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SEVEN

Slaughter met Steel at the door of the inn. The Lieutenant’s eyes were wide with anger and fear.

‘Where is she? Is she all right?’

It was a stupid question and he regretted it instantly. The Sergeant gave him a gentle smile. He put a hand on his shoulder, half in comfort, half to prevent him from advancing any further before his mind had time to settle. He knew well what his officer was capable of and knew that in the heat of the moment the Bavarian would not stand a chance.

‘Come on, Jacob. Let me through. I must see her.’

‘Perhaps not just yet, Sir. She’ll be all right. She’s a tough girl.’

‘Jacob. I mean it. Let me pass. I’ve got Taylor with me.’

At the mention of the man’s name the Sergeant let his grip relax a little. Matt Taylor, a Corporal of the Grenadiers, had a little knowledge of medicine, chiefly of the herbal kind. Slaughter knew that Steel approved of that. Over the months, Taylor had become the elected apothecary of the company. It was only fitting, for before conviction for fraud had forced him into the ranks, he had served three years of a seven-year apprenticeship to the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries in London and had studied botany at the Physick garden at Chelsea. Since then Taylor had used plants and roots to cure everything from colic and scurvy to toothache, the soldiers’ curse, and even the malaria which often followed from mosquito bites.

‘Very well, Sir. Come on, Matt.’

The three men walked quickly through the inn and into the back room. Jennings stood by the door, his back against the scene:

‘I did what I could, but it was too late. The brute had had his fun already. It was really all too sordid. Poor dear girl. Can you deal with it, Steel? Not my area I’m afraid.’

Jennings smiled and made his way towards the door of the inn. Steel froze in the entrance to the back room. The air stank of sex and sweat. Louisa sat in the far corner of the room, her ripped clothes pulled up around her, her face bruised, staring wildly. She was sobbing gently. Kretzmer was sitting in the chair in the opposite corner of the room. His hands and feet had been bound and a bruise that had half shut his eye and a cut on his cheek bore testimony to his treatment at the hands of his captors. Steel turned to Taylor:

‘Matt. See what you can do for her. Be gentle.’

He marvelled at his own stupidity. To have left the girl unguarded at night in the presence of so many men. The Grenadiers were not a concern, but why had he not considered the others? Jennings’ men or the waggoners and the cook. Why, had he not considered Kretzmer?

‘Christ, Jacob. I’m a bloody fool. We should have posted a guard on her. A deserted town and a company of redcoats. I’m a bloody fool. It’s my fault.’

‘If you think that, Sir, then you are a bloody fool. It’s no one’s fault. She’ll be all right. Matt’s with her now.’

Steel watched as the Corporal bent to talk to Louisa, whispering to her as you would to a frightened or wounded animal. He saw her initial terror turn gradually to calm and then stood to one side as Taylor brought her out of the room and carried her gently up the stairs. Taylor turned back to him:

‘It’s all right, Sir. You can leave her with me now. Get some sleep.’

Turning back to the room, Steel gazed at the Bavarian with utter revulsion. In other circumstances he would have killed the man out of hand and taken the consequences. But he knew that as it was, in front of the men and particularly in the presence of Jennings, who would use any opportunity now to bring about Steel’s ruination, he had to behave by the rules. And the rules stated that Kretzmer would be taken with them under guard back to the camp where he would be given a fair trial. Only then, if there was any justice in this world, would they be permitted to hang him. It would be a long wait.

Morning brought another bright day, the promise of unremitting heat and with it the sickening memory of the events of the previous evening. Steel climbed the stairs to Louisa’s room and knocked at the door. Slowly it opened and Taylor’s face appeared.

‘How is she?’

‘No better than you may imagine, Sir. He was that rough with her.’

‘Should I speak to her?’

‘I don’t see why not. I don’t have any German, Sir, but in the night she did say your name a few times. In the fever.’

‘Thank you, Taylor.’

Steel walked across to the bed where Louisa lay dressed in a cotton nightshirt beneath fresh white sheets, her blonde hair framing her head like a halo. Taylor had done a good job of cleaning her up, although she still bore a heavy bruise where she had been hit hard on face and without looking too closely, Steel could see there were others on her neck. She opened her eyes, looked at first alarmed at the presence of another man in the room, but then realized who it was.

‘Oh. You. Lieutenant, I … Do you have him. Do you have …’

She stopped herself, quickly remembering what she must not say.

‘I’m sorry, Miss. I shouldn’t have come. It’s just that I. Forgive me, but I was genuinely concerned. I feel … responsible for this.’

She smiled. ‘You? How could you?’

‘I should have placed guards. Should have had men I trust within the inn. Who knows what might have happened had Major Jennings not come in when he did.’

At the mention of Jennings’ name Louisa’s eyes widened and her face, which up till now had been restored to colour, turned pale.

‘Are you feeling all right. Shall I call Corporal Taylor to return?’

‘No, No. I’ll be fine. He is a good man, Lieutenant. So gentle.’

‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to suggest that what has happened was of no consequence. It … matters to me very much indeed. It is just that if he hadn’t come in …’

‘Yes.’

She half-closed her eyes.

‘I know. But why? Why did he?’

Steel could see that she was confused. That would be Taylor’s potions, no doubt.

‘Herr Kretzmer will hang, Louisa. Have no doubt of that. We have him prisoner.’

She opened her eyes but did not smile. Saying nothing, she merely stared at the wall. Tears began to run down her face and Steel moved forward. He went to put an arm around her shoulders and then stopped himself.

‘I … I’m sorry. I was only going to …’

She smiled. ‘No. Please. I would like you to.’

Gently, Steel placed his arm in its filthy red sleeve upon her shoulder and thankfully she buried her head deep in his chest and began to sob. Steel held her closer and thought with revulsion of the last man to do so. An obscene excuse for a man.

She looked up at him.

‘Oh, Jack. I don’t know who to trust. He said he would kill my father and he will.’

‘He won’t. He can’t. How can he? We have him. Kretzmer can do you no more harm, Louisa. Trust me.’

‘He told me that too.’

‘Kretzmer? Yes, but I mean it.’

He looked at her and thought that he could see in her eyes, along with what he might now perceive as love, a nameless fear.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

Louisa turned away and said nothing. How could she tell him about Jennings? As long as the man remained alive her father’s life would be in danger. And there was something else. She had felt something just now. Something she had not expected.

From the street outside they could hear the sound of the redcoats gathering up their kit and anything still to be had and which might be carried in the way of food and drink. The day was passing. There was more, much more to say, but now was not the moment.

‘We must leave here soon. You must go to your father. Can he manage it? Can you?’

‘I think so. I will look after him. Go and get your soldiers ready. I promise we’ll be ready within the hour.’

Puzzled and not a little shaken, Steel left the room, passing Taylor as he went. ‘Stay with her. Look after her and help her with the old man. Make sure they take what they need. And, Taylor, thank you.’

