by Iain Gale
Steel thought it curious that, since the confrontation at the village, they had observed nothing more of the enemy. His mind was troubled by the massacre; haunted by the vision of the dead children and the priest with the half-severed head. He was concerned too by the fact that in the ensuing skirmish so many of those responsible had escaped, including, he presumed, their commander. But there were deeper concerns too. What had those Grenadiers been doing there? They were a curious regiment. Not one that he had seen or known of before Schellenberg. Why, he wondered, had they been at the village and why had their commanding officer been so keen to engage their column?
And of course there was Jennings. His presence weighed heavily on Steel’s mind, as persistent and increasingly troublesome as the nagging pain of this damned saddle. The road wound on lazily through the rolling Swabian landscape and they settled into an easy rhythm. Grey-brown alpine cows gazed at the unlikely column from the fields and minute by laborious minute the sun grew more intense. At the small town of Klingen, where the road divided, rather than ride north on the road to Aicha, they branched south across a shallow river and soon began to climb again, more sharply now. Steel pointed.
‘Tom. D’you see that?’
They looked south, directly along their proposed line of march. Both men had seen the pall of black smoke that rose high above the treetops and climbed until it disappeared in low cloud. Steel caught the faint scent of fresh charcoal on the air.
‘Our men or theirs, Sir?’
‘Hard to say. But I wouldn’t have thought that Marlborough would send his raiding parties quite this far south.’
As they reached the crest of the next hill, Steel, who had now ridden slightly in advance of the head of the column, looked down into the valley and saw what appeared to be a considerable body of people on the road below, coming directly towards him. Unsure what to make of it, he motioned for Williams to join him. ‘You’ve got good eyes, Tom. What d’you reckon to them?’
The young Ensign peered down.
‘They look like civilians, Sir. A fair number of them too. Men of all ages, with women and children, and not a few animals. And carts, Sir. Loaded up with God knows what. What can it mean?’
‘I’ll tell you what that means, Mister Williams. That means that either those French bastards who did for Sattelberg are up there and this lot are on the run from them in fear of their skins, or it means that our own dragoons are out doing their job. And while I don’t like either explanation, I pray to God that it’s the latter. In truth, Tom, what you see there is part of all that’s left of that town up ahead. See the smoke? That’ll be their homes. Poor beggars. Where d’you suppose they’ll go to now. And what do you think they’ll think of us?’
They would soon find out. There was no avoiding the refugees, over a hundred of them. Doubtless a fraction of the total population, Steel thought, unless of course the others had already been put to the sword.
The miserable crowd grew closer. They were a unsettlingly broad social mix, forced into common suffering. The paupers together now with the merchants, each one of them carrying whatever they had been able to salvage. The richer ones pulled carts – for the horses must have been driven off into the fields and the cattle set free or butchered.
The two columns of carts and wagons only just had room to pass side by side on the narrow road. They passed one another in silence, save for the bleating of goats and the howling of babies cradled in their mothers’ arms. Steel looked down at the faces of the dispossessed Bavarians, streaked with tears and set grim with anger and despair. This, Steel thought, is the true face of our war. This picture of misery. The death of civilization.
Hardly had the townspeople passed them, when Williams broke the silence:
‘Look, Sir.’
A dust cloud told of the approach of a column of horsemen. Steel shaded his eyes against the sunlight and peered into the distance. There was possibly a full troop of them, he reckoned. Perhaps 150 men. For a moment he panicked. They wore red coats certainly, and they looked like dragoons. But were they English, Dutchmen, or French? After their encounter at Sattelberg he did not want to take any more chances. Raising his hand in the air, Steel reined Molly gently into the side of the road.
‘Halt.’
The column came to a clanking, grinding stop. Steel spoke again:
‘Grenadiers. Forward.’
From behind him, Slaughter and the forward half-platoon of Grenadiers marched in double-time until they were directly to his rear, formed in two ranks.
