Читать книгу Man of Honour - Iain Gale, Iain Gale - Страница 6

TWO

General Van Styrum was dead. Cut clean through the skull by a French officer’s sword the moment he reached the ramparts. Goors too had been sent to oblivion with a bullet through his brain and with him a score more of the army’s senior officers. In all six lieutenant-generals were dead, five more wounded, together with four major-generals and twenty-eight brigadiers and colonels.

Steel counted off in his head the names of close on a hundred lieutenants and captains, among them some old friends. Names that now stood as undeniable proof of their death on the hand-written list of officer casualties pinned that morning to one of the beams of the wooden-framed inn which served as temporary officers’ mess for James Ferguson’s Brigade of Marlborough’s army. To Steel’s surprise Mordaunt had survived, though God alone knew how. His element of the Guards had been decimated in throwing itself time and again against the French breastworks until the men had to tread upon piles of their own dead and dying to advance.

The victors’ entry into Donauwö rth had not been as easy as they had presumed it might. The French garrison had only abandoned the defences when they realized that the allies’ efforts to bridge the Danube were sure to cut them off from the rest of their army. Then they had run; a pell-mell rattle of a retreat to join the main army. That had been two days ago. The cautious, curious townspeople had welcomed in the British redcoats and allied soldiers, uncertain of their fate and with recent memories of the slaughter of another war fresh in their minds. They needn’t have worried. For the time being even the roughest elements of Marlborough’s army had had enough of killing. Besides, pursuit of the French and Bavarians would be impossible until the engineers had finished their bridges. So the soldiers settled down to a few days of unexpected rest. Most of the officers had managed to secure billets within the private houses of wealthy merchants. For the NCOs and other ranks more humble dwellings or stables and outhouses made comfortable enough barracks. The wounded, who had not been transported by wagon or walked or crawled back to the headquarters camp at Nördlingen while the battle still raged, had been placed in tents outside the city walls, such were their numbers.

Steel knew that a third of them would not survive their horrific wounds. Even now, three days after the fighting, the burial parties were still at work and the bitter-sweet stench of death hung heavy in the air. It was the moment that Steel liked least in any war. That time directly after a battle, when he was as conscious of loss as much as any victory. This was a fallow period when the men might be capable of anything, from drunkenness to desertion – or worse. For those who had survived the attack – officers and other ranks – the few days of rest while the engineers rebuilt the destroyed bridge spelt a welcome chance to enjoy local food and drink, not to mention the soft sheets and sensual delights available at the city’s whorehouses. Steel presumed that it was at one such establishment that he might now find most of his company, but he was not of a mind to try. They were not the type to let the lull persuade them that a better life lay away from the army. It was three hours since he had left Slaughter in command of the half-company on the improvised drill ground behind the city walls. The men deserved their simple pleasures and he knew that the Sergeant would keep them straight.

For his own part, while he was not averse to the diversions of the flesh, the horror of the last few days had dispelled any such craven desires within Steel. They had in fact quite the opposite effect that victory in battle would have normally had on his libido. And so, rather than seek out the upmarket brothels where so many of his fellow officers were currently being entertained, he had come with Hansam to sit in this tavern. To drink and talk and savour these precious few hours of freedom. Steel gazed long at the names on the casualty list. He thought of home, of the news of the death of these officers reaching into so many vicarages and manor houses. Of mothers and sisters disconsolate with grief and fathers who gazed rheumy-eyed out of windows and over empty fields. Turning, he crossed to a table and sat down beside his friend. He took a long draught of wine, scratching at the irritating bites on his neck. Perhaps tomorrow he would find somewhere to have his uniform cleaned. His shirts and stocks at least. At length he spoke:

‘This is a sad moment for Britain, Henry.’

Hansam, who had been staring into his wine, deep in thought, turned to his friend.

‘Sad, yes, but surely you must admit, it was a glorious victory.’

‘I doubt whether the Tories back in London will see it that way.’

‘You cannot be sure, Jack.’ Tis said that the enemy lost 7,000 and another 2,000 drowned in our pursuit. Every day more bodies are being washed ashore. And we have taken nigh on 3,000 prisoners.’

‘But, Henry, what of our losses? Look at this butcher’s bill. Six thousand men dead and wounded and 1,500 of them English and Scots. One and a half thousand men. I tell you, I never knew a day so costly.’

‘And on account of it we have the town and all that it contains. We have stores, Jack, and a strong strategic base. And you know there was no other way.’

He turned to attract the attention of the pretty, buxom teenage girl who was moving deftly between the tables of red-coated officers, balancing in the crook of each well-muscled forearm two pewter pitchers of wine.

‘Another one over here. Madame. If you will, Madamoiselle. S’il vous plait. Une autre, ici.’

He turned to Steel:

‘D’ye know any German, Jack?’

Steel grinned and shook his head. Hansam tried again.

‘Ah. Yes. That’s it. Bitte. Wine, bitte.’

The girl nodded at him and smiled. Hansam turned back to Steel.

