Spanish Tricks (Man of Conflict Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  “What of the war, Sir Septimus? Will we be taken into battle in the near future, sir?”

  “If Lord Wellington sees the opportunity to destroy a French army, then he will certainly take it, but he will not fight simply for the possession of ground, sir. He may, of course, be forced to battle by clever marching on the part of the French – and they can be very good in their generalship – but I do not doubt that my lord will choose his ground and will give the French a pummelling. We are short of men and His Lordship will not waste those he has, I believe.”

  “A summer of march and counter-march, Sir Septimus?”

  “That is my personal belief, sir. I must say, however, that I have been out of touch this last month, my head hurting too much to concentrate on very much at all!”

  They sat to table and ate a determinedly English meal, roast beef and puddings and chicken prominent. There was fish in several forms, the Portuguese eating much of their food from the sea, and Septimus was able to make a large meal without flouting his doctor’s advice. The drinking afterwards would be fierce, as always at a military dinner of the day, and it was wise to have a well-lined stomach before the first toasts were made.

  Cooper was waiting in the hallway to escort him across the square and to his bed, a service that was much appreciated for Septimus was not entirely sure he could remember the direction of his quarters, or that he would recognise the house when he reached it.

  He woke with another headache, but that was to be expected after a dinner.

  “Note from General Cookson-Waring, sir. Messenger waiting for a reply, sir.”

  “Sod the note, the messenger and the general as well, Cooper! Pass it to me, man!”

  General Cookson-Waring begged the pleasure of a word with Sir Septimus that day at his convenience; he would be available in his office at any time after two of the afternoon.

  “As well that he did not try to have his little talk last night, Cooper. I would not have remembered a word he had to say this morning!”

  “I am to inform Lord Wellington when you may be fit to return to duty, Sir Septimus. There is a task he would wish to entrust to you, or so I would assume from the way he writes.”

  “Two more weeks, I believe, General. I am not sure that I am yet in the way of riding a horse for some hours at a time. A week of exercise and a few more good meals to set me up and then I shall be at the disposal of His Lordship.”

  Evenings sat over a book in his quarters became tedious and Septimus ventured into the mess at the General Commanding’s barracks. He discovered that Cookson-Waring liked his card-playing and that gambling was the norm, encouraged in fact, and for stakes that were not low. There was a faro table in almost permanent being and various other games according to the taste of players. It was effectively impossible not to play if one was a guest in the mess. Septimus refused the faro table – only a fool with more money than sense played that game – and joined four others in vingt-et-un, simple to follow and difficult to cheat and not too expensive for the cautious punter. He played against the bank and took few risks and came out of a first evening a bare ten guineas down. He left with no intention of returning, having very little liking for gambling, finding it boring; he could find little to interest him in the turn of a card.

  There was an Opera House, playing to an audience of the wealthy and powerful and hence patronised by English officers as well as the local nobility; merchants were permitted in the ground tiers. Septimus had little knowledge of music, and was not in the habit of cultivating the arts, but he accepted the invitation of Major Featherstonehaugh to listen to the latest offering. If nothing else, it could give him something to write about in a letter home, to demonstrate that he was within reason fit and well.

  “Mozart, Sir Septimus, perhaps the greatest yet of all composers, though there is Herr Beethoven who must be considered.”

  Septimus agreed gravely that it must be so.

  “I fear that I have spent too little time at leisure and in England in recent years, Major. I have had small opportunity to listen to music of any sort.”

  Septimus sat in silence and listened, and applauded when others gave the lead; he could not understand the plot of the opera, having neither German nor Italian at his command, but he suspected that might be an advantage – he thought it might be very silly. The sound was quite sufficient, a perfection that he had never before encountered and would, he hoped, long remember.

  “In English, Major, how would the title be translated? I have no doubt that a London audience would demand a ‘proper’ name for the opera.”

  “It would, undoubtedly, Sir Septimus. Fortunately, they do not insist that the libretto be translated – that would be too much, even for our dear Society ladies! It is The Magic Flute.”

  “I much suspect that I shall escort my lady to the Opera rather frequently in our later years, when I have retired from the Wars, Major. A most enjoyable experience, and one that would not have occurred to me without your invitation, sir. I am indebted to you!”

  Courtesy demanded that Septimus should continue in the Major’s company and he was obliged to return to the mess and its gambling. He began to develop an appreciation of those games that demanded a degree of skill; particularly he rediscovered piquet, a game he had not played since his youth and which required some slight judgement of the odds and could be profitable when played later in the evening against an incautious drinker. He did not need the money and had no intention of filling his pockets, but it was not easy to resist the importunities of drunks who wished to raise the stakes, ‘to add interest to the game’.

  Just two days before he intended to report to Lord Wellington and then return to the battalion he wandered back to his billet and emptied his pockets in front of a slightly censorious Cooper.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but what do you intend to do with this lot? Not a good idea to keep it in the tent, sir!”

  Cooper pointed to the stacks of coins he had neatly placed on the dressing table, and which Septimus had hardly noticed, for having very little interest in money.

  “Guineas and Portuguese Joes and what are these?”

