Steel rode at the head of the company, keeping the little bay mare at a steady pace up the wide cobbled street. While being careful to keep his face firmly to the front, he was aware that on either side of him, from the open windows of their red brick or half-timbered houses, the people of the Upper Town of Brussels, men and women of all ranks and ages, craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the great army that it seemed had so transformed their country. Fathers balanced babies on their shoulders and women blew kisses at the unshaven, dirt-spattered redcoats who tramped the stones and the lacebedecked officers who rode at their head. It was Friday 28 May. A mere five days after the battle which had so swiftly propelled the French from the Netherlands, and Steel’s Grenadiers marched proudly at the head of Farquharson’s regiment, in the centre of one of the longest processions of soldiers which the population of this great city had ever seen. Flowers rained down upon the heads of the troops, some of whom stooped down mid-pace to pick them from the ground and tucked them into their coats until the army began to look as if it were part of some great pagan festival.
In a sense it was. Marlborough had been given the freedom of the city by the Estates of Brabant and, having for four days pushed his men on in pursuit of the French, was now of the opinion that they needed and deserved a rest. The news had spread quickly and the taverns and bordellos of the city lay open for business. Their proprietors knew what the soldiers wanted, for in this part of Europe, this ill-fated avenue of blood, every major town had long ago become used to the needs of a conquering army. One look at the men who now entered its streets was enough to tell every publican and madam that just as soon as the pomp and formality were ended, they were, all of them, going to do a roaring trade.
Steel looked from side to side, acknowledging the shouts and salutes. They passed out of the street, turning right past a towering Gothic church. They were moving steadily downhill and ahead of them the street opened out into a wide, elegant square. Passing a tavern, Steel saw that its door was guarded by one of the biggest men he had ever seen, a civilian, but a man who would certainly not have looked out of place in the ranks of the Grenadiers. He noticed that the same was true of every one of the inns which lay around the square and knew that, for all their weariness of battle, few of the soldiers in this army would pass a peaceful night. If there was any sight uglier than an army without leaders, there was nothing as unruly as a victorious army given up to the temptations of the flesh. He was not one to deny his men their pleasures. But he knew too what the morning would bring. Heavy heads, absences from the ranks, broken jaws and punishment parades. And then in the coming weeks the cases of the pox, harlots claiming injury and new women – camp followers – bearing their screaming bundles of humanity and claiming fathers for their bastards.
Steel knew. He had seen it time and time again. But he would do nothing to prevent it. Could not – debauchery was in their blood. As much a part of soldiering as was standing in line under fire and doing for your enemy before he put an end to you. It was just another part of the world he loved and he would have it no other way. Sometimes though he wished that his men could exercise a little more discretion.
He turned to Hansam, who was riding at his side, waving a white lace handkerchief at one of the prettiest of the girls. ‘You will notice, Henry, how quickly a people can always come to love us. But you will also recall that it is not generally so.’
‘The army is always unpopular, Jack. Especially at home. We take the blame for all ills. To the government this war is a drain. Our men are a burden on society, and ever drunk and debauched.’ He took a pinch of snuff from a silver box and dabbed at his nose: ‘We are little loved.’
‘All the more important then for us to relish such adulation when we can, eh?’ Steel waved his hand at a group of pretty girls who were leaning out from a first-floor window so that their lowcut dresses showed a good deal more than usual décolletage.
Hansam saw his gaze: ‘I believe that you may have a mind for dalliance this evening, Jack. I swear, since your German girl went off with that man in the cavalry, I have scarce seen you in the company of women.’
Steel smiled and thought about his ‘German girl’. Conjured her face in his mind; Louisa Weber. He had not thought of her for some days. But when he did it was never without a twinge of heartache. At one point, after Blenheim, he had thought that they might settle. But Spain had called him away and now she was lost to him.
