by Iain Gale
Slaughter smiled: ‘What did I say, sir? Civilians.’
Steel yelled: ‘On your feet!’
The figure did not move. But they could hear his soft sobbing now. Steel bent down and turned him over. ‘It’sa boy. No more than a lad. Can’t be more than ten. No wonder he couldn’t hit us.’ Pulling the boy to his feet he waved away the bayonets and turned to the would-be assassin. ‘You idiot. What did you think you were doing? We could have killed you.’ The boy looked at him, not understanding the foreign tongue. Steel gave up. ‘Bloody hell, Jacob. We’re looking after children now.’
With Slaughter carrying the boy’s antiquated and inaccurate fowling piece, they moved to the door and pulled it open to the blinding brightness of the day.
But it was not the light that stopped them in their tracks. Steel found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. It was never a pleasant experience, in particular when as now the man with his finger on the trigger was clearly very angry. He was some inches shorter than Steel and was dressed in a brown woollen coat and a tattered round-brimmed hat. Behind him stood another two dozen men, similarly armed and all in civilian dress. The man addressed Steel in a guttural Flemish that he did not understand.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t speak your language.’
The man tried again and pressed the musket unpleasantly close to Steel’s face. Steel, unable to take his eyes off the weapon, whispered to Slaughter, ‘Any sign of the rest of the company?’
‘End of the street, sir. Formed in two lines. Facing this way.’
Steel tried the man again: ‘I don’t know who you are but I am a British officer and those are my men at the end of the street. If you shoot me forty muskets will bring you down.’ The man looked puzzled and spoke again, this time in French. This was better.
‘They think we’re French, sir.’
‘Yes Sarn’t. I can see that.’
‘Mijnheer, we are British, not French. We mean you no harm. We have beaten the French in a big battle.’
The man looked suspicious. ‘English?’
‘Yes, English. Friends. Please …’
The man smiled and backed off, but still did not lower the gun. Without moving his eyes from Steel’s, he spoke again and pointed at his chest: ‘Jan.’
From the rear of the group another man pushed forward. ‘You are Englishmen?’
‘Yes. We are British. Scots. Ecossais. Thank God, you speak English.’
‘Yes, I speak good English. You will not harm us?’
‘No. We have beaten the French in a great battle. We are pushing them out of your country.’
The man thought about Steel’s reply, then smiled and nodded. ‘Then you are welcome, sir. I am sorry. My people are nervous. We have seen so much horror here. Too many soldiers. French soldiers. Yesterday they came again. Many were injured. Some died. And some of them took our food. They killed two men who tried to stop them.’
French deserters. Steel knew what would happen now. He’d seen enough of this before. In Russia, Bavaria, Spain, and here in Flanders. Break an army, rob it of cohesion and officers and what were you left with? Nothing more than a rabble, and a murderous, rapacious rabble at that, devoid of any principles or morals. There was nothing more dangerous in this world than a leaderless army.
The taller villager spoke to the man with the gun and at last it was lowered. Steel smiled and nodded in thanks.
‘You have beaten the French? Yes, we heard. The French are beaten. But you see we still cannot believe it. Any men with guns. I’m sorry. We are very happy. For many years we have had French soldiers here. We are ruled by the Spanish and their French friends. Your battle will bring us freedom. We thank you for that, sir.’
As the man spoke, another villager had been translating and Steel saw that the entire group of men was smiling now.
‘Sarn’t. Have the company stand down. I don’t think we need worry.’
‘You are welcome, Captain. Please excuse us. We are peasants and to us many soldiers look the same. We have to be careful. But look, we have armed ourselves. And,’ he added proudly, ‘Iamanofficer. Like you.’
He smiled, his face full of hope, and Steel, humouring him, responded with a respectful nod. ‘Well your men have no need to worry about the French any more. They are beaten. They won’t be back quickly. Where are we exactly?’
‘You are in Wippendries. We are only a small village, but you are welcome to share what we have.’
