by Stuart Daly
He then turns to his men and speaks in English, to which they respond by joining their voices in a low howl. One of the Englishmen says something, and receives an encouraging slap on the back from the Lieutenant in return.
‘What did the Lieutenant say?’ I ask Armand.
‘He referred to his men as Dogs of War and asked them if they were prepared to wade through blood,’ he explains. ‘One of them responded that they would buy the Captain the time he needs, even if it means holding this position until these tunnels are wall to wall with dead Hogen Mogens.’
‘Hogen Mogens?’ I ask.
‘It is a derogatory term used by the English to describe the Dutch.’
‘And what of you, boy?’ the Lieutenant says in German, turning towards me. ‘Will you join us in a baptism of blood? Or do you want to stay back and reload my firearms?’
‘Jakob’s already had his baptism,’ Armand says, quick to intervene. ‘And believe me, he won’t be relegated to loading your firearms. He’s a fully initiated Hexenjäger. He’ll fight by my side.’
Lieutenant Wolf looks me square in the eye and nods. ‘It appears the Hexenjäger train their hounds from when they are pups, suckling them on the teats of war. But I will not be a hypocrite and hold your age against you. I was no older than you when I fought my first action at Maastricht. Besides, my blade is no sharper than yours.’
I’m about to respond, when one of the Englishmen – who had been standing at the end of the tunnel, looking around the corner – pulls his head back sharply, his expression grave. He says something to Lieutenant Wolf, whose eyes flash in alarm.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask Armand, curious as to what has startled the stalwart soldier.
‘It’s the new patrol,’ Armand explains, his look distant. He then turns to regard me, his eyes uncharacteristically narrow with concern. ‘It might be best if you stay back and reload our firearms.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘The Dutch reinforcements have arrived, but they are not Dutch,’ Armand says. ‘Yesterday, when I surveyed the city streets, I heard rumours that a contingent of French soldiers had been stationed in Rotterdam to assist the Dutch. And the rumours appear to be true, for a unit of Frenchmen are coming up the tunnel. But they are no ordinary soldiers.’ He pauses. ‘They are wearing the blue tabard of King Louis XIV’s Grey Musketeers.’
He might as well have hit me with a sledgehammer, such is the impact of this announcement. I stare blankly at Armand, wondering how we will ever survive this mission.
The Grey Musketeers are the most revered fighting force in France – a handpicked unit of France’s finest soldiers. Experts at close-quarters combat, they are always the first to enter battle and the last to leave. They are commanded by their sub-lieutenant, Charles Castelmore d’Artagnan: a Gascon with a reputation for bravery and whose daring escapades are the bread and butter of the Parisian gazettes.
And if he’s leading the Musketeers who have entered the dungeon, I just hope he hasn’t come to spread us across the next slice of bread he’ll deliver to the Parisian newspapers.
‘What do we do now?’ I ask Armand, feeling like running away as fast as my legs can carry me.
‘We have no option but to hold this position,’ Armand returns. ‘I need you to go back and warn the others. Tell the Captain that we will hold them off for as long as possible. Though I don’t know how much time we will be able to buy him.’
‘What about you?’ I ask, not wanting to abandon my friend.
Armand smiles confidently. ‘I’ve faced the Grey Musketeers before, back in Paris. It was the reason for my expulsion from the city. They are exceptional swordsmen, but I can hold my own against them.’
‘I know the stories,’ I say, thinking back to the tales I had heard of when Armand was a Captain in Louis XIV’s Royal Palace Cavalry. ‘You fought six separate duels in one day with members of the Musketeers, winning each of them. But now there’s an entire patrol heading our way. We came to see if my father is here and, if so, to rescue him; not to help some English Captain pursue his own goals.’
Armand shakes his head. ‘We are committed now.’ He produces his handkerchief from a pocket, kisses it tenderly and ties it to the pommel of his mortuary blade. ‘Besides, I’ve never been one to run from a fight. There are also unsettled matters I need to resolve with some of the Grey Musketeers. With any luck, they will be down here.’ He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Now go, Jakob. Warn the others. Godspeed.’