‘Make ready.’
Steel heard the men cock the locks of their guns and knew that the first rank would now have fallen to their knees, placing the butts of their weapons on the ground with the second at the ready close behind. That should do it. The cavalry, to his consternation, continued to advance towards them at a walk and finally came to an abrupt halt. At the moment of doing so, every trooper of their first three ranks drew his sword. Very neat, thought Steel. Whoever you are, you are good. The officer at the head of this red-coated cavalry, probably Steel adduced, from his lace, a Captain, rode forward with his Lieutenant and another trooper. All three looked grim faced and confident. Like the rest of the troop, the trio were covered in dust and soot and looked utterly exhausted. Steel noticed the broad orange sash around the Captain’s waist. So, they were Dutch. He could guess only too well what their mission might have been. Having reached the head of the column, both of the dragoon officers doffed their hats – short caps of light-brown fur – and their gesture was returned by Steel and Williams. The Captain, a brawny, moustachioed man with two days’ growth of beard on his swarthy skin, spoke first, in thickly accented English:
‘Captain Matthias van der Voert of the regiment of dragoons van Coerland, in the army of the United Provinces, Sir. May I enquire who you are and what business you have here?’
‘Lieutenant Jack Steel, Sir. Of Sir James Farquharson’s Regiment of Foot, in the Army of her Britannic Majesty, Queen Anne. I am here on Lord Marlborough’s business, Captain. We have a consignment of flour to be delivered to the army. Vital provisions, you understand.’
A thought entered his mind. ‘Perhaps you might be able supplement our escort?’
The Captain gazed down the line of wagons and saw the thinly spread force of ill-at-ease infantrymen.
‘I see why you might ask me that favour, Lieutenant. You’re a sitting target like that. But I’m afraid that I really cannot be of any assistance. I am under orders to continue through this country, with my men. We cannot be diverted from our task.’
‘May I enquire then as to the nature of your task, Captain?’
‘We have orders to burn any sizeable village or town in Bavaria that we find still inhabited and to turn out its people into the countryside. It is, I understand, to be done at the express command of your Lord Marlborough.’
Steel nodded his head. It was just as he had presumed. He pointed to the column of smoke.
‘That then, I imagine, Captain must be your work up ahead.’
‘We burnt that town last night, Lieutenant. Cleared it, so to speak. There’s nothing much left. Except the inn and an old church. No one there but an old innkeeper and his daughter. Very pretty. He’s ill and she wouldn’t move him. But they’re quite harmless. Good beer though, if my men have left you any. The girl says that her father’s something to do with the English. His relative lives in England, or some such thing. You may find out more. Please, persuade them to leave, if you can, Lieutenant. Our orders were simply to move the people on and burn their houses. We want no part in killing civilians. We left them alone there, just burned the houses. That’s what we were told to do.’
He looked genuinely concerned, but was obviously ultimately confident that he had carried out his orders to the letter.
‘They should leave. We’re not alone here, this country’s full of troops. Ours and theirs. Dutch, English, French. I wouldn’t stay there if I were them. An old man and a girl. What can they do? Th
ey’re dead meat, Lieutenant. Or worse.’
Steel was suddenly aware of a commotion from the rear of the column. He looked back along its length and saw that Jennings was trotting towards them. He was mouthing unintelligible words. The Dutch officer saw him too.
‘You have another officer?’
‘My superior. Our Adjutant. He prefers to travel towards the rear.’
The Dutchman shook his head. The English army never ceased to amuse him. Pleasant men to be sure, but such amateurs. They wage no war for seven years and then they march into the continent and blithely expect to take command. Someone had even told him recently that the English were now claiming to have invented the new system of firing by platoon which the Dutch infantry had been using for at least five years. He laughed and Steel smiled back. Jennings grew closer.
‘Mister Steel. What’s this? Introduce me.’
‘Major Jennings, Captain van der Voert of the dragoons, in the army of our friends in the United Provinces.’
