“A surprise, if it is so. Could you see any other forces out on the bottom lands, as you call them?”
“None, sir. El Campesino sent some of his men out to have a look while he took others around to the north of the fortress. When he comes in we will know more.”
“So we will, Mr Ryan. Major Perceval!”
Perceval appeared from his own little tent.
“Taking a quick nap, sir. I have not inspected the night guards just of late, sir. Thought I might spend the early hours profitably taking a wander around the camp.”
“Keep ‘em on their toes, Major. Very wise!”
“They are good men, sir. But it makes sense to keep them virtuous!”
“Very true. I think we might be well-advised to put a guard on the Count’s tent tonight, Major Perceval.”
Septimus explained all that Ryan had seen.
“Four companies of French? Too few to expect to catch out a full battalion, sir.”
“I agree – the French would not leave so few unsupported if they knew there was a battalion coming. Perhaps there is a regiment or two of cavalry laying up at a short distance away. Possibly there is a brigade of Spanish to support them, if the Count is wholehearted in his treachery. Perhaps he has persuaded the French that there will be no more than a company with him, and he is luring them onto our bayonets in an act of patriotism. I do not know, but I do feel that I might prefer to have him tucked up inside a well-guarded tent tonight.”
“If there are French in occupation, will they have left the contents of the arsenal untouched, sir?”
“I would not, but they might have it in mind to give the guns to Spanish allies. I do not know.”
El Campesino rode in immediately before full dark, a pair of extra horses on leading reins behind him. They were still saddled, French accoutrements. Ryan hailed him, nodding to the horses approvingly.
“A picket of four, sir. Hussars with sabres and pistols. Two of the horses ran, but this pair were tied tighter, it would seem.”
The men with El Campesino made a great display of four sabres and eight pistols, all French issue pattern. There was a brief conversation before Ryan translated again.
“They had a fire and were half-asleep – nothing happened for a month, so it seems, and they had become slack. Three throats cut from out of the trees; the fourth they grabbed and brought away.”
“Where is he?”
“A couple of miles back, sir. They took him far enough that his own regiment would not hear him, then they persuaded him to talk before they finished him. They built a fire on his belly when they were done with him, left him tied down and howling. The Spanish have no pity in them, sir. Not now.”
“Christ! Is there no end to it?”
“Not in Spain, sir. There is no humanity left, sir. The man said there was three regiments of horse tucked away in the woodlands to the east of the fort, all well out of sight but close enough to hear musketry. They expected to be given the word by some sort of Spaniard, sir – the man was no more than a corporal, would have known no detail of any plan. A battalion of foot, they said, was to come out of the hills to the north and would enter the arsenal of a morning, thinking it to have a small and friendly Spanish garrison. They expected you next week, sir, the man saying you would need twelve days at least to march down from Almeida. They was told it was a big battalion of eight hundred muskets and experienced in war and led by a colonel who had fought everywhere and was a dangerous man. The corporal did not know the names of battalion or colonel, but he said the officers had been told them. He said that he had seen two Spanish officers come in on good horses not three days ago.”
The Count had had eight followers when first he had appeared; he had returned with just six. It might be coincidence; pigs might fly as well, and equally unlikely.
“So… the plan, I presume is for the companies in the garrison to hold against us while the cavalry come in from either flank and the rear to roll us up against the walls.”
“Just so, sir. One of the wooden warehouses has a rough stone wall heaped up inside it and can hold as a redoubt for half an hour.”
“Long enough for the horse to wipe us out.”
There was a silence while they digested the news, broken first by Ryan.
“A quiet retreat, I would think, sir.”
