Rules of War (8 page)

Marlborough looked at him, blank-faced. ‘The French, My Lord Orkney, are no longer an army. They do have a line of defence, but they have nothing with which to defend it. Marshal Villeroi is beaten. We have but one objective. Now we must drive deep into the area of fortresses still held by the French and keep what army they may assemble from out-marching our flank and making the sea. God save us if they should, even in their parlous state, see our weakness there and flank us. We should be cut off from our only supply route with England. It is absolutely imperative that we isolate and if necessary besiege the port of Antwerp. But first we must take Ghent and Oudenarde.'

Cadogan interjected: ‘And Ostend and Dunkirk also, Your Grace, d'you not think? Do not forget those ports. They harbour privateers in French employ. Neglect them and whatever port we use for our supplies will be harried and taken. Believe me sir. I have direct experience.'

Marlborough laughed: ‘Yes, William. I am aware of your run-in with the privateers. But at least they let you away with your life. We shall have to see how it goes before we begin to besiege a port.' The company laughed. All save van Goslinga who, not understanding the good-natured jibe, stared blankly.

Marlborough too was staring now, into the middle-distance. He set his chin in his hand and after a while spoke again. ‘William, I do believe that you are right.'

Orkney spoke up: ‘We'll need the best of the army for that, Your Grace. Lord Argyll and his finest. And Lord Mordaunt too.'

At last Hawkins spoke his mind: ‘We'll need more than good tactical officers, sir. If we are to take Ostend and Dunkirk against privateers we will need guile and stealth by the measure. Might I suggest one more officer whom we might find most useful?'

Marlborough looked intrigued: ‘Hmm? Yes, James?'

‘Captain Steel, Your Grace. That is, acting Captain Steel. Of Sir James Farquharson's regiment. You will remember him from Blenheim, sir. He carried out a … most delicate task for us. You promoted him brevet rank. His elevation is not yet ratified.'

‘Indeed, Hawkins? Not yet? Of course, Captain Steel. By all means. Why did not I think of him sooner? Yes. He has wit as well as bravery, as I recollect. We shall as you say need every bit of guile we can muster. I hazard that in the taking of these places we shall not be dealing with your ordinary enemy. Privateers, mercenaries, and who will the French leave to command them, d'you think? You can be sure that Marshal Villeroi will have taken the cream of his own officers hobbling back to Versailles to plead their case to King Louis. No, we shall be dealing with the dregs. Passed-over officers left in charge of seemingly impregnable fortresses. Well, we shall show them that they are not so impregnable, eh, gentlemen? And now, if you would, allow me a moment. My head aches and I must write the news of our victory to the queen. William, take yourself off after the cavalry and ensure that the pursuit continues. My Lord Orkney, pray do the same with the foot. Force the march if you will. We must press them hard and take the Dyle by tonight. We cannot afford to rest. You know that the fate of all Europe hangs in the balance.'

Steel stood quite still in the middle of the street and gazed at the windows of the houses up ahead. The single shot had come from somewhere in there, ringing out clear and long against this cool May morning, shocking the company to an abrupt halt. Behind him the men crouched apprehensively, eyes darting around. They were entering Wippendries, a small village a few miles north of Brussels.

‘See where it came from, Sarn't?'

‘Couldn't say for certain, sir. Third house on the left at a guess.'

There was an uproar at the rear of the column: ‘Shit!'

‘Quiet, that man there!'

‘But Sarge. The bullet went through my bloody hat. Ruined it. Look.'

It was Tarling. The musketball had indeed hit his tall Grenadier's mitre cap, obliterating the white embroidered thistle in the centre and leaving a scorched hole trimmed with filigree fragments of gold wire.

Slaughter stared at the punctured hat: ‘Well, you're bloody lucky it didn't go through your brain then, Tarling, aren't you.'

Steel spoke: ‘Sarn't, you and four men, come with me. The rest of you stay with Lieutenant Hansam. And keep your bloody heads down.' As he spoke another shot cracked out, the ball whizzing past Steel's ear. ‘Christ. That was a bit close. Taylor, Cussiter, Mackay, come on. With me. Fix bayonets, and leave your hats behind.'

Moving fast and keeping low the four men moved along the left side of the street. Another shot rang out, ricocheting off the cobbles and glancing up at one of the houses. They paused. Slaughter tucked in close beside Steel: ‘They're lousy shots, sir. Don't you think?'

‘Probably conscripts. Though if that's the case then why the hell are they bothering to shoot at us and not legging it back to Paris?'

‘Perhaps they don't really want to hit us. Just scare us off.'

‘Don't be ridiculous. Why would they do that? What have they got to gain? This bloody village? The French army's gone home. We're chasing them back to Paris.'

It was two days now since the battle and in all that time Steel and his men, like the rest of the army, had hardly been allowed to rest. Marlborough intended to push the French back as far as they would go and their orders were to advance in forced marches to the northwest until otherwise instructed. Slaughter ducked instinctively as another musketball sang high over their heads.