‘Don’t worry, Henry, I am not melancholy. Besides, you did not see me in Spain, this past year.’ He thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Although you know that Louisa’s betrayal was a deep hurt to me.’
He smiled again as one of the girls took a favour, a piece of pink lace, from within the scoop of her bosom and threw it towards him. He caught it. ‘Yes. Perhaps tonight I shall allow myself a little female company. I seem to have been in that of men for so long I have forgot what it is like to see a face that does not need a hot razor taken to it.’
Hansam laughed above the clatter of their horses’ hooves on the cobbles. ‘Well, you had better not form any too lasting a relationship. I cannot think that the duke intends us to delay here for long.’
‘Calm yourself, Henry. I do not intend to fall in love. Merely to find a little amusement.’ He turned in the saddle to speak to Williams, who, as a junior officer, was marching on foot at the head of the men directly behind him. ‘What say you, Tom? Shall we find an alehouse this evening or should it be more of an amorous soirée among the ladies of the town?’
The ensign blushed and Slaughter, who was walking alongside him, his sergeant’s halberd resting on his shoulder, raised his eyebrows. Williams replied, ‘I … I think that we should be pleased to … to please the ladies, sir.’
Steel laughed, but not cruelly. ‘You wish to please the ladies, do you? Aye, Tom. I’m sure that they will be mightily pleased with you too.’ He made sure that his voice would be heard at least by the front few ranks of the Grenadiers and continued: ‘In fact if we should find us some ladies then we shall all be sure to please them all right.’
As he had hoped, the men in the front few files cheered and muttered ribald remarks. It was good for morale. Tease the ensign, make him blush and let the men see that although you were an officer and a gentleman you were on their level in some things at least. An officer must have a human edge. That was one of the tricks of leadership.
Hansam spoke: ‘I do not know where you will find your concubines, Jack. Although I do hear that here in the Upper Town the people speak mostly French and are of … refined persuasions.’
‘In that case, Henry, d’you not think that it’s down there in the Lower Town that we ought to look.’
The comment, again in a deliberately raised voice, brought another loud cheer from the men which turned to laughter as, turning sharply to the right, as directed by one of the English dragoons who had been posted as marshals throughout the town, they passed a small bronze statue of a naked boy. It was a fountain, fashioned in such a way that its spouting water made it appear that the boy was relieving himself into the street. Soon the entire regiment was convulsed.
Steel turned to Hansam: ‘If that work of art is indicative of the coarseness of the native humour then I do believe that we might all be in for a stimulating evening’s sport, Henry. I don’t think that long-term attachments will be on tonight’s menu, do you?’
The streets had become narrower now as they entered the Lower Town and as they continued, the men’s laughter, loud as it was, was drowned by the roars of the civilian crowd, who mobbed the redcoats, pressing forward even further than before.
Williams shouted up to Steel, ‘Do you hear how they’re cheering for the British, sir?’
Steel shook his head: ‘They’re not cheering for us because we’re British soldiers, Tom. They’re cheering because we beat the bloody French. D’you hear their accent, Tom? They’re not speaking French any more. That’s Flemish. They’re cheering because we’re not French and we’re not Spaniards, nor even Dutch. They’re cheering because at long last they believe that they might have a chance to be bloody Belgians. They don’t give a tuppenny toss who we are as long as they’re free.’
Hansam agreed: ‘The captain’s right, Tom. Our illustrious commander has brought this people liberty from the French if they want it and that’s not something they’ll give up lightly again. How does it feel, to have given a nation back its freedom?’
Williams smiled: ‘I think I might develop a liking for it, sir.’
Steel saw that the young ensign had caught sight of a pretty girl at the side of the street who was throwing flowers to the soldiers and that she appeared to have returned his gaze. He shouted down to him above the din. ‘And so you should, Tom. I do believe that even Sarn’t Slaughter might enjoy a little of the victor’s spoils.’
