Rules of War

by Iain Gale

  ‘Dan. The one on the right’s yours. Make it count.’

  Cussiter, the keenest shot in the company, moved forward to join Steel and easing back the hammer of his own gun, took careful aim. The two shots rang out almost simultaneously and as the smoke cleared they saw the effect. Both guards lay on the cobbles. Steel patted Cussiter on the back as the Grenadier was reloading then, pausing only to sling the still-smoking fusil over his shoulder, he loped along the wall and dashed through the gate. He had been half-expecting to see more of Trouin’s men on the narrow bridge but it was quite deserted. Lejeune was up with him now, with Slaughter and rest close behind.

  ‘Well, Lieutenant. It looks like we’re in luck.’

  They moved fast across the bridge and reached the open space of the Key on to which he and Slaughter had first stepped when they had come here three days ago. It seemed an eternity. Little had changed; there was the same air of abandonment, the same broken packing crates and empty fishing nets. There was though, one important difference and as he saw it, Steel’s heart sank. The two ships which had been moored here had gone – Trouin’s ships. They were too late. Steel sat down on a packing case, ground his boot hard into the cobbles and spat.

  ‘Damn the man.’ He looked towards the sea and walked over to the edge of the quay. There at the foot of some stone stairs a small dinghy bobbed at anchor. Steel turned and called to Lejeune and Slaughter, ‘How are your sea-legs, Lieutenant?’

  ‘I’m afraid that my only experience of rowing has been on the lake at Versailles.’

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘I’m no sailor, sir. But I’ll have a go.’

  Steel turned to the Grenadiers: ‘Come on lads. You’ve just volunteered for the marines.’

  Claude Malbec, as he had told de la Motte, was a simple soldier, had been no more or less these past twenty years. He had a soldier’s eye, a soldier’s brain and above all a soldier’s instinct for knowing which way a battle was going. And at this moment, standing on the highest rampart of the western defences, Malbec knew that things were not going well for the French. Of course he had known all along that, barring a miracle, Ostend was already lost. That miracle, he had thought, might have been Duglay-Trouin and his ships. But as yet nothing had been seen of either and Malbec wondered whether the pirate had not simply cut and run with his men. After all, what was Ostend to him? He supposed that he should have known better than to have trusted the man. But he had seemed genuinely taken with the idea of sinking the English navy. And, naturally, Malbec had told him where to find Lejeune. He presumed the lieutenant must be dead by now. The young fool had it coming, though he hoped that Trouin had not been too savage. The boy had just not been cut out for the army, had never really understood it, or the way it worked. As far as Malbec was concerned if you didn’t understand the system and play it to your best advantage; if you were too damn fair, then you would end up like Lejeune. Dead meat.

  Malbec gazed along the fortifications and out to where the early evening sun glistened on the sea and the English ships bobbed at anchor. Turning back to the town he beheld a less serene scene. Far below him, both in the grass-covered ditch on one side and in the street on the other, the ground was covered with dead and dying men. Directly below him a company of Dutchmen were engaged in a close range firefight with a mixed bag of French infantry and Walloons. Malbec watched as the Dutch gave fire, dropping half a dozen men from the French ranks and then as they reloaded, saw the French do the same, with similar effect. And so, he thought, you will continue, until one side or the other has had enough and turns tail. That was how it happened, how it always happened. How it had happened before his eyes for two decades. He surprised himself by wondering whether men might not one day find a better way of settling their differences. In this case it looked as if the Dutch would win. Perhaps he thought, he could do better. Malbec turned to the matter in hand, to his own men, the half-company of veteran French infantry drawn up at right angles to the walls, facing directly along the parapet behind half a dozen stout, earth-filled wicker gabions. Malbec knew that, if the enemy were to take this vital area of the town then they would first have to secure this spot. And he intended to refuse it to them. He doubted whether he would survive, but the past few days had served to remind him that he had little left to live for. Just as well to die here, in Ostend as anywhere else. He tightened his sash and brushed his coat where smuts from the cinders and ashes floating on the air had settled and wondered again whether Trouin would attack the flotilla. Well, it was probably too late now, certainly to save him and his men. A cacophony from the staircase told him that soon, once again, he would be plunged into the deadly lottery of firefight and mêlée. He saw his sergeant, the big man from Alsace, Müller, the bald-headed barrel-maker.

