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

by Andrew Wareham

  Sergeant Exton shook his head indulgently – these officers of today, he implied, had seen nothing!

  The villagers drove their animals up the track; a very few sheep and pigs, many more goats and one or two donkeys or less commonly mules to each family. The beasts of burden were laden massively with sacks of grain and flour, a crate of chickens balanced on top of each. The women and children walked beside them, the men bringing up the rear.

  The front of the procession was led by the grooms from the Count’s stables, each leading two or three horses. They were followed in turn by lesser servants herding a small flock of sheep, a boar and half a dozen sows. The Count had kept the breeding stock for the village and had charged for the use of his boar and rams; the villagers had been forbidden to keep any males.

  The Countess, who had not believed that her ultimatum would be accepted, that she would be left behind, waited until the last minute for the carriages to appear for her and the children. Then she began to shout her outrage, and then screamed because she was ignored.

  “Peter, would you tell that noisy bitch that she can catch up with the horses and ride to the Castle, or that she can stay here, or she can walk down the track towards the French. The choice is hers but there will be no knights riding to her rescue. Tell her as well that I do not care what she does; she is just a nuisance!”

  The interpreter tried to give her ladyship the message but was forced to give up – she was making far too much noise to listen to him. He turned to her oldest girl, growing up at fifteen years, explained to her that the French were coming and that they would have no mercy – they would not care how old she was. The girl listened and ran, rounding up the smaller children and telling the three older boys who objected that they could do whatever they wished; she was getting out. Within five minutes she had six children on horseback and the youngest in front of her, was riding behind them, keeping them safely together. The older boys, young men they believed, stayed with their mother, playing the man’s part as they felt they should.

  “Are we to burn the cottages, sir?”

  “We must, I am afraid, Major Perceval. The peasants have left food in them, for being unable to carry it. Check the places for old folk left behind in the dark or for cats and dogs that have hidden themselves away in fear. Then set them afire.”

  Twenty minutes and every roof was blazing, the dry beams taking fire quickly.

  Septimus ordered the three companies out of the village and marched them back, calling in the pickets as they passed them. There was no rifle fire from the hills, though whether for lack of men or unwillingness they did not know.

  “Sergeant Exton, has the word been passed that the wine has been poisoned?”

  “They all know, sir. That won’t have stopped one or two deciding not to believe you, sir. There will be just a few who know better and will be quite certain that you were telling the lie just to stop them helping themselves. We will soon see who, sir!”

  “Will it be the thieves’ cat for them, Sergeant Exton?”

  “Better not, sir. The men would think that to be cruel. They will see them as having punished themselves sufficiently. It would be a waste of time, sir, flogging them. They drink for having to – they cannot stop themselves. It is a sad thing, sir, for those who know them and see nothing to do to help them. I have given them extra drill, put them on fatigues, worked them till they fell down from exhaustion, and then have watched them crawl to the nearest bottle and drink as if it were the whole world to them. They do not drink for any reason, sir, not even for the purpose of getting drunk. They drink because they must. Even knowing the wine to be poisoned, it is still booze and they cannot leave it untouched. They should not be in the Army, sir, where it is so hard to keep the stuff away from them. They should be sent to the Navy where they can be taken away from the shore and have no beerhouse to hand in the middle of the ocean.”

  Septimus was impressed – Exton had put into words knowledge that he already possessed but had never been able to formulate.

  “Would you take a commission, was one to be put in your way, Sergeant Exton? You are a thinking man and should be doing more than you can as a sergeant.”

  “I do not belong in the Officers Mess, sir. And I have no income.”

  “I was told that the Portuguese Army is being built up from fresh beginnings, Sergeant Exton, with as many as one in three of its officers to be English, and the majority of those to be deserving and well-recommended sergeants, made up to full lieutenant, not to be a mere ensign.”

  “To stay perhaps when the wars are ended, sir…”

  “Or to return to England with a bounty in your pocket as thanks for your service, or even to remain in Portugal on a farm or working a business in a town with a local wife.”

  “That is well worth thinking about, sir. I joined the Army through no great wish of my own and would like to make something of myself yet.”

  Septimus wondered just what he had done, but would never ask – every man’s past was his own in the Army. He nodded and followed his men up the track. Sergeant Exton was too valuable a man to lose him to the battalion; let him think about taking a commission with the Portuguese, to ease him into the right frame of mind, and when the time came to fill a gap in the ranks of the officers then he could be pushed in the right direction.

  “All well, Mr Melksham?”

  “Mostly, sir. The word came to the people here that the Count was placed in irons and they suddenly started to pack their valuables and start out on the track. Most of the women have already left, some of them with bundles as big as themselves on their backs, sir! The men have started to walk their goats, on leading strings, and the pigs as well, but the sheep must be moved in daylight, they say. They told me that sheep will not walk on a tether, not being as clever as goats, so they must be herded, and to do that there must be light enough to see them. Besides that, sheep are stupid and will fall over in the dark. Given an hour after dawn, they tell me, and the flock will be on the track. There are no more than twenty sheep, but they provide cheese as well as wool and are valuable to the people here.”

  “Can we hold against cavalry and make a safe retreat?”

