by Iain Gale
Berthe’s face turned deathly white and she stopped tidying the table: ‘Marius, I’m frightened.’
He stood up, walked to her and placed a comforting hand around her slim waist. ‘I know, my darling. But believe me, I trust the British. I don’t believe the lies in those papers. Marlborough wants to help us. Anything he does will be in our interest.’
In truth he wished that he did believe what he said was true. That he did not really credit the news-sheets which had recently begun to circulate in the town with their stories that the British general Marlborough, who had done so much in driving the French out of their country, really did have the interests of the Belgian people at heart. But if any of the new rumours were true then the man was just the same as any other general, any other conqueror, and they would be no better off under his rule, or Dutch rule, than they had been under the French. But that was not what Marius told his wife and his daughter. Those thoughts were only for him and his comrades in the people’s movement. He pulled Berthe to him and gave her a long kiss on the lips, then forced himself to break quickly away.
‘Now make sure that Mathilde and Anna stay in the house and if they do start to shell us get to the blockhouse as quickly as you can. The one at the Sluice Bastion. I’ll join you there. I must go and see Louise and Hubert. We have to decide on a plan of action when the British enter the town.’ He smiled. ‘As they are sure to do. Take care. I won’t be long.’
Marius opened the door and walked out into the still of the afternoon. It was a Saturday, the third day of July. Somewhere a small dog was yapping in an upper room and from the surrounding streets he could hear the sound of horses pulling their loaded carts across the cobbles. Overhead the shrill call of the seagulls provided its usual, incessant undertone, so constant that no one noticed it. Apart from that though the town was bathed in the quiet of the afternoon’s peace. For it was after five and, apart from little Mathilde, everyone from the governor in his palace to the trades-people around the great town square had finished their dinner long ago and were enjoying what remained of their day of rest and sensibly taking a nap in the summer heat.
Marius crossed the Grote Place and looked up at the French royal standard of the fleur de lys that fluttered from the pole on the town hall. He was a gentle man at heart and abhorred the violence that so often swept his country. He had a kind, moonshaped face and soft brown eyes. A schoolteacher by calling, he was known for his oratory and outspokenness, although on Sundays he liked nothing better than to spend his day in the church, practising with the choir. Other than that his time was devoted to his family: Mathilde, her three-year-old sister Anna and of course, Berthe. Lately though, something new had stirred within Marius Brouwer. He had felt that he must make an effort to help his people. How, he wondered, could anyone, anyone of feeling, stand by and watch foreigners yet again despoil their land? And so he and a few friends had formed their little group – a movement of the people. Only he and a handful of others. They had christened it schild ende vriend – shield and friend – after the famous phrase used by the vengeful people of Bruges in 1302 to tell the French from the Flemish. Back then, at the height of the Flanders revolt, any man unable to pronounce the tongue-twisting phrase had been slaughtered on the spot. The French had been driven to reprisals and had finally been defeated at the Battle of the Golden Spurs, the flower of their nobility cut down. Of course, Marius did not intend to do the same to their current French oppressors. But the phrase made a fine name for their little group and upheld the correct principles. Most importantly, their right to political independence.
Marius would have told you that he hated no one, except in particular the French and the privateers in their employ who had lately transformed even his own godly enclave into such a den of vice. But he was prepared to fight anyone who threatened his principles and his family: French, Spanish, Austrian or British. Anyone who wanted to govern Belgium. For Marius there could only be one Belgium, that ruled by the Belgian people. It was hard to know who to trust. Recently it had seemed to him that Marlborough had really meant what he had said. But now he was worried. Would the British really bomb the town as they seemed ready to do? By all that was holy, he hoped they would not, had prayed for it last night at the church of St Martin. Although he was sure in his heart that prayer was not necessary. The British were a civilized race – not barbarians. Weren’t they?
