Jack Steel Adventure Series Books 1-3: Man of Honour, Rules of War, Brothers in Arms

‘And get back to the army, Sir?’

‘Precisely, Jacob. The sooner we finish this business, the quicker we get to the French.’

Steel swatted at a mosquito that had settled on his cheek, for they were marching parallel to a small stream and a marsh, and the insects were beginning to discover this new quarry.

‘And the sooner we beat the French the quicker we shall all return north and away from this vermin-infested country.’

Slaughter kept quiet. He knew when Steel was in one of his rare moods of ill humour and recognized the moment. They came on fast and you could never predict them. Perhaps the coffee had unsettled him. He would have to remember that. Steel continued, addressing Slaughter but talking to no one in particular:

‘We have to find the French and give battle. And soon, otherwise we shall be sucked deeper into this country and our lines of communication stretched still further. But it would appear that at this precise moment not even Marlborough really knows where they might be.’

Two miles to the north, another red-coated column came to a halt. At its head, astride his grey mare, their officer too was reading a map. Aubrey Jennings was lost. Hopelessly lost. They had set off from the camp a day after Steel and, as advised by Stapleton, had taken a route parallel to his and to the north, by way of Wiesenbach and Eiselstredt. Inhospitable little places with tongue-twisting names and their people hidden behind shutters that creaked as they peered to glimpse the redcoats clanking through their cobbled streets. Outside the towns and villages the country of lower Bavaria was pleasant enough terrain, though hardly anything to rival the South Downs. Farmland mostly, but as they marched they found the landscape scarred increasingly by burnt-out farmsteads and peasants standing in the field, staring at them with hateful, weary eyes. From time to time Jennings was aware of a column of smoke trailing up skywards from another burning settlement. Clearly one of the opposing armies was at work hereabouts and it made the Major nervous. So nervous indeed that his attention had been deflected from their route.

‘Sarn’t Stringer.’

‘Sir.’

‘We’ll rest here for ten minutes. Have the men fall out.’

‘Very good, Sir.’

As Stringer shouted at the musketeers, and one by one the weary soldiers unslung their knapsacks and sat on the verge, Jennings looked back to the map. He was sure that they had passed through the village of Nieder-Berebach, but for the last four miles nothing had seemed to correspond to the geography which would have followed such a route, as stated on the plan. A river to his left he took to be the Paar. But why then did it not divide in two as was shown on his map? Now a bridge lay across their path along the riverbank and that, most certainly, was not marked. At this rate they would arrive at the rendezvous with Kretzmer long after Steel. And that must not happen.

‘Sarn’t Stringer. How far would you say we have covered today?

‘Today, Sir? Around ten mile, Sir.’

Yes. That is my reckoning. This river, Sarn’t. The Paar, is it not?’

‘Really couldn’t say, Sir. Not lost are we, Sir?’

Jennings scowled at him. ‘Lost? How could I be lost, Stringer?’

Jennings looked back at the map and tried turning it on its side so that the river as shown on its criss-crossed face lined up with that which lay before him. This was useless.

‘We shall proceed along the line of the river, Sarn’t. Due east.’

‘If you say so, Sir.’

‘Is it not due east?’

‘If you say so, Sir.’

‘Don’t be so dashed stubborn, man. Tell me this is due east.’

‘This is due east, Sir.’

‘Thank you, Stringer. And thus, if we simply follow the river we can turn to the right within two miles and march towards the south. We shall make camp for the night and, God willing, shall reach Sattelberg and our rendezvous with the flour merchant Herr Kretzmer by early tomorrow.’

‘If you say so, Sir.’

Jennings sighed and gave up, deciding that it would be best if they were to stop again after two miles and reassess the situation.

He sat down on the bare stump of a thick tree and, making sure that he had his back to the men, drew from his pocket the purse given to him by Stapleton. Here in his hand it felt heavier than in his coat. He fingered the bulges in its sides, tracing the outline of the coins. Unable to resist the temptation, he spread back the string, opened the mouth of the purse and pulled out one of the gold pieces. He turned it over in his hand, slowly, lovingly.

