Brothers in Arms (Jack Steel 3)

by Iain Gale

  Marlborough nodded. ‘That seems an admirable plan. What d’you say, Hawkins? Will it work?’

  ‘I see no real reason why it should not, although may I point out, General Cadogan, with respect, that as soon as we begin this flotilla you can be sure the French will assemble something similar and attack the convoy while it’s on the water.’

  Marlborough thought. ‘You’re right. We must provide some form of escort or deterrent. Cadogan?’

  Steel saw his chance. ‘If I may suggest something, sir. Why not detach a portion of the barges for such a duty, and man them with water-borne troops?’

  ‘Would the troops take to it? Fighting on water? They’re not trained for such warfare. And we have no time now to summon Colonel Killigrew’s new marine infantry force from England.’

  Steel smiled. ‘My men could carry it off, sir. I’m sure of it. We can certainly try. Our muskets are shorter than those of the centre companies, and we have our bombs which might be of some effect against the craft themselves.’

  Marlborough pointed to the map. ‘Very well, Captain Steel. March with the army as far as Roulers, here, and then take your men across and up to Dixmude, in the south of the flood. Cadogan, you appear to have command of the situation. Have General Erle detach some barges from his force. How many men are you, Steel?’

  ‘I have Sir James’s Grenadier company, sir. We number some fifty men at present.’

  ‘No, no, man. I mean your new command, the converged Grenadiers whom you led under General Webb. You will form that battalion again. What did you have? Prussians, Danes, Dutch? Take them into the waters. They did well at Wynendael. Show me that you can do as well again and I swear that I’ll be of a mind to give you your own battalion. They’d all be British, mind you. I tell you, Steel, open the route to Ostend and you’ll come back a colonel.’

  Hawkins smiled at him and, bending over to refill his wine glass, whispered in Steel’s ear, ‘And, what’s more, Jack, you’ll come back with your wife.’

  FIFTEEN

  ‘Boats, sir? Us fighting on boats? On the water? You’re having a joke, sir. Aren’t you?’ Slaughter shook his head.

  Steel was adamant. ‘No joke, Jacob. I’m quite serious, and set on it. We’re all to be sea soldiers. Marines.’

  Hansam, who had been standing close by wearing a smile, interjected, ‘I presume, Jack, that by “marines” you refer to that fine regiment raised by Sir William Killigrew forty years ago. I believe they number six battalions today.’

  ‘The very same, Henry. As you will recall, they took Gibraltar four years back, when we were all down in Germany at a place called Blenheim.’

  ‘Both were famous victories. And they held it against the French after that. Nine weeks.’

  ‘Well, we shan’t be called on to do that, I’m sure. All we have to do is escort a convoy of barges from Ostend back down here. If the French do spot us, God knows how they’ll get to us, short of calling in their own navy, and I hardly think they’ll have the time to do that.’

  Williams was excited. ‘Well, I think it’s a capital idea. I’ve a cousin in the navy. Wait till he hears of this.’

  Slaughter was mumbling, half to himself, but clearly wanting an audience. ‘Course I’ve heard that there are soldiers serving on ships of the line. But I’m not equipped to fight at sea, sir. And most of the lads can’t swim. Nor I for that matter. We’ll all be drowned, Captain.’

  Steel laughed. ‘I thought it was enclosed spaces you had a fear of, Jacob, not water. Christ, man, you’ve more worries than the Duke himself. We’re not going to sea, man. We still fight on land.’

  ‘In a boat? Nah, sir, I don’t see it. How can that be?’

  ‘The French have opened the sluices in the dykes across Flanders and flooded the farmland. How many times must I explain? We are to act as a waterborne escort for the supplies. We do not travel by schooner or rigger or sloop. We are to make our way by barge, Jacob. Though I can’t vouch for the condition of our vessels.’

  But Slaughter was still speaking to himself. ‘They wear yeller coats, them marines, don’t they? Can’t trust no one as wears a yeller coat. Red’s the only colour for a British soldier’s coat. Yeller. Huh.’

