Rules of War

by Iain Gale

  * * *

  The streets were filled with people of all races and colours. Alongside the pale-skinned Dutch and Belgians, mulattos rubbed shoulders with latinos and huge, bearded men from the Russian steppes that reminded him of the northern wars of his youth. There were Africans, as black as jet and even Cathars walked here with confident familiarity. Nevertheless, thought Steel, two tall men of military bearing would stand out horribly. Sensing that Brouwer was still bristling with bitterness, he attempted to make conversation, whispering as they walked in the shadows.

  ‘I had not expected your town to be so cosmopolitan, Mister Brouwer. It must be a fascinating place in which to live.’

  Brouwer did not look at him. ‘It is my home. We like to keep ourselves to ourselves. We do not live in this part of the town. Only foreigners settle here. Besides, most of them are rogues, Trouin’s men or those who have followed them here. They’ve taken over the town and the French do nothing about them. They don’t make life easy for us. Our children are no longer safe. It was bad enough with the French garrison, but these men, they are no better than animals. That is why we need you, to help us get rid of this scum. We need to build a new town, and after that a new country. A place that we can be proud of and which looks to no other nation for its government.’

  Steel was surprised by the candid passion with which he spoke, more evident than at their last meeting. He could see for himself the men that Brouwer was talking about. To live here would be intolerable for any man attempting to safeguard a young family. Suddenly he understood Brouwer’s motives and with them much of the general malaise that troubled this downtrodden little country. As they walked deeper into the town, further to the north, the streets seemed to become less strewn with filth and were certainly lacking the parade of potential villains that Steel had noticed in the southern part of the place. They stopped outside a neat little house with blue blinds at the windows whose wooden shutters lay open. Inside he could see a candle burning. Steel wondered what time it was now. Approaching six in the morning, he thought. As if in answer the clock in the tower of the town hall chimed the hour. Six.

  Brouwer knocked gently on the door and after a short while it was opened by a woman of roughly his own age. She was small and pretty, in a homely sort of way, and was simply dressed in a brown skirt and cotton shirt. Brouwer planted a kiss on her cheek and muttered some words of Flemish.

  He turned to the party: ‘This is my wife, Berthe. She will look after us with some breakfast.’

  He ushered the two soldiers and Fabritius into the house and with a quick glance into the street to make sure that they had not been followed, closed the door behind them. The house smelt of fresh baking. To Steel it seemed as if someone had transported him back twenty years to his mother’s kitchen at Carniston, their house in the Scottish lowlands. He was standing close to the cook, beside the range, a small boy again, asking, in as pitiable a voice as he could manage whether there might be any extra dough left over from the sweet biscuits she was making. He had always been rewarded for his perseverance. And now the sensation came back to him of the taste of those biscuits on his tongue and he felt instantly warm and safe.

  Slaughter leaned over and whispered to him: ‘Oh, can you smell that, sir. Real home baking. That’s a rare treat that is. And real coffee too.’

  Steel, jolted back to the present by his sergeant’s reeking breath, was conscious too that another, still more tempting smell had joined that of the cakes – the unmistakable aroma of freshly brewed coffee, a rarity in camp in recent weeks when so-called ‘coffee’ had been concocted from all manner of roots and herbs – and had tasted precisely as if it was nothing more than that.

  Brouwer saw the anticipation on their faces and for the first time since they had met him, he smiled. ‘You would like some coffee, I think. Please sit down.’

  He pulled out two chairs from beneath the small, plain table that dominated the room, whose only other furnishings were a few engravings of street scenes hung on the walls and a pile of books, and a third for Fabritius who up till now had been utterly silent. Steel glanced at him and noticed how serious he appeared.

  He tried a direct approach: ‘So, Mister Fabritius, are you of the same persuasion as Mister Brouwer, here? You believe that Belgium can really be free?’

  Fabritius stared at him with empty, red-rimmed eyes.