‘There, that should do it. But, Jack. You especially must know that there is no point in regret. There was no other way. We would have been held up there for a week. Ten days. With many more casualties, and far less glory.’

‘Glory? We lost good men on that hill, Henry. Morris. Roberts. Perkins. I visited the wounded this morning in that butchers’ shop they call the field hospital.’

‘But we won the battle, dammit Jack. It’s war. Just war. You of all men know that. Ours is a bloody business and that was a job well done. Besides …’

He was drowned out by a guffaw of laughter and furious applause from a nearby table. Steel looked across at the source of the noise. Major the Honourable Aubrey Jennings was clearly in his element. This was just the sort of opportunity for which he had been waiting. A real chance to puff his ego and spread word of his military prowess throughout the army.

Jennings sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by the eager faces of a dozen rosy-cheeked junior officers from his regiment and others of the Brigade. They listened with rapt attention to his exploits in the recent engagement. Boys of sixteen, seventeen, nineteen, all of whom had been at the rear of the engagement and were thirsty now for a flavour of the battle they had missed and which they would re-tell back in England, with a few key embellishments placing themselves in the centre of the action. That was, after all, the way to win the ladies. Jennings placed his hands on the table, sweeping them this way and that in movements of apparent strategic significance, knocking plates and cutlery to the floor.

‘And so we climbed past the first ditch and advanced on up the slope.’ Jennings flashed his brown eyes to make sure they were still listening. They were his best feature. In truth his only attractive feature in a thin, sallow face with high cheekbones that gave him a slightly ape-like appearance.

Jennings had joined the army to avoid a minor scandal involving a simple serving girl. His father, whose memory he worshipped as that of a saint, (though in truth he had been far from saintly) had purchased Aubrey the commission as a Captain a few weeks before his death in a hunting accident in a new regiment being raised by his brother-in-law, Sir James Farquharson. The family estate – 20,000 acres in Hampshire, mostly arable, had naturally passed automatically to Jennings’ older brother. For his own small but adequate living he was forced to rely upon the revenue from some modest London property bequeathed by his mother and whatever he could glean, by whatever means possible, from his new profession. So, he thought, it had all come right in the end. If he could only keep himself from serious injury on the field of battle, he might return home a hero and then who would bother over the matter of a twopenny whore? Besides, the army suited him.

In Jennings’ mind he had been born a soldier. There was something about the uniform that felt so reassuringly familiar. Something about the cut and the feel of it that transformed him whenever he put it on. It fitted his frame so well. He was not after all a muscular man, not athletic in the conventional sense, but he considered himself to cut a real dash in the scarlet coat of Farquharson’s. It was true that Jennings looked every bit a soldier, and he certainly acted the part.

In the few months he had served with the colours he developed his own philosophy of war. Naturally, as he had observed other officers do, he tended to avoid the hot spots of battle. Why sacrifice yourself when good officers like him were always in short supply? He must be preserved. You might throw the men into the thick of it by all means. That after all was their purpose. They were expendable. Scum. No more than gutter scrapings. But officers like him were rare.

Jennings knew that officers were born to it and was assured by his Sergeant, a morally decrepit ex-highwayman named Stringer, whose company he tolerated, and who, when he was not out whoring followed him like an obsequious terrier, that the men looked up to him. Those who did not could be certain that he would make them suffer until they did. Either that or they would die.

The other sergeants he knew did not bear him any real respect, but they still looked up to him as an officer and that was tolerable. His brother officers he thought a mixed bunch. Fair-weather friends mostly whose affections were easily bought. The younger subalterns and captains he knew he could keep in his thrall with tales of high valour. The older ones he was able to charm with flattery and weasel words. Only one officer troubled Jennings. Steel was different. Steel was a problem. A problem that he simply did not understand. And when Jennings could not understand something there were only two solutions. Ignore it or snuff it out.

For his part, Steel had always made a point of avoiding Jennings and had taken pains to keep at a distance since joining the regiment. Of course with the Major’s seniority there was no avoiding taking orders, although the Grenadiers were allowed to operate on their own more than any other company. Steel had hoped that with the correct degree of propriety he might be able to avoid any confrontation until either of them was killed in battle or transferred out of the regiment.

Now however, it seemed as if that hope might have proved in vain.

Listening closely to Jennings’ boasts, Steel chewed on a piece of tobacco and tried to block the false words from his ears. But there was no getting away from the Major this morning. His blood was up.

‘… One particularly big French Lieutenant lunged at me. I parried and thrust home and voilà. Another of King Louis’ favourites had gone to meet his maker …’

Jennings slammed his fist hard down on the table. Steel spat the tobacco out on to the filthy floor and spoke under his breath.

‘I’d like to help him meet his maker.’

Hansam smiled, and fixed Steel’s gaze with a raised eyebrow:

‘Now, Jack. Control yourself. Surely you do not dare to question the conduct of our brave Major?’

