‘Who are you?’ shouted Daniel.
‘That’s rather an impolite tone to use on someone who’s just rescued you from a very painful death.’
‘You’ve been following me.’
‘Yes – and it’s just as well that I did.’
‘What do you want?’
‘That can wait. I suggest that the first thing I do is to bind that arm of yours or your sleeve will be soaked with blood. Come on,’ he said, tucking the pistols into his belt, ‘let me help you off with your coat.’
Daniel agreed but remained on the defensive. He let the man take off the coat, examine the wound then bind it with part of the French soldier’s shirt. From the proficient way that his rescuer went about it, Daniel could see that he’d tended wounds before. His arm was still stinging but at least he was not losing any more blood. After thanking the newcomer for his providential help, he squared up to him.
‘Now will you tell me who you are?’
‘My name is Andrew Syme,’ replied the other.
‘You were an army man, I fancy.’
‘I was a major in a cavalry regiment.’
‘Why were you on my tail?’
‘I have orders to kill you,’ said Syme, picking up one of the sabres from the ground, ‘and I couldn’t possibly let a couple of Frenchmen do my job for me.’
Daniel was taken aback. The man had spoken with a quiet confidence that showed he had no doubts whatsoever about his ability to carry out his orders. Instead of being cut to ribbons by two angry Frenchmen, Daniel was now confronted by another threat. He sought to buy time by asking questions.
‘Who gave the orders?’
Syme shrugged. ‘Does that matter?’
‘It matters a great deal to me.’
‘You’ve never heard of the noble gentleman.’
‘Why has he singled me out?’ asked Daniel.
‘I’m afraid that you singled yourself out, Captain Rawson,’ said the other, suavely. ‘You made the unfortunate mistake of falling in love with the wrong woman.’
Daniel blenched. ‘Is this something to do with Amalia?’
‘It has everything to do with the young lady.’
‘Is she in danger?’ asked Daniel, stepping towards him.
‘Don’t come any closer,’ warned Syme, jabbing Daniel’s chest with the point of the sword. ‘You can hear me quite clearly from where you’re standing.’
‘Tell me about Amalia.’
‘I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting her but – since she can excite such passion in two different men – I can see that she must be an extraordinary young lady. Unhappily, only one of you can enjoy her. Pick up your sword, Captain Rawson.’
‘Wait,’ said Daniel. ‘This is pointless. Killing me will not send Amalia into someone else’s arms. She’d never look at another man.’
‘Every woman can be won over in time and the gentleman in question is well versed in the art. You’re not the first person I’ve had to remove because he obstructed the way to a lady’s bed.’
‘Is that what you are – a hired assassin?’
‘I prefer to see myself as a trusted friend.’
‘But you served in the British army,’ said Daniel, earnestly. ‘You’ve known the camaraderie created in warfare. Would you really attempt to kill a fellow officer?’
‘That would depend on his price,’ said Syme, easily, ‘and yours is inordinately high. I, too, have needs, you see. I have to pay for my pleasures and settle some gambling debts. Killing you is a simple way of doing that.’ He prodded Daniel again. ‘Pick up your sword, Captain Rawson. I’m no cold-blooded murderer. I always give a man a fighting chance. And, yes, I know you’ve been injured but that won’t impair you too much. Someone who can kill four Frenchmen entirely on his own is to be admired. You’ll be a worthy opponent.’
‘It’s a pity I can’t say the same about you,’ declared Daniel, retrieving his sword from the ground. ‘You’re a disgrace to the uniform of the British army, Major.’
Syme laughed. ‘I always thrive on insults.’
Trying to catch Daniel off guard, he lunged forward but his thrust was easily parried. The blades clashed again and again in quick succession, convincing Daniel that he was fighting an expert swordsman. Syme was strong, well balanced and light on his feet. He was also untroubled by any injury. Daniel, by contrast, felt a sharp twinge in his right arm every time their swords met. At one point, when he parried Syme’s flashing blade, Daniel winced at the pain he felt on impact. He was put on the defensive, stepping backwards over the dead French soldiers and knowing that he could not keep his opponent at bay indefinitely.
