Читать книгу Jack Steel Adventure Series Books 1-3: Man of Honour, Rules of War, Brothers in Arms - Iain Gale, Iain Gale - Страница 13

FOUR

Dawn picked at the land with shafts of pale yellow light and a gentle wind blew across the ripe crops and down into the valley of the River Lech. Steel could hear the men outside beginning to stir. The familiar sounds of mess tins and cooking pots as the soldiers assembled what rations they could find for a makeshift breakfast. Half sitting, half lying against a bale of straw in the barn of a deserted farmstead, Steel shivered and wrapped his cloak tight around his sinewy body, reluctant to admit that all too soon he, too, would have to move from what for the past four hours had passed for a bed. It had been a damp and thankless night.

The horses, for some reason unsettled in the empty stables, had kept him awake into the early hours with their whinnying and twice the nervous picquets had raised the alarm. Each time Williams, as jumpy as the mounts, had come in to report, only to leave embarrassed and uncomfortable. There had, of course, been no real danger, but Steel knew that the men were on edge and, while gently chiding Williams, indulged them. For if the truth be known, he more than shared their apprehension. They were deep in enemy territory now. In the very heart of Bavaria, Swabia to be precise. Even as they made their way through the pleasant, peaceful farmland, Steel knew that over the hills, within a few miles, villages were being burnt by his own army.

It was three days since they had left the main camp. Today was the 14th July, a Sunday. The flat plain of the meandering river valley of the Lech had given way after a day to more wooded terrain. They had crossed the river by bridge at Waltershofen and five miles on had entered the thick forest which covered the countryside to the west of the brewing town of Aicha. The woods were full of biting insects that lost no time in feasting on fresh, northern blood. It had taken them a day to get clear of the trees. But the rank, red sores from the mosquitoes still raged on their skin.

They had now arrived on the flood plain of the Paar, where high plantations of hops signalled that they were entering the heart of the Bavarian beer-making country. They had left behind neat little villages sat in lush valleys rich in arable crop and cattle and entered another countryside of higher hills with mountain tops visible beyond, capped with snow. A wild country that reminded Steel of the land that lay to the west of his family home, far away towards the Western Isles. Yet, for all the familiarity of the breathtaking scenery and gentle, bucolic images which surrounded him, with every step they took further away from the army and into enemy territory, Steel sensed the increasing possibility that they were walking into danger.

The door of the barn swung open and a tall figure was silhouetted against the growing light.

‘Ready to move, Sir? Found you some coffee. Can’t say what it tastes like, though. Never touch the stuff myself.’

Having no servant with him, Steel was happy to allow Jacob Slaughter to minister to his needs. He had left Nate with Hansam’s half-company back at the camp to guard his kit. You never knew who might take a fancy to it. Now the big Geordie peered down at him through the half-darkness and offered his officer the part-filled tin cup.

‘Thank you, Jacob. Most thoughtful.’ He took a long drink from the mug and let the thick, acrid liquid trickle down his throat.

‘Can’t say that I’m keen to see this dawn, Sarn’t. But it brings us one more day closer to our return, eh? How are the men?’

‘All present, Sir. Sixty-three of our lads, and myself and Mister Williams. Though I don’t know as I’d say that they were all quite “correct”, if you understand me. Carter and Milligan are complaining of sores on their feet. Tarling looks like he might be coming down with the ague and Macpherson’s cut hi’self in the hand, on his bayonet, Sir. Cleaning it. Mister Williams is already standing-to. He’s a good lad. Keen as mustard. Just what we need.’

This then, thought Steel, was his escort with which to bring back the flour for the army and the precious treasure whose loss would bring Marlborough’s ruination. He chanced another sip of the steaming brew and winced at the taste.

‘We’ll need to move fast today, Sarn’t. Word will have got out that we’re here.’

They made an easy target in their obligatory scarlet coats, with the wagon train strung out along the road. They marched in full order, as if they might have been on duty at St James’, and Steel felt the gaze of a hundred imagined enemy eyes observing their every step and waited for the first shot to ring out from the tall trees that flanked their progress. Steel stood up, carefully, handed Slaughter the empty mug and folded his cloak. He brushed himself clean of the straw and mire from the floor and followed his Sergeant out into the cold dawn.

In the little courtyard the men were gradually assembling, stamping their feet and blowing on fingers.

Slaughter announced his presence: ‘Henderson, Mackay, Tarling. You others. Stand-to. Officer on parade.’

