Spanish Tricks (Man of Conflict Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Get those bastards’ names, Cooper!”

  “Knows ‘em, sir. B Company; Burgess and Jackie Smith.”

  There were so many Smiths they had to be identified by nickname or number.

  “I’ll see their backbones later in the week, Cooper.”

  “Useless pair, sir. No loss to the battalion.”

  Septimus ran on, waving the pristine sword in his hand and cheering, doing little more than show the men that he was there, taking the same risks as them.

  They came to the river bank and saw formed battalions waiting in the open ground, survivors of the attack scrambling back to them.

  “Halt! Hold your ground! Back to the walls and take cover!”

  The French had four-pound galloper guns with them and would cut up any spontaneous assault across the river. It was time to shut up shop for the day.

  The companies reformed and started a first roll call.

  A battalion of Scots marched up and informed them that they had the garrison. The Hampshires wearily walked back up onto the ridge, exhausted by the excitement of the charge, fit for nothing more that day.

  Septimus looked about him, called Captain Dawkins of B Company to his side.

  “Privates Burgess and Jackie Smith, Captain Dawkins. Lagging behind the charge; I saw them to bloody their bayonets on a dead Frenchman. Put them into irons, if you would be so good. I cannot have them brought to my table for discipline, I fear, for being witness myself. It will have to be a court-martial, which is a pity.”

  It would have been tidier to have dealt with the business inside the battalion; they did not like the idea of letting the rest of the army know that they had cowards in their midst. It was unavoidable, however; they had to show within reason just, offer a fair trial and could not have the colonel as judge and prosecutor and chief witness, all rolled into one.

  General Picton was applied to and had no difficulties at all.

  “Shoot the dogs! Stick the wicked sods up against the nearest wall, Sir Septimus!”

  “Not, perhaps, without the semblance of a trial, General Picton. It might lead to murmurings among the men – you know how they are for the proper form of things.”

  “Five officers for the whole of a morning, sir! A waste of valuable time for that sort of cowardly beast!”

  “So it is, sir. But, I submit, a necessary waste of time. And it need not take too long, sir. If the court sits at eight o’clock it can be done by nine, and if you happen to be close to hand then sentence can be confirmed before ten and they can be underground by noon. No great need to arrange for parades and such and a formal announcement to the men of what is going on and why. They will all know in any event.”

  “If it must be so, Sir Septimus, then let us do it. Colonel Mackinnon, you as brigadier should assign officers to the court. Do so today, if you would. Where?”

  Septimus had the answer.

  “The church, sir, is a convenient size and has a sombre mien, suitable for a capital trial. Easy enough to shift the pews about and make it into a facsimile of a courtroom.”

  “The priest may not like it, General Picton.”

  “The priest, Colonel MacKinnon, may take his dislikes and place them appropriately! I have better things to do with my time in the hours after battle than to consider the feelings of some damned Papist in a backwoods village in the arse-end of Portugal!”

  “Yes, sir. The French, sir, show no signs of retiring from the field, nor of diverting to left or right.”

  “His Lordship has sent instructions that we are to hold the village against expected further attack. The Frogs can hardly take another road and leave the army here on their flank. If Massena wants to relieve Almeida, he must defeat us here. So, if he will not retire, then he must come forwards again. No change in orders – let them come into the village and then wear them down, grind them up and, eventually, spit them out!”

  “Are we to expect them in the morning, sir?”

  “Doubtful, Sir Septimus. Massena will wish to pull today’s divisions into the rear and replace them with less damaged, fresher men. I would, that I am certain, and I assume Massena knows his business. Then, if it was me, I would send my horse out to discover whether, just possibly, there is a better way, a weakness on either flank. As well, I would be sending for assistance from the other French armies in Spain; more guns particularly. Taken together, I would expect a delay of at least a day, possibly two or three.”

  “So be it, sir.”

  The French showed no signs of activity next morning and preparations went ahead for the trial.

