‘All he did was to laugh,’ said Jules with a shudder.
‘Who did?’ pressed Daniel.
‘Their leader.’
‘How do you know he was their leader?’
‘He shouted at the others to ride off.’
‘Then you must have been able to see him properly.’
‘Is that right, Jules?’ added the farmer. ‘You saw their leader?’
‘What did he look like?’ asked Daniel.
‘Describe him for us.’
The boy recalled the mad eyes and the blood-curdling laugh.
‘He was a big, ugly man with a red beard,’ he said, gritting his teeth, ‘and I’m going to tear out his heart one day.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Duke of Marlborough was finally starting to look his age. Now in his late fifties, he had always defied the passage of time and retained his boundless energy and resilience. Years of campaigning, when he sometimes spent twelve hours a day in the saddle, had not weakened him to any degree. His zest for battle remained intact. Now, however, it was different. Looking at Marlborough as he sat hunched over his desk, Adam Cardonnel was worried about him. Their commander was clearly unwell. He’d been afflicted by a series of pounding headaches that were difficult to shake off. He had a fever of some sort and was unable to sleep. Fatigue had painted deep lines on his face. What disturbed his secretary even more was the fact that Marlborough had become so uncharacteristically downhearted. It was almost as if desolation had eaten into his soul.
They were alone in the tent. While Cardonnel had been writing some letters, Marlborough was poring over a map of Flanders. He was so motionless that his secretary began to wonder if he’d dozed off from exhaustion. Cardonnel reached out to touch his shoulder.
‘Are you still awake?’ he asked, softly.
Marlborough stirred. ‘Of course I am, Adam. I can’t but be awake. At a time when I most need it, I seem to have forgotten how to sleep.’ He used a palm to suppress a yawn. ‘If my wife knew how ill I feel, she’d probably rush here with a brace of physicians and a bag full of potions. That’s why I keep the full truth about my condition from her.’
‘You can’t hide it from me, Your Grace.’
‘I know. What you see is what I see in the mirror every day and it’s a dispiriting sight. But for this periwig,’ he went on, toying with the elaborate curls, ‘you’d notice how grey my hair has become. I’m sinking into senility.’
‘Yet you still have more vigour than the rest of us.’
‘I don’t feel that I do, Adam. But enough of my ailments,’ he said, sitting up and trying to marshal his thoughts. ‘Beside the work we have to do, they are an irrelevance. And I’ll wager a king’s ransom that the French army won’t suspend their activities simply because the enemy commander is feeling a trifle unwell.’ He indicated the map. ‘What’s their next move? That’s what I want to know. What are Burgundy and Vendome up to?’
‘They are probably asking the same question of you.’
‘And so they should. We must keep them guessing.’
‘They are probably still wondering how we managed to thwart their planned attack on Antwerp. That was a setback for them.’
‘Thanks to good intelligence, we nipped that plot in the bud and it was vital that we did so, Adam. We can’t let a citadel like Antwerp fall into their hands. It’s so well fortified,’ said Marlborough. ‘It’s the reason I want it to become the capital of the Spanish Netherlands. Brussels is too difficult to defend for any length of time. Antwerp would be a much more secure base.’
‘I agree with you, Your Grace, but the idea did not exactly win favour with the Dutch.’
Marlborough groaned. ‘None of my ideas ever excite them,’ he complained. ‘I know I’ve said it a hundred times before, Adam, but trying to lead a coalition army is like fighting with my hands tied behind my back. I can never do exactly what I want at a precise time of my choosing.’
‘Granted — then it’s all the more credit to you for achieving such remarkable victories in this war. You’ve overcome both the might of the French army and the shortcomings of our Allies.’
‘We may have to do so again, Adam,’ said Marlborough, placing a finger on the map. ‘Latest reports place the French here at Soignies. I’d hoped to divert part of their army by a feint to the Moselle but Prince Eugene’s force is not even fully assembled yet. Do you see what I mean about having my hands tied?’ he went on. ‘We need Eugene here this very minute. Instead, he’s held up in Vienna on government business. Don’t they realise that this war is government business as well?’ he asked, slapping the table for effect. ‘While our best ally is still in Vienna, we are left facing the entire French army.’ He took a deep breath then smiled apologetically. ‘Forgive me, Adam. I’m telling you nothing you don’t already know. It just eases my mind a little if I vent my spleen in private.’
