“Doing that nine times over would not be an easy task. Add to that the Portuguese and the New Foresters and the process becomes impossible. The guns could remain at a distance, of course. How much daylight have we left?”
There was an hour, they thought, and cloud cover building.
“Too little time for me to get there and view the ground for myself. That places a degree of responsibility upon you, Captain Collins. I wish you to take your own and one other company forward in the night. You will identify two at least of conveniently placed tracks and venture up them, silently killing the pickets. At first light, before the French reveille ideally, your companies will commence volley fire. As much noise as possible and targeting any platoons or companies you can discover, still in their bivouacs if you can. I will bring the remainder of the battalion up under cover of your action, the other two to follow. Noise and chaos and fury, sir! If it is practical, then push forward and set light to anything you can discover; there will be fires still lit, kept up overnight by the sentries, and the cooks should be busy early so there should be fuel to hand. You must give me twenty minutes, sir, and hold an area sufficient for the battalion to form up in.”
Captain Collins listened in silence, saluted and marched himself off to ensure that his men were fed before they went out again.
Major Paisley had been stood at Septimus’ side as the orders were given – the Lights were one of his companies and it would have been highly discourteous to have given them orders behind his back.
“Captain Boldre to make the second, sir? He can be an energetic man and has little of fear in him.”
“Your choice, Major Paisley. I cannot let you go, I fear; I need all three of us present to chivvy the battalion up that hillside, short though it is, for that is where mistakes can most easily be made.”
Brigadier Dudley was made most unhappy by the information Septimus gave him; he had created a plan and was very unwilling to see it changed at the last minute.
“We have no alternative, sir, if we are to make our attack tomorrow. We could stay here for another day, sir, while we attempted to find another location more suited to our wishes, but there would be no guarantee that we would be successful.”
“We cannot. We are obliged to attack at dawn, Sir Septimus.”
“Then I see no alternative, sir. The French have placed themselves on this shelf of land and there are only limited routes of access. It appears that the river has worn a channel through the valley and that the track we are following runs through that narrow course. To reach the French we must climb the bank, some twenty feet in height and very steep, and overgrown with brush. That obliges us to take the few paths that exist, sir. There might be a road in from the hills behind them – indeed, sir, there must be – but we have not discovered it and are hardly likely to find it in the night.”
The brigadier peered at the sheet of paper in front of him, hoping that the simple sketch map pencilled onto it might show him a solution. He was forced to admit defeat.
“Let me be clear in my mind, Sir Septimus. Your two companies are to make their way up the tracks to the terrace, with extreme stealth. Some of your men have experience, you tell me, as assassins in the night and will use their, I suppose one must call it ‘skill’, to dispose of the sentries in absolute silence. The companies will then press forward and establish a perimeter sufficiently large for the battalion to climb up the tracks in single file and then reform their lines ready to make the greater assault. It is hoped that the French will concentrate upon what they will see as a small and foolhardy raid, thus allowing the battalion to take its stance. At the earliest moment the bulk of the men will press forward to relieve the two companies and make room for the Portuguese and then the New Foresters to follow behind.”
“That is the plan, sir. The guns are to take post on the track and fire at what little they will be able to see. I suspect their prime function will be to stop any force using the track in the hope of cutting us off.”
“Let it be so, Sir Septimus. I will write an order for you, sir. You may well need to display my command when you are asked why so many of your men are underground.”
“We have our orders, sir, and we must carry them out. There is no choice, sir, other than to formally refuse them, which we could do, of course. We would both be broken if we did. I will obey, sir, because I think it is necessary that we play our part in the greater plan of His Lordship’s devising; I will not let him down. I am taking a large and very fine battalion forward for him in the morning, sir, and I do not know what I shall lead back in the afternoon.”
“Would you wish to go with your Light Company, Sir Septimus? I shall be at the front of the Portuguese and immediately behind your people and if any problem arises then I can deal with it for you.”
“Thank you, sir. That is a generous offer and one I am glad to accept. Far better to be able to take an immediate decision, and it is right that I should. My two captains will die rather than withdraw, whatever the odds against them, having been given the order to hold a perimeter; that is an unfair burden, and one I did not much like to place upon them.”
“I rather thought that might be your opinion, sir. Do not, if you please, fall into a berserk fighting rage and attempt to destroy a whole corps on your own! Your services will be needed on other days!”
Septimus left, wondering just what impression he had made – ‘berserk’, indeed! Was that his reputation? He asked Cooper, who, in the privacy of their tent, could be wholly honest, that being the privilege of the retainer.
“Berserk, sir? Like them Viking blokes what we have heard of? Or like what them Highlands Scotchmen are said to be, though I never saw it when they was at our side. No, not that, sir; a bit bloody daft sometimes, but not berserk like what they say.”
Better daft than crazy, Septimus supposed, and went in search of Captain Collins and then to inform his majors of the minor alteration in the plan.
“Brigadier’s orders, gentlemen; I suspect that he feels that it is my scheme and my responsibility.”