  “A squad of defaulters, Major Perceval, to dig a pair of graves somewhat to the rear, preferably not so far from the hospital tent. We do not know what sentence the men may receive and the surgeons will always be in need of extra graves if we do not use them – we must not be wasteful of the men’s labour.”

  The court-martial sat, five officers from the battalions closest in the line to the Hampshires, so that they could return quickly to duty was there an alarm. All had been busy on the previous day and none had the least sympathy for skulkers.

  Captain Dawkins acted as prisoner’s friend for the two men from his company; he had no love for either man, they had been a persistent irritation to him, lagging off the pace on the march, pilfering when they thought they could get away with it, forever whining, and he had for weeks been on the verge of finding a court-martial offence for them. Now he had to offer a defence, and he was very half-hearted about it. He thought that Private Burgess might have stubbed his toe and that Private Smith was supporting him; perhaps they had stumbled again and accidentally had bloodied their bayonets.

  The judges recognised the defence for what it was; they knew that Captain Dawkins would be only too pleased to be rid of the pair.

  They gave their verdicts, all five offering guilty in reverse order of seniority, junior man first so that he could not be influenced by his seniors.

  “Death is the only penalty for cowardice in action,” the President of the Court announced.

  Sentence went to General Picton and was confirmed on the nod, with a single proviso.

  The pair were led immediately to a stone wall a few yards from their open graves and a firing-squad of a man from each platoon of their own company was assembled to their front. In theory the names of the firing-squad were drawn at random, but the actuality was that any man who had recently irritated his corporal or sergeant would find himself loading his musket.

  Septimus read out the proceedings of the court-martial and the confirmation of the sentence.

  “General Picton has offered mercy.”

  The two heaved sighs of relief, relaxed in their bonds. Septimus continued to read.

  “Sentence of death is commuted to one thousand lashes for one of the convicts. The other will be shot.”

  General Picton had not specified which of the two would certainly die, which would have the dubious chance of surviving a thousand.

  There was a silence as the men present - the firing-squad, the fatigue-party of grave-diggers and most of the battalion officers – waited for Septimus to choose.

  There was no help for it; he had to make the decision. He pulled out a coin, saw it was a Portuguese Johannes.

  “Joe says Burgess; tails is Smith.”

  He flicked the coin, spinning bright in the air, stared as it landed in the dirt at his feet.

  “Private Burgess to be shot. Captain Dawkins, carry on, if you please.”

  The soldier screamed and wailed and tried to run; he was grabbed and hauled bodily to the wall. A sergeant produced a pair of six inch cut nails and hammered them into the joints of the drystone wall and they tied a wrist to each and left Burgess slumped there.

  The squad had loaded and were quickly set into place and Dawkins gave the necessary orders.

  The muskets flamed from twenty yards; closer and the squad would have been at risk from its own rounds ricocheting from the hard stone. Dawkins made his inspection of the
results; most of the eight heavy balls had hit the body and the man was dead, much to Dawkins’ relief as he holstered the pistol he had not been forced to use.

  “What do we do with Smith, sir?”

  “Go across to the detachment of provosts with the baggage train, Major Perceval. Have a word with their officer and see what he can arrange for us.”

  The provosts sent an escort to pick up Smith an hour later, took him off to the rear and, presumably, dealt out his punishment; the battalion did not see Smith again and really, cared very little.

  “What was the price, Major Perceval?”

  “A lieutenant, sir. A young man who had exchanged out of the Militia and never managed to fit in with his regiment and was pushed across to provost duty; one of the flash battalions, sir, and him an attorney’s son. You know the story! I spoke to his major and told him we were short of a man in the mess and that the young gentleman seemed a reasonable sort, all in all. He has agreed to the transfer, sir, being a decent sort of fellow, for a Provost, that is. We have a vacancy in three of our companies, sir, can fit him in easily.”

  “Make it so, Major Perceval. Well done, sir!”

