Blood and Famine (Man of Conflict Series, Book 4)

by Andrew Wareham

  The Portuguese had orders from their own government to cooperate; those who did not fall in with the orders were to be seen as traitors.

  The first two premises of the orders were simple enough.

  The Marquis of Almeirim had as yet refused to take part in the process of denying his lands to the French; he seemed to believe that he could defend them against the whole of the French army. He was to be ordered to comply with his government’s instructions and, upon refusal, was to be arrested and when possible returned under guard to Lisbon.

  Septimus was to take the Castle under his sole command, including any Portuguese garrison troops, and was at the earliest date to send out parties of not less than half-battalion strength to destroy or bring in everything in the Marquis’ lands, and then in any lands not his but not yet rendered valueless to the French.

  Any who offered resistance might be treated as enemies of the Portuguese government.

  Septimus was at liberty to accompany the battalion in the field or remain in the Castle in command. There must always be a substantial garrison party of not less than two companies of his battalion left to hold the Castle.

  “Balls and buggeration! There’s a good way to greet our allies! Major Perceval!”

  Perceval trotted into the room, closing the door behind him, alerted by Septimus’ tone of voice.

  “One of your companies to hold the gate and the, what do you call it, a barbican?”

  “Very probably, sir. The tower above the gate?”

  “Yes. Two companies to the walls; one to the artillery platforms to the front; the fifth into the keep with us. Loaded and bayonets fixed. All Portuguese troops, but not the gunners, to be politely sent onto the parade ground – I think it’s a bailey, but to hell with that! Be ready to place the Portuguese major under close arrest, and any who protest to join him. Ten minutes, if you please.”

  Perceval left the room and ran downstairs while Septimus made his way to Major Taft’s side. The young gentleman was chatting happily to the Marchioness, exchanging news of the personalities in Town. It seemed that she had been resident in London for a time soon after her marriage when the Marquis was attached to the Embassy; if that was the case, why did he not speak English? Perhaps he chose not to in his own country.

  Septimus stood aloof, smiling pleasantly but not part of the conversation, his mind obviously preoccupied.

  “Were your orders unexpected, Colonel?”

  He smiled again, apologised for his discourtesy.

  “I am afraid they were, ma’am. Not at all as I had foreseen. They will be carried out, however.”

  Major Perceval came back in and caught Septimus’ eye, nodding that all was in hand.

  “Very good, Major!” Septimus turned back to the Marchioness. “My apologies again, ma’am, but may I ask you to act as interpreter for me?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Would you be so good as to enquire of your husband whether he intends to carry out the orders given him by the government in Lisbon? I am afraid that I must have an immediate response.”

  She made the request, nervously.

  The Marquis responded with a short but loud sentence.

  “He will not, sir.”

  “Please to inform him that I must place him under arrest.”

  Septimus waved to Major Perceval, called him to bring his company in.

  The Marquis clapped a hand to the sword at his waist, then very visibly changed his mind as the first platoon filed through the door and showed their bayonets. He made a much longer speech to his wife.

  “My husband says that this arrest is unlawful; he is the lord of these lands and the so-called government in Lisbon has no rights over him. He holds his estates directly from the Crown and must answer only to the orders of the Regent of Portugal.”

  “The Regent is in Brazil and cannot govern on a day-to-day basis. His powers have been granted to the government.”

  “My husband refuses to acknowledge that process. He holds directly from the Crown and accepts no intermediary.”

  “Inform him that he has disobeyed the orders of the lawful government and is therefore under arrest on charge of treason. Major Perceval! Place the gentleman in irons, disarming him first.”

  The Marquis was outraged – he was not to be manhandled by mere army officers.

  “He will offer his parole, sir,” the Marchioness translated his outburst.

  “No parole for traitors, ma’am. He is in rebellion against his King and therefore can give no pledge, for having forfeited his honour by his treasonable act.”

  There was a veritable explosion of howling anger.

  “He claims insult and demands satisfaction in blood, sir.”

  “No. He is a traitor. He may not demand honourable combat because he has no honour. Inform him that I have killed my man in the duello before now, but will not demean myself by meeting a man who has betrayed his King.”

  The statement was made and the Marquis fell into stupefied silence before beginning to weep. He said, between his sobs, that he was no traitor; he had tried to defend his people; he was wickedly traduced and had but one recourse. He demanded a single pistol.

  “Refused!”

  She shook her head; Septimus wondered if she had for a moment looked hopeful at the prospect of her husband’s suicide.

  “Discover a cell or locked room, if you would be so good, Major Perceval. Preferably at high – there will be less chance of rescue from the top of a tower. Remove his irons when he is inside and you are sure that he has no access to weapons of any sort.”

  “Major Taft, be ready to move out in the morning, if you please. Rations for a week.”

  Septimus turned back to the Marchioness as her husband was marched out, begged her to speak for him again, this time to the group of officers silent at the side of the chamber.

