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  Fire and Sword

  ( Captain Rawson - 3 )

  Edward Marston

  Edward Marston

  Fire and Sword

  CHAPTER ONE

  Flanders, 1707

  Daniel Rawson rode at a steady canter along a winding track. It was late afternoon and autumn was already chasing some of the light from the sky. He was resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t reach the camp until well after midnight. Daniel was a captain in the 24^th Foot and his regiment had gone into winter quarters. But he was not in uniform now. Instead, he was dressed in the civilian clothing that allowed him to slip through enemy lines so that he could act as a spy in Paris. The forged papers he was carrying bore the name of Marcel Daron, a wine merchant, a pose that was reinforced by his ability to speak French like a native and by his knowledge of certain vineyards in the country.

  As on previous occasions, the disguise had served him well. During his stay in the French capital, he’d garnered some crucial intelligence. Most of it had been committed to memory so that he was not caught with sensitive documents in his possession. However, a couple of dispatches he’d managed to intercept were concealed in the lining of his coat. He smiled as he recalled how he’d got hold of them. The messenger had been left with a bad headache and had faced the ordeal of making an embarrassing confession to superiors in the French army. Severe punishment must have followed. Daniel had no sympathy for him. The messenger had been careless.

  He was still musing on his encounter with the man when a noise brought him out of his reverie. A French patrol had suddenly appeared on the crest of the hill to his left. A dozen or so in all, they paused for a moment then kicked their horses into a gallop and came surging down the incline with predatory zeal. When he saw one of them draw a pistol, Daniel didn’t hesitate. He knew that Marcel Daron wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of an awkward situation this time. The soldiers were likely to kill him first and identify him afterwards. Digging in his heels and urging his mount on, Daniel fled, riding hell for leather and sending up small clouds of dust in his wake. The blue uniforms kept up hot pursuit. They were clearly gaining on him. His assignment was in danger of ending abruptly. The thunder of hooves behind him could be the sound of his death knell.

  There was no chance of outrunning them. Daniel accepted that. Their horses had been chosen for speed and stamina. His, by contrast, was the kind of serviceable but willing animal that a wine merchant might be expected to own. It was only a question of minutes before he was overhauled. Since there was no hope of winning a race, Daniel’s sole means of escape was to elude them somehow. The wood ahead of him offered that vague possibility. Coaxing the last ounce of speed from his horse, he pounded towards it then veered off to the right, heading for the point where the trees and undergrowth seemed at their most dense. He was just in time. The moment he changed direction, a bullet from the pistol whistled harmlessly past him. Had he stayed on the track, it would have hit him squarely between the shoulder blades.

  Unaware of his good fortune, Daniel rode on. Plunging into the wood, he had to slow his horse down so that he could pick a way through the trees and bushes with a degree of safety. He finally had something in his favour. Though most of the leaves had been shed, there was still a thick fretwork of branches above his head, darkening the interior of the wood and limiting visibility. It was like riding through a huge cavern with a timber roof. The deeper he penetrated, the murkier it got. When he stole a glance over his shoulder, he could barely make out the shadowy figures hunting him. Confident that their quarry could not escape, the soldiers had fanned out and were moving at a trot. Some of them taunted him, ignoring the scratch of bushes and the jab of low branches. Nothing would stop them. They were lusting for a kill.

  Most people in that predicament would quail but fear was unknown to Daniel. What drove him on was an instinct for survival, sharpened by years in combat against French armies. Fear only induced panic and he always remained cool. As he zigzagged his way through the wood, his eyes were alert as he searched for ways to shake off the patrol. The half-dark that enfolded him had come to his aid but it now proved treacherous. Unable to see it properly, his horse misjudged the size of a fallen tree trunk. Instead of hopping easily over it, the animal caught its front hooves against the timber and pitched helplessly forward. Daniel was thrown from the saddle, hitting the ground hard and somersaulting twice before he came to a halt.