Steel surveyed the militia, took in their assortment of weapons and their ages. A single platoon of French regulars would have accounted for the lot of them in five minutes. But clearly, they had spirit and Steel knew that sometimes, on the battlefield, that could mean the difference between life and death for any troops – farmhands and guardsmen included.
The man spoke again: ‘You are welcome to stay in our village, Captain. We would be honoured. Perhaps we can make up for shooting at you.’
Steel laughed. ‘Perhaps. Don’t give it another thought.’
You silly bugger, he thought. You don’t know how close you and your bunch of brave, stupid yokels came to death. If that shot had hit Tarling instead of his cap, we’d have had you quicker than any French bastards.
‘We’ll stay the night if we may. It will be a good chance for a rest. We’ve been forcing the march to catch the French.’
‘That is good to hear, Captain. We hate the French. For too long they have been our masters here. Like you, if we see any French, we kill them.’
While ordinarily Steel would have agreed, he found himself thinking again of Argyll’s outburst in Ramillies and couldn’t help but wonder that there was so much hatred in this campaign, of a sort he had not seen these past seven years. Not since the bloody carnage in the north when he had watched with horribly detached interest as the Swedes and Russians had bled each other dry. This was a new and unexpected twist to the war. He knew that the French had been an occupying power here in the Netherlands, but till now he had not been aware of just how much they had been resented. He should have been cheered, he knew, by the news that the Belgians were his allies, but instinctively, something told him that this was going to complicate the conduct of the campaign. And Steel did not like complications – especially when they involved civilians.
Some six miles to the southwest, similar local hospitality was being extended to another allied soldier, albeit on a grander scale. The Duke of Marlborough stood, surrounded by his immediate military family and a small bodyguard of dragoons in the great hall of the ancient Château de Beaulieu, five miles north of Brussels. Despite the lavish reception which had been laid on in his honour, the commander-in-chief was not happy.
‘I should not be here, William. This is not a general’s work and I am no politician. My place is out in the field, chasing the French, following up our victory. We cannot be complacent.’
William Cadogan, quartermaster-general, laid a friendly hand upon the duke’s shoulder. ‘Your Grace, you must be patient. The French this day have quit the capital. We shall enter Brussels tomorrow. We should rejoice. But before we can possess the city we have pressing business here. It is an affair of state and you are the de facto representative of Her Majesty. It is your duty.’
Marlborough sighed and rubbed at his temples. ‘Yes, yes. I know. How my head does ache so. I have written to the duchess about it. I hope for a cure – the queen too. They suggest …’
Hawkins interjected: ‘I am sorry, Your Grace, but Cadogan is right. You must attend. You are rightly perceived as the victor and these men would laud you as a conqueror, as the liberator of their country. It falls to you, like it or not, to meet with these politicians. All are gathered here. The magistrates have come from Brussels together with the Estates of Brabant. Not only this, My Lord, but the entire Spanish government here in the Netherlands have declared against Louis and pledged themselves to Charles III, our candidate for the throne of Spain. The fate of Europe is in your hands. You must now treat with them. Now, your Grace.�
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Marlborough glared at him with steely green eyes. ‘Oh, James. I do so wish you were not always so very right.’
Van Goslinga had re-entered the great hall now and smiled insipidly at the duke. Marlborough hissed, under his breath: ‘That man again. That odious little man.’
Not hearing the comment, the Dutch liaison officer smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Your Grace, the deputies and magistrates would meet with you now, if you please.’
Together, Hawkins, Marlborough and Cadogan were shown through into the grand salon of the castle. The painted and gilded walls were hung with vividly coloured Brussels tapestries depicting scenes of courtly life in the Middle Ages and portraits of the Dukes of Brabant. In the centre of the room stood a long table and around it sat some twenty middle-aged and elderly men in full wigs. Hawkins noticed that, while those on the right had the pale complexion of northerners, those seated to the left were more swarthy and sported moustaches. All were dressed in sombre black coats. It looked to the duke and Hawkins something like a meeting of physicians, but where in the centre of the table there should have been a cadaver ready for dissection there lay sheaves of paper and charters sealed with red wax and on top of them the swords of the deputies and the Spanish officials, their hilts pointing deliberately in the direction of the victorious British general.
