Rules of War

by Iain Gale

  They marched deeper into the square, past a mounted aide who, just as he might have done at Horse Guards, was signalling them where to take position. As swiftly and deftly as any regiment in the army, they moved from column into line and formed up slightly to the left of the Guards. Steel calmed his nervous mount with a gentle pat to the shoulder and surveyed the scene.

  To the left of the drummers, before the town hall, a high grandstand had been erected on wooden poles and there, under a red velvet canopy, sat a group of soberly dressed men in black, evidently government dignitaries. To their left and at a short distance sat the commander himself with his entourage. Steel gazed for a moment at Marlborough’s placid, weather-beaten face and wondered how one man had achieved so much in a few years. The French were on the run and Flanders almost taken. But Steel knew that this war was far from over. Louis was not yet beaten. What great plan, he wondered was even now forming in that agile mind?

  Up on the dais, Marlborough raised his hand to the crowd and another great cheer went up. Hawkins turned to him and said, in a whisper, ‘You are their saviour, Your Grace.’

  ‘So, Hawkins, it would seem.’

  ‘I suggest that you savour the moment, sir. I fear that it may not be a lasting sentiment.’

  Marlborough frowned. ‘Yes, I am quite aware of that. This ceremonial is all very well. But it is not war.’

  ‘Most certainly, Your Grace. But I suspect that it is far from over.’

  Hawkins pointed across the square, where from a side-street there now issued a long procession of men in a bizarre assortment of dress.

  Marlborough rubbed his eyes and spoke in a whisper. ‘What the devil? What now? James, what on earth is that?’

  ‘As I understand it, Your Grace, it is the customary way of honouring a visiting head of state. The men of the guilds and the parlement will parade in medieval dress in a re-enactment of a rite of feudal allegiance.’

  Hawkins was right. Both men saw now that the members of the procession were dressed in full suits of armour while boys walking alongside them wore the uniforms of squires and heralds.

  Marlborough smiled and waved and hissed under his breath: ‘How long now, d’you suppose?’

  ‘One hour. Maybe two.’

  Marlborough brightened: ‘And then we may leave?’

  ‘Until we dine, Your Grace.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I am very much afraid, My Lord, that they intend us to enjoy more of the same.’

  The food had been cleared although the glasses, half-filled with wine and brandy, still remained. Within the small, striped campaign tent, which had been hastily erected by his footmen at the rear of the grandstand on the Grand Place, Marlborough stood over a map-covered table, surrounded by his aides and senior officers.

  He shook his head: ‘What bliss, to gain but a moment’s peace from those prattling merchants.’

  Hawkins spoke: ‘They mean well, sir. They do you honour.’

  Marlborough glared at him: ‘Honour? What do they know of honour? They know nothing more of honour than they have read in a book. The honour that I know is that found on a field of battle. This is politics, James. Politics and damned provincial, continental politics at that. This is not my way.’

  ‘They have declared support for the true king, sir. For Charles III, the true King of Spain.’

  ‘Which is, I grant you, our purpose in this war. But what am I to do. I must act, but how? Am I to become Governor of Belgium myself? That was never a part of my plan. Do I declare the country independent? The Austrians are our allies and we should support their claim to government. But I am persuaded that there is deep intrigue here which I do not as yet understand. There is a movement that would have independence from all foreign crowns, Spanish, French and Austrian, a body of opinion that would have a free Belgian state. But gentlemen, surely that way anarchy lies. If we grant such powers to a state over which sovereignty has been held by ancient dynasties then who is to say what other states will take notice? What of Ireland? And how do we match such an action with the talk of union with Scotland now current at home and so sorely desired by the queen? We must argue against separation, not in its favour.’ He lowered his voice: ‘Moreover, our spies tell me that there are men out there willing to fight and to die for such a principle. Either we are with them or we are against them. And if we are against them then they will surely harry us.’

