Raging Rajahs (Man of Conflict Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  Septimus’ first task had been to assign the new men to companies and then to sit with their captains and put them into platoons. Particular friendships formed aboard ship were ruthlessly identified and broken up. Septimus had no moral objections to buggery but preferred it not to take place in his barrack rooms – it seemed to upset many of the men and led to unending moaning from the chaplain and besides that, the soldiers needed their sleep if they were to work on the drill square in the hot sun.

  Some battalions had the habit of putting new men into their own platoons, the novices all together and able to progress in their training without being a nuisance to the experienced men. This had, Septimus believed, the drawback that when it came to battle there would be whole platoons who had never smelt powder and had no veterans at their side to show them how to go on. Platoons could run simply for not knowing what to do otherwise.

  Existing platoons often resented having two or even three new men foisted upon them. The new men would stand out as inefficient and would have to be carried for a few weeks while they found their feet. Some of the new men would try and would quickly fit in; others would be unwilling, idle, a nuisance.

  The army boot was useful in this circumstance – heavy, its leather rock-hard, brutally uncomfortable until the feet moulded to it, the boot nonetheless was most effective in bringing unwilling recruits into line. A man who showed lazy or big-mouthed or who tried to bully would soon discover that six others swinging their boots into him were very persuasive. Most did their very best to fit in after experiencing five minutes of barrack room chastisement; a few required a second dose and one or two might die or be crippled under a third, but they were mainly the most obdurate of cases, mad or perverse, and unlikely ever to be of use to the battalion.

  Because of the presence of the new men the hours on the drill square had to increase for all, and they had to put in extra time in the butts. Most bitterly resented though was the need for route marches; the new men must be made fit, given endurance, and that could only be done in column of route out on the road.

  Day after the day the battalion marched seven miles and four furlongs out of the cantonment and then turned and tramped back again. Five hours at three miles an hour, ten minutes break in every sixty; stragglers pushed back into their ranks unless they were obviously in fever; the sergeants, who hated marching too, pitiless in their demands. The men watched Septimus as he stared at them, doubling from front to rear and back again, silently challenging them – he marched more than twenty miles to their fifteen, every day; if he could do it, why could not they? The new men came silently to hate him, arrogant and ungiving, forever demanding, denying their manhood by being better, harder than them. The older men watched and laughed, for they knew that the Major would be at the front when it came to a fight, and that was all that counted.

  Inevitably, there were a few floggings, cases where the colonel could find no alternative. One of the new men was driven too far and tried to take a bayonet to his sergeant and received a boot in the crotch first and then five hundred lashes to follow. Even that was regarded as within reason lenient by most of the men; the majority of battalions would have handed out a thousand. Two of the thieves would not change their ways and had to be reminded at the triangle, the battalion watching harsh and unforgiving; theft was against the code, was never acceptable, except when civilians were the victims. Two more of the men were discovered giving comfort to each other, choosing an unfortunately public place for their activities. They received ten lashes apiece and the nickname of ‘Molly’ and were otherwise forgotten, presumably being more discreet thereafter.

  It all kept Septimus busy, much to the colonel’s approval.

  It gave him less chance to worry as well, for Marianne was not having an easy time of her last months.

  She could not quite regain her health, was tired by the end of every day, sometimes almost exhausted. Her appetite was erratic and she did not eat enough. She grew pale.

  She knew that Septimus was worried for her, and that increased her own anxiety, which made her more tired and less inclined to eat.

  Polly and the maids cosseted her and the cooks did all they could to tempt her appetite, for she was liked below stairs for being well-mannered to her people. She never shouted or sneered or referred to them as mere blacks, but commonly treated them as human beings – unlike so many of her contemporaries in the cantonment and the big houses of the merchants. The whip was never seen in her household, and that was unique in the experience of the servants, whether they had come from Indian or white employers.

  The doctors shook their heads – if only she had consented to being bled in an earlier stage of her pregnancy than she would have been far better in its last month. It was, sadly, too late to take action now.

  Her time came and the delivery was quicker and easier than her first, as seemed to be the normal nature of things, but she was sadly pulled by the experience, weak and showing small sign of regaining her strength. The Monsoon followed with its heat and humidity and further slowed her recovery. Her little girl showed far better than her, putting on weight and growing properly, a source of relief to her as she had feared she might have made her baby weak.

  It was a month before she could leave her bed and three before she was able to stand from her chair for more than a very few minutes at a time.

  Septimus worried and took advice from all of the families he knew. A few offered tonics and some recommended prayer, but most thought the best for her would be to return to a more favourable clime, to go back to England.

  Mrs Colonel Vaughan made the case most strongly, it being her duty to do so – the colonel’s wife led the community of regimental families and had a responsibility for their well-being.

  “It would be better, Major Pearce, were your lady to return to England in the early future. This will mean separation for no more than three years, when one considers the matter, sir, and possibly less. Six months at sea might well set her up – nothing more healthy than a voyage on a well-found ship! Also, sir, one must consider that the battalion will go to campaign two months from now, and she would be left on her own with fewer to care for her. It will be painful to send her away, and not to see your children in their infant years, but I suspect it will be kinder by far; India is hard on womenfolk, sir.”

