4 Under Siege (28 page)

It had been a significant engagement. Though they failed to realise it at the time, the battle of Wynendael was a decisive turning point in the siege of Lille. Thanks to the bravery and professionalism of the escort, two hundred and fifty thousand pounds of gunpowder and several tons of shot had been saved. It was enough to keep the Allied guns battering the walls of Lille for an additional fortnight.

Daniel arrived in time to take only a limited part in the battle. Unable to join Allied lines, he hid in the forest and was able to shoot two of the fleeing French infantrymen before reloading in time to put a pistol ball into the eye of a dragoon. When the retreat was sounded, he’d remounted and, in spite of his injured arm, was prepared to take on an isolated cavalry officer. The man galloped off before Daniel could get to him and he was followed by the rest of the French forces. Daniel had to content himself with taking two prisoners and marching them back to the Allied lines. There was a general air of celebration. While officers gathered around Webb, their acknowledged hero, Daniel went in search of a commander he knew well.

William Cadogan was a big, ebullient, fearless man in his thirties, with a brilliant record as the Quartermaster-General of the Allied armies. He was notorious for his addiction to gambling but Daniel didn’t hold that against him. For all sorts of reasons, he liked and admired Cadogan. By the same token, Cadogan had the highest respect for him.

‘Dear God!’ he exclaimed when he saw Daniel. ‘What’s happened to you, man?’

‘I met with some difficulties on my way here,’ said Daniel.

‘Your sleeve is soaked with blood. Have one of the surgeons look at the wound immediately.’

‘It’s already been dressed. Besides, the surgeons have more than enough to do at the moment. My wound was not picked up here but in an earlier encounter.’

During his brushes with the enemy, Daniel had become quite dishevelled but it was the blood-covered tear in his sleeve that caught the attention. As Daniel explained what had happened, Cadogan listened with interest and sympathy.

‘I came here too late to be of any real use,’ he concluded.

‘So did we,’ said Cadogan, regretfully, ‘though there’s nothing to bring such cheer as the sight of a French army in open retreat. What will you do next?’

‘I’ll present my compliments to Major General Webb, then I’ll ride back to camp with news of events here. His Grace will want to hear a full report. Only then,’ Daniel went on, ‘can I ask his permission for some leave to attend to more personal matters.’

‘By Jupiter!’ exclaimed Cadogan. ‘There’s no need to waste time doing that, Captain Rawson. I can send men of my own with a report. You’re needed in England. I’ll write a letter to His Grace explaining why.’ He saw Daniel hesitate. ‘What are you waiting for, man?’

‘I was given very specific orders.’

‘Well, I’ve just countermanded them. His Grace would be angry with me if I didn’t do just that. We always have need of you here, Captain Rawson, but someone else has a first claim.’

Daniel was thrilled. ‘Please apologise to His Grace on my behalf.’

‘There’s no point. He and I are married men. We understand the power of love and the responsibilities it brings. Be off with you at once,’ ordered Cadogan, pushing him away. ‘The young lady is waiting to be rescued – though I suspect she’d rather that you did it in a smarter uniform.’

On the same day as the battle of Wynendael, the Allies encamped around Lille had an unforeseen taste of action themselves. They were settling down at dusk when they saw a column of two thousand horse and one hundred and fifty Grenadiers approaching. Since the newcomers wore Dutch insignia in their caps, it was assumed that they were part of the besieging army. They were allowed through the lines until the point when one of the officers gave an order in French for his troop to close up. Henry Welbeck was one of those who heard the command and realised its import. The riders were French soldiers in disguise, each one of them equipped with a fifty-pound bag of gunpowder destined for the beleaguered garrison. For a town that was down to its last reserves of ammunition, the convoy was precious but it would not all arrive intact. Welbeck’s voice was only one of many raised in anger.

‘The bastards are French!’ he yelled. ‘Shoot them.’

Scrambling to their feet, men grabbed their muskets and began firing at the interlopers. Some of the shots hit the bags of gunpowder, causing huge explosions that killed both horses and riders. Other members of the convoy were unwitting agents of their own deaths. Whipping their horses into a mad gallop, they made sparks fly up from the clattering hooves to set off further explosions. The whole camp was suddenly alight with a firework display. Well over a hundred men and horses perished, leaving behind charred remains scattered far and wide. Ben Plummer was sickened by what he saw.