  He looked at Hawkins. ‘What am I to do, James? What would you do? London is too distant to ask for help and even The Hague has not answered me. I know that these people now see me as their saviour. But mark me – there will soon come a time when we move on and they will be left to the mercies of the Dutch. And what shall they call me then? This great victory is no more than Pyrrhic, this vaunted liberty only temporary. Yes, we may have saved the Belgians from French dominion, but only to sell them off to the Dutch. Now we are camped in the very heart of their country and our war will lay waste their land. I tell you that the same Dutchmen who now welcome me here will soon again be battling with the French who already offer them a line of forts which will isolate our trade.’ He slammed his fist down on the table and held his other hand to his head. ‘These damned headaches. It is too much for one man to bear.’

  Cadogan placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps, sir, It would be prudent to return to the festivities. We have been away overlong.’

  Marlborough rounded on his friend: ‘Dammit, William. Will they not let me be? I am a soldier. Must I keep reminding you of all people of that? I have had my fill of these dour politicians and worthies. We must continue our pursuit of the French. My God, we may chase them back to Paris now if we have a mind to and capture the old king himself, on his gilded throne at Versailles. We must above all cut Marshal Villeroi’s lines of communication and to this purpose it is my intention to pass the Scheldt at Gavre.’

  Cadogan spoke: ‘Your Grace, you must appreciate that we find ourselves in the most delicate of situations. We are assured both by our agents and those gentlemen through there, that a handful of the most sizeable of Belgian towns still remain in French hands. That is to say that their townspeople still support the French. All that it would take to have them rise in arms would be one incident. One spark put to the powder-keg and it might become a civil war. Perhaps a three-way struggle if you count in the independent Belgians. And then what, Your Grace? Should we then be in pursuit of the French, no matter how great our success, with foes to our rear and indeed all about us, we shall be in grave danger of losing our means of supply. Before anything of the sort is allowed to happen, we must secure a port. It is my duty to you, My Lord, as quartermaster-general to insist on no less.’

  He paused, made sure that Marlborough’s fury had abated and continued: ‘For the sake of our national integrity and to prevent the Dutch from taking our trade, we must have Ostend. Dunkirk and Ostend must be taken and once they are in our hands they must not be lost again. My Lord, you are as aware as I that there is a flotilla of the Royal Navy currently riding in the Channel awaiting just such an eventuality. Their captain himself is with us this day in Brussels. George Forbes, the Earl of Granard. He awaits your word. He has gunboats and bombships expressly designed for just such an assault. We can lay waste the port of Ostend or at least support an attack by land to force its surrender. It is the obvious direction in which to focus our labours.’

  Marlborough spoke, calmly now: ‘Yes, James. I do know that and I have indeed made the acquaintance of My Lord Granard. An amiable fellow, if somewhat over-eager to prove the ballistic capabilities of his vessels.’ He smiled at Cadogan: ‘It was most propitious of you, William to have procured the assistance of the navy. And I agree with you fully that Ostend is a prime objective.’ He flashed another knowing smile at the quartermaster-general. ‘And so, you will in the end have the better of your French privateers.’

  The other officers grinned. Cadogan coloured and raised his voice. ‘Sir, they took all my possessions. Every single last item. Th
e money. Fifty thousand crowns destined for the army. And a parcel of jewels belonging to My Lady. Even my private correspondence.’

  Hawkins interjected, grinning. ‘Some of which, I understand, Cadogan, was then published in Paris. A most amusing read. Something about a …’

  Marlborough pretended to glare at him: ‘Really, Hawkins. I hardly think …’

  ‘I am sorry, Your Grace.’

  Cadogan recovered his temper: ‘As I was saying, Your Grace, we must take Ostend. We must avail ourselves of a port of supply … and curtail the activities of the privateers once and for all.’