The men moved more smartly into line and formed three ranks.

‘Form them up, Sarn’t.’

‘Marching formation. Move to it.’

Within minutes the men had changed formation. Steel looked down the column of march. Forty wagons, strung out in line. Enough to carry 300 quintails of flour. That would keep the entire army in good supply for a day, but well divided and distributed, it might last for a week. Time enough for the command to find another source. He saw that each wagon was now flanked by a four-man escort. ‘At the command, the column will move off. Forward march.’

The sleepy civilian waggoners whipped their beasts into action and the red-coated column again began to move east.

They had been travelling for barely three hours when, reaching the top of a hill they saw the road stretch away before them in a shallow valley before climbing again steeply. And there, at the top of another hill, lay the distant roofs and gables of a village.

Steel, unused to riding with a supply train and impatient to increase the pace, pressed his thighs together and urged his horse, a chestnut mare that he had purchased in Coblenz and christened Molly, forward and down the slope. Dust rose from beneath her hooves and as she took up the pace to a gentle trot her harness added a high note to the rhythmic clank which marked the passage of a body of armed men.

For a moment, Steel stopped and turned in the saddle. He looked past young Williams and over the heads of the men then, turning back, dug his heels into Molly’s flanks before pulling a wad of tobacco from his pocket. He placed it in his mouth and began to chew. Steel’s only desire was to accomplish his mission as quickly as possible and return safely to where the army might next be encamped. Wherever that might be. He felt restless. In need of action. This was not the place for him, up here at the head of a marching supply train. Perhaps if he were to march with the men. He reined in his horse and slid from the saddle. Spitting the tobacco from his mouth into the roadside and grasping the reins, he slipped easily into time with the column, alongside Slaughter who grinned at him with pleasure.

‘Come to join us, Sir?’

‘Needed a change, Sarn’t. Just that.’

Slaughter pointed off to the left. ‘There it is again, Sir. More smoke. Men don’t like it. They was all talking about it last night.’

Over the last two days, as they had marched, they had become increasingly aware of tall plumes of smoke rising against the sky, visible from some distance. The men had wondered at them and suggested a number of explanations. That the French were burning crops, lest they fall into allied hands. That bridges and barges were being destroyed to impede their progress. Even that they indicated some great battle whose glory they had missed. But Steel knew what they really meant. Before they had left Hawkins had intimated one more fact to him and he in turn had passed it on only to Hansam, Williams and Jacob.

Marlborough was going to burn Bavaria. No one, God willing, soldier or civilian, would be killed. But in a last effort to force the Elector to quit his pact with the French, he would send out troops to lay waste every town they found. Steel was secretly appalled at the thought. Yet he understood how it fitted perfectly with the logic of the sort of warfare on which Marlborough had now embarked. This was total war. War waged by, almost, any means. So the horsemen would come with their burning torches and they would be ruthless, though yet with an edge of clemency.

Still, the rising grey-black clouds provoked him to a shiver. What effect would this have upon the native population, forced from their homes and rendered penniless? What reception might he and his men now expect as they made their way through this pleasant country whose neat fields and townships had lately so delighted his eye. He suspected that at best, should they find a village still intact, they would not be made to feel welcome. At worst, well who knew? Visions of ambush filled his mind. Of erstwhile lawful people taking the law into their own hands to revenge this outrage. Of redcoats with their throats cut in their sleep. Who could know what unexpected dangers awaited them? He moved to the side of the sweating horse and, unbuckling the saddle-bag, withdrew a worn and folded sheet of paper.

It was a map, given to him by Hawkins before they left. But while it showed the major towns and rivers, precious few of the villages were marked on it. Steel knew from the position of stars that he was still going east, with the Lech at his back and the other, smaller river they had crossed, the Paar, to the south. And that he realized, must mean that they were headed in the right direction and that one more day’s march along this road should bring them to their goal and then they could return to what they did best. Steel was no spy or secret agent. He was a soldier. Just that. He wondered that Hawkins had marked him out for this mission, then remembered Arabella. And with that memory came the sensation of a feather bed and a vision of her face. He spat tobacco husk on the ground. Christ but she was devious.

‘All right, Sir?’

‘Thank you, Sarn’t. Quite all right, thank you. Just impatient to get this job done.’

‘And get back to the army, Sir?’

‘Precisely, Jacob. The sooner we finish this business, the quicker we get to the French.’