He wondered if the man had guessed at his growing attachment to the girl. Whether he would tell the others. Steel thought he knew him well enough to be sure that he would not. He walked down the stairs and out into the sunshine of the square. Much as it irked him, he had to acknowledge Jennings’ role in Louisa’s rescue. Slaughter had been first on the scene and there could be no doubting his word. He had discovered Kretzmer, his trousers around his ankles, standing above Louisa’s half-naked form. Jennings was holding him firm and there had evidently been a struggle. The Bavarian had a bloody nose and a cut lip and Jennings was bleeding from his hand, wounded, it seemed, by a knife that lay upon the floor. There was, of course, no question of Kretzmer’s guilt. The facts spoke for themselves.

They had bound Kretzmer’s hands with rope and placed him, for want of anything more secure, in his own carriage, tied to the door and with a gag knotted across his mouth to drown the tirade of protest with which he had assailed them since he had recovered from his encounter with the floor – and two subsequent punches from Jennings.

Steel watched the Major now, as he crossed the town square to inspect his men, an unlikely hero, followed by Stringer, the lapdog. It was seven o’clock in the morning. It was a great deal later than they would normally have started their march to avoid the heat of the sun. But the events of the previous night had upset his intentions, and not just because of what had happened to Louisa. Contrary to his plan, most of the men had contrived to find rather more ale than he had intended and although only a few had actually been drunk, the rest did not find that the morning, with its various demands and duties, entirely suited their dulled senses.

Nevertheless, Steel had decided that they would leave within the next two hours. They might, he guessed, cover six miles in the day. He was about to rejoin the Grenadiers in the field when he thought the better of it. Time perhaps for one more thing. Something which he had not envisioned himself doing on this or any morning. Steel did not consider himself a religious man. Certainly he had grown up in a God-fearing Scottish Episcopalian household, where Sundays were observed and church attended. But he had not carried it through into adulthood. And yet, like all soldiers, when he was out on the battlefield and the air was thick with shot, Steel was inclined to believe that something or someone was keeping watch over him. His long-dead mother perhaps, or what other men might have called a guardian angel.

He pushed open the small five-foot-high entrance panel in the great church door and entered, his boots resounding on the polished stone floor. Sword rattling at his side, Steel walked towards the high altar and stopped the instant that his eyes caught the figure of the Madonna holding her son.

A woman and a dead man. He had seen it many times in the aftermath of battles, when a wife or a camp follower would find her husband or her lover on the field and, convulsed with grief, cradle him in just this way. He had heard the sobbing and knew the sound of the misery embodied now before him. The grief of all the world seemed bound up in this one image. He walked closer to the statue and tried to remember what it was you were meant to do. He had forgotten how to pray. Kneel. Yes, that was it. Holding on to his sword, he bent one knee and lowered himself down slowly on to the cold floor and bowed his head. That felt right. And now, what to say, after so long? He began, half-whispering, half merely thinking aloud.

‘Dear God, if you do exist. Or whatever you might be. I am not asking for a miracle. Keep me safe in the battle that is surely to come, just as I know you will protect my men. And look down on Marlborough. Bless his victory and let us live. If I am to die, then let it be quick. Don’t let me be maimed or blinded. But most of all, if you do exist, I pray you, let us win.’

Steel heard the door creak open behind him and, worried lest one of his men should discover him, rose quickly, his scabbard scraping on the floor and filling the empty basilica with its echo. He turned to see Slaughter advancing towards him, grinning.

‘Sorry, Sir. I didn’t know you were a godly man.’

‘I’m not, Jacob. But there are times when anything is better than nothing, eh? Reckon we need a bit of luck at the moment. Right now I’d swear on a ruddy rabbit’s foot if you had one.’

‘Luck, Sir? Well, perhaps if that’s what you want to call it. I’d call it fate myself. Oh, I credit you there’s something bigger than us. Stands to reason. But all this?’ He pointed around the church at the paintings of the saints, the carved tombs and the side chapels.

‘All this is a bit too Papist for my liking, Mister Steel. Fate. That’s what it is. You’ve to make your own way in life. But fate’s what decides whether you live or die.’

Both men looked for a moment towards the altar. Steel broke the silence.

‘Ready then?’

‘As ever will be, Sir. Men are assembled in the square. Grumbling a bit, but that’s the ale, mostly. They’re happier than they were. The wagons are all rigged and ready to move. But it doesn’t seem right, Sir, having poor Miss Weber sitting with him. I mean, after what he did to her.’

‘No, Jacob, it doesn’t. But there is no room for her to travel with the driver and we must keep Kretzmer in a closed carriage. He knows he’s for the drop. If it were up to me I’d shoot him now. But that’s not the way. There’s nothing for it. The bastard can’t go in a flour wagon and he can’t very well travel with the wounded.’

He turned and together they walked down the nave. At the door, Slaughter turned his head back towards the altar, which was lit by a brilliant beam of sunshine through one of the clerestory windows. He spoke.

‘Funny, ain’t it, Sir. The power of that statue, if you get my meaning. I mean, what does it d’you think? What makes people come here from all over, just to make a wish on a piece of painted wood?’

‘I wish I knew, Jacob. I wonder if any of them ever come true.’

Steel watched the great bird circling in the sky above them. What, he wondered, would they look like from up there, this sorry column of men and wagons trailing back along the dusty road? Nothing of interest to a black kite, he was certain. The bird wheeled again, high into the blue, climbing free of earthly tethers. Steel longed for such freedom. Merely to be free of this tiresome command would be sufficient. It was two days now since they had left Sielenbach. They had continued south at first, before turning right, towards the east. Then, re-crossing the Paar at Dasingen, they had started up the long, straight road north, which would take them back to the army.

Steel watched the bird again as it grew closer to the ground now. Perhaps it had finally spotted a likely prey. Riding in his place at the head of the column, he wished for once that he was not with his men.

He could hardly bear to imagine Louisa locked in the stifling coach with Kretzmer. From time to time Steel rode back to make sure that nothing was amiss, and their progress had been damnably slow. The road was dry and rutted. Recent rains had turned the earth to mud, which, pushed by passing traffic into ridges, had been baked hard in the sun. Now, unless the wheels that crossed it were iron-shod, they would eventually break on the clay. And even such carts as those provided by Hawkins could be easily unsettled.

On the previous day, two of the flour wagons had veered off the road. On the first occasion the men had managed to heave the wagon back. On the second though, the vehicle had overturned, spilling half of its contents into the roadside ditch and breaking both of the legs and crushing several ribs of the driver, who was now travelling in the wounded cart. Taylor had said that he doubted the poor man would last another day.

They had moved what could be salvaged of the spilt flour on to the other wagons, but the accident had cost them a precious two hours.

Steel tried to calculate the time remaining before they would reach the allied lines. This morning they had found the river Ach at the little town of Au and had been following it ever since. According to the map they had another eight miles before they reached the crossing of the Lech and then another day’s march back to Donauwörth, if indeed that was where Marlborough had now taken his army. Hawkins had intimated that there might be some movement in the main body while Steel was away on his mission. He realized that his best recourse was to dispatch Williams in search of an outlying cavalry picquet from their army, once they grew closer to the theatre of operations. He turned to the boy and pointed at the wheeling kite.

‘Look, Tom. D’you see it. Up there.’

Together they watched as the bird swooped down into a field, diving on its prey.

Steel turned to Williams.

‘Tom, I think that tomorrow I may send you on an errand.’

