by Iain Gale
There was a shout from within the duke’s tent. ‘Are they not done yet, Hawkins?’
The colonel approached Brouwer: ‘Good news, Mister Brouwer, His Grace is much recovered and is most anxious to meet you himself.’ He turned to Steel: ‘I think it might be politic if we went in now.’
They found the duke seated over a letter at his writing table. He was bald-headed and his long wig lay draped over a wig-stand on the campaign chest in the corner. A bottle of claret stood open on the table, with several glasses.
Marlborough looked up: ‘Help yourselves if you wish, gentlemen. Mister Brouwer, my apologies. I trust that Captain Steel will have explained everything to your satisfaction. Be assured that we have found the root of the treason and have dealt with the man concerned. He will not make such a grave mistake again. As for the matter of your townspeople, I can only offer my sincere regret.’
Brouwer spoke: ‘My Lord, your captain has given me his word. I believe that I can trust him, though I do admit it is hard. I came here a bitter man, My Lord, and I am still a bitter man. But I do understand. Sometimes we must all make sacrifices for the good of the country. And I do not believe that you are a bad man, sir. So I will trust you. We will help you with your plan in any way we can.’
Steel looked at Hawkins, who saw his puzzlement. Marlborough spoke: ‘A plan, Captain Steel. Yes, a plan. It is Colonel Hawkins’ idea. I’ll come to the point. We need you to get into the town, Steel. Once there you will find Lady Henrietta and bring her out. Only then can we contemplate renewing our assault.’ Brouwer looked concerned, but Marlborough went on, ‘Do not worry Mister Brouwer. By that I do not mean that I intend to bombard your people again. We shall take your town by stealth and force de main. And of course, with your help.’ Brouwer smiled; Steel frowned. Marlborough saw it: ‘There’s no need to be apprehensive, Captain Steel. The plan is really quite simple. Tell him, Hawkins.’
‘It must be done under cover of darkness, of course. Mister Brouwer suggests no earlier than ten o’clock and with no moon …’
Marlborough took up the instructions: ‘At that hour, you will embark upon a dinghy on the marsh, just in front of the lines. There’s a small church, St Elizabeth’s they call it, pretty little place. Unusually firm ground. Stands beside a stream which leads into the larger river. You may take only one man with you. I seem to remember a sergeant. What’s his name?’
‘Slaughter, sir. You have a fine memory.’
‘I make it my business to know the men I command, Captain Hawkins?’
The colonel had rolled out a map of Ostend on the table and now indicated an area to the left. ‘You will be rowed by night from here, with a local guide. Don’t worry, he’s on our side. Or at least he’s been promised our gold if he gets you there. Now you won’t go along the main creek, here,’ he pointed, ‘which passes too close to the south of the town. But along here, a secondary rivulet, leading off it and then parallel. This stream will take you to the marshes directly below the town. You leave them by a hidden waterway which gives on to the harbour close to the pontoon bridge, which as you know the French have blown up. Where the bridge was joined to the town there is a small water gate. The French think it to be blocked by debris, but it’s open. We have friends inside the town, as you have already discovered. At the water gate you will be met by Herr Brouwer and members of his Flemish people’s army. Excuse me Mister Brouwer, what’s it called again, Hawkins?’
‘The schildendevriend.’ Steel looked at Brouwer, seeing him in this unexpected new role. Hawkins went on: ‘It means “shield and friend” and that’s exactly what they will be to you. Brouwer and his men are your lifeline, Steel. They will guide you in and get you out. They’ll take you in through the water gate and hide you in a safe house. Then, when they’re ready – it will be some time on the following day – they will take you out into the town and then it’s really up to you. Peel off from them, find someone who looks as if he might be a privateer – shouldn’t be too difficult – and pass yourself off as a deserter from the British army. Say that you’re a Jacobite. Make up some story. They’ll question you; pretty hard, I should imagine. Think you can take it?’
Steel nodded.