  Septimus had not wanted a long punishment parade while the battalion was forced to watch as Smith was flogged into a vegetable; it would have been bad for morale.

  Lieutenant Entwhistle presented himself that afternoon, his man leading a pair of good horses and the lieutenant himself dressed in well-cut and best quality English cloth and wearing a brace of very good pistols and a rather ornate officer’s sword. Not only was his father an attorney but he also had the bad taste to be well-inlaid, quite possibly richer than many of the gentry sort whose sons graced the better regiments.

  Lieutenant Entwhistle was led before Septimus and saluted his very best and said that he was very thankful to be given the chance to serve with a fighting battalion. His accent was conventionally correct and he looked the part; the prejudice against him had been based solely on his family.

  “You are very welcome, Lieutenant Entwhistle. You will join G Company, which is one of Major Perceval’s. The bulk of our officers hale from the South Country, very many from Hampshire itself, but yours is more of a northern name, is it not?”

  “Leeds, sir, in Yorkshire. My father is located there still, and my elder brother and my three sisters, all of whom are wed into the town.”

  “And your father is a lawyer, you told Mr Perceval.”

  “He is, sir, but only by original training. He was always a man of wide enthusiasms and became involved in the woollen industry nearly thirty years ago, sir, inventing a new sort of spinning machine that enabled him to form a partnership with another local man. Between them they built a mill, sir, one that prospered mightily.”

  The father was a manufacturer, in fact, but it had seemed wiser to mention his more respectable legal background.

  “My own father was a merchant, as is my brother still, Lieutenant Entwhistle.”

  There was no need to say more.

  “May I join my company today, sir? It seems probable that there will be renewed battle tomorrow and I would not wish to miss it, sir. I joined the Army to be a soldier, sir.”

  “A boyhood ambition, Mr Entwhistle?”

  “Yes, sir… I wanted nothing else, sir. My father had to be persuaded, but it was my true desire, sir. My brother cannot comprehend why I should prefer the soldier’s life to that of a prospering mill-owner – he and my father were very willing to arrange that I should have a small place of my own with their aid and advice to assist it to grow. But a regiment of the line is all I have ever desired, sir. We have been at war for almost the whole of my life, sir, and I worried for years that it would be over before I could join and play my part.”

  “Well, as I say, Mr Entwhistle, you are very welcome in the Hampshires. As for the war ending – well, I see small prospect of that occurring. I joined as a boy of seventeen and saw my first skirmish before I was eighteen. I am now five-and-thirty and expect to see any number of fights yet before I go to my half-pay; we shall be at war until we have all grown grey beards, I suspect.”

  Lieutenant Entwhistle seemed to regard that prospect with delight.

  “Was I ever that young, Cooper?”

  “Just as green, sir, but I don’t remember you ever wanting nothing else than to be a soldier, sir, not as an ensign, anyhow. Changed your mind afterwards, though, when you found out you was good at it.”

  “Let’s hope the boy does not change his mind, Cooper.”

  “Him? He won’t, sir. You can tell a youngster who’s got the makings of a good officer, sir. That one will do well.”

  They watched from the ridge as Massena sent out his cavalry patrols to left and right flank, belatedly seeking an alternative to the head-on assault of the previous day. Late afternoon saw a shift of cavalry regiments, all moving at the walk to Wellington’s right.

  “Positioning themselves for the morning, one must imagine, gentlemen. No concern of ours.”

  The officers at Septimus’ side agreed; there would be no cavalry climbing the ridge to charge at them and Lord Wellington was more than capable of seeing off their threat to his flank.

  General Picton rode up, making the rounds of the battalions in his division, simply to be seen by the men, to remind them that they were not forgotten.

  “What’s that Frog bastard doing now, Sir Septimus?”

  “Cavalry to our right, sir. Turning the flank, perhaps?”