  Hawkins interjected: ‘It does occur to me that there may be but one problem.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘Well, Your Grace. Far be it from me to doubt my own commander and I sincerely mean you no disrespect in this matter.’ He scratched his head: ‘But have you thought carefully enough as to exactly how we are to take Ostend? Oh yes, you know as I do that it was fortified by Vauban some ten years back. It has forts, gabions, ramparts crammed with cannon. It is in fact a classic example of Vauban’s great art with application to the coast, using the sea as natural defence on one side and manmade entrenchments on the other. That is one thing. We can besiege such a town. You are the master of such siegecraft. And we have the cannon. But have you thought of its garrison?’ Marlborough narrowed his eyes as Hawkins went on. ‘Oh yes, you may bombard it with gunships and assault it from land. But believe me, I know that town. Ostend is a nest of wasps. It is a northern St Malo from which the French privateers creep out to take our shipping and whose streets and alleyways will make you pay a high price in men. Higher even than at the Schellenberg. And I know that you can never forget the slaughter there nor the effect of taking that bloody hill upon your popularity at home.’

  It was Cadogan now who raised his voice: ‘Yet we must take it.’

  Lord Orkney, who up till now had remained silent, spoke up: ‘As I recall, I did, when we spoke of this matter before, name Lord Argyll as a man who might lead such an attack. But now I am given to understand that the majority of the enemy in Ostend will be pirates. Have I grasped this correctly, Lord Cadogan? You would fight French privateers, pirates, on their home territory? Fight them in the streets of Ostend, with formed infantry?’

  ‘If that is what it takes.’

  ‘You would engage bandits with regular troops?’

  ‘If it be so.’

  Orkney shook his head and laughed: ‘My dear Cadogan, you are as aware as I am that such a thing cannot be done. Your regular infantryman is a simple creature. A pressed-into-service, drink and whoreing driven dimwit. He is trained by rote and kept to it by the lash. Your redcoat is simply not capable of fighting in the way that such men fight. They’re privateers, My Lord. Ruddy pirates, man. Each of them carries his own arsenal, has his own dirty tricks. They’re skilled in the art of one-to-one combat in a way that our boys simply are not. They fight to the death and offer no quarter.’

  The last words made Cadogan turn away. Hawkins began again, turning slowly to Marlborough: ‘What we might do though Your Grace, if you and Lord Orkney will allow me, and begging Lord Cadogan’s pardon, is to use a certain amount of guile to enter the port. Contrive to place a man or men inside the port and storm it from within and without at the same time. And use in the first instance a specially chosen forlorn hope. A hope that, if you pardon my expression, would really have some hope in such a situation. A unit trained to fight as individuals. To use their own initiative. Not even the wiliest of privateers would outwit such a deception in league with such a body of men.’

  Marlborough thought and then nodded. ‘You’re right, James. And you mentioned before the officer who might effect just such a plan.’ Marlborough smiled. ‘Yes, James. I think that perhaps if anyone could manage it then it will be that man. He has always seemed to me to display a level head and sound judgement.’

  ‘I would call him a trifle headstrong, Your Grace.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. Nothing was ever achieved in battle, James, without officers taking initiative. He is also of admirably sober character, I believe.’

  Hawkins nodded. ‘Oh yes, sir. He is admirably sober. You’re right there. Jack Steel is our man. You could not do any better.’

  Clutching the bottle of heavy, Rhenish wine in one hand and holding his glass in the other by its stem, Steel leaned back in the wooden dining chair and took care to pour himself another generous measure before taking in the scene. The little panelled room stank of wine, sweat and sex. In that degree. It was not perhaps the most debauched gathering of which he had ever been a part, but it was certainly worthy of record. Tom Williams sat next to him, his right leg propped on the tabletop, his left on a drum. His coat lay open and his shirt front had been undone by a pretty girl with doll-like features and rather too many beauty spots for comfort, who was running her fingers over his chest as she whispered into his ear. Whatever it was she said, in French presumably, the ensign was too inebriated to be affected. Steel, although he knew that he himself was none too sober, was keeping a close eye on the boy. It was all too easy to have your pocket picked in such a place as this and even though the girls seemed genuine enough, there was no sure way of knowing their true purpose.

  Across the round oak table another of the young women was lying in a drunken stupor while beside her Lieutenant Laurent, the regiment’s French Huguenot officer, was well advanced in his own amorous adventure, his hand tucked inside her companion’s dress and his lips clamped firmly over her mouth. Next to him Lieutenant McInnery appeared to be winning a game of backgammon, which was fortunate, thought Steel. For when he was beaten the lieutenant generally had a mind to kill his opponent.