‘Perhaps that's it, sir. Perhaps they're not even soldiers at all, just civilians. Scared, like.'

The ball that had missed Slaughter and Steel hit the cobbles behind them and sent shards of stone up into the calf of Private Mackay who screamed and clutched at his bleeding leg.

Steel raised his eyes: ‘There now. Are you satisfied? You and your damned theories. What does it matter who they
are? They're bloody shooting at us, Jacob.' He unslung the fusil from his back and, knowing it to be loaded already, cocked the hammer. ‘Mackay, stay there. The rest of you come with me. Second house along. Through the door. Charge!'

As the musket discharged again above their heads the Grenadiers kicked at the door of the house and it gave way. Inside the darkness took them by surprise. The shutters were closed and there was no other light source.

Steel shouted: ‘Open a window!'

Tarling obliged and they moved through the interior quickly as Steel had taught them, one man moving to every opening, waiting and listening before getting into the rooms. One by one they called out:

‘Nothing, sir.'

‘No one here, sir.'

‘Upstairs then. Look out.'

From the top of the wooden stairs there was a crack of musketry and a flash of flame as the gun fired again. Aimed at Steel, the bullet flew hopelessly wide of the mark and embedded itself in the far wall of the hall.

He called out: ‘Now!'

Together Steel and Slaughter rushed the stairs and threw themselves on the figure at the top. It was hard to see anything in the shuttered house.

‘Get him downstairs, Sarn't. I want this one alive.'

They half-pushed, half-dragged the sniper down the wooden staircase and threw him to the floor, where he lay motionless and whimpering, covered by the bayonets of Cussiter and Tarling. He was slightly built and dressed in pale buff-coloured breeches and a nondescript waistcoat.

Slaughter smiled: ‘What did I say, sir? Civilians.'

Steel yelled: ‘On your feet!'

The figure did not move. But they could hear his soft sobbing now. Steel bent down and turned him over. ‘It'sa boy. No more than a lad. Can't be more than ten. No wonder he couldn't hit us.' Pulling the boy to his feet he waved away the bayonets and turned to the would-be assassin. ‘You idiot. What did you think you were doing? We could have killed you.' The boy looked at him, not understanding the foreign tongue. Steel gave up. ‘Bloody hell, Jacob. We're looking after children now.'

With Slaughter carrying the boy's antiquated and inaccurate fowling piece, they moved to the door and pulled it open to the blinding brightness of the day.

But it was not the light that stopped them in their tracks. Steel found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. It was never a pleasant experience, in particular when as now the man with his finger on the trigger was clearly very angry. He was some inches shorter than Steel and was dressed in a brown woollen coat and a tattered round-brimmed hat. Behind him stood another two dozen men, similarly armed and all in civilian dress. The man addressed Steel in a guttural Flemish that he did not understand.

‘I'm sorry. I don't speak your language.'

The man tried again and pressed the musket unpleasantly close to Steel's face. Steel, unable to take his eyes off the weapon, whispered to Slaughter, ‘Any sign of the rest of the company?'

‘End of the street, sir. Formed in two lines. Facing this way.'

Steel tried the man again: ‘I don't know who you are but I am a British officer and those are my men at the end of the street. If you shoot me forty muskets will bring you down.' The man looked puzzled and spoke again, this time in French. This was better.

‘They think we're French, sir.'

‘Yes Sarn't. I can see that.'

‘Mijnheer, we are British, not French. We mean you no harm. We have beaten the French in a big battle.'

The man looked suspicious. ‘English?'

‘Yes, English. Friends. Please …'

The man smiled and backed off, but still did not lower the gun. Without moving his eyes from Steel's, he spoke again and pointed at his chest: ‘Jan.'

From the rear of the group another man pushed forward. ‘You are Englishmen?'

‘Yes. We are British. Scots. Ecossais. Thank God, you speak English.'

‘Yes, I speak good English. You will not harm us?'

‘No. We have beaten the French in a great battle. We are pushing them out of your country.'

The man thought about Steel's reply, then smiled and nodded. ‘Then you are welcome, sir. I am sorry. My people are nervous. We have seen so much horror here. Too many soldiers. French soldiers. Yesterday they came again. Many were injured. Some died. And some of them took our food. They killed two men who tried to stop them.'

French deserters. Steel knew what would happen now. He'd seen enough of this before. In Russia, Bavaria, Spain, and here in Flanders. Break an army, rob it of cohesion and officers and what were you left with? Nothing more than a rabble, and a murderous, rapacious rabble at that, devoid of any principles or morals. There was nothing more dangerous in this world than a leaderless army.

The taller villager spoke to the man with the gun and at last it was lowered. Steel smiled and nodded in thanks.

‘You have beaten the French? Yes, we heard. The French are beaten. But you see we still cannot believe it. Any men with guns. I'm sorry. We are very happy. For many years we
have had French soldiers here. We are ruled by the Spanish and their French friends. Your battle will bring us freedom. We thank you for that, sir.'