  There were six of Militia, two probably captains, Septimus thought from their symbols of rank, the other four younger subalterns. Separated from them were a pair in a different uniform, artillery Septimus suspected. He had been told that the gunners were regarded as a lower breed of mortals, smacking somewhat of Trade, it seemed.

  “Inform the gentlemen that I would wish them to retain command of their people and to continue in their duty. We are here to fight the French and their assistance will be very much appreciated.”

  The captains refused; their duty was to their lord, they said.

  “Arrest them. Place them into separate cells.”

  Septimus turned to the lieutenants, discovered one to be in the attempt to pull a pistol while two grappled with him and the fourth dithered, unsure just what to do.

  “Major Taft! Would you be so good as to take the young gentleman with the pistol into arrest.”

  The lieutenant was manhandled up the stairs to be locked away into a fourth private room. The Marchioness identified him as the heir, the son of the Marquis' first marriage.

  “If you would be so kind, ma’am, I would be obliged if you would inform the three gentlemen remaining that they may choose to retain their commands and take them into the Army of Portugal or remain here as garrison, whichever they wish. They are welcome as part of the fight against the French invaders.”

  Brief discussion led the three to choose to stay in the Castle for the while, probably over winter. Very sensibly, they said they might well prefer to join the Army in spring.

  “So would I, ma’am! The Castle promises to be far warmer and drier than any barracks the Army may occupy. Have they any English, ma’am?”

  “None, sir.”

  “A pity. I would have wished them to join me in the field, but if they cannot speak to me they would find that impossible. I am no master of languages, I am afraid, ma’am – and by the time I have learned enough Portuguese to be understood they will be long gone!”

  “There are at least three of the soldiers who speak English.”

  “Can they be give commissions so that they may accompany them in the Officers
Mess of an evening?”

  That was difficult – a commission could not be given to men of no birth, however useful they might be.

  It was a nuisance; if the Portuguese Militia could not accompany him then he would have to leave a garrison of sufficient size to ensure that they would not remember their allegiance to the Marquis in Septimus’ absence.

  The artillery officers stated that they would remain with their command, if it pleased him. They were Regular soldiers and took their orders from Lisbon, not from mere provincial Militia.

  Septimus bowed and stated that he would not dream of interfering with them. If they required stores of any description they might wish to send a sergeant to discuss the matter with his Quartermaster who would have the necessary orders.

  “Mr Black, the Portuguese horsemen you have hired to escort the baggage train, sir. Are they sufficiently reliable that they could carry a despatch for me?”

  “Paid in advance, in silver or even better in gold coin, sir, then undoubtedly so. Coin is rare in the hills, sir, and they will be loyal to a paymaster, of that I am certain.”

  “Good. I would wish a message to be taken to Lord Wellington at earliest. I do not know his exact location other than that the army is falling back upon the Lines.”

  “It will be done, sir.”

  Septimus dipped into his pocket, came out with his drawstring coin purse.

  “How much, Mr Black?”

  “Five men, sir. One English gold guinea to the leader and two silver dollars to each of his followers and they will ride to Hell and back.”

  “Excellent! I will not wish them to go so far on this occasion.”

  The evening was spent in careful deliberation; there was an almost insuperable problem in that Septimus felt that he must accompany the half-battalion that went out in the morning to initiate the scorched-earth process in the Marquis’ lands. There were no maps and he had no indication of the terrain and he was sure that he must at least walk the land to gain an idea of its nature. If, however, he went out, then either Taft or Perceval, probably the latter, must remain in command in the Castle.

  The Castle must be held. There could be no possibility of it falling into the hands of the Marquis again; he dared not risk the Militia choosing to free their feudal lord and then to expel the British. Could Perceval be relied upon?

  Long thought said that Perceval was entirely trustworthy and would be neither seduced nor bludgeoned from his duty; he was also rather foolish and might only too easily be deluded into a false action that gave all away.

  In the end, there was no alternative – Perceval must be given the command. He was second in the battalion and if Septimus fell or was even temporarily incapacitated he would step up in his place. He must be brought on in his duties, eased into the responsibilities that could too easily become his as a permanence.

  “Major Perceval, you will have your companies and will hold the Castle for the next few days, sir. I shall march out with Mr Taft in the morning and we shall discover the extent of our orders. You should read the instructions that have come to us, sir. You are second in the battalion and must be ready to take charge, if the need arises.”

  Perceval sat down with the two sheets of paper; ten minutes later he reached the end and raised his head.

  “One might wish for a map, sir. I can see now why this Marquis chappie was so upset with us! I expect he had refused these orders, had he, sir?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Bad luck for him. Best thing would be to send him back to Lisbon, sir… but that would mean an escort… two companies at least, and we cannot afford to lose that many men for two weeks or more. If he stays then he must be guarded, and not by his own people. The man’s a damned nuisance, sir!”

  “He is all of that. You must keep an eye to him because it is more important for me to know what we must do in the field, or so I judge.”

