Читать книгу Jack Steel Adventure Series Books 1-3: Man of Honour, Rules of War, Brothers in Arms - Iain Gale, Iain Gale - Страница 14

FIVE

The two men gazed at the tall column of smoke that climbed up lazily into the sky. Steel spoke:

‘Well, at least we know we’re not alone, Jacob. Three thousand horse dispatched as far as Munich with orders to burn and destroy all the country about it.’

The Sergeant grimaced and muttered under his breath.

‘Still. Best not tell the men, Sir. They don’t like it. Goes against the grain. Doing that to civilians. And it can’t help us neither. If you ask me, Mister Steel, we’re walking into trouble.’

‘Better to be here, Jacob, than kicking our heels with the rest of the army in the trenches besieging Rain. Or worse still out with the damned dragoons burning innocent civilians out of their homes.’

‘I’m blessed if I can fathom it out, Sir. I mean what are we doing here? Why send us, Grenadiers for God’s sake, the best of all the army, to find provisions?’

Steel shook his head and said nothing. I wish I could tell you, Jacob, he thought. But there are some things which even you cannot know. He looked ahead.

At least this village, whose white-painted houses now began to rise up ahead of him as they crested the slope, appeared as yet to have escaped utterly the ravages of Marlborough’s dragoons. Sattelberg. The rendezvous with Kretzmer.

‘Look, Sarn’t. No sign of burning here, at least. Perhaps they’ve stopped. We shouldn’t find any trouble.’

Slaughter nodded and smiled. But in his heart, Steel knew that it would not be in Marlborough’s way to finish this thing so soon. A few burnt townships would not be sufficient to make the point. If he really believed that these tactics would coerce the Elector, Steel knew that his commander would conduct a sustained campaign of terror. This was only the beginning. He grasped the pommel of his saddle and with a swift motion hoisted his leg up on to Molly’s back. Whatever his personal feelings, he also knew that to lead a column into a village required any officer to look the part.

Steel goaded the horse into a trot and rode along to the where Williams led the column. ‘Looks a pretty little place, Tom, don’t it?’

They had started from their bivouac an hour ago, travelling more slowly now, on account of the wagon train. Not that they had woken late. It had taken a good two hours to bury all the dead, from both sides. It was around nine in the morning now and, as they grew closer to the village Steel noticed in the neighbouring fields the cattle grazing happily and carts standing half-filled with harvested produce.

‘Villagers seem to be at their breakfast, Sir.’

‘Perhaps they’ll save some for us, Tom, eh?’

As the redcoats entered what appeared to be the place’s major street a single sheepdog, who had been standing in the middle of the highway, barked a greeting and ran off to the left.

Steel looked up to the windows, waiting for the usual inquisitive faces to appear. For the children to run to greet them with taunting rhymes and begging gestures. Waiting for the doors of the houses to open. For the women to stand on the thresholds. For his men to whistle at the pretty ones and mock the ugly and the old. Would they be treated, he wondered, with condemnatory silence, or openly jeered. He hardly thought it likely they would have a warm welcome. What they received though exceeded all his expectations. The column advanced still further into the half-cobbled street, until it was almost at a tall stone cross, in the very heart of the little community. Still, though the half-timbered houses stood neat and silent in black-and-white perfection, the bright summer flowers pretty in their painted wooden boxes, no doors were opened. Steel raised his hand in command.

‘Company, halt.’

Everything was just as it should be. Beside a well-maintained water pump sat a clean pail, ready to be filled. Smoke curled up from the chimney of the inn to his right and from those of several other houses. He fancied that he caught the faint smell of cooking on the air. Cabbage. And something else – a strange aroma.

On one side of the village square, beyond the cross, stood a small church, a solid enough structure of stone and wood in the local style. He looked around to find any other building of authority. The church would do. Surely the priest would know what was going on. Grasping his pommel, Steel dismounted and, drawing his fusil from its sheath on the back of his saddle, he slung it over his shoulder.

‘Mister Williams. Stay here. I’m going to find someone. Sarn’t, with me.’

With measured step, Slaughter at his side, eyes searching the windows and surrounding lanes, Steel walked towards the church. Pushing gently at the door, he found it to be open. Inside was a cool haven. It was a simple basilica of plain stone, enlivened by two large and unremarkable oil paintings of obscure Catholic saints in grizzly attitudes of martyrdom. At the far end stood an altar whose gold ornament and richness of decoration were in profound contrast to the dun-hued stone. The place reeeked of incense and damp.

Steel yelled into the cool gloom: ‘Hello. Monsignor?’

His words echoed around the stones. The place was quite empty.

Nodding to Slaughter to follow him, he turned and walked out, back into the square.

Jennings had ridden up and was talking to Williams. Steel walked over to them. ‘No one in there. No priest. No one. Where the hell is everyone?’

Jennings gazed down at him with the supercilious disdain of someone to whom that conclusion had long been obvious.