Steel swatted at a mosquito that had settled on his cheek, for they were marching parallel to a small stream and a marsh, and the insects were beginning to discover this new quarry.

‘And the sooner we beat the French the quicker we shall all return north and away from this vermin-infested country.’

Slaughter kept quiet. He knew when Steel was in one of his rare moods of ill humour and recognized the moment. They came on fast and you could never predict them. Perhaps the coffee had unsettled him. He would have to remember that. Steel continued, addressing Slaughter but talking to no one in particular:

‘We have to find the French and give battle. And soon, otherwise we shall be sucked deeper into this country and our lines of communication stretched still further. But it would appear that at this precise moment not even Marlborough really knows where they might be.’

Two miles to the north, another red-coated column came to a halt. At its head, astride his grey mare, their officer too was reading a map. Aubrey Jennings was lost. Hopelessly lost. They had set off from the camp a day after Steel and, as advised by Stapleton, had taken a route parallel to his and to the north, by way of Wiesenbach and Eiselstredt. Inhospitable little places with tongue-twisting names and their people hidden behind shutters that creaked as they peered to glimpse the redcoats clanking through their cobbled streets. Outside the towns and villages the country of lower Bavaria was pleasant enough terrain, though hardly anything to rival the South Downs. Farmland mostly, but as they marched they found the landscape scarred increasingly by burnt-out farmsteads and peasants standing in the field, staring at them with hateful, weary eyes. From time to time Jennings was aware of a column of smoke trailing up skywards from another burning settlement. Clearly one of the opposing armies was at work hereabouts and it made the Major nervous. So nervous indeed that his attention had been deflected from their route.

‘Sarn’t Stringer.’

‘Sir.’

‘We’ll rest here for ten minutes. Have the men fall out.’

‘Very good, Sir.’

As Stringer shouted at the musketeers, and one by one the weary soldiers unslung their knapsacks and sat on the verge, Jennings looked back to the map. He was sure that they had passed through the village of Nieder-Berebach, but for the last four miles nothing had seemed to correspond to the geography which would have followed such a route, as stated on the plan. A river to his left he took to be the Paar. But why then did it not divide in two as was shown on his map? Now a bridge lay across their path along the riverbank and that, most certainly, was not marked. At this rate they would arrive at the rendezvous with Kretzmer long after Steel. And that must not happen.

‘Sarn’t Stringer. How far would you say we have covered today?

‘Today, Sir? Around ten mile, Sir.’

Yes. That is my reckoning. This river, Sarn’t. The Paar, is it not?’

‘Really couldn’t say, Sir. Not lost are we, Sir?’

Jennings scowled at him. ‘Lost? How could I be lost, Stringer?’

Jennings looked back at the map and tried turning it on its side so that the river as shown on its criss-crossed face lined up with that which lay before him. This was useless.

‘We shall proceed along the line of the river, Sarn’t. Due east.’

‘If you say so, Sir.’

‘Is it not due east?’

‘If you say so, Sir.’

‘Don’t be so dashed stubborn, man. Tell me this is due east.’

‘This is due east, Sir.’

‘Thank you, Stringer. And thus, if we simply follow the river we can turn to the right within two miles and march towards the south. We shall make camp for the night and, God willing, shall reach Sattelberg and our rendezvous with the flour merchant Herr Kretzmer by early tomorrow.’

‘If you say so, Sir.’

Jennings sighed and gave up, deciding that it would be best if they were to stop again after two miles and reassess the situation.

He sat down on the bare stump of a thick tree and, making sure that he had his back to the men, drew from his pocket the purse given to him by Stapleton. Here in his hand it felt heavier than in his coat. He fingered the bulges in its sides, tracing the outline of the coins. Unable to resist the temptation, he spread back the string, opened the mouth of the purse and pulled out one of the gold pieces. He turned it over in his hand, slowly, lovingly.

A cough made him raise his head, with a start. Stringer stood above him. He had told the Sergeant of the nature of his mission, although not of the precise detail of the precious papers. It was a good idea though to let the man in on the urgency and importance of the affair. Jennings knew that Stringer was a vital ally and suspected too that he might be an implacable enemy. Unabashed, he continued to flip the coin between thumb and forefinger.

‘You see, Sergeant Stringer, I am that unluckiest of men. I am the younger son. I do not inherit. All that I have is a pitiful allowance and that is it. My brother takes everything. You of course do not have such troubles. I once had expectations. Considerable expectations. But a young man soon learns his lot in life. Better to have had no hopes at all than to suffer bitter disappointment. You for instance, have only ever had to shift for yourself. Your family had nothing.’