  Malbec called out to him: ‘Müller, have the men hold their fire until the enemy are within twenty paces. Twenty. No more than that. I want every shot to find a target.’

  And then the first of red-coated attackers burst round the corner of the parapet wall and above the noise Malbec screamed the command: ‘Make ready. Present. Fire!’

  Forty muskets spat flame and lead and once again, as he knew they would, the men began to fall.

  The little boat moved remarkably smoothly through the dark waters of the inlet. Steel weighed up the odds. Of the original ten, only five remained with him. He scanned their weary, powder-caked faces: Slaughter, Cussiter, Miller, Taylor, Thorogood. He would have trusted any with his life. They had lost Milligan in the mayhem of the streets. Williams he had sent fruitlessly to Argyll and with him Mackay. Five men, plus himself and Lejeune. Seven against how many of Trouin’s men? Of an initial strength of over four hundred the pirate must have lost perhaps half. That still left two hundred men split between the two vessels. Six against two hundred. For an instant he thought that this was madness. They were going to their deaths. And then he thought of the bombships and of Marlborough and Hawkins and Henrietta. And he knew that he had no choice. He peered ahead, trying all the time to get a better picture of their adversaries.

  Trouin’s two ships were quite different from one another. The larger one, evidently his flagship, was a converted man-o’-war, a square-rigged three-master of around 300 tons and perhaps a hundred feet in length. Even at this distance Steel could see that she bristled with cannon. He counted twenty-five gunports a side. And they were open. Clearly she had been made ready for battle and he presumed that it was on her that Trouin must have based himself and most of his crew, using the other, smaller, faster vessel as the raider with which to take the bombketches. The brigantine was half her size with only two masts and half the guns and even to Steel’s untrained eye, it was clear that she was built for speed rather than combat. So it was for the warship they would head. For Steel knew that, even if the raider had her orders, with their commander taken or killed, the pirates would lose hope and abandon the attack.

  They had muffled their oars with the men’s neck stocks and they made hardly a sound as they cut through the water. To their left Ostend was a smoking ruin. Flames leapt skywards from the blown magazine and three more now that had been fired by Argyll’s infantry and the town was bathed in an evil orange glow. Steel prayed that it would not light the night sufficiently to mark them out to any sentries on Trouin’s flagship. She was leaving the mouth of the harbour now, but they were drawing ever closer and he knew that he would have to judge their final approach with care, coming in hard under the lee of the stern gallery yet taking care not to create too great a wake. He was no sailor, and did not have a clue as to how to achieve such a manoeuvre. Acting on instinct, he signalled to the oarsmen, three Grenadiers and Lieutenant Lejeune, to feather their oars for a moment. Then, as the boat lay calm, he waved them back down into the water and urged them to pull as fast as possible. It did not have quite the desired effect – the oars seemed to make more noise than ever. For a few breathless moments they were immediately beneath the light of the stern lantern, exposed to full view. Steel saw the
ship’s name carved in gilded letters above the gallery: Bellone – ‘War goddess’. It seemed a good omen.

  Then they dropped under the overhanging bulk of the stern. Steel pointed along the ship, towards the bow, indicating that they should move in that direction. Each of them using one hand against the side of the ship, they coaxed the little boat the length of the hull until she lay directly beneath the raised anchor.

  Steel beckoned to Slaughter and whispered: ‘Sarn’t, you follow me up on deck. Leave two men down here to secure the boat. Bring Cussiter and Miller with you. I take it the lieutenant will want to come with us.’ Lejeune nodded. Steel grinned: ‘Give me two minutes before you follow.’