‘Yes, I do wonder.’

He took a handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at his nose.

‘So, Mister Steel. What do you suggest that we do now? As you rightly observe the place appears to be deserted. Where, d’you suppose, is our contact?’

Steel, more bemused than irritated, shook his head. ‘I have no idea, Sir. Really. I can’t fathom it.’

‘Well we’d better find someone. Let me try.’

He turned in the saddle towards the rear of the column.

‘Stringer.’

The Sergeant came running, eager-eyed, from across the village square.

‘Sir.’

‘See if you can find someone in this godforsaken place. Anyone. Take … a platoon and search the houses. One by one. Kick down any doors that are locked.’

Steel turned to Williams. ‘Tom, rest the men here. Have them sit down. Ten minutes.’

Ignoring Jennings’ raised eyebrows, he looked at Slaughter. ‘Come on, Jacob.’

Steel unslung his gun from his shoulder and, holding it at the ready, began to walk with the Sergeant, up the road which led away from the church to the left, and from where he could still hear the sound of the howling dog. He looked down at the dusty cobbles. There had been movement here recently. The earth, which would normally have lain in a dust across the round stones, had been displaced so that they shone in the pale sunlight. A lot of movement by the look of it. Following the line of the exposed cobblestones he looked up the road, tracing the path of those who had gone before. Houses flanked either side of the narrow street and at the top, at the edge of a field, stood a large structure, simpler than the rest. A barn.

He turned to Slaughter. ‘Come on. Keep your eyes open.’

Slowly, the two men made their way up the hill. From below they could hear the splinter of wood as Stringer and his men kicked in the doors of locked houses. As they neared the edge of the village he looked at Slaughter and nodded in the direction of the timber-framed barn.

Quickly, Steel pushed open the door of the building and was barely over the threshold when he retched. Instinctively, although the place was quite dark, he closed his eyes. It was all he could do to avoid vomiting.

The smell was vile, but what met his gaze was far worse.

The barn was filled with bodies. Men, women and children, piled high upon one another. There must have been six score of them. All ages. And all were quite dead. He knew that without even troubling to look. Whoever had done this thing had been thorough. Not a sound came from the place save the buzzing of the flies that hovered and settled on the lifeless forms. Sattelberg had been a small farming township, with a population of barely 120 souls.

And here they were. Murdered in cold blood and left to rot.

Left, rather, thought Steel, with the specific intention that they should be discovered. This, he knew, was not the work of any of Marlborough’s men. But that was precisely what those who had done it wanted those who were meant to find the bodies to suppose. This had been meant to look like the work of British soldiers, but whoever had really done it had certainly not been counting upon their handiwork being discovered first by a company of genuine redcoats.

Yet, Steel asked himself, what sort of men could have done such a thing? This sort of atrocity had not taken place in Europe for almost a hundred years. Not since the wars of Gustavus. Could this really be the way that his own age would now go to war? The assault on Schellenberg had indeed made him think. But this new horror was quite another thing. He looked down at the bloody cadavers. Saw the leg of a young girl, not yet ten, he thought, protruding at a sickening angle from beneath the torso of a half-naked woman streaked with dried blood, presumably her dead mother, her arms still wrapped around the child. He forced himself to walk deeper into the gloom. Saw the body of a boy, the top of his head blown off, and that of a girl in her teens, a gaping hole in her back marking the exit of a musket ball. Tripping over outstretched, lifeless limbs to make his way back to the door, he found the corpse of the priest, tumbled into a corner. He had died from a sword cut to his head.

Steel staggered to the door. What sort of men killed innocents in this way? Not men at all. Mere beasts. Choking again on the stench, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his face. Calling out into the street, he struggled to get the words out of his dry mouth.

‘Sarn’t Slaughter. In here. Burial detail.’

Slaughter walked towards him and entered the barn. For a moment he stood speechless then, covering his mouth with his hand, spoke in a quiet voice:

‘Holy Christ, Sir. Sweet mother of God. The poor bastards. Who the bloody hell did this? Not the French, surely? Not soldiers? Eh?’

Steel gazed at the corpses and managed at last to speak. ‘Well, I don’t think, Jacob, that it was our men. And it surely couldn’t be the Bavarians themselves. This surely is the reason why Major Jennings was attacked by those peasants. It can only have been the French. D’you think?’

‘I’m learning not to think in this war, Mister Steel, Sir. Christ. Will you look at them. The poor wee babbies too. Holy Mother. It’s inhuman. Inhuman, Sir.’

‘And that’s just what we were meant to think, Sarn’t. And anyone else who might have found this. This wasn’t meant for us. But you’ve seen the smoke. Let’s say you were Bavarian and that you found this. What would you think? Who would you suppose had done it? What would you do?’

Slaughter froze. ‘I … I’d say that it was us that had done it, Sir. The English. Or at least them Dutch dragoons that’s been burnin’ the villages. I’d swear to kill any redcoats that I saw. Oh Christ. I see, Sir. The bastards.’