Steel looked to his rear and saw that Slaughter too was smiling broadly and waving his hand in acknowledgement of the rapturous cries. In his arms he cradled a huge bouquet of tulips and his face had been kissed so many times that rouge had rubbed off on to his stubble.
Steel guffawed. ‘You’ve got a public, Jacob. They love you. If I didn’t know better I would take you for one of the actresses at the Queen’s Theatre in the Haymarket. One of the prettier ones, of course. Why Sergeant, you’re the image of pretty Mrs Oldfield herself.’
The men took the rare chance to laugh at their sergeant and as Slaughter smiled and cursed, Steel turned back to Williams: ‘Make the most of it, lad. Tomorrow they might be chasing us from the town.’
The boy was just wondering how he might go about finding the girl later in the day when a raven-haired woman old enough to be his mother rushed forward from the crowd and flinging her arm around his slender waist kissed him full on the lips. Around him the Grenadiers cheered and whistled. When Williams eventually contrived his release his face was bright red.
Steel laughed. ‘That’s it, Tom. Please the ladies. Show them what a British officer’s made of.’ The front of the column was pouring out of the end of the street now and Steel, seeing a gaggle of senior mounted officers up ahead, called back to his men, ‘Face front. In your own time, Sarn’t. Restore the men to order, if you will.’
Ahead of them the Grand Place opened out from the street and the Grenadiers filed into position alongside the other regiments formed up in its square. Directly opposite them stood the town hall which along with half a score of semi-derelict buildings still bore evidence of the terrible French bombardment of over a decade ago. It was clear though that the city’s burghers had spared no expense on rebuilding. With crow-stepped and curved gables and ornate marble façades, these buildings were as much a statement of political intent and independent spirit, thought Steel, as they were works of architecture.
Brought to order by their sergeants, the men were marching proudly now, trying as best they could to keep in step in the way the new training manual required. Steel saw that the wide square was filled with troops of all the nations which made up this polyglot allied army. English, Scots and Danes in their bright red, the Dutch and Prussians in blue and the units of other smaller states. Above their heads the brightly-coloured silks of the colours and standards snapped and fluttered in the summer breeze. The drums had been assembled en masse along the west side of the square and were beating out an almost unbearably loud, cacophonous tattoo, which all but drowned the cheers of the crowd which pushed and jostled for room against the houses around the Grand Place to find a better view of the great and the good.
They marched deeper into the square, past a mounted aide who, just as he might have done at Horse Guards, was signalling them where to take position. As swiftly and deftly as any regiment in the army, they moved from column into line and formed up slightly to the left of the Guards. Steel calmed his nervous mount with a gentle pat to the shoulder and surveyed the scene.
To the left of the drummers, before the town hall, a high grandstand had been erected on wooden poles and there, under a red velvet canopy, sat a group of soberly dressed men in black, evidently government dignitaries. To their left and at a short distance sat the commander himself with his entourage. Steel gazed for a moment at Marlborough’s placid, weather-beaten face and wondered how one man had achieved so much in a few years. The French were on the run and Flanders almost taken. But Steel knew that this war was far from over. Louis was not yet beaten. What great plan, he wondered was even now forming in that agile mind?
Up on the dais, Marlborough raised his hand to the crowd and another great cheer went up. Hawkins turned to him and said, in a whisper, ‘You are their saviour, Your Grace.’
‘So, Hawkins, it would seem.’
‘I suggest that you savour the moment, sir. I fear that it may not be a lasting sentiment.’
Marlborough frowned. ‘Yes, I am quite aware of that. This ceremonial is all very well. But it is not war.’
‘Most certainly, Your Grace. But I suspect that it is far from over.’
Hawkins pointed across the square, where from a side-street there now issued a long procession of men in a bizarre assortment of dress.
Marlborough rubbed his eyes and spoke in a whisper. ‘What the devil? What now? James, what on earth is that?’
