Fire and Folly (Man of Conflict Series Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  The soldiers coming in had first looted the inns and got roaring drunk; then they had started on the local women. The place was a shambles. Men who had tried to fight back lay dead in the street; one of the inns was on fire; the contents of the stores lay out in the street, much of the food spoiled in the rioting. They could hear faint screaming still coming from inside a few of the houses; there were queues of half-drunk soldiers waiting their turn.

  Drunken soldiers lay comatose in the gutter or vomited in the street; two or three thousands of men, at least, quite possibly more, had lost all discipline, were wholly out of control. A few officers and sergeants were trying to restore order. One of the captains saw a disciplined battalion and ran across to Septimus.

  "Sir, will you bring your men into the bottom of the village and sweep your way up to the top? We might be able to get them back on the road again. They will all die if they remain overnight, sir."

  "Let them! They are no damned use to the army in this state, sir. They may delay the French by the few minutes it will take to kill them. Every one of the bastards deserves a thousand, sir, that is apart from those who should hang!"

  The captain stared appalled, unable to accept what he saw as callousness.

  "Major Perceval! Major Carter! March the men through and up the track. None to stop here. Shoot any deserters you spot!"

  It was an empty threat. Some of the men would join the rioters, unable to help themselves. They would dive into the shambles, hoping to find loot or an unbroken bottle or even a hiding girl.

  "We recruit criminals to our ranks, Captain. Do not be surprised when they take the opportunity to indulge their base natures. Be thankful that so many of our men showed themselves to be decent and honest. You would be well advised to march with my men, sir. Another active officer will be very welcome on the road."

  "Is that an order, sir?"

  Septimus could see that the young man wanted to leave the hopeless mess behind him, but felt that duty demanded he must stay. He would welcome an order.

  "Yes, sir. Consider it so. Come to me when we reach shelter and I will put it into writing for your own colonel."

  "Thank you, sir. There are two of my lieutenants here, sir. I will bring them out."

  The captain came back a few minutes later, just one man with him.

  "They bayoneted Lieutenant Price when he tried to rescue a young girl, sir. Ran him through a dozen times!"

  Septimus nodded; there was nothing to say.

  They set off uphill behind the battalion. Septimus ignored three of his men he saw scuttling off into the trees at the side of the track.

  "Is that the three we took up outside Copenhagen, Cooper?"

  "Pollock, Mears and Finch, sir. Same ones, sir. Better you had hanged 'em then, sir. No matter, the Frogs will kill the bastards in the morning!"

  The battalion was halted at the top of the crest; General Moore sat his horse, face bleak.

  "You are still rearguard, Sir Septimus?"

  "With the remainder of the hussars, yes, sir."

  "What of the men still in the village, sir? Are they to be left behind?"

  "Stragglers, sir. Drunk and engaging in a vicious sack of our allies, sir. Three thousands, I estimate, most of them still armed, sir. It will need a full brigade to pacify them, and will take the rest of the day, sir. We cannot afford the time, or the loss of good men, to collect up the scum of our ranks, sir."

  Septimus offered flat defiance; if Moore ordered him to return with the battalion he would refuse and welcome the publicity of an open court-martial. He stared the general in the eye, daring him to risk action.

  Moore was well aware of the damage this retreat would do to his own reputation if he failed to bring the bulk of his people out, but a court-martial in which his own actions would be publicly challenged would probably finish him. He knew his own worth as a leader in the whole Army, knew as well that if he was toppled then the popinjay Wellesley would replace him. Wellesley had the backing of the Tories in government; Moore was a Whig, had far less political clout; he could not risk a political trial. There was more than one way to skin a cat, after all; he was sure he could break this upstart colonel, given a few weeks in London. He turned his horse, rode away with no further word.

  "My word, sir, you do choose to live dangerously, you know!"

  "It is as good a way as any, Major Perceval. I would recommend you to go to half-pay to convalesce from your injuries when we get to England."