‘Of course you’d think that. And of course you’d want to kill the bloody English, wouldn’t you? And you’d come looking for any of us you could find.’

They turned and left the charnel-house, stunned momentarily by the sunlight.

Jennings was advancing towards them up the street, his face a mask of anger. ‘What the devil’s going on, Steel? We can find no one down in the village. We’ve got work to do. There’s no time to dally here. Where’s the bloody agent? Have you found him? What’re you doin’ up here?’

Then he noticed the open door of the barn. ‘I say, what’s in here?’

Jennings walked up to the door, pushed it open to enter and instantly wished he hadn’t. They heard the sound of him puking on the floor and, after a few moments, he emerged, wiping his mouth and ashen faced. He dabbed at his nose with the cologne-scented handkerchief and reached into his waistcoat pocket for his snuff box. Tucking a pinch of the brown powder into each nostril, he sneezed violently and then, after a few moments, turned to Steel.

‘Good God. How revolting. Vile. Who? What d’you think? Must have been those brigands, eh?’

Steel shook his head. ‘These people are Bavarians, Major. Same as your “brigands”.’

‘Not the French?’

Steel nodded. Jennings struggled to regain his composure.

‘Of course, we had better burn the place. Burn all the bodies, eh? Poor buggers. Sarn’t. Organize a detachment. Burn the barn.’

Steel stared at Jennings, hard. ‘Sarn’t Slaughter. You will disregard that last order. No, Major. We are going to bury them. All of them. And then, after we file our report when we return to the camp, someone will be able to come here and find them and then they’ll all get the decent Christian burial that they deserve.’

Jennings opened his mouth to protest, but seeing the look in Slaughter’s eyes, he thought the better of it.

Steel continued: ‘We can’t bury them individually, of course. That would take far too long and we don’t know who’s still watching us, do we? Sarn’t Slaughter. See if you can find some shovels. There are bound to be some around here. Have the men dig two pits. Over there, in that field, to the west of the barn. And they’d better be quick about it. I don’t like this place.’

Steel turned and walked back down the hill in silence, followed at a short distance by the fuming Jennings. Reaching the square, he was struck by a sudden, ghastly thought. He turned to Williams.

‘Has anyone seen the agent? Tom? Take half a platoon. Visit every house in the village. See if you can find me a fat Bavarian. Any civilian, living or dead, who looks as if he might have been a man wanting to sell me some flour.’

Williams stared at him. ‘But, Mister Steel, Sir. Where are the villagers?’

‘Up there. Dead. All of them. Now find that bloody Bavarian.’

Where the hell was the man, surely not in the barn? And what of the precious papers?

He signalled to a group of a dozen Grenadiers.

‘You men. Come with me. See that building at the top of the street. It’s full of bodies. Bring them out and be careful with it. And while you’re about it see if you can find someone in there. We’re looking for a fat man. A Bavarian merchant. I’ll give tuppence to anyone who finds him.’

The young Ensign, stupefied, began to get about his task and as Steel was about to walk back up to the barn, Jennings caught his arm. He spat out his name, smiling.

‘Steel. Why don’t I try and find Herr Kretzmer too. You stay here and see if you can get this mess cleared up.’

Steel was silent. It occurred to him that if Jennings were to find Kretzmer himself then the man might mistake him for Steel and offer him the vital papers. What, Steel wondered, would the Major make of them? It was imperative that he find Kretzmer. How though, he wondered, might he decline Jennings’ offer. To do so would be to disobey what amounted to a direct order.

He was still wondering when the cellar door of a small one-storey house directly behind Jennings banged open against the ground and up from the basement, like some demon emerging on to the stage of one of Mr Pinkeman’s famous plays, a white-faced figure emerged. The man was a civilian, his pallid features topped off by a dusty brown wig, his ample form straining against the buttons of a dark red velvet coat and somewhat under-generous pair of cambric breeches. From the state of his clothes and the straw in his wig, he had evidently contrived to get into some place of safety when the French had fallen upon the hapless villagers. The man caught sight of the red-coated soldiers and smiled, hopefully.

Jennings, unaware of the newcomer’s presence, stood grinning at Steel, still believing him to have been outfoxed. Steel smiled and coughed, pointing slowly towards the door.

Jennings turned around. Steel spoke:

‘Gentlemen. I think that we may have found our man.’

He nodded to the newcomer. ‘Herr Kretzmer?’

The man nodded. Jennings turned, unable to believe this latest stroke of bad luck. Steel continued, speaking in French.

‘Lieutenant Steel, Sir. You have, I believe, a quantity of flour that I am charged to purchase on behalf of Her Majesty’s army.’

Kretzmer smiled. ‘Thank God you are here. The French. I was terrified. It was dreadful. I managed to hide myself in the cellar. I just heard the screams. Did they kill them all?’

‘Everyone.’

Kretzmer looked at the ground. Wiping his eyes with his hand he shook his head.

