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