‘You know Henry as well as I do. You were there. Remind me. Where was the good Major Jennings when we were fighting on the ramparts? He was standing at the foot of the hill with the colours and the remainder of the regiment. I tell you. He dishonours the memory of our fallen comrades. You and I have not come 400 miles, have not marched down here through the Moselle and the Rhine to listen to some popinjay strut such falsehoods.’

‘Jack. If you want my advice, you’d best to leave it. Allow him his moment. The truth will out when we engage the enemy again, which I trust will not be before too long. He’s quite harmless. I tell you, in the next fight he’ll get a French bullet through what little brain he possesses. Now where’s that damned wine Madame. Ici. Here. Oh. Bitte. D’you think she saw me? I tell you, Jack the only unhappy people in this town are the regimental sutlers. And I can’t say I’m displeased. Have another glass of wine.

‘They take every opportunity to rob us blind, invent the prices on everything in the mess to double that you might pay at White’s. And then, the moment we have the option to pay the natives for our grog what happens, the sutlers run complaining to the quartermaster-general with cries of “unfair” and not proper practice. Are you listening?’

But Steel had not been listening to Hansam for some time. He had ears only for Jennings, who had become still more eloquent in the account of his personal bravery at the Schellenberg.

Two of subalterns sprang to their feet vying to buy their hero another bottle.

‘Well, gentlemen, what a fight it was, indeed. And now I reckon you’ll all be in line for promotion. Terrible losses. Terrible. So many brave officers. But manage it we did. And with what an army.’ He turned to a young, pink-faced Lieutenant.

‘Eh, Fortescue? What think you of our allies? Prussia, Holland, Austria. We fight a war of allies. Of course I saw little of them on the ramparts …’

As Jennings droned on, Steel, distracted for a moment, began to wonder. It had been a feat to keep the army together in the face of such an assault. He had heard that there had been some dissent among the commanders as to whether or not to attack. He knew the whole enterprise to manage the Austrians and persuade the Dutch to Bavaria had been Marlborough’s doing. The Dutchmen had a reputation for not shifting off their own soil so it was nothing short of a miracle.

Jennings’ voice rose again above the hubbub of the room.

‘… For all the use they are. The Dutch you know have never been good soldiers. And as for the Prussians … No give me an Englishman every time …’

Steel wondered whether Jennings had forgotten that he himself served in a Scottish regiment and if he was aware that Marlborough’s army included more Irish and Scots than it did pure-bred Englishmen. The thought merely increased his anger. If there was one thing guaranteed to incur Steel’s wrath it was officers who pretended their bravery. He had long suspected Jennings to be just such a soldier. Son of the brother-in-law of Sir James Farquharson, Jennings was de facto second in command of the regiment despite only recently arriving from home duty in London and quite fresh to the campaigning life. Steel knew that Jennings had paid his way into the regiment with substantially more than the usual 1,000 pounds required for a Captain’s commission and clearly he believed that his money would buy him not only a company but glory too. Jennings’ voice rose again:

‘So there I was, standin’ on the very parapet of the defences and I turned to my men. “Men,” I says. “Men, come with me now and we shall write such a chapter in Britain’s history as has never been seen. I intend to take this place and you shall be with me.” And then, with a great huzzah we were upon them. I can honestly say that my blade did not rest until the job was done. And so many dead. What brave boys. Quite tragic …’

Jennings looked across to where Steel was sitting. Noticing the look of revulsion on his face and realizing that here might be an opportunity, he called across:

‘Ah, Mister Steel. I had quite forgotten you. I was just enlightening these young gentlemen as to the nature of our late engagement. Gentlemen, Mister Steel was also there at the Hill of the Bell. Although I am not certain as to in precisely which part of the fight he took part. Perhaps you would care to enlighten us, Mister Steel. Were you with the pioneers, or the baggage, perhaps?’

Steel said nothing.

Jennings grinned and took a sip from his glass of Moselle.

‘A fine wine this, d’you not think, Steel? Or perhaps you do not care for it. You would prefer something more robust. A bottle of Rhenish rotgut perhaps, or a nipperkin of molasses ale? I liberated this wine me’ self from the cellars of the French commandant. You are most welcome to a glass, Steel. But do not feel obliged to accept. I do not suppose you are in a position to return my hospitality.’

It was too much.

‘I’m not sure that I properly understand you, Sir.’

‘You must do, Sir. For you forget, I am Adjutant of the regiment. I have sight of all the company accounts and unless you have rectified the matter, Mister Steel, your mess account remains unpaid from last month. And, as I recall, the month before that. Am I not right?’

Two of the subalterns laughed, briefly, then stopped, realizing that perhaps they had gone too far and that this was no longer a laughing matter. Then there was silence.

Jennings coughed and continued:

‘Of course, should you be in erm … difficulty, I would be only too happy to oblige with a small money order. For a reasonable consideration, of course.’

He smiled, narrowed his eyes, looked directly at Steel and took another sip of wine.