  The horse was the first to get up. Momentarily dazed, Daniel scrambled to his feet but he was too late to stop his frightened mount from careering off into the undergrowth in the direction from which they’d just come. It was eventually caught by one of the soldiers.

  ‘I have his horse!’ he cried in triumph. ‘He’s on foot.’

  The announcement produced a round of cruel laughter.

  Daniel didn’t stay to listen to it. He was already running at full speed through the trees, dodging bushes, jumping logs, looking to left then right in a desperate search for a hiding place. His heart was pounding and his lungs were on fire. Any second he could be ridden down and hacked to death with a sabre. He came at last to a small clearing and clambered up a tree. Then he deliberately dropped his hat onto the ground below. Nestling against a thick branch, Daniel waited, trying to muffle the sound of his heavy breathing. He was no French wine merchant now but an experienced British soldier who’d been cornered by the enemy before. There had always been a way out in the past. The trick, he’d discovered, was to find it.

  He could hear their voices, calling out to each other, placing bets on who would catch their prey first, boasting about what they’d do to him with their sharp blades. The only consolation was that they sounded a little distance away. Much nearer, however, were the jingle of harness and the rustle of hooves in the undergrowth. Somebody was coming towards him. Daniel had two weapons. One was the dagger he pulled out and the other was the element of surprise. What the soldier was looking for was a terrified fugitive, cowering under a hedge. He never thought to look up. When he saw the hat lying on the ground, he dismounted at once and drew his sword, remaining silent so that he didn’t lose the wager by rousing the others.

  Daniel was ready. The moment the man bent down to retrieve the hat, Daniel hurled himself from the tree with a vengeance and hit him with his full weight. Stunned by the attack, the soldier had no time to resist. One hand over the man’s mouth, Daniel used the other to slit his throat. The soldier twitched and flailed impotently as his lifeblood drained inexorably away. Daniel kept him in an iron grip, squeezing him tight and waiting until he went limp before letting him drop slowly to the ground. Sheathing his dagger, Daniel recovered his hat, seized the discarded sabre and mounted the horse.

  He then rode on again with renewed urgency. After a few minutes, he came to a path that meandered through the wood. It enabled him to pick up speed but he was not the first rider to find the path. One of the soldiers lurched out ahead of him on his horse to block his way. It was a direct challenge. Though he was in a regiment of foot, Daniel had also taken part in cavalry charges. He’d felt that soaring exhilaration before. Blood racing and sabre held aloft, he galloped towards the man and swung his arm with murderous force. Though the soldier parried the blow with his own sword, the sheer power of the strike snapped his wrist and he dropped the weapon with a howl of pain. Without even looking back, Daniel sped off into the darkness.

  The farmer was short, stocky and round-shouldered. He used a wooden bucket to tip the mixture into the trough. The pig was on it immediately, grunting contentedly and dipping his nose to smell his food before gobbling it up. The animal was kept in a ramshackle pen with a small, low hut to protect it from bad weather. When winter came, it would be slaughtered and used to feed the famil
y. A drumming sound made the farmer turn and he saw horsemen being conjured out of the gloom. They were French soldiers. Most of them sat tall in the saddle but one of them was hunched up as he nursed his broken wrist. Another man was slumped lifelessly across his mount. Towed along behind the cavalcade was a riderless horse.

  Removing his hat, the farmer adopted a deferential tone.

  ‘Good day to you, good sirs,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘We’re looking for a fugitive,’ explained the sergeant. ‘He’s a man in a brown coat and has something of my build.’

  ‘We’ve seen nobody like that, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘The only person to go past all day was a carter.’

  ‘Be warned,’ said the sergeant, pointing a finger. ‘If we discover that you’re hiding the villain, you’ll die alongside him. He killed one of my men and wounded another. We want him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. He’s not here.’

  ‘He must be. He abandoned a horse a mile or so away, hoping that we’d keep chasing it all evening but we soon caught up with it. He couldn’t have got far. I think he came this way.’

  ‘You’re welcome to search.’