‘I’m certain that in the end they’re sure to believe your story. They know that no man in his right mind would think of going into that vipers’ nest … Sorry, Steel. You’ll be fine. Anyway, just lay on your best Scottish accent, sing the Pretender’s praises and don’t forget to curse the queen.’ Marlborough coughed and frowned at Hawkins. ‘So, Steel. Spin them a yarn. Make sure that you’re taken either to the governor, de la Motte, or to Duglay-Trouin, the privateer. Don’t bother with the garrison commander, he’s the most likely to smell a rat. The pirate would be your best way in. If you can convince him then you’ve every chance of success. I’ll wager that Lady Henrietta is his prisoner by now. They were regular infantry up there, tying her to the flagpole, not pirates. After Trouin realizes how the French stopped the guns, he’s unlikely to let them take charge of her again. He won’t want her harmed – his plan will either be to sell her back to us, or her father. Or, if I know a pirate, to take her off to the Indies or the Barbary Coast and sell her at a premium as a white slave. Very popular with the Turkmen, fair-skinned women, so I’m told. Doesn’t bear thinking about.’
Marlborough, who had been signing a dispatch as Hawkins spoke, looked up at Steel: ‘There is one more thing, Captain Steel. Before you rescue Lady Henrietta, you and Mister Brouwer must ensure that there is a sally-port open to the west of the town. Any of the bastions will do, although the best would be to the north, beneath the glacis. Colonel Blood and his ordnance officers have made plans of the position and it appears that that is the only area of the defences not raked by more than two fields of fire. Opening such a port is the only way now that we will be able to take the city without greater delay.’ Marlborough folded the letter and placed it on the table. ‘It is not exactly what we had planned, Steel, but necessity drives us. We had expected this bombardment to flush the garrison out. Now all that we have probably succeeded in doing is killing innocent people.’ He looked at Brouwer: ‘Lady Henrietta’s presence too puts everything in a very different light.’
Steel nodded: ‘I understand, Your Grace. And thank you for the honour of choosing me for this task. I won’t let you down.’ He looked at Hawkins. ‘When do I go, sir?’
‘We haven’t a moment to lose, and it must be a moonless night – you go tomorrow.’
TEN
Steel wrapped the thick woollen boat cloak more tightly around his shoulders, pulled down the brim of his tricorne and pushed his chin deep down into his chest, partly to find some warmth in the chill of the night and partly, instinctively, to hide himself from the gaze of the French sentries who, he knew, were watching every inch of the river and as far into the surrounding marshes as they could see. The muffled oars, pulled with expert care by two sailors from Fairborne’s squadron, cut into the black waters of the creek, pushing the tiny boat ever further away from the dwindling shape of the chapel of St Elizabeth-of-the-Marsh, where they had cast off, along the shallow waterway and ever closer to the enemy.
The night-time marsh was alive with creatures. Unidentifiable shapes scurried across its surface close to the boat and curious, guttural cries came from all sides. Most noticeable though were the mosquitoes. Steel felt one boring into the flesh of his forearm. He cursed and slapped at it.
‘Damned biting flies. I swear, Jacob, we’ll all die of marsh fever before this siege is ended.’
‘D’you really think so, sir? I prefer to think that the Almighty might have a more interesting fate mapped out for you and me, Mister Steel.’ Slaughter swatted a large mosquito which had alighted on his face.
‘Jacob, it’s Captain Steel, if you will. And when we’re in the town for heaven’s sake don’t call me that; or “sir”. Better still, nothing at all.’
‘Sorry Mister … sorry, sir. I’ll try to remember.’
F
rom aft, inthe darkness came a whispered warning: ‘Please. You must be quiet, messieurs. The French will hear us.’
Their companion was a Belgian, by the name of van Koecke. A small, hook-nosed man who before the war had been a dishonest grocer and now found that his skills in selling his customers short could be used in a similar fashion to supply the army of liberation. He also had a useful local knowledge and always with an eye to lining his pockets still further, offered his services – for even the most dangerous of trips, if the price was right. He had declared his ardent wish to rid his country of the French when they had met him at the church. He would do anything to make it happen. But he had still been happy to take their gold. Half of it was payable as they left the lines, the remainder on safe delivery of his two ‘deserters’ to the town’s water gate rendezvous.