‘As I understand it, Your Grace, it is the customary way of honouring a visiting head of state. The men of the guilds and the parlement will parade in medieval dress in a re-enactment of a rite of feudal allegiance.’
Hawkins was right. Both men saw now that the members of the procession were dressed in full suits of armour while boys walking alongside them wore the uniforms of squires and heralds.
Marlborough smiled and waved and hissed under his breath: ‘How long now, d’you suppose?’
‘One hour. Maybe two.’
Marlborough brightened: ‘And then we may leave?’
‘Until we dine, Your Grace.’
‘And then?’
‘I am very much afraid, My Lord, that they intend us to enjoy more of the same.’
The food had been cleared although the glasses, half-filled with wine and brandy, still remained. Within the small, striped campaign tent, which had been hastily erected by his footmen at the rear of the grandstand on the Grand Place, Marlborough stood over a map-covered table, surrounded by his aides and senior officers.
He shook his head: ‘What bliss, to gain but a moment’s peace from those prattling merchants.’
Hawkins spoke: ‘They mean well, sir. They do you honour.’
Marlborough glared at him: ‘Honour? What do they know of honour? They know nothing more of honour than they have read in a book. The honour that I know is that found on a field of battle. This is politics, James. Politics and damned provincial, continental politics at that. This is not my way.’
‘They have declared support for the true king, sir. For Charles III, the true King of Spain.’
‘Which is, I grant you, our purpose in this war. But what am I to do. I must act, but how? Am I to become Governor of Belgium myself? That was never a part of my plan. Do I declare the country independent? The Austrians are our allies and we should support their claim to government. But I am persuaded that there is deep intrigue here which I do not as yet understand. There is a movement that would have independence from all foreign crowns, Spanish, French and Austrian, a body of opinion that would have a free Belgian state. But gentlemen, surely that way anarchy lies. If we grant such powers to a state over which sovereignty has been held by ancient dynasties then who is to say what other states will take notice? What of Ireland? And how do we match such an action with the talk of union with Scotland now current at home and so sorely desired by the queen? We must argue against separation, not in its favour.’ He lowered his voice: ‘Moreover, our spies tell me that there are men out there willing to fight and to die for such a principle. Either we are with them or we are against them. And if we are against them then they will surely harry us.’
He looked at Hawkins. ‘What am I to do, James? What would you do? London is too distant to ask for help and even The Hague has not answered me. I know that these people now see me as their saviour. But mark me – there will soon come a time when we move on and they will be left to the mercies of the Dutch. And what shall they call me then? This great victory is no more than Pyrrhic, this vaunted liberty only temporary. Yes, we may have saved the Belgians from French dominion, but only to sell them off to the Dutch. Now we are camped in the very heart of their country and our war will lay waste their land. I tell you that the same Dutchmen who now welcome me here will soon again be battling with the French who already offer them a line of forts which will isolate our trade.’ He slammed his fist down on the table and held his other hand to his head. ‘These damned headaches. It is too much for one man to bear.’
Cadogan placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps, sir, It would be prudent to return to the festivities. We have been away overlong.’
Marlborough rounded on his friend: ‘Dammit, William. Will they not let me be? I am a soldier. Must I keep reminding you of all people of that? I have had my fill of these dour politicians and worthies. We must continue our pursuit of the French. My God, we may chase them back to Paris now if we have a mind to and capture the old king himself, on his gilded throne at Versailles. We must above all cut Marshal Villeroi’s lines of communication and to this purpose it is my intention to pass the Scheldt at Gavre.’
Cadogan spoke: ‘Your Grace, you must appreciate that we find ourselves in the most delicate of situations. We are assured both by our agents and those gentlemen through there, that a handful of the most sizeable of Belgian towns still remain in French hands. That is to say that their townspeople still support the French. All that it would take to have them rise in arms would be one incident. One spark put to the powder-keg and it might become a civil war. Perhaps a three-way struggle if you count in the independent Belgians. And then what, Your Grace? Should we then be in pursuit of the French, no matter how great our success, with foes to our rear and indeed all about us, we shall be in grave danger of losing our means of supply. Before anything of the sort is allowed to happen, we must secure a port. It is my duty to you, My Lord, as quartermaster-general to insist on no less.’