  ‘We don’t need your permission to do that,’ snarled the sergeant. ‘Right,’ he went on, nodding to some of the men, ‘look everywhere. Turn the place upside down.’

  ‘Do as you wish,’ said the farmer, spreading his arms in a gesture of welcome. ‘We’ve nothing to hide.’ As the men dismounted, he walked over to the sergeant. ‘Is there anything I can get you while you wait, sir — a cup of wine, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t drink that Flemish piss.’

  ‘We have beer.’

  The sergeant spat contemptuously. ‘That’s even worse.’

  The farm was small so the search was short-lived. The soldiers didn’t stand on ceremony. Barging into the house, they began to look in every room. Outraged at the sudden invasion, the farmer’s wife and son came hurrying out to protest. He waved them into silence. While their home was being subjected to a rigorous search, the barn was also inspected along with the outbuildings. The hens were disturbed in their coop and the cows complained bitterly when soldiers burst into their byre. The old horse, munching hay in the stable, was offended when two men poked into every corner of its domain. Only the pig remained unruffled, head still deep in its trough.

  ‘Don’t you ever clean that sty out?’ asked the sergeant, wrinkling his nose. ‘It stinks to high heaven.’

  ‘You get used to it,’ said the farmer.

  ‘How can anyone get used to that stench?’

  The question hung unanswered in the air because soldiers came out of the house and shook their heads. Those who’d searched the barn and the outbuildings had also done so in vain. Remounting their horses, they waited for orders. The sergeant was angry and frustrated.

  ‘He must have come this way,’ he insisted. ‘Spread out and make for the river. He might have made it that far. And whoever catches him,’ he added, curling a lip, ‘keep him alive until I get my hands on him. I want to make him suffer.’

  The patrol galloped off and the farmer’s wife was able to give vent to her fury. She swore at the departing horsemen then told her husband what they’d done. Her husband went into the house and saw the mess. Chairs had been overturned, cupboard doors wrenched open and cooking pots swept aside so that someone could peer up the chimney. It was the same story upstairs. In all three of the tiny rooms, beds had been propped against the wall, chest lids had been lifted and their contents had been scattered everywhere. The trapdoor to the attic had been left dangling. Everything stored up there had been ruthlessly trampled on.

  When her rage was exhausted, the farmer’s wife gave way to tears. It took him minutes to console her. Their son, meanwhile, was trying to tidy the place up. He noticed that some apples had been stolen from the table. Leaving the two of them in the house, the farmer ambled across to the sty. The pig had just finished the meal.

  ‘You can come out now,’ he said. ‘They’ve gone.’

  Covered in muck and reeking of excrement, Daniel emerged warily from his hiding place. Nobody would take him for a wine merchant now. His clothes were soiled and his face filthy.

  ‘How did you know I was in there?’ he asked.

  ‘It was the way the pig behaved. You’re a brave man. He has a vile temper. If he’d been upset, he could’ve bitten clean through your leg.’

  ‘I was born and brought up on a farm,’ said Daniel, giving the pig a friendly pat. ‘I know how to handle animals.’ He grinned. ‘And that was the one place where they wouldn’t have searched. I’m indebted to you, my friend. You could easily have given me away.’

  ‘We hate the French.’

  ‘What if they’d found me?’

  The farmer chuckled. ‘Then they’d have smelt almost as bad as you,’ he said. ‘Let’s find some water to clean you up. My wife won’t let you into her kitchen like that.’

  It was two days before Daniel was able to return to the farm and he took the precaution of riding with a detachment of cavalry at his back. He was in full uniform now. Seated astride a black stallion, he used a lead rein to tow along the old horse he’d borrowed from the farmer. It had done good service and been well fed in camp. Daniel enjoyed the ride but his companion was a reluctant horseman.

  ‘I joined the infantry,’ argued Welbeck, ‘not the cavalry.’

  ‘Even you wouldn’t have wanted to walk all the way, Henry,’ said Daniel. ‘Apart from anything else, we’re on French territory.’