  There was a mixture of gold coins to the side. Currency was accepted by merchants according to its gold weight and there was little concern about its place of origin. There were francs and ducats and sequins and reals and dollars of various provenance, all promiscuous.

  “There’s the better part of four hundred guineas, sir, all told!”

  “Gambling money, Cooper! Not proper income to be saved and spent carefully. A jeweller’s tomorrow, for Lady Pearce – there are some fine places in Lisbon! And a share for you, as is only right after all you have done for me.”

  Septimus quickly separated out five piles of guineas, ten in each, and pushed them across, waving away Cooper’s first demurral.

  “It cost me nothing, Cooper. Take it, man!”

  “Thank you, sir. When you go to the jeweller’s tomorrow, sir… better not to go to one of the flash places down in the rich part of town, sir. Thing is, sir, a lot of these Portuguese lords what have come scared into Lisbon have been running short of the readies, what with no money coming from their estates that the French have taken. So they’ve been selling off the family jewels, like you might say, and there’s a few shops in the town where a man can pick up a real bargain, sir. If you can show gold coin, sir, cash down, you might say, then you can do well for yourself.”

  Cooper led Septimus to a small office close to the waterfront, shabby and seemingly poor, but with no fewer than four guards armed with long guns at the door. An English officer in uniform was given immediate entry.

  “The Colonel wants to buy rubies for his lady, at a proper price.”

  The broker stood behind an iron grille, out of arm’s reach, half hidden by shadow; there was a bright lamp with a reflector that made a pool of light on the counter to his front.

  “Paying how, Mr Cooper?”

  Septimus suspected that Cooper’s loot from
their skirmishes had been turned into gold in this shop.

  “Guineas, mostly. Some other coin. All gold.”

  “Let me see.”

  Cooper took the coins from the little bags safely tucked away in his pockets, passed them across, unconcerned that they were out of his grasp; stealing from a senior officer was too great a risk for any sensible businessman.

  Ten silent minutes and every one of the coins had been passed across the jeweller’s scales, their value noted and totted up.

  “Three hundred and seventy-one of English guineas. None false, which is not usual in the Lisbon of today.”

  Septimus was surprised by the fluency in English of a small, back-street shopkeeper, wondered just what he was. He had sense sufficient to ask no question.

  A necklace with four large pendant stones appeared on the counter, gleaming blood-red.

  “Old, sir, and not in the modern taste. If you wish, you can have it remade in London. You could exchange it for a modern piece, for there are many who wish to have the ancient style for interest’s sake. I am not to sell it in Lisbon, for it could be recognised as belonging to a noble house – it is a rare and known necklace that has been noticed at court. It is worth far more than your gold, in London. But here, it cannot be sold at its proper price. Gold is harder to come by each week in Lisbon. We will both profit from this.”

  Septimus had made his decision by entering the shop – he wanted a bargain and must take what he was offered. He made his thanks.

  “Kill some more French, sir, and you need make no expression of gratitude. But not too quickly, if you would be so good – profits are higher in wartime!”

  They laughed and the shopkeeper produced a chamois leather bag to place the necklace in, handing bag and jewellery separately to Cooper so that there could be no sleight of hand, no substitution of an inferior piece. Septimus was unaware of the possibility but Cooper kindly explained all to him as they returned to the billet.

  “Send it with the courier to Horse Guards, sir. That’s what they told me was best. He always takes a few bits and bobs with him, for the officers, and it’s safer because he goes in a naval cutter, quick and sure. They’re used to it in London and from what I was told, the packet will go to Winchester with the next set of despatches and then get taken out to the missus, all quick and secure. Put a letter in with it, sir?”

  Septimus meekly agreed, sat down at his table:

  ‘Just a little token, my love, and a thank you for the children! The necklace is not in the modern style and you might wish to take it to Abrams in Winchester to be remade, or for him to replace entirely, as he advises. Keep it as it is, if you prefer. I am almost wholly recovered now and must return to the battalion in a day or two. I shall be more careful in future!’

  He ended his letter with a few enquiries of the estate and sent his love to the children, all in stilted form – he could not express his feelings on paper, had problems enough face to face for that matter.

  General Cookson-Waring had informed headquarters of Septimus’ intent to return to duty and orders arrived to join outside of Almeida where the army was currently to be found. Septimus presumed he was to confer with Lord Wellington before being sent to rejoin the battalion; Cooper disabused him, the network of batmen knowing everything that was happening.

  “Battalion’s marching, sir, detached from the brigade. They’ve sent two full battalions of Goosers in our place, sir. We meet up at Almeida, sir. Bloody siege – I hates ‘em, sir. Don’t like the idea that they might be needing extra bodies to get over the walls, sir. Good way of getting dead in a hurry, first over a bloody wall, sir.”

  “There’s enough of good regiments present already, Cooper. His Lordship will have no need to bring us in to show the way. He wants us for something else, you can be sure of that.”

