeant, the big man from Alsace, Müller, the bald-headed barrel-maker.