Rules of War

by Iain Gale

Steel thought for a moment. ‘You could come with us. I would vouch for you. You could pass the war in safety in England or Scotland. Not in prison, of course. I’m sure that we could find you a suite of rooms in a comfortable country house. I could arrange surety. You would be merely on parole.’

  Lejeune laughed: ‘Thank you, Captain, but no. To do that would be to desert my post and my men. And you know that I could never do that. I think that you and I are very alike, Captain Steel. We may fight in different armies and for different causes, but in our hearts we are both soldiers. We try to do the best we can in a trade that is, at its worst, no more than murder. It is up to you and I, Steel, to lift it above that. To cloak our deeds in glory. To find honour in the basest of circumstances. But you must go now. Your friends will know the way and I will make sure that you have no trouble, as far as I can. Goodbye, Captain Steel. It has been a real pleasure to have known you. I only wish that we might have met under rather better conditions.’

  Steel bowed, lower than before, in an attempt to emphasize the fact that he truly was in Lejeune’s debt. ‘It has been my pleasure, Lieutenant. Farewell, until we meet again. Which I am certain will be in a better situation. And thank you once again, from the very bottom of my heart.’

  As the door closed after Lejeune, Steel turned to Slaughter and shook his head. ‘By God, Jacob. There’s a man I’d be proud to meet on any field of battle. He makes you think that all’s not lost, that war is about more than blood and death.’

  Slaughter nodded: ‘Reminded me of Lieutenant Hansam, sir. A good, honest gentleman. Which is something that I don’t often find myself saying about any Frenchie.’

  Steel took his sword, which Slaughter had offered to him, and buckled it around his waist. ‘Yes. I do know what you mean. He did remind me of the lieutenant. I wonder how Henry’s getting on without us. I think it might be time that we returned to the company. Heaven knows what they’ve been up to without us to look out for them.’

  * * *

  Night was beginning to come in faster now. Across the town and in many of the windows near Louise Huber’s house in a street off Christianstraat, the candles were being lit behind lace curtains as prayers were said before food. Louise entered the small sitting room and lit the wick in a stub of tallow, startling Steel and Henrietta from the gentle twilit reverie in which they had been luxuriating for fully half an hour. Slaughter followed close behind her. He looked agitated.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Captain Steel, sir. But we should be going now. Don’t you think, sir?’

  Steel nodded: ‘You’re right, Sarn’t. It’s time.’

  As Slaughter and Louise left the room, Steel turned to Henrietta and spoke softly. ‘The chance to gaze upon your beauty, ma’am, shall be my reward for guiding us safely back to the lines.’

  Louise opened the door of her house and looked out into the street. Two small children were playing hopscotch on the shattered cobbles and a man was loading a dray with debris from a half-demolished house that had been hit during the bombardment. Apart from that the street seemed to be empty. She turned and beckoned to Fabritius, who stood before the others. He signalled to them in turn and together, the small party moved to the door. Steel did not say goodbye to Louise, but made only a short bow. Slaughter, copying his officer, did the same and Henrietta gave a short bob and flashed a grateful smile. Then they were in the street and the door shut behind them. In the half-light, they moved as fast as they could over the irregular cobblestones, being careful to make as little commotion as possible. Fabritius led the way, sliding swiftly and almost silently through the familiar streets while the others followed, quite lost although attempting as best they could to behave as if they were native to the confusing network of alleyways that led through the town to the western defences and the promise of freedom.

  They came to a crossroads and Fabritius made to turn left, then stopped in his tracks. Two white-coated soldiers were deep in conversation in the centre of the junction, one puffing at a pipe. They did not look as if they were about to move. Fabritius froze and turned to look at Steel. His face was a mask of terror. It was a sight Steel had seen many times before on the field of battle, the horror that seized men on their first view of the carnage caused by a cannonball, the look that told him that the veneer of invincibility by which every soldier lived his life had been torn down or punctured, by which he knew that its wearer had suddenly realized how easily he might die. In Fabritius’ case Steel knew that it had been triggered by the thought of Brouwer dying so horribly. For an instant he thought that their guide might run and leave them here.

