The sergeant was surprised, he had expected to be told to keep his mouth shut, or to receive a disapproving stare – sympathy was not a normal trait amongst young officers. He called the orders, quickly reorganised the men into fighting pairs where a normal partner had gone sick.
“Return fire without further order if we are shot at. Do not open fire except you are in immediate danger. Wait on the whistle.”
The Rifles used simple whistle commands in battle, when voices might be drowned out and powder smoke might blot out sections of the line.
“Dress forward, slowly, Sergeant Murphy, take the line from me. Use cover where possible.”
James drew his sword, to announce his status to any observers and hoping he was not simply identifying himself as the most valuable target for snipers, walked slowly forward, taking a slightly raised track that followed the field boundaries down the slope towards the dirt road leading to his left up the valley towards a mud-walled village half a mile away. The slope was shallow, the valley perhaps two miles across and open – there were no hedgerows in this landscape, the fields demarcated by the stones thrown up with each ploughing.
There was no cover from which an ambush could be mounted – any soldiers had to be behind the walls of the village.
The walls were ten to twelve feet high, compacted earth over, probably, a stone core, designed to keep horsemen out and vulnerable to cannon fire – a twelve pound gun would tear them to shreds in two hours, siege artillery would need ten minutes and a couple of rounds. The gates were single leafed, wooden, again designed as an obstacle to musket-carrying bandits rather than as a true military fortification. However, as he had no cannon with him they were quite sufficient to be a damned nuisance this afternoon.
“Pair of bullock carts, sir, fifty yards left of the gate. Push them against the wall and they could give a leg up to an assault party, sir.”
“Ram the gate with them, Sergeant Murphy?”
“Could be, sir, I saw that done in Spain – but there was a terrible strong bar to the gate there, left us with shattered carts and a closed gate, and that only on a smallish place, rough fortified, as you might say, sir.”
“Point taken, Sergeant Murphy. Hold the men back; we’re out of smoothbore range still. Send a pair right and left to get a view of what’s to the rear. No tall trees, the hills too far distant without a very strong glass – we cannot see over the wall. Where’s the guide?”
“Under guard to our rear, sir – he thought he might prefer to be elsewhere just about now, it would seem.”
“Poor chap! He quite probably thinks that I am about to force him to accompany me to within shouting distance of the gate while I try to find out what’s what here. He’s right. Heave him forward, Sergeant Murphy. Fall back on the rest of the column and inform Major Woods immediately if the need arises.”
“Yes, sir. Escort, sir? Six men, sir? Two by your side and four to stay in the cover of those couple of trees about eighty yards out?”
James nodded – one did not argue with an experienced sergeant who knew much more of the simple practicalities of survival in the field.
The wall was empty, the village silent; cooking smokes were the only sign of inhabitation. There was a small river to the back of the more or less oval village, the water supply, obviously.
“What would you say, Sergeant Murphy, about four acres, the village?”
“About that, sir, room for more than a hundred of their huts – a thousand people, maybe, most of them peasants and their children. No telling if there’s a detachment of their soldiers, sir. Do we know how their soldiers are armed, sir?”
James shook his head – it all depended, it would seem, on the depth of the pockets of the local lord.
“Some are uniformed and trained like sepoys, Sergeant Murphy, French muskets, mainly. Disciplined and well controlled, so the Major said. Most are ragged-arsed and carrying whatever they can pick up – swords, bamboo spears, fowling pieces, old matchlocks and flintlocks, wooden clubs even – more than enough to beat the taxes out of the local peasants and merchants, no use in the field. Some of them have cannon, most do not; some are mounted, most are not; some will fight, some will not.”
“So, sir, you pays your money and you takes your choice, you might say. If we strike lucky, then they run away, if not, we could have a fair old fight on our hands.”
“Assume they will fight, Sergeant Murphy, although we have no idea whether there are soldiers there at all, or if they may be hostile. They could be willing to ally themselves with us in order to get their rajahs or whatever they are off their backs. From all we are told theirs is an oppressive rule, even local lords likely to find themselves under the executioner’s sword for simply looking cross-eyed at their masters.”
“The same the world over, sir, it would seem.”
Murphy risked no further comment, James chose not to hear.
The scouts reported that there was a rear gate, equally blank, but a smaller, less used track going down to the river bank. It felt, they thought, as if this was the northernmost village of this valley, all of the others to the south. They had seen no movement.
“The walls would make sense if this is the frontier, as you might say, Sergeant Murphy. Protection against the wild tribes of the hills?”
The sergeant thought that it was possible, but was far less concerned with the ‘why’ of it – he wanted to know ‘what’ was to be done.
“Show peaceful intentions, I think, Sergeant Murphy – walk out and call them to talk.”
“Unarmed, sir?”
“Not bloody likely, sergeant!”
Twenty minutes later, stood ten yards from the gate, James felt much less convinced of the wisdom of trying to talk. He was at ease, one hand resting casually on sword hilt, head cocked as he listened to the gibberish the guide was shouting.
“He is saying, sir, master, that we have come to talk but will fight if we must. He asks the name of the headman or chieftain and announces us to be the leaders, the first people, of a great army that rules all of India but wishes to live at peace with its neighbours, who have, nonetheless, robbed its merchants and killed peaceful villagers.”
