Fire and Sword r-3

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Well, Grenville, it appears that you have your work cut out for you with that man. I should not like to work alongside him.’

  ‘You can’t begin to imagine . . .’ muttered the Prime Minister. ‘But on one thing he is right.There is no avoiding the need to have him in government. At least it keeps his supporters relatively quiet. It is both a pity and a paradox that Fox is less of a danger inside the Cabinet than without.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Richard mused.‘If only there was a dissident Englishman in Paris with the desire to assassinate a member of our government. If the frogs wouldn’t back him I’d certainly invest in an attempt on Fox’s life.’

  Grenville stared at him for a moment. ‘I fear that you have imbibed too many uncivilised values during your time in India, Mornington.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘It was just a thought. Besides, I know full well that Fox and his friends are behind the corruption allegations levelled at me.’

  The Prime Minister casually clasped his hands together as he composed his reply. ‘I will, naturally, do my best to protect you, and the interests of your family.After all, my late cousin held you in high esteem and greatly valued your service to our nation. However, you must understand that I can only shield you so far.This government hangs by a thread and has to be sensitive to every shift in opinion, within Parliament, at Windsor and in the streets.’

  ‘I thank you most humbly for your reassurance,’ Richard sneered.

  ‘Mornington, you must understand. I act as I have to for the good of the country. If it is in the country’s interest that you are forced to endure the attacks of Fox and his associates, then you must accept it.’

  ‘I am tired, and I am sick, Grenville. I know in my heart that I have done right by my country, and that truth will be accepted in the end.’

  ‘I hope so. But in the meantime, I think it would be wise to cultivate as much support as you can within Parliament.You have William here to speak for you, and it would make good sense for Arthur to enter the House as well. He has won an enviable reputation on the battlefield, as well as social and military rank. His voice would carry considerable weight in support of you, Richard. I would willingly assist in finding him a seat. After all, people would hardly be surprised to find Arthur speaking up in defence of his brother.’

  Arthur smiled. He could see through the Prime Minister’s motives at once. It would be politically inconvenient for him to have his supporters openly defend Richard. This way, he would oblige Arthur to repay his patronage and at the same time avoid the risk of taking sides over the dispute concerning Richard.

  Grenville continued. ‘What is your position at the moment, Sir Arthur? Still on the active list?’

  ‘I have been given command of a brigade at Hastings.’

  ‘Hastings?’ Grenville thought for a moment. ‘Excellent. There is a seat at Rye that is available. Not so far from Hastings. I am sure the War Office can be persuaded to grant you leave to stand.’

  Arthur bowed his head respectfully. ‘Thank you.’

  Grenville reached for his glass and raised it.‘Gentlemen, a toast. I give you the next member of Parliament for the constituency of Rye!’

  Chapter 17

  Hastings, February 1806

  As the long winter months dragged on Arthur was determined to make the most of his small command, billeted in the quiet coastal town of Hastings. The men of the brigade had become used to the relative inactivity of winter quarters and were surprised and not a little unenthusiastic when their new major-general gave orders that they should be roused for drilling and exercise every morning. Come rain, snow or hail, the men of each battalion assembled at dawn and were put through their paces under Arthur’s keen eye as he rode over the fields that had been chosen for exercise grounds. His experience in India had proved to him the need to keep his men fit and healthy through regular exercise. They might well curse him for it, but when the time came for them to endure long marches and hard battles while on campaign they would cope more easily, even if they never thanked him for it.

  He was aware that some of the men grumbled that there was little point in training since the government seemed adept at sending British soldiers to join campaigns just in time for them to be sent home again. Arthur sympathised with their frustration, but that was no reason to relent on regular drill and the maintenance of uniforms and equipment to the highest standards. He recalled an expression he had once heard that an army’s drills should be bloodless battles, and its battles bloody drills.

  Arthur smiled at the thought one morning in late February, when he rode out to find one of his battalions formed up on frozen ground. A thick frost coated the surrounding trees and hedges with gleaming white against a backdrop of a pale grey sky.This morning the men had been joined by a commissariat wagon loaded with boxes of cartridges and Arthur gave orders for each man to be issued with twenty rounds. He was well aware that the penny-pinching officials of the War Office frowned upon live fire practices since the cost of the powder and balls discharged was considerable. But Arthur well knew that men who were familiar with the din of firing and the rolling clouds of stinking smoke on the training ground were far less likely to be perturbed by musket fire when it happened on the battlefield.

  The prospect of live fire practice lifted the mood as the battalion went on to form column a half-mile from a long low hedge that bordered a little-used turnpike.When the men were ready the order was given to advance on the hedge and the column rippled forward. As the front rank closed to within a hundred paces of the hedge Arthur abruptly reined in his horse and bellowed, ‘Form line!’