  Before Fabritius could move, Steel grabbed him by the arm and met his gaze: ‘Stay with us, man. Think of Marius. What would he have wanted? Think of your people.’

  Fabritius stared at him blankly. And then, just as quickly as it had come, the look vanished. ‘I’m sorry, Captain. I …’

  Steel smiled and let go of the man’s arm. ‘Say nothing. Just get us out of here.’

  Fabritius ducked into the shadow offered by the overhanging eaves of one of the few half-timbered buildings to have survived the bombardment intact and they followed his lead. Looking back, their guide made a gesture with his hand that they should turn and go back the way they had come. And so they continued, dealing with each potential threat as they encountered it and seeming to take three paces backwards for every one they advanced, for what seemed to all of them far longer than the hour that it was in reality. At length however, as the lapping of the sea grew ever more audible, Steel realized, with rising hope, that they must be nearing the western walls. If Fabritius and his yet unseen comrades in the schildendevriend had done their job, then somewhere up ahead of them there lay the small hidden door in Vauban’s otherwise impregnable walls which would take them out on to the dunes and back to safety.

  Steel shuddered, his soul still shaken by memories of Trouin’s cellar. He thought of Brouwer, of his loyalty and his suffering and wondered what might have happened had he not persuaded him to ignore the pamphlets and have faith in Marlborough. Who, he wondered had betrayed whom? He longed to escape this place of darkness. If only for a few hours, until the moment at which he would have a chance to return with the assault party and avenge the poor man’s death. If only they might hasten a little, get as far as the sally-port. Surely, he reasoned against himself, they might run a little of the way. Then he froze.

  Above them a voice called out words of challenge: ‘Halte. Qui passe? Annoncez vous.’

  They had been seen. Slaughter darted Steel a worried glance as all four members of the party stopped in mid-step. Steel brought his foot down on the stones with silent care and listened. Again the French voice rang out.

  ‘Annoncez vous.’

  Realizing that they had no other option, Steel was about to reveal their position and hope to fight his way out when to his astonishment another voice answered the first.

  ‘Claude. C’est moi, Marcel. Ne tirez pas.’

  Steel closed his eyes with relief. Up on the parapet walkway, the counterguard that ran directly over their heads, the two sentries were now talking and laughing. Steel caught something about a girl in Dunkirk–Suzanne. The men laughed again. Now was their chance. He poked Fabritius in the shoulder. The Belgian turned and nodded and slowly the little party began to move north along the parapet wall. Each step was torture. Every footfall a carefully measured decision. Twice Slaughter slipped on the cobbles and let out an involuntary curse under his breath. They paused. But the guards appeared not to have heard and the sound of their ribald laughter covered the fugitives’ painful progress. So hard was he concentrating on the process that the opening in the wall took Steel by surprise. This was not, he realized, the door in the outer defences, but merely through the inner wall. And it was unguarded. Fabritius had done his work well. God knew what had happened to the guards. Perhaps, with the death of Brouwer, his Belgian comrades had decided to become less passive in their resistance.

  Quickly now, they slipped i
nto the passageway through the parapet, directly beneath the feet of the patrolling sentries, and emerged in the ditch between the inner and outer defences. This, Steel was only too well aware, would be their most vulnerable moment. Instinctively they pressed themselves flat against the wall and began to edge gingerly around, still further to the north. They had not gone more than thirty yards when Fabritius turned left and broke into a run, glancing behind to make sure the others were still with him. Steel followed with Henrietta while Slaughter brought up the rear. Their footfalls made scarcely a sound. There were no cobbles here, for the ditch between the two walls was sown with short-mown grass to allow the crossfire from defending cannon to cut down any attacking force that made it thus far. This night though, thought Steel, for once, Vauban’s cunning had turned in favour of King Louis’ enemies. They were quickly across the ditch and up against the far wall. Now was the moment at which any sentry, glancing casually in the moonlight across towards the allied camp, would without doubt catch sight of them. Steel imagined the sudden shout, the levelled muskets and the shots. But none came. Instead he heard Fabritius’ soft voice, hissing a whispered direction.