  Steel looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Brouwer spoke: ‘My friend will not speak to you, Captain. But please do not be offended. I think he is too sad to talk to anyone. It is simply that your bombardment killed his father and destroyed his house. No more.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Now, where is that coffee?’

  Steel looked again at Fabritius, who he now noticed was digging the nails of his right hand as deep as he could into the flesh of the left without drawing blood, in an obvious effort to control his rage. Rage against the British and rage, thought Steel, against me.

  Berthe poured the coffee into four bowls and they drank it, gratefully. Eventually Brouwer spoke: ‘You will stay here until tonight. Rest while you can. We have beds. The children are with their grandmother in the Upper Town. So, you will rest here and then I shall show you where Captain Trouin can be found. Then Captain Steel, I will say that it is up to you.’

  Steel nodded: ‘You are more than generous Mister Brouwer, particularly after what has happened.’

  Brouwer shook his head: ‘To tell you the truth, I no longer know what to believe, Captain. I can only praise God that my own wife and children were not among the dead or wounded. But like Fabritius, we had friends who were killed. My children had such friends. Children, killed, injured horribly.’ He paused and cradled the still-warm bowl of coffee in his hands. ‘Tell me, Captain, would you have stopped it if they had not put that woman up on the ramparts?’

  Steel looked away. ‘I … I don’t know. Perhaps. Probably. Yes, if it had been up to me, I would.’

  ‘But you told me that you did burn people out of their homes in Bavaria?’

  ‘Yes, that much is true. Although, actually it was the Dutch that did it.’

  ‘Of course. Our friends and neighbours the Dutch. But on Marlborough’s orders, no?’

  Steel looked anxiously at Brouwer.

  ‘Don’t worry, Captain. Of course I will help you, as agreed. But I will not fight for you. I will take you where you want to go, but then I will go back to my family. They are what matters most to me now. You will take the girl – if you can prise her away from under Trouin’s nose. Then you must leave quickly by the same gate that we will leave open for your attack. It is coming soon?’

  ‘Within two days.’ He prayed that he was right.

  Brouwer grasped his forearm: ‘Then we will welcome your army into the town and the French and their friends will leave for ever. But now you should rest. And your sergeant.’

  Steel put down the bowl of coffee. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. We realize the danger in which you are putting yourself and your family.’

  Brouwer darted his wife a nervous glance. But she had not heard or was not listening. Besides, her English was not as good as his.

  Steel went on: ‘Before we rest, can you tell me about the English lady? You know where she is? You’re sure that this pirate, Trouin, has her?’

  ‘Quite certain. One of my friends gave me the news shortly before your arrival. It seems that when he found out about what the garrison commander had done with his prize Trouin went himself to the governor and demanded that he take personal care of the girl. Apparently the garrison commander protested and there was a scrap. Mostly verbal – full of threats. Trouin won, needless to say. As far as we know she’s being held at his headquarters. He occupies an inn on the south side of the town. We passed near there on the way to this house. His men patrol the entire quarter. It’s not a place I like to go, but I’ll take you there tonight. But no further; after that you’re on your own.’

  This was bad news, thought Steel. Judging by the way that Brouw
er spoke about this French privateer, Lady Henrietta would doubtless be more difficult to find and snatch than she might have been had she been held by the French garrison. And he was sure now that he could not count on any physical assistance from Brouwer or any members of his patriotic movement which seemed to be something less than the dynamic people’s army that Hawkins had implied. So much, he thought, for the high command’s confidence in an armed uprising. These people might have been passionate about their belief in their country, but given a pasting by Lieutenant Forbes’ precious mortars, the fight had gone out of them. Marlborough’s plan had backfired with serious consequences. It was clear that if Lady Henrietta was going to be freed then he and Slaughter would have to bring it about without help.