He paused, made sure that Marlborough’s fury had abated and continued: ‘For the sake of our national integrity and to prevent the Dutch from taking our trade, we must have Ostend. Dunkirk and Ostend must be taken and once they are in our hands they must not be lost again. My Lord, you are as aware as I that there is a flotilla of the Royal Navy currently riding in the Channel awaiting just such an eventuality. Their captain himself is with us this day in Brussels. George Forbes, the Earl of Granard. He awaits your word. He has gunboats and bombships expressly designed for just such an assault. We can lay waste the port of Ostend or at least support an attack by land to force its surrender. It is the obvious direction in which to focus our labours.’
Marlborough spoke, calmly now: ‘Yes, James. I do know that and I have indeed made the acquaintance of My Lord Granard. An amiable fellow, if somewhat over-eager to prove the ballistic capabilities of his vessels.’ He smiled at Cadogan: ‘It was most propitious of you, William to have procured the assistance of the navy. And I agree with you fully that Ostend is a prime objective.’ He flashed another knowing smile at the quartermaster-general. ‘And so, you will in the end have the better of your French privateers.’
The other officers grinned. Cadogan coloured and raised his voice. ‘Sir, they took all my possessions. Every single last item. The money. Fifty thousand crowns destined for the army. And a parcel of jewels belonging to My Lady. Even my private correspondence.’
Hawkins interjected, grinning. ‘Some of which, I understand, Cadogan, was then published in Paris. A most amusing read. Something about a …’
Marlborough pretended to glare at him: ‘Really, Hawkins. I hardly think …’
‘I am sorry, Your Grace.’
Cadogan recovered his temper: ‘As I was saying, Your Grace, we must take Ostend. We must avail ourselves of a port of supply … and curtail the activities of the privateers once and for all.’
Hawkins interjected: ‘It does occur to me that there may be but one problem.’
‘James?’
‘Well, Your Grace. Far be it from me to doubt my own commander and I sincerely mean you no disrespect in this matter.’ He scratched his head: ‘But have you thought carefully enough as to exactly how we are to take Ostend? Oh yes, you know as I do that it was fortified by Vauban some ten years back. It has forts, gabions, ramparts crammed with cannon. It is in fact a classic example of Vauban’s great art with application to the coast, using the sea as natural defence on one side and manmade entrenchments on the other. That is one thing. We can besiege such a town. You are the master of such siegecraft. And we have the cannon. But have you thought of its garrison?’ Marlborough narrowed his eyes as Hawkins went on. ‘Oh yes, you may bombard it with gunships and assault it from land. But believe me, I know that town. Ostend is a nest of wasps. It is a northern St Malo from which the French privateers creep out to take our shipping and whose streets and alleyways will make you pay a high price in men. Higher even than at the Schellenberg. And I know that you can never forget the slaughter there nor the effect of taking that bloody hill upon your popularity at home.’
It was Cadogan now who raised his voice: ‘Yet we must take it.’
Lord Orkney, who up till now had remained silent, spoke up: ‘As I recall, I did, when we spoke of this matter before, name Lord Argyll as a man who might lead such an attack. But now I am given to understand that the majority of the enemy in Ostend will be pirates. Have I grasped this correctly, Lord Cadogan? You would fight French privateers, pirates, on their home territory? Fight them in the streets of Ostend, with formed infantry?’
‘If that is what it takes.’
‘You would engage bandits with regular troops?’
‘If it be so.’