As Marlborough entered the men rose as one and made low bows over the table. The duke returned their greeting. The man nearest to him, a short, pale Dutchman with a small white goatee beard, spoke in mannered English.
‘We are a proud people, Your Grace. For four hundred years we have resisted French tyranny. For two hundred years we have been ruled by the Hapsburgs. Since 1515 by the Spanish. Under Spain our people were massacred for their refusal to accept the Catholic doctrine. We fought them for eighty years, until 1648. For the last thirty years we have been fighting against the French King Louis. The French bombarded our city of Brussels for three days in 1695. They reduced it to nothing – only the town hall survived. But from the ashes we have built the city you see today. We are survivors, My Lord Duke, and with your help we have thrown off the yoke of French rule. We pledge allegiance now to Charles III and ask you to acknowledge a new united Belgian state.’
Marlborough bowed. ‘Thank you, mijnheer. I am a general, not a statesman. But I will accept your declaration and communicate it to my queen in England. I am aware of your country’s long agony under King Louis. I believe that our late victory has truly brought that to an end. I assure you that there will not be the least change in regard to religion. I intend to recall the ancient charter well known as the “Joyous Entry of Brabant”. I assure you that my men will be kept in firm control. They will not plunder or devastate your land or take your goods and they will pay due respect to your people. If they do not then they shall suffer for it. Any man – be he common soldier or officer – found stealing so much as a cherry from one of your orchards shall pay with his life. It will be death without mercy, gentlemen. Although I trust that I know my men well enough to say that I shall not need to implement such a penalty.’
As one the deputies, magistrates and Spaniards rose to their feet and applauded Marlborough.
The Duke smiled and as he did so inclined his head to the side in a whisper: ‘I pray to God, Hawkins, that we can stay true to our word.’
‘Oh, you need have no fear of that, sir. The men’ll do whatever you desire them to. The punishment is only for show. They wouldn’t dare.’
Steel leaned against the wall of the house and, gazing into the farmyard, watched the man, Baynes, a wily country boy from the Scottish borders, near the town of Jedburgh. He was wrestling with two wiry yellow legs, attempting to avoid the claws as he manoeuvred them into his haversack.
Unaware that he was being observed, Baynes was muttering half to himself and half to the chicken which, still alive, he was determined to conceal. ‘C’mon you little bugger. One more push. Just one wee heave and in you go. Get your bloody head in there.’ The bird, its head covered by cloth, panicked and nipped the Grenadier on the forefinger. ‘Ow! Ye little bugger, I’ll give you something to nip about. I was only going to eat yer legs but now I’ll boil the lot of you. Get in there will you.’
‘Having trouble, Baynes?’
The man froze and slowly turned towards Steel: ‘Ah. Yes. I can explain, sir. It was fair game, sir. I just found her walking about. And you yourself, sir, heard the good man telling us that we were to share anything in the village.’
Steel raised his eyebrows. ‘So you, Baynes, being a kindly sort of a man, thought, “Now wouldn’t that be a fine mascot for the regiment? I’ll just take her to Colonel Farquharson and the adjutant and save her from the pot.” Am I right?’
‘How you do it sir, I don’t know. Quite right, Captain Steel, sir. Right you are again.’
‘By rights, I should have you hanged, Baynes. In Bavaria you would most certainly have been hanged. There the duke decreed that anyone found stealing anything would be subject to punishment by death.’
Baynes was shaking now. ‘Stealing? me, sir? No sir. Not stealing. Not me.’
‘Yes, Baynes. Stealing … Now put the bloody chicken back where you found it and we’ll say no more. Now get back to the company and wait. And don’t worry – I’ll find you some rations.’
Three hours later, his belly full of roast chicken, Steel was awoken by a cry and then another. No light pierced the pitch-black of the night, but he did not need to see to know that something was not right. Reaching for his sword, he leapt to his feet and not bothering with his coat, despite the cold of the night, buckled the belt around his shirt.