Jennings flashed a disarming smile at the Dutchman.
‘My dear Captain. How very fortunate. Now we shall all travel together. The country is teeming with French troops and brigands of every description. My own command was attacked and we have lately fought an action against Frenchmen of the foulest sort …’
Van der Voert cut him short.
‘Major, I am indeed alarmed to hear of your encounters. But I am afraid that we cannot be travelling companions. We have specific orders, direct from the high command of the allied army. We proceed due west, Sir, and canot divert from our course.’
Steel interjected:
‘The Captain is under orders from the Duke of Marlborough himself, Sir. He is to lay waste Bavaria.’
Jennings stared at Steel, tight-lipped.
‘Then clearly we must not delay the good Captain from his duty. Good day to you, Sir.’
The Dutchman nodded.
‘Herr Major, Lieutenant. I am afraid that we must leave you. We have pressing work, you know. Your Lord keeps us busy.’
Steel grimaced. The Captain touched his hat and the others followed suit, then he turned with his men and rode back to the troop. Closing with them, he barked a gutteral order and with an impressive single movement, the dragoons returned their swords to their scabbards. Jennings, without a word, turned his horse and trotted back towards the rear of the column. Steel turned to Slaughter.
‘Stand the men down, Sarn’t.’
He watched the Dutch Captain lead his men off the road and into the fields so that they might ride past Steel’s column to ease its passage.
Steel looked at Slaughter:
‘Come on, Sarn’t. Let’s get to the bloody town before that inn, if it really exists, burns down.’
He sighed. ‘Christ, Jacob. I hope we find the army soon. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.’
‘Sir?’
‘Major Jennings, Sarn’t. You know well enough what I mean.’
Slaughter smiled.
‘I know, Sir. And I know that we shouldn’t still be down here. We need to get back to the regiment. And if we don’t get back soon I reckon we’ll not just miss whatever battle there is. We’ll miss the whole bloody war.’
The town of Sielenbach, when they finally arrived there, was nothing less than Steel had expected. A smoking, charred ruin of what had once been the pride of its citizens. The redcoats advanced carefully up the long main street, pausing briefly at every road junction to look both ways, before crossing and peering into the ragged rooms of every ruined house to make sure that no one had indeed been left to die.
Steel knew that the men were tired and, worse than that, thirsty and low in morale. For them this whole expedition had been an inexplicable loss of face. They had covered themselves in blood and glory at the Schellenberg, only to be sent on this sutler’s errand. Steel, they would have followed anywhere, given the prospect of action, but now they were deep in the Bavarian heartland, guarding a wagon train of flour. They had rescued a senior officer and a company of musketeers. Had beaten off an attack by as ruthless a bunch of Frenchmen as you could ever encounter, with no help it seemed from that same officer, their own Adjutant, who had himself recently carried out a ruthless and undeserved punishment on one of their number. They had discovered a terrible massacre and buried the dead, including women and babes, and now they saw towns being put to the torch by their own side and the ordinary people, people like themselves, being forced out into the countryside. Steel knew his men would be wondering what was going on and right now the last thing he wanted to do was answer questions.
The Grenadiers looked up to Steel and believed in him as much as they did in anything. They knew his war record, that he had served with the Swedes and come through that hell unscathed. There was something very special about Mister Steel. He was lucky and, like all soldiers who were deeply superstitious, they thought that perhaps some of his luck would rub off on them. But at the end of the day, he would always be an officer. Steel, too, felt the distance between them at times like this. Oh, he knew that he could rely upon Slaughter to keep them in order. But unless they rested – really rested and found their humour once more – he knew that he might all too easily have a mutiny on his hands.
