Rules of War

by Iain Gale

  Slowly, the men named moved across to the table. Their reluctance was easily explained. They knew that if things went badly one of them was sure to finish this night with a bullet through his heart.

  Trouin slammed his cards, face up, on the tabletop. ‘I win, gentlemen. Thank you for your company. And your sportsmanship. And now I think we shall call it a night.’ He took one of the pistols from his belt and gently cocking the hammer with a soft click, laid it before him on the table. ‘That is, if we are all agreed?’

  As one, the four men around the table nodded their assent. Each of them laid down his cards, before standing and taking his leave with a short bow. They had played at lanterloo, with the knave of clubs high, and the others had taken care to ensure that Trouin had won every hand. As the last of his gaming partners left, he picked up the pistol, eased the hammer back down and, casting an eye over the pile of gold coins beside him on the table, took a puff from a pipe of sweet-scented Virginia tobacco which he followed with a short sip from a glass of cognac. All the while, his eye remained fixed on the curves of one of the serving-girls. A new girl. Thrilled by her novelty, he was wondering whether the evening might still hold other pleasures when a respectful cough made him turn his head.

  The newcomer was the French governor of Ostend, the Comte de la Motte. ‘Captain Trouin.’

  ‘Governor. Please, join me. A glass of wine for the governor.’ He beckoned to the girl. ‘You, girl. Over here. Wine.’ He turned to de la Motte, who was clearly out of breath. ‘You are tired, Governor? You would prefer a glass of something cool instead. Beer perhaps?’

  ‘No, no. Wine will be splendid, thank you. I have been hurrying to get here. I shall be fine in a moment.’

  The girl arrived with the drinks and, as de la Motte recovered his composure and she bent far over the table to serve the wine, Trouin slid an unseen hand down the back of her skirt. For a moment her back went rigid with surprise and she spilt a little of the wine on the table. Then she relaxed. Trouin withdrew his hand as the governor took a drink. The girl turned, darted a playful smile at Trouin and left. He looked after her. Yes. Perhaps there would be time. Most definitely, tonight. Turning back, he realized that the governor had begun to speak in his customary, droning monotone. De la Motte was in a state of agitation.

  ‘Captain, I really am most concerned. As the governor of the town I have a responsibility to the people. We are told that the British have bomb-throwing ships off the coast. What if they should use them?’

  ‘I have no doubt about it. Why else should they have gone to the considerable effort of bringing them here, my dear Governor, unless they intend to use them?’

  ‘Perhaps they merely intend to frighten us into surrender.’

  Trouin laughed. ‘If that is their intention then I am afraid, de la Motte, that they are mistaken. I do not intend to be coerced into abandoning this place. We shall sit here and wait for whatever foolish game the English care to play. But remember Governor, that while we are waiting our relief force is on its way.’

  De la Motte smiled. ‘Ah yes, the army. The king I believe has sent a column.’

  ‘Damn the king and the army, man. I mean Jean du Casse. The admiral is a mere days away from here. You know he sailed from Spain three weeks ago. It will be good to see him again.’

  ‘Du Casse is coming here? I must prepare his quarters. What an honour! Du Casse!’

  Trouin guffawed. ‘An honour? Du Casse is no more a nobleman than I am. Good God, man. You’re a Count. He only gained his honour by selling slaves in the Caribbean. The king made him an officer for looting a Dutch merchant fleet. He’s a privateer, like me.’ He bent his face close to the governor’s: ‘A pirate if you like, de la Motte. Eh? How d’you like that? Pirates – we eat children and boil our enemies alive. Haven’t you heard?’

  De la Motte was rattled by Trouin’s sudden ferocity. The admiral’s name was legendary, his rise to command had been meteoric. He was a hero of France. That at least was the popular version. But few knew him as well as Trouin, knew him for what he was: a ruthless buccaneer who had been created admiral by Louis for his services to the French after a terrible raid on Cartagena and his plundering of the English colonies at Port Royal, whose population of settlers he had sold into slavery, man, woman and child.

  De la Motte seemed anxious. ‘You really think he’ll come?’

