Looking up, he could see Williams getting to his feet. His face was covered with rivulets of blood and he was standing as groggy as a drunk. One of the Grenadiers, Mackay, placed a hand beneath the Lieutenant’s arm and Steel tried to stand. As he put the weight on his right leg a searing pain shot through his calf. He looked down and saw for the first time the extent of the damage done by Jennings’ blade.
‘Bugger.’
He looked at Mackay.
‘Where is he?’
‘Who, Sir?’
‘Major Jennings, man. Did you get him?’
‘He’s gone back to the fight, Sir. Told us the Frenchies had killed you.’
‘Like hell he has. Major Jennings is a traitor.’
So, Jennings had escaped. Steel panicked. He reached inside his coat for the packet and, as he had known he would, felt nothing. He had known Jennings to be bad, but a traitor on this scale? It had not entered his wildest imaginings. Through the mist of his agonizing headache he heard the sounds of battle. Christ almighty. They were still fighting the French. It began to come back to him.
‘Williams. Are you all right?’
The Ensign was sitting on the window ledge, swaying slightly, staunching the flow of blood from his head and leg.
‘I think so, Sir.’
‘Stay there. You, Tarling, stay with him. Mackay, you come with me.’
Steel picked up his sword from where it lay on the ground, grabbed the gun and limped off with the Grenadier along the narrow alleyway. Ahead of them the sounds of fighting grew ever louder. It was true. God alone knew how, but they were still holding out.
As he approached, Slaughter caught sight of him.
‘Told you I was going nowhere, Sir.’
Steel looked down the street over piles of dead and wounded, mostly hussars. Body parts lay strewn upon the cobbles and blood had spattered the walls of the houses on either side. In three places the road surface had disintegrated.
‘Don’t tell me. You used the grenades.’
‘Like I said, Sir. I wasn’t going anywhere. Besides, Thorogood here used to play cricket for his parish. He threw the bombs when the hussars were forty paces off. Should’ve seen it, Mister Steel.’
‘Can we do it again?’
‘Only three bombs left. Reckon one more time if we need to. If we’re lucky. What happened to you, Sir? You look bad.’
‘Major Jennings.’
‘The Major? Was he hit? Is he dead?’
‘It was the Major who did this to me, Jacob. He’s a traitor.’
‘Well I’ll be buggered. I always knew he was bad, mind. But that. By Christ.’
Their conversation was interrupted by noise from the street below. Wearily the remaining men in the firing lines finished loading their muskets and made sure their bayonets were secure. Leaning on his gun as a support, Steel strained to see what was going on beyond the dead. He could make out nothing and the light was beginning to fade.
‘You’d better get those grenades ready, Jacob. They’re the only chance we have now.’
He waited for the jingle of harness and the clatter of hooves that would announce the coming attack. But it was neither of those sounds that he heard. From the bottom of the street, beyond view, came the clash of steel on steel. Ahead of him he watched as the leading two ranks of blue-coated hussars, now a mere fifty feet away from them, turned on command and began to trot back down the street, before vanishing around the bend.
Steel looked at his men. At Thorogood, a bomb in each hand, waiting to light the fuses. At the guns held steady at their shoulders, eyes aligned with the barrels. The natural inclination was to fire at the retreating cavalry. But Steel knew that it could easily be a trick intended to draw their single volley before the hussars simply turned and rode straight for them.
‘Hold steady. Hold your fire.’
Still the din came from the river. What the deuce was happening? The tumult grew louder and then quickly died away. Steel could hear some shouting yet, and the sporadic crack of muskets and carbines. But the distinctive sound of blade on blade had gone.
He saw a horseman appear around the bend in the street. This was it, then. He looked again at the ranks. The men were sweating hard with the exertion of keeping their muskets level.
‘Steady. Keep the present. Prepare to fire.’
Steel looked again towards the river and his mouth dropped open. The single horseman continued to approach. But this was no hussar. The man wore a black tricorne hat and a red coat. Whose red was it, though? Another trick?
Steel pushed gently from the rear of the line, passing between the files and stepped out in front of his men, ensuring that he could be plainly seen. He saw that the man’s sword was soiled with gore. At twenty yards out the rider pulled up his horse and stared.
Steel stared back, straight into his eyes. He half turned to address his men: ‘Hold your fire,’ then yelled down the street: ‘Who are you?’
‘Captain James Maclean, Hay’s dragoons. Who the devil are you?’
‘Steel, Sir. Lieutenant, Farquharson’s Foot. We thought you were French.’
‘Not us. Scots, old chap. Like yourselves. You look as if you’ve had a bit of a time of it.’
‘You could say that, Captain. A bit of a time. Thank God you’re here. How did you find us?’
‘Oh, it was no trouble really. We just followed the sound of the guns.’
‘You heard our fire?’
Maclean laughed. Pointed towards the bridge.
‘The Duke himself will have heard your fire, Lieutenant. The entire allied army is encamped but three miles down that road.’
Steel groaned. How much longer could this possibly take? Clad in just his shirt and waistcoat, breeches and stockings, he sat in his tent within the allied lines, with his right leg hoisted up on a hay-filled forage bag. Before him Corporal Taylor crouched over the wound that had been inflicted fifteen days ago by Jennings’ filthy sword, while above both men, Sergeant Slaughter stood gazing on, half in admiration, half in sceptical curiosity. Steel drummed impatient fingers against the small table beside him and sighed:
‘Taylor. You’re quite certain that this is absolutely necessary?’
‘Please, Mister Steel. Do try and remain still, Sir, and I’ll be finished with you in an instant. This is the last time I’ll have to do this. I swear, Sir.’
‘What
