Spanish Tricks (Man of Conflict Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  “West, would be my choice, Sir Septimus. Into Portugal and make your way to Lisbon if no orders reach you en route. The army will be marching, and as yet we cannot tell whether it will be forwards or back. I suspect that the end of the summer will see us on the Portuguese frontier and readying over winter to make a rapid push on Madrid next spring – but that may not be the case, it might not be possible. Should all of the French armies in Spain combine, then we will be back at Torres Vedras in quick time, I suspect. Should Boney decide that he has wasted too much of his substance in Spain and decide to pull his armies out, then we might winter in the Pyrenees. In that case we would push an invasion into the South of France next spring. We do not know what may happen. It is always possible that the government in London may find that it can no longer afford to keep us here; we may be withdrawn ourselves. So, Sir Septimus, was I you, then I would exercise discretion, and make my way into Portugal on completion of your business.”

  “So be it, sir! If at all possible, we shall be in Lisbon in four or five weeks from now.”

  “Reporting success, I presume, Sir Septimus?”

  “But of course, sir! Whenever did a soldier report failure?”

  Hill rode away laughing, pleased to have met a man who he much suspected to be a rogue, in most senses of the word.

  The battalion ate before dawn and marched at first light, without the pleasure of the Count’s company.

  Septimus had decided to take the lower, flatter road along the valley for the first day, thinking it reasonable to assume that the French cavalry would not be found close to the rear of the army. Opinion was that Massena had pulled back at least ten miles from the scene of the battle and that the French were in some disorder as they awaited his replacement, surely by now an open secret.

  The valley narrowed in the early afternoon, perhaps an hour before Septimus wished to halt. There were tracks leading up into the hills, quite low here and showing reasonably open. He rode forward a furlong or so in front of the leading company, inspecting the pathways leading more or less to the south, picking the widest and probably most-travelled. He waved Major Perceval up, pointed to the track.

  “Some wheel marks, Major. A few of hoof prints, small – donkeys, do you think? Or goats, perhaps?”

  Donkeys would suggest a village, even a small town over the hill. Goats could be the flock of any tiny farmer.

  “Good question, sir! Who was that chap, in the Light Company? Gamekeeper or something.”

  “Private Mackeson – well thought, sir.”

  Mackeson was called to examine the track before they turned onto it.

  “Goats, sir – the hoof’s different to donkey, sir! They wheel tracks are a week old, and they ain’t local ox carts, sir. Frog, I reckon, sir. Out foraging. Be nothing up this old road except burned villages full of dead ‘uns, sir.”

  “Follow it anyway, Major Perceval. There may be a few who have escaped into the hills, and they could be useful to us as guides for a few miles. We can afford to put a family or two into the baggage.”

  Man of Conflict Series

  BOOK FIVE

  Chapter Four

  The track degenerated as they climbed, turning into no more than a rough footpath before their hour of marching was up. The hill they were ascending was high but the slope was easy, the crest miles ahead. The land was covered in scrub, thick bushes more than grass, but green in the late spring, not as dry as was the norm.

  “Light Company to search the land to either side of us, Major Perceval. As green as this is, I would expect to find a watercourse, would not you?”

  Perceval thought long before eventually coming up with a deep question.

  “Do they have lakes and ponds in Spain, sir?”

  “Damned good question, Major Perceval! I really do not know, though I suspect they might dry up in the heat of summer. See what can be discovered; I do not like to stray far from water.”

  Captain Mellish sent a runner back within a few minutes to inform Septimus that there were a number of springs, each giving rise to a small and clean stream. Probably they came together somewhere towards the valley bottom to form a little river.

  “A goodly amount of scrub to provide dry wood and fresh water. Halt here for the night, Major Perceval. Have the companies set up by different springs, as much as they can, and remind them not to foul the water supply! If they are not told they will do it every time!”

  The officers could tolerate Septimus’ eccentric insistence on clean water – it was a minor quirk in the man, a bee in his bonnet, but not in itself harmful, and every man was entitled to one or two silly ideas. The great bulk of the water they used would be boiled up in tea-kettles or stew-pots, so it did not matter if it contained the odd solid – but the Lord and Master was determined to have his own way in the matter and it was easier to accommodate his strange demand.

  Septimus inspected the camp, as was his habit and was now forced upon him. He always strode around the camp, every evening, so now he must do so – it would have been out of the ordinary had he not, would have led to a rumour that he was ill, or that something had gone wrong and he was busily trying to preserve them from disaster.

  He nodded his satisfaction to each of his captains as they rose from their bivouacs and accompanied him through their own little areas.

  “Pleasant smell this Spanish wood has got, Captain Mellish.”

  Mellish sniffed at the smoke, wondered if they had some sort of sage among the burning firewood. It was unusual, he agreed.

  “What of people, Captain Mellish? Have you seen any trace?”

  “None, sir. Thin sort of soil though on this hillside, sir. I cannot see growing a crop here. Not even vegetables for the table for a little farmstead like you see in the New Forest quite often. The foresters and verderers there work for a wage and generally have a smallholding of their own which feeds them – the womenfolk doing the cultivating, of course. But nothing like that here, sir.”

