Rules of War (17 page)

Stapleton spluttered, his lisp becoming less well disguised. ‘Of course I deny your accusation, Colonel. How could you possibly suppose …?'

‘By a most reliable source, Major, I mean a source in whose word I have the utmost faith.'

‘You cannot be serious, Colonel. I have every confidence in the duke.'

‘As I do in my source, Major Stapleton. Our intelligence is second to none.' On the last word, Hawkins leant forward and slammed his fist hard down on the oak table which stood between them with such ferocity that Stapleton started. ‘Major Stapleton. I am in absolute earnest on this matter. Do you understand what I am saying to you?'

‘You insinuate treason, sir. Why, why, I've a good mind to call you out.'

Hawkins laughed and shook his head. ‘Ah, well, have you now, Major? You would do well to forget that you uttered that last statement. Just as I intend to. Major, take a look at me. I am an old man. I have had my last stag hunt and I very much hope that I have fought my last duel. Nevertheless, normally I would accept your challenge. But in this matter I am on commission from the duke himself. Specifically, he made me promise him not to defend his honour against you. Rather than our having you cashiered and tried for treason, a trial which you would most certainly lose, with … unutterable consequences, might I suggest that you instantly desist from printing this filth and pack your bags?'

Stapleton, dumbfounded, said nothing.

Hawkins continued: ‘It is my intention to arrange for you to be posted to Spain, where your heart so evidently lies. I am sure that My Lord Peterborough will be able to find employment for you fighting General Berwick's army. I understand that the climate is somewhat challenging and that some supplies may be hard to come by in the Peninsula. The basic comforts of home, for instance. But then, you are a resourceful fellow. I'm sure you'll think of something to make your posting less arduous. And be thankful that I have not stripped you of rank.'

Hawkins poured himself a glass of madeira from a tall silver-mounted ewer and took a generous sip. ‘Don't wait on my account, Major. You may go. I'm sure that you will have much to do before you leave us. And Major Stapleton, I would advise you to keep this as quiet as possible. You will also observe that you are under house arrest. Two gentlemen from the Foot Guards will attend you directly outside my tent. And Major, should I so much as catch you in conversation with any officer, my offer will be withdrawn and I will throw you to the wolves. Do you understand?'

Stapleton, who had gone quite white, answered in a barely audible voice, ‘Sir. Yes, I quite understand. Thank you, Colonel. May I ask when I leave?'

‘The sooner the better I think, Major. Don't you? Shall we say at dawn tomorrow for London, by way of Antwerp? Goodbye.'

Twisting a finger through her long fair hair, the little girl picked indifferently with her fork at the pallid, salted herring lying on her plate and turned to the thin, sallow-faced man who sat opposite her, gazing indulgently at her efforts.

‘Daddy, the British won't really fire their guns at us, will they? We are safe here, aren't we?'

Marius Brouwer smiled at his daughter and nodded his head. At the age of five she was already able to understand much of what was said in the house. Sometimes, he thought, too much.

‘Don't worry, Mathilde. The British would never do that to us. They know that in this town there may be many French and many people who support the French, but they also know that there are many people just like us. Good Belgian men and women and children who want the French to leave our country. They will not use their guns against us. If they do attack it will be by land and we must stay locked in our attics and cellars until they win. And don't worry, my darling, the British will win. You want the French to go home, don't you?'

Mathilde nodded her head and looked at her father. His smile told her that she had made the right response.

Marius leant across the table and tousled her hair. ‘Good girl. Leave your plate now, if you don't want it. You've done well enough. Go off and play. Find your sister. She's in the yard. Go on.'

Skipping and singing to herself, Marius's daughter ran off into their tiny yard with its small vegetable patch to find her sister and her rag doll.

Marius's wife, Berthe, crossed the kitchen of the little house on Christian Straat and as she cleared away her daughter's plate and threw the scraps to their old dog, spoke quietly: ‘D'you really think that they will not fire on the town? That's not what you told me last night.'

‘What I tell you and what I tell Mathilde may be very different, dearest. As you know. The British are at war, they will do what they have to. In truth I don't know. I only have what I managed to get from the spy. He has spoken to the English and they speak about attacking after a bombardment. So we must expect the worse. He says that if we hear the bombs coming we must head for the shelters, like any other family. He does believe that they will attack by land. But he also said that he had heard that the ships were being made ready.'

Berthe's face turned deathly white and she stopped tidying the table: ‘Marius, I'm frightened.'

He stood up, walked to her and placed a comforting hand around her slim waist. ‘I know, my darling. But believe me, I trust the British. I don't believe the lies in those papers. Marlborough wants to help us. Anything he does will be in our interest.'