  Septimus was inclined at first to reject her advice; he did not wish to be separated from the family whose company he increasingly enjoyed. A little thought led him to the conclusion that he was addressing his own pleasure, rather than his duty. He would not see his son for far too long, but the boy would live in his own home and would meet his grandparents two and three times a week no doubt; his uncle would be close to hand, with his own children as playmates. Most importantly, he would live in the English climate with access to fresh foods and cow’s milk and butter and healthy meats; he would play on green grass and have no fear of snakes; fever would be an occasional threat rather than a daily companion.

  There was, he feared, no alternative – he could not place his own self-indulgence in front of his duty to his wife and children.

  He sat of an evening after dinner, having watched Marianne do her best to swallow more than a few mouthfuls and explained his conclusions to her.

  To his amaze she hardly protested; she as well had talked with Mrs Colonel and had accepted her wisdom.

  “I suspect that I might not survive another year here, husband – and the children need a mother, and you have a right to a wife, sir! Better that I go back to England and become healthy and strong again so that I may live many more years at your side, and bring the children up as I should. Three years is not quite an eternity, sir – though I suspect it may feel so… I may be useful to the regiment as well, I believe, because Mrs Colonel wishes to send her two boys to England, to live with her parents for a year or so and be tutored properly before going away to school. She will be far happier if they are to be protected aboard ship – two little boys in the company of sailors, after a
ll!”

  They talked longer and agreed that it must be so; she must go.

  “Mrs Colonel says that an Indiaman sails every month, that I need not wait for the convoy. The demand for gunpowder is such that a ship-load of saltpetre is despatched every four or five weeks, as the quantity becomes available. They sail direct to Madeira, not calling at the Cape for some reason, and will commonly pick up a naval escort there, so it is safe enough.”

  The saltpetre carriers were of the largest, and best-armed, class of Indiamen, their cargo vital to England, and had ample passenger accommodation. Not being confined to the pace of a convoy they were faster as well, sometimes taking less than five months on the voyage. There was a certain odour associated with the cargo which often deterred possible passengers, but a half-full Great Cabin had advantages as well, and the nose rapidly grew accustomed to far worse smells in India.

  Three weeks and Septimus stood on the deck, making his farewells and promising his son that he would be as quick as he could be, but he must be a good boy and look after his mama. He climbed down to the surf boat, stood to wave his goodbyes and then resolutely turned away to his seat, the spray on his face excuse of any apparent excess of emotion.

  They had not been able to send any warning home to England and Marianne would arrive unannounced in London and forced to make her own way to Winchester. The supercargo had promised that he personally would organise a post chaise and see them away in safety, but it was another worry.

  Being effectively a single man he was now obliged to make more use of the Mess. He must be sure not to take to drink; it would be very easy to punish the bottle during evenings at the cards or billiards table.

  There was no existing regular whist table in the Mess, but Reynolds enjoyed his game and two of the older captains were happy to make a four, glad in fact of the excuse to eschew the gambling games that occasionally became expensive. Septimus played most evenings, happy to rebuild his skills, happier not to sit brooding over a glass. When not playing he tended to sit with a group of the more senior men, inevitably talking shop.

  Conversation tended to revolve about the coming campaign, to be led, unsurprisingly, by the Governor-General’s young brother Wellesley to the south and long-experienced General Lake in the north. There was an opinion that Wellesley was in fact a competent soldier but there was no certainty that an able battalion commander would become a good general. There was also the worry that the young man would be in a hurry to make himself a name, and he was reputed to have debt problems that would encourage him to push for victories and prize money.

  Septimus took no part in the gossip, merely saying that he had every confidence in the gentleman and that he had no doubt he would lead them to a successful outcome. Their concern, Septimus said, was to ensure that the battalion would carry out every task allotted to it. They must drill the men and practice all of their skills until they became the best infantry in the whole army.

  Septimus took the outstanding matter to the colonel, unburdening himself of his worries; he had found that if he told the colonel he was afraid that the battalion might not be quite up to standard then the colonel would give him his advice and listen as well and would commonly end up believing that he had solved the problem himself. The colonel was in fact coming to have a respect for his own military genius and was pleased to try his ideas out on Major Pearce, such an efficient and selfless second in command!

  “Walls, colonel, I do not believe that I have ever exercised the battalion in siege craft, and I am not at all sure that there is a set of instructions to be found for the skills needed.”

  “A point indeed, Major Pearce, for there are many cities in India with strong walls, and an increasing number of modern fortresses constructed to French design. The infantry are always called upon when there is a siege, and the skills must differ from those of the battle in the field. In a regular siege, of course, there must be artillery officers and engineers to give orders, but the taking of a walled town might be a very different matter. What might we consider?”

  Between them they came up with ladders to be carried in their baggage train and the Grenadier Company to be designated to use them. Where there was a closed city gate then a barrel or two of gunpowder might be ideal and they could all practice in turn how to set and light a fuze and to run and place the charge under cover of a company’s muskets.