“More likely he thinks that it will take a great deal of luck to carry it off, sir. You have had that luck in the past.”
“Thank you, Major Perceval. Let us trust that my good fortune has not deserted me. I shall send a runner down to you just as soon as we have secured a space for the battalion. What’s the moon tonight?”
Neither major had the slightest idea; they were not astronomers.
“Cooper would know, but he is in my tent.”
“Sergeant Exton will know, sir.”
Two minutes later Sergeant Exton informed them that the moon was four days from full, but there was so much cloud that it would give them almost no light.
“That’s a bugger, gentlemen. I had hoped to get us in position before dawn, but we shall have to wait for first light before moving the bulk of the battalion.”
“What of your two companies, sir?”
“We can crawl, if needs be, Major Paisley. We must and shall be in position before the French sound reveille.”
“Mr Black! I need a length of rope. Long. Sufficient for two companies in single file, each man holding on with one hand.”
Black shook his head, face assuming a much put-upon, lugubrious expression; there was no rope in his official stores, it was not issued.
“Rope, sir, as such, I cannot do. I have, however, some hanks of a strong twine which happened to turn up when we were aboard ship, the boatswain having an excess in his stores and glad to make space for other, more legitimate commodities.”
“I knew I could rely on you, Mr Black. What is the actual length, do you know?”
“Four hanks, each at about fifty yards, sir. Was we to knot them together, end to end, then we would have amply sufficient for your needs.”
The twine was strong and not too thick, almost ideal for their purpose.
“I believe it to be used on the sails, sir, for tying them in to the yards, or some such technical process. My old father
told me always to keep a piece of string about me, for never knowing when it would come in handy – though I suspect he was thinking more of keeping his breeches up.”
“Nonetheless, I am very thankful for this string, Mr Black.”
The forward party set out two hours before dawn in almost total darkness, led by two of the Light Company who were said to have the eyes of cats, able to navigate in any light. The remainder of the men, less naturally gifted, followed in single file, clutching at their leading rein.
Each man had been checked by his sergeant before starting out. His musket was unprimed, pans seen to be empty; each canteen carried water only, not even the least sniff of rum or gin or wine; his knapsack was carefully packed so that nothing rattled. Shoe laces had been inspected – none must snap and cause a man to stumble. Finally, each man had been most stringently warned not to puff on a pipe or cigarillo – there was to be no light at all, for any reason.
Septimus addressed them briefly before starting out, emphasizing the need for stealth.
“We are going out to set a fire under the French tails. They will not like that. There is a full corps of them – twenty thousand strong. If we alert them too soon, if we let them catch us out, then we will not last very long. We must surprise them and give the rest of the brigade time to set itself. So – the silence of the dead – and let us make sure it is French dead, not us!”
A slow half of an hour and they reached a bend of the river which the guides were quite sure was the one they wanted. There was a steep bank to their left and they located a pathway leading up – presumably worn by men coming to the river for water, work details from all nearby units every day.
The eight official assassins crept up the path, knives to hand, returning in a few minutes to report a four man picket, one awake, three laid down asleep.
“All dealt with, sir.”
The sharp-eyed guides had ventured further down the track, had found another path within a hundred yards; they led the knifemen to it.
“Up we go, Mr Collins. Silently!”
The two guides were sent back to the battalion with instructions to bring them as close as possible, to double them at the first shot.
Septimus started up the path, placing each step with exaggerated caution – he did not dare be the man who slipped into a clattering fall.
The ground at the top was almost clear, covered in short grass, much as he had expected; so close to a camp every tree and sapling and shrub would have gone to the fires, and the wagon-horses and draught oxen would have grazed on everything edible.
Septimus edged forward, staring hard in the hope of seeing something, anything. It was an hour before dawn and the first men should have been stirring; the cooks must be about and the men on early duty would be dragging themselves out of sleep.
Fires flared over to his left, two hundred yards away at least; a cookhouse, he presumed. There should be a provisions store close to the field kitchen, a worthwhile target in itself.
There was a rustle and whispering as the two companies sorted themselves into a double line immediately behind him; it sounded loud enough to wake half of the country, but Septimus told himself that it was no more than nerves, the men were as silent as was possible.
The eastern sky was showing a faint paleness under the cloud; it was time to go. The men’s figures were almost visible, black shadows in the night.
“Bring the men forward, Mr Collins, Mr Boldre. Load.”
Still almost no noise, the men having rammed powder and ball before setting out and needing only to prime their pans, easily done in the dark for soldiers who had practised blindfolded for hours at a time over their months and years of service.
“Remind the men to keep their hats on; easier to recognise a shako in the dark.”
Most of the French would be disturbed from their blankets, bare-headed and probably without their coats.
“Press forward, gentlemen. Targets of opportunity, firing at will.”
The first half-platoon fired its volley just a few seconds later and the screaming started.
Septimus angled towards the fires he had seen, taking a platoon with him, discovered a group of cooks staring open-mouthed into the night.
