General Picton had been active in the later campaigns in the Sugar Islands, enquired where Septimus had been, was not displeased with the answer.
“With the New Foresters, you tell me! They did very well, I remember, though before my time. Went out as a young lieutenant and came back a major – that says much for you, Sir Septimus. I shall look for you to do as well in the morning, sir. There should be little in the way of cavalry inside the village, sir, so your head should be safe enough this time! How do ye stand for powder and ball, sir?”
Septimus was surprised to be asked such a question; ensuring that the men were properly armed was the most basic of a battalion commander’s duties.
“Well, sir, as always; my quartermaster is thoroughly reliable. The men will be issued with eighty, as is my practice when we expect action, and there will be a mule accompanying each company with at least another thirty rounds a man on its back, and my Mr Black will have his wagons not more than two furlongs to the rear with three days of made cartridges ready for issue. Indeed, if I know my Mr Black then there will be some significant amount more than the official allocation close to hand. He will be well up for spare ramrods and flints and probably a number of replacement muskets. A most reliable gentleman; a positive treasure, sir. I hope and pray every day that he will not get caught!”
General Picton stared and then started to laugh.
“A man after my own heart, Sir Septimus! Better than the damned fool of a colonel – who must be unnamed, I suspect - who has sent me this afternoon his ammunition returns and his regrets that he discovers he has no more than sixty rounds a man in total. I gather that I am to produce an additional one hundred or two apiece from out of my cocked hat! I have already asked why he did not inform me a fortnight since, and he tells me that he had intended to, but the matter slipped his mind! I suspect he must have sat down heavily and bruised the small amount of brain he possesses!”
Septimus laughed, enquired whether he was a Guardsman.
“Aye, sir. Funny enough! But I have to find another sixty thousand rounds, and eighty would be better, and place them in his baggage train before tomorrow’s dawn! And that means I must be knocking on the Quartermaster-General’s door tonight, in person, and crawl and beg and kiss his fundament and pledge my undying gratitude to the bloody man! And him the son of a bloody lord and sneering enough at a little Welsh squire’s son as it is! The colonel the same, the son of a lord and too important a fellow to be concerned about the mechanics of the soldier’s trade!”
It was a familiar story to Septimus.
“I have met them myself, sir, and ignored their little digs and innuendoes. My brother is a successful, very much so in fact, merchant, based in Winchester and trading over the whole of the South of England, one of the biggest firms outside of London. I live on the share of the profits left to me by my father, and do very well, I believe. I have learned the military business and have small tolerance for the gentlemen who believe that blue blood is more important than any knowledge of soldiering; my officers work at their trade, or find a more comfortable regiment to lounge in!”
Septimus knew that Picton was very well off in financial terms, though the source of his wealth was a matter for conjecture. The general himself claimed hereditary landholdings for his money, but seemed to have been born to a very small landowner; there was a feeling that he had done very well indeed as governor of the Trinidad, quite possibly too well for the comfort of those of an ethical turn of mind. No matter, while it gave him a sympathy for other officers drawn from outside the caste of the gently born.
“That I did not know, sir! You were knighted, I presume?” Picton very much wanted a peerage and was a little envious of other officers who gained honours.
“Baronetcy, sir, for services in the field, and in recognition of my brother being very willing to open his purse to the Prime Minister’s requests.”
Picton nodded; he was increasingly certain that he would not be recognised to the extent of a barony, for being insufficiently genteel and much too thinly-endowed in terms of respectable lands. He did have a rich uncle, however, and he had some influence.
“Good man! Both you and your brother. I must go, Sir Septimus. I am glad to have spoken with you, sir. It was very correct of you to find the time for me on this first evening of your return to your regiment, sir.”
A good first encounter, Septimus, felt, but he did not know that he would wish to spend long under the command of General Picton. An abrasive personality, as well as very probably a fierce, fighting soldier, and one who might take a few risks too many in the field, willing to kill too many men to achieve a minor objective and maintain a record of always winning, always being the best.
He was not given to introspection, made no attempt to ask himself whether he was not of the same sort.
He made his way back to the makeshift mess and discovered, as he had expected, the officers making their preparations for the next day, the bulk of them already half-drunk. Major Perceval was observing them with some dismay, not quite certain that their behaviour was all that it should be.
“Is Mr Black here, Major Perceval?”
The quartermaster was sat on a bench to the rear, sipping austerely at a glass, drinking for form’s sake, or so Septimus suspected.
“Good evening, Mr Black. I am sorry to disturb you, and must apologise to the President for talking shop in the mess.”
Major Perceval, President of the Mess for being second in command, waved a mute hand in disclaimer.
“Are we well off for rum, Mr Black?”
“Within reason, yes, sir. I have in fact been able to lay my hands on an amount of brandy, of a sort, exchanged against a number of barrels of salt beef which happened to be in surplus for some reason, sir.”
“Several barrels of brandy, Mr Black?”
