Rules of War

Marlborough smiled and nodded: ‘Indeed, Adam. Send the blackamoor to the queen. That was a fine thought. Though in truth, I’d have liked to keep him as one of my own servants.’

The company laughed, glad of the lightness at last in the duke’s voice. Like Hawkins, Marlborough had passed a restless night, having had only his cloak for a cover. He had slept badly and for company in his rustic bed had had only the tiresomely enthusiastic and over-opinionated van Goslinga who punctuated the night with anecdotes of the battle. Happily though, one of the footmen had found some chocolate in the French generals’ supplies and Marlborough now cradled the hot, richly aromatic liquid in the silver-mounted cup made from a coconut which he always carried in his personal baggage. As the laughter subsided, Cadogan spoke again.

‘Our own losses are light, Your Grace. Two colonels only killed and two score other officers and but a thousand men dead in all. It is a triumph. They will praise you throughout the realm, Your Grace. Your enemies in London had thought that the only news they would hear these few months would be from My Lord Peterborough in Spain. But now you have proved them wrong once again.’

Marlborough smiled and took a sip of chocolate, which he had not offered to any of his generals. They did not expect it, such was his reputation for parsimony. For, if Mar-lborough was renowned for his care in his treatment of the soldiery he took equal pains to keep certain things purely to himself.

Hawkins sipped again at his own acrid brew and winced and looked with envy at the steaming cup in the commander-in-chief’s hands.

Marlborough put it down and spoke: ‘My Lord Peterborough may indeed prosper in his Spanish campaign, for it is there that his friends the Tories believe this war is to be won. But we know better, gentlemen. We know that if we beat the French here, in Flanders, then we shall send a shock through that misguided nation deeper than anything Peterborough may achieve. Perhaps now those in London will do as I ask and replace him with Lord Galway.’ He picked up the cup, took another sip and continued: ‘Their losses are not as great as they were after Blenheim, gentlemen. But I fancy that the effect is ten times as tumultuous.’

He looked at each of them in turn. ‘But what now? Eh? What will the Sun King send against me now I wonder? We have the summer ahead of us and a campaign to conduct, at our leisure. We must make best use of that which God has provided.’

A grunt from behind the duke made him turn. Lord Orkney stood with his arms folded. He was shaking his head. ‘The French are fools, Marlborough. What have they done? They have retreated behind the Dyle and then abandoned that position where they might have held us at bay.’

Marlborough looked at him, blank-faced. ‘The French, My Lord Orkney, are no longer an army. They do have a line of defence, but they have nothing with which to defend it. Marshal Villeroi is beaten. We have but one objective. Now we must drive deep into the area of fortresses still held by the French and keep what army they may assemble from out-marching our flank and making the sea. God save us if they should, even in their parlous state, see our weakness there and flank us. We should be cut off from our only supply route with England. It is absolutely imperative that we isolate and if necessary besiege the port of Antwerp. But first we must take Ghent and Oudenarde.’

Cadogan interjected: ‘And Ostend and Dunkirk also, Your Grace, d’you not think? Do not forget those ports. They harbour privateers in French employ. Neglect them and whatever port we use for our supplies will be harried and taken. Believe me sir. I have direct experience.’

Marlborough laughed: ‘Yes, William. I am aware of your run-in with the privateers. But at least they let you away with your life. We shall have to see how it goes before we begin to besiege a port.’ The company laughed. All save van Goslinga who, not understanding the good-natured jibe, stared blankly.

Marlborough too was staring now, into the middle-distance. He set his chin in his hand and after a while spoke again. ‘William, I do believe that you are right.’

Orkney spoke up: ‘We’ll need the best of the army for that, Your Grace. Lord Argyll and his finest. And Lord Mordaunt too.’

At last Hawkins spoke his mind: ‘We’ll need more than good tactical officers, sir. If we are to take Ostend and Dunkirk against privateers we will need guile and stealth by the measure. Might I suggest one more officer whom we might find most useful?’

Marlborough looked intrigued: ‘Hmm? Yes, James?’

‘Captain Steel, Your Grace. That is, acting Captain Steel. Of Sir James Farquharson’s regiment. You will remember him from Blenheim, sir. He carried out a … most delicate task for us. You promoted him brevet rank. His elevation is not yet ratified.’