  ‘Sir. Here, Captain.’

  Steel peered towards the Belgian and saw that he was motioning them to join him in a wide tunnel built through the rock. It was a sturdy brick and stone structure, beautifully made to Vauban’s precise instructions and lit from above by slits cut into the roof. Together, they advanced into its semi-darkness and as they reached the end Steel strained his eyes to see anything other than the flat brick wall of a dead end. He turned to Fabritius and was about to say something when the man advanced towards the wall and swept away a tangle of rushes and foliage. Steel saw that beneath was a small wooden door, set into the outer rampart and framed with brickwork. Confident that his countrymen had done their work, Fabritius grasped the black iron handle and turned it. Slowly the door opened and they found themselves peering into a darker blackness than that which surrounded them. They were inside in an instant and Slaughter, being careful not to make a sound, closed the door behind them. Then, darkness. Steel could see nothing. Neither was this the sort of darkness of a house at night when one’s eyes gradually become accustomed to the shadow until a room can emerge quite clearly. This was darkness beyond imagining. And it was hot.

  The tunnel had been designed as a sally-port, a route out of the fortress along which defenders might pass to make a surprise attack upon any besieging force. There had been no thought given to ventilation beyond the first twenty or so yards and those shafts were long since blocked by foliage and masonry. Steel heard Henrietta gasp.

  ‘Jack? Captain Steel? Are you there? I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘Here, My Lady. We’re all here. All right, Sarn’t? Mister Fabritius?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Good, Captain. I think we should move. There is not much air in here, I think.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Let’s get on. Careful, My Lady. Here, take my hand.’ Steel extended his arm in the direction he judged Henrietta to be and made contact with her waist. He passed his arm around it and squeezed. ‘You’ll be all right now, My Lady. Stay with me, ma’am.’

  Each of them using one hand to feel the wall of the tunnel, they all began to walk as fast as they could given the conditions, towards where they presumed they must eventually find the door that would lead them out of the fortress. From time to time Steel gave a gentle squeeze to Henrietta’s waist. Up ahead he could hear Fabritius’ boots against the hard earth of the tunnel floor. They seemed to be descending very gradually now, down a shallow slope. It was taking them, he presumed, directly on to the dunes. They had gone some two hundred yards when Steel became aware that he could no longer hear Slaughter behind him.

  He turned sharply in the pitch-black and looked without success back down the way they had come. ‘Jacob? Are you with me?’

  Nothing. Then, from ten, perhaps twenty yards to their rear he heard a quiet voice.

  Letting go of Henrietta, Steel retraced his steps. He could hear Slaughter now.

  ‘No. No, I tell you. I’ll never go down into that place. Never. You can’t force me to. I won’t go down.’

  ‘Jacob? Are you all right? What’s wrong?’

  The voice fell silent and Steel approached until he was standing almost immediately over the figure of the sergeant, who was evidently sitting with his knees drawn up and his back against one of the tunnel walls. Even in the blackness, Steel recognized the smell of fear. He crouched down and found the man’s arm.

  ‘Jacob, don’t worry. We’re going to get out of here soon. We’re almost at the door and then there’ll be as much air as you can breathe and we’ll be out in the open and among friends. Come on, man. This isn’t like you.’

  But he knew that it was. For all his bravery on the battlefield, his calmness and control and his huge physical presence, the sergeant had one secret fear. He could not abide enclosed spaces. He had discovered it as a lad when they had forced him to go down one of the newly opened coal mines in his native County Durham. It was the reason that he had run away to join the colours. To be here now, thought Steel, must be pure hell for him.

  Slaughter mumbled, ‘Sorry, sir. It’s just the dark and the walls. And the heat, sir. I can’t go on.’

  ‘You must go on, Jacob. People are depending on you. What would your lads say if they saw you like this, eh? Think of that. Come on. I’ll keep hold of your arm. Come with me.’

  Taking care not to move too fast, Steel gently brought Slaughter to his feet and began to walk with him down towards the others.