Leaving Nieuw Straat he turned into the Capuchins quarter and reached the door of the schoolhouse where he taught. He knocked twice, and then three times and it opened. The room was empty save for two figures, a man and a woman. This was the Ostend underground, the people’s forces of the Belgian republic. Or at least these were its officers. The other members were scattered about the town and in various farms around Ostend. But Marius and his two friends were the inspiration, the heart of the movement. They were not armed insurrectionists and they certainly could not have looked less like revolutionaries. And as far as they knew, to date, the authorities were unaware of their existence. But perhaps if the time demanded it they would have to fight.
Marius nodded to them. ‘We haven’t much time. We must make a plan for when the British take the town.’ They said nothing and he noticed the expressions on their faces. Terror. Alarm. His own stomach felt hollow with fear. ‘What’s wrong? What is it? What have you heard? Tell me.’
The man looked anxiously at the girl and back at Marius before speaking. ‘Marius, we have to act quickly. The British are without doubt going to open fire on the town. Perhaps tonight. Probably tonight.’
‘How do you know this, Hubert? Who told you? You’re certain?’
Hubert Fabritius nodded his head. A legal clerk by profession, he was not in the habit of saying anything unless he knew it to be absolutely the case, a fact of which Marius was only too aware.
‘I have no doubt, Marius. The spy – de Groot – he told me. Only two hours ago. Said he had it direct from a redcoat officer. It’s happening Marius. It’s happening now.’
Marius looked at the girl, Louise Huber, an expert chocol-atier whose divine creations were particularly in demand with the French garrison. He had known Louise from boyhood, and would have trusted her with his life – as she would him. She said nothing. Tears welled in her eyes. Then she nodded her head.
Marius looked away. Into nothingness: ‘All right. That’s it then. We need to get back to our homes and then get everyone into the shelters.’ He paused, confused. ‘But what plan do we have? The British could be in the town within hours.’
Louise spoke: ‘Does it really matter, Marius? If that’s the case then the French will be defeated. Then we can discuss plans.’
‘You don’t think that we need a plan of action? Terms of surrender and occupation? We must compose a petition to Marlborough at least. We need to appoint leaders.’
‘You are our leader.’
‘Fine then. But what of the rest?’
Louise, who had shoulder-length brown hair and was clad in a simple cotton smock dress and a shawl, placed a hand on his arm and flashed her pretty green eyes: ‘Don’t worry, Marius. It’s more important now that you return to Berthe and the children. You know that we trust you. We believe that you’ll know what to do, when the time comes.’
* * *
Steel stood on the highest of the dunes that flanked the road which led into the barred West Gate of Ostend and looked out to sea. He was becoming slightly irritated by the enthusiasm of the young man at his side who was pointing excitedly to the water.
‘Look, sir. That’s my ship, the Triton, and over there are the bombketches. You can just make them out, captain. See how they sit so low in the water. That’s the Salamander and there is the Blast. What an honour to be allowed to direct their fire. Aren’t they magnificent? Well, the Salamander’s a bit of an old lugger, I will grant you that. Commissioned in ’87. But the other one’s a beauty. You have to agree, sir. Look, she’s ship-rigged. What d’you say to that, sir?’
Steel said nothing,
but smiled and nodded, then looked across to Hansam, who had just joined them on the dune, and raised his eyebrows. Hansam caught his gaze and smiled. Clearly, Lieutenant the Honourable George Forbes of her Britannic Majesty’s Royal Navy, was in his element. The admiral had placed him here on the shore to direct the fire of the bombships and Forbes considered it a great privilege to have been selected. Although had he known the admiral’s real reason for wanting him off the ship – boy’s got too much to say for himself. I can’t fight alongside him … – he might have thought otherwise. Beside Forbes stood two sailors, signallers from the bombships, equipped with the different coloured and hatched flags which they would raise to indicate the fall of the bombs inside the citadel. It was easier to see from here. Forbes had met Steel at the head of the storming party which now stood assembled on the road and had courteously invited him to watch the bombardment with his informed commentary. And now Steel was beginning to wish that he hadn’t accepted.
