Man of Honour (22 page)

‘Now, boy, don’t be hasty. I can explain everything.’

Cussiter said nothing. He tucked the musket deeper into his shoulder and Jennings knew that it was ready to fire. All he could hear now was the beating of his own heart.

‘Don’t be foolish, boy. You know what punishment feels like now. You’ve felt the cat. Imagine what they’ll give you for killing an officer. Put down the gun. Be sensible. I’ll speak for you.’

He extended his hand. Cussiter’s finger played with the trigger. His eye looked straight down the barrel of the musket, straight at Jennings’ forehead. He began to squeeze and Jennings waited for the flash. It came but as he closed his eyes and flinched away he sensed no more than a slight burning sensation on his head, as if he had been touched by a sudden, fast breath of hot wind. Opening his eyes he saw that the puff of smoke had gone high into the air and with it the musket ball, which had evidently done no more than nick his head and part his wig. He looked back at Cussiter and saw him sprawled on the ground, locked in a desperate struggle with Stringer. Evidently the Sergeant had hurled himself at the man at the moment his finger had pulled the trigger.

Jennings did not wait. Stringer might have saved his life, but he had no time for thanks. The Sergeant was no longer necessary to his plans. With no time to take the horse, he turned and he ran as fast as he could for the corner of the nearest house. Behind him the space had filled with soldiers. He did not look back. Ahead of him, at a crossroads of back alleys, a dead French hussar lay sprawled on the ground, his hand still tangled in the reins of a bay mare who stood close by chewing at a patch of scrub. Not wasting a moment, Jennings ran to the horse, snatched up the reins and pulled them from the dead man’s hand. Then he was up and in the saddle. He whipped the animal quickly into a canter and then a gallop and drove her fast through the narrow streets, and
then down and over the bloody bridge and out into the fields. He was exultant. He had the papers. The papers that would bring down Marlborough and guarantee his own passage to untold influence and prosperity. But before any of that could happen, he would have to carry them to safety. And after what he had just done, he knew that at this moment, safety lay in only one direction. Aubrey Jennings pressed his spurs deep into the horse’s flanks and rode as fast as he could towards the French.

Steel coughed blood and felt a loose tooth in his mouth. He spat it on to the cobbles. His head felt as if someone had laid about it with a hammer. He put his hand up to touch it and felt the blood. He coughed again and retched. Looking up, he could see Williams getting to his feet. His face was covered with rivulets of blood and he was standing as groggy as a drunk. One of the Grenadiers, Mackay, placed a hand beneath the Lieutenant’s arm and Steel tried to stand. As he put the weight on his right leg a searing pain shot through his calf. He looked down and saw for the first time the extent of the damage done by Jennings’ blade.

‘Bugger.’

He looked at Mackay.

‘Where is he?’

‘Who, Sir?’

‘Major Jennings, man. Did you get him?’

‘He’s gone back to the fight, Sir. Told us the Frenchies had killed you.’

‘Like hell he has. Major Jennings is a traitor.’

So, Jennings had escaped. Steel panicked. He reached inside his coat for the packet and, as he had known he would, felt nothing. He had known Jennings to be bad, but a traitor on this scale? It had not entered his wildest imaginings.
Through the mist of his agonizing headache he heard the sounds of battle. Christ almighty. They were still fighting the French. It began to come back to him.

‘Williams. Are you all right?’

The Ensign was sitting on the window ledge, swaying slightly, staunching the flow of blood from his head and leg.

‘I think so, Sir.’

‘Stay there. You, Tarling, stay with him. Mackay, you come with me.’

Steel picked up his sword from where it lay on the ground, grabbed the gun and limped off with the Grenadier along the narrow alleyway. Ahead of them the sounds of fighting grew ever louder. It was true. God alone knew how, but they were still holding out.

As he approached, Slaughter caught sight of him.

‘Told you I was going nowhere, Sir.’

Steel looked down the street over piles of dead and wounded, mostly hussars. Body parts lay strewn upon the cobbles and blood had spattered the walls of the houses on either side. In three places the road surface had disintegrated.