  ‘Have no fear. Du Casse will lift the siege and I pity any man – or woman – who stands in his way. He’ll be here within the week. You see if he isn’t. Until then we sit and wait. Bombs or no bombs.’ Trouin picked at his fingernails. ‘So you see, my dear Governor I am not at all worried.’

  Trouin poured himself and de la Motte another glass of wine and filled a third which had been standing empty on the table.

  The governor looked puzzled. ‘You are expecting someone to join us?’

  ‘I am. And I can describe him to you. He is of medium height and broad build. He has a pock-marked face and deep-set eyes. Green. He wears the uniform of an officer in the French army. And here he is.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a man who, as Trouin had predicted, wore the uniform of a French field officer.

  Trouin bowed briefly. ‘Ah, Major Malbec. Welcome. A glass of wine? You know the governor?’

  Naturally, Major Claude Malbec, commander of the garrison of Ostend, was well acquainted with the governor. Although, as he found de la Motte’s conversation odious, he attempted to avoid his company as much as he could.

  He smiled: ‘Indeed. Comte de la Motte. A pleasure.’ Noticing the glass of wine, Malbec sat down. ‘You are kind, Captain. I cannot stay long. We have received intelligence that the English are assembling for a major assault. Their fleet too is likely to bombard the town within the next few days. Possibly tomorrow.’ He took a long drink and turned to de La Motte. ‘Governor. You are familiar with Marshal Vauban’s drill for the safety of the garrison?’

  De la Motte smiled and nodded his head. ‘Yes indeed, Major. The routes to the safe blockhouses and casemates are well known by all the people of the town. We practise them once every week. You may rest assured that if the bombardment begins, which I sincerely hope it never does, then every man, woman and child in the town will reach them safely and remain within their shelter as long as it lasts.’

  Malbec shook his head. ‘No. I am afraid you are sadly mistaken in that assumption, Governor.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I quite get your point, Major.’

  ‘Really? It’s very simple. You see, Governor, my men are more valuable than any of your civilians. Anyway, they are only Belgians, aren’t they? Why should we bother if they get killed? I’m sure that half of them would murder us in our beds if they could. I’m afraid that they will simply have to suffer. I need every one of the blockhouses and casemates for my men. When the bombardment commences we shall strike the guns down from the ramparts into the casemates. Then, when it is over we will emerge and drive off the assault that is sure to follow. Otherwise – well, otherwise we will all be dead and the town will be lost.’

  De la Motte spoke: ‘Do you not think it a little unethical? To sacrifice women and children, even Belgian peasants?’

  ‘It is my duty as a soldier. It is my duty to kill the enemies of France. And if that means sacrificing a handful of Belgian peasants, then so be it.’

  Trouin had heard of Malbec’s reputation, and of his conduct in the campaign in Bavaria, where, it was said, before the Battle of Blenheim he had ordered the massacre of an entire village. The women and children too. The man had no scruples and clearly no concept of any sort of honour. At least pirates operated within their own code of conduct. But this man was utterly without a soul.

  ‘Yes, Malbec. I do see the governor’s point. It hardly accords with the behaviour of a gentleman.’

  Malbec grunted. ‘Whoever said that I was a gentleman? I have never claimed that title.’

  Trouin laughed.

  De la Motte rose and
bowed. ‘Excuse me Captain, Major. I must return to my house. I grow neglectful of my prisoner.’

  Trouin smiled. An English noblewoman, a countess by all accounts and strikingly pretty, had been captured aboard an errant English sloop in the Channel a week ago and, brought to the town in its capacity as a prison, hours before the arrival of the allied army, she was now installed as de la Motte’s personal guest. It was presumed that she would remain in his care until she could be exchanged for a French prisoner of similar rank; that was, unless something else befell her. She was a valuable prize, but her political value did not deter the wilful Trouin from wanting to see whether he might not yet be able to number her among his conquests.

  He winked at the governor: ‘Remember our appointment, my dear Count. I intend to call upon you tomorrow, for the very specific purpose of meeting your fair prisoner. You know how the English fascinate me.’