  "But I am not injured, sir!"

  "You will be as soon as Moore gets to Horse Guards!"

  Perceval started to laugh, sobered as he realised just how true a statement it was.

  They marched their hours and found Mr Black in a sheltered spot in pine trees at the side of the track. There was fresh meat in his stew pots, double helpings indeed.

  "Plenty of horse meat, sir. Fresh kept in this cold, sir!"

  Septimus had never eaten horse, to his knowledge; the hot stew was irresistible.

  "There is a rum ration, sir, if you think it wise."

  "Very much so, Mr Black!"

  Sound travelled in the cold mountain air; at dawn they heard volley fire from the village nearly five miles away and a lesser crackling of uncontrolled individual return shots as some of the stragglers fought back. The noise continued for nearly an hour in which time they made two good miles down the track, ignoring the normal litter of the dead on either side.

  "A month ago and I would have been horrified at the sight of so many dead, Major Carter. Now? The weak and the unlucky - not my concern! What are your numbers, Major?"

  "Three hundred and eighteen, sir. I have lost one hundred and forty since the retreat began. Thirty remained at our base camp near Santarem, sir, sick and injured. What will happen to them, I know not."

  "Nor I, sir. You have done well to lose so few, compared with many other battalions."

  Major Perceval showed similar figures.

  They dropped into a lower, more open valley, a little more sheltered from the bitter winds. The last of the cavalry was lined up across the track, informed Septimus they were to take over the rearguard - this was their sort of country.

  "What is behind you, Colonel?"

  "The French, I believe. An hour unless they have remained in that poor village down the road."

  "There is another at the head of this valley; it is in no better state. General Moore tried to clear it; he has gone away weeping in shame at the behaviour of some of the men."

  They marched, came to a slightly larger village, thoroughly sacked, the street full of prostrate drunks and civilian bodies. They had to pass through.

  Septimus turned to the side.

  "Fix bayonets!"

  There was a rattle along the column; Septimus was pleased to see that almost every man had kept his bayonet. He had half expected to find the weight thrown away.

  "Pass the word, if you please, Major Carter, that we will not be obstructed by any drunk. Shoot any who throw stones or offer any violence. Or jeer."

  There were a few more bodies by the time they had reached the edge of the village.

  Another dozen of the Hampshires died that night, not quite strong enough to survive the cold with too few blankets over them. The old men went quietly in their sleep; the few boys left wept a little as they failed.

  Three days later they debouched onto the lowlands, just under five hundred strong. There was a large party of provosts collecting the stragglers together, the few that remained.

  "Who are you, sir?"

  "Hampshires, Lieutenant. We are the last formed battalion, the infantry rearguard. There is cavalry behind us. How many I do not know."

  Septimus glanced at the smartly uniformed and well-fed young man; he made a performance of not commenting.

  "Where are we to go, sir?"

  "Into Corunna, sir. Behind the walls to join one of the reserve divisions. Your Quartermaster's party is already on his way, sir. There are oxcarts for the ill, sir."
/>   "My Surgeon will decide who is to use them. Thank you."

  Septimus had lost weight in the weeks in the mountains and his face was cold and wind-burned and forbidding. The lieutenant was increasingly polite as he addressed him.

  "There is a fleet in the harbour, sir. Transports for all of the army. There will be too many ships, I fear, sir. Are there no more behind you, sir? Truly?"

  "A very few of stragglers perhaps. Most have been caught by the French and they seem not to be taking prisoners."

  "Oh."

  "How far is it to Corunna?"

  "Ten miles, sir."

  "I am afraid that will take us five hours. My men have little marching left in them."

  They reached Corunna, marched slowly through the gates in the old walls, noting fresh garrison troops holding them. They were led down to a pair of old warehouses at the waterside. They had doors and fires burning inside and were almost warm. There was food. The men collapsed, ate and slept in the straw that had been spread for them.