Orkney shook his head and laughed: ‘My dear Cadogan, you are as aware as I am that such a thing cannot be done. Your regular infantryman is a simple creature. A pressed-into-service, drink and whoreing driven dimwit. He is trained by rote and kept to it by the lash. Your redcoat is simply not capable of fighting in the way that such men fight. They’re privateers, My Lord. Ruddy pirates, man. Each of them carries his own arsenal, has his own dirty tricks. They’re skilled in the art of one-to-one combat in a way that our boys simply are not. They fight to the death and offer no quarter.’
The last words made Cadogan turn away. Hawkins began again, turning slowly to Marlborough: ‘What we might do though Your Grace, if you and Lord Orkney will allow me, and begging Lord Cadogan’s pardon, is to use a certain amount of guile to enter the port. Contrive to place a man or men inside the port and storm it from within and without at the same time. And use in the first instance a specially chosen forlorn hope. A hope that, if you pardon my expression, would really have some hope in such a situation. A unit trained to fight as individuals. To use their own initiative. Not even the wiliest of privateers would outwit such a deception in league with such a body of men.’
Marlborough thought and then nodded. ‘You’re right, James. And you mentioned before the officer who might effect just such a plan.’ Marlborough smiled. ‘Yes, James. I think that perhaps if anyone could manage it then it will be that man. He has always seemed to me to display a level head and sound judgement.’
‘I would call him a trifle headstrong, Your Grace.’
‘Indeed, sir. Nothing was ever achieved in battle, James, without officers taking initiative. He is also of admirably sober character, I believe.’
Hawkins nodded. ‘Oh yes, sir. He is admirably sober. You’re right there. Jack Steel is our man. You could not do any better.’
Clutching the bottle of heavy, Rhenish wine in one hand and holding his glass in the other by its stem, Steel leaned back in the wooden dining chair and took care to pour himself another generous measure before taking in the scene. The little panelled room stank of wine, sweat and sex. In that degree. It was not perhaps the most debauched gathering of which he had ever been a part, but it was certainly worthy of record. Tom Williams sat next to him, his right leg propped on the tabletop, his left on a drum. His coat lay open and his shirt front had been undone by a pretty girl with doll-like features and rather too many beauty spots for comfort, who was running her fingers over his chest as she whispered into his ear. Whatever it was she said, in French presumably, the ensign was too inebriated to be affected. Steel, although he knew that he himself was none too sober, was keeping a close eye on the boy. It was all too easy to have your pocket picked in such a place as this and even though the girls seemed genuine enough, there was no sure way of knowing their true purpose.
Across the round oak table another of the young women was lying in a drunken stupor while beside her Lieutenant Laurent, the regiment’s French Huguenot officer, was well advanced in his own amorous adventure, his hand tucked inside her companion’s dress and his lips clamped firmly over her mouth. Next to him Lieutenant McInnery appeared to be winning a game of backgammon, which was fortunate, thought Steel. For when he was beaten the lieutenant generally had a mind to kill his opponent.
In the far corner of the room an ancient man and an ugly, toothless hag plucked away at a harp and a guitar to serenade the company and from time to time the innkeeper or his rotund wife would arrive through the open door bearing wine and plates of food which none of the officers had ordered but which they would find in the morning had all been diligently charged to their accounts. The wall behind them, whose drab, olive-coloured paint, touched by the flickering shadows, had become faded and yellow with pipe smoke, was dominated by a large painting in the Dutch style of the young god Bacchus being seduced by a pair of half-naked dryads. It was a fitting parallel for their own scene, he thought, if a little more wanton.
As he gazed at the painting, the girl seated beside him, who for the past five minutes had been toying with the buttons of Steel’s breeches, to no avail, leaned over and pressed her ample bosom closer to his face.
‘Je vous désire, mon capitaine. Now. Yes?’
Steel stared at her. She smiled and pushed at the lace-trimmed top of her dress so that it fell further down her cleavage, and whispered to him: ‘You see, Jack, how the lace of my dress just covers the tips of my breasts? Or … perhaps it does not, quite. Yes? Is that better? It is the latest fashion. Le tout Paris is wearing such gowns.’