Steel spoke: ‘Come, Herr Kretzmer. Let us do business. You have the flour?’

Kretzmer, ever the businessman, looked Steel in the eye and nodded. ‘Yes. I have the flour. If you like it.’

Jennings cut in. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Kretzmer. Aubrey Jennings, Major, Farquharson’s Foot. I am Lieutenant Steel’s commanding officer.’

Not quite yet you aren’t, however much you might wish it, thought Steel.

Jennings continued: ‘We have business, Herr Kretzmer. Shall we?’

Kretzmer led them across the village square to a tall stone building that stood by the church. He took a large iron key from his pocket and turned it in the lock, then opened one of the two doors. Inside they saw sacks piled high upon one another. There was enough flour here, thought Steel, to keep the army fed for at least two weeks. He called across to the cook, sent by Hawkins.

‘You there. Cook. Come here. Time to work for your keep.’

It had become common practice for civilian contractors to mix in sand with grain or flour. The only way to tell if it was right was to open a sack at random and the only person sufficiently skilled to estimate the likelihood of it being representative of the entire consignment was a cook.

Sitting himself down at a low table that stood in a corner of the store, Steel watched as the man slit open one of the bags, allowed a little of the fine white powder to trickle to the floor and then put his hand in. He put it to his lips.

‘That’s flour, Sir. Fine flour, Sir. As good as any we’ve had.’

‘Fine. Well that’s good enough for me. Herr Kretzmer.’ Steel motioned to the merchant and produced a purse. ‘You may count it out if you wish.’

The merchant, his sad eyes now bright with greed, sat down on a hay bale and undid the drawstring on the purse before emptying the contents on to a small bench table. Eagerly, expertly, he counted out the coins and flipped them back into the purse.

Jennings watched attentively and turned to Steel.

‘Best get the money put away once he’s finished, before the men have sight of it. Never good for them to see money, eh, Steel? But I don’t suppose that you see very much of it either.’

The door opened and Stringer entered.

‘Major Jennings, Sir. I think you had better come. It’s Murdoch. He’s asking to see you, Sir. Reckon he won’t last much longer, Major.’

Darting an anxious glance back at the two men, Jennings followed his Sergeant from the room. Alone now with Kretzmer, Steel watched as he finished counting the coins, then turned away. Now, he thought. The dying wish of Private Murdoch, wounded in the fight with the peasants, to see his officer had given him what might be his only chance.

He crossed the floor of the store and stood at the bench just as the man dropped the last coin into the purse and drew the string. Then, saying nothing, Steel placed his fists on the bench and slid one hand deftly over the purse, wresting it easily from Kretzmer.

‘And now, Sir. I believe that we have other business. You have something else for me. Something for which I am also contracted to pay you?’

Steel produced another bag of gold coins from his valise.

Kretzmer pretended surprise and smiled. ‘Yes, Lieutenant. I have your papers. Come. I will take you to them.’

High up on the lush, green eminence which overlooked what had been the peaceful village of Sattelberg, Major Claude Malbec, second in command of the Grenadiers Rouge, the most unruly, immoral and consistently victorious regiment in King Louis’ army, knelt down on the dew-sodden grass before his men and reflected on the little vignette that had unfolded beneath him. He smiled. He had not expected his quarry to be cornered quite so easily. He twisted an end of his moustache and considered his good fortune. Following the fight at Schellenberg, he had been sent here with his battered command by his senior officer, Colonel Michelet, with orders to find a Bavarian merchant bearing some papers vital to the war effort. Not plans or orders, he had been told, but personal papers of some significance to the Duke of Marlborough. It was a prestigious mission and Malbec was honoured. They had arrived earlier that day, but of the Bavarian there was no trace. Some of the townspeople said they had seen such a man. But no one knew where he was now. It had occurred to Malbec that they might be hiding him, but even under interrogation the men had denied knowledge of his whereabouts.

The massacre had been a little twist of his own, fuelled by his rising frustration at having failed in his mission. In truth though, he thought it now a stroke of inspiration. How it would incense the Bavarian peasantry against the British and their German allies and as word of it spread throughout the countryside, it would also undo any ill-feeling against their own leader and the French wrought by Marlborough’s burnings. True, a couple of his men had expressed their opposition to the killings. But for the most part there had been no problem. Besides, however much his commanders and those back in Paris might decry what Marlborough was doing, it was no different, in fact less severe, than the devastation the French themselves had wrought upon the Palatinate in Lower Bavaria barely twenty years ago. What hypocrites, he thought, in the high command. How long would they ever survive in the field. What did they know of the cruel reality of war?

Acting on a hunch that sooner or later the British would arrive to find the merchant, Malbec had taken his men off to this hill. And now his perception had paid off. He watched as the tall redcoat officer, who, with his strange appearance, looked curiously familiar, emerged from the building with the fat Bavarian. Together the two men walked across the square and the German descended steps into the cellar of a building. He re-emerged carrying a small chest. Malbec watched as the man unlocked the wooden box and carefully withdrew a small package. This must be what he had been sent to take. Now all that remained was for him and his men to relieve the British of their prize.