Steel nodded towards their guide and was silent. The little boat continued slowly on its way, rocking gently on the shallow water. He could see the southern ramparts of the town now, silhouetted against the sky, despite the lack of any moon. Then they veered towards the south and the silhouette began to diminish. Steel knew that they must be reaching the end of their journey, taking another tributary into the farthest creek before turning back northeast. This would be the most dangerous moment, as they passed directly beneath the walls of the small star fort of St Philip, which was still held by the French. Sure enough, as he watched, before them the water opened out into a broader estuary and they debouched into the creek. Cautiously raising his face, Steel gazed up at the walls of the fort and saw figures – light-coated sentries in tricorne hats with shouldered muskets – silhouetted on the ramparts, walking slowly towards and then away from each other, in routine guard patrol. The oarsmen slackened their strokes now, their experience telling as they eased the boat up the creek with hardly a sound, save the occasional creaking as the oars worked in the gunwhales and the gentle lapping of the water against the hull.
Within a few minutes, which to Steel seemed an eternity, they were clear of the fort and dead ahead he was able to make out the ponderous mass of what he presumed to be the remains of the pontoon bridge which had linked the town with the coastal plain to the east. Somewhere in the darkness a curlew trilled its distinctive call. Steel gazed at the smashed bridge. To its left he could see the glimmering lights of the houses on the Key and beyond it the tall masts of two ships which lay at anchor in the harbour. Now the boat hugged the eastern shore, the oarsmen making what use they could of the shadows by the bank. Ostend lay in plain view before them. A huge, squat monolith of menacing fortifications and church spires. As they drew level with the shattered pontoons the oarsmen turned the boat directly towards the town and rowed along the path of the bridge. Now ahead of them Steel could see a small landing jetty and beyond that what looked like a ragged hole in the sea wall. The water gate.
Within seconds it seemed that they were inside the opening. A few more strokes on the oars and the boat’s keel was grating against the wood of a jetty, jolting Steel into reality.
Van Koecke spoke in a whisper: ‘Now, gentlemen, you may stand up. Please, go ashore now. Take care. Your journey by boat is over. Your hosts await you. Please.’ He turned to Steel: ‘And, sir. The money, if you please.’
Steel produced a bag of coins and handed it to van Koecke, who flashed him an unctuous smile. ‘Good luck, gentlemen. May God preserve you. And goodnight.’
Gingerly, Steel and Slaughter clambered from the boat with the help of the oarsmen and stepped on to a low, slippery stone staircase and slowly climbed on to the jetty. As they found their feet, already they could hear the sound of the boat pulling away into the darkness, the muffled oars slipping through the water. And then it was gone and they were alone. They said nothing, unsure of who might be listening.
There was no lamp in the gate tunnel, although it was lit by two shafts of yellow light, borrowed from the windows of houses above. Into one of them now, from the shadows at the end of the jetty, stepped two figures, also wrapped in cloaks. Steel moved a hand on to the hilt of his sword and motioned to Slaughter to stay back. Both he and the sergeant had left their fusils with the company and were armed instead with swords, Steel with his own great Italian blade, Slaughter with a smaller weapon, lent to him by Tom Williams. In addition Steel had slipped a pair of loaded pistols into his belt. The two figures ahead of them stepped forward, further into the light. One of them, who now appeared as a genial-looking man in his late twenties, removed his hat.
‘Good evening, sirs. Captain Steel, this is my friend Hubert Fabritius.’
‘Good to see you again, Mister Brouwer. This is Sergeant Slaughter.’
‘We are here to help you, Captain, as you know. But with so many dead, killed by your guns, you must also know there is little love for the British in the people of Ostend right now. Now, we must go, before the sentry hears us.’
