Born To Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  He decided not to write; if they did not want him, so be it! It did not occur to him that they might have thought it the only way of making him grow up, throwing him into the deep end, as it were.

  Life in camp was, again, not unpleasant, especially as a sergeant, able to avoid unpleasant duties and pick up a few extras in the way of comforts. There were no women in camp, which was a nuisance; he would have quite liked a warm body in his bed at night.

  They marched after a fortnight of dithering – it seemed to Henry, observing intelligently, that the brigadier in command had not really fancied making contact with the Americans with the motley crew he had under his orders, and by giving them a couple of weeks without close pursuit he had made fairly sure that they would not come nearer than fifty miles to them. Whatever the reasons, they saw no sign of the enemy in their month on their trail. They found evidence that they had passed through in two small hamlets of settlers, neither of more than a dozen cabins, both empty of life – men, women and children alike lying dead, women and girls, and some of the little boys, naked and often mutilated as well. The men of the Independent Company nodded wisely – that was how the war in Spain had been fought, that was what happened if you did not run fast enough when the soldiers came…

  They returned to Halifax and settled down to garrison routine, quiet, peaceful, and very soon, profitable. Neither Hayes nor Wiggins showed any interest in the day-to-day life of the Independent Companies; both appeared in their office for no more than half an hour a day, and not every day at that, signing the requisitions and chits and ledgers placed in front of them, thankful to Henry for saving them any effort.

  Quiet enquiry in town disclosed that it was very difficult for civilians to get hold of powder and ball in any quantity. In a frontier colony there was always a demand from hunters and trappers and farmers who were, rightly or wrongly, fearful of Indian attack. The Companies developed a habit of firing live at least twice a week – on paper – their zeal much commended. Two thousand rounds, at a penny apiece, put a steady eight pounds a week in Henry’s pocket, less a guinea in odd bribes and hospitality. The fraud was undetectable in practice, a matter of seven rounds a man each week, neither here nor there. A couple of months found merchants who would take casks of salt beef or bags of biscuit – three hundred soldiers became three hundred and twenty for the Quartermaster, the extra recruits attested on paper under the proper signatures, the extra rations going in small part to the men – their biscuit sold, fresh bread bought in exchange, and a pound or two a week into Henry’s pocket. Small frauds, all of them, but they mounted up – four or five hundred pounds a year was not to be sneezed at, and it was safe except for the most extreme bad luck, as long as he did not get greedy.

  The comfortable routine was interrupted later in 1813 when the Companies were ordered south to join the forces in the Chesapeake Bay area where a desultory campaign of raids and minor skirmishes was being fought. The problem was that America was too big – if the whole of the British military had been available, half a million or so of men backed by six hundred warships, then they might have been able to mount a thorough invasion and, over ten or so years, retake the whole of the country – but Napoleon would have had a little to say about that, so it was not possible. Nor was it desirable – the war was an aberration truly desired by neither party. While it existed, the war had to be fought, but the Americans could not take Canada or the Sugar Islands, the British could not take America, so the result was a series of minor tit-for-tat campaigns – the Americans burnt towns in Canada, the British burnt Washington, the soldiers wondered just what was going on and the civilians tried to get out of the way - not always succeeding.

  A new officer arrived in the Independent Companies. Half-Dutch, Captain Vereker had learned his trade in the King’s German Legion and had been transferred to the war in America. The word was that if he made a name for himself then he would be able to shift again into a regular battalion of foot. He replaced Hayes, who was seeing too many ‘pink elephants’ to go on active service, and began by commencing an audit of the Companies’ books.

  Luckily for Henry they were put aboard ship three days after Vereker arrived, before his growing suspicions had had opportunity to be crystallised by hard evidence. Two hundred guineas, gold, made a weight in Henry’s knapsack but it seemed wise to him to leave nothing behind, he really doubted that he would be returning to Halifax. They joined the squadron off Chesapeake Bay, even the rather dubious Foreign Companies welcome, soldiers being in such short supply. The officers were called to immediate conference, returned just before dusk.

  “Muster the men, Sergeant Star, fighting order – muskets, eighty rounds, two days rations in their knapsacks, axes and tomahawks, all that are available – we shall be landing in a forested area. Boats after dark, the navy will give the order to board when they are assembled. We can expect the landing to be opposed, and are going to a beach north of the township of Hampton Roads while the Marines and sailors land south of the town. The orders are to engage the enemy closely – if they are defended more strongly to the north then we must prevent reinforcements going south, and vice versa. One party or the other will then take the town and complete the onslaught by attacking the rear of the stronger defence. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir. I suggest, sir, that I accompany the leading four platoons to make the initial landing. I will hold them together and make a head-on assault on any defences.”

