by Iain Gale
Jennings scowled at him. ‘Lost? How could I be lost, Stringer?’
Jennings looked back at the map and tried turning it on its side so that the river as shown on its criss-crossed face lined up with that which lay before him. This was useless.
‘We shall proceed along the line of the river, Sarn’t. Due east.’
‘If you say so, Sir.’
‘Is it not due east?’
‘If you say so, Sir.’
‘Don’t be so dashed stubborn, man. Tell me this is due east.’
‘This is due east, Sir.’
‘Thank you, Stringer. And thus, if we simply follow the river we can turn to the right within two miles and march towards the south. We shall make camp for the night and, God willing, shall reach Sattelberg and our rendezvous with the flour merchant Herr Kretzmer by early tomorrow.’
‘If you say so, Sir.’
Jennings sighed and gave up, deciding that it would be best if they were to stop again after two miles and reassess the situation.
He sat down on the bare stump of a thick tree and, making sure that he had his back to the men, drew from his pocket the purse given to him by Stapleton. Here in his hand it felt heavier than in his coat. He fingered the bulges in its sides, tracing the outline of the coins. Unable to resist the temptation, he spread back the string, opened the mouth of the purse and pulled out one of the gold pieces. He turned it over in his hand, slowly, lovingly.
A cough made him raise his head, with a start. Stringer stood above him. He had told the Sergeant of the nature of his mission, although not of the precise detail of the precious papers. It was a good idea though to let the man in on the urgency and importance of the affair. Jennings knew that Stringer was a vital ally and suspected too that he might be an implacable enemy. Unabashed, he continued to flip the coin between thumb and forefinger.
‘You see, Sergeant Stringer, I am that unluckiest of men. I am the younger son. I do not inherit. All that I have is a pitiful allowance and that is it. My brother takes everything. You of course do not have such troubles. I once had expectations. Considerable expectations. But a young man soon learns his lot in life. Better to have had no hopes at all than to suffer bitter disappointment. You for instance, have only ever had to shift for yourself. Your family had nothing.’
‘Not quite nothing, Sir. My ma had a good little business when I was a nipper, selling mackerel in Honey Lane Market. Four for sixpence. But then she sold some bad fish and lost that job and we was poor and then she began to thieve. One day they caught her stealing silver lace from a shop in Covent Garden. They ’anged her till she was dead. Hanged my mother for six yards of lace. An’ I was left alone. Never known my father, see, Sir. That’s when …’
‘That’s when you fell in with a bad lot, eh?’
Jennings was tiring of the Sergeant’s history.
‘And you’ve been a rogue ever since.’
He laughed in what he took to be a spirit of camaraderie. Stringer did nothing to dissuade him.
‘Not any longer, Sir. I’m a Sergeant now, Major Jennings.’ He pointed to the silver lace which adorned his coat. ‘Respectable. Silver lace, Sir. And they won’t hang me for it, neither.’
Jennings nodded. ‘A respectable rogue then. And your mother would be proud. But a rogue, nevertheless. You cannot ever escape yourself, Stringer. In the end we all come to know our true selves. Whether at heart each of us is truly good or bad.’
Stringer, unsure as to how to reply, said nothing. Jennings looked again at the bag of gold coins and wondered. Would it be so very bad if a few were to go missing?
Stringer read his thoughts: ‘The Kraut would notice, Sir. He’s a merchant. They’re like that. Canny with money.’
Jennings, surprised by his lack of offence at the Sergeant’s remark, let it go. Then he thought about it. Stringer watched him.
‘Yes. You’re right. And it is not mine to take. It belongs to the party and it has a purpose far greater than my own pocket. Besides which, when I give it to Herr Kretzmer in return for the papers, my star will be so far in the ascendant that 500 crowns will be nothing.’
Stringer smiled, secure in the knowledge that if his master enjoyed good fortune then surely some of that luck would be visited in turn on him.
He was contemplating his coming prosperity when a dull thud, like air being squeezed out of a bag, made him turn his head in time to see one of the men flinch back from the impact of a musket ball which had struck his chest. There was a crack as another shot rang out from the trees to their left.