‘Sir?’

‘I was contemplating dispatching you to find the army. D’you think you could manage it?’

‘Of course, Sir. I’m quite certain of it.’

‘Then you’re a step ahead of me. We’re heading back towards Donauwörth now, but in truth I’m damned if I know where His Grace might be at present. You’ll just have to keep your head low and nose around until you see some redcoats.’

‘And then make sure that they’re our redcoats, and not the French, Sir.’

‘Quite so. You would think that someone might by now have realized that it would be a great deal easier to fight a war – to actually kill your enemy – if you were able to tell at a glance whether or not they were on your side. Certainly, we British wear red coats, just as the French foot have their white and grey. But are not our friends the Danes now too in grey?

‘And the Austrians retain a different colour of coat for every regiment. Sometimes I pity our commanders almost as much as I pity the men they command.’

The boy laughed and Steel with him. They had grown closer over the days and he was anxious to give the lad as much action as he could before they returned to the camp and prepared for the great battle which was surely soon to come.

‘How much further now, Sir, do you suppose, until we are within striking distance?’

‘I would think in the region of another six miles. The remainder of the day’s march, God willing. I intend to stop for the night at a place called Bachweiden, if I have the name correctly. Rather too many “achs” and “bachs” hereabouts for me. From your uncle’s map it appears to sit on a small river, so we should be able to water the horses. The men might even bathe, if they wish. They deserve a rest.’

They arrived at the little town at a little before five o’clock. It was a pretty place, with narrow cobbled streets which wound around a gentle hill and the half-timbered houses they had become used to in Swabia. As Steel had predicted, it sat above the confluence of two rivers beyond a gently arced stone bridge over the wider of the two. He halted the column before the bridge. The town looked deserted.

Williams approached him:

‘Shall I take a party on reconnaissance, Sir?’

‘No. I think we’ll stop here for the moment. I don’t like it.’

Williams followed his gaze across the bridge. Steel was right. The streets were quite empty. The young Ensign shivered as he recalled the carnage of Sattelberg. Steel saw him and read his mind.

‘No, Tom. I don’t think this is the work of the French again. We’re too far north here for them. Our own army, or at least our scouts might be just a few miles up that road. The French would never dare come so close.’

But in truth Steel was not sure whether he believed his own words. He could detect no sign of life in the dusty streets and the houses stood with empty windows gazing blindly. There was the occasional crash as a door slammed or a shutter banged against a wall, caught in the breeze.

‘Sarn’t Slaughter.’

The man came running from the front of the column. Steel dismounted.

‘Sir.’

‘Follow me. Bring your men and make sure their weapons are loaded.’

As Slaughter relayed the orders, checked the flints and the powder, Steel handed Molly’s reins to Williams.

‘Tom, you stay with the column. Major Jennings is bound to try to interfere. He’ll want to move on, most likely. Blame whatever you need to on me. I shan’t be long. Bring the rest of the Grenadier company forward into the town and leave the Major’s men as a rearguard. We don’t want to be taken by surprise again.’ He slipped his gun from the leather saddlebag across Molly’s flank and, having loaded it, advanced at the head of his Grenadiers across the bridge and up the single narrow street – barely the width of one and a half of their wagons – that led from it into the town. Still there was no sign of life. Slowly the redcoats made their way up the cobbles and into the heart of the town.

As was usual in these parts, Bachweiden was centred on a small square, with an arcaded market building on one side and on the other a church with a single spire. As Steel and his men moved between the houses, the clock on the church tower above them chimed the hour. It was the time at which work would stop and the tradesmen and workers of the town would be returning home to their families. But today there were no tradesmen. No families.

Nor thankfully, thought Steel, was there anything to suggest that this had been the scene of any violent struggle or a massacre. There were no howling dogs. No stench of rotting corpses. Nothing. He turned to Slaughter.

‘What do you make of it, Jacob?’

‘I’d say the place has been abandoned, Sir. There’s no one here. I can feel it. They’ve all buggered off. Frightened of them Dutch dragoons, if you ask me. Place doesn’t smell of death, Sir. If you know what I mean.’

Steel knew. There was an aura and an odour – honey-sweet and sickly – which hung around such places as Sattelberg. He hadn’t caught it here. He nodded.

‘Well we can’t search every house. I say we stay. Post picquets on the entrance roads and change the guard every hour. The men can take it in turns to bathe in the river. Keep them near the bridge, and make sure that the horses get watered. We’ll move the wagons into the main street. Tell the men to find what shelter they can for the night and make sure that there’s no looting. Oh, and Slaughter, tell Mister Williams to bring the carriage up to the square. I want that Bavarian bastard where I can see him tonight.’

As Slaughter hurried off, Steel sat down on the edge of the fountain. He laid the gun down beside his leg and rubbed at his eyes. He had almost accomplished what he had been sent to do for Marlborough and Hawkins. They were very nearly back with the army. Soon perhaps he might return to normality. Soon too he hoped they would face the French in the longed-for battle. Would that be an end to the war? He doubted it. Steel hoped it would not be, if that were not too dreadful a hope to nurture. War was his world. War brought him to life and he knew that would ever be the way.

He thought about what he had become and what he had come from. Of the family home and the farm and the happiness that filled them before his mother had died. He had been just eleven, poised on adulthood, ready to go to Eton and filled with hope for the future. Her death had changed all that. Or so it had seemed. In fact it had not been her death but the loss of an expected fortune from his uncle that had ruined the family and ensured that rather than school, his lot would be a miserable private tutor and an apparent destiny as a clerk in his uncle’s Edinburgh law firm. Steel had gone to work there at sixteen and that was what Arabella had rescued him from. And from temptation. For, coached by his fellow clerks, Steel had already begun to pilfer trifling amounts from the company books to pay for life’s little pleasures. Her arrival had taken him away from the inevitable fate to which that would have led him, and for that at least he would always be grateful. She had reopened his eyes to the beauty of life. Had reminded him that there were things truly worth having. Worth fighting for: love, honour, integrity.

And now there was something else for which he was fighting. He was fighting for the army itself. His army. Every battle strengthened it as an army of which the new Britain – Queen Anne’s Britain, could be truly proud.

Steel knew that however sound a job Marlborough might make of building his army, it was up to men like him, officers fighting in the field, to put the flesh on those bare bones. They were living at the dawn of a new era and Steel knew that what he wanted more than anything else in the world was to have a part in it. Although, perhaps now, he thought, there was just one more thing that he wanted. But she would have to wait.

The rumble of iron-rimmed wheels over the cobbles signalled the arrival in the square of Kretzmer’s carriage. Steel got to his feet and walked across to where it had pulled up in front of the stone pillars of the covered market. Jennings, his horse at a trot, rode a few paces behind.

‘So, Mister Steel. Where have you brought us now? Another deserted town? D’you suppose there will be more cadavers to be found here?’

He sniffed the air.

‘Perhaps not. But no people, for sure, hm?’

Steel bristled.

‘I couldn’t say, Major. But I would hazard not. We are not far from our own lines.’

‘Oh, are we not? And how d’you come to that? By my reckoning we are a good ten miles from the army, if not more. Or are you lost, perhaps?’