“Probably, Mr Ryan. I am not to go up against a brigade of cavalry in open country – or indeed in woodland either. Not the sort of odds I like. Equally, it is a long way to walk for no entertainment at the end of it. Was we to set a pair of companies inside the walls in the night, fox in the hen-run sort of thing, then we could do a lot of no good and be gone well before dawn and make our way through the woodland and up into the hills and away to the west. Cavalry that chooses to chase us through rough country will regret their ambitious ways, that is a certainty, sir. Your people might be able to pick up French muskets and powder and ball while we were inside. Think of the effect it will have on the Frogs if a patrol of theirs rides in to discover a fortress of the dead – it might upset me just a fraction, that I will tell you. Council of War after breakfast, Mr Ryan.”
“My turn, I believe, sir! I shall take my Light Company and the Grenadiers, sir.”
Major Paisley stared Septimus in the eye, defying him to disagree.
“So be it, Major Paisley. At midnight, would you say?”
“About then, sir. That will give us a couple of hours to march in the dark and to locate a way in – a side gate if possible. There must be several entrances with all of this timber to fill in holes in the wall. Lights to go in and start the killing, sir in one of the barracks; half of the Grenadiers to stand under arms, waiting for anything that may happen, while the rest go into the other barracks.”
Ryan spoke up, said that he would be leading a score of his people and that they could go in with the Grenadiers; they wanted the chance to kill some more French.
“It will give you the chance to pick up powder and ball especially, Mr Ryan. Mr Paisley will salvage everything he can, if all goes well.”
“That will be much appreciated, sir. What of the Count? Is it a hangman’s noose for him?”
“That is to be seen, gentlemen. Let us speak to the dear fellow. Major Perceval, would you be so good as to bring the young gentleman here under escort. His two followers as well, but separated from him so that they can, if they wish, talk to us.”
“Certainly, sir. In irons?”
“Why not? Let us annoy the little fellow – he may run off at the mouth if he is affronted by the indignity of being treated like a common criminal.”
“Instead of like an uncommon traitor, sir? A strange idea of honour that man has!”
Septimus agreed.
“Cooper, Sergeant Klopp to me, please.”
The Hampshires did not have a sergeant-major as such, though the appointment was becoming increasingly common in the Army; Sergeant Klopp was generally regarded as the most senior of the sergeants and would be given the rank if it was instituted in the battalion.
“Sergeant Klopp, would you be so good as to identify a hanging tree for me, and organise a rope and some sort of trestle or stool for the condemned to stand on and to be kicked away underneath him. Just the one.”
“Sir! A grave as well, sir?”
“No, Sergeant Klopp. If the occasion arises, if I am satisfied of guilt, then we shall leave the bugger swinging.”
“Sir!”
Sergeant Klopp saluted and marched away bellowing a series of names; private soldiers from his company came running.
“You know, Major Paisley, I have never seen that man look surprised! Any order, of any sort, and all you hear is ‘sir’, and perhaps a suggestion to do it a fraction better.”
“Well, yes, sir – one might have thought he would have enquired who was to be hanged.”
“Not him, Major Paisley – if I told him to hang Lord Wellington he would be in there with a rope around his neck quite uncaring. An outstanding sergeant, tha
t man.”
“The sergeant’s job is to carry out the officer’s orders, sir, no more, no less. I can see why you did not put Sergeant Klopp up for a commission.”
“Exactly, Major. Klopp is a damned good man, of great value to the battalion, but he would never be able to perform an officer’s tasks. But we have a sufficiency of officers, after all…”
“And a shortage of good sergeants, sir. We must take pains to discover men to promote.”
“Easier to do when out in the field, Major Paisley. The quality of a man shows up very quickly then. Here comes the Count, by the sound of it.”
The Count was displeased by the irons, was making his ire heard at a considerable distance.
“An outrage! What is the meaning of this?”
“I have reason to suppose that you may be a traitor and I propose to place you on trial.”
“You cannot try me! I am a Grandee of Spain! No English court can presume to place me on trial.”
“Military court, sir. In the field. They was used to call them ‘drumhead’ courts-martial. Quite why, I do not know. Do you know why, Major Perceval?”