‘Alarm. To arms.’
The shots were coming fast now but few hit their targets. Jennings, ducking his head, peered into the darkness of the wood, but he could see nothing but the flash of musketry. ‘To arms. We are attacked.’
Quickly the redcoats jumped to their feet and gathered their muskets from the pyramid in which they had been piled, but not before more of the balls had found a target. Jennings saw four of his men go down as the sporadic fire increased. They were getting better, the enemy. He drew his sword, and looked for Stringer.
‘Sarn’t. Load as quickly as you will. Have the men fix bayonets. Form two ranks.’
‘Load your pieces. Fix … bayonets.’
Hurriedly the men obeyed, ripping open the cartridges, spitting the balls down the barrel and rattling their ramrods. But more fell under the relentless fire from the yet unseen enemy. They were starting to form a unit now. Dressing ranks, even under fire. Jennings scoured the ground. Twelve men at least were down. More, he guessed, hidden beyond the ranks before him. Three of them, wounded, were being helped to the rear of their makeshift position. There was not a moment to waste. He barked a command.
‘Make ready. Present.’
Sixty muskets came up to shoulder level.
‘Fire!’
Jennings’ company spat flame and was enveloped in thick white smoke. He heard the smack as their balls hit trees and tore leaves from branches, splintering wood and with it the more pleasing, softer thud as they bit into flesh. One man, in his haste to fire, had forgotten to extract his ramrod which had gone sailing across the field and embedded itself in a tree. Stringer rounded on him:
‘Wiggins, you careless bugger. Rear rank. Ware, you take his place.’
There was no use for a man with no ramrod in the firing line. Wiggins would just have to remain at the rear until he could retrieve a musket from a dead friend. Jennings guessed that he would not have too long a wait. With steely precision the redcoats reloaded.
Stringer had divided the remaining men into two platoons now and Jennings knew what would follow. The Sergeant’s voice carried towards the wood.
‘Number one platoon, fire!’
Again a volley crashed out from the British line. Half as strong as the first, but with a purpose. From the trees the enemy returned fire and began to reload and then Stringer barked again:
‘Number two platoon, fire!’
The second platoon squeezed their triggers and evidently caught the men in the trees off guard, for there was a momentary break in enemy firing.
But it did not last long and Jennings realized that such revolutionary tactics, which could work so well in open battle against an enemy who needed to pause to reload, would not have the same devastating effect against men who fired individually.
The men in the trees had begun to shout with excitement now, scenting victory. Stringer growled at the line:
‘Steady. Keep it up. Steady fire, lads.’
We must retire, thought Jennings. Form a defensive line. That was it. He wanted them shoulder to shoulder. Heel to heel.
‘Fall back. Regroup on me.’
Slowly, as they fired, the redcoats began to close up their shattered lines.
How the devil could whoever was firing at them keep up such a steady, withering fire? These must be regular troops, Jennings thought. Surely. But what regular infantry ever deployed in such a manner, using the trees for cover? Not showing themselves on the field? Th
is was not the way to wage war. But, he thought, it was making a bloody mess of his company. The line was looking horribly ragged, with men falling every minute. The wounded crawled to the rear, legs broken, sides torn by musketry, arms hanging limp.
Jennings screamed out over the noise of gunfire: ‘Dress your lines.’
Stringer echoed him: ‘Close up. Close up, you buggers.’
They were down, he reckoned, to only around forty men now at all capable of returning the enemy fire. Jennings watched as, slowly, emboldened by their success, their assailants at last began to emerge from the cover of the wood. The men wore no uniforms. Some were in shirtsleeves, others in a variety of civilian dress, over which they had slung cartridge bags. They carried hunting guns mostly, although some had what looked like French or Bavarian issue muskets, topped with bayonets. Banditii, thought Jennings. Brigands. And they looked as if they meant to offer no quarter. He had been unlucky enough to run into a party of the bandits whom he had been told plagued these hills. Not only that but, by the look of it, he was outgunned and now in real and mortal danger of losing the encounter.