  Steel unslung his gun and removed his cumbersome red coat and then, settling the sling back on to his shoulder and with his sword firmly in its scabbard, he reached up and grasped the anchor cable with both hands. With a supreme effort he pulled himself up so that his legs were crossed around the chain and shinned up its length until he was on top of the anchor. Two smaller ropes stretched out before him, secured to the rigging. He grabbed at one and hauled himself up until his head was level with the rail, beside a small swivel gun. He scanned the deck and pulled himself aboard. Placing his boot on the slippery wooden planks with as little noise as he could manage, he sank to his knees and ducked behind the capstan.

  The deck seemed surprisingly sparsely occupied. Steel could count only six men. He could make out Stringer, the blackamoor Ajax and four others. All appeared to be occupied tending to the sails and the wheel. The odds were suddenly balanced. But why a skeleton crew? But before Steel had time to contemplate what that might imply, he was aware that someone was at his side.

  Lejeune spoke in a whisper: ‘Where is Trouin? Can you see him?’

  Steel shook his head, held up six fingers to the lieutenant and shrugged. Lejeune looked puzzled. There was a noise from their left, a clatter followed by a splash.

  ‘Bugger.’

  Slaughter’s voice, though barely audible, was enough to make two of the crew turn their heads, and Steel knew that the game was up. He drew his sword. Lejeune stood and pulled from his belt one of two pistols he had taken from the dead pirates. All the men had turned towards them now and Steel watched as one of them bore down upon him, lunging wildly with the tip of a captured cavalry sabre. A crash from his left told him that Lejeune had fired and from the corner of his eye Steel saw one of the pirates fall. Then Lejeune too drew his sword as another of the crew closed with him.

  Steel parried the cavalry blade with ease and cast it off to his left before riposting to the man’s right side. He struck home and the pirate jumped back instinctively but not before Steel’s razor-sharp weapon had taken a slice clean through his ribs. The man reeled, clutched at his side with his free hand and looked back at Steel then attacked again with a strength born of desperation. Steel stepped back and let him come on then parried again and drove the blade deep into the man’s chest, withdrawing it as he fell to the deck.

  A crash of musketry drew Steel’s attention and he saw Miller fall back, shot in the chest at close range by a tall pirate armed with a pistol and an axe. Slaughter was up with them now, clutching his sword. He came en garde against Miller’s killer with a clumsy elegance and took the full force from the downward cut of the axe against his blade. Steel moved round the capstan and looked across the deck as a small heavily mustachioed man in a ragged red coat with officer’s facings bore down on him with a cutlass. Steel parried again but the man pushed against his blade with unexpected strength and it flew from his hand to the deck. Steel backed off and the man smiled through his whiskers then came at Steel again, slowly now, relishing the ease of killing another English redcoat, as he had so many before. It was so simple. They fought with such care and honesty, did not realize that brute force will always win at close combat. They never learned.

  He stood back for a second, smiled at Steel and pointed his blade at his chest. To the man’s bemusement, Steel did not panic, but smiled back and then he gave the pirate another surprise. Before the man knew what was happening, with all the strength he could muster, Steel had brought his boot hard up into his groin. The pirate dropped his cutlass and fell to his knees, howling with pain. Steel stooped to pick up his sword.

  ‘Weren’t expecting that, were you? That’s not what British officers do, is it? We’re gentlemen, we don’t fight dirty. Well I’m a bloody gentleman and I bloody well do.’

  Steel raised his sword and brought it down upon the man’s head, slicing through skull and flesh. He turned and saw that Lejeune had accounted for one of the pirates and was advancing towards a second. On the starboard side Slaughter hurled another over the side and Steel noticed Stringer who was advancing up the deck towards the sergeant, a sword in each hand.

  Steel called across, ‘Jacob! On your right!’