“Ten, sir, but not particularly large. One per company, one might suggest, sir; perhaps one quarter of a bottle per man.”
“Very good, Mr Black! Just the right amount to allow the men to enjoy themselves without becoming incapacitated. Would you be so good as to discover those barrels, if you please, sir.”
Captain Black left for his well-guarded wagons as Septimus turned to the assembled officers.
“Company captains! I must disturb you for half an hour, I fear. Take your senior sergeants and a pair of private soldiers from your company and join Mr Black at his wagons. He will make an issue which is to be distributed to the men this evening.”
Major Perceval observed with open-mouthed amaze.
“I say, sir, did you know that he had this illicit brandy to hand?”
“Know? No, not at all. But I do know that Captain Black is one of the finest quartermasters I have ever come across. When I have need of anything out of the ordinary, then I have a quiet word with that gentleman, and he has yet to disappoint me. I could not tell whether he would come up with rum or gin or brandy or even port wine, but I would have been amazed had he produced nothing. In exchange, of course, I see nothing and hear less of his activities. I suspect that he might well be involved in some sort of smuggling, possibly to England, perhaps even to the Empire of Morocco.”
“Barbary, sir? What could one smuggle there?”
“Much of our rations comes north from the Empire, Major Perceval. Onions and grain and beef on the hoof in surprisingly large tonnages, for the Mediterranean Fleet and for our army. Where there are ships coming north laden and sailing south empty, then there is space for illicit cargo. The Empire of Morocco is a Mohammedan land, and I am told that alcohol is forbidden there; that means, of course, that the price of wines and spirits is high. Forbidding anything merely acts to put its price up, as you must know. Room for a high profit, or so I was told in Lisbon; apparently the trade is well-known there, long has been.”
Major Perceval had not dreamed it to be possible.
“I had understood, sir, that is to suggest that I had believed, I should say, that the Papists of Portugal and Spain were for
bidden to have any congress with the Mussulmen.”
“They are, Major Perceval; that pushes the price a little higher!”
Major Perceval thought that it was a very wicked world that they lived in.
“I gather, sir, that we are not to investigate the possibility that Mr Black is indulging in illegality.”
“Good God, no, sir! A properly criminal quartermaster, who steals only from those outside the regiment, is a true blessing. When other battalions are scraping for their next meal, we shall be well-fed; when we wish to give the men a little reward for making an effort above and beyond the call of duty, then Mr Black will come up trumps! We must cosset him and show him our respect, for he is a regimental treasure! In most of the other battalions the men will be sat around their fires sharing no more than a mouthful of wine apiece if they are lucky; they will be talking up their fears of tomorrow, wondering if their name has been written on a French musket-ball. Our men will be singing and roaring with laughter tonight, and in the morning will be out to claim a Frog apiece for the fun of it. The men know they belong to a good battalion, Major Perceval, and they will know as well that few others have been as well looked after as them; they will fight like devils to prove they are the very best, and in part to thank their officers for caring about them.”
Major Perceval accepted that it might well be so, commenting that the rank and file had shown very pleased to hear that their colonel would not be returning to England but would be coming back to them.
“Would they not do better for a night’s sleep, sir, even so?”
“They can sleep tomorrow night, Major, those who do not sleep forever.”
Major Perceval called for another drink on the strength of that comment.
“Pass the word for best uniforms and silk stockings tomorrow, Major Perceval. The men like the officers to make a show on special occasions. Besides that, silk is less dangerous than wool when driven into a wound, or so the surgeons have told me in the past.”
“Horses, sir?”
“I would not fancy riding a horse down that slope, Major Perceval. I might well prefer to ride back up, of course, but I think it wiser that we leave the horses in the rear. Remind the men to fire low downhill.”
The battalion stirred before dawn, thankful that the wetter part of the year was behind them and that they had a dry day for their business. There was an issue of biscuit and ration cheese which few of the men could fancy first thing in the morning, but they stirred up their fires and made tea and most managed to find a few drops of spirits to liven the morning cup. In every platoon there was one soldier, at least, who had an illicit bottle of gin, hoarded against special need; the corporals encouraged them to share their bounty in exchange for not facing a charge and a dozen lashes for their enterprise.
The officers shook their heads at further evidence of the men’s dependence upon the booze; they made no comment as their own servants produced tea or coffee with a significant proof content.
The first bugles sounded and there was a stir along the whole ridgeline as the men stood-to. Septimus made a show of yawning and stretching and then ambled to the front of the line and peered out to the south-east and the French.
“Battalion will load and prime firelocks,” he shouted, very formally, signifying that they would be earning their pennies on this day.
At least two French divisions were dressing forward towards the river and there was cavalry shifting on the flanks, as if to threaten encirclement. The right and left were none of Septimus’ business; he was concerned solely with the push directly into the village. For half an hour very little happened as the French organised themselves. Then the artillery opened fire, presumably hoping to suppress the English field-guns emplaced on the ridge; the range was a little too great, the British guns set too high, and the initial fire was ineffective, though stray rounds whistled around the battalion’s ears.