‘Don’t tell me. You used the grenades.’

‘Like I said, Sir. I wasn’t going anywhere. Besides, Thorogood here used to play cricket for his parish. He threw the bombs when the hussars were forty paces off. Should’ve seen it, Mister Steel.’

‘Can we do it again?’

‘Only three bombs left. Reckon one more time if we need to. If we’re lucky. What happened to you, Sir? You look bad.’

‘Major Jennings.’

‘The Major? Was he hit? Is he dead?’

‘It was the Major who did this to me, Jacob. He’s a traitor.’

‘Well I’ll be buggered. I always knew he was bad, mind. But that. By Christ.’

Their conversation was interrupted by noise from the street below. Wearily the remaining men in the firing lines finished loading their muskets and made sure their bayonets were secure. Leaning on his gun as a support, Steel strained to see what was going on beyond the dead. He could make out nothing and the light was beginning to fade.

‘You’d better get those grenades ready, Jacob. They’re the only chance we have now.’

He waited for the jingle of harness and the clatter of hooves that would announce the coming attack. But it was neither of those sounds that he heard. From the bottom of the street, beyond view, came the clash of steel on steel. Ahead of him he watched as the leading two ranks of blue-coated hussars, now a mere fifty feet away from them, turned on command and began to trot back down the street, before vanishing around the bend.

Steel looked at his men. At Thorogood, a bomb in each hand, waiting to light the fuses. At the guns held steady at their shoulders, eyes aligned with the barrels. The natural inclination was to fire at the retreating cavalry. But Steel knew that it could easily be a trick intended to draw their single volley before the hussars simply turned and rode straight for them.

‘Hold steady. Hold your fire.’

Still the din came from the river. What the deuce was happening? The tumult grew louder and then quickly died away. Steel could hear some shouting yet, and the sporadic crack of muskets and carbines. But the distinctive sound of blade on blade had gone.

He saw a horseman appear around the bend in the street. This was it, then. He looked again at the ranks. The men were sweating hard with the exertion of keeping their muskets level.

‘Steady. Keep the present. Prepare to fire.’

Steel looked again towards the river and his mouth dropped open. The single horseman continued to approach. But this was no hussar. The man wore a black tricorne hat and a red coat. Whose red was it, though? Another trick?

Steel pushed gently from the rear of the line, passing between the files and stepped out in front of his men, ensuring that he could be plainly seen. He saw that the man’s sword was soiled with gore. At twenty yards out the rider pulled up his horse and stared.

Steel stared back, straight into his eyes. He half turned to address his men: ‘Hold your fire,’ then yelled down the street: ‘Who are you?’

‘Captain James Maclean, Hay’s dragoons. Who the devil are you?’

‘Steel, Sir. Lieutenant, Farquharson’s Foot. We thought you were French.’

‘Not us. Scots, old chap. Like yourselves. You look as if you’ve had a bit of a time of it.’

‘You could say that, Captain. A bit of a time. Thank God you’re here. How did you find us?’

‘Oh, it was no trouble really. We just followed the sound of the guns.’

‘You heard our fire?’

Maclean laughed. Pointed towards the bridge.

‘The Duke himself will have heard your fire, Lieutenant. The entire allied army is encamped but three miles down that road.’

Steel groaned. How much longer could this possibly take? Clad in just his shirt and waistcoat, breeches and stockings, he sat in his tent within the allied lines, with his right leg hoisted up on a hay-filled forage bag. Before him Corporal Taylor crouched over the wound that had been inflicted fifteen days ago by Jennings’ filthy sword, while above both men, Sergeant Slaughter stood gazing on, half in admiration, half in sceptical curiosity. Steel drummed impatient fingers against the small table beside him and sighed:

‘Taylor. You’re quite certain that this is absolutely necessary?’

‘Please, Mister Steel. Do try and remain still, Sir, and I’ll be finished with you in an instant. This is the last time I’ll have to do this. I swear, Sir.’