A cough made him raise his head, with a start. Stringer stood above him. He had told the Sergeant of the nature of his mission, although not of the precise detail of the precious papers. It was a good idea though to let the man in on the urgency and importance of the affair. Jennings knew that Stringer was a vital ally and suspected too that he might be an implacable enemy. Unabashed, he continued to flip the coin between thumb and forefinger.

‘You see, Sergeant Stringer, I am that unluckiest of men. I am the younger son. I do not inherit. All that I have is a pitiful allowance and that is it. My brother takes everything. You of course do not have such troubles. I once had expectations. Considerable expectations. But a young man soon learns his lot in life. Better to have had no hopes at all than to suffer bitter disappointment. You for instance, have only ever had to shift for yourself. Your family had nothing.’

‘Not quite nothing, Sir. My ma had a good little business when I was a nipper, selling mackerel in Honey Lane Market. Four for sixpence. But then she sold some bad fish and lost that job and we was poor and then she began to thieve. One day they caught her stealing silver lace from a shop in Covent Garden. They ’anged her till she was dead. Hanged my mother for six yards of lace. An’ I was left alone. Never known my father, see, Sir. That’s when …’

‘That’s when you fell in with a bad lot, eh?’

Jennings was tiring of the Sergeant’s history.

‘And you’ve been a rogue ever since.’

He laughed in what he took to be a spirit of camaraderie. Stringer did nothing to dissuade him.

‘Not any longer, Sir. I’m a Sergeant now, Major Jennings.’ He pointed to the silver lace which adorned his coat. ‘Respectable. Silver lace, Sir. And they won’t hang me for it, neither.’

Jennings nodded. ‘A respectable rogue then. And your mother would be proud. But a rogue, nevertheless. You cannot ever escape yourself, Stringer. In the end we all come to know our true selves. Whether at heart each of us is truly good or bad.’

Stringer, unsure as to how to reply, said nothing. Jennings looked again at the bag of gold coins and wondered. Would it be so very bad if a few were to go missing?

Stringer read his thoughts: ‘The Kraut would notice, Sir. He’s a merchant. They’re like that. Canny with money.’

Jennings, surprised by his lack of offence at the Sergeant’s remark, let it go. Then he thought about it. Stringer watched him.

‘Yes. You’re right. And it is not mine to take. It belongs to the party and it has a purpose far greater than my own pocket. Besides which, when I give it to Herr Kretzmer in return for the papers, my star will be so far in the ascendant that 500 crowns will be nothing.’

Stringer smiled, secure in the knowledge that if his master enjoyed good fortune then surely some of that luck would be visited in turn on him.

He was contemplating his coming prosperity when a dull thud, like air being squeezed out of a bag, made him turn his head in time to see one of the men flinch back from the impact of a musket ball which had struck his chest. There was a crack as another shot rang out from the trees to their left.

‘Alarm. To arms.’

The shots were coming fast now but few hit their targets. Jennings, ducking his head, peered into the darkness of the wood, but he could see nothing but the flash of musketry. ‘To arms. We are attacked.’

Quickly the redcoats jumped to their feet and gathered their muskets from the pyramid in which they had been piled, but not before more of the balls had found a target. Jennings saw four of his men go down as the sporadic fire increased. They were getting better, the enemy. He drew his sword, and looked for Stringer.

‘Sarn’t. Load as quickly as you will. Have the men fix bayonets. Form two ranks.’

‘Load your pieces. Fix … bayonets.’

Hurriedly the men obeyed, ripping open the cartridges, spitting the balls down the barrel and rattling their ramrods. But more fell under the relentless fire from the yet unseen enemy. They were starting to form a unit now. Dressing ranks, even under fire. Jennings scoured the ground. Twelve men at least were down. More, he guessed, hidden beyond the ranks before him. Three of them, wounded, were being helped to the rear of their makeshift position. There was not a moment to waste. He barked a command.

‘Make ready. Present.’