  Vereker was impressed – young Sergeant Star might be a villain, but he was obviously brave enough, and sensible in his appreciation. The more experienced officer would be able to assess the situation as it developed and lead his party to left or right in a flanking attack as seemed best. He agreed immediately.

  Henry saluted and left, quite content – it should be easier to run from the front of a confused night fight.

  In the event, the fight was confused enough but running from it was impossible.

  The navy put Henry’s party down, a hundred strong, on a crescent of white sand backed by woodland, high bluffs less than a furlong off on either side, a stream running down the middle. They ran the twenty or so yards to the treeline, found they were in open hardwoods, formed two lines in loose order and moved out towards the southern hills, not especially steep, by moonlight, and no more than two hundred feet high, they thought. They could see no movement.

  The woods thinned out as the land rose and the sharper-eyed and more experienced of the men decided they could see a fence line, possibly a ditch or trench as well. They sent the word back to Henry, thirty yards behind them in the second line. The French under-officers seemed quite content for him to make the decisions.

  “Down, crouched as low as possible. At thirty paces wait and I will advance a little more until I can see clearly. At my shout, a single volley and then charge with the bayonet. Comprends?”

  At twenty yards Henry saw muskets pointing at him, flung himself flat and yelled. There was a crash of musketry and a first cloud of powder smoke and then the men came charging in very satisfactory fashion. The Americans were obviously amateurs, militia, for they stayed a few seconds to cross swords; professionals never indulged in bayonet fighting – a charge was stopped by musketry or was deemed to be successful, the defenders retiring, more or less rapidly, before it. As always in night fighting, the screams sounded louder, the clash of weapons more frightening. Henry was about to scuttle away but the fight ended when Vereker brought his two hundred in from the right, having circled a little inland. The Americans ran instead and the Companies gave chase. A small platoon, a dozen or so of Americans, probably a commanding officer’s guard party, stood for two volleys, were cut down to a man reloading for a third. Three men died under the American musketry, one of them Vereker, well in the lead, shouting commands and trying to bring the Companies into order.

  Blood raised, winning, officer-less, they were completely out of control, burst into the little town in a howling mob, breaking doors down and killing every man they cou
ld find. The first women began to scream and the last vestige of humanity disappeared as groups of men ransacked every house.

  Henry found himself outside the biggest place in town – two storeys and at least a dozen rooms. He stepped to one side as three men ran at the front door, kicking it down, two falling as a pair of pistols cracked. He raised his musket, unfired as yet, shot one man and stabbed at a second, the unwounded soldier smashing his head with the butt as he fell. More men arrived, burst in the front, Henry thoughtfully trotted round to the back, grabbed a young girl as she ran away from the screaming. Anything was allowed in a sack, that was in the Laws of War, he knew. He punched her in the stomach, pulled her skirts up over her head as she fell, tangling her arms. He raped her, dry and virgin, then pulled her wailing to her feet, stripped her naked and dragged her into the house where five soldiers instantly took hold of her and heaved her up onto the kitchen table, the first of them inside her before Henry was out of the door. Further down the street men were building a fire of furniture and doors – some of them had got hold of bottles and were already drunk and there were queues in front of half a dozen women sprawled in the mud. As he watched a window was broken and an old couple, man and woman both in their sixties or seventies, were thrown through, cut and bleeding; they made the mistake of standing up, trying to totter away, and their attackers came back at them with bayonets and axes, threw their bodies, still moving, into the fire.

  Further down the single street there was a stables, riding horses and tack. Henry quickly saddled one, put a hackamore on a second and rode out, leading his remount and heading back to the north. At dawn he left the track, following the stream that had led to the beach, worked his way a couple of miles into the woodland. He pulled a leather coat and a hat out of his pack, dumped his uniform jacket and waistcoat and fusilier’s cap. Ten minutes and he had cut the brass buttons off of his breeches and had muddied his boots sufficiently to pass as a civilian. Three hours later he was the centre of attention in the next township, announcing that the British were on shore and had sacked Hampton Roads; he had been sent to circle north and then ride to Richmond with the news.

  They had put him on the road south while the men of the town had formed-up their own militia and had started out to join the forces that must, they thought, be hastening to the scene.

  Three months later he had reached New Orleans where he had instantly volunteered for the militia, making no attempt to hide that he had been one of King George’s soldiers until he had managed to escape him two years previously. He held his post on the walls of the makeshift American fort when the British attacked in the last battle of the war, attracted some attention for refusing to fall back, was happy to accept the offer of working as an assistant to Mr Forrest, going out to buy ‘specials’ for him.

  Book Three: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter Six

  Matthew Star brought the frigate Liverpool, 36, into Batavia, saluted the newly restored Dutch flag and came to his mooring. The master, a mere spectator in the process, rather to his annoyance, had his boat launched and rowed round the ship to ensure that the yards were precisely square and that all was as the real navy demanded before the harbourmaster and other foreign visitors should come aboard.