‘I intend to send Williams out as soon as possible. It is my belief that he will find the army directly to the north. At no more than five miles distant.’

Jennings smiled and dismounted.

‘Well, if you are so certain and the army is so close, why the urgency? We have time in hand, Steel, and an open town. Abandoned and thus legitimate booty for all to take. From what my Sergeant tells me its cellars and pantries are stuffed to bursting. Why not savour the moment? The army will wait until tomorrow.’

‘Do I have to remind you, Major, of the importance of our mission. Every day we delay will cost the army dearly. By tomorrow the lack of rations will start to tell. It is imperative that we return with the supplies as swiftly as we may. Williams must go forthwith.’

‘Do I have to remind you, Mister Steel, who commands here? In my opinion it would be far from prudent to send the boy off before morning. We have ample time. We rest here. That is an order, Steel.’

‘Very well, Sir.’

Steel knew how to play this game – strictly by the book.

‘Ensign Williams has the column, Major. I’ll have him order the men to find billets with as little disruption as possible. The town may look abandoned, Sir, but I am certain that the Duke would not want us to indulge in plunder. I shall give orders for a moderate amount of subsistence foraging, with an inventory of all that is taken. And shall I also arrange the accommodation for Miss Weber and her father?’

Jennings sighed.

‘Yes. As you will. Do what you want with them. I’ve had enough of her.’

He turned and walked back towards the main street, calling for his Sergeant. Rank had undisclosed advantages, thought Jennings. It was vital to his purpose that they should spend the night here. Jennings knew Steel to be right, that the army was at the most a half day’s march from them. He knew that this would be his last opportunity to acquire the papers. Here, he thought, it could be easily contrived. Steel might be clever, but he was no match for Jennings and his Sergeant. Stringer was a natural assassin, as silent as a cat and as swift and sure as a butcher with a knife in the dark. He turned and looked back at Steel, who was opening the door of the carriage and wondered whether the Lieutenant had any inkling that tonight would be his last on earth.

Steel peered into the carriage. Inside, he could make out Kretzmer’s lumpen, sleeping form, still bound and gagged. Opposite him, horribly close to her assailant, sat Louisa. She too was asleep, as was her father. Closing the door gently, Steel thought it best to leave them. He stationed a Grenadier at the carriage and walked across the square to a small terrace from which he was able to observe the bridge and the road into the town. The wagons were slowly moving in for the night although perhaps a score of them still lay on the other side of the river.

Down in the reedy shallows he could see a half-dozen of his men. They had thrown off their clothes on to the grassy bank and were jumping about like children, stark naked, laughing and splashing each other in the simple unaccustomed joy of cold, fresh water. Watching them like that, stripped of their uniform, robbed of any vestige of military life, Steel felt more than ever like their adoptive father. They were his family. He knew their ways, their foibles, the reasons why they had joined and how they had come to be here with him. In his care. He felt a responsibility for them and prayed that they would, all of them, the good and the bad, get through whatever trials the coming days would hold.

He was watching one man, John Simmons, a towering Glasgow navvy, as he attempted to duck a fellow Grenadier under the water for a third time, when something caught his eye upstream. A glint of sunlight on an unexpectedly bright object.

It happened in an instant, just thirty yards from where his men were playing. At a point where the river rounded a sharp bend overhung with trees, they came into view. Fifty, no sixty cavalrymen, spurring their horses directly along the river bed, straight towards the bathers. One of the picquets fired at them but missed. The noise gave the alarm but too late.

The water erupted in white spray under the hooves as they beat out against the sand and stones beneath and Steel felt sick to his stomach as he realized that the glint he had seen had been sunlight glancing off the polished steel blade of a drawn cavalry sabre. And then, with a great shout, they were upon the naked Grenadiers and the nightmare unfolded before him. His men never stood a chance.

He had a passing impression of colours. Of pale blue coats, glittering with silver buttons and braid, red hats resplendent with fur and feathers and elaborate, fur-trimmed cloaks slung from one shoulder. Hussars. These were the new cavalry employed by the French. The cavalry they had modelled on the Hungarian light. Fast, skilled and deadly. He had never encountered hussars before but they were all he had expected, and more. The great curved sabres rose and fell and he saw the pale white bodies of his men go down in a sea of blood. Saw Simmons, his face half-severed by a single stroke standing incredulous, grasping at the place where his eye had been, until a second sweeping cut from a grinning hussar took him down. Another man, McCartney, stood clutching at his bare chest which had been laid open by a razor-sharp edge of steel. A third man bubbled and gasped as he collapsed in the pink froth. The horsemen rode round and round the naked soldiers, hacking at their bare flesh in a scene of nightmarish biblical horror, drawn straight from a painting by one of the Italian masters. Steel watched as the naked men clawed and grabbed at the legs of the merciless riders. Watched as one by one they went down into the shallow water, not to rise. Steel snapped away from the vision and yelled down towards the bridge.

‘Cavalry. Ware cavalry. Grenadiers. Form on me.’

Followed by the guards from the carriage and a handful of other men who poured from the deserted houses and alleys they had been searching around the square, Steel ran headlong down the main street, towards the bridge.

Emerging on the upper stretch of the riverbank, behind the low, lichen-clad wall which ran along the waterfront, he looked about to assess their strength. He saw Carter, Macpherson, Mackay, six others. He glimpsed Williams running towards them.

‘Mister Williams. Sarn’t Slaughter. Form along the entrance to the street. Three ranks deep.’

‘But the wagons, Sir. Look.’

Williams was pointing down the road towards the remaining flour wagons which had not yet crossed the bridge. Steel could see there were still at least a dozen, perhaps fifteen of them. Half of the hussars, having finished off the Grenadiers in the river, had charged directly towards the transport and were now attacking the drivers and whatever of the escort they could find who had not already fled across the bridge and into the town.

Steel watched as the unarmed civilians threw themselves from their seats. Some, begging for mercy, were butchered in cold blood. Others attempted to run into the trees at the roadside or waded into the river, only to be ridden down by the blue-coated cavalry and spitted on the riders’ outstretched sabres, like vermin. Some of the hussars were armed with short axes and Steel watched as they hacked mercilessly into the running civilians. Many of the horsemen, he noticed, were grinning. He turned away.

‘It’s too late for them.’

Then he realized that a half platoon of Jennings’ men, the rearguard, were down there with the train. He looked and saw that they had been caught in a semi-circle of hussars, behind the last wagon. Form square damn you. He willed them to do it. It was their only chance. And then he noticed that none of them had fixed their bayonets.

‘Dear Christ.’