  ‘I’d sooner have my feet on the ground, Dan. All that horses ever do is to upset my stomach and give me a sore arse.’

  ‘I thought you’d like a chance to escape from the camp.’

  ‘Nobody told me we’d have so far to ride. Why bother to take that old nag back? You could have sent someone else.’

  ‘The farmer saved my life. The least he deserves is to see how grateful I am. I’m deeply obliged to him.’

  Welbeck snorted. ‘I don’t know why,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t be grateful to anyone who sent me back to my regiment, riding a flea-bitten old jade and stinking like a latrine during a hot summer. Do you realise what you looked like, Dan?’

  ‘You should have seen me when I got out of the pigsty.’

  ‘I could smell you from twenty yards away.’

  Sergeant Henry Welbeck of the 24^th Foot was Daniel’s best friend in the regiment, and rank disappeared when they were alone together. The sergeant was a solid man of medium height with an ugly face decorated with a long battle scar. He had the greatest respect for his friend but even he had joined in the laughter when Daniel came back to camp in such an appalling state. Welbeck had continued to poke fun at him until Captain Rawson had bathed naked in the river, put on his scarlet uniform and at last looked like someone who deserved to be a member of the British army. In spite of his dislike of horses, the sergeant had agreed to accompany Daniel to the farm.

  ‘How much farther is it, Dan?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ll be there soon — it’s on the other side of that hill.’

  ‘At least we’ll get a warm welcome.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Use your eyes, man. Can’t you see that smoke up ahead of us? My guess is that they’re roasting that pig for you.’

  Daniel made no reply. He’d only glanced at the hilltop before. Now that he looked properly, he could see dark smoke curling up into the air. No chimney would produce such billows. Handing the rein of the farmer’s horse to Welbeck, he kicked his own mount into action and galloped up the hill. As he neared the top, he could hear the distant crackle of flames and the sound filled him with alarm. Cresting the hill, he saw that his fears were justified. Down below him, blazing merrily in the sunshine, was the little farmhouse, the barn and the various outbuildings. It was a calamity. Everything that the farmer had stored against the winter had been destroyed.

  When the others joined him, Daniel b
arked an order.

  ‘Come on!’ he yelled. ‘We may still be able to save someone.’

  But he could see that it was a futile hope. As he led the charge down the hill, he watched the barn collapse and send up an enormous shower of sparks into the air. The roof of the house had already gone and the stable was a mass of charred timbers. There was no sign of the animals. Somewhere in the middle of the grotesque firework display was a family who’d come to Daniel’s aid in a crisis. He prayed that they were still alive. As the riders got closer, however, they were confronted by a hideous sight. Staggering out of the house was the farmer, a human inferno, engulfed in flames, his clothes, his boots and even his hair and beard alight. Yelling in agony, he still had the strength to raise a defiant fist at the approaching redcoats.

  Reaching him first, Daniel leapt from his horse, pushed the farmer to the ground then rolled him over in an attempt to put out the blaze. He used his gloves to smother the flames on the farmer’s head and face. Instead of being thankful, however, all that the man could do was to curse and strike out at him.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Daniel, whisking off his hat. ‘Don’t you recognise me? I’m the man in the pigsty. I came to return your horse.’

  The farmer stopped struggling and stared in amazement.

  ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘What happened here?’

  ‘They stole everything,’ said the farmer, coughing badly. ‘They killed my son. I was tied up and made to watch while they took it in turns with my wife. They were animals. I only got free when the fire burnt through the ropes holding me.’ Writhing in torment, he peered up at Daniel. ‘I thought we were friends.’

  ‘We are, we are.’

  ‘Then why did you let them do it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why did you let them burn us alive?’

  ‘This was nothing to do with me,’ said Daniel, mystified. ‘I swear it. I came here in good faith to thank you. We brought your horse and some provisions for you. Why should you blame me?’ He indicated the house. ‘This was the work of French soldiers, surely.’