Rules of War. Iain Gale

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СКАЧАТЬ grasp his arm. He smiled at Steel, mouthed that it was only a scratch and walked on. Five yards out. Three.

      This was it. Steel half-turned his head to the rear and shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Halt! Blow your matches!’

      The company came to a stop as the Frenchmen, seeing with horror what was about to happen, rushed through the motions of ramming home their musketballs. It was too late.

      Steel smiled and shouted the final command: ‘Throw … grenades.’

      With an easy motion the company hurled their bombs in an overhead action, full-toss directly into the French line. The fuses had been cut to perfection and no sooner had the grenades landed among the tightly-packed enemy than they began to explode. Steel watched awestruck as the shards of metal casing ploughed through the French, mangling flesh and bone and sending men and parts of what had been men in all directions. Looking to the left he could see that the Grenadiers in the centre of the brigade had met with similar success. As the smoke began to clear he saw Argyll climb atop one of the barricades, sword in hand. Steel watched as the duke was struck first by one musketball, then another, but miraculously did not seem to be harmed.

      ‘Grenadiers. With me.’

      There was no time for the bayonet now and Steel’s men knew it. Forgetting the slung fusils across their backs, each of them reached to his side for the short infantry sword carried for just such an assault as this. Then, baying for blood, they climbed the parapet and crashed down upon what was left of the decimated French defenders. Directly in front of him a dark-skinned French infantryman, his off-white coat covered with blood, sank to his knees and begged for his life. Steel walked past him but hardly had he passed than he heard the familiar hiss as behind him a Grenadier drew his sword up into the man’s chin and through the teeth. This was no time for mercy. In his immediate vicinity most of the defenders appeared to be in flight. Ahead and slightly to the right, up a narrow street Steel could see the church and before it a mass of redcoated infantry, standing in two lines, facing him: it looked like the best part of two companies. Their coats were trimmed with yellow and above their heads floated a silken colour. A red cross on a white ground – English. As he watched, from a street to the left of the redcoats there emerged another body of men. They wore dark blue coats and Steel recognized them as Dutch. At their head he could see quite plainly now the figure of Major van Cutzem. How the devil the man had managed to reach the centre of the village before Argyll and Steel, God only knew, but there he was, code of chivarly and all. But Steel’s annoyance turned to amusement as he realized that the Dutch officer’s moment of glory was about to be stolen by the fact that the village had already been occupied by a regiment of English foot.

      He called to Slaughter: ‘Best watch this, Jacob. It would seem that our friend Major van Cutzem is a little late. He hasn’t taken the village. He’s been beaten to it. Now we’ll see some sport.’

      The sergeant peered down the street towards where the two units were standing opposite one another beside the church. His laugh turned to a gasp of horror. ‘Christ almighty. It’s not a bloody argument he’s in for, sir. Look at that standard. They’re not Englishmen, Mister Steel. Those men are Irish.’

      Steel looked again at the device on the colour. He had missed something. But there was no mistaking it now. A red cross on a white ground, and there, in its centre, a gold harp. This was no St George’s Cross, but the flag of an Irish regiment.

      ‘We’ve got to warn him, Jacob.’

      But his words were lost. It was over in an instant.

      As they watched the densely-packed Irish infantry opened up against the bemused Dutch with a well-timed and precise volley. For a moment the street was obscured in white smoke. When it cleared Steel felt sick to the stomach. The Irish volley had ripped into the uncertain Dutch at such close range that hardly a musketball had not found its mark. Fully three score of the Dutch infantry lay dead and dying on the cobbles and there at their head Steel could see the unmistakable, blond-haired figure of Major van Cutzem.

      Slaughter spat on the cobbles: ‘Poor bugger. He can’t have realized.’

      ‘So much for bloody chivalry.’

      The Irish gave out a cheer, but they did not pursue the retreating Dutch survivors. This was impressive stuff. They looked as if they meant to stand and if the allies were to secure this place, Steel knew he would have to take the fight to them.

      ‘Tarling, Hancock, Mackay. Each of you find ten men and follow me. Sarn’t Slaughter, find the others, and Mister Hansam. Tell them we have business at the church.’

      With the thirty men following close behind, Steel moved quickly up the street towards the red-clad infantry, who held their fire. He could see the colour more clearly. A white ground bearing a red cross; yellow facings and a red cross – Irish Jacobites. He knew these men now: Clare’s regiment. Dragoons originally, now converted to a regiment of foot. Their commander was the exiled Viscount Clare, Charles O’Brien. Steel had known O’Brien once, in what seemed now a previous life, before the Jacobites had charmed the young Irishman across to their ranks with talk of the right of kings and divine monarchy. Then they had both been younger. Two impressionable ensigns of foot, fighting the French in a place called Neerwinden where the river fed down to the sea and where King William’s British army had run from the French with its tail between its legs and left six thousand men dead on the field. How far they had come since then, he thought. And what quirk of fate, he wondered, had brought Clare to face him here.

      At forty yards out from the Irishmen, Steel halted the Grenadiers. There were around thirty up with him now. It was hardly a fair fight. Thirty against nigh on a hundred men. Perhaps it might be more prudent to wait for assistance. But then, Steel was not noted for his caution.

      ‘Grenadiers, uncap your fuses.’ They would do it the hard way.

      Slaughter looked at him quizzically. ‘Do we attack, sir?’

      ‘What else can we do? Have the men light their bombs.’

      Slaughter had barely opened his mouth to deliver the command when with a great shout, from a small street to the right, Argyll and the best part of two companies of his vengeful Scots infantry burst out and crashed into the flank of the Irishmen.

      ‘Bugger the grenades, Sarn’t.’ He raised his voice. ‘Unsling your fusils. Company, fix bayonets.’

      The Grenadiers carefully replaced their bombs in the leather pouches and with a swift motion twisted the new-fangled socket bayonets on to the muzzles of their fusils.

      ‘With me. Charge!’

      With his own gun still slung across his back and his great sword raised high above his head, Steel began to run towards the mêlée at the end of the street. Argyll’s men had come round the side and front of the Irish line and partly blocked their view of Steel, who seized the chance. Reaching the line he threw himself into the crush and connected with an ensign of Irish dragoons who extended his sword-arm and lunged at Steel’s chest. He parried away the cut with ease and dealt the boy a blow with the hilt of his sword which knocked him out cold and sent him to the ground.

      Steel hissed at Slaughter: ‘By God, Jacob. I wouldn’t like to be one of Clare’s men. You know Argyll believes them to be the devil’s soldiers.’

      He saw the duke wielding a Highland broadsword almost as heavy as his own. His face was frozen in a rictus of fury and he was chopping his way through a forest of Irishmen, severing limbs and heads as he went.

      Argyll caught СКАЧАТЬ