He looked for Stringer and realized what they must do. It was their only chance. A full-blooded infantry charge that might just catch the civilians off guard and send them scurrying off in terror. That, at least, was what he prayed.
‘Sarn’t. Have the entire line fix bayonets. We’ll give them the steel.’
‘Fix … bayonets. On guard.’
Most of the men had already done so, but the few who had not now screwed the steel socket bayonets into place over the corresponding nipple on their musket barrels.
‘Now men. For Farquharson’s. For the Queen. For …’
Jennings was on the point of giving the command when, from his right and slightly to the rear a thunder of musketry crashed out. A disciplined volley that through its smoke betrayed the presence of regular soldiers. And, it appeared, they were on his side.
He watched as the bullets thudded into the ranks of the peasants. The volley did not do as much destruction as it would have to men caught in close order. But it was enough. The marksmen and the farmers began to move back. One man stared at the bright red stain spreading quickly across his shirt, unable to comprehend his own destruction.
Jennings heard a single, distinctively English voice cry out: ‘Second rank, fire.’
Another crackle of gunfire and the smoke grew more dense. Before him, Jennings watched as the peasants began to run.
Jennings wondered who he had to thank for their salvation. He glanced to the right and through the cloud of white smoke saw a line of red coats, then he turned back to his front, looking for Stringer. He saw him some yards in front, anticipating their next move and Jennings raised his sword high above his head and circled it through the air. Their rescuers might have stolen his thunder, but by God, they would not take all the glory from this field:
‘Now men. With me. Charge.’
With a yell the front two ranks sprang forward to follow the Major and took the fight into the trees. Jennings felt the blood coursing through him as he leapt a tree trunk and pushed through the standing bracken. To the left and right he could see the bodies of dead peasants. There were wounded too. One man, propped up against a log, looked up at him with pleading eyes and held a trembling arm towards the Major while clutching at his bloody stomach with the other. Jennings ignored him and ran on, jumping the brush which covered the floor of the small wood. And then they were on them.
Glancing to his left Jennings was aware of a musketeer plunging his bayonet deep into the back of one of the retreating bandits. He saw the steel tip emerge from the man’s stomach, glistening red, and then the redcoat retrieved his weapon and before the man had slid to the ground had set off in pursuit of another.
Stringer appeared at his side, grinning and with a dripping blade.
‘Just like stickin’ pigs, Sir, ain’t it?’
Jennings stared at him. He returned Stringer’s smile and looked ahead where two of his men, intent on revenge, were smashing the head of one of their attackers to a pulp with the butts of their rifles.
‘Get on there, you men. Leave that one. He’s dead. Get after the others.’
The wood was not deep and emerging on to the other side, Jennings could see the survivors streaming away down the hill to its rear. Most of them had thrown down their weapons in their haste to escape. Several of the redcoats were kneeling down now, attempting to pick them off. But at this range Jennings knew there was little chance.
‘Re-form. Let them go, lads. They know when they’re licked. Well done, boys.’
As they returned through the wood, its floor slick with blood, Jennings again passed the corpses of their attackers. At the tree stump, the man with the pleading eyes was dead now. He lay there, gazing open-lidded up at the gaps among the branches. Jennings wondered for a moment who this would-be asassin might have been. He looked to be in his mid twenties. Might he be someone’s husband? Would he be missed at supper tonight in some miserable farm or perhaps around a sad campfire? It struck Jennings for an instant that, should he fall, should it be his form lying dead here rather than the farmer’s boy, then no one would grieve for Aubrey Jennings. Save perhaps the whores who plied the dark lanes between the Strand and Drury Lane and no doubt by his tailor in the Temple and those several other tradesmen to whom his bills also remained unpaid. It was a sad thought. No widow. No weeping children. Not even a parson to honour his name on Sunday. It seemed unjust that he should not leave someone with a broken heart.
Reaching the edge of the copse, Jennings looked to the left and through the clearing white smoke made out a single red-coated form.
