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

Sixty muskets came up to shoulder level.

‘Fire!’

Jennings’ company spat flame and was enveloped in thick white smoke. He heard the smack as their balls hit trees and tore leaves from branches, splintering wood and with it the more pleasing, softer thud as they bit into flesh. One man, in his haste to fire, had forgotten to extract his ramrod which had gone sailing across the field and embedded itself in a tree. Stringer rounded on him:

‘Wiggins, you careless bugger. Rear rank. Ware, you take his place.’

There was no use for a man with no ramrod in the firing line. Wiggins would just have to remain at the rear until he could retrieve a musket from a dead friend. Jennings guessed that he would not have too long a wait. With steely precision the redcoats reloaded.

Stringer had divided the remaining men into two platoons now and Jennings knew what would follow. The Sergeant’s voice carried towards the wood.

‘Number one platoon, fire!’

Again a volley crashed out from the British line. Half as strong as the first, but with a purpose. From the trees the enemy returned fire and began to reload and then Stringer barked again:

‘Number two platoon, fire!’

The second platoon squeezed their triggers and evidently caught the men in the trees off guard, for there was a momentary break in enemy firing.

But it did not last long and Jennings realized that such revolutionary tactics, which could work so well in open battle against an enemy who needed to pause to reload, would not have the same devastating effect against men who fired individually.

The men in the trees had begun to shout with excitement now, scenting victory. Stringer growled at the line:

‘Steady. Keep it up. Steady fire, lads.’

We must retire, thought Jennings. Form a defensive line. That was it. He wanted them shoulder to shoulder. Heel to heel.

‘Fall back. Regroup on me.’

Slowly, as they fired, the redcoats began to close up their shattered lines.

How the devil could whoever was firing at them keep up such a steady, withering fire? These must be regular troops, Jennings thought. Surely. But what regular infantry ever deployed in such a manner, using the trees for cover? Not showing themselves on the field? This was not the way to wage war. But, he thought, it was making a bloody mess of his company. The line was looking horribly ragged, with men falling every minute. The wounded crawled to the rear, legs broken, sides torn by musketry, arms hanging limp.

Jennings screamed out over the noise of gunfire: ‘Dress your lines.’

Stringer echoed him: ‘Close up. Close up, you buggers.’

They were down, he reckoned, to only around forty men now at all capable of returning the enemy fire. Jennings watched as, slowly, emboldened by their success, their assailants at last began to emerge from the cover of the wood. The men wore no uniforms. Some were in shirtsleeves, others in a variety of civilian dress, over which they had slung cartridge bags. They carried hunting guns mostly, although some had what looked like French or Bavarian issue muskets, topped with bayonets. Banditii, thought Jennings. Brigands. And they looked as if they meant to offer no quarter. He had been unlucky enough to run into a party of the bandits whom he had been told plagued these hills. Not only that but, by the look of it, he was outgunned and now in real and mortal danger of losing the encounter.

He looked for Stringer and realized what they must do. It was their only chance. A full-blooded infantry charge that might just catch the civilians off guard and send them scurrying off in terror. That, at least, was what he prayed.

‘Sarn’t. Have the entire line fix bayonets. We’ll give them the steel.’

‘Fix … bayonets. On guard.’

Most of the men had already done so, but the few who had not now screwed the steel socket bayonets into place over the corresponding nipple on their musket barrels.

‘Now men. For Farquharson’s. For the Queen. For …’

Jennings was on the point of giving the command when, from his right and slightly to the rear a thunder of musketry crashed out. A disciplined volley that through its smoke betrayed the presence of regular soldiers. And, it appeared, they were on his side.

He watched as the bullets thudded into the ranks of the peasants. The volley did not do as much destruction as it would have to men caught in close order. But it was enough. The marksmen and the farmers began to move back. One man stared at the bright red stain spreading quickly across his shirt, unable to comprehend his own destruction.

Jennings heard a single, distinctively English voice cry out: ‘Second rank, fire.’

