appearance to that of their French allies. But the ornate buttons and lace, now worn on the inside, had proved a constant irritation and on the tenth day of his wanderings in the great forests he had turned the coat back to British red. It was sheer bad luck of course that on that very day he should have been spotted by a party of what he rightly took for allied cavalry. The dead hussar’s horse though had proved an infinitely superior beast to their plodding supply mounts and he had outridden them with ease. On the twelfth day it had begun to rain hard and, starving and dehydrated, Jennings had resolved that his only option was to break cover. He had found himself in the town of Offingen and there, taking a welcome drink in an inn, had readily given himself up to a patrol of blue-coated French dragoons. How astonished they had been at his evident pleasure in encountering them and his willingness to surrender.
That had been two days ago. Jennings looked at his tired face now in the small, elegantly framed mirror that stood on the campaign chest in the small tent provided as his temporary quarters. He winced as the barber who had been sent to shave him pulled the skin of his cheek tight, while he dragged the blade of the razor clean down over the stubble. How very civilized the French were. Perhaps, he thought, when he was back with his own army, once Marlborough had been dismissed, he would suggest certain changes suitable for a truly modern fighting force. Those little touches of style that at present gave the French officers their edge. At his side, the servant rinsed the blade in the bowl of dirty water and handed Jennings a soft towel before leaving. As he dabbed at his face, the Major reflected on the past few weeks. At how very different his position was now. On the one hand he was a fugitive. He presumed that the survivors of the fight at Bachweiden would by now have reached the army and given their account of his part in the affair. Cussiter had gone to shoot him but then the man had a personal grudge against him. Of course Louisa would have told them now of who her real assailant had been. But what was the word of a Bavarian peasant? Jennings smiled. Who else could speak against him? Sergeant Slaughter? What would he say? Had he not discovered Kretzmer with Louisa. In Slaughter’s eyes, surely, Jennings must be a hero. In truth there was no one left to testify against Jennings. The only evidence against him was his flight itself. He pulled on his coat and checked inside the pocket for the package. He felt the string and the paper.
For the hundredth time he rehearsed again how, once back in London, he would relate his intrepid tale. How he would tell of his ingenuity in outwitting Steel, the traitorous Scot, sent by Marlborough to rescue the incriminating documents. How he had survived numerous attacks by both the French and treacherous redcoats. How he had even braved the French lines to bring his Tory friends the evidence they needed. Then Marlborough would be sent again to the Tower. And this time he would not escape, just as Steel had not escaped. He still regretted not having had time to make that final thrust. Had he done so he knew that his own fate would have been very different. He was certain that no one could have survived the blow he had dealt Steel. Jennings had heard his skull crack like a walnut. And the wound to his thigh alone might have been mortal. No, Steel was dead. That much was certain. Marlborough would be sent to the Tower and he would become a rich man. A Colonel at the head of his own regiment of foot. He was gripped by a vision of himself covered in gold lace and glory. He smiled at the prospect.
A discreet cough preceded a gloved hand on the entrance flap of Jennings’ tent. A junior officer of French cavalry entered. Jennings stopped grinning and assumed an air of gravity.
‘Major Jennings?’
‘Lieutenant?’
‘You will please come with me, Sir. My Colonel would speak with you.’
Jennings donned his hat and followed the boy from the tent into the warm evening. Around him lay the entire Franco-Bavarian army. Tens of thousands of men and horses, encamped as far as the eye could see, it seemed, upon the plain of Hochstadt. Their camp he had not thought at first very different from that of the allied army. On closer scrutiny though he saw its full extent. Beyond the immediate infantry lines lay row upon row of ammunition carts. More than he had ever seen in one place before. Close by them thousands of dray horses stood tethered in a vast field, like some country horse fair, and next to them he caught sight of elaborate field kitchens, at one of which a whole ox was being roasted on a spit. Ahead he could see three huge tents, buildings rather, at whose doors stood dozens of French officers, as if at a royal assembly.
As the aide led him towards them, past the cavalry, he glimpsed off to the right the interior of one tent in which several hussars seated around a table were being entertained by a half-naked dancing girl. She shrieked with excitement as one of them reached out and tore off her skirt.
It was as far removed from a picture of Marlborough’s army that he was able to imagine and Jennings wondered, with a shiver of concern for his own future, which of them might emerge victorious from the coming battle. At length the two men reached the end of the lines and arrived at a sturdy, four-sided marquee, topped with a small flag bearing the fleur-de-lys and set slightly away from the body of the camp. The aide-de-camp held open the long entrance flap and motioned Jennings to enter. It felt strange to be so accepted here, among the enemy. A curious half-life, thought Jennings, with sudden and unexpected self-loathing.
‘Major Jennings, Colonel.’
‘Thank you, Henri. You may go. Major Jennings, allow me to present myself. I am Colonel Jean Martin Michelet of the regiment d’Artois. I bid you welcome.’
He narrowed his eyes and attempted to get the measure of this curious Englishmen. He tried to ascertain from his appearance and manner whether this turncoat was the genuine article or simply one of Marlborough’s many spies.
‘Any enemy of Lord Malbrook is a friend here. Please, sit with me. A glass of wine? It has just arrived from France.’
Jennings smiled at the Frenchman’s inability to pronounce Marlborough’s name, a common failing with his countrymen. Michelet was of medium build with a handsome, tanned face and a slim moustache in the Parisian fashion. His only distinguising mark was a thin scar which ran from the right side of his face, far under his chin.
‘Now, Major Jennings, I understand that you gave yourself up to my gendarmes of your own volition. That you say you have something of great importance to our cause.’
Jennings sat and accepted the goblet of wine.
‘But, Major Jennings. You are an officer in the English army. You are surely not confessing to being a traitor?’
He laughed.
‘D’you have French blood?’
‘No, Colonel. And I am certainly no traitor. But I am in the unique position of being able to do a great service both to my country and your own. I have certain information in my possession. Information which will bring down Marlborough and his friends.’
‘You interest me, Major. This information. I think that perhaps you will tell us when Lord Malbrook will attack and where? You will point out his dispositions? His elite regiments? His weaknesses?’
‘No. As an officer in the army of Queen Anne, and a gentleman, I cannot betray my countrymen. But I can offer you something much more precious. I have in my power the wherewithal to discredit the Duke forever. Papers with which to indict him as a Jacobite. A traitor to the crown. Naturally, they must be transported safely to England on the person of an English officer. Myself.’
Michelet smiled. ‘Yes, Major. We knew of these papers. It was a curious case. A man who had been dealing with my supply officers brought them to our attention.’
He laughed again.
‘A little less mundane than the shoes they had been used to getting. Very good shoes by the way. English