  “A pity. Very different sort of folk, these. In the morning, I want the Light Company to go ahead, platoons together on the flanks, squads perhaps across the centre of the line of march. Your decision on how best to place your men, of course, but keep a good eye out for any few villagers who may have managed to hide themselves away. Treat them well if you find any; bring them in and offer them our protection. I want guides, and, if possible, an introduction to the guerrilla bands; local survivors may know where to find them.”

  Two hours later there was a stir in the camp and a runner came to Septimus to inform him that ‘the Dago bloke what said he was an officer’ had turned up again, with some followers and a dozen of mules.

  Septimus had just finished his evening meal and was enjoying a mug of coffee, made by his new servant, Atkins, and very palatable.

  “Sod that! I hoped we were done with him. Give him my compliments, soldier, and tell him to set up camp by one of the streams.”

  A few minutes later the Count appeared with his train.

  “It is not appropriate for me to place myself in the rear, Sir Septimus. I must be given a proper location.”

  “Of course, my lord. Captain Mellish!”

  Mellish came running at Septimus’ bellow.

  “The count’s honour demands that he must be set in the forefront of our expedition, Captain Mellish. Be so good as to locate him at the head of our force.”

  Captain Mellish bowed to the Count and gravely led him a hundred yards forward of the battalion and showed him a comfortable stretch of turf beside a springlet.

  “I can assure you, my lord, that you are now in the position of highest honour. Please to shout very loudly if you are attacked in the night so that we may come to reinforce you and join you in repelling any attacker.”

  Mellish bowed and retired from the presence, not allowing the faintest trace of a giggle until he was out of hearing range, when he elbowed Lieutenant Melksham gleefully.

  “Did you see that little bugger’s face when he realised that h
e was out on his own, Melksham? Stuck there and not a word could he say, having demanded the place of glory!”

  “How fast are we to run to his aid if there should be an attack, sir?”

  “Funeral pace, Lieutenant Melksham, whistling the Death March from Saul in pious hope!”

  The night was undisturbed, however, but they took pains to send the bugler to stand within feet of the Count as he played Reveille, Sergeant Klopp as senior sergeant by his side, roaring.

  “Rise and Shine, the sun’s burnin’ your eyeballs out! Up you get! Hands off cocks, on socks! March in thirty minutes, sir!”

  Septimus assured the Count it was morning ritual, an ancient Army tradition that could not possibly be altered.

  “Always, Count, our mornings begin so. Do not yours, in Spain?”

  It was very childish, Septimus reflected – but it was such fun!

  The Light Company led them out, as was their duty and privilege – they were first by right. They discovered nothing for an hour and then came upon a track leading to a small village, a hamlet of five little cottages, each with a stretch of land and a goat fold. There was a tiny church, presumably to accommodate local farmers as well. There were none alive.

  Lieutenant Melksham reported to Septimus; the young man’s face was white, his expression bitter.

  “Before the battle, sir, a week ago, perhaps. Killed down to the last babe-in-arms, sir; many of them died badly as well, sir. The normal for the women and girls, sir. And some of the boys. They took time to play, sir – some of the bodies have been impaled, up on stakes. French foragers, I imagine, sir. Everything looted – not that there would have been much in a place like this. There are bodies inside every cottage, sir. No survivors, it would seem; no sign that any escaped.”

  “What of the church, Lieutenant Melksham?”

  “Burned out, sir. The benches – can’t really call them pews – piled together around the altar and set afire. Bones there as well, sir, so I expect they put the priest on top.”

  Septimus wrote a note in the Diary, briefly recording their discovery. The whole country showed the same, he knew, but it was impossible to remain unmoved. He had never hated the French before – they had been the enemy, faceless and unknown; now they were becoming an abomination fit only to be removed from the face of the Earth. He had spoken to other officers who felt the same – the behaviour of the French in Spain was barbaric and there was no alternative to wiping them out; chivalry was dead, honour was now irrelevant, this had become a war of extermination.

  “There is nothing to be done, Lieutenant Melksham. We cannot spend half a day burying them and we have no chaplain to say a prayer for them. All we can do is remember them, and kill the next Frenchmen we meet. Carry on, sir.”

  It was a pity, Septimus thought, that a young man like Melksham should be exposed to such vileness; it could embitter him for life. God help the next French soldier who tried to surrender to Melksham!

  Rather than show themselves on the crest of the hill, the battalion followed the track that led through the destroyed village. There were cries of revulsion and outrage from the ranks, but Septimus noticed that the Count barely glanced at the carnage, his face showing nothing. He pushed his horse up to the Count’s side, expressed his horror at the massacre.

  “Peasants, Sir Septimus! There are many more of them. These would hardly have paid any tax, in any case, hidden away from civilisation. Nor would they have supplied soldiers to their sovereign lord the King – useless rats!”

  The concept of noblesse oblige would seem to have been lost in Spain, Septimus ruminated. What a nasty little fellow this one was, and with a life expectancy that seemed to become shorter every time he spoke to him.

