Rules of War by Iain Gale Page A

of Cussiter and Tarling. He was slightly built and dressed in pale buff-coloured breeches and a nondescript waistcoat.
    Slaughter smiled: ‘What did I say, sir? Civilians.’
    Steel yelled: ‘On your feet!’
    The figure did not move. But they could hear his soft sobbing now. Steel bent down and turned him over. ‘It’sa boy. No more than a lad. Can’t be more than ten. No wonder he couldn’t hit us.’ Pulling the boy to his feet he waved away the bayonets and turned to the would-be assassin. ‘You idiot. What did you think you were doing? We could have killed you.’ The boy looked at him, not understanding the foreign tongue. Steel gave up. ‘Bloody hell, Jacob. We’re looking after children now.’
    With Slaughter carrying the boy’s antiquated and inaccurate fowling piece, they moved to the door and pulled it open to the blinding brightness of the day.
    But it was not the light that stopped them in their tracks. Steel found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. It was never a pleasant experience, in particular when as now the man with his finger on the trigger was clearly very angry. He was some inches shorter than Steel and was dressed in a brown woollen coat and a tattered round-brimmed hat. Behind him stood another two dozen men, similarly armed and all in civilian dress. The man addressed Steel in a guttural Flemish that he did not understand.
    â€˜I’m sorry. I don’t speak your language.’
    The man tried again and pressed the musket unpleasantly close to Steel’s face. Steel, unable to take his eyes off the weapon, whispered to Slaughter, ‘Any sign of the rest of the company?’
    â€˜End of the street, sir. Formed in two lines. Facing this way.’
    Steel tried the man again: ‘I don’t know who you are but I am a British officer and those are my men at the end of the street. If you shoot me forty muskets will bring you down.’ The man looked puzzled and spoke again, this time in French. This was better.
    â€˜They think we’re French, sir.’
    â€˜Yes Sarn’t. I can see that.’
    â€˜Mijnheer, we are British, not French. We mean you no harm. We have beaten the French in a big battle.’
    The man looked suspicious. ‘English?’
    â€˜Yes, English. Friends. Please …’
    The man smiled and backed off, but still did not lower the gun. Without moving his eyes from Steel’s, he spoke again and pointed at his chest: ‘Jan.’
    From the rear of the group another man pushed forward. ‘You are Englishmen?’
    â€˜Yes. We are British. Scots. Ecossais. Thank God, you speak English.’
    â€˜Yes, I speak good English. You will not harm us?’
    â€˜No. We have beaten the French in a great battle. We are pushing them out of your country.’
    The man thought about Steel’s reply, then smiled and nodded. ‘Then you are welcome, sir. I am sorry. My people are nervous. We have seen so much horror here. Too many soldiers. French soldiers. Yesterday they came again. Many were injured. Some died. And some of them took our food. They killed two men who tried to stop them.’
    French deserters. Steel knew what would happen now. He’d seen enough of this before. In Russia, Bavaria, Spain, and here in Flanders. Break an army, rob it of cohesion and officers and what were you left with? Nothing more than a rabble, and a murderous, rapacious rabble at that, devoid of any principles or morals. There was nothing more dangerous in this world than a leaderless army.
    The taller villager spoke to the man with the gun and at last it was lowered. Steel smiled and nodded in thanks.
    â€˜You have beaten the French? Yes, we heard. The French are beaten. But you see we still cannot believe it. Any men with guns. I’m sorry. We are very happy. For many years wehave had French soldiers here. We are ruled by the Spanish and their French friends. Your battle will