‘Indeed, Hawkins? Not yet? Of course, Captain Steel. By all means. Why did not I think of him sooner? Yes. He has wit as well as bravery, as I recollect. We shall as you say need every bit of guile we can muster. I hazard that in the taking of these places we shall not be dealing with your ordinary enemy. Privateers, mercenaries, and who will the French leave to command them, d’you think? You can be sure that Marshal Villeroi will have taken the cream of his own officers hobbling back to Versailles to plead their case to King Louis. No, we shall be dealing with the dregs. Passed-over officers left in charge of seemingly impregnable fortresses. Well, we shall show them that they are not so impregnable, eh, gentlemen? And now, if you would, allow me a moment. My head aches and I must write the news of our victory to the queen. William, take yourself off after the cavalry and ensure that the pursuit continues. My Lord Orkney, pray do the same with the foot. Force the march if you will. We must press them hard and take the Dyle by tonight. We cannot afford to rest. You know that the fate of all Europe hangs in the balance.’

FOUR (#ube8dd2cd-c03c-5bcf-a519-f7a2ac32a87f)

Steel stood quite still in the middle of the street and gazed at the windows of the houses up ahead. The single shot had come from somewhere in there, ringing out clear and long against this cool May morning, shocking the company to an abrupt halt. Behind him the men crouched apprehensively, eyes darting around. They were entering Wippendries, a small village a few miles north of Brussels.

‘See where it came from, Sarn’t?’

‘Couldn’t say for certain, sir. Third house on the left at a guess.’

There was an uproar at the rear of the column: ‘Shit!’

‘Quiet, that man there!’

‘But Sarge. The bullet went through my bloody hat. Ruined it. Look.’

It was Tarling. The musketball had indeed hit his tall Grenadier’s mitre cap, obliterating the white embroidered thistle in the centre and leaving a scorched hole trimmed with filigree fragments of gold wire.

Slaughter stared at the punctured hat: ‘Well, you’re bloody lucky it didn’t go through your brain then, Tarling, aren’t you.’

Steel spoke: ‘Sarn’t, you and four men, come with me. The rest of you stay with Lieutenant Hansam. And keep your bloody heads down.’ As he spoke another shot cracked out, the ball whizzing past Steel’s ear. ‘Christ. That was a bit close. Taylor, Cussiter, Mackay, come on. With me. Fix bayonets, and leave your hats behind.’

Moving fast and keeping low the four men moved along the left side of the street. Another shot rang out, ricocheting off the cobbles and glancing up at one of the houses. They paused. Slaughter tucked in close beside Steel: ‘They’re lousy shots, sir. Don’t you think?’

‘Probably conscripts. Though if that’s the case then why the hell are they bothering to shoot at us and not legging it back to Paris?’

‘Perhaps they don’t really want to hit us. Just scare us off.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would they do that? What have they got to gain? This bloody village? The French army’s gone home. We’re chasing them back to Paris.’

It was two days now since the battle and in all that time Steel and his men, like the rest of the army, had hardly been allowed to rest. Marlborough intended to push the French back as far as they would go and their orders were to advance in forced marches to the northwest until otherwise instructed. Slaughter ducked instinctively as another musketball sang high over their heads.

‘Perhaps that’s it, sir. Perhaps they’re not even soldiers at all, just civilians. Scared, like.’

The ball that had missed Slaughter and Steel hit the cobbles behind them and sent shards of stone up into the calf of Private Mackay who screamed and clutched at his bleeding leg.

Steel raised his eyes: ‘There now. Are you satisfied? You and your damned theories. What does it matter who they are? They’re bloody shooting at us, Jacob.’ He unslung the fusil from his back and, knowing it to be loaded already, cocked the hammer. ‘Mackay, stay there. The rest of you come with me. Second house along. Through the door. Charge!’

As the musket discharged again above their heads the Grenadiers kicked at the door of the house and it gave way. Inside the darkness took them by surprise. The shutters were closed and there was no other light source.

Steel shouted: ‘Open a window!’

Tarling obliged and they moved through the interior quickly as Steel had taught them, one man moving to every opening, waiting and listening before getting into the rooms. One by one they called out:

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘No one here, sir.’

‘Upstairs then. Look out.’

From the top of the wooden stairs there was a crack of musketry and a flash of flame as the gun fired again. Aimed at Steel, the bullet flew hopelessly wide of the mark and embedded itself in the far wall of the hall.

He called out: ‘Now!’

Together Steel and Slaughter rushed the stairs and threw themselves on the figure at the top. It was hard to see anything in the shuttered house.

‘Get him downstairs, Sarn’t. I want this one alive.’

They half-pushed, half-dragged the sniper down the wooden staircase and threw him to the floor, where he lay motionless and whimpering, covered by the bayonets of Cussiter and Tarling. He was slightly built and dressed in pale buff-coloured breeches and a nondescript waistcoat.

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.