‘Not quite nothing, Sir. My ma had a good little business when I was a nipper, selling mackerel in Honey Lane Market. Four for sixpence. But then she sold some bad fish and lost that job and we was poor and then she began to thieve. One day they caught her stealing silver lace from a shop in Covent Garden. They ’anged her till she was dead. Hanged my mother for six yards of lace. An’ I was left alone. Never known my father, see, Sir. That’s when …’

‘That’s when you fell in with a bad lot, eh?’

Jennings was tiring of the Sergeant’s history.

‘And you’ve been a rogue ever since.’

He laughed in what he took to be a spirit of camaraderie. Stringer did nothing to dissuade him.

‘Not any longer, Sir. I’m a Sergeant now, Major Jennings.’ He pointed to the silver lace which adorned his coat. ‘Respectable. Silver lace, Sir. And they won’t hang me for it, neither.’

Jennings nodded. ‘A respectable rogue then. And your mother would be proud. But a rogue, nevertheless. You cannot ever escape yourself, Stringer. In the end we all come to know our true selves. Whether at heart each of us is truly good or bad.’

Stringer, unsure as to how to reply, said nothing. Jennings looked again at the bag of gold coins and wondered. Would it be so very bad if a few were to go missing?

Stringer read his thoughts: ‘The Kraut would notice, Sir. He’s a merchant. They’re like that. Canny with money.’

Jennings, surprised by his lack of offence at the Sergeant’s remark, let it go. Then he thought about it. Stringer watched him.

‘Yes. You’re right. And it is not mine to take. It belongs to the party and it has a purpose far greater than my own pocket. Besides which, when I give it to Herr Kretzmer in return for the papers, my star will be so far in the ascendant that 500 crowns will be nothing.’

Stringer smiled, secure in the knowledge that if his master enjoyed good fortune then surely some of that luck would be visited in turn on him.

He was contemplating his coming prosperity when a dull thud, like air being squeezed out of a bag, made him turn his head in time to see one of the men flinch back from the impact of a musket ball which had struck his chest. There was a crack as another shot rang out from the trees to their left.

‘Alarm. To arms.’

The shots were coming fast now but few hit their targets. Jennings, ducking his head, peered into the darkness of the wood, but he could see nothing but the flash of musketry. ‘To arms. We are attacked.’

Quickly the redcoats jumped to their feet and gathered their muskets from the pyramid in which they had been piled, but not before more of the balls had found a target. Jennings saw four of his men go down as the sporadic fire increased. They were getting better, the enemy. He drew his sword, and looked for Stringer.

‘Sarn’t. Load as quickly as you will. Have the men fix bayonets. Form two ranks.’

‘Load your pieces. Fix … bayonets.’

Hurriedly the men obeyed, ripping open the cartridges, spitting the balls down the barrel and rattling their ramrods. But more fell under the relentless fire from the yet unseen enemy. They were starting to form a unit now. Dressing ranks, even under fire. Jennings scoured the ground. Twelve men at least were down. More, he guessed, hidden beyond the ranks before him. Three of them, wounded, were being helped to the rear of their makeshift position. There was not a moment to waste. He barked a command.

‘Make ready. Present.’

Sixty muskets came up to shoulder level.

‘Fire!’

Jennings’ company spat flame and was enveloped in thick white smoke. He heard the smack as their balls hit trees and tore leaves from branches, splintering wood and with it the more pleasing, softer thud as they bit into flesh. One man, in his haste to fire, had forgotten to extract his ramrod which had gone sailing across the field and embedded itself in a tree. Stringer rounded on him:

‘Wiggins, you careless bugger. Rear rank. Ware, you take his place.’

There was no use for a man with no ramrod in the firing line. Wiggins would just have to remain at the rear until he could retrieve a musket from a dead friend. Jennings guessed that he would not have too long a wait. With steely precision the redcoats reloaded.

Stringer had divided the remaining men into two platoons now and Jennings knew what would follow. The Sergeant’s voice carried towards the wood.

‘Number one platoon, fire!’

Again a volley crashed out from the British line. Half as strong as the first, but with a purpose. From the trees the enemy returned fire and began to reload and then Stringer barked again:

‘Number two platoon, fire!’