He saw one man, presumably a sergeant, attempt to take control, trying to form them into ranks before being cut down with an axe, his head severed from his neck at an angle. Steel knew their fate. The hapless redcoats managed to get off three random shots before the cavalry rode in and simply cut them to pieces. To his horror Steel realized too that the wagon directly behind the dying group of redcoats was that bearing the wounded. The poor devils would be killed where they lay. Sure enough, one man leapt from his horse and began to walk among the wounded. Between the wooden poles of the wagon, Steel saw his axe rise and fall with relentless repetition. He looked more closely at the cavalry and saw long pigtails and swarthy, moustachioed faces. What the hell were French cavalry doing here, so close to the allied lines and so far away from their own army? And then he noticed something else. There, among the slashing fury of the blue-coated hussars, was another uniform quite out of place. A man dressed all in white. An infantry officer, his head crowned with a fur cap. An officer of French Grenadiers. It occurred to Steel that perhaps there might be a connection between the man’s presence here and their encounter with the French Grenadiers at Sattelberg. Perhaps it was the Grenadier who had brought the horsemen here. Could the French have discovered the existence of Marlborough’s letter? It was possible. Word was that the allied camp was as rife with spies and informers as the French.

Putting his hand to his chest, Steel felt the reassuring presence of the package and turned back to Williams.

‘Form up the men here, Tom. Three ranks if you can manage it. You can be sure that they’ll come for us next. And I dare say there’ll be infantry not far behind. Have you seen who’s with them?’

He pointed out the white-coated rider.

‘Sarn’t Slaughter. Three ranks. Alternating fire. However you care to do it. Just keep those bloody cavalry away from the town. And have them fix bayonets. Quick.’

Dashing back up the street towards the square, Steel began once again to shout into the traversing alleyways, desperate to gather to him all the men he could.

‘Grenadiers. To me.’

Three redcoats had joined him as he ran and from the top of the hill another dozen of his men, Corporal Taylor, along with Tarling, Cussiter, Milligan, Henderson, Hopkins, came running to meet him. He shouted to Taylor.

‘Is that all of us?’

‘Think so, Sir.’

‘Where’s Major Jennings?’

‘Han’t seen him, Sir.’

Damn that man, thought Steel. They needed everyone now. And to be honest, Jennings was as good a fighter as they had. He spotted another seven of Jennings’ men, including Stringer, and called to them.

‘You men. Sarn’t Stringer. Follow me.’

At the top of the street he turned and counted his small force. Eighteen in all.

‘Right. This is where you stand. This is as far as they’re going to get. Corporal Taylor, Hopkins, Tarling, you other men. Form up here. Three ranks. Load up and have a second round ready. Be sure to check your flints and fix your bayonets. Oh, and if you see Major Jennings, tell him he’s wanted on the bridge.’

He positioned the men himself so that they were standing right at the top of the narrow street, facing down in the direction of the bridge. Three ranks deep, front rank kneeling, with six men in each rank – a hedge of bayonets and loaded muskets.

‘Now listen all of you, and listen well. You’re our final hope. Our last chance. Do nothing until you see me running up the street, then, quick as you can split in two and move to the sides. Half to the right, half to the left. We’ll be running straight for you, so make it quick. The minute we’re through your ranks, you close up. You’d better be ready. They’ll be right up our arses. Taylor, you’re in charge. Cussiter, you come with me.’

At the double the two men raced across the square to the carriage.

‘Herr Weber, Miss Louisa. Out please, if you wouldn’t mind. We’re going to find you somewhere a little less exposed.’

He turned to Cussiter.

‘Take them into that house over there. Make sure that they’re safe. Stay with them.’

Kretzmer stared at him.

‘I suppose you had better take him with you. Though frankly, I’d rather leave him in the carriage. It would save a lot of trouble if he caught a stray shot.’

In truth, he was half-tempted to shoot the man himself and pretend it to have been enemy fire. But there was no time for that. Steel turned and ran back down towards the bridge. The firing had ceased and he presumed that the cavalry had withdrawn to regroup. As far as Steel was aware across the bridge was the only way into the town. It was a natural defensive position but he knew too that it would not be enough for his small force to hold off a troop of hussars and whatever infantry they had in tow. If they were to survive, his simple trap would be the only chance they had.

Major Jennings had also made a plan. Moving from house to house up the hill, parallel to the main street, he had now reached the square. In his hand he held a short infantry sword, a side-weapon borrowed from Stringer. He had but one purpose in mind. He had heard the crack of musketry from the bridge below and the cries as the redcoats engaged the French. Had watched the cavalry charge from an upstairs window. The arrival of the hussars had been a real stroke of luck. Oh, he knew now why they were here. He had guessed that the white-coated Grenadier Major, whoever he might be, was after the package that he himself was so determined to have from Steel. But his presence was an irrelevance, although it did imply that the hussars might have infantry support. Even without it, it was clear to Jennings that their small force was about to engage in a desperate fight. And that, he realized, was all the opportunity he needed. Why bother with the risk of slitting Steel’s throat in his sleep when he could kill him in the mêlée, retrieve the letter and turn a bungled mission into a moment of glory? He saw the men drawn up in three ranks at the head of the street and, moving to another of the lanes leading to the river, Jennings lengthened his stride and began to run as fast as he could towards the bridge.

The hussars, as Steel had predicted, had come at them in the only way they could. Straight across the bridge. The redcoats’ first volley had dropped six of the horsemen and those behind, surprised by the fury of the fire, had fallen back. Now, though, they had re-formed and, advancing three abreast across the bridge, they came on in a dense column of snorting animals and jangling harness. There was no room for them to accelerate to a charge, they knew it would be bloody murder. But the horsemen were determined and Steel knew that however many more of them his men killed and wounded with the next volley, they would prevail through sheer weight of numbers. He cocked his fusil and rested it in the ready position.

‘Make ready.’

Looking down the ranks he saw familiar faces and gauged their looks of apprehension and resignation.

‘On my command you will give fire. Then run like bloody hell up that hill. Grenadiers. Present.’

The hussars were almost on them now. Still at a trot, but at any moment they would be able to fan out at the head of the bridge and then, if the Grenadiers held their fire too long, it would all be over. Steel paused. Still he did not give the command. He saw Slaughter steadying someone’s gun and muttering words of encouragement.

‘Steady. Steady.’

Then it was time.

‘Fire.’

The air became a cloud of white smoke and ahead of them, just at the moment that the three leading hussars left the confines of the bridge, he saw eight or even ten of their number crash down in a heap of men and horses.

‘Right. Retire. All of you. Run.’

Steel began to walk backwards, still gazing at the carnage on the bridge. Some of his men, the old sweats, did likewise but most of them were already running hell for leather back up the little street.

And then he was with them, running too, as fast as he could go.

Steel knew that it would take a few moments for the cavalry to disentangle themselves from the dead and dying. But he knew too that once they were clear, he and his men would be defenceless until they reached the reserve at the top of the hill.

Steel cast a nervous look back over his shoulder and saw, emerging out of the clearing smoke, the distinctive shapes of the hussars. And now they were free to charge.

‘Run you buggers. Run.’

His boots slithered up the slippery cobbles, his heart thumping against his chest. He knew that a few of his men would go down. But this was their only hope. Ahead he could see now the three ranks of redcoats. He raised his hand, motioning them to the side.

With perfect precision they parted just in time to admit the remainder of the men in front of him. Steel was ten feet away from them now. From behind he heard a scream as one of the Grenadiers fell beneath a hussar’s bloody sabre. The line had to close up or else they would all be lost. He raised his hand again, signalling them to move together. Unquestioning, the men did as ordered and he was caught between the crash of approaching hoofbeats and a wall of bayonets and muskets. He dared not look round again, but he could feel the hot breath of a horse on his back. Six feet to go now. Five. With an almighty effort, Steel threw himself at the line of redcoats and, sensing the presence of something cutting the air immediately behind his neck, slid on his back across the cobbles before crashing into the feet of two of the front-rank men. At that exact instant, above his head, the world became a storm of shot as the redcoats opened up. Steel pressed his head into the stones and prayed.