‘What the devil are you putting on me this time? Not more rancid pumpkin flesh and stale meal, surely?’

‘No, Sir. This is the final stage. Just finishing you off nicely. Brown sugar, lees of wine and linseed oil. My own recipt.’

‘Sounds rather as if you’re preparing me for the kitchens. And it doesn’t smell any better.’

‘That’s the matter from wound that’s smelling so bad, Sir, not my poultice.’

Slaughter coughed: ‘Smells something awful, Sir.’

‘Thank you, Jacob. I’m as aware as you of the stink. Corporal Taylor here assures me that this is the only way to ensure that the wound will heal by the time we fight the French. And after all that has happened I do not intend to miss the moment we have been seeking these four months.’

‘All the same, Sir. It don’t half reek.’

Taylor glared up at the Sergeant.

‘But at least, Sarn’t Slaughter, it’s not infected any longer.’

He pointed proudly at the pink, glistening, puckered scar, a small section of which still lay open.

‘See all that slough running down off your leg, Sir? That there’s the last of the matter to come out of the wound. I promise you, you’ll be fine within the week, Mister Steel.’

‘Thank you, Taylor. I really am much obliged to you. But I intend to be fine within the day. The Frogs are just over that hill and I promise you that very soon, sooner than you think, we will be at them.’

‘Oh, Jack, what is that horrid smell.’

The sound of a woman’s voice turned all their heads towards the tent flap. Louisa Weber stood framed against the day, the pale afternoon sunlight catching the golden strands which ran through her pale yellow hair.

‘It’s like you have a ham cooking … in honey or something.’

‘It’s my leg. I’m sorry.’

She grimaced, then laughed. Ten days of nursing Steel had inured her to the sights of a field hospital. If not the smells. She entered and Slaughter smiled and left. Taylor was lost in his work, carefully winding a clean bandage around Steel’s leg.

‘Corporal Taylor is a fine doctor, Jack. He looked after me so well.’

Even through his stubble, Taylor’s deepening colour was evident. ‘It was nothing ma’am. Just did what I could.’

‘Nonsense. You are a treasure. Don’t let him go, Jack.’

‘No danger of that.’

Steel looked hard at the Corporal:

‘Aren’t you done yet, Taylor? Go on, get on now. I’m sure that’ll do it.’

Taylor tucked in the end of the bandage to secure it and gathered up his ointments, placing the glass phials with care inside their leather bag.

‘Good day, Miss. Mister Steel, Sir.’

‘Good day, Taylor. And thank you.’

As Taylor left the tent, Louisa bent to kiss Steel on the forehead. He pulled her down on to his knee.

‘Jack. Be careful. Your leg.’

‘My leg is as good as new. Your Corporal Taylor told me so. Where have you been?’

‘I was visiting the wounded. One of them died in the night. A young boy. He had asked for me. I came too late.’

She stared at the ground and began to rub at the balls of her fingers, as if she was trying to eradicate some dirt. Steel had noticed the habit before and knew that she did it to stop the tears.

‘How’s Mister Williams coping with his duties?’

‘He looked very busy. He wears his head bandaged up and he has taken to walking with a stick for the sake of his poor leg. He looks very … dashing. He was marching with some of your men beside the wagon park. He smiled at me.’

At least they could be thankful that Williams had not been killed.

Steel could recollect little of the immediate aftermath of
the fight at Bachweiden. But gradually he began to remember details. The fight with Jennings. Their timely rescue by Hay’s dragoons. Most pressingly the fact that Jennings was now in possession of the papers.

Louisa, freed from Jennings’ threat, had revealed the true identity of her attacker.

Steel had offered an apology to Herr Kretzmer, who, thankful for his lucky escape from the noose and the bullet, had been only too happy to accept the offer of an escort to Augsburg. Of course they had been obliged to make good the payment for the flour. Jennings’ deceit had cost them all, dearly.