“Shoot!”
The cooks fell and brands from their fires were tossed into the tents and wagons nearby before Septimus led them back into the shadows. Strictly speaking, he supposed that the cooks were non-combatants; bad luck for them being in the wrong place at the wrong moment. The French would suffer from even worse food for the next few weeks.
“Right, sir, at fifty yards.”
Cooper’s voice, pointing out a rank of uniformed men, perhaps half a company, under command and loading, a sergeant stood to their front.
“Got them, Cooper. Target, the file to our right, odds and evens! Odds, fire!” A count to ten, the old habits of the subaltern surfacing. “Evens, fire!”
The sergeant fell and half a dozen others and the rest ran.
“Awake and fully uniformed, Cooper. The Guard, one must imagine.”
“Yes, sir. Wagon park further over that way, sir.”
They ran to the transport, found another platoon busy there and joined in the arson.
Septimus glanced at his watch; he could see the face quite easily, the dawn well upon them. Ten minutes gone; the first panic should be subsiding and efficient officers should be asserting themselves at any time.
“Can you see any more of our people, Cooper?”
“Not exactly, sir – it’s a bloody shambles, sir. Flames and running blokes and muskets firing every-bloody-where!”
“The French will see the same.”
Septimus did not dare, he discovered, attempt to impose order yet. He would have to make the men fall back, break away from whatever they were doing and form up at a slight distance before returning to the chaos. That would give the French the opportunity to do the same, in far greater numbers. He spotted a group of tents and took the platoons he was with towards them, to spread disorder even more thoroughly. Few of the French possessed tents, making them a worthwhile target; he grabbed a flaming length of wood from a cart and ran across, threw it into the nearest.
“Might be sick quarters, sir. Might be wounded!”
“Might be elephants, Cooper, for all I can see! Burn them!”
If it was a hospital then the French must busy themselves with rescue rather than fighting; if it was stores, the French could not afford to lose them; it would be to the battalion’s advantage one way or the other.
Twenty minutes gone and the level of noise was rising fast, musket fire becoming organised. Time to pull the advance party back – if possible – to the cover of the bulk of the battalion. The line should have been formed by now. Septimus started to bellow, calling the withdraw; sergeants picked up the call, added to the shout.
The light was strong enough to see clearly, a cloudy dawn, thickened by smoke, but daylight nonetheless. Septimus could pick out red coats edging backwards; he could also see a formed mass of blue coming towards the scene, doubling, at least a full battalion forming into a line as it ran. A well-trained battalion under good command, and far more than averagely dangerous as a consequence.
“Battalion’s flanking ‘em, sir! Major Paisley’s half, sir, over on the right!”
Three companies had swung out from the line, were now at an oblique angle to the advancing French, running forward at full pelt and dropping into two lines as Cooper shouted. The distance was greater than might have been wished, more than a hundred yards, but the first volleys enfiladed the advancing French and caused their left to recoil, broke their formation, sent them to ground while they tried to discover what was happening. Continued fire and the French fell back; they had been sent into the fight with no plan and sketchy orders, retreated for not knowing exactly what they should do next.
Captain Collins was shouting, calling his men to him, pointing to his left; Captain Boldre appeared close to him, also roaring to his men.
“Run, Cooper!”
There was no time to ask what or why – a square meant horse, somewhere.
Screaming, shouting, howling behind him, and the thunder of hooves as cavalry rode down their own people, battering their way through the wreckage of the rear to reach the British.
There was a cavalry officer who knew his job, Septimus thought, as he stretched out at his very fastest, fifty yards to the square and probably just a little too far judging from the noise behind him.
Musketry from the square now, platoons coming together and firing volleys to his right and left. Three shots immediately behind him; he recognised the sharper sound of his own shotguns as well as a musket. Cooper, Dinesh and Peter had turned to give him a few more yards. He spun on his heel, saw two horses down a bare twenty yards back and making a brief obstacle.
“To my back!”
The three swore as he wasted their action, then did as he told them, frantically reloading while Septimus used his heavy pistols on two more horses.
It almost worked, but one French trooper chose to jump the blockage rather than attempt to go round. Septimus shot him as he landed, but his horse crashed into them, knocking all four to the ground.
A flying hoof caught Septimus across the head; he had just sufficient awareness to realise that he had pushed his luck too far this time before he stopped thinking at all.
Septimus opened his eyes and immediately regretted the action; a thundering headache had been waiting for the light and made its presence agonisingly felt. He groaned, then forced his mouth tight shut; an officer did not display pain!
“He’s awake, sir!”
Cooper’s voice; he had survived at least.
The surgeon responded, calling from the other side of the sick room, or tent, or whatever – he had not kept his eyes open long enough to see.
“Don’t let him move yet.”
‘Yet’ – that meant he was probably not too seriously hurt – then he started to wonder what had happened. They had been running from cavalry, that was all he could recall.
Blood and Famine (Man of Conflict Series, Book 4) Page 26