Perceval was not perhaps the brightest of men, but he knew when he was being called upon to support his colonel.
“Haven’t got the foggiest, sir! I suspect it might be because of the slackened drum that beats as the condemned man is led to execution. Perhaps. Not that it matters, really, sir. The fact is that we have a fellow who appears to have tried to lead us into an ambush by enemies of the King of Spain. That makes him a traitor to us, and says that he has been in, what do they call it, these damned lawyers? I remember! ‘Treasonable converse with the King’s enemies’, that’s it. We was on guard duty at the executions of some Irish damn’ near ten years ago, in the East Norfolks, and I remember the Sheriff chappie reading out his warrants at the scaffold.”
“Very good! Always as well to have the right words written down – keeps them happy at Horse Guards. Now then, Count. What have you to say for yourself?”
“I demand trial before a Spanish court in proper form.”
“You ain’t getting it! The only trial you will receive is here and now, in front of me. There are French soldiers in garrison in this arsenal of yours; there is a brigade of cavalry close to hand. We have been told that my battalion has been identified to the French and is to be led into the arsenal some three or four days from now. We know that a pair of Spanish officers rode in just two days ago, giving the French the latest information on our march. Those two officers were your followers, sir, sent by you.”
Cooper appeared to the side, raised a hand; Septimus walked across to him, bent his head to his whisper.
“The other two dagoes, sir. Mr Ryan says they’re talking. They reckon they knew nothing about the business till yesterday, now they says the Count has the offer from the Frogs of being a Duke in his own stretch of land, on their side but not having to supply an army. They say he can have a big city in the north, independent of Spain and on the French border so they can protect him. All he has to do is declare peace with France and call upon all the Spanish to throw out the English invaders.”
“Give Mr Ryan my thanks, Cooper. Ask him to put their statements into writing for me. The adjutant will assist. Get them to swear and put their signatures on the papers.”
“What happens after that, sir?”
“They are to be set free, of course, Cooper. Ask Mr Ryan if he will be so good as to provide an escort of his people to send the gentlemen on their way.”
“Bit of a risk, sir. Dangerous country for two men on their own.”
“I am sure the guerrillas will look after them, Cooper.”
“Not much doubt of that, sir.”
Neither man commented on exactly how they expected the guerrillas to look after them.
Septimus paced gravely back to the Count’s presence.
“Barcelona, Count? Duke of Catalonia?”
“It is the only way to protect the people, Sir Septimus. It is only right that the saviour of the land should be made Duke. It may well be that the time will soon be found ripe to reinstate the old Kingdom of Catalonia. I would strongly advise you, Sir Septimus, to consider carefully just how you should treat a future king!”
“A cockerel crowing on a very small dunghill, Count. You admit that you have accepted an offer from the French of a dukedom in Northern Spain?”
“A perfectly normal piece of diplomacy – not that a mere soldier would understand such a matter! One must consider the greater good of the nation as a whole, sir!”
Septimus sat down at his writing desk in his tent and made a brief record of the Count’s words, leaving the Count standing between his guards for nearly ten silent minutes. He quickly sifted sand over the ink, ensuring that the paper was dry and smudge-free, and then tucked the sheet away with his records.
“I have no doubt that you are a traitor to Spain, sir, and, more importantly, tried to deliver my battalion into the hands of the French. In ordinary circumstances, I would deliver you for a more formal trial, but in the field and in the presence of greatly superior French forces, I must deal with you now. You will be hanged by the neck until you are dead, Count. A traitor’s death. Have you any last words? Any message to be sent to an heir or to your parents if they live?”
The Count was silent, struggling for words.
“No? So be it. The prisoner remained mute, possibly of malice. Sergeant Klopp!”
“Sir!”
Klopp appeared as if by magic; presumably he had been waiting out of sight behind the tent.
“Is all prepared, Sergeant Klopp?”
“Ready to go, sir. If you will just surrender the prisoner to my custody, sir.”