Still lying down, he turned his face towards where the cavalry had been. As the smoke cleared he saw six of the horsemen and four horses lying dead and dying in the street. He knew that it wasn’t enough. Behind the shattered, blue-coated bodies he could see a block of hussars, riding knee to knee, advancing steadily towards him. The volley had merely skimmed the top of the column. They had not even bothered to re-form. Their commander had sent them forward in waves. The first had been annihilated, but here was the second. There might be time for one more volley. But then what? How could so few infantry resist? He clambered to his feet and edged to the rear rank looking around at the redcoats. He saw Slaughter, Cussiter, Taylor, Tarling, Hopkins and Tom Williams. Good. Though he wondered which poor devils had been left out there on the cobbles with the dead hussars. And where in God’s name was Jennings? Stringer too had disappeared. Steel was damned if either man was going to be spared what looked as if it might be their last fight. He found Williams.

‘Tom, go and see if you can find Major Jennings and Sarn’t Stringer. Look everywhere. They’re probably somewhere near the square. Hurry.’

He turned to Slaughter.

‘Reload, Sarn’t. How many rounds a man do we have?’

‘Couldn’t say, Sir, but it can’t be many. There’s always the grenades.’

‘No. The cobbles would be blown to blazes. We’d kill as many of our own men as theirs. It’s bullets this time, Jacob. And bayonets. Let’s see how many we can take with us.’

Steel could see the hussars coming on again. His plan had worked but it had not been enough. He wondered whether Williams had found Jennings and Stringer. Whether they would reach him before the cavalry rode down the redcoats and began their butchery or whether the three officers might yet escape. Glancing across the square he saw the empty carriage and thought of Louisa. What would happen to her? He should have sent her away. But how? Too late now for that. He prayed that the French hussars would be more merciful than their Grenadiers. He turned to Slaughter and smiled. He was ready for it now. Listening for the hooves on the cobbles, for the battle cries that would come as the cavalry urged themselves on towards the guns and the bayonets, Steel turned to the redcoats:

‘Make ready.’

Down the street the hussars still came on, boot to boot.

‘Present.’

The cavalry were trotting at them now. He could see their faces and their piercing eyes. Heard the sergeants calling out commands in French. Pushing them on. They were packed too tight for a canter, but Steel knew that their sheer weight would be enough to push them into the infantry. The line of muskets held its aim on the advancing cavalry. Slaughter hissed at them:

‘Steady. Wait for the command.’

Thirty paces out. Twenty.

‘Fire!’

Steel yelled the word and as he did, squeezed the trigger of his own weapon. The volley filled the narrow street, half-deafening the infantry and covering the scene in thick white smoke. Steel peered towards the enemy.

‘Prepare to receive cavalry.’

The volley had slowed the riders but he was sure that they would come on, regardless. Suddenly, from the white mist figures began to appear. To his left three hussars had managed to negotiate the piles of dead and broken men and horses and connected with the line. The first took a bayonet in the thigh and hacked down at his assailant, who ducked and, retrieving his bloodied blade, thrust it again and this time sent it clean into the cavalryman’s unprotected side. The man clutched at the weapon and hurled himself from the saddle only to impale himself further. Next to him another hussar had had better success, parrying the thrust of one of Jennings’ men and swiping down with his blade to flense off half of the man’s face. Steel pushed aside the dying musketeer and before the Frenchman could defend himself, made a great sweeping cut with the broadsword, taking the tip of his blade and three inches of steel through the man’s side and belly. The man dropped his sword and clutched at the awful wound. He tried to turn his horse and was brought down by a shot, fired from the rear rank. More figures were appearing through the smoke now. A voice from his rear made him turn. It was Stringer, eyes staring, bayonet bloody:

‘Mister Steel, Sir. They’ve come round the flank Sir, up the next street. You must come, Sir.’

Steel turned to Slaughter:

‘It’s Jennings, he’s in trouble. Take over. Re-form the men, Jacob. Reload if you can. I’ll be back as quickly as I can. And find Williams.’

He ran after Stringer, who had already begun to run away, and down the narrow alleyway connecting the two streets like the spokes on a wheel towards the town square.

It was deep black between the high walls and, looking towards the light at the end, after a few yards Steel saw the Sergeant turn left into the main street and out of sight. He continued in pursuit. He had slung the empty fusil over his shoulder and carried his sword low now, in readiness for whatever might meet him. His ears were still ringing from the crashing volley and his feet on the cobbles sounded curiously dim against the general cacophony. Even half deaf, though, as he rounded the corner, Steel was aware that something was missing. The street was silent and before he could check his pace, he realized that he had not run into some desperate struggle, but merely into a trap.

Stringer’s bayonet-tipped musket was pointed directly at his chest. Behind him, Jennings was leaning against the stone sill of a ground-floor window.

‘Ah, Steel. Thank you. Once again you come to my rescue. This time though, I am afraid that it is not myself that is in deadly peril, but you.’

Steel stood staring at the Major, all too aware of the needle-sharp point that hovered dangerously close to his throat. God damn it. How had he not seen this coming? Another duel had been inevitable. Honour must be satisfied. But like this?

‘Major Jennings. You can call off your terrier now. I’ll fight you fair. But this is not the time. We’re being beaten. We must act together for the sake of the army. We cannot afford to lose here. For pity’s sake, man. This can wait.’

‘But, Steel. Don’t you understand? Have you no idea at all? I am doing this for the sake of the army. I am aware that we cannot afford to lose here. Not the flour. The real reason for your mission.’

Steel’s eyes widened.

‘I know what you have, Lieutenant. I know what it was that you bought from Kretzmer and its importance to Marlborough. But you see it is of equal importance to those who sent me here. No, not Colonel Hawkins but those who have Britain’s true interests at heart.’

‘You bloody traitor.’

Jennings grimaced.

‘Now, now, Steel. Really, I expected better from you. You know I have come to have some respect for you over the past few days. You are a fighter, though you may be a ruffian at heart. And you do at least know your place. Unlike our brave commander, the Duke, who can never be anything more than a jumped-up farmer. We need to be led by natural leaders, Steel. By the men whose ancestors led us at Crécy and Agincourt. With that letter in their hands they will be able to bring down Marlborough and restore the army to its rightful masters. And it is my duty to ensure that they have it.’

‘You’ll have to kill me first.’

‘Oh dear. I did so hope that you weren’t going to be heroic.’

Stringer, grinning, edged the tip of his bloody bayonet closer to Steel’s throat.

‘And sincerely, Steel, I would have loved to have given you a chance in a fair fight. But now you see, as you yourself are aware, time is of the essence. Now. Your weapons, please.’

Again the bayonet moved forward. Steel dropped the sword to the ground.

‘And the gun.’