Steel stiffened with rage. Hansam, who had observed the conversation, now closed his eyes and was surprised by the calmness of his friend’s reply:

‘I have no need of your assistance, Major Jennings. I am informed that I shall profit from my share of the bounty due to my part in the assault party. And surely you too will benefit from that action. Or was I perhaps correct in assuming that you had actually taken no part in the fight?’

The party of subalterns let out an audible gasp. Jennings reddened, although what proportion was from embarrassment and what from indignation was not clear.

‘How dare you, Sir. You imply that I am a liar. Not merely that but a dissembling coward. Have a care how you trespass upon the reputation of a gentleman. As I am a reasonable fellow, I shall allow you to retract your accusation. Otherwise you must face my wrath, and the consequences.’

Steel pushed forward, knocking over the table and its contents. A wine bottle and two glasses smashed on the stone floor. The serving girl ran into the kitchens and the officers began to move away from the vortex of the argument. Steel spoke.

‘You will retract that comment, Sir.’

‘I think not, Mister Steel.’

‘You will retract that comment, Major Jennings, and your previous slur on my character, or pay for your insolence with your life. Although it will hardly be a fair fight. Nevertheless, you might provide me with a few moments’ sport. That is if you have the stomach for any fight. Which I very much doubt.’

Hansam spoke, quietly:

‘Jack. Do remember, duelling is not lawful. You will be court-martialled.’

Across the smoke-filled room the other officers had now stopped talking. But to those who knew the two men their confrontation came as no surprise. They knew that Jennings had long marked out Steel for just such an opportunity. And they, like Jennings, were puzzled by this curious, charismatic young man who had exchanged a prestigious commission in the Foot Guards – a position many of them would have killed for – for a lieutenancy in Farquharson’s unproven battalion of misfits.

It was plain to Jennings how he himself might profit from his association with his uncle’s regiment. He knew that money was to be made from the quartermasters’ books. Loss of stores; natural wastage. That sort of thing. Good cloth, ammunition and vittels fetched a good price on the open market and there were plenty in the regiment willing to help him for a few shillings, even if it did mean their risking the lash. And Jennings was sure that he would be able to keep himself out of harm’s way, as he had done yesterday. But people like Steel always seemed to be out to spoil his plans. Steel must be done away with and here was the opportunity, if somewhat sooner than he had expected. Jennings looked about the tavern and called to a red-coated officer.

‘Charles. A moment of your time.’

The man, a tall, lean individual with fine-boned features and a nervous twitch in the left side of his face, Steel recognized as Captain Charles Frampton of the regiment’s number two company. He knew him to be an ally of Jennings and watched as he now took his leave of his companions and walked across to the florid Major.

As the two men whispered, Hansam took Steel by the elbow.

‘Jack. You cannot do this. Not here. Not in public. If you must, then issue a challenge. Have it done in private. Of course, I shall second you. But not here. This is to invite disaster.’

Steel pulled free of his grasp. ‘Too late.’

Jennings had taken off his coat and handed it to the newcomer. ‘Mister Steel, you are acquainted with Charles Frampton. You have your own second?’

Steel nodded at the newcomer.

Hansam stepped forward.

‘Ah, Lieutenant Hansam. We are indeed honoured.’

Frampton muttered into Jennings’ ear: ‘Careful, Aubrey. I hear that he is a damned fine soldier.’

Jennings stiffened and, still smiling at Steel, spoke in a similar whisper to his second. ‘My dear Charles. Taking part in a few scraps in the Swedish war does not turn a man into a hero.’

‘They say, Aubrey, that he accounted for forty Russians single-handed at the battle of Narva. And that after Riga the King of Sweden himself presented him with a gold medal.’

‘Narva. Riga. What nonsense. Those names mean nothing. And now are we not allied to the Danes? Sweden’s enemies. I hardly think that Mister Steel will want to boast much of his relationship with the Swedish throne. Besides. Killing a few Russian savages? That’s not real war. Not the way gentlemen do battle.’

He drew from his cuff a crisp, white lace handkerchief and applied it gently to his delicate nose. ‘And that is precisely what I intend to demonstrate.’

Jennings walked forward.

‘Think now, Steel. Do you really want this end? Think on it. Do you really want to die in a tavern brawl. Were you aware perhaps that I had studied in London, under no less than the renowned Monsieur Besson? Perhaps you are familiar with him. He has taught the arme blanche in most of the courts of Europe.’

Steel did not reply. He merely drew his sword and assumed the en garde position.

Jennings instantly did the same. As Hansam hastened to Steel’s side, Jennings’ second walked to meet him. The two men shook hands and retired a few paces behind their friends.

The room had fallen silent now. Tables and chairs were pushed aside and most of the officers who had not already left began to make their exits into the street until only a small group of unwary subalterns remained. The staff too had long retreated behind the bar. The silence was broken suddenly by the sharp clang of metal on metal as Jennings tapped Steel’s blade.