  They rode easily, quietly inland, making no attempt to force the pace – one could not hurry on the Portuguese tracks, particularly in the wake of an army whose guns and wagons had battered the surfaces into dust or foot-deep mud. There was a distance of some two hundred miles to travel, initially on recognisable roads from town to town with inns and stables to give man and horse comfort, but the last two days towards the frontier were hard going, the land poorer and less populated even in times of peace. Following the French invasion, the countryside was empty, the people fled or dead, every building burned to the ground. Towards evening they started looking out for a stopping place; there was no chance of anything that might resemble a posting inn but they could hope for the mess tent of a battalion moving up to the siege.

  There was a train of wagons coming back to the coast, but they contained wounded and sick men, some of whom, the survivors of the two weeks or more the slow carts would take on the roads, would be put into the care of the surgeons at the Convent outside Lisbon. Overworked and short of medicines and dressings, the surgeons would do their best, but most of the men who were carried in would never leave on their own feet; walking wounded had a good chance of surviving and returning to the war, but most of the rest would have been better served by a wound more immediately mortal. Septimus chose not to beg an evening meal of that convoy.

  Later they passed the lines of a regiment of cavalry, mess tent resplendent with oil lamps despite the sun barely below the horizon; there were elegantly uniformed officers taking a stroll, a constitutional, before facing the dining-table. There was a field kitchen giving off the smell of roasting beef.

  “How hungry are you, Cooper?”

  “I can last out, sir.”

  “Me, too.”

  They walked the horses another couple of miles, over the crest of yet another of the low hills of the region, and they came to a much less splendid camp, hardly a tent to be seen. They had passed the cavalry regiment unchallenged; here there was a picket on the road and their identities were demanded.

  “Colonel Sir Septimus Pearce, Hampshires. Who are you, soldier?”

  “46th, sir, South Devonshire.”

  “Would you be so good as to beg a night’s lodging for me, soldier?”

  The sergeant of the guard came doubling across at that moment, overheard and had no doubt that the hospitality of the camp would be available to a colonel going up to join his regiment.

  It had been a certainty that any battalion would have a meal and a space to lay down a bedroll, but the warmth of the welcome could be doubtful in some of the fashionable regiments who preferred the exclusive company of gentlemen born. The lower the number of the regiment, the more nobbish the mess; the 46th was well down the list and could be expected neither to know that Septimus had been born into Trade nor to care.

  Dinner was about to be served – a stew probably fairly much the same as the men were eating. Mess fees were low in the South Devonshires.

  Septimus glanced about him as he ate, saw that the scarlet of the officers’ coats was brightly unfaded and their shirts white rather than grey from being washed in cold water.

  “New out from England, sir?”

  Colonel Whitehaven of the South Devonshires confirmed that they had reached Lisbon less than a month before, after spending nearly five years in the North of England, mostly marching from one industrial town to the next in vain attempts to suppress riots.

  “Hopeless, Sir Septimus, the task impossible. Riots in the town we had just left; near-insurrection in the towns ten miles away; a peaceful, friendly population doffing their caps and knuckling their foreheads to us wherever we were, and then throwing half-bricks in the night before fading away into the back-alleys. Never an informer or evidence to give before a judge. Futile, sir. And all of the time pettifogging lawyers watching and noting our every action in the hope that we would break the rules, cross the line of legality so that they might haul us before a civilian court. No work for soldiers, that is for sure.”

  “I agree, sir. I had experience of that sort some years ago; the task is impossible. Better far to go to war where the enemy is to be identified by his blue coat. I have been
luckier than most soldiers, I think, for having only the one summer of aiding the civil power. I have, of course, spent my time in Ireland, more than once, and found that the worst kind of duty for trying to deal with civilians with guns and pikes. No pleasure in defeating a mob of boys who believe that the justice of their cause will make up for the poverty of their weapons and training!”

  “That is what the French face, is it not, Sir Septimus? I have heard of the Spanish militias, guerrilleros or some such, who hunt the French in half-armed packs. With some degree of success, it might seem.”

  “I have not met up with them, sir. I have no great desire to do so, I would add.”

  “What of the French, Sir Septimus? The newssheets will insist that they are shy and that one good Englishman can defeat a dozen Frogs, but if that is the case, why are we not already in Paris?”

  “The Frogs will fight; no question of that. They have more guns than are available to us, as well. Where they are weak is in tactics on the field. They believe in the attack, even when it would be wiser to sit in a strong position and allow their enemy to break themselves upon their lines. They come forward in great blocks, columns they call them, which sometimes simply attempt to batter their way through a line, more often spread into line themselves at the very last moment. They are used to frightening poorly-trained peasant boys so that they run, each of a thin line seeing a mass of thirty or forty Frenchmen bearing down on him. Keep your own line together and hold fire until they are fifty yards away, or less if the terrain is right, if they are coming uphill say; then fire your volleys, odd and even, three of each to the minute. If possible, throw out companies to flank their column, to hit them from the side. They are not so well trained in volley fire, and their generals believe in the charge and nothing else. Stop them and they will never restart and will have no idea of what to do next.”

  The Devonshire’s colonel had heard much the same before, was pleased to receive confirmation from a man who had actually seen the French in battle.