As the twinges in his right arm became more intense, Daniel switched his sword to the other hand and went on the attack. Syme was momentarily confused and forced backwards for a few moments. He adjusted quickly to the left-handed assault and managed to graze Daniel’s hip with a thrust. With two injuries to hamper him, Daniel realised that he had to end the duel very soon. Syme was stronger, faster and brimming with confidence. He began to taunt Daniel, even to toy with him. While barely holding him off, Daniel worked his way carefully towards his discarded red coat. As he did so, he pretended to trip over one of the corpses and lose his balance. Seeing his chance, Syme jumped in for the kill.
He was too slow. Daniel eluded his thrust with ease, bent down to pick up the coat and threw it into Syme’s face. While his opponent tried to get rid of the obstruction, Daniel snatched up the French sabre that stood upright in the ground and, fighting with his left hand at first, he suddenly used the sword in his right hand to pierce Syme’s guard, pushing the blade deep into his stomach before twisting it then pulling it out again. The duel was over. Syme’s eyes widened with incredulity. He’d never even considered the possibility of defeat. Dropping his sword, he sank to the ground with both hands to his stomach.
‘Always carry two swords,’ said Daniel, mocking Syme’s earlier advice. ‘It doubles your chances of escaping alive from this sort of situation.’
‘Damn you, man!’ roared Syme, as the blood gushed out of him. ‘You’ve killed me.’
Daniel dropped his weapons and grabbed him by the throat.
‘Who sent you?’ he demanded.
‘I never thought it would be this big,’ said Beatrix Udderzook as she looked around in wonder. ‘It’s enormous.’
‘It’s magnificent,’ said Amalia, ‘but it’s also a little intimidating.’
‘I so wanted to see it.’
‘Are you pleased that we came?’
‘This is the best day for me since we’ve been in England.’
The visit to London had fulfilled the maidservant’s dearest wish and given Amalia something to take her mind off the subject that had been gnawing away at it. When the three of them first arrived from Holland, they’d caught a glimpse of the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral as they drove through the capital. It was only when they were actually inside it, however, that they got a clearer idea of its dimensions and its proportions. Emanuel Janssen was entranced, wandering around in delight as he studied every detail of Wren’s masterpiece. After well over thirty years, work on the cathedral had not yet been completed but the bulk of the edifice was finished, enabling the visitors to stand inside the biggest Protestant church in Christendom.
‘I could never go up there,’ said Beatrix, pointing up at the Whispering Gallery. ‘I’d get too dizzy.’
‘Think of the view you could enjoy from there,’ said Amalia, craning her neck to gaze upwards. ‘The stonemasons who built it must have been working on it for years.’
‘I wouldn’t last ten seconds at that height.’
‘You’d be surprised what you can do, Beatrix.’
Amalia was glad that they’d been able to bring her maidservant with her. Since there was so little for Beatrix to do in the house, she was thrilled to escape from Oxfordshire for a while in order to see the sights of London. It was now almost half a century since the city had been destroyed by the Great
Fire and it had been assiduously rebuilt in the intervening years. New churches, guildhalls, civic buildings, business premises and warehouses had sprung up, surrounded by new dwellings of every size and description. There was something of interest to see at every turn in the bustling capital but St Paul’s dominated everything else.
‘I think there’s somebody up there,’ noted Amalia.
‘I can’t see them, Miss Amalia.’
‘Look over to the left.’
Beatrix shifted her gaze, then caught her breath when she saw two tiny figures moving around the rim of the gallery. It made her feel queasy just to watch them. What if they fell? The very thought made her twitch involuntarily. Yet the people seemed unworried by being up at such a height. They paused to look down and, seeing Beatrix below, gave her a friendly wave. Startled by their bravery, she raised a nervous hand to wave back. One of them called something out but the words were lost in the cavernous interior of the cathedral. When the two people moved out of sight, Beatrix looked up beyond them to inspect the dome itself, wondering how something of that size and weight could stay up there without crashing to the ground. As if anticipating such a disaster, she felt the urge to move away and she turned to speak to Amalia. But there was nobody beside her.