Another crackle of gunfire and the smoke grew more dense. Before him, Jennings watched as the peasants began to run.

Jennings wondered who he had to thank for their salvation. He glanced to the right and through the cloud of white smoke saw a line of red coats, then he turned back to his front, looking for Stringer. He saw him some yards in front, anticipating their next move and Jennings raised his sword high above his head and circled it through the air. Their rescuers might have stolen his thunder, but by God, they would not take all the glory from this field:

‘Now men. With me. Charge.’

With a yell the front two ranks sprang forward to follow the Major and took the fight into the trees. Jennings felt the blood coursing through him as he leapt a tree trunk and pushed through the standing bracken. To the left and right he could see the bodies of dead peasants. There were wounded too. One man, propped up against a log, looked up at him with pleading eyes and held a trembling arm towards the Major while clutching at his bloody stomach with the other. Jennings ignored him and ran on, jumping the brush which covered the floor of the small wood. And then they were on them.

Glancing to his left Jennings was aware of a musketeer plunging his bayonet deep into the back of one of the retreating bandits. He saw the steel tip emerge from the man’s stomach, glistening red, and then the redcoat retrieved his weapon and before the man had slid to the ground had set off in pursuit of another.

Stringer appeared at his side, grinning and with a dripping blade.

‘Just like stickin’ pigs, Sir, ain’t it?’

Jennings stared at him. He returned Stringer’s smile and looked ahead where two of his men, intent on revenge, were smashing the head of one of their attackers to a pulp with the butts of their rifles.

‘Get on there, you men. Leave that one. He’s dead. Get after the others.’

The wood was not deep and emerging on to the other side, Jennings could see the survivors streaming away down the hill to its rear. Most of them had thrown down their weapons in their haste to escape. Several of the redcoats were kneeling down now, attempting to pick them off. But at this range Jennings knew there was little chance.

‘Re-form. Let them go, lads. They know when they’re licked. Well done, boys.’

As they returned through the wood, its floor slick with blood, Jennings again passed the corpses of their attackers. At the tree stump, the man with the pleading eyes was dead now. He lay there, gazing open-lidded up at the gaps among the branches. Jennings wondered for a moment who this would-be asassin might have been. He looked to be in his mid twenties. Might he be someone’s husband? Would he be missed at supper tonight in some miserable farm or perhaps around a sad campfire? It struck Jennings for an instant that, should he fall, should it be his form lying dead here rather than the farmer’s boy, then no one would grieve for Aubrey Jennings. Save perhaps the whores who plied the dark lanes between the Strand and Drury Lane and no doubt by his tailor in the Temple and those several other tradesmen to whom his bills also remained unpaid. It was a sad thought. No widow. No weeping children. Not even a parson to honour his name on Sunday. It seemed unjust that he should not leave someone with a broken heart.

Reaching the edge of the copse, Jennings looked to the left and through the clearing white smoke made out a single red-coated form.

He walked towards the young British officer, and doffed his hat in salute:

‘Thank God, Sir. Aubrey Jennings, Major. Farquharson’s Foot. I am in your debt. You came not a moment too soon. In truth, I thought we were done for.’

His wide smile changed to a look of incredulity as he realized that the redcoat officer who he had taken for a captain, was none other than Tom Williams, who beamed back at him. Jennings looked towards their rescuers. Saw the mitre caps and groaned.

‘Oh it was nothing, Sir. It’s Mister Steel you should thank.’

Jennings, frowning hard, turned and saw the familiar features. He said nothing.

Steel slung his gun over his shoulder:

‘Major, you know that you owe your life to young Williams’ sense of hearing?’

Jennings bit his lip. ‘His hearing?’

‘He had ridden a little way off from the wagons, Major. Told me he’d seen a wild deer and reckoned he might bag it for the pot. I told him to stick close to us but he rode clear of the sound of the wagons and then it was that he heard the gunfire. Your fire. He came tearing back to us, and here we are.’