  In the far corner of the room an ancient man and an ugly, toothless hag plucked away at a harp and a guitar to serenade the company and from time to time the innkeeper or his rotund wife would arrive through the open door bearing wine and plates of food which none of the officers had ordered but which they would find in the morning had all been diligently charged to their accounts. The wall behind them, whose drab, olive-coloured paint, touched by the flickering shadows, had become faded and yellow with pipe smoke, was dominated by a large painting in the Dutch style of the young god Bacchus being seduced by a pair of half-naked dryads. It was a fitting parallel for their own scene, he thought, if a little more wanton.

  As he gazed at the painting, the girl seated beside him, who for the past five minutes had been toying with the buttons of Steel’s breeches, to no avail, leaned over and pressed her ample bosom closer to his face.

  ‘Je vous désire, mon capitaine. Now. Yes?’

  Steel stared at her. She smiled and pushed at the lace-trimmed top of her dress so that it fell further down her cleavage, and whispered to him: ‘You see, Jack, how the lace of my dress just covers the tips of my breasts? Or … perhaps it does not, quite. Yes? Is that better? It is the latest fashion. Le tout Paris is wearing such gowns.’

  She pressed closer to him until Steel could smell her breath. It reeked of wine and as she moved to kiss him he caught her musky odour mixed with the lavender oil which she had applied a little over-liberally. Steel avoided her kiss and as he did so, Laurent, who was sitting directly opposite grinned and spoke: ‘From where I sit madam, there is not very much of your gown to wear at all.’ The girl giggled, muttered a French expletive and pretended to slap his face.

  They had taken accommodation and two private dining rooms on the upper floor of the Roi d’Espagne, an inn on the Grand Place and for the last three hours had been enjoying the local cuisine washed down by a generous amount of wine and in the company of several ladies to whom they had been introduced at an assembly that afternoon in the city’s Guild Hall. Steel’s attentions had gradually devolved upon this pretty, French-speaking blonde from the Upper Town. Her name as he recalled was Mathilde Remy. Her father she had said was a grain merchant, a man of some importance. Mathilde was all of seventeen, but with her comely figure she might have been anythi
ng from fifteen to thirty. She was pretty enough and on some nights there was nothing better than a pretty girl to take you away from the horrors of the battlefield.

  He raised the half-full glass to his lips, took a sip and realized that he had drunk his fill of wine. He rose unsteadily to his feet: ‘Ladies, gentlemen, I bid you goodnight.’

  Williams looked up at him, glassy-eyed. His face was covered in rouge marks in the shape of lips and both his shirt and breeches were undone.

  Steel groaned and shook his head: ‘Oh God, Tom. Please, I beg you. Do not go too far. Although I guess you are now too drunk to cause any serious damage. Or even to comprehend what I am saying to you. Remember, I expect you at six. No later.’ He turned to Hansam: ‘Henry. This young man is in your care now. Look after him.’

  Hansam smiled, waved good-naturedly, mouthed good-night and returned to his own business in hand which was with a mature and experienced-looking brunette who claimed that she was descended from Charles the Bold and seemed determined to prove it. Williams attempted to salute and not realizing that he had a half-full glass in his hand merely succeeded in drenching himself in the overpriced wine. His companion called for another bottle.

  Mathilde gazed up at Steel. He met her eyes, nodded and gave her his hand to help her to her feet. Leaving the room, they climbed the few uneven wooden stairs to the level above and found his modest bedroom. He lit the candle on the dressing chest and closed the door, before removing his boots, stockings, breeches, waistcoat and shirt. Then he turned and saw the Paris gown draped over a chair and Mathilde lying naked on the bed. He felt not only desire, but an intense sense of relief, washing over him. In one rare moment it banished from his troubled mind all thoughts of soldiering and responsibility and promotion and prestige and reminded him that this, like any night, might be his last.