  The men quite enjoyed the new exercises; they made a change from the tedium of drill.

  In December the news came through that the Peshwa of the Marathas had fallen out with some of his feudatory states and had begged the aid of the Company to put all right in his world. The British were to march to his support, not as conquerors but in a police action to put down the malefactors and support the lawful overlord in performance of his God-given tasks. There was a split in the ranks of the Marathas and that provided the opportunity that had been hoped for.

  With the Marathas gone then every minor princely state south of the Himalayas would be subject to the Company, unable to stand against its wealth and strength, and the major powers, the Sikhs and Nepal, would eventually come to see sense. In the longer term, it was suggested, the Company would expand its influence overland until it reached China, that corrupt and benighted land that so needed the benefits of Western civilisation…

  The Marathas must go first, however.

  The senior officers and subalterns of the Hampshires were invited to dine in the Devonshire’s Mess at least once a month, reciprocating at the fortnight, the two King’s Regiments taking pains to keep on good terms, to show the Company Army how things were done in the world of real soldiers. There were always guests from the upper ranks of Bombay society, sometimes including Company officers.

  Soon after the news came of the Peshwa requesting aid the gentlemen were sat over their port and brandy at the Devonshire’s table, the conversation naturally revolving around the strategy of the forthcoming war. A Company major of cavalry was loud in proclaiming that the war would be one of long marches and cavalry actions – there would be little place for foot, he said.

  It was not improbable, in fact, the Marathas being strong in horse and using substantial numbers of Pindari auxiliaries.

  Septimus commented that it might well be the case that the infantry would have to be content with employment in sieges. Cavalry would not do so well when it came to taking walls. He offered the comment with a polite smile and a raised glass, was not pleased with the response.

  “Well, I expect you will feel happier sat in trenches with a barricade to your front, sir. It is not the way my people wish to make war, however!”

  “Few soldiers wish to take part in sieges, I believe, sir.”

  Septimus was a guest in another battalion’s mess; he should not be in the way of quarrelling and causing an upset to his hosts and he was deliberately mild.

  The Company major was less inhibited, it seemed, though he had the accent of the aristocracy and should have known his courtesy.

  “Yes, well, we have all met those who are pleased to do so, sir!”

  That smacked of deliberate offence and the colonel of the Devonshires hurried to forestall Septimus’ reply, turning the conversation to the exact numbers of the forces involved. Did they know of just how many the Marathas might field?

  “Too few to frighten us, colonel! And the foot-soldiers may always dig that little bit deeper if they need to hide their heads!”

  The cavalry major smirked in Septimus’ direction, having, it seemed, chosen him as the target for his wit and insults.

  Septimus murmured to the man next to him that he must visit the necessaries and rose from the table, the simplest means of avoiding a quarrel.

  There was an immediate comment that it seemed he was frightened he might piss himself.

  Septimus froze at the direct insult, the imputation that he was running away from trouble, stared the major in the eye and begged him to repeat himself; he feared he might have misunderstood him.

  “I tho
ught I had been plain enough, sir – but it seems you wish not to take my meaning.”

  “As you will, sir. Would you care to name your friends, assuming that an ill-mannered beast such as yourself has any? Mr Carter and Mr Taft, will you speak to them for me?”

  Carter and Taft stood immediately, stern faced, while Septimus walked off to complete his immediate business.

  The colonel of the Devonshires intercepted Septimus a few minutes later and apologised that the insult had been given in his Mess, at his table.

  “Not your fault, colonel. The damned man seemed determined to create a fight. Do you know why?”

  “Edgeworth was a lieutenant in the Lilywhite Sixth, Major Pearce, and was instructed to send in his papers over some matter – exactly what is not known, all kept quiet. His family was not pleased and bundled him off to India, some years since, having arranged a captaincy for him to walk into – influence, of course! Quite an amount of seniority, so that he became a major at a ridiculously early age. He seems to be discontented with his lot, however, and is a quarrelsome, bad-tempered, arrogant sort of fellow – but one cannot avoid his company – impossible not to entertain him on occasion. Thrice this year he has provoked a challenge and has claimed the smallsword, with which he is skilled, and has made a parade of taking first blood and humiliating his man.”

  Duels with the sword normally ended at first blood, rarely resulting in death or even significant injury. They were often little more than an exercise in bullying.

  “Nasty little man, and liable to achieve his ends again, for I have almost no knowledge of the fence, sir.”

  A triumphant Captain Taft, accompanied by a worried Mr Carter, appeared and begged leave to speak.

  “Got him, sir!”

  “I am sorry, Mr Taft?”

  Carter shook his head, disapproving.

  “Major Edgeworth’s friends demanded the sword, as is their habit, all very casual and matter of fact, and Mr Taft commented that he was not surprised, Major Pearce having a name with pistols. No Company Captain Hackum would take the risk of standing in a real duel against a man of Major Pearce’s reputation, so he said.”