Steel hooked his hand beneath the sling of the gun and moved to let it fall to the ground. Just as it seemed that he was about to drop it though, he grasped the weapon by the barrel, and dipping down beneath the bayonet and musket, swung it up and drove it, butt first, with all his strength deep into Stringer’s groin. The man yelped in agony, dropped his musket and fell to the ground, screaming and clutching at his genitals. Steel, still holding the gun, straightened up, but Jennings was quick.

Thinking fast, the Major made a copy-book lunge at Steel’s side and struck home. He felt the blade slide into flesh and quickly withdrew it. Steel let out a hollow groan and turned, clutching at his side.

‘Tut tut. Brawling with a senior officer, Mister Steel? You’ll never find promotion that way. En garde? Oh, you are unarmed. Well, as you will then.’

Steel swung out wildly with the gun, but Jennings hardly had to move to avoid it. He lunged at Steel and cut into thigh, a few inches above the knee. The pain tore through the Lieutenant. Steel looked about for his sword and saw it, lying just a few feet away. If he could just get to it, somehow. Hurling the gun at Jennings, he reached wildly for the sword and grabbed at the hilt but before he could make contact, Jennings was on him again. Steel felt the burning stab as the tip of the sword just nicked his back. He turned and, his eyes filled with rage and pain, threw himself, weaponless upon the Major, wrenching his sword by the blade from his hand and in the process cutting his own down to the bone. Jennings, taken completely by surprise, dropped the sword and saw that Steel still had it by the blade.

To Steel’s right, close to where the Sergeant was still writhing in pain on the ground, Jennings saw Stringer’s fallen musket. In an instant Jennings was on it and, as Steel paused to move the sword hilt into his right arm, he brought the heavy wooden butt crashing down like a club upon the Lieutenant’s skull, with a sickening crack. Steel’s legs gave way and he slumped to the cobbles. He fell on to his knees, his back quite rigid and, as his eyes filled with a red haze, collapsed upon his face. Jennings, breathless, stood over him, the musket still raised in his hands. No, he thought. He would not beat the man’s brains out. Nor would he spit him on the bayonet. He would finish him like a gentleman. But first. He dropped the weapon to the ground and, crouching down, reached beneath Steel’s heavy body. He delved into the inner recesses of his coat and at last his fingers closed around a small square object. Smiling he withdrew his hand and looked at the package. It was tied with twine around brown paper. He eased the string to one side and read the first, faded page.

‘Your Majesty,

You cannot know how my heart yearns for your return and how all Britain shall rejoice when once again our land is restored to its rightful monarch …’

Looking further down the small sheet Jennings was able to discern the signature:

‘Your most faithful servant,

John Churchill.’

Jennings clasped the package to his chest before placing it deep within a pocket of his waistcoat. Then, still grinning, he stooped again to collect his own sword from where it lay beside Steel’s limp hand. Now, one thrust and the world would be rid forever of this annoying upstart. Taking his time, Jennings stood over Steel’s body, lining up his blade with the left side of his back, just at the point where the heart would be. He raised the weapon to strike. Now, and it would be finished.

‘Sir! Major Jennings, Sir. What are you doing?’

Williams ran from the alleyway and stopped in his tracks. Jennings advanced upon him, his sword at the ready. The boy raised his own weapon but not before Jennings had time to lunge and slash his thigh with the tip of the blade. Williams yelped in pain but kept his guard.

The two men began to circle one another. Jennings whispered:

‘Steel’s dead, boy. He betrayed his country. Now put down your sword and we’ll say no more of it.’

Williams noticed Stringer now and realized that Jennings might not be telling the whole truth.

‘I don’t believe you, Sir. You killed him.’

‘I killed a traitor.’

‘Mister Steel was an honourable man, Sir. He would never betray us.’

Jennings sighed.

‘Ah well. I gave you your chance. Have you ever fought anyone before boy? One to one? Have you?’

Williams said nothing. But, to Jennings’ surprise, he lunged and caught the Major momentarily off guard. The tip of his sword glanced against Jennings’ left arm and drew blood.

‘So. You’ve got spirit. I’ll give you that. But spirit ain’t enough for me, boy.’

Jennings lunged again and, as if he was using the boy to demonstrate his skill, as a fencing master might use a dummy, touched the Ensign less than an inch away from his previous wound.

The pain seared red-hot through Williams’ leg and he was conscious of the fresh, warm blood dripping on to his reddened stocking. God, thought Williams, but Jennings is good at this game. So much for his costly fencing lessons at Eton. What use now the classical moves on which he had spent so much time? This fighting was fast and brutal. No finesse here. Just kill or be killed. And at present, Williams guessed, he would not be the one who would be walking away with his life. He glanced at Steel’s motionless form.

Jennings broke the silence.

‘He’s dead, boy. Quite dead. Come on, you’re not scared, surely? That won’t make you a soldier. Soldiers are brave, Mister Williams. But you’re not brave are you? You’re scared. Daddy wanted you to join us. You were good for nothing else. But you’ll never make a soldier. You haven’t the guts for it. Get out now, before it’s too late. Before you’re spitted by some Frog.’

He laughed to himself.

‘Oh dear. I forgot. It’s too late already.’

On the last word, he lunged and made contact with Williams’ right forearm. The Ensign staggered backwards and slipping on the cobbles, slick with Steel’s blood, lost his balance and went crashing to the ground, hitting his head on the sharp edge of the wide stone windowsill. He slumped to unconsciousness, trailing blood down the wall behind him. Stringer had managed to get to his feet now and was hobbling about, doubled over with pain.

Jennings looked at the Sergeant for a moment, then back at Williams and Steel, deciding which of the fallen men he should make sure of first. There was no choice. He crossed to where Steel lay and was about to raise his sword again when Stringer, looking down the alleyway, pointed and called out in a hoarse voice:

‘Sir.’

Jennings looked round just as the tall figures of two of Steel’s Grenadiers emerged into the street. He clutched at his arm and pressed on the cut, making sure they would see the blood seeping through his fingers. He feigned pain and screamed towards the two redcoats:

‘Hurry men. The French are behind us. I’ve been hit. Mister Steel’s dead.’

The Grenadiers rushed past him and Jennings ran up the street towards the main square. It was deserted, save for the carriage. Jennings ran across to it and moved to the front. There were two horses, both built for strength rather than speed. Jennings began to unbuckle the harness of that closest to him and then, leaving her in the shafts, turned back towards the door of the coach. The money, Kretzmer’s payment for the flour and whatever he had from Steel, confiscated after his crime, had been placed in a strongbox on the floor of the carriage. It could not go to waste. Jennings pulled himself up into the compartment, opened the lid of the box and withdrew the two leather purses. He looped the strings of the two heavy bags around his belt and turned towards the door. Stepping down from the carriage, he began to lead the dray horse from the shafts. He was preparing to mount her when, from close behind him he heard an unmistakeable noise. It was the sound of a musket’s hammer being cocked. Instinctively Jennings began to turn and as he did so, he saw a red-coated figure with a musket levelled directly towards him. Dan Cussiter was standing a few paces away from the door of the coach. The Private stared at him with venomous, vengeful eyes, his mouth curled in a tight smile.

