anything in the village.’
Steel raised his eyebrows. ‘So you, Baynes, being a kindly sort of a man, thought, “Now wouldn’t that be a fine mascot for the regiment? I’ll just take her to Colonel Farquharson and the adjutant and save her from the pot.” Am I right?’
‘How you do it sir, I don’t know. Quite right, Captain Steel, sir. Right you are again.’
‘By rights, I should have you hanged, Baynes. In Bavaria you would most certainly have been hanged. There the duke decreed that anyone found stealing anything would be subject to punishment by death.’
Baynes was shaking now. ‘Stealing? me, sir? No sir. Not stealing. Not me.’
‘Yes, Baynes. Stealing … Now put the bloody chicken back where you found it and we’ll say no more. Now get back to the company and wait. And don’t worry – I’ll find you some rations.’
Three hours later, his belly full of roast chicken, Steel was awoken by a cry and then another. No light pierced the pitch-black of the night, but he did not need to see to know that something was not right. Reaching for his sword, he leapt to his feet and not bothering with his coat, despite the cold of the night, buckled the belt around his shirt.
‘Sarn’t?’ He sensed, rather than saw in the darkness, Slaughter’s large frame at his side.
‘Came from over there, sir. Edge of the village.’ Another cry. Higher in tone now and unmistakable as that of a man in agony.
‘Come on. Alarm. Company to arms!’
Around him in the darkness the Grenadiers began to rise and fumbled for their weapons. Quickly, as another cry rent the air, Steel and Slaughter, followed by the night-watch picquet, made their way through the silent streets towards it.
They turned down a narrow alley and emerged in a small square on the edge of the village. In the centre stood a cherry tree and around it were gathered some twenty of the village militia. All were armed, some with captured French-pattern muskets, but most with swords or knives. For a moment they seemed not to have noticed Steel and his men. And when they did, they smiled and nodded. Jan, their self-appointed officer walked forward. In his hand he held a short knife.
‘Ah, Captain Steel. Welcome. I am sorry that we did not invite you to our evening entertainment. I thought that your men were too tired. And we did not know we would have such sport tonight.’
Steel felt no offence at their lack of hospitality. This was not the sort of sport he cared for. Tied to the tree was a man in the uniform of a French officer. Another man was standing behind him, held fast by two villagers. The faces of both men were frozen in terror and Steel could see why. Beneath the flickering torchlight he counted six dead bodies lying sprawled on the cobbles. They too wore white uniforms and were covered in blood. None of the dead seemed to have had any weapons and the two officers had long since lost their swords. Clearly this was a party of lost and desperate Frenchmen who, looking for food, had had the misfortune to stumble into Wippendries. It had been a fatal mistake. From the positions of the bodies, the cuts they bore and the agonized expressions etched deep into the visible faces, he could see that this had been no struggle, but a careful massacre.
Jan jerked his thumb back to the French officer who, Steel now saw, bore bloody cuts on his arms and legs. ‘He makes too much noise,’ he laughed. ‘So now we are going to cut out his tongue. Then perhaps we will take his sight. Who knows?’
He moved towards the French officer, who stared at Steel with terrified eyes and muttered protests. Jan grabbed the back of the Frenchman’s head with his left hand to hold it still, while his right came up with the gleaming butcher’s blade.
Steel moved. He switched his sword from the right hand to the left and, taking a step forward, pulled Jan round to face him and landed a punch squarely on his jaw, knocking him to the ground. Another of the militia turned to attack him but Slaughter was there first. He jabbed the butt of his musket into the second man’s stomach, winding him and knocking him to his knees before following up with a swift swipe to the head which laid him senseless. One of the villagers raised a musket and fired. The ball struck one of the Grenadiers on the coat, passing harmlessly through the tail. Two more of the Dutchmen rushed towards the redcoats and overpowered Tarling who was thrown to the ground. One of the villagers raised his hand to strike with a shining cleaver but Cussiter had seen it and felled him with a shot that hit him in the temple. The other man sprang away and as Tarling struggled to his feet, Steel waved his men forward.
‘Grenadiers. To me.’
From behind him Slaughter and fifteen redcoats moved across the square and in one movement levelled their muskets, bayonets fixed, directly at the mob.
‘Drop your weapons! Oh Christ, you don’t bloody understand.’
He signed to them and one by one the men let their swords and muskets clatter to the ground. Jan was getting to his feet now, rubbing his jaw. He turned on Steel.
‘My God! What are you doing? Don’t you hate the French?’
‘What was I doing? You ask me? You’re no officer. You’re a bunch of barbarians.’
‘No, it is they who are the barbarians. They steal from us and rape our women. Well now its our turn.’
Steel shook his head and turned to Williams who had arrived with another ten men. ‘And there I was, Tom, threatening to hang Baynes for stealing a chicken – from these vermin. I don’t care how hard their lives have been under the French, they can’t do this. These men are French soldiers, officers too. They have nothing to do with the government. They’re a retreating army. And they’re hungry. There are rules, articles of war. Cut him loose, poor bugger.’ He turned back to Jan. ‘If you wore a uniform I’d bloody well put you on trial. Or better still hang you right here for what you’ve done.’
The villager, still holding his jaw, shook his head. ‘You do not know what it is like. Your people have not suffered like mine. Believe me, Captain, I am not alone. All over Brabant this is happening. Right now. And you cannot stop us.’
Steel looked at Slaughter: ‘Take their weapons, Sarn’t, and lock them up for the night.’ He looked about and spotted a grain store at the entrance to the village. ‘There. That’ll do. And post sentries. I don’t want my throat cut. We’ll bury these poor bastards in the morning.’ He motioned to Jan: ‘And don’t forget this one. Tom, you escort your fellow officer. Keep an eye on him.’
As the Grenadiers began to herd the villagers to their makeshift jail, Steel walked over to the wounded French officer, who had been cut free and was inspecting his wounds. ‘Are you badly hurt?’
‘They’re not deep. They were only playing with me. The real stuff hadn’t begun.’ He shuddered. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Captain.’ He bowed to Steel: ‘Chef de Bataillon Jean D’Alembord at your service. I am in your debt, sir.’
‘You fought at Ramillies?’
‘Indeed. I have the honour to command in the Regiment du Roi.’
‘You were routed by our dragoons.’
D’Alembord shrugged. ‘And now, to our disgrace, our great army is no more. I do not even know where the rest of my regiment may be.’
‘I am sure that you will find them in time. In France perhaps. For the present though, you are my prisoner, Commandant. I trust that we can agree on your parole?’
There was a noise from behind them, hooves and a clatter of hobnailed shoes ringing on the cobbles. Steel called across the square: ‘Alarm. Grenadiers. To me.’
A score of his men came running from the prisoners and reached him while the newcomers were still hidden in the shadows of the street. Steel heard them before he saw their faces or their coats.
‘Hold, there!’
The voice was English and he recognized it instantly. Into the square rode the Duke of Argyll, followed on foot by his sergeant, a young captain