Jack Steel Adventure Series Books 1-3: Man of Honour, Rules of War, Brothers in Arms

‘Good God. How revolting. Vile. Who? What d’you think? Must have been those brigands, eh?’

Steel shook his head. ‘These people are Bavarians, Major. Same as your “brigands”.’

‘Not the French?’

Steel nodded. Jennings struggled to regain his composure.

‘Of course, we had better burn the place. Burn all the bodies, eh? Poor buggers. Sarn’t. Organize a detachment. Burn the barn.’

Steel stared at Jennings, hard. ‘Sarn’t Slaughter. You will disregard that last order. No, Major. We are going to bury them. All of them. And then, after we file our report when we return to the camp, someone will be able to come here and find them and then they’ll all get the decent Christian burial that they deserve.’

Jennings opened his mouth to protest, but seeing the look in Slaughter’s eyes, he thought the better of it.

Steel continued: ‘We can’t bury them individually, of course. That would take far too long and we don’t know who’s still watching us, do we? Sarn’t Slaughter. See if you can find some shovels. There are bound to be some around here. Have the men dig two pits. Over there, in that field, to the west of the barn. And they’d better be quick about it. I don’t like this place.’

Steel turned and walked back down the hill in silence, followed at a short distance by the fuming Jennings. Reaching the square, he was struck by a sudden, ghastly thought. He turned to Williams.

‘Has anyone seen the agent? Tom? Take half a platoon. Visit every house in the village. See if you can find me a fat Bavarian. Any civilian, living or dead, who looks as if he might have been a man wanting to sell me some flour.’

Williams stared at him. ‘But, Mister Steel, Sir. Where are the villagers?’

‘Up there. Dead. All of them. Now find that bloody Bavarian.’

Where the hell was the man, surely not in the barn? And what of the precious papers?

He signalled to a group of a dozen Grenadiers.

‘You men. Come with me. See that building at the top of the street. It’s full of bodies. Bring them out and be careful with it. And while you’re about it see if you can find someone in there. We’re looking for a fat man. A Bavarian merchant. I’ll give tuppence to anyone who finds him.’

The young Ensign, stupefied, began to get about his task and as Steel was about to walk back up to the barn, Jennings caught his arm. He spat out his name, smiling.

‘Steel. Why don’t I try and find Herr Kretzmer too. You stay here and see if you can get this mess cleared up.’

Steel was silent. It occurred to him that if Jennings were to find Kretzmer himself then the man might mistake him for Steel and offer him the vital papers. What, Steel wondered, would the Major make of them? It was imperative that he find Kretzmer. How though, he wondered, might he decline Jennings’ offer. To do so would be to disobey what amounted to a direct order.

He was still wondering when the cellar door of a small one-storey house directly behind Jennings banged open against the ground and up from the basement, like some demon emerging on to the stage of one of Mr Pinkeman’s famous plays, a white-faced figure emerged. The man was a civilian, his pallid features topped off by a dusty brown wig, his ample form straining against the buttons of a dark red velvet coat and somewhat under-generous pair of cambric breeches. From the state of his clothes and the straw in his wig, he had evidently contrived to get into some place of safety when the French had fallen upon the hapless villagers. The man caught sight of the red-coated soldiers and smiled, hopefully.

Jennings, unaware of the newcomer’s presence, stood grinning at Steel, still believing him to have been outfoxed. Steel smiled and coughed, pointing slowly towards the door.

Jennings turned around. Steel spoke:

‘Gentlemen. I think that we may have found our man.’

He nodded to the newcomer. ‘Herr Kretzmer?’

The man nodded. Jennings turned, unable to believe this latest stroke of bad luck. Steel continued, speaking in French.

‘Lieutenant Steel, Sir. You have, I believe, a quantity of flour that I am charged to purchase on behalf of Her Majesty’s army.’

Kretzmer smiled. ‘Thank God you are here. The French. I was terrified. It was dreadful. I managed to hide myself in the cellar. I just heard the screams. Did they kill them all?’