  “Light Division will deal with that, providing that prick Craufurd is awake to all that’s going on. None of our affair, Sir Septimus. You have the 88th to your right and they will be thrown in first if the need arises. Those mad Irish sods in the Connaughts will not be defeated, not while they live. You will watch and move left or right of them as the need arises, Sir Septimus. If there is no need, if they can deal with the business on their own, then leave them to it. Do not go stealing their glory, as they might see it, even if you know you could save them some casualties; they are only Paddies and there’s plenty more where they came from.”

  It was a strange command, but it was a direct order.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Be sure to hold the ridge, Sir Septimus. Go if you are certain of rolling up the Frogs. Otherwise, hold your line.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One thing as well, Sir Septimus. The army is none too well off for rations this month. I have no wish to see us burdened with French mouths to feed. Think well before taking any of the bastards as prisoners.”

  Septimus had never before been ordered to butcher a surrendering enemy; he was not at all sure that he liked to accept that order now.

  Picton rode away and Septimus turned to Major Perceval, silent at his side.

  “You heard that last order, sir?”

  “I did, sir. Was the general telling us to kill prisoners, sir, rather than accept their surrender?”

  “He was. You will ignore that order and will not pass it on to any other officer, Major Perceval.”

  “With pleasure, sir. I must say, sir, that I thought his description of General Craufurd was uncouth!”

  “General Picton has a foul mouth, I fear, and he is at loggerheads with General Craufurd. Some question of what should have been done at the Combat of the Coa. Craufurd should not have accepted battle and Picton refused to support him; neither man came out of the matter well. Not to worry, Major Perceval – it is for Lord Wellington to sort out, not us.”

  “The general is a rather strange sort of gentleman, sir. I am not sure that I have met his like before.”

  Septimus shrugged; they would be under Picton’s command for another few days, a week at most. They could put up with his peculiarities for that length of time. Major Perceval deserved a little more, however, should be given some sort of explanation.

  “You have heard of the Trinidad affair? The court-martial at which Picton was found guilty of ordering the torture of a fourteen years old girl?”

  “Was he
not cleared on appeal, sir?”

  “He was, hence his presence, still in the Army. But it left a bad taste in many mouths, and I believe has engendered a habit of what might be called defensive hostility in him; he expects any officer to be willing to sneer at him. The rights and wrongs of the business, I do not know. I am not too sure that I care. It seems that the girl was a thief and the courts sought her confession in order to discover her accomplice, but that hardly justifies torture! I believe that Picton simply had no scruples – what happened to another black girl was nothing to him - and took the simplest course of giving a judge all that he asked for. He was a hard man as a governor, but he brought a wild island under control with few men and little help from London. I am given to understand that he also made a fortune for himself by trading with the Spanish colonies – in time of war with Spain – and by smuggling goods to England in Spanish merchantmen. The round tale is not known, but he was born none too rich and has a fine income now. I suspect that having made his money he now fancies retirement as a lord – and that demands victories well played-up in London.”

  “And his Third Division is to provide the glory for him, sir?”

  “Just so, Major Perceval – and damn the cost, as well!”

  “What of tomorrow, sir?”

  “Major Paisley to have the honour in any advance – he is another who needs to be heard of in London, and I stole his chance of glory yesterday. If possible… and who knows what may actually eventuate? If it can be done, I say, then I will push your companies out to the flank, left or right, to enfilade the Frogs while we attack head-on. If we are able to roll-up the Frogs, then do not be content simply with taking ground and securing formal victory, Major Perceval. We wish to break them, to destroy whole battalions by dishing out casualties too heavy for them to absorb. Once they retreat then drive them into the river, and shoot the buggers as they climb out the other side!”

  “A new sort of warfare, sir. I was taught that the battle belonged to the side that advanced and took the enemy’s ground. Now you tell me that I could just as well retreat in front of an attacker, holding every piece of cover and killing all that I could. Was I to end up ten miles to the rear with all of my men while the enemy had lost the half of his, then I would be the winner in this new world.”