Brothers in Arms (Jack Steel 3)

by Iain Gale

  He was walking almost in the open countryside now, leaving the city behind him. The plain of the Ile de France spread out on either side in a patchwork of farmland, making the huge neoclassical edifice with its spectacular crown all the more impressive. But Steel had no sense of space or proportion. It felt to him as if he was walking into the guns. This was as terrifying as any assault. Here, though, he would have no means of retreat. He wondered for a moment whether it might not be more prudent to abandon the peace mission and merely use his sword to do what he did best and kill as many of them as he could before he himself was cut down. But then he recalled Hawkins’s words and thought better of it. He was on a particular mission. Peace was now his goal.

  How ironic, he thought, that a man who had known nothing all his adult life but the making of war should now be charged with such a task. Steel the peacemaker. He wondered, if he succeeded, how he would be remembered by posterity. Would his name really figure in the histories of these wars and this time as a man of peace?

  He turned right and walked through avenues of elms and poplars, along the long, low ramparts, built as if they were a plan by Vauban for the defence of a town. Another right turn and he stood before the main entrance gates to the complex: a double wrought-iron gate, flanked by pavilions bearing carved triumphs. There was a solitary white-coated guard on the gates, although Steel knew there would be more close by. The man presented his musket and asked in French for his papers.

  Of course Steel had papers, a handwritten sheet in French given him by Hawkins, which guaranteed safe passage into the Hôpital and confirmed his name, rank and unit, and also that his purpose was to see Major Charpentier while here on leave. The guard took it and read it carefully before summoning a junior officer who was lolling against a pillar, picking his teeth. The man ambled over and scanned the paper before looking at Steel.

  ‘Irish?’

  ‘Yes. Captain Johnson, of Clare’s Dragoons.’

  ‘To see Major Charpentier?’

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant.’

  The lieutenant stared at him again, looking closely at his clothes, then shrugged and nodded to the guard before handing Steel his paper and wandering away. The sentry snapped to attention and indicated that Steel was free to pass through the arch, but as he was about to walk on Steel wondered for a moment whether he should acknowledge the young man’s evident disrespect for his superior. Was it perhaps a trap? Did the lieutenant have any reason to suspect Steel? Was that why he had been so deliberately rude? If he did not react to this apparent insult, would the lieutenant have him arrested? There was only one way to find out.

  Steel spun round and called after the departing officer: ‘Lieutenant. Wait a moment, if you will. D’you not salute a senior officer in this place any more?’

  The young man swung round, one eyebrow raised. Steel froze. But a moment later the lieutenant smiled, bowed and murmured an apology. Steel acknowledged the salute and walked on, his confidence restored but no less aware that he had broken out in a sweat.

  He crossed the wide esplanade without one glance behind him, although all the time he sensed the lieutenant’s eyes boring deep into his back. At last he reached the façade and gazed up at the great entrance arch with its lofty, curved stone depicting Louis XIV in armour, seated astride a war-horse, and steadied himself as he often did when under fire. He walked quickly, but not so fast as to arouse suspicion, through the archway and found himself in a airy vestibule flanked with columns and filled with white-uniformed soldiers. As he entered, they stared at him. What they saw, though, was merely another Irish soldier, like the many who found themselves here from time to time. There were always Irish mercenaries here, just as there were Germans and Swedes and Swiss and Poles and all the others. All of them happy to serve in the armies of the great King. The Sun King. They soon turned back to their business and ignored Steel. Evidently this was the guardroom, but they would be satisfied that the red-coated newcomer’s papers had been checked at the main gate.

  Not wanting to delay here, Steel pushed through the vestibule and found himself in a wide courtyard, the Cour Royale. Paved with cobbles, it was all of a hundred yards long and sixty wide, and lined with galleries of arcades on two storeys. Ahead of him across the square was another elaborately sculpted and decorated vestibule which mirrored that through which he had just passed. In the tall, sloping roofs, numerous dormer windows whose stone lucarnes had been sculpted in bas-relief with what looked like trophies of arms celebrating Louis’s past victories. How far he had fallen, thought Steel, their great, invincible Sun King, once so mighty and now trampled under the foot of Marlborough and his triumphant army. And how much still further he would fall, he thought with satisfaction. First, though, his mission must succeed.