He walked towards the young British officer, and doffed his hat in salute:
‘Thank God, Sir. Aubrey Jennings, Major. Farquharson’s Foot. I am in your debt. You came not a moment too soon. In truth, I thought we were done for.’
His wide smile changed to a look of incredulity as he realized that the redcoat officer who he had taken for a captain, was none other than Tom Williams, who beamed back at him. Jennings looked towards their rescuers. Saw the mitre caps and groaned.
‘Oh it was nothing, Sir. It’s Mister Steel you should thank.’
Jennings, frowning hard, turned and saw the familiar features. He said nothing.
Steel slung his gun over his shoulder:
‘Major, you know that you owe your life to young Williams’ sense of hearing?’
Jennings bit his lip. ‘His hearing?’
‘He had ridden a little way off from the wagons, Major. Told me he’d seen a wild deer and reckoned he might bag it for the pot. I told him to stick close to us but he rode clear of the sound of the wagons and then it was that he heard the gunfire. Your fire. He came tearing back to us, and here we are.’
Steel did not bother telling Jennings how hard a decision it had been to abandon the wagons temporarily on the road with a skeleton guard as they marched at double-time to his rescue. Nor of his disappointment to discover that it was none other than Jennings for whom they had risked their security. For what troubled Steel more than either of these matters was what the devil Jennings was doing there.
‘Indeed, Steel. It would seem that I do owe you thanks. Who were they d’you suppose? Not regulars, certainly. But why should the peasantry be provoked to attack?’
‘Haven’t you noticed the smoke, Major? They’re being burnt out of their homes. All their possessions destroyed. And it’s our men who are doing it. What would you do in similar circumstances?’
Jennings demurred. ‘They’re peasants. No more. They deserve everything we gave them. A dozen of my men dead, a score more wounded. And by nothing more than damned peasants.’
‘If they’re peasants, Major, they’re peasants good enough to take on the British army and damned near win. Would it be presumptious, Major Jennings, to ask how you come to be here? Are you come for us? Are we to be recalled?’
Jennings sensed the concern in Steel
’s voice: ‘Oh no, Steel. We are come for you but you are to proceed as ordered. We are merely here to assist you.’
He paused, aware of the irony. ‘Colonel Hawkins asked me to follow you. He had been given intelligence that there were considerable numbers of Bavarian troops operating in this area and feared that you might be hard-pressed.’
Steel smiled, as determined not to let go the truth of their situation as Jennings was to ignore it.
‘It would seem then, Major, that what we have is a case of the apparently helpless coming to the aid of the rescuer.’
Jennings looked at him, stony faced.
Another thought entered Steel’s befuddled brain. ‘Colonel Hawkins sent you?’
‘Indeed.’
Steel was not sure whether to feel reassured or insulted. Did Hawkins not consider him capable of carrying out the task? Or was there truly a threat of greater numbers? And it struck him that it was curious that the Colonel should have sent Jennings rather perhaps than Hansam to his relief, when he was only too aware of their bitter enmity. He frowned and nodded at Jennings.
‘It is as well that you are here. It would not do to fail in this mission.’
Jennings smiled at him, strangely, and cursed under his breath. For with their rescue came the bitter truth that there was now little chance of his reaching Kretzmer before Steel and relieving him of the papers.
‘No indeed, Steel. That would not do at all.’
‘So now we should press on to Sattelberg?’
Jennings pondered: ‘No, Steel. I think it better to make camp here for the night. Best to put ourselves in order before we enter the town, eh?’
He paused beside one of the enemy corpses and turned over its white face with the tip of his boot. The man was no more than a youth. Barely eighteen.
‘These men may have been peasants right enough, but we beat them in the fight and we should show the rest of them why. Discipline, Steel. The iron discipline of regular, steadfast infantry. You can’t beat it. We can’t have the populace as a whole thinking the British army a bunch of ragamuffins. Wouldn’t do at all.’
Steel frowned. ‘But, Major, I must protest. You know of the urgency of this mission.’