Standing in the town square, Steel looked away from Kretzmer for a moment and up towards the barn. It seemed to him from here as if his Grenadiers might have already filled one of the shallow grave pits dug in the field behind the building. Several of them, he could see, bareheaded and in their shirtsleeves, were starting to pull out yet more of the bloodied bodies. He turned back to Kretzmer and saw that he had extracted a bundle of papers from the chest. Steel was just stretching out his hand to take it, when he heard the first shot. A musket ball whirred past his head and struck the wall of the tall white house behind him.

‘Christ.’

Steel ducked instinctively to the ground, as he did so pushing over the merchant on to the cobbles.

‘Get down.’

To their left he heard a word of command in French and then more guns spat fire. Up on the hill four men went down from the Grenadiers.

‘Cover. Take cover.’

Keeping his head down, Steel pulled Kretzmer up from the ground and dragged him behind a water barrel. As other shots rang out across the street, ricocheting off stone and wood, he called towards where, from the corner of his eye, he had seen Slaughter execute a similar manoeuvre.

‘Ambush. Take cover! Sarn’t Slaughter. Are you all right?’

‘Fine, Sir. Never better. D’you think that’ll be the French then, Sir?’

‘Well I don’t suppose it’s the bloody Foot Guards. Tom? Everyone else unhurt?’

‘Sir.’

‘Evans has caught one. Think he’s dead, Sir.’

‘Where the hell are they? Anyone know?’

Slaughter answered: ‘There’s some behind that big house over on the right, Sir. A hundred yards, maybe less. Some more behind you, near the church.’

How the hell the French, if that was indeed who they were, had got into the village God only knew. But here they were and, unless he did something about it, Steel realized that slowly but surely, most of his men were going to die. And then, if these were the same men who had massacred the villagers, any who surrendered would almost certainly be butchered in cold blood. He thought fast and looked up from his position on the ground and around the village, assessing strengths and weaknesses.

The wagoners were cowering beneath their vehicles and the horses were whinnying in the traces. Three narrow roads led off the village square. One leading up the hill went to the barn and the corpses. As far as he was aware, despite the casualties, there was still the best part of a platoon of Grenadiers up there, under Corporal Taylor. Thirty more Grenadiers were in one of the roads off to the right with Slaughter and the remainder close to him and Williams. Of Jennings there was no sign. Steel knew that they had laid the wounded men from Jennings’ company in a large house further up the hill towards the barn and presumed that the Major might still be there with what men remained fit to fight. He would have to make do with the Grenadiers. Better that way, they were men he could trust. He shouted across the street.

‘Sarn’t Slaughter. You take care of the lot to my rear. We’ll do what we can up the hill. See you back at the camp. Good luck.’

He realized that Kretzmer was still with him. The merchant, shaking like a leaf, was stuffing the bundle of papers inside his waistcoat and trying to make himself invisible behind a barrel. Steel had no idea of the strength of their enemy. Certainly the fire had been strong initially, although since they had taken cover it had become more sporadic.

There was nothing for it. He turned to Williams.

‘Tom. I’m going to take ten men and create a diversion. When you can see where they’re firing at me from, take the rest and rush their position. You should only have thirty yards or so to run. They won’t have time to reload. Prime your grenades before you go and throw them when you’re ten yards out. Got that? Ten yards, then hit the ground. Wait for the explosions and then in you go with the bayonet. Right?’

‘Sir.’

Williams’ eyes were alive, the adrenalin pumping through him.

Steel looked around at the men crouching behind the barrels.

‘Tarling, Bannister, Hopkins. Come with me. The rest of you, go with Mister Williams. Grenades boys. Send them to hell.’

Steel looked at his men, then down at Kretzmer, who was whimpering. Steel cursed:

‘Oh Christ.’

He tugged at the man’s sleeve. ‘Come on. Venez avec moi. And run like blazes.’

Leaping from the cover of the wooden casks, they erupted into the street, Steel dragging the fat Bavarian at his side. Instantly the enemy musketeers opened up. Head down, legs like lead in a lolloping run, Steel, his arm firmly around Kretzmer’s flabby waist, cast a look over his shoulder. He could see two ranks at least, maybe more. White coats and brown moustachioed faces topped with bearskin hats. French Grenadiers. A half company or more. Regular infantry. Could these men really have been the authors of the crime in the barn? Steel was making for the safety of an open door in a half-timbered house across the street when he felt the balls from the first volley smacking the air around his head. He sensed that one of his men had gone down, but had no idea who. And then they were inside the door. Looking out into the street, Steel saw Bannister lying face upwards, a hole through his temple, and looking down the street he could see the French reloading, priming their pans. Come on, Tom. Where the hell was the young Ensign? In an instant it would be too late. Then, not a moment too soon and with an animal roar, Williams and his ten men appeared from behind the wagon. They charged down the street straight towards the French Grenadiers, the young officer, his sword drawn leading the way, his face split in a rictus of anger. Steel watched as the French, their loading not yet completed, start incredulously as the ten Grenadiers came straight for them. It was lunacy, eleven men charging nigh on five times their number, drawn up in line three ranks deep, their flanks secure against two sides of a street. But this was a madness for which the French had not allowed.