Steel said nothing, but obeyed Brouwer as he beckoned them to follow him further into the vaulted passage which led away from the gate. It continued into the darkness, boring into the very heart of the fortifications, but barely wide enough for a man to pass through. At length they came to a wooden door. Brouwer turned the handle and opened it no more than a crack. He peered through into the street beyond and when he was satisfied that they would not be observed, pushed it further open and signalled them to follow him. They emerged on to a narrow, cobbled street and walked quickly down its length until they arrived at a junction. This street was wider and with larger, more prosperous-looking houses; the light from their windows bathed the passers-by with a warm yellow glow. They paused in the shadows and at last Steel had a moment to think. He had known that his presence in a town which had been so recently shelled by British guns would be problematic, but he had not expected the dreadful sense of guilt which now descended upon him. He surveyed the scene.
The town was filled with activity, unusually for such a place at this time of the night, and he knew the reason. It was only too evident. A cart passed them on the street, pulled by two men, running. Its contents had been covered with a tarpaulin but there was no mistaking them. As it pulled away Steel caught sight of a limp hand hanging out of the back. Bodies. They were disposing of the corpses of the civilians before they grew noxious and disease became yet another threat to the surviving population of the besieged town. Walking past an alleyway he happened to look down it and glimpsed the sight of a woman crouched down over what looked like a pile of washing. She had her hands upon it and appeared to be shouting. Steel paused, intrigued. But his curiosity turned to bitterness as he quickly realized that the washing was not what it seemed but a lifeless human form and that the woman was in the act of grieving over it. He turned back and caught up with Slaughter and the others.
The sergeant looked grim: ‘It’s terrible, sir, what we’ve done, ain’t it? I mean, when you see it up close. Poor beggars.’
‘Yes, Jacob. It is terrible. But what choice did we have? Thank God we stopped it when we did. Thank God for whatever ungentlemanly scoundrel put Lady Henrietta up on the ramparts. He may have given us the devil’s own task, but he’s saved the lives of half this town.’
Brouwer turned and hissed a warning to be silent. Looking down, Steel noticed that Slaughter’s feet had automatically fallen into step with his own and felt suddenly self-conscious. Quickly he double-stepped and managed to lose the rhythm.
‘Must be careful of that, Jacob. Looks like we’re marching. Mustn’t be seen to be doing that, even if we are deserters.’
Again Brouwer looked back at them and glared. Steel realized how their English voices would mark them out and thought too how obviously soldierly they must appear to anyone with an eye for the military. What typical, unmistakable soldiers they were. And how important it was to conceal that fact – until the moment arrived. One more word to Slaughter.
‘And Jacob. Stay with me. And remember, if anyone talks to you, forget trying to be French. Be a bloody Irishman. You’re meant to be a deserter. You’re off to joi
n the bloody pirates. And do try to walk like someone who has finished with the army. Not as if you’re swanking through Horse Guards in your dress uniform.’
Slaughter made a poor attempt at a slouch. ‘Yes sir.’
Steel grimaced. ‘And for God’s sake don’t call me sir. I’m Jack, remember?’
Slaughter smiled. ‘Right you are then, Jack.’
‘As you were, Sarn’t. There’s no need to do it more often than needs be.’
Brouwer had given up attempting to silence the Englismen and he sighed with relief as their conversation was interrupted by music. It floated gently above them and seemed to come from somewhere over to the left. It was the sound of an organ rising in a crescendo and as Steel listened it was joined by voices; the unmistakable words of the Dies Irae.
Marius Brouwer saw his puzzled look: ‘They sing for the dead. The people are holding a service of Requiem. In the Petrus and Paulus Church. For the dead people killed by your guns.’
Steel shook his head. ‘I’m truly sorry. Believe me. If we could have prevented it …’
Brouwer looked away and continued walking in slence. He led them to the right, towards the south of the town, but then he quickly darted into a left turning and brought them back around towards the west.
Pausing, he offered an explanation: ‘We will go to my house tonight. You need to rest before meeting Trouin and it’s too late now. Besides, the city is a shambles and there has been too much misery for one day. Come.’
With Fabritius bringing up the rear, they followed him through the streets where the grisly evidence of their bombardment lay across cobbles. Their feet crunched over shattered glass blown from the windows and pantiles from the roofs. The smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air and at every turning it seemed to Steel that from one place or another, from the open windows of so many family homes, he heard the sound of sobbing. A clock chimed the quarter-hour and he noticed that the music had stopped, some time ago perhaps.
