Fire and Folly (Man of Conflict Series Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Mr Baker, you come from Southampton itself; Mr Austin, from the little village of Fair Oak; Mr Marshall, you are a Romseyman; Mr Pugh is a denizen of Winchester. All four of you have some familiarity with the south of Hampshire and can be expected not to get lost, or at least to be able to find yourselves again.”

  Light dawned, together with a little of pride – they had been selected for possession of a useful attribute.

  “Equip yourselves for the purpose, if you please, gentlemen. You may expect to be on horseback for the better part of the next two days.”

  The blankness of face returned.

  “Your spare horse with you as we march, under care of a groom; fodder – oats or grain, some with you, some in the baggage carts; your riding-capes tied to your saddle-bags – it will probably rain; food for yourselves; money in your pockets, you may find yourself in the blackness of the night and wishful to take a bed in an inn. A change of clothes in your bags. Pistols and reloads – it is possible that you will meet the French. Notebook and pencil – you may wish to write down the messages you must carry.”

  Three of the four were probably barely bright enough to remember a verbal message; equally they might not possess the capacity to write it down correctly.

  “Go and make ready, gentlemen. We march at noon, provided we have the word from the Lord Lieutenant’s people at the Castle.”

  The four ensigns ran to their quarters, calling for their batmen as they went.

  Septimus turned to the rest of the officers, shaking his head; he was sure that even at his greenest he had not been like those boys.

  “If the French have landed then they must have the intention of taking a port. Poole would make more sense than Southampton, I am told. The fleet in Portsmouth could block Southampton Water within hours; it would be a little more difficult to close down Poole.”

  Unsaid was his opinion that it would be quite mad to use either as an invasion base – both ports were too remote from the centres of power in England and each was more than a day’s sailing from the French coast.

  “In the event that they are present and marching, then we know there are only two significant roads they can use. We will place ourselves along those roads and harass and delay the columns in a series of ambushes. If we can slow them for a day then the Militias and Fencibles will be ready to march and the Yeomanry regiments of horse will be available to cut up the baggage train. The roads through the New Forest are ideal for such a purpose – winding through the forest itself and up and down hill through the heathlands.”

  There was a brief discussion of rationing and arrangements for the Quartermaster to set up his base camp and they left the Mess to inform their companies of all that they should know. Then they waited for the order to arrive from the Lord Lieutenant.

  The rain began to fall at one o’clock and Septimus ordered the men into their barracks; they could as well wait in the dry.

  A runner arrived just before three to inform Septimus that he should march; the Volunteer companies had been alerted and were to follow the Regulars, would undoubtedly set out that evening, or not later than tomorrow’s dawn.

  “Is it definite that the French have landed?”

  “Oh, yes, Colonel! There is no doubt, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “On the coast, sir.”

  Considering that they must have arrived by ship that seemed a fair proposition.

  “Mr Green! The men to parade immediately.”

  It took just fifteen minutes to be ready; Septimus was quite pleased as the sergeant-major handed the parade over to him. He inflated his chest and bellowed.

  “The word is that the French have landed. We do not know in what force. A quick march and no stragglers. Tight discipline on the road, if you please!”

  Major Carter led his companies out and down the hill towards the Itchen and the Southampton road; Septimus took his onto the less-used highway to the west and then down to Romsey, some six miles away on the very edge of the Forest.

  He sat his horse and watched the companies as they passed, not entirely happy with the way they shaped up. There were too many green recruits, men with less than two months in and not yet fully in the way of marching. He could tell from the set of their knapsacks that they were not ready for days out in the field – they were strapped up uncomfortably, would rub on their shoulders as they swung their arms. They had not picked up the little tricks of the experienced men and would tire more quickly as a result.

  “Captain Taft!”

  “Sir?”

  “A word with your senior sergeant, if you please. Too many of your new men are loaded too heavily. Some of them are carrying more than their share, I believe.”

  The battalion had some experience in war and so every company had its shovels for digging field latrines; axes and billhooks for firewood; extra leather groundsheets; issues of hard tack for emergency rations – some of the items quite light but bulky, making the loads sit awkwardly across their backs.

  The more experienced men were very skilled at dumping the additional equipment on the green privates. Where the company officers were not alert this could lead to the new men falling out, becoming stragglers; it also lost the company the use of the equipment still on their backs.

  Taft was chagrined – he should have spotted that for himself. If only Grundy had come back to England with him!

  Romsey was sleepy, comatose in fact. The people of the small town had heard nothing of the French; they expected to hear nothing of them; they did not wish to hear of the French and were utterly convinced that if they did land they would have no reason to come and bother them. Septimus thought they were probably right; most of the English had no interest in Romsey.

  The mayor was sat in his parlour, glass in hand, looking forward to dinner when he was informed that there were soldiers marching in.

  “Tell them to bugger off,” was his immediate response. “We don’t want ‘em being a nuisance in our little town.”