‘Look at that poor devil,’ he said, indicating one corpse. ‘He was burnt to a cinder.’

Welbeck was unconcerned. ‘It serves him right.’

‘Don’t you feel sorry for him, Sergeant?’

‘I feel sorry for the horse but not for its rider.’

‘How many did we kill?’

‘Not enough,’ said Welbeck, angrily. ‘Most of them got through to the town with their fresh supplies. What were our picquets doing, letting the buggers through like that?’

‘What will happen now?’

‘There’ll be some stern questioning, that’s what will happen. When you besiege a town for two months, you should have it by the throat. The last thing you should do is to let a convoy get through to it with relief supplies.’

‘Have you ever seen anything like this before?’ asked Plummer, tearing his gaze away from the hideous scene around him.

‘I’ve seen the Frenchies play tricks before but never like this.’

‘You have to admire the way they rode in, bold as brass.’

‘I blame the Dutch.’

‘Why is that, Sergeant?’

‘It’s a simple question of colours, lad. Because some of our Dutch allies wear blue uniforms, they’re dressed in the same colour as the enemy. If everybody in our ranks wore red coats like us, this deception could never have happened.’ Thrusting his pipe into his mouth, he looked shrewdly at Plummer. ‘How are you finding army life?’

‘I hate every second of it.’

‘That will wear off in time.’

‘Harry Gaunt has deserted and some of the others are talking about it,’ said Plummer. ‘We’re scared.’

‘You should be more scared of running away than of staying here,’ said Welbeck, his face inches away from the recruit. ‘Deserters are usually caught and they get short shrift. How far will Harry Gaunt go with one eye and no knowledge of the region? Desertion means ignominy. Staying here to fight gives you a chance of glory.’

‘Is that what you call glory?’ asked Plummer, pointing to the blackened corpse.

‘Yes – if you happened to be the man who shot him.’

‘At least he was killed instantly. We’re dying a slow death.’

‘I’ve got a feeling you’ll outlast this siege, Ben Plummer,’ said Welbeck, taking a step backwards. ‘When I first clapped eyes on you, I didn’t like the way you looked or the way you talked. As for the crime that got you here, I despise people who live off the proceeds of women like that.’

‘You never met any of them,’ said Plummer with something of his old impudence. ‘I only employed the most succulent ladies. Even you would’ve felt a tingle of interest in them.’

‘Close that foul mouth of yours.’

‘If I had one of them to warm my bed right now, I might think that the army was not such an ordeal after all. Perhaps that’s the answer,’ he mused. ‘I’ll have to get myself wounded – though not too badly – then I can get to pick out the prettiest nurse and persuade her to tend to my needs.’ He gave a snigger. ‘Your own dear lady is working as a nurse, isn’t she, Sergeant?’

Welbeck’s punch sent him somersaulting across the ground.

The voyage was a test of his patience. A squall came up from nowhere to blow them off course and add another day to the crossing. All that Daniel could do was to wait for better weather and endeavour to remain calm. There was one source of consolation. The ship on which he’d embarked would have been the earliest that Andrew Syme could have taken with certain news of Daniel’s death. Sir John Rievers might not make his move until he heard that news. Amalia was in the clutches of a dangerous and manipulative man but – until word arrived from the hired assassin – Rievers might stay his hand. Daniel was sure that Amalia would be unaware of her host’s intentions. With her trusting nature, she’d be powerless against his wiles.

As he sat below deck, Daniel took out the letter he’d found in Syme’s pocket. In the brief time before his death, the man had been unable to supply many details of his employer but he’d admitted writing the letter designed to lure Daniel out of camp. Had he read it earlier, he would certainly have been deceived. The neat calligraphy, the desperate plea for help and the plausible manner of the courier would have had the desired effect on Daniel. After securing permission from Marlborough, he would have ridden off unsuspectingly with the man paid to kill him. It was a chilling thought.