In truth he wished that he did believe what he said was true. That he did not really credit the news-sheets which had recently begun to circulate in the town with their stories that
the British general Marlborough, who had done so much in driving the French out of their country, really did have the interests of the Belgian people at heart. But if any of the new rumours were true then the man was just the same as any other general, any other conqueror, and they would be no better off under his rule, or Dutch rule, than they had been under the French. But that was not what Marius told his wife and his daughter. Those thoughts were only for him and his comrades in the people's movement. He pulled Berthe to him and gave her a long kiss on the lips, then forced himself to break quickly away.

‘Now make sure that Mathilde and Anna stay in the house and if they do start to shell us get to the blockhouse as quickly as you can. The one at the Sluice Bastion. I'll join you there. I must go and see Louise and Hubert. We have to decide on a plan of action when the British enter the town.' He smiled. ‘As they are sure to do. Take care. I won't be long.'

Marius opened the door and walked out into the still of the afternoon. It was a Saturday, the third day of July. Somewhere a small dog was yapping in an upper room and from the surrounding streets he could hear the sound of horses pulling their loaded carts across the cobbles. Overhead the shrill call of the seagulls provided its usual, incessant undertone, so constant that no one noticed it. Apart from that though the town was bathed in the quiet of the afternoon's peace. For it was after five and, apart from little Mathilde, everyone from the governor in his palace to the trades-people around the great town square had finished their dinner long ago and were enjoying what remained of their day of rest and sensibly taking a nap in the summer heat.

Marius crossed the Grote Place and looked up at the French royal standard of the fleur de lys that fluttered from
the pole on the town hall. He was a gentle man at heart and abhorred the violence that so often swept his country. He had a kind, moonshaped face and soft brown eyes. A schoolteacher by calling, he was known for his oratory and outspokenness, although on Sundays he liked nothing better than to spend his day in the church, practising with the choir. Other than that his time was devoted to his family: Mathilde, her three-year-old sister Anna and of course, Berthe. Lately though, something new had stirred within Marius Brouwer. He had felt that he must make an effort to help his people. How, he wondered, could anyone, anyone of feeling, stand by and watch foreigners yet again despoil their land? And so he and a few friends had formed their little group – a movement of the people. Only he and a handful of others. They had christened it
schild ende vriend
– shield and friend – after the famous phrase used by the vengeful people of Bruges in 1302 to tell the French from the Flemish. Back then, at the height of the Flanders revolt, any man unable to pronounce the tongue-twisting phrase had been slaughtered on the spot. The French had been driven to reprisals and had finally been defeated at the Battle of the Golden Spurs, the flower of their nobility cut down. Of course, Marius did not intend to do the same to their current French oppressors. But the phrase made a fine name for their little group and upheld the correct principles. Most importantly, their right to political independence.

Marius would have told you that he hated no one, except in particular the French and the privateers in their employ who had lately transformed even his own godly enclave into such a den of vice. But he was prepared to fight anyone who threatened his principles and his family: French, Spanish, Austrian or British. Anyone who wanted to govern Belgium. For Marius there could only be one Belgium, that ruled by the
Belgian people. It was hard to know who to trust. Recently it had seemed to him that Marlborough had really meant what he had said. But now he was worried. Would the British really bomb the town as they seemed ready to do? By all that was holy, he hoped they would not, had prayed for it last night at the church of St Martin. Although he was sure in his heart that prayer was not necessary. The British were a civilized race – not barbarians. Weren't they?

Leaving Nieuw Straat he turned into the Capuchins quarter and reached the door of the schoolhouse where he taught. He knocked twice, and then three times and it opened. The room was empty save for two figures, a man and a woman. This was the Ostend underground, the people's forces of the Belgian republic. Or at least these were its officers. The other members were scattered about the town and in various farms around Ostend. But Marius and his two friends were the inspiration, the heart of the movement. They were not armed insurrectionists and they certainly could not have looked less like revolutionaries. And as far as they knew, to date, the authorities were unaware of their existence. But perhaps if the time demanded it they would have to fight.

Marius nodded to them. ‘We haven't much time. We must make a plan for when the British take the town.' They said nothing and he noticed the expressions on their faces. Terror. Alarm. His own stomach felt hollow with fear. ‘What's wrong? What is it? What have you heard? Tell me.'

The man looked anxiously at the girl and back at Marius before speaking. ‘Marius, we have to act quickly. The British are without doubt going to open fire on the town. Perhaps tonight. Probably tonight.'

‘How do you know this, Hubert? Who told you? You're certain?'

Hubert Fabritius nodded his head. A legal clerk by profession, he was not in the habit of saying anything unless he knew it to be absolutely the case, a fact of which Marius was only too aware.