The second platoon squeezed their triggers and evidently caught the men in the trees off guard, for there was a momentary break in enemy firing.

But it did not last long and Jennings realized that such revolutionary tactics, which could work so well in open battle against an enemy who needed to pause to reload, would not have the same devastating effect against men who fired individually.

The men in the trees had begun to shout with excitement now, scenting victory. Stringer growled at the line:

‘Steady. Keep it up. Steady fire, lads.’

We must retire, thought Jennings. Form a defensive line. That was it. He wanted them shoulder to shoulder. Heel to heel.

‘Fall back. Regroup on me.’

Slowly, as they fired, the redcoats began to close up their shattered lines.

How the devil could whoever was firing at them keep up such a steady, withering fire? These must be regular troops, Jennings thought. Surely. But what regular infantry ever deployed in such a manner, using the trees for cover? Not showing themselves on the field? This was not the way to wage war. But, he thought, it was making a bloody mess of his company. The line was looking horribly ragged, with men falling every minute. The wounded crawled to the rear, legs broken, sides torn by musketry, arms hanging limp.

Jennings screamed out over the noise of gunfire: ‘Dress your lines.’

Stringer echoed him: ‘Close up. Close up, you buggers.’

They were down, he reckoned, to only around forty men now at all capable of returning the enemy fire. Jennings watched as, slowly, emboldened by their success, their assailants at last began to emerge from the cover of the wood. The men wore no uniforms. Some were in shirtsleeves, others in a variety of civilian dress, over which they had slung cartridge bags. They carried hunting guns mostly, although some had what looked like French or Bavarian issue muskets, topped with bayonets. Banditii, thought Jennings. Brigands. And they looked as if they meant to offer no quarter. He had been unlucky enough to run into a party of the bandits whom he had been told plagued these hills. Not only that but, by the look of it, he was outgunned and now in real and mortal danger of losing the encounter.

He looked for Stringer and realized what they must do. It was their only chance. A full-blooded infantry charge that might just catch the civilians off guard and send them scurrying off in terror. That, at least, was what he prayed.

‘Sarn’t. Have the entire line fix bayonets. We’ll give them the steel.’

‘Fix … bayonets. On guard.’

Most of the men had already done so, but the few who had not now screwed the steel socket bayonets into place over the corresponding nipple on their musket barrels.

‘Now men. For Farquharson’s. For the Queen. For …’

Jennings was on the point of giving the command when, from his right and slightly to the rear a thunder of musketry crashed out. A disciplined volley that through its smoke betrayed the presence of regular soldiers. And, it appeared, they were on his side.

He watched as the bullets thudded into the ranks of the peasants. The volley did not do as much destruction as it would have to men caught in close order. But it was enough. The marksmen and the farmers began to move back. One man stared at the bright red stain spreading quickly across his shirt, unable to comprehend his own destruction.

Jennings heard a single, distinctively English voice cry out: ‘Second rank, fire.’

Another crackle of gunfire and the smoke grew more dense. Before him, Jennings watched as the peasants began to run.

Jennings wondered who he had to thank for their salvation. He glanced to the right and through the cloud of white smoke saw a line of red coats, then he turned back to his front, looking for Stringer. He saw him some yards in front, anticipating their next move and Jennings raised his sword high above his head and circled it through the air. Their rescuers might have stolen his thunder, but by God, they would not take all the glory from this field:

‘Now men. With me. Charge.’

With a yell the front two ranks sprang forward to follow the Major and took the fight into the trees. Jennings felt the blood coursing through him as he leapt a tree trunk and pushed through the standing bracken. To the left and right he could see the bodies of dead peasants. There were wounded too. One man, propped up against a log, looked up at him with pleading eyes and held a trembling arm towards the Major while clutching at his bloody stomach with the other. Jennings ignored him and ran on, jumping the brush which covered the floor of the small wood. And then they were on them.

Glancing to his left Jennings was aware of a musketeer plunging his bayonet deep into the back of one of the retreating bandits. He saw the steel tip emerge from the man’s stomach, glistening red, and then the redcoat retrieved his weapon and before the man had slid to the ground had set off in pursuit of another.

Stringer appeared at his side, grinning and with a dripping blade.

‘Just like stickin’ pigs, Sir, ain’t it?’

Jennings stared at him. He returned Stringer’s smile and looked ahead where two of his men, intent on revenge, were smashing the head of one of their attackers to a pulp with the butts of their rifles.