Beatrix looked around. ‘Where have you gone?’ she asked.
Amalia didn’t even hear the question. She was kneeling at the altar rail in a side chapel, head bowed in humility and hands clasped together as she offered up prayers for the safety of Daniel Rawson.
He was miles from Wynendael when he first heard the sounds of battle and it made him kick his heels into the flanks of his horse. After his encounter with the patrol and his duel in the wood, Daniel was feeling much stronger. He’d bandaged the flesh wound in his hip with part of another French shirt, put on his coat, then hurried back to the stream so that he could douse his face with water and wipe the blood from his hands. When he returned to the scattered corpses, he gathered up a selection of weapons, making sure that he pulled his dagger out of the man it had killed. Rachel Rees’s gift had helped to save his life. Reclaiming his own horse, he set off. The escapade among the trees had left him with mementoes. His wounds were smarting and he was filled with anxiety over Amalia but there was a far more important souvenir of the struggle. It was the letter he’d taken from Andrew Syme’s pocket. It gave Daniel a name, an address and an urgent reason to get to England. Amalia was in jeopardy and he was needed there. There was, however, a prior consideration that could not be ignored. Daniel had to reach the convoy first. The increasing clamour ahead of him told him where he’d find it. Vital to the continuance of the siege, the convoy was making no progress at all. It was obviously under a concerted attack.
The French had been waiting to intercept them in a densely forested area near Wynendael. General Lamotte had some twenty-three thousand men under his command against an Allied escort of a mere six thousand men. The battle opened with a bombardment from French cannon that inflicted severe casualties on both the convoy and its escort. They would have been even more severe but for the order from Major General Webb for his men to lie on the ground and present less of a target. Ignoring the disparity in numbers between the two sides, Webb deployed his men with skill. When the French came up through the relatively narrow space between the trees, they were met by the sight of triple lines of men with a handful of mounted troops to the fore. The odds seemed to be heavily in favour of Lamotte and his army.
The advantage proved illusory. Because they were fighting in such a confined space, the French forces had to be crowded into twelve lines of units. Infantry were at the front, supported by four lines of dragoons and two of cavalry. They closed on the escort, only to be checked by the speed and accuracy of the Allies’ volley-firing. It took Lamotte’s men by surprise. Most of his regiments were composed of French-speaking Netherlanders with shifting allegiances. Tending to pursue their own interests, they were quick to discern where these lay. As the platoon volleys kept popping away with deadly effect, a wave of panic started to spread. The advancing French line began to fold and fall back to the right, getting entangled with the lines behind them and causing confusion.
There was a new menace to face. Webb had concealed some of his forces in the woods on both sides and these started firing from unseen positions among the trees. The French were falling in large numbers and impeding those behind them. Confident that he could still overpower the smaller force, Lamotte sent in his dragoons but they too were beaten back by the volley-firing. It was a ferocious encounter that lasted barely two hours and it was ended by the arrival of Allied reinforcements under the command of Cadogan. When he saw them approach, Lamotte gave the order to retreat and fled from the scene. Webb and his men had achieved an unexpected but well-deserved victory. They’d lost a sixth of their escort in the process but enemy losses were over three times that number. While the Allied general had every right to congratulate himself, his French counterpart was slinking away with his tail between his legs.
It had been a significant engagement. Though they failed to realise it at the time, the battle of Wynendael was a decisive turning point in the siege of Lille. Thanks to the bravery and professionalism of the escort, two hundred and fifty thousand pounds of gunpowder and several tons of shot had been saved. It was enough to keep the Allied guns battering the walls of Lille for an additional fortnight.