‘You certainly never do so in public, Your Grace,’ said the other with admiration. ‘Your forbearance is an example to us all. In your dealings with our allies, you always contrive to appear gracious and accommodating.’
‘And you know the reason why.’
‘Yes…we’ll never win this war without them.’
‘Too true, alas,’ said Marlborough. ‘That’s why we have to tolerate Dutch caution and Prince Eugene’s delay. Allies are such a crucial component of any success in the field — and it’s high time we had a real success.’
‘Nobody will ever forget Blenheim,’ said Cardonnel, stoutly, ‘and Ramillies was, I reckon, even more significant. The French have achieved nothing comparable in this war.’
‘Yet they still keep coming back at us, Adam, turning our gains into losses. Even though they’ve sustained enormous casualties, they’ve somehow mustered an army of 100,000 men. Think how much money and sheer effort went into recruitment. They must have scoured every corner of France. And while they were rebuilding so furiously, how did our Parliament react?’
‘Disappointingly, Your Grace.’
‘Disgracefully is a better description. When the Recruiting Bill came before the Commons, the provision for a compulsory levy of men was thrown out. It’s heartbreaking. If we get no backing from our own country, how can we possibly equal French numbers?’
‘New recruits are no match for seasoned soldiers.’
‘Burgundy and Vendome have both at their disposal. They know that they’re stronger than we are. I fear they’re about to venture.’
‘They’ve shown little sign of it so far, Your Grace. French armies in the past have tended to watch and wait.’
‘This time it could be different,’ said Marlborough, gloomily. ‘Vendome outwitted us last year so he’s full of confidence. Then we have the Duke of Burgundy, fresh to the field, keen to show his mettle, anxious to impress his grandfather, the King. Yes, I know he lacks experience,’ he went on as Cardonnel was about to speak, ‘but Vendome can provide that. What Burgundy offers is youthful enthusiasm and the natural conceit of royalty — he believes that’s it’s his right to win.’
‘You’ll soon relieve him of that misapprehension, Your Grace.’
‘I might do if I had a full complement of men at my disposal. As it is, we’re at a clear disadvantage. We just have to hope that the French don’t launch a major attack in the near future,’ confided Marlborough. ‘Otherwise, we could be in grave danger.’
‘When we left England,’ remembered Cardonnel, ‘you wanted to provoke an attack. You hoped that our apparent weakness would tempt Burgundy and Vendome to offer battle. You even talked about abandoning Brussels, if need be, and withdrawing to Antwerp.’
‘That plan was conceived on the assumption that Prince Eugene would already be on the Moselle and thus able to march north in support of us. But he’s not even here yet. Oh, I would love a battle, Adam,’ said Marlborough rising to his feet with a touch of his old defiance. ‘I’d love to lock horns with the French again. We need a victory that will echo around the whole of Europe. It’s the o
nly way to bring the Grand Alliance back to life again.’
Daniel Rawson had to wait over a week after his visit to the farm before he had the chance to call on Henry Welbeck. The sergeant was in a typical pose, legs apart and hands on his hips as he berated the men who were digging some new latrines. On a hot day, they were positively dripping with sweat. Daniel’s arrival prompted Welbeck to move well away from them. The men heaved sighs of gratitude.
‘Good afternoon, Henry,’ said Daniel, cheerfully.
‘I see nothing good about it.’
‘We’ve got some sunshine at last. Doesn’t that gladden your hard old heart?’
‘No, Dan, it doesn’t.’
‘Oh?’
‘Fine weather might tempt the Frenchies to offer battle,’ said Welbeck, grimly, ‘and we’d be outnumbered. That’s why everyone in the camp is so nervous. They feel an attack is on the cards. From the moment we moved here, we’ve been on the alert.’
