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

by Andrew Wareham

  The land was almost dead. Grapevines and olive groves had been hacked down, burned in most cases; even if the peasantry returned they would suffer for years.

  “Where is the sense in this, sir?”

  Major Perceval was more than normally puzzled, simply could not comprehend all that he was seeing.

  “The French conquered the land, sir. So they intended to stay, why invade otherwise? But they have made the land worthless. Farms without farmers; fields without crops or animals – what is the reason for it? Even if they had intended to be so very wicked as to kill off the Portuguese and replace them by Frenchmen, then they would still need cattle and sheep and goats, vineyards and olive presses. Where is the thought, sir? They have butchered and vandalised a whole country. Why?”

  “I do not know, Major Perceval. The Devil’s work, is the sole answer that comes to my lips. What sort of wicked man must this Bonaparte be?”

  They could find no answer to any of their questions.

  A day brought the brigade to a river too deep and rock-strewn to be forded; a double arched stone bridge, ancient and massively built, crossed the watercourse. When the Hampshires turned a bend in the valley leading down to the scene they saw the Wiltshires and New Foresters in lines on either side of the track; a few red coated bodies on the bridge itself showed there was an active rearguard holding the crossing.

  Septimus surveyed the area, using the slight advantage of height to get a good view.

  The valley widened out immediately to their front and took a dogleg to the south, almost two miles of flatland between the sides. A spur of hills came down to the river on their side, no more than a quarter of a mile away; they must cross the river if they were to go further south and east. Walls had recently been built on the far bank for as much as fifty yards north and south of the bridge; they were not high but provided adequate protection for a firing line of a hundred men.

  “Could use Major Taft and that damned great telescope of his now, gentlemen! I see no gun loops in the walls. There seems to be no battery of twelve-pounders emplaced.”

  “None in sight, sir. I could send one of my sergeants up the hillside to get a better view, sir?”

  “Good idea, Mr Paisley. A platoon with him, of course.”

  The valley was almost flat on the other side and they could see no other defensive works. If the French had intended to hold the position, to do more than delay pursuit, they would have built a redoubt to cover the bridge. It was a fair assumption that they would have at most a single battalion of infantry in place, though Septimus would have put a regiment of cavalry a furlong or two back in whatever cover could be found, so as to cut up the British after they had forced the bridge and allow the garrison to escape.

  “Major Perceval, bring the battalion forward to within a furlong of the river, out of musket shot, using cover if possible. Wait for orders. The men may brew up their tea but do not set cook fires yet.”

  “Yes, sir. What do you expect, sir?”

  That was a bad question to ask; tactless in the extreme and hence typical of the man.

  “I would use the guns to batter the walls first. They may be too strong for field artillery, but at least it will keep their heads down. Then canister across the bridge and along the tops of the walls and send two companies into the bridge itself; no sense in any more, there ain’t room for them. If they make a lodgement, then leapfrog the rest of the battalion over them and mop up, then bring us all across to hold and fortify looking the opposite way. We will want to garrison this bridge rather than leave it to be taken or destroyed behind us. Brigadier Dudley will have his own ideas, of course. I shall report to him.”

  Brigadier Dudley was in deep and acrimonious conversation with Colonel Walters of the New Foresters when Septimus arrived at his side. Colonel Watson of the Wiltshires stood silent; his face was vaguely familiar and Septimus suspected he had been a major when they had campaigned together in the Sugar Islands.

  “Sir Septimus! You know Colonel Walters, of course. Have you met Colonel Watson of the Wiltshires?”

  “Many years ago, sir, in the Sugar Islands, if I remember.”

  Watson remembered Septimus as well, but not in any great detail it would seem.

  “Colonel Walters wishes to take the bridge at bayonet point, Sir Septimus. He believes that a charge will be sufficient to do the job.”

  “I had rather spend an hour or two with the guns first, sir. We have nine-pounders which are respectable in themselves and can do some harm to a dry-laid wall, and I believe each battery will have a single howitzer which can toss shells to land on the other side and do no end of damage to the infantry there. We do not know how great the garrison may be. I have a man climbing the highest of the nearby hills in the hope of seeing more, but it will be the better part of two hours before he will have a report for me. My feeling is for caution in this instance, sir.”

  Colonel Walters scowled and sneered.

  “Counsel of delay, Colonel Pearce? Out of character for you, sir! Perhaps you would prefer the glory to accrue to your own people!”

  Colonel Walters made it clear that he had neither forgotten nor forgiven Septimus. In his own mind he was convinced that it was somehow Septimus’ doing that he had remained in idle, inglorious garrison on the Channel coast while Septimus had taken honours that might otherwise have been his.

  “We have no need for further glory, sir, having already won our fair share. I have no problem in giving green troops their chance at all that is going, sir. Inexperienced officers will always benefit from being blooded in a minor skirmish before they see battle, sir.”

  Septimus was quite pleased with that comment which, he felt, went some way towards paying off his score with Colonel Walters.

  The brigadier intervened before the matter could reach the stage of outright insult; the two men were of equal rank and a challenge could be offered without breaking the military code.