‘Sarn’t?’ He sensed, rather than saw in the darkness, Slaughter’s large frame at his side.
‘Came from over there, sir. Edge of the village.’ Another cry. Higher in tone now and unmistakable as that of a man in agony.
‘Come on. Alarm. Company to arms!’
Around him in the darkness the Grenadiers began to rise and fumbled for their weapons. Quickly, as another cry rent the air, Steel and Slaughter, followed by the night-watch picquet, made their way through the silent streets towards it.
They turned down a narrow alley and emerged in a small square on the edge of the village. In the centre stood a cherry tree and around it were gathered some twenty of the village militia. All were armed, some with captured French-pattern muskets, but most with swords or knives. For a moment they seemed not to have noticed Steel and his men. And when they did, they smiled and nodded. Jan, their self-appointed officer walked forward. In his hand he held a short knife.
‘Ah, Captain Steel. Welcome. I am sorry that we did not invite you to our evening entertainment. I thought that your men were too tired. And we did not know we would have such sport tonight.’
Steel felt no offence at their lack of hospitality. This was not the sort of sport he cared for. Tied to the tree was a man in the uniform of a French officer. Another man was standing behind him, held fast by two villagers. The faces of both men were frozen in terror and Steel could see why. Beneath the flickering torchlight he counted six dead bodies lying sprawled on the cobbles. They too wore white uniforms and were covered in blood. None of the dead seemed to have had any weapons and the two officers had long since lost their swords. Clearly this was a party of lost and desperate Frenchmen who, looking for food, had had the misfortune to stumble into Wippendries. It had been a fatal mistake. From the positions of the bodies, the cuts they bore and the agonized expressions etched deep into the visible faces, he could see that this had been no struggle, but a careful massacre.
Jan jerked his thumb back to the French officer who, Steel now saw, bore bloody cuts on his arms and legs. ‘He makes too much noise,’ he laughed. ‘So now we are going to cut out his tongue. Then perhaps we will take his sight. Who knows?’
He moved towards the French officer, who stared at Steel with terrified eyes and muttered protests. Jan grabbed the back of the Frenchman’s head with his left hand to hold it
still, while his right came up with the gleaming butcher’s blade.
Steel moved. He switched his sword from the right hand to the left and, taking a step forward, pulled Jan round to face him and landed a punch squarely on his jaw, knocking him to the ground. Another of the militia turned to attack him but Slaughter was there first. He jabbed the butt of his musket into the second man’s stomach, winding him and knocking him to his knees before following up with a swift swipe to the head which laid him senseless. One of the villagers raised a musket and fired. The ball struck one of the Grenadiers on the coat, passing harmlessly through the tail. Two more of the Dutchmen rushed towards the redcoats and overpowered Tarling who was thrown to the ground. One of the villagers raised his hand to strike with a shining cleaver but Cussiter had seen it and felled him with a shot that hit him in the temple. The other man sprang away and as Tarling struggled to his feet, Steel waved his men forward.
‘Grenadiers. To me.’
From behind him Slaughter and fifteen redcoats moved across the square and in one movement levelled their muskets, bayonets fixed, directly at the mob.
‘Drop your weapons! Oh Christ, you don’t bloody understand.’
He signed to them and one by one the men let their swords and muskets clatter to the ground. Jan was getting to his feet now, rubbing his jaw. He turned on Steel.
‘My God! What are you doing? Don’t you hate the French?’
‘What was I doing? You ask me? You’re no officer. You’re a bunch of barbarians.’
‘No, it is they who are the barbarians. They steal from us and rape our women. Well now its our turn.’
Steel shook his head and turned to Williams who had arrived with another ten men. ‘And there I was, Tom, threatening to hang Baynes for stealing a chicken – from these vermin. I don’t care how hard their lives have been under the French, they can’t do this. These men are French soldiers, officers too. They have nothing to do with the government. They’re a retreating army. And they’re hungry. There are rules, articles of war. Cut him loose, poor bugger.’ He turned back to Jan. ‘If you wore a uniform I’d bloody well put you on trial. Or better still hang you right here for what you’ve done.’