‘You’ve not been too alert,’ said Daniel, peering at his friend’s unshaven face. ‘Have you forgotten where you put your razor?’
‘I’ve had far too much to do, Dan. I’ve been so busy that I’ve barely had time to wipe the shit off my arse, let alone shave the whiskers off my chin. Down here in the ranks, we have to toil. It’s only officers like you who know what leisure is.’
‘We know what it is, Henry, we just don’t have any of it.’
‘Your life is much softer than ours,’ insisted Welbeck. ‘There’s no argument about that. Most of our officers wouldn’t last a week in the ranks.’
‘I did,’ Daniel reminded him. ‘I survived for years.’
‘You’re the exception to the rule, Dan.’
‘I daren’t ask what rule that might be. But it’s odd that you should have grown a beard. That’s exactly what I came to talk about.’
‘What — me not shaving?’
‘No, Henry. I’ve brought news about the men who burnt down those farms.’
‘It’s about time!’ muttered Welbeck.
‘There’s been a lot of work to do,’ explained Daniel. ‘But I think we’ve made progress. When I suggested that they might be deserters, His Grace called for details of everyone who’d fled from their colours. There were far too many of them, I can tell you.’
‘Desertion has always been our bane and always will be.’
‘While those details were being gathered in and collated, I spoke to the one reliable witness we had.’
‘Witness?’
‘He’s a lad of ten named Jules.’
Daniel described the visit he’d made to the farm and talked about the difficulty he’d encountered in persuading the boy to speak. Without the farmer’s help, Daniel would have got nothing from him but truculence. Welbeck was sympathetic.
‘You can’t blame him,’ he said, quietly. ‘It was a terrible ordeal to go through. In his shoes, I’d feel much the same — that everybody in a British uniform has supped with the Devil.’
‘He’ll never forgive us, Henry. Nor will the farmer who took him in. The only way to appease them is to catch the villains responsible.’
‘Catch them and skin them alive.’
‘They’ll get their deserts, don’t worry.’
‘So what’s this about a beard?’
‘It’s a red beard, to be exact,’ said Daniel, ‘and there aren’t too many of those. It belonged to the leader of this marauding band. We trawled through the lists of deserters from the cavalry regiments and we eventually found out his name.’
‘What is it — Beelzebub?’
‘No, Henry, it’s Matthew Searle.’
Welbeck scratched his whiskers. ‘Now where have I heard that name before?’ he said, racking his brains.
‘Searle fits the description given by the boy. I’ve spoken to one of the officers in his regiment and he remembered the man well. Searle was something of a menace, it seems. He was always trying to stir up trouble among the other troopers. He was punished a number of times for insubordination and being drunk on duty.’
‘They should have let me cut him down to size.’
‘In every sense, he was an unsavoury character,’ continued Daniel, ‘yet not without his virtues. He was strong and fearless. He fought well in battle and could ride a horse as if he’d been born astride one. Also, he had the instincts of a leader. Had he not been so perverse, he could easily have been promoted.’
‘What was the name again?’
‘Matthew Searle.’
‘I remember now,’ said Welbeck, snapping his fingers. ‘It’s all coming back to me. I used to have a slimy little snake of a man who always wished he’d joined the cavalry instead of the infantry. That’s what his cousin had done. He kept on and on about him. I’m sure that the cousin’s name was Matthew Searle — though he never mentioned a red beard.’
‘Who was this fellow?’
‘A good-for-nothing named Edwin Lock.’
‘Is he still with us?’
‘Not any more, Dan — he deserted months ago.’
‘Can you remember the precise time?’
‘Why?’
‘It may be that he joined up with his cousin.’
‘That’s very unlikely,’ said Welbeck, sceptically. ‘Edwin Lock was bone idle. He was only ever interested in whoring, drinking or doing both at the same time. Lock was a shoemaker by trade. I doubt if he’d know which end of the horse the manure came out of. Besides,’ he went on, ‘he was in a regiment of foot. Where could he get a horse from?’
‘There’s no mystery about that, Henry.’
‘Isn’t there?’