  “We are not young subalterns seeking to win our spurs, gentlemen! Sir Septimus has a record that we must all admire, possibly envy, and Colonel Walters must be eager to display his own virtues. We shall bombard for an hour and will then attempt the bridge, Colonel Walters, one half battalion up. Press your charge, sir, a volley and then over the wall with cold steel, as you have so vehemently expressed the matter.”

  The brigadier sent his runner to the gunners and watched as they put their trails down and opened fire in fine fashion.

  “Well trained! Reliable men, the gunners.”

  The howitzers were slower to go into action, having to be settled onto a level base before they could be aimed. They watched as a lieutenant fussed over a shell on the nearer piece, fiddling with the fuze.

  “Let us see how good he is, sir. He will be in competition with the other battery!”

  The howitzer gave a puny cough, using a small powder charge, and the shell climbed high before dropping, a faint trail of smoke from the fuze just visible. The explosion came at ground level and not ten yards behind the wall; it was mirrored by the other gun.

  “Very good practice, sir. That will terrify the men at the wall; they will have no protection at all behind them in all probabilities.”

  “I have not seen a howitzer at work before, Sir Septimus. I would not wish to stand under that sort of fire myself!”

  “Nor me, sir! Not so bad if one has trenches, but manning a wall it would be very nasty indeed. The Navy attempted to bring their huge great mortars to bear at Copenhagen but were unable to come to a safe mooring in range. They are of thirteen inches, I believe, while the howitzers are about five; those far greater shells would have been massively destructive!”

  Colonel Dudley had heard of the Danish campaign but, like so many, had doubts about it.

  “Was it really necessary, Sir Septimus? Bombing Copenhagen in such a way?”

  “The sailors assured me that the Navy must have the Danish fleet. The better part of forty of frigates and sloops and a score of two-deckers. The line-of-batt
le ships will almost all be used as prison hulks and receiving and store ships, I am told, for lack of ten thousand seamen to man them, but the smaller ships are almost all at sea already, sir, badly needed! The government and the generals could see no other way of achieving the end, sir. It was important that the Danes did not set fire to the fleet, as indeed they had been ordered to do by their own Crown Prince; the threat to the population of Copenhagen achieved that aim. Two thousand civilians were killed, I am told, and the lives of one hundred thousand were threatened. I would not say so to my own people, sir, but I am not sure we are a lot better than the villain Bonaparte. Politicians may assure us that the ends justify the means, sir, and I must confess that I have on occasion in the past taken the most expedient course to achieve my desires, but I suspect that Copenhagen took the principle too far. Mind you, sir, if the need arises in future and I have a choice between winning cruelly or losing, then I shall not examine the moralities too deeply!”

  Colonel Dudley was not at all sure he liked that last statement.

  “Might it not be better to lose with honour, Sir Septimus?”

  “When I lose I will see many of my men killed, sir. Is my honour worth their lives?”

  The brigadier did not know the answer to that poser. He feared in fact that there was no answer, which was a nuisance, because there very definitely was a question.

  “I gain the impression, Sir Septimus, that there might be, if I might make so bold as to say so, a degree of bad blood between Colonel Walters and yourself.”

  “There is, sir. As a major under his command I found myself more often than not at odds with him. His ways are not mine, sir! Might I venture, however, sir, to say that I would not create the disruption to your brigade that a meeting between us would inevitably cause. I can imagine no ordinary circumstances that might lead me to issue my challenge to him, not on active service. It would not be right, sir. Lord Wellington as well has made clear his detestation of the duello and simple loyalty demands that I must support his stance.”

  Dudley was relieved to hear that, and noticed as well, as intended, that Septimus had a relationship of personal loyalty to the commanding general, that they were known to each other.

  “Of course, Sir Septimus, you came under Lord Wellington’s command at Koge.”

  “And at Ahmednagar before that, sir. I have a great respect for the general’s ability in the field, sir.”

  “One has heard the words ‘sepoy general’ used to describe his Lordship, Sir Septimus.”

  “After the last campaign, sir? Busaco and Talavera made his name, I would say. A fair comment before that, but hardly now. Koge, I would admit, was no test of any general, but his record is now proven.”

  “A good answer, Sir Septimus. You are a supporter of his, it would seem.”

  “I am, sir. I believe that one may trust his judgement in battle, and his honesty as a man. I ask little more of anyone, sir.”

  The bombardment ended and the New Foresters advanced, cheering as they ran, two young, valiant subalterns waving their swords at the fore. They reached the wall unharmed and boosted each other across then stood balancing perilously on the top and shouting. The French had pulled back, unable to take the casualties caused by the bursting shells.

  Septimus was happy that the guns had done the job; Colonel Walters knew that the French had run at the sight of cold steel.

  “A company to hold the bridge, Sir Septimus?”

  “I think so, sir. We would not wish to discover that the French had come back with a barrel of gunpowder.”

  Colonel Dudley agreed.

  “Who should it be, Sir Septimus?”

  “Colonel Walters took the bridge. It is only right that he should hold it. The honour belongs to him.”