  The orders were repeated and the redcoat companies tramped out at an angle across the frost-gilded meadow until the senior sergeants reached their positions and lowered their pikes to indicate the line along which the following ranks were to form. As the last men stepped into place on the gently rolling pastureland Arthur snapped his watch shut and trotted over to where the lieutenant-colonel of the battalion stood a short distance ahead of the colours.

  ‘Chambers, that took your men a shade under three minutes. If you can’t do it in two, a Frenchie column will be upon you before your men can fire a single volley.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Colonel Chambers took the rebuke stolidly, and stared to the front. ‘I will attend to my men’s timing, sir.’

  ‘See that you do. Now then.’ Arthur looked up and indicated the brow of a hill half a mile away. ‘Let’s assume your men have just fought off a French column.You have just sighted a regiment of cuirassiers over there.What do you do?’

  ‘Sir?’ Chambers glanced at the hill. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Arthur spoke evenly.‘Use your imagination, man.That hill is covered in cuirassiers. Except by now they have gained at least a hundred yards on you. So what do you do?’ Arthur pulled out his watch again and thumbed open the cover. ‘Well?’

  Chambers immediately took a deep breath and roared,‘Battalion will form square and prepare to receive cavalry!’

  Once again, Arthur kept an eye on his watch as the companies steadily folded back from the wings and formed a square three men deep, the front rank kneeling with their muskets braced against their boots so that the bayonets pointed up and out, creating a deadly obstacle that few horses would dare to hurl themselves at.

  Arthur nodded to Chambers.‘Much better that time.Very well.Your men can do you credit when they want to, Chambers.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Now it’s time for some live firing. Have some men posted on the turnpike to hold off any travellers. Now then, the hedge is a line of French soldiers, Chambers. What now?’

  This time Chambers did not delay and instantly gave the order to form line at the double. His men trotted into place, their haversacks and water bottles slapping up and down as they hurried across the trampled grass to their positions.

  ‘Battalion will make ready to fire by companies!’ Chambers called out. ‘Fire when ready! Five rounds!’

 
The sergeants called time as the men grounded their muskets and began the loading procedure. Then they raised their weapons and waited for the order.

  ‘Fire!’ bellowed the sergeant of the first company to be ready, and a sharp crashing thud reverberated off the hard ground as a cloud of smoke swelled into life in front of the battalion’s Light Company. A moment later one of the other companies fired and then the rest came in with a ragged discharge along the line. Over by the turnpike, bits of twig and small branches leaped into the air as the musket balls raked through. The companies continued to fire their volleys, and such was the efficiency of the Light Company that they had managed to loose their final round before the slowest company had finished loading their fourth.

  Gradually the fire slackened.As the last echo died away and the dense clouds of choking powder smoke began to dissipate, Arthur waited a moment for the men’s ears to clear and then called out, ‘Gentlemen! Bonaparte has eight soldiers for every man in King’s uniform. Man for man they are not your equal, but we are not fighting man for man. We are outnumbered, and the only thing that will save us is killing them faster than they can kill us. That means we must be able to fire more volleys than our enemy on the battlefield. Today, the Light Company took nearly eighty seconds to fire the first three rounds. That will not do!’ Arthur paused and turned towards the battalion’s commander. ‘Colonel Chambers!’

  Chambers stiffened his back as he replied. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I want your men to be able to fire the first three rounds within a minute by the end of the month.You may continue with the live firing, and then drill the men in the movements for the rest of the morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well, carry on.’

  The two officers exchanged a salute, then Arthur wheeled his mount round and galloped back towards his billet on the hill east of Hastings. He could trust Chambers to drill the men to the standard he required of them so that they would perform well whenever the time came to send them off to war.Arthur smiled grimly to himself.With Bonaparte’s present run of successes it was unlikely that his brigade faced the prospect of any action in the immediate future. Especially if Fox held to his purpose of attempting to negotiate a peace with France. The more Arthur thought about it the more frustrated he became with his political masters. Even if the French Emperor was prepared to negotiate, there was every chance that the talks would follow the pattern of the earlier Peace of Amiens, where France added further demands each time the treaty was about to be signed. After the peace took effect, Bonaparte blithely snapped up further territory and made preparations for forcefully expanding French interests as far afield as India and the West Indies. The Corsican tyrant was truly insatiable, Arthur reflected, and he did not care how many bodies were buried on the path to realising his ambitions.

  As he entered the town, Arthur slowed his horse to a walk. Fox’s plans for peace, however well intentioned, were doomed to fail.The war would continue. Britain must choose the ground to wage land war against Bonaparte very carefully. Somewhere on the periphery of Europe where the small but highly trained and highly disciplined British army could pick its battles carefully and gradually wear down Bonaparte’s marshals and their armies, and prove to the rest of Europe that the men who marched under the tricolour could be defeated again and again. Once more Arthur’s mind turned to the Iberian Peninsula, where such a scheme would most readily bear fruit. If only a British army, under a competent commander, could be landed in the Iberian Peninsula there was no telling how much it could achieve, and perhaps shift the balance of victory in favour of those nations allied against France.