  “Yes, sir. I have looked at the ground, sir. We can form a line at the southern end of this little village. The stream is just too wide to jump and too deep to ford except by the little bridge fifty yards down the track. The bridge is only for people, sir – the goats and sheep can cross where the stream has been made shallow. It would take four horses abreast, but probably not more, sir. A company firing platoon volleys could hold until a galloper gun was brought up.”

  Septimus glanced at the lie of the houses, nodded in acceptance.

  “No more than a dozen of smallish huts, but they have outbuildings and fences to keep the goats out of the vegetable patches. Cover to fall back until one reaches the northern outskirts of the village.”

  “Yes, sir. The ground rises slowly then but is sufficiently uneven that the horsemen will wish to keep to the track, and a company can find little dips to shelter in and fire from. Two companies falling back through each other, sir, until we reach the track itself, and cavalry will not wish to charge uphill into the fire of half of the battalion.”

  “Let it be so, Mr Melksham. Major Perceval will command on the track and you and I will stand at the bottom of the village. Who have you with you in the company?”

  “Mr Purkiss as junior lieutenant, sir, and Captain Mellish, sir. The captain has the other half of the company with you, sir.”

  “So he has. Mr Mellish, take your whole company to the line Mr Melksham has suggested, obviously making such improvements to his plan as are necessary.”

  Common courtesy demanded that the captain must be acknowledged to be the better man.

  One platoon stood guard for an hour at a time through the night, giving each man the better part of eight hours to eat and sleep, and get up to mischief hidden in the darkness. It was unavoidable, Septimus knew, but there were no women
left in the village and they were desperately poor, had almost nothing that could be stolen other than foodstuffs which would be destroyed in the morning. He ignored the pilfering that was occurring behind his back – it would do little enough harm.

  French cavalry appeared an hour after dawn. Septimus assumed that they would have moved out of their bivouac at first light, perhaps some five miles to the south of the villages.

  “Do you recognise them, Mr Mellish?”

  “Light dragoons or hussars, sir. Sabres, not lancers. The uniform could be any one of a dozen regiments at this distance, sir. The helmets are no help – they are all of a similar pattern and I cannot make out the badges. Their horses are tired – they have been worked hard for too many days without a break, and probably eating grass only. No beans or corn, sir, to give that extra strength.”

  Septimus noted that the horses would not be good for a long, hard pursuit.

  “Stand the men to, Mr Mellish, just the platoon on guard to show themselves initially. Volley fire, platoons to dress forward, fire and retire.”

  The guard platoon of twelve men and a corporal stood up behind the stone wall overlooking the bridge and animal ford. The track rose a few feet from the streambed, climbing at an angle up to the river terrace where the village stood. The effect was to put the musketmen above head height on the hussars and to conceal the rest of the company. They fired as the first hussars walked into the stream, men and horses falling together in a screaming, splashing confusion. The second platoon shot into the troopers who had pulled up at the bank, adding to the shambles.

  “Sir, dismounted men running forward, trying to recover the wounded, sir.”

  “No white flag, Captain Mellish. Continue firing.”

  The would-be rescuers fell into the stream; they watched as one of them, shot through the body, stumbled into the water and thrashed and slowly drowned.

  “No unofficial truces, Captain Mellish. If they are to bring aid to their fallen then they must first agree terms and fall back. We need time today, but our aim overall is to weaken the French to the point that they will be overwhelmed when Lord Wellington advances in the spring. To that end we are to kill every one we can lay our hands on and starve all of the rest, sir.”

  “No mercy, sir?”

  “We shall always accept surrender when it is offered, Mr Mellish, but other than that, if they fight then we kill them – and we shall not be too fussy about the way in which we do it. This one is a soldier’s war, sir, so they tell me; it is not a gentleman’s conflict!”

  Mellish was a gentleman by upbringing, or so he believed; he was not sure that he liked the concept of a vulgar war.

  “We are soldiers, Mr Mellish, and this is the only war available to us, so we must make the best of it. They must bring up guns, I believe, and will place them just beyond accurate musket range. I would hope for no more than four-pounder gallopers, I doubt they would have their twelves in the van. As soon as the guns are trails down and ready to fire, then we shall offer a hopeless volley to say that we are still here, and run like hell up the track and into the village where we shall conceal ourselves. If they have twelve-pounders then they will use them to pound the houses flat, but it would take far too long with the little guns and so they will send the hussars forward again, and we shall tumble them down at the entrance to the village. Once they are repulsed, then we withdraw to the far side of the village and fall back, leapfrogging through the rough ground.”

  They delayed the French for four hours in their retreat to the path over the hills; their sole casualty was a private soldier who turned his foot in a rabbit hole and had to be carried away.

  “Highly satisfactory, Major Perceval! The Frogs have lost half of a regiment killed and wounded, and more horses than men. Are the sheep all safely away?”

  “Three hours since, sir. They must be half of the way across the hills by now, sir.”

  “Excellent!”

  “I have sent three companies back, sir, with orders to find a sensible point to hold at an hour or so down the track, just as we did at Corunna, sir.”