Klopp whistled and two private soldiers appeared, probably the biggest men in the battalion, and took an arm each.
“Drummer!”
Their best drummer appeared, drum skin slackened properly, and began to thump out the dull, slow beat.
“Prisoner and escort will march! By the left… slow march!”
The Count seemed unwilling to walk, was perhaps frozen by fear; the escort lifted their arms a few inches until his feet no longer touched the ground and continued forward, wholly incommoded by their burden.
Fifty yards took them to the selected tree, a tall Spanish Oak with a convenient limb at about twenty feet above the ground. There was a rope dangling, a noose readymade and a wagon parked underneath. Four more soldiers stood in the wagon and hauled the Count up while Sergeant Klopp walked up a set of conveniently placed steps at the front.
The Count found his voice as the noose was placed around his neck. He began to scream.
The escort and hanging party stood down from the wagon, leaving Sergeant Klopp and the Portuguese driver the sole occupants, besides the Count.
“Ready, sir!”
“Very good. Carry on, Sergeant Klopp.”
Septimus stood to attention as the driver shook the reins and the horse walked slowly out from under the tree. The Count’s feet dragged along the bottom boards and then fell out of the tail gate, leaving him to swing. He fell silent very quickly.
“Battalion to ready itself to move, Major Perceval. Mr Ryan, do you think you and some of your men could discover us the best route to take towards Portugal? Mr Black, an issue of rum to Sergeant Klopp and the men he will name to you. Mr Paisley, you will wish to rest your companies before moving out tonight. When Mr Ryan returns he is to join you, as you know. Not too many risks tonight, sir, but we must make a point to the French that we are to be treated with respect.”
The battalion moved camp during the afternoon and placed itself in woodland some two miles from the arsenal, across a track that Ryan believed would lead them up into the hills on the border of Portugal. The woods were thick and cut by narrow watercourses, each heavily lined with brush. Infantry might find a passage but cavalry would be blocked.
“No tents tonight, gentlemen. Baggage train to head to the west with the escort of a si
ngle company. Battalion to be prepared to fall back, leapfrog fashion. Cooper, coffee?”
They drank their brew and then Septimus sent the majors about their business.
“Beg pardon, sir, but I put the Count’s baggage onto a wagon, sir, not knowing what else to do with it. They picked him up from his bed, sir, before he had time to put his finger rings and pins and stuff on. He didn’t have his purse in his pocket, either, sir. Some pretty little bits of sparkle my lady will like to have, sir.”
“Well done, Cooper! Much in his purse?”
“Fat, sir. Those old Spanish doubloons, sir – the thick, heavy ones.”
“Good. More for your old age, man!”
“Aye, sir, another six houses, so I reckon. Way I’m going, sir, I shall not only own Middle Brook Street in Winchester, I shall have a fair old lump of Lower as well. Do me nice and comfortable for me old age, sir.”
“It could do you well before that, if you wished, Cooper. You could retire from my service as soon as we get back to England and sit back in your own house in Winchester, with maybe a widow lady to be your housekeeper too!”
“No, sir, not for me, sir. I’ll stay on at Micheldever, sir. Write me a Will, sir, and leave the houses to your youngest, sir, so that I’m remembered somewhere when I’m gone. I ain’t suited for living on me own, sir – been in the Army too long ever to leave, sir.”
There was a place for Cooper; there was nowhere for the others in the battalion who were growing older and who would inevitably be discharged as soon as they returned to England. It was not fair, Septimus thought, and knew that he could do nothing about it, except turn a blind eye when the men came across the opportunity to loot.
Man of Conflict Series
BOOK FIVE
Chapter Five
“Pistol belt for dawn, Cooper. An hour before first light, in fact. Battalion will move as soon as we can see where to place our feet. Next time I order ‘no tents’, remember that includes mine, Cooper?”
Spanish Tricks (Man of Conflict Series, Book 5) Page 11