‘It was one of the many ways that Searle endeared himself to the regiment he left behind him,’ explained Daniel. ‘He didn’t merely take to his heels. He stole some of their finest horses as well.’
Inclement weather delayed the attack for day after day and the men became restive. They ate well and drank as much as they wished but they grew tired of being cooped up in the farmhouse. Edwin Lock once again acted as their spokesman. He found Searle in the kitchen.
‘It can’t go on like this, Matt,’ he complained. ‘We’re fed up.’
‘Do you think I like being holed up here?’ snarled Searle.
‘It’s a fine day at last. Why don’t we go right now?’
‘I give the orders, Edwin.’
‘Yes, that’s another thing.’
‘What is?’
‘They’ve been muttering,’ said Lock, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that nobody was within earshot. ‘They feel that you throw your weight around too much.’
‘Somebody has to be in charge.’
‘But why does that someone have to be you?’
Lock let out a yelp as he was grabbed by the throat, lifted into the air and banged against a wall. When Searle released him, his cousin slumped to the floor, rubbing his neck disconsolately.
‘Does that answer your question?’ challenged Searle.
‘It’s not what I said,’ bleated Lock. ‘I spoke up for you. I always do — and not because we’re kinfolk. You planned everything. If it wasn’t for you, we’d still be in the army, having our ears chewed off and our arses kicked. It was you that got us out of there, Matt.’
‘I’m glad that someone remembers that.’
‘You can always count on me.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Eh?’
‘Give me a name, Edwin. Who was it who thinks he ought to take over from me? Was it Hugh Davey or Gregory Pyle?’
‘It was neither of them.’
‘Who was it then?’ demanded Searle, grabbing him by the neck to pull him upright. ‘If we have a traitor in our midst, name him.’
‘He’s not really a traitor,’ said Lock, wishing that he’d never broached the subject. ‘Ianto just said that he’d have done things differently. There’s nothing more to it than that.’
‘Ianto Morgan, is it?’ said Searle. ‘I might have known it.’
‘He’s like the
rest of us, Matt — itching for a woman.’
‘Then maybe it’s time I cured his itch.’
Searle marched out of the house and into the yard where the other men were sitting in a group, smoking pipes and drinking from tankards. When they saw Searle rolling up his sleeves, they tensed. Ianto Morgan was a short, thickset, bald-headed Welshman with a dark complexion. Searle confronted him.
‘So you want to replace me, do you, Ianto?’ said Searle.
‘Not me, Matt,’ replied Morgan with an ingratiating grin.
‘What about the rest of you? Do any of you think he’s a better man than I am?’ They all shook their heads in denial. ‘Then I’ll show you what happens to anyone who questions my leadership.’ He crooked a finger. ‘Get up, Ianto.’
‘Why?’ said the Welshman. ‘I’m comfortable here.’
‘Get up and fight, you bastard!’
‘Ianto didn’t mean to upset you, Matt,’ said Lock, trying to intercede and earning a clip around the ear from his cousin. ‘We’re all friends here, aren’t we?’
Searle ignored him. ‘Come on, Ianto,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to settle this once and for all.’
‘There’s nothing to settle, Matt,’ argued Morgan.
‘You’re too much of a coward, are you?’
The Welshman’s eyes flashed. ‘Very well,’ he said, starting to get up. ‘If it’s a fight you’re after, then you can have one.’
But he had no intention of slugging it out with the other man. Searle was bigger, stronger and much younger than Morgan. His fists would pummel the Welshman into submission. Morgan’s only chance lay in using a weapon. As he rose to his feet, therefore, he let one hand slip to the dagger in his belt. It was the last action of his life. Leaping forward, Searle knocked him unconscious with a vicious uppercut, caught the body as it fell, got a firm grip on Morgan’s head then twisted it hard and broke his neck. The others recoiled in horror at the awesome crack. Edwin Lock began to gibber.
Searle tossed the dead man to the ground and surveyed the ring of frightened faces, content that none of them would dare to challenge his leadership now. He adopted a reasonable tone.
Fire and Sword cr-3 Page 9