‘Everyone.’

Kretzmer looked at the ground. Wiping his eyes with his hand he shook his head.

Steel spoke: ‘Come, Herr Kretzmer. Let us do business. You have the flour?’

Kretzmer, ever the businessman, looked Steel in the eye and nodded. ‘Yes. I have the flour. If you like it.’

Jennings cut in. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Kretzmer. Aubrey Jennings, Major, Farquharson’s Foot. I am Lieutenant Steel’s commanding officer.’

Not quite yet you aren’t, however much you might wish it, thought Steel.

Jennings continued: ‘We have business, Herr Kretzmer. Shall we?’

Kretzmer led them across the village square to a tall stone building that stood by the church. He took a large iron key from his pocket and turned it in the lock, then opened one of the two doors. Inside they saw sacks piled high upon one another. There was enough flour here, thought Steel, to keep the army fed for at least two weeks. He called across to the cook, sent by Hawkins.

‘You there. Cook. Come here. Time to work for your keep.’

It had become common practice for civilian contractors to mix in sand with grain or flour. The only way to tell if it was right was to open a sack at random and the only person sufficiently skilled to estimate the likelihood of it being representative of the entire consignment was a cook.

Sitting himself down at a low table that stood in a corner of the store, Steel watched as the man slit open one of the bags, allowed a little of the fine white powder to trickle to the floor and then put his hand in. He put it to his lips.

‘That’s flour, Sir. Fine flour, Sir. As good as any we’ve had.’

‘Fine. Well that’s good enough for me. Herr Kretzmer.’ Steel motioned to the merchant and produced a purse. ‘You may count it out if you wish.’

The merchant, his sad eyes now bright with greed, sat down on a hay bale and undid the drawstring on the purse before emptying the contents on to a small bench table. Eagerly, expertly, he counted out the coins and flipped them back into the purse.

Jennings watched attentively and turned to Steel.

‘Best get the money put away once he’s finished, before the men have sight of it. Never good for them to see money, eh, Steel? But I don’t suppose that you see very much of it either.’

The door opened and Stringer entered.

‘Major Jennings, Sir. I think you had better come. It’s Murdoch. He’s asking to see you, Sir. Reckon he won’t last much longer, Major.’

Darting an anxious glance back at the two men, Jennings followed his Sergeant from the room. Alone now with Kretzmer, Steel watched as he finished counting the coins, then turned away. Now, he thought. The dying wish of Private Murdoch, wounded in the fight with the peasants, to see his officer had given him what might be his only chance.

He crossed the floor of the store and stood at the bench just as the man dropped the last coin into the purse and drew the string. Then, saying nothing, Steel placed his fists on the bench and slid one hand deftly over the purse, wresting it easily from Kretzmer.

‘And now, Sir. I believe that we have other business. You have something else for me. Something for which I am also contracted to pay you?’

Steel produced another bag of gold coins from his valise.

Kretzmer pretended surprise and smiled. ‘Yes, Lieutenant. I have your papers. Come. I will take you to them.’

High up on the lush, green eminence which overlooked what had been the peaceful village of Sattelberg, Major Claude Malbec, second in command of the Grenadiers Rouge, the most unruly, immoral and consistently victorious regiment in King Louis’ army, knelt down on the dew-sodden grass before his men and reflected on the little vignette that had unfolded beneath him. He smiled. He had not expected his quarry to be cornered quite so easily. He twisted an end of his moustache and considered his good fortune. Following the fight at Schellenberg, he had been sent here with his battered command by his senior officer, Colonel Michelet, with orders to find a Bavarian merchant bearing some papers vital to the war effort. Not plans or orders, he had been told, but personal papers of some significance to the Duke of Marlborough. It was a prestigious mission and Malbec was honoured. They had arrived earlier that day, but of the Bavarian there was no trace. Some of the townspeople said they had seen such a man. But no one knew where he was now. It had occurred to Malbec that they might be hiding him, but even under interrogation the men had denied knowledge of his whereabouts.