Steel watched the enthusiastic young officer as he grew more animated. He was slight of build and spoke in a pleasantly lilting Irish accent which reflected his origins in County Down, where his father the Earl of Granard was a prominent figure. Steel had learnt as much during his first three minutes in the young man’s company. He was shorter than Steel and with strong features that spoke of his Celtic roots.
Steel looked away from him and out again into the Channel, following Forbes’ outstretched, pointing hand and saw the bombketches bobbing on the water. Behind them they each towed a small tender.
‘You see those smaller boats, tied to the ships. They’re packed with spare shells. That’s where the men sleep, too. The ships themselves you see are so filled with the mortars and matériel. You should see them close to, Captain. Really, you should. Funny thing is, it was the French that invented them, bombships. Of course, those early vessels of theirs were nothing compared to these. Do you know that to aim them one had to move the entire ship by means of a spring anchor. And they only carried two small mortars on their foredeck. Now these beauties have their mortars – sizeable pieces – mounted on a central revolving platform, like so –’ He drew in the sand. ‘– in the centre of the ship. All the force of the blast is transmitted directly into the hull, which is reinforced to take it. And how many mortars d’you suppose they carry, sir? Guess, please. Well, I’ll tell you. They carry no less than three mortars apiece. You ought to see the destruction they cause. You know the French used bombships first at Genoa in 1684? Terrible waste of ammunition – too many civilian dead.’
Steel let the boy gabble on. Of course he remembered the incident, even though at the time he had been only ten years old. The news had reached their household through an aged uncle with navy connections and it had appalled his family just as it had the rest of Europe. He remembered sitting in the little schoolroom at Carniston and hearing about the deaths of so many women and children. This wasn’t the soldiering that he had been told about. There was no glory in this. From that moment it had been clear to him that the French were bad and looking back he could see how it spoke of Louis’ future ambition, of his willingness to do anything it took to take over Europe. Perhaps that was what had first fired him to become a soldier himself; a simple desire to fight the French.
Since then of course the British had played at the game too. The names of Dieppe and Le Havre were written in the annals of infamy. Other attacks had followed, on Calais and Dunkirk. And now it seemed they were about to do it again.
Forbes was still speaking: ‘At the moment, d’you see, Captain, what is happening is that the artillerymen, your fellows, on board the ships out there, are doing what we call “laying the ordnance”. That is to say they are ensuring that each of the mortars is sitting properly in its bed. Very soon they will trim the fuses on each shell and then they will wait.’
Yes, thought Steel. Then we will all wait. His attack was not due to go in against the town until after the bombardment had lifted. But already he was feeling a little sick with apprehension. Clearly Forbes did not share his grasp of reality; had somehow, at the age of twenty-one, still not made the connection between his beautiful engines of war out there on the sea and the dreadful carnage which they were about to cause within the town. God, thought Steel. Was there no silencing the boy?
‘Of course the only problem with the mortars is their accuracy. Or rather their lack of it. I suppose that’s why I’m here. Of course it’s inevitable that some civilians will be killed. But it’s the pirates we’re really after. Must stop them taking our shipping. They’re all in the pay of the French you know. Caught one four years ago, Jean Bart. Dreadful fellow. Escaped in a rowing boat. They say that the one they call Duglay Trouin is in there. King Louis’ favourite. What a triumph it will be if we can take him, sir. Of course, that will be up to you and your men, that’s the army’s job, isn’t it? Actually, I’m rather fond of the army. Wouldn’t mind serving on land one day myself. See action on the field so to speak. Brother was a soldier. Perhaps you knew him, sir. Lord Forbes. Pleasant chap. Died at Blenheim.’
Steel had not known him, although he knew his name, knew him to have been respected by the staff and much loved by his men. Steel had heard that Forbes had fallen at Blenheim itself, in the last attack.