Knowing that each passing second is vital to the success of our rescue mission, I race along the tunnel and pray that this night will not end in a bloodbath.
I have barely moved beyond the perimeter of light cast by Armand’s lantern when it becomes too dark for me to proceed any further. I untie my lantern from the side of the pack slung over my back, light it with my tinder and flint, attach it to my belt and continue running. I haven’t travelled far when I hear the sharp report of firearms as Lieutenant Wolf’s soldiers engage the Grey Musketeers. I hasten along the passage, which turns left and right every thirty yards or so until, eventually, I reach the rest of our team.
Captain Lightfoot, Francesca and von Frankenthal are at the beginning of the tunnel, positioning gunpowder barrels in elevated alcoves on opposite sides of the dungeon wall. A group of English soldiers are using wooden beams to prop the petard – a bell-shaped explosive device usually attached to a castle gate and detonated by a fuse – against the bricked-in doorway that gives access to the prison.
‘You’re making enough noise to wake the dead, sloshing about like that,’ von Frankenthal says, stepping away from the others to greet me, his massive frame accentuated by the full-length cloak he is wearing. He looks warily down the passage, to where the sounds of combat are all but a distant, muffled echo. ‘It sounds as if there’s one hell of a fight happening back there. I hope you’ve been keeping your head down. Perhaps it’s better if you stay here with me from here on.’
As much as I appreciate his concern, von Frankenthal is becoming too over-protective of me. This is quite ironic, considering the rough start we had. Only a month before I joined the order, a seventeen-year-old initiate who had been placed under von Frankenthal’s care had died during an ambush by witches. Having blamed himself for the initiate’s death, it had taken von Frankenthal some time to accept his new charge of watching over me. And now that he has, I often feel as if I am constantly shadowed by him. It’s not that I’m ungrateful. On the contrary, I feel secure – almost invulnerable at times – having the muscle-corded witch hunter constantly watching my back. But I also feel restricted. I’m actually amazed that he ever allowed me to stay back with Armand and Lieutenant Wolf in the first place.
Captain Lightfoot attaches a fuse to one of the sets of barrels. ‘How goes the delaying action?’ he asks, not looking up, focusing on the task at hand.
‘Lieutenant Wolf is determined to hold his position for as long as possible,’ I say. ‘But there’s a problem.’
The Captain’s eyes snap up. ‘I don’t like problems. What is it?’
‘The Dutch have had reinforcements arrive,’ I say, the Captain hanging off my every word, ‘and they are a company of the Grey Musketeers.’
Captain Lightfoot stares hard into my eyes, contemplating this latest information. He turns to four of his remaining twelve soldiers, clicks his fingers and points down the tunnel, directing them to support the Lieutenant. He gestures for me to join him and Francesca in preparing the fuses. ‘Then we must hurry,’ he says.
As the soldiers hasten down the tunnel, Francesca hands me a coil of twine and instructs me to cut off two lengths, each approximately one foot long.
‘Why are we placing the barrels here?’ I ask, producing a dagger from my top boot and cutting the requested lengths of cord.
‘The Captain doesn’t want any Dutch pa
trols coming into the gaols after us,’ Francesca says. She uses the pommel of her dagger to make a small hole in the top of a barrel, and inserts one of the fuses. ‘At the same moment we detonate the petard, we are going to ignite these barrels, bringing down this section of the tunnel, blocking any further Dutch patrols from reaching us.’
‘But won’t that alert every Dutch soldier in the city?’ I ask.
‘The entire city will be alerted to our presence the instant we blast our way into the gaol. If that’s going to be the case, we might as well set off some other explosions and bring down the tunnel. Besides, we won’t be going back that way. The Captain has studied maps of the dungeon, and he knows of another way out.’
‘And what of Armand and everyone else?’
‘We won’t be leaving anybody behind,’ Francesca says determinedly. ‘We’ll send a runner back to warn the others. No barrels will be detonated until they are all back here. You have my word on that.’