  They marched on in the same order, the Hampshires bringing up the rear, the men perfectly content to let others do the fighting for them, the officers fretting that the opportunity for action might escape them. Septimus simply grinned and marched at their head, sending another message back to the Castle that the adjutant should stay where he was until he was told that there was a track open through the lowlands when he should join them with the riding stock. His officers would be mounted at the earliest possible moment; not only was that easier on their town-bred feet, it enabled them to see more and get quickly to any point where they were needed.

  They made camp by the river that night, thankful for being at the rear of the little column and to have the cleanest water. The French had passed through in a hurry; there were trees hacked down for firewood and left unburned, making the men’s evening both warmer and idler.

  “Major Paisley, be sure that the men empty and refill their canteens in the morning. Dig camp latrines well away from the river and remind the men that they will be used exclusively, as is our normal rule. One company to have guard tonight, half sleeping at any time, platoons to cover the rear as well as the inland side and the front of our encampment. A pair of sentries to walk the river bank in turn. I know that it is impossible that the French should come downriver and highly unlikely that they should be behind us, but the whole perimeter must and shall be watched, sir. I was told many years ago that it is the unlikely events that kill men – because we guard carefully against known risks and likely dangers and disregard the improbable.”

  They slept undisturbed; what the company on guard thought of the procedure they kept to themselves.

  Next morning the stream they were following joined a greater river, wider and shallower and slower and crossed by a made ford, stones laid across so that oxcarts could splash through except when the rains were heavy and the waters were in spate. There was a broader, more heavily travelled track visible on the other side, bordered by heavy woodland.

  “South-west to north-east, more or less, that roadway, gentlemen. From the Tagus inland to the Spanish border, I would think. It may even be a highway!”

  “The army to be coming up from the south, I would think, sir?”

  “It should be, Colonel Walters. It might be using this route though the track is fairly much undamaged; it has not seen the passage of an army in recent days.”

  “Where are the French, sir? If they guarded a bridge on this smaller track, then they should be close to hand here, sir.” Septimus was suspicious of the empty landscape; it should have French in it. He would have held here if he had been in retreat.

  “Unless they are in disorder, sir. They may be dispirited and in flight.” Colonel Walters thought it very likely that the French would have abandoned their invasion and have gone home again, probably to depose Bonaparte as the cause of all their troubles.

  As was his habit, Colonel Watson of the Wiltshires looked on and said nothing.

  The brigadier decided that the French had gone. If they had stayed, he said, they would have dug trenches or built a barricade and abatis using the trees to hand. It made sense that they had marched off, probably to another more naturally defensible point further along the track.

  It would be wiser, the brigadier thought, to keep the Wiltshires as a buffer between the two at-odds colonels.

  “New Foresters to cross the ford and provide cover for the remainder of the column. A regiment of horse might have found concealment within reach of the river banks.”

  Colonel Walters acknowledged the orders and called his battalion into column to cross the river as quickly as possible.

  The Wiltshires pressed forward to the bank and grounded arms to wait; Septimus pulled the Hampshires behind them.

  “Major Perceval, reverse two of your companies, if you please, loaded and ready to form square. Just in case, sir!”

  It might gain half a minute if there was a charge from cavalry that had hidden in a side valley for them to pass, and those thirty seconds would be enough to allow the remainder of the battalion to form up.

  Septimus watched as the New Foresters marched; he was sad, but not surprised, to see they were wearing the leather stock.

  They splashed across
the ford, muskets held high in hope of protecting the priming.

  “Better to have crossed unloaded, Major Paisley. With the best will in the world, some of the men will have wet powder and then will have all the fuss of clearing the barrel or the pan before they can fire again.”

  “Cross with fixed bayonets, you say, sir?”

  “If the water is shallow, yes. If you have deeper or fast water then the men may stumble, and that can be unpleasant for the man in front if there is a bayonet waving in the air.”

  “Then the men must be left vulnerable as they cross, sir.”

  “To an extent, yes. A company loaded and in line on the near bank will help. The first company to cross must load immediately and form up, probably in square so as to present in all directions. I must suppose that ninety-nine times in the hundred that is all just fuss and bother and a waste of a few minutes on the march.”

  “But just occasionally, sir, it will save the battalion from slaughter at its most vulnerable.”

  “That is my opinion, Major Paisley. I have not seen the need yet. I hope never to. Perhaps I am growing over-cautious in my old age.”

  “I doubt that, sir, from what I have seen of you.”

  The New Foresters had passed half of their companies across the ford when the treeline flamed at them. Chaos descended.

  Septimus ordered the Hampshires up to the bank, next to the Wiltshires and then stood and watched. They were nearly a furlong away from the trees, far out of effective musketry range. The brigadier called the guns into action, ordering canister over ball; it took too long.

  “All of the officers down, you will observe, Major Paisley. Voltigeurs - the French light troops and generally their best marksmen - spread out, well separate each platoon from the next. At a guess they will have been ordered to aim their first round at the nearest officer or sergeant, the whole platoon together.”