  “Yes, sir. I shall, if you do not think it wrong of me, place one company in the keep, at the top, outside the locked rooms. There will be no rescue party of Militia walking through them. Other than that… let me see… one company to hold the gate, as they are at the moment, and one to man the walls and watch over the artillery, and the others to reserve. Rotating of course.”

  “I would do the same, I believe. I shall leave the orders in your hands, sir.”

  It was a start; perhaps Perceval would grow into command, possibly he would need his hand held by a bright, able subordinate. Septimus ran through the five captains in his mind, was not too much impressed by any of them; Collins of G Company was probably the best. What of his lieutenants? None stood out as remarkable, though several of them were not entirely stupid. They must be watched over the next months. The posting at the Castle gave opportunities to observe them, possibly to send them out with half-companies to perform minor tasks.

  “Cooper, we are to go out with Mr Taft in the morning. No more than a week, probably less. Pistols and spare boots at least.”

  There would possibly be no opportunity to change clothes in the week, but fresh boots and stockings would do his feet good.

  “Horse, sir?”

  “No, not till we have some idea of the terrain. It is said to be rich agricultural land, but that does not necessarily mean flat and suitable for a horse.”

  “Do us both good, sir, a week on foot. Freshen us up, like.”

  Septimus glanced down; he was not carrying too much of a belly, he thought.

  The Castle was built on a small knoll at the side of the narrow ravine which led down a quarter of a mile from the hills and joined a much larger, wider stretch of flat land with a respectable river running through it.

  “Five miles across, would you say, Major Taft?”

  They peered at the foothills on the other side; there were mountains showing grey in the distance. That was peculiar, Septimus thought; he was sure the nearest mountains were the Pyrenees, and they were well distant.

  “What would you say of the country behind those hills, Major Taft?”

  Taft called to his servant who brought him his naval telescope. He peered in silence for half a minute or so.

  “More hills, sir, higher and, I think, wet, sir. I believe I can see thick cloud over them, raining heavily, I suspect. The Spanish hills offering a welcome again, sir!”

  “We shall not be marching that far, Mr Taft, not this time! Will you take a glance to the northwest? Does the valley extend directly to the sea or does it perhaps join some sort of coastal plain?”

  “To the sea, I think, sir, though some good few miles away. I believe there is a small town at five or six miles; certainly three at least of villages.”

  “West or east? To the sea or inland?”

  “Toss a coin, sir?”

  “No, I think not, Major Taft. The French must come from inland, so that is the area to be cleared first.”

  They marched out into the larger valley, reached an area of harvested fields within minutes.

  “Wheat?”

  Taft did not know, passed the question down to the nearest sergeant.

  “Wheat, sir, and some barley, and rye on the sides of the hills, he says. Beans as well. Good land, he says. There is a track, sir, and he says the carts were driven inland, judging by the hoofprints of the laden wheels.”

  “Ask him to explain that, will you.”

  The sergeant pointed out, very politely and carefully not in a long-suffering voice, that the wagons came from the village empty and returned loaded. Their wheels made deeper ruts going back, so it was just a matter of observing the direction of the hooves in front of the loaded carts.

  “Ah, yes! Well thought, sergeant!” Taft was most impressed. Septimus turned back to immediate business.

  “Column of route on the track but march loaded. Offer no menaces but be very ready.”

  Soldiers advancing in a marching column were less threatening than the same men in line abreast.

  They turned a bend on the track and the village came in sight. Small,
single-storey cottages, stone built from country rock rather than quarried, squared slabs; red tiled roofs, which said that some part of the year at least was too wet for thatch to be practical. Septimus made a quick count, one street of a total of forty houses, say a man and two grown boys to each, but some of them taken for the Militia. A hundred men, possibly fewer. He had more than four hundred at his back, should seem sufficiently big not to be fought.

  “Bring the young sailor man to the front, if you please, Major Taft.”

  They entered the village and a few older men gathered in the street to meet with them.

  “Valley closes in to the east, sir. I suspect this is the boundary of the Marquis’ land.”

  They had explained in careful detail exactly what the interpreter was to say to the villagers, nodded to him to spout his piece.

  He spoke and the men scowled. Then one of them replied, not at length.

  “The Marquis said that they would be defended against the French. They can stay in their homes and must not run away. There is no need for them to do anything.”

  Septimus shook his head.

  “Tell them that they must go to the Castle, or further towards the coast, behind the Lines. They cannot stay. They must take all of the harvest and all of their precious belongings and all of their animals and leave here. If they go then there is a chance there will be a village to come back to. If they do not go then I will set fire to every house and barn and everything in it.”

  “I say, sir! That is rather hard, is it not?”

  “Yes, Major Taft, it is. But I shall do it. Nothing is to be left for the French, and they will certainly come. They must come this far and then they are to be stopped and will wait here over the winter, with no food and Militias attacking their supply convoys as they cross the long leagues of Spain. They are to die here, as many as possible. That means that every ear of grain must be taken away and every animal down to the smallest chicken!”