  ‘The countess will be enchanted Trouin, I am sure. But please ensure that you are not accompanied by any of your men. Do not forget that I am King Louis’ ambassador here and it is my duty to safeguard the wellbeing of any member of the English nobility we take prisoner.’

  ‘Do not worry, Governor. My intentions are wholly honourable. Do not forget that I myself hold the commission of an officer in the king’s navy. I too, dear Count, have a reputation to defend.’

  ‘Until tomorrow then.’

  The governor left them and Trouin turned to Malbec. He was smiling. ‘You really would do that? Save yourselves and allow the women and children to burn?’

  ‘Most assuredly I would, Captain. Why on earth not? It is the logical solution.’

  ‘Certainly, I grant you that your reasoning is most logical. You and your men, Major, along with my own of course, are without doubt the most valuable people in this town. It is simply that I am surprised that you should be quite so clinical, so divorced from any notions of humanity.’

  ‘Humanity be damned, Trouin. I have nothing to thank my fellow humans for.’

  ‘I know something of your history, Major. But, if you can, do tell me the cause of such bile.’

  ‘You know something of me, I grant you, I grant you. But do you know why I have so little to thank the English for? You may recall an incident some thirteen years ago this very month. It was well reported. An English fleet opened fire upon Dieppe and Le Havre. Something about harbouring privateers. I am a Norman, Captain. Le Havre is my home.’ Trouin could see the tears beginning to well in his eyes. Malbec went on: ‘Two hundred civilians met their deaths that day. Among them were my wife and my two young sons. They were just nine and five years old. My wife’s name was Marie.’ He looked away, and after a short interval spoke again. ‘And now, Captain Trouin, now I don’t care who dies and that includes whomsoever’s wives and sons may be caught up in whatever war I am fighting. I may wear the uniform of France and fight for the king. But believe me Captain, I live for nothing but death.’ He stood and bowed.

  Trouin gazed up at him: ‘I am so very sorry, Major. Until we meet again.’

  ‘Until we meet again, under the bombardment, Captain. When your men will seek shelter with mine in Marshal Vauban’s blockhouses.’

  Malbec turned smartly on his heel and clattered off across the stone floor, his sword clanking against his boot. Trouin poured himself another glass of wine and tossed it back in a single shot. He turned to the mute blackamoor, who stood motionless behind him.

  ‘Come, Ajax. We’ll take a walk. I think that we need some air. This room stinks too much of the military … and it reeks of sadness.’

  Most of the dancing girls and harlots were gone now and those that were left were either slumped senseless over tables with their consorts or tangled in an amorous embrace. A dog was lapping at a pool of vomit close to where the Irish fiddler had sat and the boy turning the spit was snoring at his post. Trouin and Ajax walked out into the balmy night.

  The Etoile du Nord lay on the south side of the town, within the defences but close to the Key, the landing place of the port and the centre of its maritime life. A covered gateway, protected by a fortified guard room, cut through the great walls leading on to the jetty from a labyrinth of narrow streets. High above them rose the great sixteenth-century church of St Peter and St Paul and it was here, in this meeting place of religion and trade, that Trouin had made his headquarters: at the sign of the North Star – the sailors’ friend and guide. As sobriquets went it suited him well, he thought. The inn lay on the crossroads of two major streets: Paulus Straat and Sint Francis Straat. It functioned in effect as a citadel within a citadel. From its upper floors a sharp-eyed lookout would be able to see all traffic in this sector of the town and to give ample warning of the approach from any direction of anyone who might look threatening. But no one ever did, so full was the quarter of Trouin’s men. Indeed so crammed was this part of the city with pirates that it now resembled some West Indian buccaneering town more than any Channel port. As they walked, Trouin thought over all that he had just heard and seen.

  It was a pity that Malbec was a soldier; he would have made a good pirate. He presumed that what they said of him was true, that business in Bavaria. There was good reason for it. Yet still it sent a chill down even his spine. Women and children? Sell them as slaves by all means. Use them yourself. But to kill them in cold blood? He turned left, away from the inn and shadowed by Ajax, strode down the street, past the white-coated sentry at the guardroom and through the gate towards the Key. Beneath its arch a drunken French sailor was sleeping fitfully in a pool of urine. Trouin half-recognized him as one of his own crew. Perhaps he would put the man on reduced rations in the morning. He must have some discipline.