  “Well done! That campaign was not all loss – we have at least discovered exactly how best to conduct a retreat, Major Perceval!”

  “We have learned as well, sir, that we will be well-advised to keep to the high ground in this campaign. The French cavalry will be a nuisance to us in the valleys, but we will be able to butcher them in the hills, sir.”

  “Exactly so, Major Perceval. There is much to be said for a nice, steep hillside and a Frog at the bottom of it.”

  “Here they come again, sir.”

  They stared down the valley at the cavalry advancing at a walk.

  “Trying to form a line, sir, rather than hold to the track. Will they be able to keep that formation, sir?”

  “The ground is too rough. They will break too many horse’s legs if they try to increase the pace. They may be able to advance at a slow walk, but no more. That is not the original regiment, I believe, Captain Mellish.”

  “No, sir. Heavy dragoons, carrying carbines as well as straight swords, sir.”

  “Sensible move on their part. They have not been able to come close enough to use their sabres so they will, I presume, attempt us as mounted infantry. Carbines are short ranged, of course, so they must place themselves within fifty paces of us if they are to do any good at all. Do you know if the Frogs train their troopers at volley fire?”

  Captain Mellish did not, but he suggested that it would be out of character for cavalry officers to put any great effort into anything other than horsemanship. Major Perceval agreed – all he had seen of cavalry said that they believed exclusively in cold steel.

  “Retire to the first crest, I believe, gentlemen. We shall let the dragoons walk so far in their heavy boots, then meet them with a company in two lines, alternate volleys, and see what happens. They should, I expect, go back down far faster than they came up!”

  They lost three private soldiers to random carbine balls while French bodies were scattered all down the track where they had fallen and often rolled. The dragoons showed no inclination to make a second attempt at them and the battalion marched off, seeing no more pursuit.

  “They will have waited for their own infantry to come up, gentlemen. I would have, certainly, in their boots! Highly satisfactory!”

  “Sir? The Count has been reunited with his daughters and younger children. He wishes to know what has happened to his lady and the older boys.”

  “Inform him that I can only imagine, Major Perceval. They chose to cast themselves upon the mercy of the French. Let us trust they made a wise decision.”

  Man of Conflict Series

  BOOK FOUR

  Chapter Four

  Something was wrong.

  The Castle should have been bustling, men and women scurrying about their business, children running for no reason at all, animals all out in their flocks and herds. The place was dead, almost silent, empty-seeming.

  "Plague?"

  "God knows, Major Perceval. I pray not - that will be to give Portugal to the French."

  It would also kill tens of thousands of the people, Septimus belatedly realised, but he consoled himself that one must have a sense of priorities.

  The column marched up the steep valley and towards the gatehouse. There was a guard in place, all as it should be - from B Company under Sergeant Chisholm, coming to the salute.

  "Thank you, Sergeant Chisholm. Report, if you please!"

  "Sir! This morning, sir, not two hours ago, sir. The Marquis and his son, sir, were let out of their places of confinement for exercise as normal, their escorts withdrawing to allow them private speech with each other as is the procedure, sir. They walked the battlements for a minute or two, sir, then they jumped, sir. Both of them, onto the rocks at the bottom, sir."

  The keep stood more than one hundred feet tall.

  "Both dead?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Witnesses? Were they clearly seen to j
ump? No possibility that they were pushed?"

  "Jumped, sir. For sure."

  "Good. At least we cannot be accused of having killed them."

  "The lady, sir, the Marquis' wife, that is, visited both at breakfast, sir. She spoke to them, sir."

  Septimus wondered just what she had said and whether her words had provoked their suicide. Then he wondered if he cared. Life was to be much easier without that damned aristocratic idiot on his back; he would not have to waste men on an escort to Lisbon and could take the guard off the prison quarters. The junior officers under arrest could be given the choice of returning to duty or being put out of the gate; they were harmless now. If he said anything to the Marchioness it would only be his thanks.

  "Right, thank you, Sergeant Chisholm. Be alert for cavalry - the French are in the next valley."

  Septimus spun on his heel, surveyed the narrow, rocky track leading down to the wider valley below the Castle. The sides of the ravine were covered in scrub and low bushes. There were no trees; all would have gone for firewood or charcoal over the years. Blocking the track would demand shifting tons of rock. It was better to rely on the cannon and musketry from the battlements, possibly from skirmishers, but he did not want raiding parties by-passing the Castle in the night and getting into the flocks further up the hill.

  "All animals must be brought into the Castle every night, Major Perceval. Gate to be closed and barred and with two platoons awake at all times."

  "Yes, sir. We could put patrols out at night, sir, or parties in hiding up on the other side of the valley here. It would keep the French on their toes, as you might say, sir. As well, sir, it would give the younger lads something to do, the lieutenants, that is. They will get bored, sir, cooped up in the Castle just holding guard."

  Septimus was pleasantly surprised; that might be the first time ever that Perceval had made a suggestion of his own; perhaps the man was starting to think. It was a new concept, Perceval thinking.

  "Good idea! How many should go out at a time, and how should they be placed? What do you recommend, half a company each night, or more? Some to ambush, some to patrol or all together, just one or the other? Tell me what you decide tomorrow, if you please."