  They stirred slowly in the morning, found the food that was waiting and painfully got to their feet. There were tubs of hot water to the side of the warehouse. The men followed the example of the sergeants, stripped off and washed, enjoying the feeling. There was no new clothing, they had to put their smelly rags on again, but they were a little more comfortable.

  The sergeants passed the word that they would parade at midday, in full order.

  "The Frogs is outside the walls. We'll be busy before nightfall!"

  A staff officer came to Septimus, gave him orders to join the reserve division to the south of the city, behind the lower walls there.

  "Brigadier Auden has the command, sir."

  "My respects to the Brigadier and I shall require an hour to reorganise my battalion. I must discover my losses and possibly reallocate officers to companies. I believe the half of my people are gone, sir."

  The staff officer, a young captain, had been at the front of the retreat, had heard the stories but had not seen the worst. He had been cold and tired, and a day away from the French.

  "What happened in the two villages, Sir Septimus? Was it as we heard? Could the men not have been stopped?"

  "The men were stopped, sir. By the French. I doubt any of them are still live. I hope not! Between the two villages, some five or six thousands of men lost all discipline, and humanity. My battalion could not have returned them to duty; we were too few."

  "Why?"

  "We recruit from the gaols; many of those men are criminals and, given the opportunity, revert to their vicious ways. The bulk of my men are country lads, volunteered out of villages in England and Ireland; they were not to be found among the drunken, raping scum, sir. They are picking themselves up now and will be on parade in a few minutes, every man of them with his musket on his shoulder, carried through the snows and over the mountains, sir. They will stand in line again this afternoon, sir, if they must. I had far rather give them another good night's sleep, but they will answer my command if needed."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  Ten companies stood in the yard outside the warehouses; it was not a large yard.

  The Sergeant-Major called the roll.

  "Four hundred and eighty-three men present and correct, sir!"

  They had marched from their camp outside Lisbon nine hundred and forty strong.

  "Sick, Sergeant-Major?"

  "Eighteen in the care of the Regimental Surgeon, sir."

  "Four hundred and thirty-nine gone."

  "Yes, sir. That is not to include followers and civilians, sir."

  "How many?"

  "Fifty-two wives remain, sir. Two children as well, girls of eight and ten years; perhaps fifty died. Of the party with the quartermaster, sir, only four were lost. The dead include your man Moffat, sir."

  Septimus had not noticed he was gone; he had been too tired even to enquire.

  "How many officers gone, Sergeant-Major?"

  "All except one of the ensigns, sir. Mr Purkiss still lives, sir. He has solved his little problem with his weight, sir; he is no longer a chubby lad."

  "The boys seem less able to withstand the cold, Sergeant-Major. What of the others?"

  "Three lieutenants, sir. Two of them shot, one died of the cold. All of the captains survived, sir, though Captain Taft has lost part of an ear to frostbite, sir."

  "Careless of him! The captains had more work to do, I suspect - were far too busy to die. The ensigns were fairly much useless and had no push to stay alive. A lesson for the future, I think. Every ensign must be given work - they must not merely be hangers-on, learning by watching."

  The Sergeant-Major had nothing to say when it came to the training of young officers.

  "Mr Purkiss to me, if you would be so good, Sergeant-Major."

  "Mr Purkiss, I am glad to see you alive, sir!"

  "Thank you, sir."

  The boy had become a lean, hard-looking young man; the retreat, which had broken so many, had made him.

  "You are a lieutenant with immediate effect, Mr Purkiss. I will endeavour to make it a promotion in the field. Can you purchase if the need arises?"

  "Yes, sir. My father has promised me my first two steps."

  "Good. I much trust that you will take your captaincy in the Hampshires within a very few years, sir. I am very pleased with your conduct, sir, and it goes without saying that I am glad to see you still live!"

  "Thank you, sir."

  It seemed to Septimus that he could recognise much of himself in the young man; he wondered if Mr Purkiss had been thrown out of the family home as well.