  When he arrived back at the riding school that served as brigade headquarters Arthur dismounted and handed the reins to a groom. Then, stepping into the entrance hall, with its smell of leather and polish, he hung his coat on one of the pegs outside his office and entered. Corporal Blake, his personal clerk, rose from the ledgers on his desk and stood to attention.

  ‘Good morning, Blake.’

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Better put in a request for ten thousand more rounds of ammunition.’

  ‘More live firing exercises, sir?’ There was a hint of disapproval in the corporal’s tone and Arthur paused at his desk to stare levelly at the man.

  ‘Yes. If they have been issued with muskets, then it’s as well that they have the opportunity to learn how to use the bloody things. Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But then I’m not in supplies. And you know what they’re like, sir.’

  ‘I do. Can’t bear to deal with ’em.That’s why you have the job, Blake.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Much obliged.’

  Arthur smiled and strode on, through the door into the small adjoining room where he had his personal office. One wall had shelves floor to ceiling on which Arthur kept his paperwork in an orderly manner. His desk, unlike rather too many desks of commanding officers, was bare. It had long been his practice to deal at once with every letter, report, request chit, leave application, disciplinary form or any other piece of paper that landed on the in-tray.That, in addition to the regular training and exercise, is why the men under his command were always amongst the best soldiers in the service of the King.

  He sat heavily in his chair and stared out of the window for a moment.The riding school sat atop a hill overlooking Hastings and the sea beyond. Down on the shingled shore the fishing boats were being hauled up from the surf towards the large cluster of net-drying sheds that rose above the tiled and thatched roofs of the town. Beyond the sheds the beach became a mad jumble of large rocks beneath the looming cliffs, and Arthur looked forward to the afternoon walk he regularly took there for exercise. He always found it a fine opportunity to think, uninterrupted by the duties and minutiae of commanding the brigade.

  Foremost amongst his concerns at present was the upcoming election for the seat at Rye. He had submitted his name, and been approved by the local landowners who largely dictated the manner in which their tenants would vote. All that remained was to take a short period of leave from the brigade to wine and dine the voters, as was the custom, make a few fine speeches and, after the brief formality of winning the vote, accept the honour of representing his constituents. After that Arthur would be able to support his brother in Parliament, while at the same time promoting his views on the most effective way of defeating France.

  There was a knock on the doorframe and Arthur turned away from the window to see Corporal Blake standing beyond the threshold, holding a leather pouch.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Just had the mail off the post coach from London.’

  ‘Thank you, Blake. On the desk there.’

  Blake laid down the pouch and returned to his accounts in the other room. With a sigh Arthur unfastened the pouch ties and flicked back the flap. Inside were several letters. He took them out and examined the first, a brief note from the War Office acknowledging his request for permission to conduct live firing exercises, and regretfully urging him to take the matter no further due to the stringent financial constraints the Treasury was placing on army and naval expenditure. Arthur tossed it to one side and opened the second letter, from his mother, Anne Wellesley. It was curt and precise and Arthur thought it read like a mere series of diary entries as it related the most recent social events she had attended in London. There were a few references to the family, including a caustic comment about Richard’s being too arrogant to defend the family’s good name in Parliament. It concluded with a brief expression of good will to Arthur, who she trusted was looking after his health. Arthur set the letter aside with the familiar sense of resignation over his mother’s evident lack of maternal affection for him.Then his eye fell on the next letter and he froze for an instant as he read the name of the sender.

  Lord Longford, Rutland Square, Dublin. Arthur held the letter up and stared at it as he felt his pulse quicken.Then he broke the seal, unfolded the paper and began to scan it quickly. He read it once again, more slowly, to be sure that
he had understood it fully. Kitty’s brother acknowledged his letter requesting permission to propose to her. In view of the rank that Arthur now held in the army, as well as the knighthood bestowed on him, and the private fortune he had accrued after his service in India,Thomas Pakenham deemed Arthur worthy of his sister’s hand in marriage. Therefore he would raise no objection if Sir Arthur Wellesley were to send a formal proposal of marriage to Kitty.

  ‘Good God,’ he said as he laid it on the desk.‘What a pompous idiot.’

  ‘Sir?’ Blake leaned out from his desk so that he could see his commanding officer.

  ‘It’s nothing. Pray continue with your work.’

  Arthur was cross with himself for uttering such an uncharitable thought about his prospective brother-in-law. After all, Thomas had given him permission to marry Kitty, having rebuffed him eleven years previously on the grounds that Arthur was unworthy.Well, now the wait was over, and Kitty would be his wife, if she accepted his offer. Arthur realised, with some surprise, that the feeling uppermost in his mind was not unbridled joy at the prospect, but a sense of relief that all the uncertainty of his feelings for Kitty was almost over.