She pressed closer to him until Steel could smell her breath. It reeked of wine and as she moved to kiss him he caught her musky odour mixed with the lavender oil which she had applied a little over-liberally. Steel avoided her kiss and as he did so, Laurent, who was sitting directly opposite grinned and spoke: ‘From where I sit madam, there is not very much of your gown to wear at all.’ The girl giggled, muttered a French expletive and pretended to slap his face.
They had taken accommodation and two private dining rooms on the upper floor of the Roi d’Espagne, an inn on the Grand Place and for the last three hours had been enjoying the local cuisine washed down by a generous amount of wine and in the company of several ladies to whom they had been introduced at an assembly that afternoon in the city’s Guild Hall. Steel’s attentions had gradually devolved upon this pretty, French-speaking blonde from the Upper Town. Her name as he recalled was Mathilde Remy. Her father she had said was a grain merchant, a man of some importance. Mathilde was all of seventeen, but with her comely figure she might have been anything from fifteen to thirty. She was pretty enough and on some nights there was nothing better than a pretty girl to take you away from the horrors of the battlefield.
He raised the half-full glass to his lips, took a sip and realized that he had drunk his fill of wine. He rose unsteadily to his feet: ‘Ladies, gentlemen, I bid you goodnight.’
Williams looked up at him, glassy-eyed. His face was covered in rouge marks in the shape of lips and both his shirt and breeches were undone.
Steel groaned and shook his head: ‘Oh God, Tom. Please, I beg you. Do not go too far. Although I guess you are now too drunk to cause any serious damage. Or even to comprehend what I am saying to you. Remember, I expect you at six. No later.’ He turned to Hansam: ‘Henry. This young man is in your care now. Look after him.’
Hansam smiled, waved good-naturedly, mouthed good-night and returned to his own business in hand which was with a mature and experienced-looking brunette who claimed that she was descended from Charles the Bold and seemed determined to prove it. Williams attempted to salute and not realizing that he had a half-full glass in his hand merely succeeded in drenching himself in the overpriced wine. His companion called for another bottle.
Mathilde gazed up at Steel. He met her eyes, nodded and gave her his hand to help her to her feet. Leaving the room, they climbed the few uneven wooden stairs to the level above and found his modest bedroom. He lit the candle on the dressing chest and closed the door, before removing his boots, stockings, breeches, waistcoat and shirt. Then he turned and saw the Paris gown draped over a chair and Mathilde lying naked on the bed. He felt not only desire, but an intense sense of relief, washing over him. In one rare moment it banished from his troubled mind all thoughts of soldiering and responsibility and promotion and prestige and reminded him that this, like any night, might be his last.
Later, drowsing in the shadows thrown by the thin, pale light that crept beneath the door, Steel was roused by muffled voices which seemed to come from the fireplace. In the room below them someone was talking loudly and the noise was carrying up the chimney. It was an English voice, one that he did not recognize but from its tone he knew it must be an officer.
‘And I tell you, sir, that he is misguided. I am aware that you know that full well yourself. And you know too that should we continue to pursue this campaign in the Low Countries rather than in Spain where as we speak young Mordaunt’s father My Lord Peterborough directs his own campaign with half the army, then we are lost.’ Steel could place the voice now. It belonged to Major Charles Frampton, adjutant of his own regiment, Farquharson’s. Extracting himself from Mathilde’s arms, Steel rose from the bed and, naked and shivering, crouched down in the darkness and pressed his ear to the chimney to listen more closely. From his slurred delivery, Frampton appeared to be even more drunk than Williams. There was no denying though that his words sounded like dissent and Steel strained to hear more against the din of the dreadful musicians and the general hubbub from below. Such views were not of course, unusual among Marlborough’s officers. Everyone had his own opinion on how a campaign should be conducted. It was the same in all armies, although at present Steel was only too aware that there was a considerable movement which held the view that the war should be fought not here in Flanders, but in Spain. Hadn’t one such attempt to discredit the duke and do just that almost cost him his own life only two years ago? But Frampton? Surely the man could do no real harm. It still irked him that such men, whom in battle he would trust with his life, could be so openly disloyal to their commander. Particularly now, after such a glorious victory. Marlborough was hailed as a victor and Frampton’s addled wishes must be no more than the daydreams of a lost cause.