  They spent the rest of the day at Brouwer’s house, in a small, damp bedroom in the attic that stank of mildew and once, he presumed, when the house might have belonged to a shipping clerk or customs officer, perhaps, would have housed the maid-of-all-work. Barely large enough to take the two Grenadiers, it was lit only by a single window in a gable end which looked across the adjoining house and the neighbouring rooftops, out to sea. Steel rubbed the dusty glass and peered through the mottled pane. At first he could see nothing for the sea haar. But gradually, as the day drew on shapes began to emerge and by midday the entire British flotilla was evident in all its splendour. And next to the frigates and men-o’-war bobbed the hated bombships. Steel sat on one of the two stools that were the room’s only furnishings and looked down at a tray on the floor which bore plates, two glasses and an empty beer-bottle, evidence of the food that had been prepared for them by Brouwer’s wife. He wondered that there was as yet apparently no lack of provisions in the town. Surely a siege must eventually entail deprivation if not starvation. Yet here they were enjoying fresh meat and beer. It occurred to him that one of Vauban’s key maxims was to lay in enough for a two-week siege and that the pirates must also have brought in supplies which they had doubtless sold at a hefty premium. And surely the surrounding farms would have driven in much of their livestock before the gate was closed? Whatever the reasons, to Steel it was clear that, however Ostend was eventually taken, there was no way that they were going to starve either the garrison or the pirates out of the town. Slaughter had fallen asleep and was snoring heavily in a corner of the room, his head resting on his folded coat.

  Steel pondered their situation, wondering at the sheer unpredictability of war that one moment would have you standing in line under fire and the next task you with rescuing a woman, who in this case happened to be the cousin of your former lover.

  The day wore on and afternoon turned to evening. Slaughter awoke and went back to sleep, then woke again. Despite their close relationship, unique in the army between an officer and a non-commissioned man, they had spoken little to each other in the last few hours. Both knew what the other must be thinking, the worries that always passed through your mind before going into action. Slaughter’s remedy was always sleep and Steel wondered how he managed it. He had merely to close his eyes and his mind became a maze of different thoughts, none of them particularly comforting. There were the concerns which dogged him from day to day: an unpaid mess bill, the growing hole in one of his boots and the lice he couldn’t shift from his coat collar, the welfare of his men. And then there were the other thoughts. The fear of death and maiming. The disquieting notion that he might die without ever fathering a child. The longing for a woman with whom to share his life and regret at losing those he had known before. And all the while his mind was haunted by the dark presence of the fear that might take hold of him when the moment came to go into action. It had never happened yet and he prayed it never would. He had seen other men taken by it, almost unawares. Some froze and were cut down where they stood. Others turned and ran only to be dishonoured or executed for cowardice. For any soldier and particularly for someone like Steel whose life was devoted to soldiering, this was a fear worse than any other. And so he sat and thought too much and did not sleep.

  At length, as the light was almost gone, there was a knock on the door and Marius Brouwer entered, his face yellow-tinged and other-worldly in the light of a flickering candle: ‘We should go now, gentlemen. I will take you to where Trouin is.’

  Slaughter stirred. Steel turned to him: ‘Sarn’t, you stay here with Mister Fabritius. If I’m not back within two hours, take yourself back to the lines somehow, if you can by the sally port beneath the glacis. Brouwer assures me that it will be open. If you can do so, on your way out of the town make certain that it remains that way. When you get back find Colonel James Hawkins on the duke’s staff. Do it personally, Jacob. I’m not sure who to trust any more. Tell him that I have been discovered and that Lady Henrietta is a lost cause. Most important of all is that we must storm the town. We must absolutely not bombard it. We must take it by assault, as we had planned.’

  ‘But sir –’

  ‘Don’t argue Jacob. Those are my orders.’

  Slaughter knew better than to protest again. ‘Yes, sir. But mind and be careful, Mister Steel.’

  Steel smiled at him and shook his head. Brouwer looked at the two men, uncertain as to what had passed between them.

  Steel turned to him: ‘Right, Mister Brouwer. I’m ready. Sergeant Slaughter will stay here. He’ll keep out of sight. If I do not return he has orders to regain our lines and advise that we should attack the town, but that we must not again fire on it. We’ll need you to open the sally-port.’

