Iain Gale - Rules of War

Slaughter smiled: ‘What did I say, sir? Civilians.’

Steel yelled: ‘On your feet!’

The figure did not move. But they could hear his soft sobbing now. Steel bent down and turned him over. ‘It’sa boy. No more than a lad. Can’t be more than ten. No wonder he couldn’t hit us.’ Pulling the boy to his feet he waved away the bayonets and turned to the would-be assassin. ‘You idiot. What did you think you were doing? We could have killed you.’ The boy looked at him, not understanding the foreign tongue. Steel gave up. ‘Bloody hell, Jacob. We’re looking after children now.’

With Slaughter carrying the boy’s antiquated and inaccurate fowling piece, they moved to the door and pulled it open to the blinding brightness of the day.

But it was not the light that stopped them in their tracks. Steel found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. It was never a pleasant experience, in particular when as now the man with his finger on the trigger was clearly very angry. He was some inches shorter than Steel and was dressed in a brown woollen coat and a tattered round-brimmed hat. Behind him stood another two dozen men, similarly armed and all in civilian dress. The man addressed Steel in a guttural Flemish that he did not understand.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t speak your language.’

The man tried again and pressed the musket unpleasantly close to Steel’s face. Steel, unable to take his eyes off the weapon, whispered to Slaughter, ‘Any sign of the rest of the company?’

‘End of the street, sir. Formed in two lines. Facing this way.’

Steel tried the man again: ‘I don’t know who you are but I am a British officer and those are my men at the end of the street. If you shoot me forty muskets will bring you down.’ The man looked puzzled and spoke again, this time in French. This was better.

‘They think we’re French, sir.’

‘Yes Sarn’t. I can see that.’

‘Mijnheer, we are British, not French. We mean you no harm. We have beaten the French in a big battle.’

The man looked suspicious. ‘English?’

‘Yes, English. Friends. Please …’

The man smiled and backed off, but still did not lower the gun. Without moving his eyes from Steel’s, he spoke again and pointed at his chest: ‘Jan.’

From the rear of the group another man pushed forward. ‘You are Englishmen?’

‘Yes. We are British. Scots. Ecossais. Thank God, you speak English.’

‘Yes, I speak good English. You will not harm us?’

‘No. We have beaten the French in a great battle. We are pushing them out of your country.’

The man thought about Steel’s reply, then smiled and nodded. ‘Then you are welcome, sir. I am sorry. My people are nervous. We have seen so much horror here. Too many soldiers. French soldiers. Yesterday they came again. Many were injured. Some died. And some of them took our food. They killed two men who tried to stop them.’

French deserters. Steel knew what would happen now. He’d seen enough of this before. In Russia, Bavaria, Spain, and here in Flanders. Break an army, rob it of cohesion and officers and what were you left with? Nothing more than a rabble, and a murderous, rapacious rabble at that, devoid of any principles or morals. There was nothing more dangerous in this world than a leaderless army.

The taller villager spoke to the man with the gun and at last it was lowered. Steel smiled and nodded in thanks.

‘You have beaten the French? Yes, we heard. The French are beaten. But you see we still cannot believe it. Any men with guns. I’m sorry. We are very happy. For many years we have had French soldiers here. We are ruled by the Spanish and their French friends. Your battle will bring us freedom. We thank you for that, sir.’

As the man spoke, another villager had been translating and Steel saw that the entire group of men was smiling now.

‘Sarn’t. Have the company stand down. I don’t think we need worry.’

‘You are welcome, Captain. Please excuse us. We are peasants and to us many soldiers look the same. We have to be careful. But look, we have armed ourselves. And,’ he added proudly, ‘Iamanofficer. Like you.’

He smiled, his face full of hope, and Steel, humouring him, responded with a respectful nod. ‘Well your men have no need to worry about the French any more. They are beaten. They won’t be back quickly. Where are we exactly?’

‘You are in Wippendries. We are only a small village, but you are welcome to share what we have.’

Steel surveyed the militia, took in their assortment of weapons and their ages. A single platoon of French regulars would have accounted for the lot of them in five minutes. But clearly, they had spirit and Steel knew that sometimes, on the battlefield, that could mean the difference between life and death for any troops – farmhands and guardsmen included.

The man spoke again: ‘You are welcome to stay in our village, Captain. We would be honoured. Perhaps we can make up for shooting at you.’

Steel laughed. ‘Perhaps. Don’t give it another thought.’

You silly bugger, he thought. You don’t know how close you and your bunch of brave, stupid yokels came to death. If that shot had hit Tarling instead of his cap, we’d have had you quicker than any French bastards.

‘We’ll stay the night if we may. It will be a good chance for a rest. We’ve been forcing the march to catch the French.’

‘That is good to hear, Captain. We hate the French. For too long they have been our masters here. Like you, if we see any French, we kill them.’

While ordinarily Steel would have agreed, he found himself thinking again of Argyll’s outburst in Ramillies and couldn’t help but wonder that there was so much hatred in this campaign, of a sort he had not seen these past seven years. Not since the bloody carnage in the north when he had watched with horribly detached interest as the Swedes and Russians had bled each other dry. This was a new and unexpected twist to the war. He knew that the French had been an occupying power here in the Netherlands, but till now he had not been aware of just how much they had been resented. He should have been cheered, he knew, by the news that the Belgians were his allies, but instinctively, something told him that this was going to complicate the conduct of the campaign. And Steel did not like complications – especially when they involved civilians.

Some six miles to the southwest, similar local hospitality was being extended to another allied soldier, albeit on a grander scale. The Duke of Marlborough stood, surrounded by his immediate military family and a small bodyguard of dragoons in the great hall of the ancient Château de Beaulieu, five miles north of Brussels. Despite the lavish reception which had been laid on in his honour, the commander-in-chief was not happy.

‘I should not be here, William. This is not a general’s work and I am no politician. My place is out in the field, chasing the French, following up our victory. We cannot be complacent.’

William Cadogan, quartermaster-general, laid a friendly hand upon the duke’s shoulder. ‘Your Grace, you must be patient. The French this day have quit the capital. We shall enter Brussels tomorrow. We should rejoice. But before we can possess the city we have pressing business here. It is an affair of state and you are the de facto representative of Her Majesty. It is your duty.’

Marlborough sighed and rubbed at his temples. ‘Yes, yes. I know. How my head does ache so. I have written to the duchess about it. I hope for a cure – the queen too. They suggest …’

Hawkins interjected: ‘I am sorry, Your Grace, but Cadogan is right. You must attend. You are rightly perceived as the victor and these men would laud you as a conqueror, as the liberator of their country. It falls to you, like it or not, to meet with these politicians. All are gathered here. The magistrates have come from Brussels together with the Estates of Brabant. Not only this, My Lord, but the entire Spanish government here in the Netherlands have declared against Louis and pledged themselves to Charles III, our candidate for the throne of Spain. The fate of Europe is in your hands. You must now treat with them. Now, your Grace.’