  The square before him was filled with men. Most were in conversation, a few standing alone. They were soldiers for the most part, the majority of them wearing the dark blue coat of the Invalides themselves. These were Louis’s chosen few. These are my enemies, thought Steel, as he stared at them. Many of them were missing limbs; some wore an eyepatch. In a few cases they needed help to walk – through blindness or maiming. These, he thought, are my enemies, the men whom I faced and vanquished in battle, the men that I killed and wounded. Bizarrely, he found himself overcome with a great and to that minute unknown sense of guilt at what he had done these last twenty years as a soldier. Steel did not keep a precise tally of how many men he might have killed in battle, although he had a rough idea. In twenty years he reckoned it at approaching four score. Of those he had wounded, however, and those left maimed for life, he had no idea whatsoever as to their numbers, and to see so many of his former foes here in such a pitiable state of ruination struck him to the core.

  Within a few moments, however, guilt had been transformed to pity, and then, as he began to become inured to the wounded, his eye, with a soldier’s natural instinct for survival, dwelt more on those fit to fight, the men who were still capable of doing him harm. As he entered the courtyard several of the Frenchmen paused in whatever they were doing to look at him. He pretended not to notice and was relieved when they turned away. While his progress had been relatively easy, no one as yet had offered to take him to Major Charpentier, and Steel realized that he would have to act on his own initiative.

  He looked about and noticed a huge stone staircase leading away from the colonnade to the upper floors. That surely would take him to the commandant’s offices. Moving carefully through the crowd, he reached the foot of the stairs. No sooner had he set foot on the bottom step, however, than he found his way barred by a pair of crossed halberds wielded by two guards, one on either side of the staircase. There was a polite cough from his rear.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Do I take it that you have an appointment with the commandant?’

  Steel turned and met the gaze of a French officer, clad neatly in white with lilac-coloured facings and an ornately laced hat. He was immaculately turned out and could only possibly be, Steel surmised, the adjutant responsible for this place. ‘You presume correctly, sir. My appointment is with Major Charpentier.’ He fumbled in his pocket and produced the scrap of paper.

  The officer took it and read it carefully. ‘Very good. Please follow me, Captain Johnson.’

  The halberds having parted, the officer led the way up the marble steps whose tall, smooth white walls were hung with tapestries depicting French victories of the past century. The man said nothing, but marched at a steady pace past nauseating images of Dutch, Spanish and British soldiers being beaten by the all-conquering French armies, to the top of the flight before turning into the left-hand colonnade. Together they walked to the end towards a tall, plain wooden door. The adjutant turned the handle and ushered Steel into an oak-lined anteroom, its walls lined with framed maps of Louis’s campaigns and plans of Marshal Vauban’s forts.

  ‘Wait here, Captain. I shall announce you.’

  Within the anteroom, a single sentry stood by another door. The adjutant ignored him,
tapped twice and entered.

  ‘Captain Johnson, sir. Of Clare’s regiment.’

  He nodded to Steel, who followed him in. Inside he found three men. One of them, that nearest to Steel, who had been poring over a map on the room’s large central table, looked up.

  He was in his late thirties with a round, moon-shaped face and a full brown wig. Major Charpentier left his map and went to greet Steel at the door. He walked slowly, supporting himself on a crutch, for where his right leg should have been was nothing more than a flap of blue velvet, delicately trimmed with gold braid.