  There was a commotion further along the street where some of his people had bought a pipe of wine and placed it in the middle of the carriageway and were forcing every passer-by to take a drink, at knife-point. A member of the clergy had protested and they were dealing with the man now, as Trouin passed, hoisting him harmlessly by his coattails to hang him up from the sign over a chandler’s shop. The white-haired parson was bleating for his release.

  Trouin laughed and nodded to the men. ‘Let him down after five minutes, gentlemen. Remember, it doesn’t do to mistreat a man of God. You never know when you might have need of him.’

  Soon, he thought. All too soon this man of God would have his hands full. There would be corpses to bury and the last rites to give to those wounded in the bombardment. He paused on the Key and looked across to where his ships lay at anchor with their skeleton crews. A slight breeze was blowing in from the Channel, making him wish that he did not have to remain penned up in this hole for the immediate future; he longed to be riding the sea, bound for the Indies or the Carolinas, searching the horizon for a fresh prize. What he would have given to be there now. But he was here, in Ostend, waiting for the enemy’s guns to open fire. He walked to the right, westwards along the quayside, caught the twinkling stars in an almost clear sky and noticed the answering movement of the darker, orange lights that came from the campfires which marked the English and allied lines across the marsh. An entire army lay there. A victorious army who believed they could take this place. But they were powerless without their navy. So many impotent soldiers, unable to even reach the town. He doubted whether they knew about du Casse. How would they react to his arrival?

  If, of course, du Casse failed to sail into the harbour shortly, if he did not come to their aid and blow the English ships from the water, then he and his men, along with Malbec’s soldiers would have to fight after all. Secretly Trouin longed to take on the British hand to hand, to see what they were really made of. But perhaps it would not come to that. The girl, the countess, might yet prove of use, somehow. He smiled as his mind began to investigate the possibilities. For now though they would have to wait and see. Wait for the onslaught and see just how determined these English soldiers and their Dutch friends and their navy were to take this place. See what damage they could do. Then, when he had gauged their stre
ngth and when they knew the true situation there would be time enough to resort to other means. Whatever they might be.

  He turned to Ajax: ‘We shall see what transpires, my friend, shall we not, once the bombs begin to fall and the townspeople begin to die. You see, Ajax, in many ways I am like Major Malbec. I do not care what might be the fate of these miserable wretches. But unlike him, I have other, less emotional, what you might call more rational reasons. Once the civilians begin to die here the governor will be desperate to find a way to make the British stop their shelling. And I think that I may know just the way.’

  For there was one thing of which he was certain. The great René Duglay-Trouin had no intention of being taken by the English and tried as a pirate. He would not hang in chains at the harbour mouth like poor Kidd at Execution Dock, as a warning to sailors not to follow his example. He would set the example. He would win this battle against the great English general, their precious Lord Malbrook. Then he and his pirates would sail away from Ostend with as much of her treasure as they could carry and no doubt a few of her fine people to sell into slavery. And who knew, perhaps one of them might be the English countess. They would see.

  EIGHT

  Steel sat at the small wooden camp-table in front of his tent in the lines and dipped the quill pen into the pot of black ink. He glanced up at the morning sky and scanned the comings and goings along the ‘street’– the wide, mud-churned alleyway that divided the officers’ tents from those of the company’s men. This was his least favourite aspect of soldiering; company accounts, bookkeeping. A clerk’s work; but still a necessary part of any captain’s job.

  He gazed down at the paper before him, sighed and beginning to scribble, found his mind straying back to the brief, unhappy time in his youth that he had spent as a junior clerk in his uncle’s lawyers’ office in Edinburgh. Memories of apathy, boredom and the crushing despair of his mother’s death came flooding into his mind, unbidden and unwanted. The army had taken him away from all that. The army and Arabella. Away from Scotland, from his roots, to a new life which was his alone to mould, as he wished.