Steel disengaged, circling Jennings’ sword with a deft flick of the wrist and made a slashing cut across the centre to unsettle his opponent. But Jennings had seen the move coming and side-stepped, returning to the en garde with the tip of his blade pointing directly at Steel’s side. He might have plunged it deep in, and the fact that he did not made it clear to Steel that he was only playing. Jennings spoke.

‘Oh come now, Steel. That was but a poke. I would not make use of such a thrust but with a ruffian. Have you nothing better to offer me?’ Steel raised his arm to the tierce position so that his blade was pointing directly downwards at Jennings, leaving his own body apparently unguarded. Jennings slapped at the blade with a clang of metal on metal and levelled his own sword, which came within an inch of Steel’s abdomen. Both men were sweating hard now. They pulled away for an instant, regaining their balance. Then circled and moved their blades around each other without touching. Steel’s sword made a marked contrast to Jennings’ lighter, standard issue infantry sword. But what it lacked in weight, the Major’s weapon made up in speed. Steel recovered his blade into the cavalry en garde, ready to slice at Jennings, but as he did so his opponent made a neat side-step and brought the tip of his own sword swiftly into contact with the Lieutenant’s arm, tearing the cloth of his shirt. Within seconds a thin red line had begun to darken the white cloth. Frampton spoke.

‘A hit to Major Jennings. First blood. Continue, gentlemen.’

Steel, appearing unaware of the damage to his arm, although actually in acute pain, took care to keep his blade as it was – pointing heavenward and poker-straight. If only, he thought, if only he will make one small error. Then I shall have him. He knew how easily his great blade could fall and with what force. How, given but a split-second his cut would sever Jennings’ sword arm and finish this business. But he could not find a way in. The man was too good. For all his foppishness and evident cowardice, it was clear that Jennings had not lied about his prowess with a sword. Steel began to walk to the right, encouraging his opponent to do the same until both men were circling slowly on the spot. Now. He thought. Now. If I can take the advantage. Just move for an instant to the left and then it will all be over. He prepared to make his move. Shifted the balance on his feet. Now. Now is the moment. The air hung heavy with anticipation. Now. It must be, now. But before Steel could strike the door of the tavern flew open with such force that its studded wooden surface banged hard against the wall.

The sudden noise broke the spell. Steel and Jennings stopped their dance of death and, frozen to the spot, turned their heads towards the light. Before they had a chance to renew the fight, the room had filled with a dozen redcoats armed with muskets. While two of them levelled their bayonets at the duellists, the others formed two lines through which another figure now entered the inn. A Colonel, a man in his late forties, clad in a neatly tailored dark blue coat, trimmed with red and gold lace. A Colonel on the British Staff.

The man strode forward purposefully towards Steel and Jennings, a grave expression on his face.

Hansam, moving quickly, pushed in behind Jennings to stand in front of the Colonel, attempting to block his view. He began to speak, quickly.

‘Good day, Sir. May I present myself. Lieutenant Henry Hansam of Farquharson’s. I imagine, Colonel, that you are wondering quite reasonably what exactly is taking place and I would not blame you one bit for entertaining such thoughts. What you see here, Colonel, what in fact Lieutenant Steel here was doing, Sir, was merely demonstrating to Major Jennings the relative virtues of the broadsword as opposed to the rapier.’

He wrested Steel’s sword from his grasp and proferred it to the Colonel.

‘This is the very sword in question you see, Sir. Quite a Queen amongst blades, would you not agree?’ Hansam pushed the hilt of the sword closer to the Colonel’s face, inviting inspection. ‘It was made by Ferrara, Sir, d’you see?’

But the Colonel did not care to see the sword. Fixing his gimlet eyes on Steel’s, he spoke. ‘Lieutenant. Perhaps you would care to explain to me yourself exactly what is going on here. You are aware are you not of the penalty for duelling? Particularly among officers of Her Majesty’s army in the field. And you appear to have drawn blood.’

Steel looked at his arm. The shirt around the cut was stained a deep red. ‘Sir. Yes, Sir.’

‘Yes, Sir. A court martial, Sir, with death as the ultimate penalty.’

The Colonel turned to Jennings. And you, Major Jennings. It is Major Jennings, is it not? You too should know better than this.’

‘I. Colonel …’ Jennings thought fast. ‘I have to say that I was provoked, Sir.’

‘That is as may be, Major. But you are the senior officer present, are you not?’

The subalterns attempted as best they could to melt into the shadows. The Colonel did not wait for Jennings’ reply.

‘Why don’t you just put up your sword, Sir, and we’ll say no more of it. And what of you, Mister Steel. What of you? I think that you had better come with me. Your sword, if I may, Lieutenant.’

Steel took his sword from Hansam, reversing it so that he held only the blade, and handed it hilt first to the Colonel who, signalling to two armed sentries to bring up the rear, led the way out of the tavern followed by Steel and Hansam. Steel presumed the worst. Jennings of course could be exonerated. Related to Farquharson and with power in high places, there was little he could do, save perhaps kill his commander, that would merit any serious punishment within the army. But Steel was a mere Lieutenant, of lower origins and with neither property nor capital. Perhaps he might be made an example of, in this army where only the harshest lessons would set the precedent.