  Septimus received the message and shrugged, called the men to march again. They had been no more than two hours on the road and he intended to get at least three more miles under their belts before stopping for the day. He sent Green ahead to look for a likely location, a hamlet with three or four farms would be best so that there would be barns enough to provide shelter.

  “Mr Taft, if there are French and they push us back, we make a stand on the far side of Romsey. They do not want English soldiers in their town – they can get what they want and see how much they prefer the French in our place!”

  Taft saluted and, wisely, said nothing.

  Baker came in just before dusk, told them that the other half battalion had halted for the night at Bishopstoke, not so far from Major Reynolds' house. They had heard nothing of the French and the local Fencibles had not been called to muster.

  “I rode by way of Hursley, sir, being a straight sort of line to Romsey, and spoke to a half dozen of local folk, one of them being the carter, sir. Not one of them knew of anything untoward, sir.”

  “Invisible soldiers, Mr Baker – Bonaparte’s latest trick!”

  “Oh! How does he do that, sir?”

  Septimus was dumbfounded; he said that it was probably a variation on the village idiot’s trick, but he did not advise Mr Baker to try it.

  They broke their fast with campaign tea and dry biscuit; the old sweats all said it brought back memories – nothing like real tea to set a man up for the day and you could chew a navy biscuit all day long; the same biscuit, that was. The recruits were unimpressed, asked whether it was not possible to boil up the bucket of cold water first and then add the tea afterwards; they were derided as weaklings who did not know what was good for them.

  “Makes your hair grow, this stuff do, boy!”

  “I reckons ‘as ‘ow it do, sarge! Best I puts it over me bloody ‘ead then, rather nor try to drink it!”

  The sergeant was disappointed – recruits had been made of sterner stuff when he was
a boy.

  They marched through Lyndhurst, finding it slightly less lively than Romsey, and stepped out towards Lymington. For the purposes of verisimilitude Septimus sent the Light Company ahead, as if to scout out the lay of the land. They discovered nothing.

  They entered Lymington, a large village on the coast, late in the afternoon and enquired of the very obviously peaceful housewives and gaffers what the story of a French fleet was. Had they heard of any such?

  They found one fisherman who was willing to explain all.

  “Ain’t never seen none of they, master. Not round ‘ere. Stands to reason, don’t it like, they ain’t comin’ poking they noses in round ‘ere. They was a pair of they Indiamen what dropped anchor off Freshwater Bay on the Island, day afore yestiday. Stayed a couple of hours an’ put a boat off. Way I was told, they reckons as ‘ow they got a passenger aboard what dropped a few bob in the master’s ‘and to be put ashore next and nigh to ‘is own place rather nor ‘aving to go up to bloody London town and then ‘ave to come back down agin.”

  Two merchantmen and one boat; somewhat less than a fleet landing an army, but it gave an indication of the extent of the panic in the minds of the authorities.

  Septimus wrote a brief report for the Lord Lieutenant, sent Pugh off in the morning before they commenced a leisurely stroll along the coast to join up with Major Carter and complete their days of exercise.

  “So, gentlemen, what did we learn from our little invasion?”

  Major Carter waited for comment from the junior officers, then ventured to suggest that they needed more in the way of route marching with full packs up.

  “Too many men dropped off the pace, sir. Even on the first march I had men straggling in up to one hour later. I really think we must train them up to their full fifteen miles in five hours with a sixty pound pack and their musket.”

  “I agree, sir. Lieutenant Green, please to note Major Carter’s very apposite comment and prepare the appropriate order. Three route marches a week for the next two months, rising then to five in the month following. In the fourth month we shall introduce one march of twenty-five miles in the space of twelve hours; any who fail to complete the course to be given extra training.”

  Major Carter applauded; he was much in favour; from all he had read, men’s boots won wars just as much as their musketry.

  “To win in battle, sir, one must reach the battlefield!”

  That seemed a very reasonable statement.

  “I wholly agree, Major Carter. I think it would be as well for officers to set an example to the men. You know what they say about ‘go ons’ and ‘come ons’ – it is my most earnest desire that all of us will be found at the head of our men calling them to catch up with us.”

  In common parlance ‘go ons’ stood behind their men, ordering them to go forward; ‘come ons’ stood in front, setting the example.

  The junior officers all gravely agreed with their superiors, though many seemed less enthusiastic when it was explained that they would not be sitting their horses as they called their men to follow them.

  “You mean us to walk, sir?”

  “No, Mr Pugh. I expect you to bloody well march!”

  There was a snort of laughter, quickly suppressed as Septimus scowled.

  “Do we have any other practical point, gentlemen?”

  “If I may, sir?”

  The voice belonged to another ensign, a boy of seventeen or so, Houghton by name.

  “The cast iron cooking pots and kettles, sir. They are very heavy and come to the boil only very slowly and need big and hot fires. Smaller and lighter pots would be very useful, sir.”

  “Good point, Mr Houghton. The pots are official Army Issue, and would have to be replaced from regimental funds, if we could lay our hands upon them in the local stores, which I am not at all certain of.”

  “I am sorry, sir, I had not realised.”