Steel watched with fascination as their expressions turned to alarm and then surprise as, at ten yards out, the Grenadiers stopped short and hurled their fizzing black iron balls. Then the full horror of the situation hit the French. He looked on at the different reactions. Some men turned and ran. One threw down his musket. Others stood rooted to the spot and watched in silence as the black orbs glided through the air towards them. Their officer, standing at their side, his sword raised ready to command another volley, stood open mouthed. Williams and his men threw themselves down on the cobbles, covering their heads with their hands. And then the bombs exploded. All of them.

For once not one sputtered out and the French Grenadiers were ripped apart by shards of red-hot metal that tore at skin, sinew and bone, cutting their evil way through heads, necks, limbs, and torsos. The street disappeared in a cloud of black and grey smoke and gouts of blood. Some fragments of the grenades hit walls and tore shards of masonry and pan-tile free, sending them showering down on the enemy troops below.

Steel, who had closed the door against the blast, opened it cautiously and surveyed the scene. Gradually, as the smoke cleared, he made out a tangle of bodies and body parts lying across the street where a few seconds before the French had been drawn up. Williams pushed himself up from the road on his palms and got to his feet, coughing away the debris in his throat and brushing the dust and brick from his coat. He was followed by his ten Grenadiers, some of whom had begun to laugh. And Williams too found himself laughing with relief. For where the Frenchmen had been, lay nothing but a heap of dead and dying men. Through the dusty air Steel glimpsed the forms of perhaps a half-dozen of the white-coated infantry running for their lives and behind them, supporting each other, another five wounded. But of the rest nothing remained save broken bodies. Steel emerged from the house and, still steering Kretzmer, making sure not to let him go, led his remaining men towards Williams.

‘Well done, Tom. Couldn’t have made a better job of it myself.’

He patted the boy on the back. Williams turned round. He was staring wildly and his mouth hung wide open.

‘They. They just disappeared. We did it. We killed them all. We did it. Look, Sir.’

Steel knew the reaction. The absolute shock of the first battle. He knew that the only thing to do now was to carry on. Move to the next killing ground.

‘Yes, Tom you did it. And bloody well. Now take your men and follow up. Get into cover over there and see if you can find out if there are any more of the buggers in the place.’

He looked down at a dead Frenchman. Now there could be no doubt as to who had committed the atrocity. The man was a Grenadier. French, wearing a dark brown bearskin cap which bore a brass plaque with a distinctive cipher which Steel had seen once before.

‘I know that uniform. This is the same regiment we met at Schellenberg. I was told there were no enemy in these parts. What the hell are these buggers doing here?’ He turned to Hopkins, Tarling and another man, Jock Miller.

‘You three, come with me. Let’s see if we can help Sarn’t Slaughter.’

At that moment he became aware of the crack of gunfire from the street leading off to the right where he had sent Slaughter. Quickly, with Kretzmer still in tow, they ran across the square. There was firing, too, coming from further up the hill, by the barn. Taylor. He would have to wait. Entering the narrow street, Steel found Slaughter and his men pinned down behind a makeshift barricade of barrels and furniture. Steel, Kretzmer and the two Grenadiers dashed for cover and slid down next to the Sergeant. Slaughter was hot with the battle, and his face was decorated with a long, shallow cut across the forehead. Steel pointed to it.

‘All right, Sarn’t?’

Slaughter put up his hand and wiped away the blood.

‘it’s nothing. Just a graze. Bastards took us by surprise, Sir. We’ve three men down, but we managed to throw together some cover.’

Steel poked his head half an inch above the parapet of a chair leg and glimpsed another line of French Grenadiers. Another fifty, perhaps sixty men. Christ, they had come in some force to do their filthy work. A company at least, and the men up on the hill. The end of the street exploded again in another volley of French fire. The British crouched as low as they could as the musket balls zinged through gaps in the flimsy wooden barricade. Two men cried out as they were hit. Another fell dead without a sound.

Slaughter spoke. ‘Begging your pardon, Sir, but do you think we might get out of here now. It’s starting to get a bit hot for my liking.’

‘My sentiments entirely, Sarn’t.’

Steel looked to his right where, as he had dropped down, he thought he had seen an open doorway. Sure enough, there it was.

‘Right, Jacob. I’ll take ten men and outflank them. We’ll go through that house. You stay put. See if you can keep them at the end of the street with ragged fire. When you hear me shout, have the men stand up and rush the Frogs. Use your grenades and then give them the bayonet. You know what to do. They won’t see you. Trust me.’