Now Steel would not rest until Jennings was dead. How had he not seen through the man before? A rapist and a traitor. The wound had kept him confined to bed and it irked him not to be in pursuit of the Major.

After their rescue, Steel and his Grenadiers had remained in the British camp at Neukirk to join the rearguard, while the bulk of the army had manoeuvred further still into Bavaria. Then the army had returned and together they had made the short march north. Yesterday they had arrived here, just to the south of the town of Rain, which had been taken by Marlborough shortly after their departure some three weeks past. What there was left of the precious flour had been gratefully received. As to the more vital part of Steel’s mission, though, little had as yet been said. Now he awaited Hawkins’ arrival.

Steel knew that soon he would have to account to Marlborough. He had failed. Of that there was no doubt. And whatever might be his punishment for such failure, it remained to be seen how, if at all, it might yet be remedied.

First though, he must be fit. He had been surprised at the gravity of his wounds. The blow on the head had very nearly
cracked his skull, but it had been the leg wound from Jennings’ blade that had caused him the most severe discomfort. Having at first considered it no more than a scratch he had had it dressed. But then it had begun to throb and soon to stink. For six days he had lain in a fever. That he had not died was due entirely to the ministrations of Corporal Taylor and Louisa.

He gazed at her now as she attempted to tidy up around him. At her slender waist, the pale beauty of her half-covered shoulders and her delicate profile. He wondered at her resilience. At how quickly she had seemed to recover from her ordeal.

Again he played in his mind with the possibilities of their relationship. If there was ever a woman who might grow accustomed to the life of an army wife, then surely it was Louisa. But was she suited to it? Or indeed suited to him? For what did she really know of him? And what, he wondered, of himself? Was this what he wanted? Arabella was a distant memory and many, many miles away. Louisa was here and now and Steel wondered whether what he felt for her was what men called love. For an instant he caught the word on his lips, then stopped himself. Louisa turned to him and smiled.

‘What?’

‘I. Nothing. I was just …’

She seemed about to say something when the tent flap opened and Henry Hansam entered, followed by Colonel Hawkins.

Steel attempted to stand but the Colonel waived him down.

‘Jack. I am very much afraid that I come bearing a summons. You are ordered at once to the Commander-in-Chief.’

He noticed Louisa and removed his hat.

‘Good day, Miss Weber.’

Hansam followed suit. Like the rest of Steel’s fellow officers he had accepted her presence in his friend’s tent as readily as they had all welcomed the return of Steel himself. Women in camp were no great novelty. Though for the most part of course they were found among the other ranks. But with Steel, as they all concurred, anything was possible. It seemed only natural that the maverick officer should return to the camp with this beautiful Bavarian angel as his consort. For if Steel was not yet decided as to their future, to his comrades it seemed to be a foregone conclusion.

Steel pushed himself up off the chair. Louisa moved to help him to his feet. She buttoned his waistcoat which hung open and draped his red coat across his shoulders before helping him insert his arms. As, with Louisa’s assistance, he pushed his feet into his boots, Steel ran a hand around his recently shaved chin. He peered at himself in the small piece of mirror-glass propped up on a folding table. Hawkins smiled at him.

‘You hardly present the very perfect picture of an officer, Jack. But I dare say you’ll do for Marlborough.’

‘Colonel. I am not back yet ten days and you goad me.’

He pointed to his leg.

‘I am a sick man. Have you no pity?’

Hawkins laughed. Louisa handed Steel the stout ash stick that, to avoid putting pressure on his leg, he had been using for the past few days to help him walk, and held back the flap of the tent as he lowered his head and felt the touch of the balmy evening air. Hansam held the tent open for Hawkins and Steel who, as he left, turned back to Louisa.

‘Wish me luck, both of you. I suspect that I may have need of it.’