  ‘Oh, calm down, Jacob. The marines are quite as brave as we are. In fact I wish we had some of them to fight with us here, rather than this foreign hotch-potch. They could tell us the tricks of the trade. There is doubtless a skill to being a soldier aboard a boat. We shall just have to learn it.’

  Hansam continued, ‘They are the Duke’s old regiment, Sar’nt. We mustn’t speak ill of them. Besides, the yellow was done away with long ago. Now they’re in red, just like us.’

  Steel said, ‘If you can call it red.’

  He was looking about him at the men resting by the roadside on the outskirts of the little town. He was right. Months of campaigning without the opportunity to acquire a change of coat, years in some cases, including his own, had done much to transform the scarlet uniforms of the infantry. Still, he thought, there was no mistaking his men as anything other than British infantry. They had a certain cut about them, a certain gait. A certain way with women and drink too, some would have said. His were true British soldiers. Two years ago he would have called them Scots, but since the union of the parliaments, and following their heavy losses at Ramillies and Oudenarde, not to mention the numerous actions between, most of his original fellow Scots were gone from the ranks of Farquharson’s. His company was a motley bunch now, a mix of Scots and Geordies, men from Yorkshire, Somerset and Northumberland, Cockneys – many of those – and farming men from the mid shires and the Weald of Kent, and of course the normal scattering of Irishmen. Slaughter and his fellow sergeants did well to keep them in order. Steel wondered how they and he himself would cope with the new command, for as promised by the Duke he found himself again at the head of the converged Grenadier battalion that he had led at Wynendael.

  Steel was content with his lot this October morning. His mind, so troubled these last few weeks, had finally settled on a plan for the future. He knew that if he could succeed in this venture his promotion was secured. The Duke had given his word on it. Major Steel. It had a good ring to it. Perhaps even Colonel. And all seemed well with Henrietta. Brussels was again under threat from Marshal Berwick, but she was at Ostend now, and Hawkins had sent word there by messenger that she should leave with the convoy. Steel would meet her en route. She would be his greatest incentive in this operation, and once he had pulled it off and gained his promotion they would be together.

  Cadogan had arranged for Erle to provide the Grenadiers with a dozen flat-bottomed barges, canal boats, commandeered at Ostend. They were simple craft, equipped with a single sail, and with provision if necessary to be powered by oarsmen. They had been commandeered by Cadogan in a remarkably swift operation. That man was extraordinary, thought Steel. Whatever might be said of his self-interest, he was apparently capable of whistling up anything on command.

  Their Dutch crews had been paid off, and English and Dutch naval ratings had sailed them from the Allied-held ports and quickly refitted them from cargo carriers to being able to take a force of infantry. Their experienced crews had guided the barges quite expertly from the open sea across the flooded plains to the little Flanders town of Gistel.

  Steel and his battalion had come here, eight miles northwest of the site of their victory in the woods, having first marched with Marlborough’s larger force in the direction of the French army, which appeared to be spoiling for a fight. The Duke at least seemed to think so and was determined to give battle should the opportunity present itself. At Tourhout, Steel had parted from the main column, heading north. Having not had time to do so before the engagement at Wynendael, he had made it his business while on the march from Lille to spend some time becoming more familiar with his new subordinates.

  The battalion was made up of grenadiers drawn from six other regiments. Most familiar to him were the Scots who had come from Lord Orkney’s own
regiment. As with the others, there were some fifty of them under a captain and a lieutenant. The captain he had recognized at once. Charles Murray had known Steel since they had been boys, and although Jack had known that he was an officer with Marlborough, for some reason their paths had not often crossed. Now here they were at last serving in the same command, albeit with Steel as its overall leader. Murray’s second-in-command was a callow youth in his twentieth year, a younger son of the manse from Perthshire named Ian Donald. According to Tom Williams, who had attempted to befriend him on the march north, although a thoroughly amiable sort, he said very little and preferred to keep his own company, spending much time poring over a dog-eared copy of Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War. Murray, however, swore that he was a tiger in a fight, and Steel could hardly wait to see the transformation for himself.