  ‘Captain Johnson.’ He nodded briefly at Steel, who knew instantly that the man was in earnest. It was the only sign it was possible to make in acknowledgement of their real purpose, but it was enough to relieve Steel’s anxiety. It seemed evident that neither of the two other men were privy to their purpose. They stood over by the window, deep in conversation above a rectangular table draped with a green baize cloth on which were arranged hundreds of small figurines. Toy soldiers. The adjutant glided from the room and Major Charpentier led Steel into the office and across to the table.

  ‘Gentlemen, may I present Captain Johnson of Clare’s regiment. Another of our Irish “Wild Geese”. Captain, I have the honour to present Major Claude Malbec of the Grenadiers Rouge, recently returned from the front. Perhaps you know him. Certainly you will be acquainted with his achievements at arms. And perhaps too you will know my other guest. This is more likely, I think. He is a fellow officer in your “Wild Geese” a captain of Dillon’s regiment and a fellow Irishman.’

  Steel was at a loss. Charpentier knew of his mission and his cover, and the importance of preserving it. Why then, he wondered, subject him to such peril? Was it not clear to the commandant that a meeting at close quarters with a bona fide Irishman might ruin everything?

  Charpentier spoke the man’s name, but such was Steel’s agitated state of mind that he did not hear it clearly. He was about to ask again, but by then the officer had turned to face him and it was no longer necessary. Instantly, Steel froze. The young man’s eyes looked into his own and he felt himself shudder to the core. For a passing moment Steel thought that he must be imagining what he saw. Then, as in a dream, he felt quite dizzy. And only now did he hear the major’s words.

  ‘Captain Johnson, may I present Captain Alexander Steel.’

  The man who now looked at him with a curious yet friendly smile was none other than Steel’s younger brother.

  Alexander Steel was perhaps two inches shorter than his older brother, but of the same athletic build, and he had the same distinctively sharp nose inherited from their mother and similarly piercing blue eyes. Fortunately for Steel, his brother favoured a long, full wig, for otherwise their striking facial resemblance might have aroused some comment among either of their two fellow officers. For a moment neither man spoke, but merely stared at the other. At length Steel sighed with relief as Alexander broke the awkward silence.

  ‘Honoured, I’m sure, sir. You serve with Clare’s? A sorry business, that which befell His Grace at Ramillies.’

  ‘It was, Captain. A terrible thing to see.’

  ‘You were there? With O’Brien when he died?’

  ‘As close as I am to you now.’

  Alexander smiled. ‘Well, that at least is a comfort. I mean, it must have been a comfort to my lord Clare to know that he was surrounded by loyal friends and countrymen.’

  It was not hard to detect the irony in his voice, and Steel hoped that it had been lost on the two Frenchmen. He stared at his younger brother, still incredulous. Had Alexander known he was coming? Was he in on the plan with Charpentier? Steel had never known him as anything other than an ardent Jacobite. Surely he had not betrayed his faith? It was not his way. Perhaps it was a trap. But then what use was he to Charpentier?

  Realizing that he had said nothing for a conspicuous length of time, Steel broke away and turned to the other officer, Major Malbec. But, seeking relief, he found none, for there was something curious about the scar-faced French officer that struck a faint chord of recognition in him. Annoyingly, though, Steel was unable to place him. Thankfully, from the look on the other’s face, he reasoned that he too was finding it hard to recall where they might have met. Wherever it had been, Steel concluded, he was certain that it had not been in the most cordial of circumstances.

  Major Charpentier, puzzled by the awkward silences, sought to defuse the tension in the room and pointed to the miniature soldiers on the table.

  ‘What do you think to these, Captain? They have become a little passion of mine. There is not much more for an old soldier to do when he is down to one leg. They keep me amused, my little table-top warriors. The bulk of them were a gift to me from the King himself, God save the dear man. Merely a few hundred of the thousands of figures he inherited from his father when he came to the throne. He was only four years of age then, an infant thrust into kingship. But how he grew! Our generals used these figures to teach him the art of war, you know.’

