Jack Steel Adventure Series Books 1-3: Man of Honour, Rules of War, Brothers in Arms. Iain Gale
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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.’
Steel did not bother telling Jennings how hard a decision it had been to abandon the wagons temporarily on the road with a skeleton guard as they marched at double-time to his rescue. Nor of his disappointment to discover that it was none other than Jennings for whom they had risked their security. For what troubled Steel more than either of these matters was what the devil Jennings was doing there.
‘Indeed, Steel. It would seem that I do owe you thanks. Who were they d’you suppose? Not regulars, certainly. But why should the peasantry be provoked to attack?’
‘Haven’t you noticed the smoke, Major? They’re being burnt out of their homes. All their possessions destroyed. And it’s our men who are doing it. What would you do in similar circumstances?’
Jennings demurred. ‘They’re peasants. No more. They deserve everything we gave them. A dozen of my men dead, a score more wounded. And by nothing more than damned peasants.’
‘If they’re peasants, Major, they’re peasants good enough to take on the British army and damned near win. Would it be presumptious, Major Jennings, to ask how you come to be here? Are you come for us? Are we to be recalled?’
Jennings sensed the concern in Steel’s voice: ‘Oh no, Steel. We are come for you but you are to proceed as ordered. We are merely here to assist you.’
He paused, aware of the irony. ‘Colonel Hawkins asked me to follow you. He had been given intelligence that there were considerable numbers of Bavarian troops operating in this area and feared that you might be hard-pressed.’
Steel smiled, as determined not to let go the truth of their situation as Jennings was to ignore it.
‘It would seem then, Major, that what we have is a case of the apparently helpless coming to the aid of the rescuer.’
Jennings looked at him, stony faced.
Another thought entered Steel’s befuddled brain. ‘Colonel Hawkins sent you?’
‘Indeed.’
Steel was not sure whether to feel reassured or insulted. Did Hawkins not consider him capable of carrying out the task? Or was there truly a threat of greater numbers? And it struck him that it was curious that the Colonel should have sent Jennings rather perhaps than Hansam to his relief, when he was only too aware of their bitter enmity. He frowned and nodded at Jennings.
‘It is as well that you are here. It would not do to fail in this mission.’
Jennings smiled at him, strangely, and cursed under his breath. For with their rescue came the bitter truth that there was now little chance of his reaching Kretzmer before Steel and relieving him of the papers.
‘No