Frampton again raised his voice: ‘I tell you, a civil war in the Netherlands could mean the end for all Marlborough’s grand intentions. The war would move in its entirety to Spain at last. You and I would gain by it and be with old friends. My Lord Peterborough is the commander we need. Not this damned Churchill.’
Steel smiled at Frampton’s derogatory use of Marlborough’s family name.
A second voice spoke now and told Frampton to shut up. Steel did not recognize the man, although he was certainly another officer, with a slight lisp, it seemed.
‘Frampton, you’d do best to keep a level tongue in your head. Even here.’
‘But I know that Mordaunt is with us. Stands to reason, he’s Peterborough’s son. And we might count on the support of Argyll. He has no great love for the captain-general and he’d rather be in Spain. More Catholics to kill.’
Both men laughed. Steel wondered about Mordaunt. He knew that he had been forbidden by Marlborough from marrying his daughter. Surely though, the man was too brave a soldier to be swayed by personal bitterness. Argyll though seemed a more probable prospect.
The second man was speaking again now. ‘In truth, I am convinced that civil war would spell our commander’s downfall. It falls to us to strike the spark. A few pamphlets ought to do it. It will need no more. This country is as volatile as a powder keg.’
‘But what shall it say, this pamphlet? How are we to damn Marlborough’s virtue? After such a victory?’
‘We have no need to worry about that. He may have routed the French from this land, but he has filled it with more soldiers. Our coats may be of a different colour, but we are soldiers all the same, and the people here, for all their smiles and thank yous, do not trust the military. Our pamphlet requires merely the information that during the campaign in Bavaria, before Blenheim, the duke made it his personal business to lay waste the entire country. Whole populations were driven out, their homes and farms burned to the ground. You need only draw on your worst imaginings and amplify them. Such things did happen, for all we know. But for our purposes who is to know that Marlborough himself did not plan them in detail? It is certain that once a thing is committed to print it is nigh on impossible to undo its truth in people’s minds. We do not sign the sheet, but say that it is from “a friend”. Marlborough and his generals and, I dare say the British as a whole, are not to be trusted. Believe me, Frampton, such a scheme will undermine the bold commander quicker than any army sent by King Louis. It will set Flamand against Walloon afresh and provoke a general revolt too against the British army. The Dutch may secede from the army and who knows what the Danes and Hessians will do? And we must not forget to play to their religion. Remember that the people of the southern Netherlands are Catholic. They abhor Calvinism and will thus resent any Dutch attempt to unify their country into the state that it was before the Reformation. Our task will be made doubly simple.’
Steel listened more closely. While Frampton might be nothing more than a garrulous drunk his companion seemed in deadly earnest, and now he was into his stride.
‘All that we need is a man to print and publish the sheets. But we must act fast. Marlborough will not want to stay here sitting on his arse for longer than he must. You and I will write the stuff. Money is no object, our friends in London have seen to that. Trust once broken is hard to repair, and what Marlborough needs now is the trust of these people. Without that his great ambitions have no whit of a chance. For all its glory, his great victory will be as naught. And when the time comes, there will be willing officers ready to take command under Peterborough. You and I, Frampton. Argyll, Mordaunt and whoever else has the soundness of mind to join us. And there will be many. By the time we’re done with him Churchill will wish the French were still masters here.’
The voices faded; Steel returned to bed, turning over in his mind the implications of what he had overheard. He did not sleep.