‘I have no doubt, Marius. The spy – de Groot – he told me. Only two hours ago. Said he had it direct from a redcoat officer. It's happening Marius. It's happening now.'

Marius looked at the girl, Louise Huber, an expert chocol-atier whose divine creations were particularly in demand with the French garrison. He had known Louise from boyhood, and would have trusted her with his life – as she would him. She said nothing. Tears welled in her eyes. Then she nodded her head.

Marius looked away. Into nothingness: ‘All right. That's it then. We need to get back to our homes and then get everyone into the shelters.' He paused, confused. ‘But what plan do we have? The British could be in the town within hours.'

Louise spoke: ‘Does it really matter, Marius? If that's the case then the French will be defeated. Then we can discuss plans.'

‘You don't think that we need a plan of action? Terms of surrender and occupation? We must compose a petition to Marlborough at least. We need to appoint leaders.'

‘You are our leader.'

‘Fine then. But what of the rest?'

Louise, who had shoulder-length brown hair and was clad in a simple cotton smock dress and a shawl, placed a hand on his arm and flashed her pretty green eyes: ‘Don't worry, Marius. It's more important now that you return to Berthe and the children. You know that we trust you. We believe that you'll know what to do, when the time comes.'

* * *

Steel stood on the highest of the dunes that flanked the road which led into the barred West Gate of Ostend and looked out to sea. He was becoming slightly irritated by the enthusiasm of the young man at his side who was pointing excitedly to the water.

‘Look, sir. That's my ship, the
Triton
, and over there are the bombketches. You can just make them out, captain. See how they sit so low in the water. That's the
Salamander
and there is the
Blast
. What an honour to be allowed to direct their fire. Aren't they magnificent? Well, the
Salamander's
a bit of an old lugger, I will grant you that. Commissioned in '87. But the other one's a beauty. You have to agree, sir. Look, she's ship-rigged. What d'you say to that, sir?'

Steel said nothing, but smiled and nodded, then looked across to Hansam, who had just joined them on the dune, and raised his eyebrows. Hansam caught his gaze and smiled. Clearly, Lieutenant the Honourable George Forbes of her Britannic Majesty's Royal Navy, was in his element. The admiral had placed him here on the shore to direct the fire of the bombships and Forbes considered it a great privilege to have been selected. Although had he known the admiral's real reason for wanting him off the ship – boy's got too much to say for himself. I can't fight alongside him … – he might have thought otherwise. Beside Forbes stood two sailors, signallers from the bombships, equipped with the different coloured and hatched flags which they would raise to indicate the fall of the bombs inside the citadel. It was easier to see from here. Forbes had met Steel at the head of the storming party which now stood assembled on the road and had courteously invited him to watch the bombardment with his informed commentary. And now Steel was beginning to wish that he hadn't accepted.

Steel watched the enthusiastic young officer as he grew
more animated. He was slight of build and spoke in a pleasantly lilting Irish accent which reflected his origins in County Down, where his father the Earl of Granard was a prominent figure. Steel had learnt as much during his first three minutes in the young man's company. He was shorter than Steel and with strong features that spoke of his Celtic roots.

Steel looked away from him and out again into the Channel, following Forbes' outstretched, pointing hand and saw the bombketches bobbing on the water. Behind them they each towed a small tender.

‘You see those smaller boats, tied to the ships. They're packed with spare shells. That's where the men sleep, too. The ships themselves you see are so filled with the mortars and
matériel
. You should see them close to, Captain. Really, you should. Funny thing is, it was the French that invented them, bombships. Of course, those early vessels of theirs were nothing compared to these. Do you know that to aim them one had to move the entire ship by means of a spring anchor. And they only carried two small mortars on their foredeck. Now these beauties have their mortars – sizeable pieces – mounted on a central revolving platform, like so –' He drew in the sand. ‘– in the centre of the ship. All the force of the blast is transmitted directly into the hull, which is reinforced to take it. And how many mortars d'you suppose they carry, sir? Guess, please. Well, I'll tell you. They carry no less than three mortars apiece. You ought to see the destruction they cause. You know the French used bombships first at Genoa in 1684? Terrible waste of ammunition – too many civilian dead.'

Steel let the boy gabble on. Of course he remembered the incident, even though at the time he had been only ten years old. The news had reached their household through an aged uncle with navy connections and it had appalled his family
just as it had the rest of Europe. He remembered sitting in the little schoolroom at Carniston and hearing about the deaths of so many women and children. This wasn't the soldiering that he had been told about. There was no glory in this. From that moment it had been clear to him that the French were bad and looking back he could see how it spoke of Louis' future ambition, of his willingness to do anything it took to take over Europe. Perhaps that was what had first fired him to become a soldier himself; a simple desire to fight the French.