Reassured by her promise, I assist Francesca in preparing the barrels. Captain Lightfoot then calls for us to join him near the bricked-in section of wall.
‘We are ready to go,’ he announces. ‘Once the fuses are lit, it will only take ten seconds or so before the petard and gunpowder barrels go up. We’re going to take shelter beyond the next turn in the tunnel. There will be one hell of an explosion, so remember to cover your ears.’ He looks at me. ‘I’d say you’d be faster on your feet than the rest of us. I need you to go and tell Lieutenant Wolf that he is to pull back. The instant I see the Lieutenant and his men enter this tunnel, I am going to ignite the fuses . . .’
‘Let me warn the others,’ von Frankenthal says.
Captain Lightfoot shakes his head. ‘No offence intended, but you’ll be too slow. Jakob will go.’
I place the spare length of fuse I am holding in a pocket on the inside of my cloak. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Be careful,’ Francesca says.
I smile bravely in return and then I’m off, determined to pass on the message before Armand and Lieutenant Wolf are cut down by the Grey Musketeers.
The sounds of combat getting louder with each passing turn in the dungeon, I race through the tunnels until I make it back to where Armand and Lieutenant Wolf’s soldiers are holding off the Grey Musketeers. I come to a grinding halt, shocked when I find the tunnel transformed into a scene of carnage.
Whereas I had last seen Lieutenant Wolf’s Dogs of War standing proud and defiant, determined to hold their position for as long as possible, all that remains now are five wounded soldiers. They are gasping for air and leaning on their weapons. The smell of gunpowder hangs heavily in the air, and dead Englishmen and the odd Grey Musketeer lie floating in the water. Von Frankenthal was right – this was one hell of a fight.
‘Where are Armand and Lieutenant Wolf?’ I ask the closest soldier, who stares blankly at me, not understanding a word I say.
My stomach knots as I look at the bodies, fearing that Armand must lie somewhere amongst them. But then I hear the squeal of steel on steel, coming from somewhere beyond the next bend in the dungeon.
Armand!
I race along the tunnel, hoping that I am not too late to save my friend. When I turn the corner, however, I realise that the situation is dire.
Armand is standing beside Lieutenant Wolf at the far end of the passage. They are hemmed up against the dungeon wall, attempting to hold at bay several dozen Grey Musketeers. The French soldiers are stalking around them like wolves toying with cornered prey.
I remove the lantern from my belt, dim its light and place it in an elevated alcove in the previous corridor. I then draw both of my pistols, take a deep breath to steady my nerves and sneak around the corner. I make my way stealthily down the tunnel, being careful not to disturb the knee-deep water and betray my presence. I stop at the edge of the perimeter of light cast by Armand’s lantern and take aim at a Musketeer standing at the rear of the combatants; his magnificently plumed hat and the elaborate hilt of the sword hanging by his side distinguish him as an officer.
‘Call off your men and let my friends go!’ I yell, stepping boldly into the light. It takes every ounce of my willpower to stop the barrels of my raised pistols from trembling.
Surprised, the Musketeers turn towards me and, seeing the pistols trained on their commander, step warily away from Armand and Lieutenant Wolf. There is an anxious moment of silence. I swallow nervously. Then one of the Frenchmen lunges forward, his blade striking out at Armand, hoping to catch him off-guard.
But the Musketeer’s blade never reaches Armand. At the exact moment the French soldier darts forward, I snap one of my pistols towards him and fire. Although I was aiming at the Musketeer’s torso, I say a silent prayer when he staggers back to join his companions, clutching his injured thigh.
‘I won’t be so generous next time,’ I snarl, levelling my remaining pistol at the Musketeer officer. ‘The next shot takes off your commander’s head! Now back away from my companions.’
I’m not too sure if any of the Musketeers understand German, but their commander – a man of perhaps forty years of age, and with the proud demeanour of a Gascon – considers me for some time before grinning ruefully and bowing in acquiescence. He says something in French, and the Musketeers withdraw to the far end of the tunnel.