Marlborough’s tent, illuminated by the light of two dozen candles, was empty when Steel and Hawkins entered, save
for the General’s soldier-servant who was busy pouring three glasses of wine. Hawkins handed one of them to Steel before he spoke:

‘Truly, Jack, I did not expect this to happen. I knew nothing of Jennings’ intentions. Of course I learnt of his departure, but assumed that Colonel Farquharson had dispatched him. There is no doubt in my mind as to who might be behind this. It is common knowledge that the Margrave is opposed to Marlborough’s strategy. We can surmise that one of his commanders must have stumbled upon our plan. There are Tories in the army but I had not been aware that Major Jennings was of their persuasion.’

‘Nor I, Colonel. Although I did perceive that his way of waging war might be somewhat different to that proposed by our Commander.’

Hawkins looked grave.

‘It is clear that the French Grenadiers, their officer in particular, were pursuing you with a specific prize in mind. Otherwise they would not have dared venture so close to our lines. I can only wonder if Major Jennings is now with the French; whether he has yet been discovered by your Grenadier officer. I do not suppose that he will be very comfortable in his new billet, either way.’

‘A turncoat he might be, Sir, in his loyalty to the Duke, but I cannot believe that even Jennings would turn traitor to his country. Although I am afraid that Colonel Farquharson cannot now bring himself to talk to me, so mortified is he by his relation’s behaviour.

‘But whoever it was alerted the French to my mission, it seems now that Jennings has done their work for them. And in truth, it is I who am at fault, Colonel. I should have been suspicious at his arrival on the march. I should have seen his true purpose. Above all I should not have allowed
him to catch me off guard in the heat of battle. I am truly sorry.’

‘I believe, Steel, that I know who may have brought in the French. Jennings had a Sergeant did he not?’

‘Stringer? An accomplice?’

‘The Sergeant, it seems, has been running a racket with the French and selling them supplies. He was dealing through one of the commissaries. Jennings must have let him in on the reason for their expedition and naturally, seeing that there’s money in secrets, he tells his go-between who, for a price, tells the French. It’s not until the second ambush that Stringer realizes he’s signed his own death warrant. Of course the French don’t get him, thanks to you. But the hangman will. Man’s a born traitor. We’ve already arrested his friend. He admitted everything and he’ll swing for it tomorrow.’

‘But not Stringer? You haven’t taken him.’

Steel looked desperate.

‘You must know, Colonel, that Stringer is my chief hope of finding Major Jennings.’

Hawkins placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘Don’t fret, Jack. I guessed that you might have plans for him. Sergeant Stringer believes that he’s got away with it. He’ll be nervous, but that just might make him all the more eager to keep you sweet. He’s yours until you find Jennings. Then he belongs to me.’

There was a cough and both men turned. ‘Let us hope, gentlemen, however we catch our fox that we are not too late to undo the wrong that has been done.’

The voice belonged to Marlborough, who, as they had been talking with their backs to the entrance, had quietly entered the tent. He was alone and Steel turned and met his gaze, giving a short bow.

‘Your Grace. I was not aware …’

‘No, Lieutenant Steel. Indeed. I hear that you have been sorely tried. Two engagements with the enemy. Infantry and cavalry. Hussars if I am informed aright. How did you find them?’

‘They are fine horsemen, Your Grace, but I am of the opinion that too much of their reputation rides upon their appearance. We gave them a good licking, Sir.’

‘And were damn near licked yourself in the process. You were only saved by John Hay’s dragoons. Am I not right? But I do hear that you fought valiantly, Steel. And at least you are safe, eh? How are your injuries?’

Marlborough gestured at Steel’s leg.

‘Have you the proper attention? I have a doctor.’

The icy, grey-green eyes stared deep into Steel’s soul.

‘Thank you, Sir. I have the best of care. And it was no more than a scratch, Your Grace. And a knock to the head.’

‘Given you, I believe, by our friend Major Jennings.’

Steel was at a loss for words. He wondered exactly how much Hawkins had already told the Duke. Marlborough continued:

‘You did everything that was in your power to secure those papers. Everything. Indeed you had them in your very possession. You were not to suspect that Jennings would prove turncoat. You looked at the papers?’

Steel was unsure how to reply but decided on the truth.

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘So you know their content?’