There was silence for a quarter of an hour and then two gun ports opened in the gate and the muzzles of a pair of small bronze cannon showed. A voice shouted.
“They have much powder and many fierce men, lord, and you must instantly surrender to them, or they will shoot their big guns.”
“Donnelly, Hewett, can you see the gunners?”
“Yes sir, two men with linstocks, long poles too, as if they’re none too sure the cannon won’t explode on them.”
“Left man, Donnelly. Hewett, take the right. Kill them. Fire!”
The rifles cracked, the cannon did not respond.
“Retire on the covering party, reload there. Run!”
The six riflemen scattered the gunners, prevented replacements taking post. James waved Sergeant Murphy forward.
“We are too few to attack, I think, Sergeant Murphy. Could we get over the wall?”
“Not without losing a lot of men, sir.”
“Send a runner to Major Woods, please.” James scribbled a note, sent it back, waited for Woods to join him.
“I would suggest a night assault, Major Woods. I could take two of my platoons, bullock cart each, over the wall and open the gate, sir.”
“You attempted a parley and they threatened you, tried to take you prisoner, Lieutenant Andrews?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They don’t do that twice, sir! I do not like night actions, Lieutenant Andrews, as a general rule, for the men get out of hand immediately – impossible to control them when you cannot see them! However, if they do not care to honour a flag of truce then upon their own heads be it. Feed your men and wait till an hour after sundown – they will expect an attack immediately the sun sets, will relax then till about midnight, in my experience, and if nothing happens then will stand to before dawn, but the middle
of the evening, just when they are taking their meal or having a pipe afterwards, that will surprise them!”
The major had fought through Spain and America – presumably he knew what he was talking about.
“Attack at about an hour after sundown, Sergeant Murphy. I shall take two platoons over the wall on either side of the gate. You to bring the rest in as soon as the gate opens, or, of course, to cover our retreat. Feed the men, number them off, if you would be so good.”
“Yes, sir. Rifles to be loaded, sir, swords in hand rather than fixed, I would say, sir, four men of each platoon to be told off to open the gates, the remainder to cover them as soon as they are in. Full bottles, sixty rounds, no other accoutrements, sir, other than a pair of axes, in case they are needed at the gates.”
“Flint and tinder and a pair of linstocks, Sergeant Murphy – if need arises we can turn their cannon on the gates, they might have a bar locked and chained for all we know.”
“Yes, sir. What of their sentries, sir?”
“Have you seen any? There must be some, I agree, but where?”
“I don’t know, sir – we cannot even see if there is a walkway to their wall, though I doubt there is one, they would surely be using it if there was. No towers. I don’t know, sir.”
They pulled back to the dry ground above the rice padi, lit their fires, for comfort and to announce their presence, and ate their dry rations, biscuit and ancient cheese, long in the cask and rock-hard, but safer than ration beef four days out of pickle. There was a full rum ration.
“We’ll kill a goat for breakfast, lads,” Sergeant Murphy informed them. They knew that all the goats were inside the village, nodded unenthusiastically.
“Donnelly, Hewett, stay at the young gentleman’s side – he’ll be after getting another pair of fingers chopped off, I have no doubt, and I have seen worse officers than him, by far. Galway, your people left of the gate and over the wall, name four to open the gate; McDonald, the same to the right. Go in loaded but use your blades while you can. Don’t burn the village down. Keep your eyes open, and get into the biggest places before the bloody redcoats do – fair shares for all in the morning.”
“Surrenders, sarge?”
“Don’t kill them if you don’t need to, but any man who shows fight goes down.”
The older men slapped the backs of the young recruits, the half of them who had joined up since the wars had ended, told them they would be men by the morning. Murphy shrugged, there was nothing he could do about it and he cared very little in any case – civilians should not get into the way of soldiers in wartime.
The redcoat companies had provided close pickets and just before dusk there was a brief outbreak of musketry to the rear, the gate to the river.
“Stand to!”
A runner came from Major Woods, handed a note to James.
“Back gate is open, Sergeant Murphy, a party of horse tried to escape and the platoon there were quick enough to put them down and get into the gate. We are to attack the front immediately while the redcoats hold the defence at the rear. The Major believes that the great bulk of their forces will be at the back now.”
They doubled forward, pushed the bullock carts quickly to the nearest stretch of wall. James scrambled up, found the top of the wall to be just within his reach.
“Stirrup, Donnelly!”
His runner cupped his hands, heaved with all of his strength and James, far the lighter man, found himself on his belly on top of the wall.
There was no walkway, but there was a grass-thatched hut conveniently close and he rolled onto its roof and then to the ground. He ran straight for the gate, confident that the men were following – they were Rifles, were bound to be at his shoulder.
There were two wooden bars across the gate, no chains or locks, and it was a matter of seconds to throw them open. The cannon, unmanned, had been pushed to one side, as if there had been no one to replace the dead gunners. A single lane, more or less straight, led through the village. They could hear shouting and a few shots a furlong distant.