‘I’m sorry to say Lieutenant that I never had the privilege of making your brother’s acquaintance. Which is I am sure to my detriment. I heard that he died a hero, though. I sympathize with your family’s loss.’
‘Thank you, sir. Bound to happen though. Altogether too impetuous, poor James. Pays to be cautious in war, if you ask me. You have to know just where and when to go. Am I right, sir? Would you agree with that?’
Steel smiled: ‘Oh yes, Lieutenant. Most certainly. It’s all a question of caution. All about being in the right place at the right time. That’s really all there is to it.’
Forbes beamed: ‘I knew it. I’m awfully keen to meet your commander here, sir, General Argyll. Great admirer of the man. Splendid thing he carried off at Ramillies. Did you see it?’
Steel spoke quietly: ‘Yes. I saw it.’
‘How I envy you. Absolutely first-class feat of arms. Took a village single-handed. Fought off an entire regiment of damned Irishmen. Can’t wait to meet him.’
I’m sure you can’t, thought Steel. And I am sure that he will enjoy meeting you, an Irishman so inclined to praise the cold-blooded murder that Steel had witnessed of a fellow Irishman ten times his equal as a man. Religion, he presumed, lay behind Forbes’ bigotry. Steel had no real love of it. It was religion, and the vices it brought in its wake, which kept him away for the most part from any house of God. Although on occasion, when circumstances demanded it, he had been known to pray.
Forbes was speaking again: ‘I do hope that you are able to take this Trouin fellow. It would be a great service to the navy – and indeed to yourselves. He is the scourge of merchant shipping – all shipping. With him in command of the Channel the duke shall surely have no provisions.’
‘Rest assured, Mr Forbes. We’ll take him, or kill him in the attempt.’
Oh, they would take this French pirate, thought Steel. But he wondered how many innocent civilians would have to die to ensure that they did so?
One of Forbes’ men was reading a message from the flagship. He turned to the lieutenant: ‘Signal from the admiral, sir. Make ready.’
‘I believe that we are about to fire, sir. I presume that you are well used to cannon fire, Captain. But I wonder whether even you will have ever seen anything quite like this. It ought to be quite a spectacle. Something I’ll wager you’ll never forget, sir.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant Forbes. I can assure you that you will have my full attention.’ Of that there could be no denying.
Steel looked to his right, to where, ranged along the edge of the marsh, behind the Steene Trench, pointing eastwards, directly towards Ostend, the allied artillery stood waiting for the order to open fire. He could make out the gunners around their pieces; the do
zens of portfire men poised over the touch-holes with their smouldering linstocks. Marlborough had ordered that the siege train – the huge twenty-four-pounders – should be brought up as close as possible before the marshes and even though it would be at long range, that the cannon should be set at their highest trajectory to attempt to lob their shot over the ramparts. To the east of the town, too, Dutch cannon had taken up position and were concealed behind basketwork gabions.
Out on the water, as Forbes had envisaged, the artillerymen on temporary transfer from the army to the bombships were putting the final touches to their charges. The mortars lay ready and the fuses had been cut to what the gunners reckoned was the correct length to allow them to land in the town before they burnt down through their cases to the explosive charge within.
The men-of-war, the forty-and sixty-gunners in Admiral Fairborne’s squadron had drawn as close as they could to the shore and the gunners of ten vessels now stood ready by the open portholes. Twenty guns apiece were loaded: ten broadsides’ worth and although their shot would not do anything like the damage of the bombships’ weoponry, much of it falling out of range, their combined impact was sure to be terrifying.
And Steel knew that was what Marlborough must be hoping for at this moment. That the terror instilled by this tumultuous barrage would be enough to make the people of Ostend, or at least the garrison, open the gates without further struggle, without further bloodshed. And Steel too prayed to himself that it would happen and that their entry into the town would be clean and bloodless. But deep within he knew that his prayers would not be answered.