For better or worse, Steel had taken the flogged man, Cussiter, into his half-company on the day following his punishment. The man had come to him personally and begged to be admitted. Cussiter had real spirit and Steel knew instinctively that, given time he would make a fine Grenadier. But Cussiter was also full of hatred, in particular for Farquharson and Jennings. Given the mood of the men, who knew what slight provocation might be needed for Cussiter to give way to his feelings. Here in the heart of enemy territory, where anything might happen, no one would ever be the wiser. It was better surely to pre-empt any trouble. Get to the damned inn – if it still stood. Stand each man a flagon or two of the local brew and let them get some rest. Soldiers were easy to handle, if you knew their ways. It was all very fine for Colonel James (or was it Septimus) Hawkins to tell his nephew that the key to being a good officer was to maintain respect, but Steel knew better. Keep them in good humour and they’d fight for you. Provoke them too strongly and you were as much a dead man as the nearest Frenchie.
Steel reined in and jumped down from the saddle. Best now to show solidarity, get down among them and lead by example. Besides, his status as an officer on entering a town might as well go to blazes here. He was hardly expecting a reception committee from the Mayor. Slaughter looked at him, equally cheerless.
‘Begging your pardon, Sir, but was you proposing that we would spend the night here? In this godforsaken blackened hole?’
‘That I was, Jacob. That I was. This is Sielenbach and it seems to me to be as fine a place as any to kick off your boots.’
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added:
‘And remember. As far as we know the inn is still standing.’ Slaughter smiled. He said nothing, but began to walk with a new spring in his step.
‘The men seem dispirited, Jacob. I am not wrong?’
‘Never more true, Sir. There’s talk at all times of what they’re doing down here now and you know as well as I do, Mister Steel, that when a soldier lets those words cross his lips then them other thoughts cannot be far away.’
‘Cussiter?’ ‘Oh, the lad’ll be fine, Sir. But it’s not just him as is grumbling.’
Slaughter paused, thoughtfully.
‘Best to stop here, as you say, Sir. And, just so you know, I’m keeping Dan Cussiter as far away as I can from our friend the Major. If you know what I mean. Bit of bad luck Jennings being the other officer to come with us. If you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘No, Jacob. I don’t mind you saying that at all.’
The crash of the men’s boots echoed on the dry, soot-stained cobbles and resounded through the empty streets. There was no other sound save the rattle of equipment and the trundle of the wagons as the column slid noisily into the town.
There were no dogs barking here, nor even any birdsong. The smell of burning timber hung heavy on the air.
It was the height of the morning now, a sunny summer day, when normally the street would have been alive with noise as tradesmen and townspeople went about their business. Today, though, Kirchenstrasse stood empty, the tall, proud houses that had lined its sides no more than burnt-out, smoking ruins, like the stumps of so many blackened, rotten teeth. In places the fires still smouldered, the embers a mocking reminder of the vanished comfort of their hearths.
Possessions lay littered across the cobbles where they had been abandoned or forgotten in the headlong rush of a populace eager to escape further horrors. Clothes, shoes and bags lay everywhere. Dolls and other toys, scorched and filthy, along with larger items. Chairs, wooden boxes, musical instruments. Naturally, anything of particular value left behind by the townspeople had been taken by the Dutch. There were a few exceptions. A gilt-framed painting of Christ in Majesty lay in a gutter and a grandfather clock stood incongruously in the centre of the road junction, where its owners, having tried desperately to save their most precious possession, had been forced to leave it. Books lay strewn around and everywhere sheaves of paper blew through the deserted streets.
At length they came in view of the church. As the first building that they had seen in the place that had not been reduced to cinders, it stunned them with its simple majesty. Rounding the corner and entering the square, where the church façade rose high against the brilliant blue of the sky, Steel saw that close to the basilica stood another building. The inn was indeed still there, just as the Dutch Captain had told him. With its gaily painted timberwork and bright blue gilly flowers growing in pots, it made a grotesque contrast with the devastation that lay all around it.
‘Sarn’t, I think we’ll stop here.’
Slaughter turned his head to the right:
‘Column, halt.’