Reading it now, he was in a different frame of mind. Instead of being concerned by Amalia’s plight to the exclusion of all else, he was able to study it carefully. An emotional response was superseded by a more critical one. If a close friend of Amalia’s had died, a name would have been supplied. As for the claim of a serious illness, it had to be set against the fact that she was a healthy young woman in the prime of her life. While she might look delicate, Amalia had a very strong constitution and was rarely troubled by complaints of any kind. The deciding factor for Daniel was that the letter was apparently penned by Sir John Rievers. However bereaved and sick she might be, Amalia would never call upon her host to send for help. Her father would willingly have taken on that duty.

Everything about the epistle was false yet it might have succeeded in its malign purpose. Daniel was grateful that it had never been put into his hand. Folding it up, he slipped it back into his pocket and got to his feet. Before leaving the convoy, he’d managed to borrow another uniform, albeit from a different regiment than the 24
^th
. He looked very smart in it. The ship’s surgeon had dressed his wounds properly and they were already starting to heal. While his physical ailments were improving, however, his mind was still a cauldron of doubt and apprehension. Who was Sir John Rievers and why did he have designs on Amalia? What did Syme mean when he said that Daniel was not the first person to be killed at the man’s behest? When would they reach England? Where was Amalia now? Would Daniel be in time?

A yell from above interrupted his meditation. The sound of feet running on deck suggested activity. Daniel went up the narrow staircase to investigate. All of a sudden, the breeze had stiffened markedly and the sails were flapping. Members of the crew were hauling on ropes or climbing the rigging as they sought to unfurl every piece of canvas on the vessel. It was as if a giant hand was now pushing them along. They sailed on through the white-capped waves with far more speed. Daniel crossed to the bulwark. With the wind plucking at his hair and with spray sprinkling his face, he scanned the horizon for a sight of land but all that confronted him was a vast expanse of sea. Somewhere in the far distance, Amalia was facing a terrible danger of which she was not even aware.

The very idea of her being molested made him burn with anger.

‘I’m coming, Amalia,’ he said under his breath. ‘I’m coming.’

Sir John Rievers chafed at the delay. Amalia and the others had been away for days now. He’d offered to act as their guide in London but Janssen had politely refused the offer, feeling that he wanted to be alone with his daughter after so much time under their host’s eye. Understanding that, Sir John took no offence but he missed Amalia the second she left his property. An early fear had disturbed him. He wondered if the visit to London would also be a search for news about Daniel Rawson. If they questioned the information given them by Sir John, they might wish to see a copy of the relevant
Gazette
in order to check the list of dead. When they saw that Daniel’s name was not, in fact, there, they’d know they’d been duped.

On reflection, Sir John dismissed the notion. Amalia and her father were too naive to do such a thing. In awe of a member of the aristocracy, they’d never have the slightest suspicion of him. It was her effulgent innocence that made Amalia so irresistible. She was blithely unaware of his designs on her. Waiting for her to return only served to intensify his desire to possess her. The one barrier between them must have been removed by now. Andrew Syme would have obeyed his orders and be on his way back to England. There was no need to delay anymore. When Amalia finally returned from London with the others, Sir John was waiting for them.

‘Did you see all you wanted to see?’ asked Sir John.

‘Yes, thank you,’ replied Janssen. ‘It was wonderful.’

‘We could have stayed for a week,’ said Amalia as she let Sir John help her down from the carriage. ‘Is there any news?’

‘Not as yet,’ he said, ‘but I expect it every day.’

‘I prayed that we’d know the truth by now,’ she said.

‘When I was in church, I added my own supplication.’

He went into the house with them, leaving the servants to unload the luggage. Beatrix went off into the kitchen and Janssen begged to be excused because he was suffering from a headache. Without having to contrive it, Sir John was alone with Amalia. His eyes feasted on her.

‘Do you feel tired after the journey?’

‘No, Sir John, I feel as fresh as a daisy.’

‘Then perhaps you’d join me for a walk. There’s something I need to discuss with you.’

Amalia was puzzled. ‘Couldn’t we discuss it here?’

‘Walls have ears – and it’s a very private matter.’

‘Then I’ll be happy to come with you.’

‘It’s a beautiful day for a stroll.’