  Then there were the foreign elements of the battalion. First, thought Steel, in order of precedence, he would have placed the Dutch. Their captain, van Heemskerk, was a grizzled old campaigner with skin like leather, some ten years Steel’s senior, who clearly thought he should have been considered for command of the battalion. His men were similarly experienced, although not as long in the tooth, and Steel elected to station them on the right of the line in any fight. That honour at least would have the effect of placating their commander. The Prussians, of course, looked as if they had walked off a parade ground. Steel wondered how, when it came to the march attack, he would coordinate their deliberately high-cadence step with the more relaxed amble of his own men and the others. They were led by a thin young man with a waxed moustache. His name was Emsdorf, and he reminded Steel of the poor Prussian officer he had served alongside at Blenheim and who had ended up face down on that bloody field, felled by the sabres of ten French life guardsmen. From that poor devil, at least, Steel had learnt that as far as the Prussians were concerned retreat was never an option. The Hanoverians were an altogether less reliable-looking bunch, he thought. Their officer was something of a dandy. And lastly, in Steel’s eyes, came the Danes. Their officer was a lanky youth with straw-coloured hair, and despite their countrymen’s sound reputation they did not seem of the same calibre as the others.

  These were the men that he hoped would provide a crack fighting force, if needed, over the coming few days. It was a lot to ask – a force capable not only of holding their own on a field of battle, but also of fighting from the deck of a ship riding the inland sea. In effect they were a microcosm of the Duke’s army, and Steel was well aware of the difficulties their commander had encountered in coordinating their actions. He preferred to think of them now as a distillation of talent, all elite as they were.

  He turned to Slaughter. ‘Like it or not, Jacob, you and I have got to work with this lot as a single fighting unit, and a force that can and will operate on board ship. Speaking of which, I think it may be time to inspect our transports. Form the men up, Sar’nt, and let’s give it some swagger. We don’t want to be upstaged by a bunch of foreigners.’

  ‘Nor by Lord Orkney’s men neither, eh, sir?’

  The Grenadiers carried no drums, but they had fifers aplenty, so it was to the strains of ‘Lillibulero’ that Steel’s little force entered the town by the southern road. Marching over the little bridge that spanned the Grootgeleed stream, swollen by the influx of water, Steel noticed a flour mill over the watercourse. He carried on up the main street towards the rendezvous point with Erle’s sailors. Hardly had they entered the market square, though, when Steel was almost stopped in his tracks. For there, where the town should have ended in another road leading onto fields and hedges, lay nothing but an expanse of water as far as the eye could see.

  With Slaughter at his side, Steel stared out across it. Perhaps after all his sergeant had not been far wrong when he had spoken of a sea, for the entire country now lay under water, with houses, windmills and the tops of trees protruding from the surface of the floods. Close to the town it was clear that some progress might still be made on horse or in a wide-wheeled wagon. But at a distance of perhaps a mile the waters seemed to be deeper as the land sloped away to the coast.

  ‘There you are, Jacob. There’s your sea.’

  ‘Should’ve sent in the cavalry, sir, or dragoons more like. If you had a horse yourself, Captain, you’d be able to reach that church there at least.’

  As the commander of a battalion Steel knew that he should have been on a horse, but he had refused to take one. He would make too easy a target for enemy sharpshooters, he had argued, and besides this type of fighting would not make for horsed warfare. If there was one thing seafaring soldiers were not, it was cavalry. Nevertheless Slaughter was still cross. It went against the grain that the commander of any regiment should walk on foot.

  ‘Yes, Jacob, I know your thoughts. But it would not have been enough. We need to get all the way up to the convoy, almost to Ostend, and the only way is by boat. Now once and for all stop your bloody grumbling and let’s get on with the job in hand and get to these boats.’