‘Get on there, you men. Leave that one. He’s dead. Get after the others.’

The wood was not deep and emerging on to the other side, Jennings could see the survivors streaming away down the hill to its rear. Most of them had thrown down their weapons in their haste to escape. Several of the redcoats were kneeling down now, attempting to pick them off. But at this range Jennings knew there was little chance.

‘Re-form. Let them go, lads. They know when they’re licked. Well done, boys.’

As they returned through the wood, its floor slick with blood, Jennings again passed the corpses of their attackers. At the tree stump, the man with the pleading eyes was dead now. He lay there, gazing open-lidded up at the gaps among the branches. Jennings wondered for a moment who this would-be asassin might have been. He looked to be in his mid twenties. Might he be someone’s husband? Would he be missed at supper tonight in some miserable farm or perhaps around a sad campfire? It struck Jennings for an instant that, should he fall, should it be his form lying dead here rather than the farmer’s boy, then no one would grieve for Aubrey Jennings. Save perhaps the whores who plied the dark lanes between the Strand and Drury Lane and no doubt by his tailor in the Temple and those several other tradesmen to whom his bills also remained unpaid. It was a sad thought. No widow. No weeping children. Not even a parson to honour his name on Sunday. It seemed unjust that he should not leave someone with a broken heart.

Reaching the edge of the copse, Jennings looked to the left and through the clearing white smoke made out a single red-coated form.

He walked towards the young British officer, and doffed his hat in salute:

‘Thank God, Sir. Aubrey Jennings, Major. Farquharson’s Foot. I am in your debt. You came not a moment too soon. In truth, I thought we were done for.’

His wide smile changed to a look of incredulity as he realized that the redcoat officer who he had taken for a captain, was none other than Tom Williams, who beamed back at him. Jennings looked towards their rescuers. Saw the mitre caps and groaned.

‘Oh it was nothing, Sir. It’s Mister Steel you should thank.’

Jennings, frowning hard, turned and saw the familiar features. He said nothing.

Steel slung his gun over his shoulder:

‘Major, you know that you owe your life to young Williams’ sense of hearing?’

Jennings bit his lip. ‘His hearing?’

‘He had ridden a little way off from the wagons, Major. Told me he’d seen a wild deer and reckoned he might bag it for the pot. I told him to stick close to us but he rode clear of the sound of the wagons and then it was that he heard the gunfire. Your fire. He came tearing back to us, and here we are.’

Steel did not bother telling Jennings how hard a decision it had been to abandon the wagons temporarily on the road with a skeleton guard as they marched at double-time to his rescue. Nor of his disappointment to discover that it was none other than Jennings for whom they had risked their security. For what troubled Steel more than either of these matters was what the devil Jennings was doing there.

‘Indeed, Steel. It would seem that I do owe you thanks. Who were they d’you suppose? Not regulars, certainly. But why should the peasantry be provoked to attack?’

‘Haven’t you noticed the smoke, Major? They’re being burnt out of their homes. All their possessions destroyed. And it’s our men who are doing it. What would you do in similar circumstances?’

Jennings demurred. ‘They’re peasants. No more. They deserve everything we gave them. A dozen of my men dead, a score more wounded. And by nothing more than damned peasants.’

‘If they’re peasants, Major, they’re peasants good enough to take on the British army and damned near win. Would it be presumptious, Major Jennings, to ask how you come to be here? Are you come for us? Are we to be recalled?’

Jennings sensed the concern in Steel’s voice: ‘Oh no, Steel. We are come for you but you are to proceed as ordered. We are merely here to assist you.’

He paused, aware of the irony. ‘Colonel Hawkins asked me to follow you. He had been given intelligence that there were considerable numbers of Bavarian troops operating in this area and feared that you might be hard-pressed.’

Steel smiled, as determined not to let go the truth of their situation as Jennings was to ignore it.

‘It would seem then, Major, that what we have is a case of the apparently helpless coming to the aid of the rescuer.’

Jennings looked at him, stony faced.

Another thought entered Steel’s befuddled brain. ‘Colonel Hawkins sent you?’

‘Indeed.’

Steel was not sure whether to feel reassured or insulted. Did Hawkins not consider him capable of carrying out the task? Or was there truly a threat of greater numbers? And it struck him that it was curious that the Colonel should have sent Jennings rather perhaps than Hansam to his relief, when he was only too aware of their bitter enmity. He frowned and nodded at Jennings.

‘It is as well that you are here. It would not do to fail in this mission.’