  Malbec spoke. ‘You cannot deny that they taught him well, Major. We have been at war these forty years. And look at his victories: Cassel, Rheinfeld, Fleurus, Neerwinden. What glory, Charpentier! Even you, with your maimed leg, cannot deny that. And how many captured colours did we bring back to hang on the walls at Versailles? You know, Charpentier, perhaps if we were to fight a few exercises with these little men we might all learn a lesson or two.’

  Steel winced at the major’s crowing, and bit his tongue. He thought of Blenheim, of Ramillies and their recent glorious victory at Oudenarde, but naturally said nothing.

  Charpentier replied, ‘We certainly couldn’t do any worse than we have recently. What a shambles.’

  Malbec’s voice turned bitter. ‘There must be some way to outwit the good Lord Marlbrook. If only we could rid the world of the damned English general. If we could only defeat him, just once.’

  Charpentier, who would normally have liked to add his opinion, chose not to become involved in the rant, aware that he must maintain his bravado even though on the inside he burned with hatred for everyone and everything that stoked the flames of a war that had cost him his leg, and a great deal more. He picked up one of the soldiers, a beautifully painted dragoon, and now absorbed by his miniature universe he continued, ‘Of course the King commissions new reinforcements for his little army regularly every year. I must manage whatever and whenever my meagre purse allows. Which is rarely ever at all. My figures, all but those presented by the King, are made from tin. The King’s, naturally, are all cast in silver. Lead and tin are cheaper, but silver is without doubt the more beautiful, even under the paint, wouldn’t you say? They’re all hand-painted, of course. Two of the pensioners here do them for me. Remarkable eyesight.’

  Steel looked closely at the figures. They were flat, two-dimensional models which, when looked at from the end on, all but disappeared. Now that, he thought, would be a clever trick on the battlefield. Here were tiny dragoons and hussars; miniature cannon, complete with a team of mules and a driver. All were painted in the exact uniforms of two opposing armies: one, from their colours clearly British, in scarlet coats and coloured facings, the other French in white, grey and blue. The standards which flew above their heads were also hand-painted, on silk, hung with tiny cords of gold wire. Steel recognized the Royal Foot Guards and another regiment of foot which he thought might have been supposed to be Orkney’s, from its colours. On the French side he could make out grenadiers and several famliar enemy regiments from Ramillies and Blenheim.

  At last he spoke. ‘They’re exquisite. I’ve never seen the like. Although I did once hear that the late King William had used similar miniatures in a room at the Horse Guards to organize the reforms of his army.’

  Alexander responded, ‘By the late King I trust that you mean the Dutch usurper, do you not?’

  How stupid I am, thought Steel. ‘Of course, it was merely a convenient term. He was the usurper, just as Anne now insults the thron
e in her turn.’

  Steel found himself once again looking at Malbec. He recognized this man. He was still not sure from where, but now he was certain of it. Steel searched his mind and tried to place him, and realized that if he was now so sure then surely the man must also recognize him?

  The French officer regarded him quizzically, as if thinking. Steel was certain that his cover was about to be exposed. But the officer said nothing. Malbec merely smiled and shook his head. Then he said, ‘You serve with Clare’s?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Ah yes, Viscount Clare. The poor man died at Ramillies, did he not?’

  ‘You’re right, sir. He was killed in cold blood. But didn’t we take two of their colours, and one of them Marlborough’s own? Our colonel is now the new Lord Clare.’

  ‘You stay here long, Captain?’

  ‘I return in two days to the front.’

  ‘If we still have a front, eh, Captain? After the recent débâcle with the good Marshal. I do not care for politics. I am a simple soldier. Enjoy our palace of cripples and heroes, Captain, and pray that you too do not end up like them. The major here is a fine host, but I too must return to the front soon. Perhaps we shall encounter each other on the field of battle.’

  Perhaps we shall, thought Steel, but not I’ll wager in the way you seem to believe. Unless you dissemble and have found me out already, in which case I may not make it back to our lines. Steel smiled and bowed. ‘Perhaps, Major. It would be an honour and a pleasure to serve at your side against the invader.’