  “Nothing to apologise for, Mr Houghton, you made a very sensible remark. When the men set up their bivouacs after a long march they want their hot tea quickly; waiting an hour for a fire to be built up and an old iron pot to take its heat must always irritate them.”

  Septimus knew that this would result in the richer companies – defined by their captain’s private income – sporting lighter and handier kettles within the month. The poorer would be made unhappy, but that could not be helped.

  “The baggage train, sir, is rather mixed – there is very little of uniformity in it.”

  “It is a disgraceful mess, Captain Taft! Unfortunately it is difficult in the extreme to lay one’s hands on mules in England. I wish it were not such a problem, but very few are bred here; they are simply not a popular animal, and why I do not know.”

  “Could we not address Horse Guards on the matter, sir? We could perhaps beg that they might establish a stud for the whole army.”

  “We could indeed, Mr Taft.”

  Septimus did not add that he considered the chances of a positive response to be close to zero. Horse Guards contained far more than its fair share of cavalry officers, the bulk of whom would be horrified by the very concept of a mule, assuming they could be brought to understand just what the beast was.

  The meeting ended with a few well-chosen words on the virtues of training and a reminder that the battalion was still under strength, needed not fewer than fifty more men, all of whom would have to be turned into soldiers in very short order.

  “It will be easier next year gentlemen, when we have a Second Battalion in existence to act as a training cadre. For the while, I have sent a pair of recruiting sergeants with their parties to trawl through the southern and western parts of Ireland – the poorer areas, for the obvious reason.”

  He did not mention that he had borne the expense himself; though those who could think would realise the fact.

  Taft gave the normal response of the rich man, English and Irish alike.

  “Can we really trust the Paddies, sir?”

  Privately, Septimus was not sure that they could; as the colonel he shook his head reprovingly and pointed out that they were subjects of the King, like any other man.

  “Feed them well; flog them occasionally; hang them rarely – the bulk will make loyal enough soldiers. They will be much like any other set of farm labourers – keep them away from the sheep and we shall have no problems!”

  The meeting wound up with a general chuckle, followed by individual cries of laughter as the joke was slowly explained to the less perceptive.

  There was a letter waiting for Septimus’ attention in his office; he discovered that the vacant majority – once his own - had been purchased. Lacking a taker in the battalion it had entered the open market and a Captain Perceval of the East Norfolks had paid his money for the rank.

  In the absence of a copy of the List, Septimus thought that the East Norfolks were eighth or ninth in the Line while his battalion was high in the sixties. Every battalion had its number and in the nature of things, the lower that number was then the older and more prestigious the regiment – and the more fashionable. Dropping fifty or more places was, on the face of it, a strange thing to do. Septimus remembered the condescension of Colonel Walters of the New Foresters on that very point.

  This was where a contact in Horse Guards would have been very useful; the story would be known to the insiders, but a mere provincial colonel was very much an outsider and would learn nothing.

  “Lieutenant Green – would you be so good as to talk with Captain Taft and ask whether his father might be au fait with any gossip about Captain Perceval of the East Norfolks? He has lately purchased with us and will arrive in a week or two.”

  Captain Taft took a few days of leave and wandered off to London and the parental home. He had previously been an infrequent visitor to his father, having seemed to him to be an unlikely sort to add to the family’s glory. His elder brother was heir to their wealth and was sufficiently satisfactory that a younger son of limited ability could be cast aside, but, to their am
aze, he had come back from India with a very favourable report made at Horse Guards. Their contacts had made it clear that it would be worthwhile to buy his majority and then make him lieutenant-colonel, for it was probable that he would be employed as a general officer rather than be consigned to half-pay.

  General Taft was moderately ancient, having wed late, and was himself never to march again, but he still retained the ear of a number of well-placed people in Horse Guards. He listened to his son’s request and read in between its lines quite properly. He was convinced that Colonel Pearce had taken his son up after he had shown up fortuitously well in India and had then looked after him and made him into an officer; that gave the colonel the right to ask the odd favour.

  “Perceval, of the East Norfolks – I hardly know him but his regiment is very good. You are perfectly right, of course – there has to be a reason for him to leave a London regiment for the provinces.”

  The socially prominent battalions expected to be posted within an hour’s drive of Mayfair, though they might occasionally condescend to Hertford or Tonbridge Wells; their officers were in demand as escorts in the Season and it would have been terribly inconvenient for them to be in garrison at any distance from Town. It was said that George Brummel, the famous beau, had sent in his papers when his regiment had been posted to some far distant place, at least twenty miles away, where the roads were not paved and mud had splashed his boots. One did not expect to discover an officer from one of the favoured battalions of the Line voluntarily choosing exile in the company of the rural hicks.

  It took only a day to dig up the dirt relating to Perceval – mention of his name had brought an instant smirk from all those with inside knowledge.

  “Fellow’s got a rich father, and an elder brother who will inherit and is already married with a son to his name. He has his allowance and no hope of inheriting, and the worry that his brother will decide he is too expensive a luxury to retain when the old man dies.”