Slaughter looked at Steel. He had never had cause not to trust him and he certainly did not intend to start now.

‘Right you are, Sir.’

‘Go to it, Jacob. It’s time to make them pay for what they did to those poor bastards up on the hill.’

The Sergeant looked grim and nodded his head. He drew his bayonet from its scabbard and slotted it on to the end of his fusil. Steel edged towards the house.

‘Hopkins, Miller, Tarling. The first seven of you men. Come with me.’

Still crouching, he led them into the house and prayed that there would be a rear door through which they could exit into the next street. Inside, full plates of food on the table and a child’s doll lying on the floor bore grim testimony to the violent end of the house’s former inhabitants. Steel did not pause to think. Pushing Kretzmer into a chair, he put his finger to his lips and waved his hand parallel to the floor in an attempt to tell the man to stay there and wait for his return. He needn’t have worried. The sweating merchant, confused and terrified by what had happened earlier in the day and now aware of the full horror of which he had so nearly become a part, really didn’t look as if he wanted to go anywhere.

Moving into the kitchen Steel found what he was looking for and cautiously edged the door open. The street beyond seemed empty. Carefully unbuckling his belt, he laid it down on a table, unsheathed his sword and slung his fusil over his shoulder. His men did the same. There must be nothing about them to make any noise which might alert the enemy. The Grenadiers, bareheaded now like their Lieutenant, knew the drill that he had taught them so doggedly and soon each man was left with only his gun, with its bayonet fixed and two leather pouches, one with ammunition, the other containing two grenades. Each of them touched a slow match at the embers of the fire which still burnt in the grate and threaded it carefully through a buttonhole in his coat, where it would smoulder until needed to ignite the bombs.

Waving his hand slowly along the line of the street, Steel motioned the men to follow him and left the house. He could hear intermittent sputtering musketry from up on the hill that could only mean the burial detail was still holding out. Perhaps too Jennings, wherever he was, had managed to assemble enough men for a spirited resistance. The Grenadiers stuck close to him, following the line of the wall. This was how he had taught them to fight. To use their initiative, hugging whatever cover they could and above all being absolutely silent.

From the parallel street he could hear the sound of Slaughter’s men delivering sporadic fusil shots and the occasional crashing volley in return as the French brought all their weapons to bear on the barricade, splintering wood and tearing through fabric with lethal ferocity.

Steel and his men moved slowly, with an almost feline stealth, along the line of houses, being careful not to linger between any two buildings. Within minutes they had drawn parallel with the French line. Three houses faced directly on to their flank. That would be enough. Making a circular sign with his hands to signify a grenade, Steel dispatched three Grenadiers into each of the buildings. They would know where to position themselves to give a sweeping field of fire over the Frenchmen. Steel and the last man, Hopkins, entered the centre building and climbed the narrow stairs. He moved at a crouch across a large bedroom and positioned himself beneath a half-leaded window. The Grenadiers waited only for his command.

Steel took a long breath. He calmed himself for the moment and with painstaking precision brought up his gun. Slowly, he eased the latch on the window and swung it open, at the same time pulling back the cock of the fusil. Like all of his men he had already primed the pan. Steel reached into his ammunition pouch and drawing out a cartridge, bit off the end before pouring the powder down the barrel and spitting in the ball. With his left hand he took the ramrod from its socket and gently prodded the bullet home. Now he was ready. Edging forward to the sill, he took careful aim. The officer was his. Steel fixed him tight in the sights. He was a handsome young man, barely twenty perhaps. An Ensign. Williams’ exact counterpart. Again the thought crossed his mind. How could these men have done such a thing? Now was not the time to ask. Steel put his finger against the trigger of his gun and, comfortable with the familiar fit, began to squeeze. With a sharp crack and a puff of white smoke the image disappeared before his eyes and then all was chaos. Looking down at the street Steel could see the young French officer lying dead on the cobbles. Eight more Frenchmen lay wounded, dead and dying around him. The remainder, apparently with no officer now, had turned their eyes towards the three houses from which the Grenadiers were firing and had begun to take aim at the windows, but before they had time to fire a rain of black grenades fell into the street. The French ducked instinctively, but there was no escape. The sputtering fuses burnt deep into the packed explosive and the lethal metal shards did their job. All but two of the grenades exploded and the street became a mess of smoke and blood.

From his right, Steel heard a great cheer as the twenty men with Slaughter charged up the street and into any of the French who remained standing. Confident that the Sergeant would finish them off, Steel rattled back down the stairs and out into the street. There was no need for caution now. He could still hear musketry from high on the hill but there was something else he had to do before going to the aid of Taylor or Jennings.

Crashing back into the house where he had abandoned Kretzmer, he found the man exactly where he had left him, frozen to the chair. Two Grenadiers stood guard over him. One of them, Tom McNeil, grinned at him.

‘Thought we should make sure no harm come to him, Sir.’