  They found them some hundred yards away, tied up to the horse posts of what had until recently been an inn on a road that curved uphill and into the town from the north and which was now submerged. Beside them stood a company of sailors from the Royal Navy and a few officers in that arm’s distinctive blue coats. Steel approached them.

  ‘Gentlemen, I believe that we are your passengers. Captain Jack Steel, of the Grenadiers.’

  One of the officers, the most senior to judge from the amount of gold braid he wore, walked to meet Steel.

  ‘Captain Cassels. Good to have you aboard, Captain. We’re under orders to set sail as soon as we find you. There’s no time to waste. We must reach the convoy before the French.’

  ‘The French? Are you expecting trouble?’

  The officer looked askance. ‘Why, most certainly. Do you not know? The French have brought in a fleet of galleys from Brest. They’re manned by privateers and are intent on taking the convoy. We’ll have to hurry if all is not to be lost. You may have a battle on your hands, Captain.’

  The little flotilla moved slowly across the dark waters. To right and left they passed the tops of houses and the upper parts of churches. Trees stuck out like islands, and here and there cattle stood disconsolate, surreally isolated on flat roofs. It looked to Steel like some artist’s vision of hell in which the world had been turned upside down. A day of revelation. Dead bodies floated around them. They were mostly livestock, sheep, cattle and swine, but here and there they encountered the bloated corpse of a man or woman who had not been quick enough to escape the inundation when the French had opened the sluices of the dykes.

  Two of Steel’s men hung over the side, vomiting into the water. Slaughter, although not physically sick, had a horribly pale complexion that reflected the colour of the waters.

  ‘I told you, sir. Don’t agree with me, this water soldiering. Nor with many of the men.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’re just a little seasick. And God knows why! The water is like a mill pond.’

  They were in twelve barges, long vessels of about thirty-five feet in length and ten wide. Skutsjes, the Dutch called them. They were powered by a single sail and a number of oars on either side. Fortunately for the flotilla a light wind had come up and the barges were now skimming the waters at around ten miles an hour. They were remarkably stable craft, even when fully laden, and the shallow draught ensured that they did not collide with the many obstacles that lurked just below the surface of the flood waters.

  Each was capable of taking a half-company, and Steel had obviously taken his own half-company of Farquharson’s men. He looked across the water towards the remainder of the company and could see a few Grenadiers hanging over the edge. Most of the men, though, appeared to be content if not comfortable, clinging to whatever came to hand to steady themselves.

  The naval officer he had met on shore, Captain Edmund Cassels, approached him. ‘Well, Captain Steel, we should espy the convoy soon. Shouldn’t be long. Your men all cop
ing with being at sea?’

  ‘We’ve taken a few casualties.’ He pointed to the unfortunates at the side.

  ‘Funny, being afloat will take some men that way. Myself, I’ve never been troubled by it, which is just as well really. This is like a sailing pond. I’m used to three-masters. Glad to get this mission. Ah, that looks like our lads now.’

  Steel followed his line of sight and on the far horizon picked out a number of sailing vessels approaching their own. Straining his eyes, he could see that from several of their mast-tops fluttered the Union flag. And somewhere there, with them, was Henrietta.

  There must have been close on fifty vessels, Dutch barges like their own mostly, and as they closed he could see that they were laden with case after case of hemp-wrapped provisions. Slowly the two groups of boats approached each other until Steel was able to make out the figures on deck. There was a shout from the leading boat, and within seconds the captain of Steel’s barge had leapt aboard the other and was in conversation with its commander, who might have been his Doppelgänger, in both clothing and stature. Then together the two men stepped back onto the deck of the transport with an ease that Steel knew he could never have hoped to master.

  Cassels said, ‘May I present Captain Hugh Cassels of the Royal Navy. Captain Jack Steel, commanding the escort.’

  ‘You’re brothers?’

  ‘Near identical twins, in fact. Yes. Extraordinary, isn’t it, that we should both pitch up in the Navy? And both of the same rank.’