“Not very interesting, Major Perceval. Massena will have to do better than this.”
Major Perceval clasped his hands behind his back and peered downhill, somewhat disdainfully.
“Rather tedious, sir. I suspect that he is going through the motions to amuse his own people. They will like to see an artillery bombardment in front of them.”
A French brigade stirred and marched quickly to the river, taking to the bridges and fords in good form. They shouted and cheered and advanced under their eagles, heartened by a lack of fire as they crossed. A few British and Portuguese pickets along the river banks shot into the oncoming French but allowed themselves to be driven into the town, offering an apparently easy victory. The French pressed on, incautiously, perhaps thinking that the Portuguese would not stop running and that there were only a few of the British.
There was a garrison of the light companies of the division waiting the French, in skirmish order and tucked into the cover of the overlapping stone walls and houses, able often to shoot from in front and both sides as the French penetrated the twisting, narrow lanes. They opened fire from as little as twenty yards in places, knocking down at least one hundred of the French in the first minute; most of the attackers saw no more than powder smoke, were unable to pick out any targets to aim at.
There was a movement by the French back to the river bank, more open by its nature but quickly swept by volley fire and by the cannon from the ridge. The attackers went to ground, apart from a few brave runners sent back with demands for reinforcements, some of them managing to get to the rear and deliver their messages.
Massena presumably wished to hoard his men for the short march to Almeida and the battle he expected there. He sent forward another two battalions, a miser’s dribble of men, too few to have any effect on the developing battle. Another hour went by before he released the whole division to push into the town and attempt to clear it, house by house at hand-to-hand.
The brigadier, Colonel Mackinnon, rode up to Septimus as he watched, the Hampshires still having not pulled trigger.
“Time to advance your men, I think, Sir Septimus.”
“I had thought to wait five minutes more, sir. The French are coming forward only slowly and are taking losses; the light companies are still well in hand, falling back through each other. The road immediately below us, sir, runs straight for fifty yards and then takes a pair of curves up the hill. There is space for the men below to reform just there and for us to go through them while still keeping our order. Our first objective should, I would suggest, sir, be that straight stretch of wall on this side of the road. Half or full battalion, sir? Have we replacements to hold the ridge if we advance?”
“Half battalion, Sir Septimus.”
“Very good, sir. If you will excuse me, I should take my position just now.”
Septimus called to Major Paisley, already waiting his command.
“Two companies up, Major Paisley, three at twenty paces behind, left or right as the need displays itself. I have the leading pair, sir.”
Major Paisley acknowledged the order, a fraction sulkily; he had wanted to take the lead himself, especially with the brigadier watching, able to observe his virtue.
“Grenadier Company and Light Company to the front, in your lines. Forward…. March!”
Septimus strode out downhill, not running because it would have been too easy to fall. He passed the word to the captains to stop at the wall, to hold it as their first position and to pass through the survivors of the original garrison to allow them to reform under cover.
“Volley fire, gentlemen, until we have halted the French advance. Do not let the men press forward until I give the command.”
They commenced their controlled, regular volleys, little concerned about aim; they were firing downhill, through windows and doorways and along stone-walled, rocky lanes and alleys, nearly five hundred in a minute of seven-tenths of an inch diameter lead balls, bouncing, rattling, ricocheting in a cloud of stone chips. They made the area untenable within a hundred yards of their line, and dangerous for another furlong. Withi
n minutes there were volleys both left and right of their position as other battalions doubled down the slope. The French held while they could, fell back reluctantly, taking heavy casualties and hardly able to show themselves to return fire.
Septimus heard orders from his right, saw the troops there fixing bayonets; he shouted in succession to cease fire, reload and then in his turn to fix bayonets. Thirty seconds for the men to ready themselves and he drew his hanger and jumped the wall, shouting the charge. He could not remember when last he had held his working sword, but it seemed the right thing to do when leading a bayonet charge.
Across the road, into the nearest open doorway and through the tiny, low-ceilinged stone cottage, into the small dry garden and over the next wall… Bellowing, roaring, trying not to tread on the bodies and avoiding the patches of blood and guts scattered on the road and floors. He saw some of his men ahead of him, more to both sides, whooping and cheering and doing their damnedest to outpace him so that they could boast they ‘had got there first’.
A spatter of musketry, a platoon of French who had managed to load and organise themselves; yelling and screaming as they went down to a man. No quarter in a charge; there was no time to recognise a surrender or go to the bother of taking prisoners.
“On lads, on! Halt at the river!”
Out of the corner of his eye Septimus saw a pair of laggards from Major Paisley’s companies, hanging back, not too enthusiastic when it came to close quarters; they stopped at a corpse and poked it with their blades, lifting their muskets so that blood trickled down the bayonets, showing that they had been as busy as any.
Spanish Tricks (Man of Conflict Series, Book 5) Page 4