  Slaughter turned and as he did Stringer rushed him, raising the sword in his right hand. Slaughter parried the blow and tried to riposte, but he was too slow and Stringer’s second weapon cut into his thigh. Slaughter groaned and pushed the blade away with his own, knocking it from Stringer’s sweaty palm.

  Sensing the smaller man’s panic, Slaughter lunged and his blade sank into Stringer’s left side, but at the last moment the deserter sidestepped and it missed vital organs. It was though deep enough to stop him in his tracks. Stringer dropped the remaining sword and held the wound, the blood seeping through his fingers. He staggered backwards and collapsed beside the stairs to the quarter-deck, knocking his head against the lower step. Slaughter followed, but before he could finish Stringer off, from behind the ship’s wheel another of Trouin’s men came tumbling down the stairs and fell upon the Grenadier with a war cry the likes of which Slaughter had never heard. For an instant he looked at his new attacker and saw dark skin, almost red in hue, short black hair and a face covered with white and black and blue markings.

  In his hand the man held a small axe, a tomahawk. He cut down with it towards Slaughter’s head, but the sergeant managed to fend it off with the edge of his sword. Instantly the Indian attacked again, with greater ferocity, swinging the axe blade from the opposite direction. Slaughter ducked and felt it cut through the collar of his coat. He moved back and attempted to raise his sword-arm against a third attack. But it didn’t come. The Indian froze in mid-gesture as Lieutenant Lejeune’s sword pierced him clean through the heart. The Frenchman withdrew the blade and smiled at Slaughter whose senses were reeling.

  ‘Bloody hell, sir. What devil was that?’

  ‘Iroquois. An American devil, a native from their woodlands. They prey on the settlers. A few are in the pay of my king.’

  ‘Must be daft. I wouldn’t bloody pay them. Bloody savages.’ He nodded to Lejeune: ‘Thank you, sir. Consider yourself an honorary Englishman. Even if you are a French gentleman.’

  Lejeune laughed and turned away and found himself looking directly into eyes that spoke pure evil.

  Ajax had hung back from the fight, but now he knew his time had come. That was what Trouin had told him. If you are attacked, wait for the others to tire themselves out. Then you can take them all. The blackamoor looked deep into Lejeune’s eyes and doing so he brought his right hand up so quickly the motion was all but invisible.

  The French lieutenant felt the cold, curved scimitar penetrate his chest. Steel looked on in horror as slowly and deliberately, the huge man slid the full length of the blade deeper and deeper into Lejeune’s body. For an instant, the young lieutenant looked at Steel with pleading eyes. And then he dropped his sword to the deck and he was gone.

  His reason lost in a haze of fury and revenge, Steel rushed at Ajax, his sword flailing and felt his blade penetrate flesh and stop on bone. He looked and saw that he had gouged a hole in the man’s upper arm. But Ajax merely turned and, grasping Steel’s sword by the wide blade, wrenched it from the redcoat’s hand and apparently oblivious to any pain, pulled it free and threw it across the deck. Then he turned to Steel. His hand wen
t up and with it the huge, jewelled scimitar and as he began to bring it down Steel watched in horror. For an instant he dropped his gaze and saw Lejeune’s narrow weapon lying where he had let it fall. Steel stretched for it and found the hilt a moment before Ajax’s blade descended.

  Rolling away, he felt the scimitar cut down and hit the flesh of his calf and then, pushing with all his might he drove Lejeune’s blade deep up and into the blackamoor’s heart. The huge man fell hard on to Steel’s body and for an instant their faces were level. Steel thought he saw the barely perceptible trace of a smile cross the man’s face and then, as he watched, the cruel eyes glazed over in the blank stare of death.

  With difficulty, Steel heaved the limp form away. He dragged himself across the bloody deck and sat up against the starboard rail. Looking down he could see the wound in his leg. He had been lucky. The scimitar had taken a chunk of flesh and muscle and left it flapping. He had seen such wounds often enough to know that it was serious, but if properly handled would not leave him crippled. He looked about. Slaughter crossed the deck and helped him to his feet.