As the man spoke, another villager had been translating and Steel saw that the entire group of men was smiling now.

‘Sarn't. Have the company stand down. I don't think we need worry.'

‘You are welcome, Captain. Please excuse us. We are peasants and to us many soldiers look the same. We have to be careful. But look, we have armed ourselves. And,' he added proudly, ‘Iamanofficer. Like you.'

He smiled, his face full of hope, and Steel, humouring him, responded with a respectful nod. ‘Well your men have no need to worry about the French any more. They are beaten. They won't be back quickly. Where are we exactly?'

‘You are in Wippendries. We are only a small village, but you are welcome to share what we have.'

Steel surveyed the militia, took in their assortment of weapons and their ages. A single platoon of French regulars would have accounted for the lot of them in five minutes. But clearly, they had spirit and Steel knew that sometimes, on the battlefield, that could mean the difference between life and death for any troops – farmhands and guardsmen included.

The man spoke again: ‘You are welcome to stay in our village, Captain. We would be honoured. Perhaps we can make up for shooting at you.'

Steel laughed. ‘Perhaps. Don't give it another thought.'

You silly bugger, he thought. You don't know how close you and your bunch of brave, stupid yokels came to death. If that shot had hit Tarling instead of his cap, we'd have had you quicker than any French bastards.

‘We'll stay the night if we may. It will be a good chance
for a rest. We've been forcing the march to catch the French.'

‘That is good to hear, Captain. We hate the French. For too long they have been our masters here. Like you, if we see any French, we kill them.'

While ordinarily Steel would have agreed, he found himself thinking again of Argyll's outburst in Ramillies and couldn't help but wonder that there was so much hatred in this campaign, of a sort he had not seen these past seven years. Not since the bloody carnage in the north when he had watched with horribly detached interest as the Swedes and Russians had bled each other dry. This was a new and unexpected twist to the war. He knew that the French had been an occupying power here in the Netherlands, but till now he had not been aware of just how much they had been resented. He should have been cheered, he knew, by the news that the Belgians were his allies, but instinctively, something told him that this was going to complicate the conduct of the campaign. And Steel did not like complications – especially when they involved civilians.

Some six miles to the southwest, similar local hospitality was being extended to another allied soldier, albeit on a grander scale. The Duke of Marlborough stood, surrounded by his immediate military family and a small bodyguard of dragoons in the great hall of the ancient Château de Beaulieu, five miles north of Brussels. Despite the lavish reception which had been laid on in his honour, the commander-in-chief was not happy.

‘I should not be here, William. This is not a general's work and I am no politician. My place is out in the field, chasing the French, following up our victory. We cannot be complacent.'

William Cadogan, quartermaster-general, laid a friendly hand upon the duke's shoulder. ‘Your Grace, you must be
patient. The French this day have quit the capital. We shall enter Brussels tomorrow. We should rejoice. But before we can possess the city we have pressing business here. It is an affair of state and you are the de facto representative of Her Majesty. It is your duty.'

Marlborough sighed and rubbed at his temples. ‘Yes, yes. I know. How my head does ache so. I have written to the duchess about it. I hope for a cure – the queen too. They suggest …'

Hawkins interjected: ‘I am sorry, Your Grace, but Cadogan is right. You must attend. You are rightly perceived as the victor and these men would laud you as a conqueror, as the liberator of their country. It falls to you, like it or not, to meet with these politicians. All are gathered here. The magistrates have come from Brussels together with the Estates of Brabant. Not only this, My Lord, but the entire Spanish government here in the Netherlands have declared against Louis and pledged themselves to Charles III, our candidate for the throne of Spain. The fate of Europe is in your hands. You must now treat with them. Now, your Grace.'

Marlborough glared at him with steely green eyes. ‘Oh, James. I do so wish you were not always so very right.'

Van Goslinga had re-entered the great hall now and smiled insipidly at the duke. Marlborough hissed, under his breath: ‘That man again. That odious little man.'

Not hearing the comment, the Dutch liaison officer smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Your Grace, the deputies and magistrates would meet with you now, if you please.'

Together, Hawkins, Marlborough and Cadogan were shown through into the grand salon of the castle. The painted and gilded walls were hung with vividly coloured Brussels tapestries depicting scenes of courtly life in the Middle Ages and portraits of the Dukes of Brabant. In the centre of the
room stood a long table and around it sat some twenty middle-aged and elderly men in full wigs. Hawkins noticed that, while those on the right had the pale complexion of northerners, those seated to the left were more swarthy and sported moustaches. All were dressed in sombre black coats. It looked to the duke and Hawkins something like a meeting of physicians, but where in the centre of the table there should have been a cadaver ready for dissection there lay sheaves of paper and charters sealed with red wax and on top of them the swords of the deputies and the Spanish officials, their hilts pointing deliberately in the direction of the victorious British general.

As Marlborough entered the men rose as one and made low bows over the table. The duke returned their greeting. The man nearest to him, a short, pale Dutchman with a small white goatee beard, spoke in mannered English.