Outside in the busy, foul-smelling street, where in the thin drizzle the townspeople mingled cautiously with the soldiers and the street vendors and tradesmen tried to go about their business as best they could and make the most of this sudden influx of customers, a troop of red-coated dragoons trotted past the group emerging from the tavern and Steel watched as a skinny urchin picked the pocket of an off-duty soldier.

Hawkins turned to Steel and to his surprise, gave him a wide grin. He motioned to the escort to leave them, returned the great broadsword to its owner and spoke again. This time though his voice had a quite different tone to that he had used in the tavern.

‘I’m sorry to have alarmed you in that way, Mister Steel. Forgive me. Perhaps it was just as well that I arrived when I did.’

He looked at Steel’s shoulder. ‘You might really have got into trouble. Best get that seen to. Allow me to introduce myself. Hawkins. Colonel James Hawkins, late of Colonel Hamilton’s regiment, currently on attachment to the Allied Staff.’

Steel had heard of this Colonel Hawkins and knew his reputation both in the field and out. It was said that as a younger man, during the wars of the Grand Alliance, Hawkins had taken the fort of Dixmude all but singlehanded. His capacity for drink was also well known and Steel could see from his now somewhat corpulent build and ruddy complexion that the latter at least was certainly justified. But whatever his predilections, there was precious little that James Hawkins did not know about soldiering. For all his stoutness, he still cut a dashing figure and his round face seemed to wear a fixed smile, helped by the subtle line of an old scar which ran up the side of his left cheek and which at the same time concealed behind it any inkling of what his true thoughts might have been.

He looked at Steel and the crease of a smile changed to another grin.

Steel looked puzzled.

‘Don’t worry, Lieutenant. You are not on a charge. Though I can’t say that I’m not tempted. You’ve led me a dance almost as merry as that you were leading our Major Jennings. No, I have sought you out not for punishment but for a quite different reason. Come. We’ll go to my quarters.’

He turned to Hansam.

‘Oh, Lieutenant Hansam. You may accompany us, if you wish. Come along. We do not mind. Do we Steel?’

With Steel and Hawkins walking at the front, the three officers walked together through the cobbled streets, mostly in silence although from time to time Hawkins made a comment about the inordinate amount of filth in the gutters, the changeable weather and variable quality of the local wine. They took first a left and then a right turn, ducking beneath the open galleries of the half-timbered shops and houses, until at length they arrived at a modest house whose merchant owner, wherever he might now be, had evidently spent some effort and no little money in embellishing its façade with neo-classical motifs in the latest style.

‘My servant found it. It is a little de trop, don’t you think. But still it’s comfortable enough.’

Hawkins showed the two men into the hall and through to the parlour which showed similar signs of ‘improving’ design. He motioned for them to sit before the fire and poured three large glasses of wine.

‘Now gentlemen. Or more specifically, Lieutenant Steel, to our purpose. The battle is won and you gentlemen, whatever Major Jennings might say, played a great part in its winning. It was a glorious victory, but mark you, at a price. In Vienna the Emperor talks already of making Marlborough a Prince. The Queen herself, I dare say, has written to him. We may have won a battle and strategically are in a good position. But gentlemen, in London we are undone. Fifteen hundred dead Britons does not make pretty reading. The Tories will say that Marlborough is finished. They will ask why so many men should have fallen to take one hill. And soon they will start to to call for his dismissal. We need to move fast before any such harm can be done. We must persuade the Elector, by military might, to come over to us and abandon his French allies or we must frighten him into submission. For both we need an army that is fit to fight.

‘But there is another problem. To advance we must be supplied. This town with its alehouses and courtesans may seem like the Elysian Fields to you gentlemen. But the troops are wanting. There is no bread. Flour cannot be got. Do you know how many hundredweight of bread a day this army requires merely to march, let alone fight? I will tell you. Sixty thousand men need 900 hunderweight of flour. Of course, we have our field commissary from the agency of commissioners of supply and transport. We have our agents also. And they’re all admirable men in their field: Solomon and Moses Medina. And His Grace the Duke of Würtemberg has sent to his country for 200 wagons to help bring on the stores. But first gentlemen, we must have the stores themselves. It appears that flour cannot be got from the usual channels within less than three weeks. And without flour we have no bread and without bread’, he paused ‘without bread we have no army. Brigadier Baldwin has been instructed to get all the corn he can find and lay it in the magazines at Neuberg. But we need flour immediately, or the army will starve. And that, if you’ll permit me, Mister Steel, is where you come in.’

Steel was perplexed. Having pardoned him for what was a court-martial offence, the Colonel now appeared to be commissioning him as some sort of quartermaster. Before he could ask however, Hawkins went on.