Jennings smiled at him, strangely, and cursed under his breath. For with their rescue came the bitter truth that there was now little chance of his reaching Kretzmer before Steel and relieving him of the papers.

‘No indeed, Steel. That would not do at all.’

‘So now we should press on to Sattelberg?’

Jennings pondered: ‘No, Steel. I think it better to make camp here for the night. Best to put ourselves in order before we enter the town, eh?’

He paused beside one of the enemy corpses and turned over its white face with the tip of his boot. The man was no more than a youth. Barely eighteen.

‘These men may have been peasants right enough, but we beat them in the fight and we should show the rest of them why. Discipline, Steel. The iron discipline of regular, steadfast infantry. You can’t beat it. We can’t have the populace as a whole thinking the British army a bunch of ragamuffins. Wouldn’t do at all.’

Steel frowned. ‘But, Major, I must protest. You know of the urgency of this mission.’

Jennings looked hard at Steel. Could he know the true reason for his coming here?

‘I am well aware, Mister Steel, of the urgency of your quest. That we must return as soon as we can to the army, with the flour. Nevertheless I am your superior officer and I elect to pitch our camp here for the night. Herr Kretzmer I am sure will wait for us until morning.’

Steel glared and turned to Slaughter, who was busy binding the wound of a young Grenadier.

‘Sarn’t. Have the men fall out and make camp. We’re resting here tonight. Major Jennings’ orders.’

‘Here, Sir?’

‘Here, Sarn’t. Get to it.’

Jennings walked slowly over to the body of another dead peasant. The neat, black-scorched entry wound left by the musket ball in the man’s chest belied the bloody mess where it had exited his back. Jennings kicked at the corpse and stroked thoughtfully at his own chin. He needed this delay to decide on his next course of action. Obviously the original plan to pay Kretzmer before Steel’s arrival was as dead as the man at his feet. He would have to act on his initiative alone.

He was still hatching a plan a half-hour later, when Stringer approached him.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, Sir. But me and some of the men was wondering if you’d like to share in a piece of chicken, Sir. Found all legal and proper, Sir. Property of … no one in particular.’

Jennings smiled. ‘How very kind, Sarn’t. That would be most agreeable. And as it belonged to no one in particular then no word of it any further than our own little circle, eh? Now tell me, how do you intend to cook your chicken? Will you fricassee it or do the men prefer a ragout, d’you think?’

Steel watched the Major and his fawning Sergeant walk across to where a platoon of his musketeers were gathered about a fire over which they had suspended a stout straight branch between two cleft sticks. This was surely Stringer’s doing, he thought. He would have coerced the men into parting with some of their hard-won plunder, legal or not. As for the rest of them, he and Williams would make do with the bread and cheese he had carried in his pack for the past two days. Slaughter, he knew, had a bottle of rum.

There had not been time to bury the dead before nightfall. They had moved them though, covered them with what leaves and branches they could find in the half-light and laid them out under the cover of the trees that grew along the riverbank; the stench would blow with the wind away from the camp. It was not ideal, but that was ever the case with war. You simply had to make the best of your lot. He reached into his pocket for a wad of tobacco and placing it in his mouth began to chew. He had sent Slaughter back for the wagons, with a full platoon. The light was fading and empty as they were, there was nothing to be gained by chancing their loss. Walking across the camp, he found Tom Williams by the bridge, staring up at the sky.

‘I think that’s the Plough, Sir. Am I right?’

‘I think you are, Tom. Well done. We’ll make a woodsman of you yet.’

‘Good to have Major Jennings and his men, Sir, don’t you think?’

Steel spat a mouthful of the acrid tobacco juice on to the ground.

‘Yes, very good. Very good of Colonel Hawkins to keep me in his thoughts. Judging by today’s experience we will soon be glad of the extra men. But time is of the essence, Tom. We should not delay.’

Even as he spoke, and tried to tell himself to think nothing of it, Steel could not comprehend what had possessed Hawkins to send Jennings to his aid. Nor why the Major should have elected to spend the night here, among the corpses, when the town was so close at hand. And later, as he drew his blanket tightly around his still-clothed form and lay trying to chase sleep, while the gentle sound of the running water rippled through his consciousness, he found the thought still nagging at his mind. It was insistent as the intermittent hoot of an old barn owl that had come to sit in one of the high trees by the riverbank, gazing down greedily at the wide-eyed bodies of the dead.