  Fabritius heard them: ‘All right, Captain?’

  ‘It’s fine. My sergeant just caught his head on the roof. Fellow’s just too tall. Fine for a Grenadier, rotten in a tunnel. Let’s get on.’

  They began moving. Steel had found Henrietta again and with his left hand in hers and his right keeping a firm grip on Slaughter’s trembling forearm, they moved slightly faster than before. After a few yards, Steel became aware that the air had turned foul with the unmistakable smell of human excrement. The stench came from a neighbouring sewer whose thin lining had long worn away and was leeching its contents into the soil.

  Slaughter pulled up: ‘That’s it, Mister Steel. That’s it. I’ve had enough. I ain’t going on any further into this hot, stinkin’ hellhole. Let me out. I’m going back.’

  Steel increased his hold on Slaughter’s arm and spoke in a whisper. ‘Stay with me, Jacob. We’re going to be fine. I’m sure it’s not far now. Come on man, ten yards. I’m sure.’

  Fabritius had gone on ahead and Henrietta, desperate to be clear of the stench, went after him, pulling Steel on. He hoped that he was right and the end would come soon. And then he saw it, the merest glimmer of light – no more than a pinprick. They had all seen it now and the smell of the sea was overwhelming. There was no door, but what had originally been an open hole, cleverly concealed by a fold in the ground, had become covered over the decades with foliage and tree roots to create a natural barrier. Steel moved ahead and with care drew his sword.

  ‘Stand back, all of you.’

  With a great stroke he cut at the roots and was surprised at how easily his blade sliced through them. Two, three, four more cuts and they could see the sky. A few more and he had cleared a hole wide enough for a man’s arm. Slaughter stepped forward and took hold of the sword hilt.

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll give you a hand.’

  Within minutes the two of them had cleared a hole sufficient to pass through and then they were free. Together they half-ran, half-tumbled down the dunes at the foot of the outer ramparts of the fortifications which towered forty feet above their heads, a sheer wall of stone, shining in the moonlight. Steel bent over and caught his breath. Henrietta was lying on a dune, her body rising and falling with the rhythm of her gasps. Beyond her he could see both Fabritius and the huge frame of Slaughter gratefully taking in lungfuls of the salty air. Never, he thought, had any air
ever tasted quite so sweet.

  Over the dunes and along the far shore, the sun was cresting the eastern horizon and through the camp, as the women roused themselves and hands fell to milking cows and kneading bread, a pack of officers’ hunting hounds had already begun to give tongue to the new day as Steel got to his feet and pulled the muslin shirt over his head. His muscles were still horribly stiff, his bruised bones ached and the scars on his back were only just starting to heal. He thought that one of his ribs might have been broken during the ordeal with Trouin and had decided to keep Louise Huber’s bandages on for the time being, just in case. He pulled on the brocaded blue waistcoat somewhat gingerly, waiting for the impact against any still-open wounds and knew he had been right to be cautious. For there were some, and the sharp pain began to bite into him as he fastened the buttons. He looked down at Henrietta, asleep under the blanket and pulled on first his trousers and then his boots before reaching for the heavy red coat which hung on the hook above him.

  She stirred: ‘Jack, is that you?’

  He bent down to kiss her forehead: ‘Hush, my darling. Sleep now. I won’t be long, I promise. I’ve been called for by Duke. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Eyes still closed, she smiled and turned deeper into the blankets. Steel straightened up and, being careful not to rattle the blade in the scabbard, picked up his sword with care and moved towards the door. He turned one more time, took in the pure beauty of the sleeping form in his bed and then, snatching up his hat from the table, stepped outside into the pale dawn and went to rid the world of René Duglay-Trouin.

  FOURTEEN

  Using the small, sharp knife that he kept for just such a purpose, Marlborough sliced through the soft flesh of a ripe pomegranate and popped a sliver into his mouth before wiping his lips upon a white napkin. He ate thoughtfully, then spoke as he cut again into the fruit: ‘You say that you have discovered a way into the town, Captain Steel? You’re certain it is viable?’