Armand and Lieutenant Wolf race over to join me, and we start to make our way back up the passage. The Musketeer officer – the barrel of my pistol still trained on him – steps boldly forward and stares at Armand. He calls out again in French, causing Armand’s eyes to narrow. Armand says something in return, his tone hostile, to which the Musketeer officer smiles derisively.
We reach the end of the tunnel, and it’s just as we are about to turn into the next section of the dungeon that all hell breaks loose. As if some secret cue has been given, several of the Musketeers reach for the pistols tucked into their belts. Aiming my pistol at the first Musketeer to move, I fire a hasty shot that misses its mark. Then, as the deafening report of over a dozen firearms erupt in unison, I race after Armand and Lieutenant Wolf, balls whizzing past us and smacking into the tunnel walls.
Tearing into the next corridor, I pause to collect my lantern, attach it to my belt and continue running. It’s not long before we catch up to the remnants of Lieutenant Wolf’s soldiers. Offering them assistance, we hustle along the tunnel and disappear around the next turn.
‘Move! Move! Move!’ Armand yells, urging us onward, snatching a musket from one of the injured Englishmen and staying behind at the end of the tunnel to cover our retreat.
We have barely moved ten yards before – BLAM! – Armand fires the musket. Slinging the firearm over his shoulder, the French duellist races after us.
‘That will stall the Musketeers for a few seconds,’ he says. ‘I took one out with a shot to the chest. But they will come after us – so move as if the Devil was at your heels!’
Lieutenant Wolf snarls something through clenched teeth, and the wounded remnants of his force stagger through the water, reaching the next turn in the dungeon. The Lieutenant stays behind, his pistol raised, waiting for the Musketeers to appear. We use this tactic for the next few sections of tunnel – one of us remaining behind to cover our retreat, their discharged firearms momentarily delaying the French – before we make it back to the section of the dungeon with the gunpowder barrels.
Only to find that Captain Lightfoot, von Frankenthal, Francesca and the remaining English soldiers are locked in a savage fight with a Dutch patrol at the far end of the passage.
‘This isn’t promising,’ Armand says, pulling up alongside one of the sets of gunpowder barrels. ‘Take everyone down to assist the Captain,’ he says to Lieutenant Wolf, who orders his men to charge after him down the tunnel. Armand then looks my way. ‘Jakob, I need you to stay here with me. Have you ever wondered what damage a couple of barr
els of gunpowder can do to a wall? Well, we’re about to find out.’
Armand must have forgotten that I am well and truly aware of the destructive power of ignited gunpowder barrels. I had almost been blown to shreds by one in the tunnel beneath Schloss Kriegsberg. Like a hit to the head with a hammer, that was something I do not want to experience again. There’s not much say I have in the matter, however, as we might only have seconds before the Musketeers catch up to us.
Having taken position beside the barrels set in the alcove opposite Armand, I follow his lead and return my pistols to my belt and produce my tinder and flint.
‘The Musketeers will be here any second now,’ Armand says. ‘But we only need to light one of these fuses. The blast from one of these sets of gunpowder barrels will be enough to set the others off. And we don’t want to be standing around when that happens. We need to hightail it out of here as soon as one of us manages to ignite a fuse.’
My eyes darting back and forth between the fuse and the end of the tunnel, I work frantically with my tinder and flint, trying to catch a spark on the fuse.
‘Mine’s lit!’ Armand yells after a few attempts.
We leap from the alcoves and race back up the tunnel, but we haven’t even covered more than ten yards before we snap our heads around at the sound of splashing water. Several of the Musketeers burst into our section of the dungeon, their pistols raised in preparation to shoot.
‘Move!’ Armand cries, his head lowered to minimise the target he presents for the French soldiers.
There’s a deafening BLAM! as the Musketeers discharge their pistols. Balls zip past us: one knocking the hat clear from Armand’s head; a second ripping a hole through my cloak. Miraculously, none hit us, and we race back along the tunnel, believing we might somehow manage to survive this, when – KABOOM! – the powder kegs explode.