“Form lines, as possible, Sergeant Murphy, quickly, double down the lane. Fix swords?”
“Might be fighting in the houses, sir, better not.”
Three minutes brought them to the fighting, more brawl than battle, perhaps two hundred of the Burmese - short men mostly, skinny, and very poorly armed, a few of swords and spears, more of clubs and knives, a dozen at most of firearms – being rapidly driven into a corner of the walls, huddled together but still fighting back.
“Odd numbers, Sergeant Murphy!”
Half of the company fired a volley, twenty seconds later the other half followed suit. The redcoats stepped back, formed ranks and commenced platoon fire. It took less than five minutes to tidy up with the bayonet and secure the very few prisoners.
Major Woods exchanged a few words with his senior sergeant and marched up the lane, past the Rifles.
“Join me please, James. A very tidy piece of work, sir, well done. Casualties?”
“None, sir.”
“We lost four dead, but one was your Captain Simmons who was with me when it all started. You have the command of your company, Lieutenant Andrews.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Officers and eunuchs to return to bivouac, Lieutenant. A defended town that showed fight, the men have the right of sack, and we cannot stop them, like it or not.”
The first scream came a few seconds later, amidst the noise of splintering doors and a few shouts.
“Out and leave them to it, Lieutenant, and hope that no relief force arrives overnight. We will get them back under command in the morning.”
There was no sleep that night. The screaming seemed never to end, was punctuated by drunken shouting and singing. Towards the small hours half a dozen of the huts caught fire but a few of the men were sober enough to stop the blaze spreading through the whole village. Sergeant Murphy reported at dawn.
“Muster, sir?”
“Bring the men to parade in an hour, Sergeant Murphy. Every man to have his firelock or five hundred! March this evening, we intend to make camp outside the next village, about four miles down the track.”
“Should I tell the men that you have the command, sir?”
“Yes, Captain Simmons fell yesterday.”
“Yes, sir – tripped over, more like!”
James looked his puzzlement.
“Tiptoeing backwards, sir, I expect – he never was one for close quarters, sir, as all the men knew, sir!”
“But he was present at several battles, I know, Sergeant Murphy! I fear you are being unjust to the gentleman, and really, you know, as a sergeant, you should not be!”
“With another sort of officer, Captain Simmons’s sort, say, sir, I would not be. A kind-hearted man, he was, sir, and liked for the way he looked after the men, but when it came to a fight he never really had a taste for the smell of powder, sir. The men called him ‘The Vicar’, sir, for being a man of peace.”
It explained a few things James had seen but been unable to make sense of – the men had seemed to treat Simmons with a slight off-handedness, never quite as quick as they should be to salute or to stand to attention, yet not sufficiently so as to bring themselves to the triangle – affectionate contempt? Difficult! It also answered the question of why he had been at Major Wood’s side when action was imminent – he had found reason to be elsewhere, some important question to raise, no doubt, business urgent enough to take him to the back gate when action was expected at the front. He said as much to Murphy, quietly, the men unable to hear.
“Yes, sir, I don’t remember any engagement taking place with the Captain in the front of us, but he was reliable at cheering us on and recognising those who had been brave. They tell me he was very good as a boy ensign, but lost the keen edge, as you might say, as he grew older. Can happen to any of us, I suppose, sir, but not what we want in the Rifles.”
The parade was orderly, smart, well conducted, every one of th
e men present, in full uniform and with a clean Baker rifle in hand. They seemed to be sober as well.
“What arrangements have been made for the funeral, Sergeant Murphy?”
“Done, sir – the redcoats had a grave dug and put them all in together, no fuss, no bother – none of the lads showed any wish to be there, sir, and I thought it better not to push them. A few words, a quick volley, a letter home from the Major, him being senior, and all done and dusted, sir. I have commandeered the bullock carts, sir, there was two pairs of beasts in a byre in the village, and they will carry the rations and spare rounds and the men’s packs in the heat, sir – I found their drivers, too. The men understand it to be your command, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Even to James, not renowned for his quick perceptions, it was obvious that the sergeant was grooming him to keep the company, for this campaign at least. Presumably he wanted a fighting officer in command, the men always liked to have a leader in front of them, and he would take care of the shortcomings arising from his lack of experience.
“Dismiss parade, Sergeant Murphy, march at Major Wood’s command, probably in late afternoon, when the heat drops off a little.”
This was said loud enough for the men to hear, deliberately.
“We will march loaded, Sergeant Murphy. Front of the column, of course – flankers and scouts out?”
The veiled request for advice was made in a much lower voice.
“Yes, sir. Donnelly will act as your batman, sir, for the while, permanent if it becomes necessary. Hewett will back him.”
James’ batman, an older, less robust veteran, had fallen sick on the way up the valley; at his age he would be lucky to survive the fevers, even more fortunate to remain fit for service.
Major Woods wandered across a few minutes later, intentionally casual, lighting a pipe as he walked – an indulgence permitted in the field, ungentlemanly in the Mess.
“Happy to be in command, young James?”
“Yes, sir. I was the only officer left on my feet in the West African campaign last year, sir, so I am quite pleased to be back in charge again.”
The Pain Of Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 4) Page 17