Daniel arrived in time to take only a limited part in the battle. Unable to join Allied lines, he hid in the forest and was able to shoot two of the fleeing French infantrymen before reloading in time to put a pistol ball into the eye of a dragoon. When the retreat was sounded, he’d remounted and, in spite of his injured arm, was prepared to take on an isolated cavalry officer. The man galloped off before Daniel could get to him and he was followed by the rest of the French forces. Daniel had to content himself with taking two prisoners and marching them back to the Allied lines. There was a general air of celebration. While officers gathered around Webb, their acknowledged hero, Daniel went in search of a commander he knew well.
William Cadogan was a big, ebullient, fearless man in his thirties, with a brilliant record as the Quartermaster-General of the Allied armies. He was notorious for his addiction to gambling but Daniel didn’t hold that against him. For all sorts of reasons, he liked and admired Cadogan. By the same token, Cadogan had the highest respect for him.
‘Dear God!’ he exclaimed when he saw Daniel. ‘What’s happened to you, man?’
‘I met with some difficulties on my way here,’ said Daniel.
‘Your sleeve is soaked with blood. Have one of the surgeons look at the wound immediately.’
‘It’s already been dressed. Besides, the surgeons have more than enough to do at the moment. My wound was not picked up here but in an earlier encounter.’
During his brushes with the enemy, Daniel had become quite dishevelled but it was the blood-covered tear in his sleeve that caught the attention. As Daniel explained what had happened, Cadogan listened with interest and sympathy.
‘I came here too late to be of any real use,’ he concluded.
‘So did we,’ said Cadogan, regretfully, ‘though there’s nothing to bring such cheer as the sight of a French army in open retreat. What will you do next?’
‘I’ll present my compliments to Major General Webb, then I’ll ride back to camp with news of events here. His Grace will want to hear a full report. Only then,’ Daniel went on, ‘can I ask his permission for some leave to attend to more personal matters.’
‘By Jupiter!’ exclaimed Cadogan. ‘There’s no need to waste time doing that, Captain Rawson. I can send men of my own with a report. You’re needed in England. I’ll write a letter to His Grace explaining why.’ He saw Daniel hesitate. ‘What are you waiting for, man?’
‘I was given very specific orders.’
‘Well, I’ve just countermanded them. His Grace would be angry with me if I didn’t do just that. We always have need of you here, Captain Rawson
, but someone else has a first claim.’
Daniel was thrilled. ‘Please apologise to His Grace on my behalf.’
‘There’s no point. He and I are married men. We understand the power of love and the responsibilities it brings. Be off with you at once,’ ordered Cadogan, pushing him away. ‘The young lady is waiting to be rescued – though I suspect she’d rather that you did it in a smarter uniform.’
On the same day as the battle of Wynendael, the Allies encamped around Lille had an unforeseen taste of action themselves. They were settling down at dusk when they saw a column of two thousand horse and one hundred and fifty Grenadiers approaching. Since the newcomers wore Dutch insignia in their caps, it was assumed that they were part of the besieging army. They were allowed through the lines until the point when one of the officers gave an order in French for his troop to close up. Henry Welbeck was one of those who heard the command and realised its import. The riders were French soldiers in disguise, each one of them equipped with a fifty-pound bag of gunpowder destined for the beleaguered garrison. For a town that was down to its last reserves of ammunition, the convoy was precious but it would not all arrive intact. Welbeck’s voice was only one of many raised in anger.
‘The bastards are French!’ he yelled. ‘Shoot them.’
Scrambling to their feet, men grabbed their muskets and began firing at the interlopers. Some of the shots hit the bags of gunpowder, causing huge explosions that killed both horses and riders. Other members of the convoy were unwitting agents of their own deaths. Whipping their horses into a mad gallop, they made sparks fly up from the clattering hooves to set off further explosions. The whole camp was suddenly alight with a firework display. Well over a hundred men and horses perished, leaving behind charred remains scattered far and wide. Ben Plummer was sickened by what he saw.
4 Under Siege Page 27