‘You will assemble your half-company of Grenadiers, Mister Steel, and you will take yourself off to the little village of Sattelberg. It’s around five days’ march from here, southwest, across the Lech and past Aicha. I don’t expect that you’ll run into any of the enemy. They’re much further north. Even the Bavarians. At Sattelberg you will meet up with a merchant. A Bavarian, by the name of Kretzmer. Nasty piece of work if you ask me and in the pay of both sides, unless I am mistaken. Which I rarely am. But I do have good reason to believe that he’ll be able to sell you some flour. And that’s what matters. At this moment I truly believe that I’d deal with the devil to get hold of enough flour to feed the army. You must of course check that it’s good. Oh, don’t worry. I know you’re no expert. I’ll be sending a cook with you – my own man – to tell the stuff.’

Steel’s face had coloured. Hawkins saw it.

‘A little more wine? It is rather stuffy in here.’

While Hawkins refilled their glasses, Steel stared intently at the painted black-and-white chequer-boarded floor and Hansam wandered across to the window, pretending to fix his gaze on the skyline.

Eventually, Steel spoke: ‘Allow me, Colonel Hawkins, to make certain that I have this quite straight in my mind. You take me away from a matter of honour, in the face of my brother officers, in the face of the regiment and the brigade. You order me to abandon a duel, albeit illegal, which I fought as a consequence of having been grossly insulted and physically harmed. And you do so in order to put me in charge of a detachment of requisition of men from the finest company in the British army, to get flour for the army’s bloody bread?’

Hawkins raised his eyebrows. He smiled bemusedly and thought about it. ‘Yes. Quite so, Mister Steel. You are right. Have you a question?’

Hansam muttered something under his breath, but Steel continued. ‘Yes, I have a question. Is this, Colonel, all the reward I get for my part in the taking of that bloody hill?’

He pointed towards the window beyond which they could see the outline of the Schellenberg, towering over the town. ‘Is this then all my bounty?’

He slammed his glass down on the table. ‘By God, Sir, I … I’ll …’

Hansam, moved to action, placed a firm hand on his friend’s arm.

Hawkins smiled. He had known for a while about Steel. Had noted the mention of his name in connection with some matter of honour here, a modest act of bravery there. It was his job to take notice of such things. To mark out men who might otherwise not come to the attention of the Commander-in-Chief. For this was an army in the making and Hawkins’ brief was to find the men to lead it. He had been waiting for this moment for some time and had known that sooner or later it would come. He had hoped that when it did Steel would not let him down. And he had not been disappointed. The Colonel spoke gently.

‘Yes. I can see that my sources were quite right about you, Mister Steel. You have a temper that knows no concept of rank. In any other circumstances, much as I like you, I would probably have had you taken out and shot for insubordination and threat. But at the present moment, I can see that you are precisely the man we need.’

Steel stared at him, quizzically.

‘You’ll hear more? Oh yes. There is more required of you. Much more.’ Steel frowned. Then began to laugh, shaking his head. ‘Colonel Hawkins. Do not, please insult me afresh. You are playing with me and this surely is not the conduct of officers. What can you mean now I wonder? Do you perhaps wish me also to procure a case of perfume for your wife. Or perhaps a trinket for your mistress?’

Steel realized he had gone too far. Hawkins though, merely stared at him, and chose his words with care.

‘Mister Steel, I have no wife. Or at least not any longer. And since she passed on I have not had eyes for any other woman.’ He paused, poured himself a glass of wine and took a long draught before continuing.

‘I do, however have a proposition for you.’

Steel nodded. ‘I am truly sorry to hear about your wife, Sir. And sorry too if I caused you offence. But believe me, Colonel, whatever you are come to offer me, I am certainly in no position to undertake favours.’

‘This is no favour, Mister Steel. It is a direct order. From His Grace.’

Steel stopped and moved Hansam’s arm from its grip on his. ‘You come from Marlborough?’

Hawkins nodded, smiling.

‘Then do please continue, Colonel.’

‘His Grace is quite aware of your prominent part in the late battle, Steel. And of the advancement it might justify. Advancement which might be particularly alacritous should you feel able to carry off this other … little business.’

Steel nodded.

‘You are aware no doubt that some ten years ago His Grace was imprisoned in the Tower of London on a charge of being a Jacobite. That of course we now know to be utterly false. Do we not, Mister Steel?’

The Colonel gazed at him hard, awaiting a reply.

‘Do we not, Mister Steel?’

‘We do, Colonel.’

‘We do. Of course we do. Quite right again. However. And this is where you come in. When you encounter our friend the flour merchant you will find that he also has something else on his person for you to deliver to me. It is a certain paper – a letter shall we say – which, were it to fall into the wrong hands would give certain parties at home in London the opportunity to engineer the removal of His Grace from command of this army. And that, Steel, is a state of affairs which I am sure you will agree would be no less than catastrophic.’

‘Sir.’

‘So now we come to the crux of the matter. What we would like you to do Steel, what His Grace requires you to do, is to relieve this merchant of his letter and return it to its rightful owner. If you do not then he will sell it to the French, who will pass it to the Duke’s enemies, of which there are a good few. And that will be the end for Marlborough, the army and you. It’s as simple as that. You’ll do it?’