  Brouwer smiled: ‘Thank you. I understand what you have done. You think that you can manage it on your own? To rescue the girl from Trouin?’

  ‘I think that I must. It is the only way.’

  Out in the street, Brouwer went ahead of him, at a little distance. He had thought it less conspicuous to travel separately. They gradually worked their way back into the less respectable quarter of town. Steel was jostled by a huge mulatto and narrowly avoided tripping over the recumbent form of a Chinese sailor asleep in a doorway.

  Walking by way of the narrower streets, they eventually emerged on to an expansive cobbled area, filled with all the apparatus of the sea. Winches, pulleys and crates had been hauled in here, through the Keygate to safety within the defensive walls, although, as if to mock them, a hole some three feet wide and several feet in depth, surrounded by splintered cobbles and a brown bloodstain marked where one of the allied mortars had scored a hit.

  It was well after midnight, but the street was still alive with activity. Steel stepped out of the path of a group of three sailors, each supporting the other in their efforts to negotiate the cobbles. To his left a man was throwing up in the gutter, while over to the right a tart was negotiating prices and positions with a prospective client. From up ahead, he heard the unmistakable noise of a tavern. Raised voices, fiddle music, laughter and someone singing a shanty. They rounded a corner and the place came into view, a large, half-timbered structure that had seen better days but was evidently doing a brisk trade. Above the door a sign flapped in the breeze: a single gold star against a blue ground – L’Etoile du Nord.

  Trouin’s headquarters was just as Brouwer had described it. On either side of the doorway stood a large armed guard. As Steel watched a man staggered out of the door and stumbled up the street towards him, clearly quite drunk. As he approached Steel he doffed his hat and then veered off towards where Brouwer was standing, twenty yards away. Tripping over a loose cobblestone the man cannoned into Brouwer, knocking him to the ground. Brouwer stood up and cursed and then, unnerved by the tension of the situation, uncharacteristically muttered an insult. Steel looked round but, determined to keep up the appearance of being alone, made no attempt to go to his aid. But then, to Steel’s amazement for one in such a condition, the drunk drew his sword and began to hurl insults back at Brouwer, who, weapon less, put up his arm to cover his face.

  There was only one course of action. Steel ran to Brouwer and placing one hand firmly on the drunken man’s shoulder, turned him and with t
he other landed a punch to his face which sent him back against the nearest building. The man slammed into the wall, slid down and slumped into unconsciousness. Instinctively, Brouwer went to thank Steel and then quickly stopped himself and dropped back into the shadows.

  Rubbing at his bruised knuckles, Steel turned back towards the inn and walked cautiously, but without wanting to appear nervous, towards the two guards at the door. He was wondering how much of the encounter they had seen when from behind them another, taller man appeared. Like them, he did not wear any recognizable military uniform, but a red sash wrapped around his waist and an elaborate, gold-trimmed hat betrayed his rank as some sort of officer.

  He looked at Steel: ‘You have business in here, friend?’

  Steel bowed and said in passable French with deliberate flattery, ‘Monsieur le Colonel, I seek an audience with your captain – Commander Duglay-Trouin. I have come to offer my services to him, in the name of France, and in those of King Louis and King James.’

  The man looked at him hard, then laughed: ‘You want to see Trouin? Are you quite sure, monsieur?’

  Steel held open his cloak so that the officer could see his coat beneath, which, to signify his treason, he had turned inside out to show its white lining. Thus reversed, he could easily now have passed for a white-coated French infantryman.

  The man stared at him, taking in his appearance. The curious semi-civilian dress, the unusual sword which hung at his side, his lack of a full-wig and his unkempt look. He rested his hand on his sword. Steel felt his heart pounding. Clearly, the man was suspicious.

  This was time for something more. Steel played a wild card: ‘You must let me see Captain Trouin. I have come here in great personal danger expressly to fight at his side. I swear it to you. Death to the bloody English and their queen. Long live France and all true Jacobites. Long life to the pope, God save him and the devil send death to Marlborough and all his whoreson army.’