  “Travel would be easier, far quicker, at a lower level, Sir Septimus. Will you take the battalion down into the valley bottom now?”

  “No, my lord. Up on the high ground here is bad cavalry country: steep slopes in places, rough terrain, little of open grassland, much more of thick brush. It is ideal for us. Down in the more open land our foot-soldiers are exposed to the horsemen and we could lose many of the men before being able to form square and drive them off. Better far for the men to put up with the harder marching of the hills, my lord.”

  “A few dead men more or less hardly matter, Sir Septimus. They are peasants, no more! I see no reason why I should be inconvenienced for the like of them!”

  “They are trained musketeers, my lord. It has taken years to bring them to a high level of competence and they must not be wasted.”

  “Nonsense, sir! Order up a few thousand more – they may not shoot so straight or fast, but with enough of them that will not matter. They breed like rabbits – there are always more if you happen to lose a few.”

  “We no longer have peasants in England, my lord. These are free men who must be persuaded to the Colours. If I lose them carelessly, then it may be impossible to find others to replace them.”

  The Count stared uncomprehendingly; he heard the words but could make no sense of them – they did not belong to his world.

  “I shall take myself to the lower lands, Sir Septimus. I am not willing to expose myself to unnecessary hardships in the hills. I shall require an escort, of course.”

  “No.”

  The Count stared in amaze; he had not made a request, so a negative was impossible.

  “I do not believe that you understood me, Sir Septimus! I informed you that I shall be riding the more convenient roadways down by the river. That will require at least two companies of your men. I expect to ride out in fifteen minutes.”

  “You have my permission to absent yourself from your place of duty, Count. You will not receive an escort of my men, my lord. My next despatch to Lord Wellington will record that you chose to leave my command and that I accept no further responsibility for your well-being. I must also inform him that you have failed to honour your commitment to provide interpreters and guides to the battalion, my lord.”

  It was an outrage and the Count devoted several minutes to explaining that fact, in some detail.

  “I recommend you to make your complaint to Lord Wellington, or in his absence to General Hill, my lord. I cannot imagine that either will display any great sympathy, but I am sure they will give you a hearing, before they ask for an explanation of your failure to provide the services you had pledged.”

  “It was not possible to locate the people required. Unimportant as well – I cannot be expected to run errands for your army.”

  “As you wish, my lord. We shall continue in a generally southerly direction. I see that you have reduced your entourage to six young gentlemen, Count. Do we expect the other pair to catch up with us?”

  The count waved a dismissive hand; they had found themselves to be needed elsewhere. For the meanwhile, he wished to know what was to be done to provide him with the escort he required.

  “Find it yourself, my lord. None of my people will be detached to your service.”

  “I warn you, Sir Septimus, that there will be the most formal of complaints laid at the Palace of St James in London. You continue in this vein at your peril, sir!”

  “The King, very sadly, has gone mad again, my lord. Any complaint would be better addressed to Horse Guards. I wish you luck in obtaining a response from them in this decade, my lord!”

  It was impossible for the Lord’s anointed to be insane; occasionally eccentric, at the very most. Septimus’ words came very close to blasphemy in the Count’s opinion. The heretic English were not so fortunate as to possess the services of the Holy Office – the Inquisition – and this sort of obscenity of thought and language was the inevitable result of such a shortcoming; the Count was almost at a loss for words.

  “I do not doubt that God will strike you dead, Sir Septimus! I cannot continue in your company. I shall return to the army, there to arrange for your condemnation and inevitable execution, sir! I have no doubt you shall be hanged, unworthy of the honour of a firing-squad!”

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nbsp; “Just bugger off, you silly little man! I have no time for your nonsense!”

  The count spurred his horse downhill, determined to escape the corruption of the wicked man’s presence. His entourage followed as quickly as they could, having in several cases to mount up first. His servants stolidly continued to load the mules and then waited for orders.

  “Peter! Inform the muleteers that they are to join the baggage until we discover a safe means of returning them to their master.”

  The Spaniards showed impassive, but they made no attempt to leave the column, no doubt preferring travel in the company of eight hundred muskets to traversing the hills unprotected and with valuable loads.

  “Horse behind us, sir!”

  The word was shouted from company to company along the column.

  “Form company square!”

  It was quicker by at least two minutes to form by company, easier as well when marching through scrub.

  Septimus watched approvingly as the company officers pulled their men together and made the squares in echelon, right and left of the track so that they could cover each other safely. Inevitably, the Light Company, scattered out in front of the column was slowest to form, but they were together inside three minutes; men ran fast when the word of cavalry reached their ears. He trotted from square to square to the rear, moving cautiously but as quickly as was possible to see what was happening.

  “What can you tell me, Captain Boldre?”

  Boldre had the rear, the companies alternating each day.

  “Distant, sir, making slow time. Horses almost run out, sir. Long pursuit, perhaps. A small group and perhaps more chasing them. Difficult to tell, sir, in the scrub. Might be that Count, sir, I can see some sort of fancy uniform in front. I spotted no more than four, sir, and the Count had six with him when he went out this morning.”

  “Lost some to ambush, perhaps. Pity.”