Steel was silent. He thought for a moment. ‘May I ask what the letter contains, Sir? To whom it is addressed.’

‘No. You may not ask that. But I shall say merely that it contains material sufficient to destroy Marlborough forever and perhaps even to condemn him to a traitor’s death on the gallows.’

There was another pause. Steel spoke again. ‘May I ask, Colonel, as to why you have chosen me for this … honour?’

‘A good question. But it was not merely my choice. You are the Duke’s man now. Your name came to Marlborough from London. From no less than his own wife. You were recommended I believe by someone in the Duchess’s inner circle as a man who is utterly trustworthy and loyal to the Duke’s cause. And as you know there are too many in this army who would not perhaps fulfill those precise criteria. Eh, Hansam?’

‘Quite so, Colonel.’

Steel walked across to the window and gazed out on to the town below. So that was it. Steel had thought that by resigning his commission in the Guards, by removing himself from St James’s, he might evade forever the attentions of the woman whose love had first found him a career in the army.

Arabella Moore was the wife of a Director of the Bank of England; a substantial landowner. She had done well for the younger daughter of a West Country parson. But lovely Arabella was fifteen years her husband’s junior, and it had been clear for some time to those who spoke of such things in society circles, that for all his wealth and the evident care he took of her, in certain matters her dear husband was unlikely to satisfy his young bride’s voracious appetite. Steel had been seduced in an instant by her ravishing looks and infectious gaiety. They had met at a dance in Edinburgh, at Mister Patrick’s assembly rooms in the High Street.

Steel had been an impressionable youth of eighteen, she a high-ranking married woman of twenty-eight. Their summer flirtation had grown to become something more and on her return to London, Arabella had been only too happy to pay for her young lover’s commission into the Guards. And so, for five glorious years, although careful to be discreet, they had enjoyed each other to the full. And in that time Steel had grown from boy to man, loving his mistress and his regiment with at first an equal passion but gradually realizing that while the bedchamber yielded delights that were gone in an instant, his love affair with the army had somehow blossomed without his knowing it into something altogether more enthralling.

And so he had fallen out of love with Arabella and had spent more time with his other love. Evenings in the mess and mornings at drill. As other men returned from the wars in Flanders and he thrilled to their tales, the parade ground duties which at first had seemed so grand, began to pall. Peace in 1697 seemed to set the seal on his fate. But Steel wanted action and, with a guile learnt from his lover, managed to engineer his way into an attachment to the command of the Swedish army, then newly embarked on a war with Russia. It had been clear though that something more drastic was required to distance himself from Arabella. He had thought that a move to Farquharson’s and this new war might suffice. But now she had found him again and with that devilish skill he knew so well had placed him in such a position that he could not possibly refuse the honour offered to him. Recommended for the task directly by Sarah Churchill, his Commander-in-Chief’s wife and the Queen’s own confidante, he could do nothing but accept this unlooked-for mission, whatever it might bring. He smiled at the impossibility of his situation. How very, very clever she was. He turned to Hawkins. Hansam saw that he was smiling broadly.

‘Of course, Colonel, I accept. What else might I do? I am honoured. So tell me, please. When do we start? How many men do I take? Can I choose them? Have you any more precise information? Have we plans? Names?’

Hawkins clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Wait, my boy, patience. All in good time, Steel. More immediately, I have arranged a meeting for you with Marlborough. He wishes to see for himself this man who comes to him so highly recommended. And then you will go. In four days’ time.’

Steel raised his eyebrows. Four days. It was time enough, presumably, to gather his men. Hawkins went on:

‘And you’ll have company. An Ensign of Grenadiers, newly arrived from England. A Mister Williams. A pleasant lad. He’s my late wife’s nephew. Your Colonel’s agreed to take him in. Be sure to take care of him, Steel. Oh, and try to behave yourself. It would do to forget that business with Jennings. You can be sure that you cannot avoid him on this campaign.’

He smiled to himself.

‘Just remember that the man’s a fool and consider the likelihood that like any fool who serves with the army, he’ll meet a fool’s death,’ ere long. Do not take the trouble, Steel, to take upon yourself a task which fate has so clearly marked out as a foregone conclusion.’

Steel smiled back at the Colonel. He was warming to the man, but was still unsure as to quite how to take his comment. Whether it was meant in jest or in deadly earnest.

Hawkins laughed. ‘And now, gentlemen, we have a war to fight. And I am afraid that I must take my leave of you. Might I suggest that you repair to another establishment. I hear good things of an inn on the other side of the city, close by the bridge, at the sign of the running horse. At least there you are not likely to encounter the good Major. And Steel, you’d best have that arm looked at. You’ve a busy time ahead of you, and you know how the Commander-in-Chief is most particular about the condition of his officers. Especially those whom he chooses to engage in his personal service. We wouldn’t want you to come to any harm before you’ve even set out.’