‘Now, boy, don’t be hasty. I can explain everything.’

Cussiter said nothing. He tucked the musket deeper into his shoulder and Jennings knew that it was ready to fire. All he could hear now was the beating of his own heart.

‘Don’t be foolish, boy. You know what punishment feels like now. You’ve felt the cat. Imagine what they’ll give you for killing an officer. Put down the gun. Be sensible. I’ll speak for you.’

He extended his hand. Cussiter’s finger played with the trigger. His eye looked straight down the barrel of the musket, straight at Jennings’ forehead. He began to squeeze and Jennings waited for the flash. It came but as he closed his eyes and flinched away he sensed no more than a slight burning sensation on his head, as if he had been touched by a sudden, fast breath of hot wind. Opening his eyes he saw that the puff of smoke had gone high into the air and with it the musket ball, which had evidently done no more than nick his head and part his wig. He looked back at Cussiter and saw him sprawled on the ground, locked in a desperate struggle with Stringer. Evidently the Sergeant had hurled himself at the man at the moment his finger had pulled the trigger.

Jennings did not wait. Stringer might have saved his life, but he had no time for thanks. The Sergeant was no longer necessary to his plans. With no time to take the horse, he turned and he ran as fast as he could for the corner of the nearest house. Behind him the space had filled with soldiers. He did not look back. Ahead of him, at a crossroads of back alleys, a dead French hussar lay sprawled on the ground, his hand still tangled in the reins of a bay mare who stood close by chewing at a patch of scrub. Not wasting a moment, Jennings ran to the horse, snatched up the reins and pulled them from the dead man’s hand. Then he was up and in the saddle. He whipped the animal quickly into a canter and then a gallop and drove her fast through the narrow streets, and then down and over the bloody bridge and out into the fields. He was exultant. He had the papers. The papers that would bring down Marlborough and guarantee his own passage to untold influence and prosperity. But before any of that could happen, he would have to carry them to safety. And after what he had just done, he knew that at this moment, safety lay in only one direction. Aubrey Jennings pressed his spurs deep into the horse’s flanks and rode as fast as he could towards the French.

Steel coughed blood and felt a loose tooth in his mouth. He spat it on to the cobbles. His head felt as if someone had laid about it with a hammer. He put his hand up to touch it and felt the blood. He coughed again and retched. Looking up, he could see Williams getting to his feet. His face was covered with rivulets of blood and he was standing as groggy as a drunk. One of the Grenadiers, Mackay, placed a hand beneath the Lieutenant’s arm and Steel tried to stand. As he put the weight on his right leg a searing pain shot through his calf. He looked down and saw for the first time the extent of the damage done by Jennings’ blade.

‘Bugger.’

He looked at Mackay.

‘Where is he?’

‘Who, Sir?’

‘Major Jennings, man. Did you get him?’

‘He’s gone back to the fight, Sir. Told us the Frenchies had killed you.’

‘Like hell he has. Major Jennings is a traitor.’

So, Jennings had escaped. Steel panicked. He reached inside his coat for the packet and, as he had known he would, felt nothing. He had known Jennings to be bad, but a traitor on this scale? It had not entered his wildest imaginings. Through the mist of his agonizing headache he heard the sounds of battle. Christ almighty. They were still fighting the French. It began to come back to him.

‘Williams. Are you all right?’

The Ensign was sitting on the window ledge, swaying slightly, staunching the flow of blood from his head and leg.

‘I think so, Sir.’

‘Stay there. You, Tarling, stay with him. Mackay, you come with me.’

Steel picked up his sword from where it lay on the ground, grabbed the gun and limped off with the Grenadier along the narrow alleyway. Ahead of them the sounds of fighting grew ever louder. It was true. God alone knew how, but they were still holding out.

As he approached, Slaughter caught sight of him.

‘Told you I was going nowhere, Sir.’

Steel looked down the street over piles of dead and wounded, mostly hussars. Body parts lay strewn upon the cobbles and blood had spattered the walls of the houses on either side. In three places the road surface had disintegrated.

‘Don’t tell me. You used the grenades.’

‘Like I said, Sir. I wasn’t going anywhere. Besides, Thorogood here used to play cricket for his parish. He threw the bombs when the hussars were forty paces off. Should’ve seen it, Mister Steel.’

‘Can we do it again?’

‘Only three bombs left. Reckon one more time if we need to. If we’re lucky. What happened to you, Sir? You look bad.’

‘Major Jennings.’

‘The Major? Was he hit? Is he dead?’

‘It was the Major who did this to me, Jacob. He’s a traitor.’

‘Well I’ll be buggered. I always knew he was bad, mind. But that. By Christ.’

Their conversation was interrupted by noise from the street below. Wearily the remaining men in the firing lines finished loading their muskets and made sure their bayonets were secure. Leaning on his gun as a support, Steel strained to see what was going on beyond the dead. He could make out nothing and the light was beginning to fade.

‘You’d better get those grenades ready, Jacob. They’re the only chance we have now.’

He waited for the jingle of harness and the clatter of hooves that would announce the coming attack. But it was neither of those sounds that he heard. From the bottom of the street, beyond view, came the clash of steel on steel. Ahead of him he watched as the leading two ranks of blue-coated hussars, now a mere fifty feet away from them, turned on command and began to trot back down the street, before vanishing around the bend.

Steel looked at his men. At Thorogood, a bomb in each hand, waiting to light the fuses. At the guns held steady at their shoulders, eyes aligned with the barrels. The natural inclination was to fire at the retreating cavalry. But Steel knew that it could easily be a trick intended to draw their single volley before the hussars simply turned and rode straight for them.

‘Hold steady. Hold your fire.’

Still the din came from the river. What the deuce was happening? The tumult grew louder and then quickly died away. Steel could hear some shouting yet, and the sporadic crack of muskets and carbines. But the distinctive sound of blade on blade had gone.

He saw a horseman appear around the bend in the street. This was it, then. He looked again at the ranks. The men were sweating hard with the exertion of keeping their muskets level.

‘Steady. Keep the present. Prepare to fire.’

Steel looked again towards the river and his mouth dropped open. The single horseman continued to approach. But this was no hussar. The man wore a black tricorne hat and a red coat. Whose red was it, though? Another trick?

Steel pushed gently from the rear of the line, passing between the files and stepped out in front of his men, ensuring that he could be plainly seen. He saw that the man’s sword was soiled with gore. At twenty yards out the rider pulled up his horse and stared.

Steel stared back, straight into his eyes. He half turned to address his men: ‘Hold your fire,’ then yelled down the street: ‘Who are you?’

‘Captain James Maclean, Hay’s dragoons. Who the devil are you?’

‘Steel, Sir. Lieutenant, Farquharson’s Foot. We thought you were French.’

‘Not us. Scots, old chap. Like yourselves. You look as if you’ve had a bit of a time of it.’

‘You could say that, Captain. A bit of a time. Thank God you’re here. How did you find us?’

‘Oh, it was no trouble really. We just followed the sound of the guns.’

‘You heard our fire?’

Maclean laughed. Pointed towards the bridge.

‘The Duke himself will have heard your fire, Lieutenant. The entire allied army is encamped but three miles down that road.’