Steel smiled. ‘Very good, McNeil.’

He turned to Kretzmer. He had to act now, before Jennings returned, if the Major were still alive.

‘Now, Herr Kretzmer. We have some unfinished business to conclude.’

‘Sir. Yes. I have your papers.’

Reaching into his pocket, Kretzmer held out a small package to Steel. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Quickly, still holding the gun, Steel fumbled with the twine and managed to slip it off. Placing the package on the table he deftly opened one side and slid out what appeared to be the first of several pieces of parchment. It bore the ancient royal seal of the Stuart monarchy and a Paris address and was addressed clearly, in a long spidery hand, to the future Duke of Marlborough. Yes, these were the crucial papers.

Steel pushed the second purse towards Kretzmer who weighed it in his hand. He smiled and had just slipped it inside the capacious inner pocket of his coat when the door opened and Jennings appeared. He was sweating and his face was flushed with the exhilaration of victory. There was blood on his sword. Kretzmer winced. Steel pocketed the papers.

‘We’ve done it. They’re on the run. It was a damn close thing though. Lost a few men. What happened here? See any action. Oh, I say, Steel. You appear to have cut yourself.’

Steel wiped his hand across his cheek and felt the blood. ‘We saw them off.’

Jennings stared at Steel, then saw Kretzmer.

‘So, do we have what we came for, Mister Steel?’

‘The flour, Sir? Yes, we have the flour.’

‘Then our business here is done, Lieutenant, is it not?’

‘So it would seem, Sir.’

Jennings looked at his sword and noticing the blood, picked up a linen tablecloth which lay across the top of a chair and wiped it clean before sheathing it. He turned to Steel.

‘Now, Lieutenant, you will take yourself off up the hill and ascertain as to whether your burial detail has finished interring those poor villagers. Then you will find another burial party from the Grenadiers and bury the dead from the later encounter.’

‘Sir?’

‘You have a problem, Steel?’

‘I am to find the burial party from the Grenadiers alone.’

‘Why certainly. My men are far too exhausted for such work. They have just fought a battle, Steel. Besides, you pride yourselves on being the biggest and the fittest men of the army. Most certainly you shall find the burial party from the Grenadiers. Now if you please, Mister Steel.’

Steel, feeling the rage rise inside him, managed a nod towards Jennings and left the room. The Major relaxed in triumph and turned to Kretzmer.

‘Now, Herr Kretzmer. I have a question for you. You came here with something more than flour, yes?’

Kretzmer eyed him carefully. Unsure how to answer.

‘Yes. That is true.’

‘You have a paper. A parcel, for which we are to pay you.’

‘Yes, Herr Major. But you have already done so. The Lieutenant …’

Jennings brought his fist hard down upon the table. ‘Damn the man to hell!’

Kretzmer shied away from Jennings’ fury.

‘I am sorry, Major. Was that not right? He knew about the paper. He had the money.’

Jennings stared at him. ‘You fool. You stupid, stupid little man.’

For a moment the terrified merchant thought that Jennings might be about to hit him. Instead, the Major turned on his heel and began to walk quickly from the room. At the door he paused and hissed back at Kretzmer:

‘Tell anyone of this, and you’re a dead man.’

Outside in the town square, red-coated soldiers were busy collecting weapons and equipment from the dead. Jennings walked towards them, his hands curled tight by his side in clenched fists.

Since being rescued by Steel he had not held out much hope of being able to purchase the papers. So now, he thought, he would have to go to the trouble of putting his plan into action. He scanned the figures in the street and at length found the man he was looking for: ‘Sergeant Stringer.’

‘Sir?’

‘I have a proposition for you. I propose to make you a very rich man.’

The Sergeant flashed a smile.

‘You will recall our conversation on the matter of Captain Stapleton’s gold and the fact that I was to pay Herr Kretzmer to procure the papers?’

‘Sir.’

‘There has been a change of plan.’

Stringer’s weasel eyes narrowed.

‘As Mister Steel contrived to speak to Herr Kretzmer before us, it would appear that he has taken the papers for himself and thus we can no longer buy them from that gentleman. In short Herr Kretzmer is no longer of any use. Lieutenant Steel, on the other hand, is vital to our plans. And here is the rub. If you are with me in this, Stringer, which I perceive from your expression you are, we must contrive some means of relieving Mister Steel of those papers. The gold of course now belongs to me. Or rather us. For if we return to Major Stapleton with the documents he will expect the gold to be forfeit. And who will say that we did not pay Herr Kretzmer?’ Stringer furrowed his brow in thought.

‘Mister Steel, Sir?’

‘Mister Steel, Stringer. Our only problem is Mister Steel. What would you say we should do to solve that problem, Stringer?’

The Sergeant thought again and then, as the solution came to him drew close to Jennings’ ear:

‘Kill him, Sir. Settle him for good.’

‘Yes, Stringer, I do think for once, that you may be right.’