  He walked out in front of the parade and took their salute, looking keenly at the attenuated ranks. He turned to the adjutant, discovered him missing then remembered seeing him fall on the track, shot as they hurried away from their first engagement at the bridge. The cold had played tricks with his memory, it seemed.

  He must appoint another adjutant. Not Purkiss, he was too inexperienced. He would consult with the majors.

  For the while he must deal with the details himself. He dismissed the parade then made his way to the southern reserve and Brigadier Auden.

  He had never seen Auden before.

  "Pearce, sir. Hampshires."

  "Sir Septimus! How many men have you?"

  "One half of my battalion remain, sir. Four hundred and eighty men."

  "You were rearguard, were you not, sir?"

  "We were so honoured, Brigadier."

  "'Honour' is the correct word from all I have been told, Sir Septimus. I understand you had a falling out with General Moore, sir?"

  "He seemed to believe that we could return the stragglers to discipline at the first of the two sacked villages, sir. I disagreed with him."

  "I have heard there were four thousand drunks running rampage there."

  "I did not stop to take a count, sir."

  "No more would I have done, Sir Septimus! Better dead than returned to us, sir! Dirty, disloyal dogs! You were right, I believe, sir, and so I will say when the question arises. To business, sir - the expectation is that the French will make an immediate assault on the walls, an escalade, as soon as they are all up. They will believe that we are weakened too much to put up a defence; they must be able to see the ships and know that we plan evacuation. They are to be encouraged to attack at a weak point - the lower, older walls just here are an obvious attraction. We shall man the walls thinly with the existing garrison and allow them to mass around a few ladders before bringing up the reserve to offer volley fire. The fortress guns will then sweep the ground behind them - we have a dozen or more of naval eighteen-pounders which will be unmasked at the proper moment."

  "That should cause them to recoil, certainly, sir."

  "The General believes they will then settle to a regular siege, at which time, in the dark of night, we shall steal away. Your battalion will be among the first, Sir Septimus. You have done enough."

  "The men are tired, sir. I shall be glad to
get them into the boats."

  General Moore appeared with a small group of staff officers about him; he did not approach the Hampshires, simply sat his horse at a distance and watched his plan work to near perfection. His generalship was, as ever, quite remarkable; given any specific military task he could see a clear answer.

  The French arrived outside the walls and very quickly formed into columns, determined to harry the retreating army into the sea, to achieve a total victory. They were able to concentrate their power on the parts of the city they chose to attack while the defenders were forced to spread themselves thin to defend all of the walls. The French moved forward at a fast walk, ladders to the fore and keeping up a spray of musketry on the battlements facing them. They laid their ladders against the low walls and gave a shout of encouragement as the troops lined up to climb into the city. Their triumph turned to screams of agony as two thousand muskets appeared and flamed in controlled volleys. Two minutes, twelve thousand rounds fired into the mass of bodies, and the assault turned into a panicked retreat, the columns disintegrated into a fleeing shambles that would take the remainder of the day and most of the night to return to order.

  The French were short of guns, had found manhandling them across the mountains a tedious business, had only one battery of field artillery up in support of the assault. The guns were too small to damage the walls or break down a gate, but fired to show willing and make a friendly noise behind the attackers. One round of canister was fired too high, missed the battlements but hit General Moore, sitting his horse on a rise behind the walls where he could see all that was happening. A ball ripped open his rib cage and shoulder, exposing a lung; it was obviously mortal, impossible to survive. His staff took him into cover where he lingered an hour or two, dying in early evening and buried in the night before the final withdrawal from the city.

  The news spread rapidly, was generally greeted with regret; he had been a good general in many ways, even if he had just had a bad campaign. The men had respected his concern for their welfare, even if they had little patience with the strategy that had stranded them in mountains in mid-winter.

  Septimus doffed his shako in respect on hearing that he was dead; he admired his own hypocrisy. There would be no poison spread at Horse Guards now. He called his officers to him, informed them that they would take ship overnight.