  The master had been ten years on the Liverpool, expected to have the sailing of her at all times, but this young captain, given a powerful, plum, frigate as his first post-ship, a gross example of interest at work although he was admittedly more than competent, insisted that he take charge of the ship only when action was imminent. At all other times he was to set the course, advise and oversee whilst training up the lieutenants and midshipmen. The captain, although he had never said it out loud, regarded him as too old for a frigate and had already recommended him for promotion to a fourth-rate, a sedate cruising ship that would never see action and spent most of its days showing the flag in obscure and distant ports, dying of slow tedium.

  They had sailed from Calcutta in a great rush, orders arriving unexpectedly and being followed by a frantic scurry to water and store and get away at the earliest possible moment. The captain had not seen fit to discuss his orders with any of his officers, though he was reliably reported to have sat up night after night perusing them and staring at the charts of the Spice Islands, and not asking the master’s advice despite navigation being his especial province.

  There was a Dutch seventy-four at anchor with a vice-admiral’s flag, presumably the commander of their East Indies squadron, but there were no smaller warships in the harbour, an indication that there was something going on. The captain sent a boat to the Dutch flagship, conveying his compliments, they assumed. He was invited to come aboard himself barely half an hour later. He returned just before dusk, called the First to him.

  “Mr Arbuthnot, we shall water at dawn, or as soon thereafter as the water-hoy gets to us. Inform the purser that there will be a barge with fresh vegetables and fruit as well. We shall sail as soon as the pair cast off and the Master has stowed his hold. All commission and senior warrant officers to my cabin, Mr Arbuthnot.”

  Three lieutenants, the marine, master, gunner, boatswain and, unusually, the four midshipmen, squeezed into the cabin, standing respectfully before the owner.

  “Sit down, gentlemen. The Dutch have confirmed the details we were given in India and we now have to carry out our orders, kept a secret solely because I was most straitly instructed by the Admiral to divulge our purpose only if it became necessary to meet the Dutch request for assistance. There is a pirate sultanate in the Islands, gentlemen, the ‘Rajah’ apparently an Englishman, very much to the annoyance of the Dutch, and leading a not insignificant squadron. The Dutch have only the one line of battle ship out here and no frigates, just half a dozen or so of sloops and brigs and cutters to work the coastal waters. The theory being that the small, fast vessels can run down the ordinary proas and junks that the pirates generally possess and the seventy-four can tackle any fortified harbour. All well and good, but this pirate has an English ship the size and possibly the power of a small frigate, a heavy sloop more likely – details, obviously are lacking – and with her tail of proas could overwhelm any of the Dutch small craft and run from the large.”

  They nodded in comprehension – the Liverpool’s function was clear, run down and destroy the English ship and its flotilla.

  “The Dutch will attack their base next week – they have two battalions of foot and a field battery already loaded in their transports, were waiting for us. Their small craft are out scouting, hoping to discover the enemy flotilla, but the main work is to be ours. The pirates will almost certainly be located in Dutch waters, so we had, in courtesy, to confirm with the admiral that our presence was necessary and welcome – all somewhat ticklish, the pirate being possibly an Englishman himself, though he might be American, of course. We must, it goes without saying, make it very clear that we do not countenance this gentleman’s activities, he is not an instrument of English policy.”

  They nodded comprehension – they were to do the politicians’ dirty work. Particularly if the pirate was American, one of the many privateers of the last war turned completely unlawful, it would be better to do the job quietly, a single ship not a necessarily public flotilla.

  “There may be as many as twenty proas in the pirate’s train, so each section of guns must be ready to fight independently, prepared to choose and destroy their own targets and then take the next, most pressing need. We must expect to fight both sides, Mr Arbuthnot, and we must have a sensible pair of hands to each swivel in the tops. Marines to be ready to repel boarders, Mr Rogers – their disposition at any given moment to be up to you. Midshipmen! You will be in charge of your guns, of course, but you will also have to decide whether to load ball or grape or even bar-shot; if we are boarded you will release some or all of your gun crews to the fight, but you will make certain that you do not permit other proas to overwhelm us! It is my intention, my hope rather, to attack the English ship
and sink or disable her first – but, her captain will have his own mind made up as well, so be ready for any eventuality. No prizes, gentlemen, except the Englishman if we are certain she has struck. The Malays do not share our honour code, I am told – a white flag means nothing to them and they are to be sunk or burnt and no survivors to be rescued. You understand?”

  They murmured that they did.

  “Very well. Exercise your crews as you can, tell them what we expect. Remember as well, gentlemen, that action will be rare in these days of peace and that promotion will be slow and hard. This will provide you with an opportunity to shine!”