The Soldier Brat (Man of Conflict Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  They closed on the little town, holding to cover as much as possible, halted on the hillside a quarter of a mile out, took stock of the situation.

  There were a hundred or so of houses, the bulk of them stone built, mostly of two floors, very few the kennels of the wretchedly poor. There was a market square with a few shops and an inn and a building with a balcony, probably the town hall. The church, once very large for the size of the town, was in ruins, its lead roof gone, all of its windows smashed, the doors down.

  “Any money you like, Septimus, this was all church land – no baron or count to collect his feudal dues here and the people a little more prosperous as a result. But they still rose against their landlords when the chance came.”

  Septimus nodded – he had only the vaguest knowledge of France, had no idea of what conditions might or might not have been like before the revolution, could not quite understand why Howton sometimes seemed almost sympathetic to the French people, much as he had been to the Irish, equally alien and undeserving.

  As they watched a pair of small platoons of militia appeared in the market square, paraded in front of the town hall under a tricolour. A crowd formed, their families perhaps, as they were harangued by an official of some sort.

  “At a guess, Septimus, they have received word of our coming and are showing their loyalty. No support for King Louis here, either the dead one or his son, if he lives.”

  Allington called all officers to him.

  “I suspect, gentlemen, that we are wasting our time here, but we must find out for sure – that means we must take the town.”

  They nodded, there was no alternative, they could not go back and say they had seen three dozens of militia so they had come home again.

  “Captain Taylor, cross the river under cover and come in from the east, blocking the road and holding the edge of the town by the ford. Cross back and hold on this side, I believe.”

  Taylor nodded – there were only three streets, parallel to each other and connected by lanes and alleys. The road through led to the market square and then on to the ford; it would be easy to hold.

  “A Company to the right, C Company to the left, E and B with me down the track, E then to hold this western flank. All clear?”

  There were no questions.

  “Herd the people together, no fuss, no unnecessary shooting. Take the surrender of the militia if at all possible, give them every chance. Captain Taylor, exactly one hour from now show yourself at the ford.”

  They formed their lines and marched to the edge of the village at the appointed time; the inhabitants saw the red coats, screamed and fled, found nowhere to go; the militia, numbering more of old soldiers than enthusiastic boys, assessed the situation and laid down their flintlocks and retired four paces from them, two protesting youths getting their ears very thoroughly clouted.

  A dozen prosperous men were rounded up and taken into the town hall one at a time; four were Royalist sympathisers and talked freely.

  Allington called his officers together again in mid-afternoon.

  “There has been a rising, gentlemen, but at least fifty miles from here, too far for the local militia to be called to march, and over at least a fortnight ago. There will be no friendly cavalry, but there is a large garrison less than fifteen miles away and the word of our landing is out. I do not want to be caught by cavalry in the night so we shall not march this afternoon but will retire at dawn, led by one of the local men who says he has shouted his mouth off too loudly for his own safety and wishes to leave France with us. There is another track, longer than the road, he says, but higher on the ridgeline; he was a soldier, says that cavalry could not prosper in that country. Billet the men as convenient tonight, guard at platoon strength, the men ready to move at a moment’s notice, formed up before dawn in any case, all sober and under discipline.”

  Howton set his company out along a furlong of perimeter, himself closest to the stream, Smith next, Septimus farthest from where an attack might be expected.

  “Don’t let the men misbehave too much, Septimus. No burning, no looting - especially, no drink. They will steal all they conveniently can but don’t let them break into the houses. The colonel will set a patrol on the streets, will hang any man who thinks he can start a sack.”

  Septimus was startled but obedient, called Mockford to him, passed on the message.

  “Yes, sir, all in hand, sir. The men are in the big barn over yonder, sir, won’t stray far from it. They took the hens out of a run, sir, so they’re eating well tonight, they need to after the grub in them bloody ships, sir! Just our platoons, sir, Mr Smith’s men will have to look out for themselves.”

  Cooper led him to a cottage whose occupants had fled; a glance inside suggested they had daughters and, wisely, were removing them from the proximity of the soldiery. He ate a plateful of the chicken provided for him and retired to the most comfortable bed in the house. He heard a faint scream from Smith’s sector, but the noise was not repeated and he ignored it as none of his business – his men were in hand; he did not notice the contemptuous disapproval on Cooper’s face.

  “Wake me for the change of sentries, Cooper.”

  Cooper shook his shoulder at three, a cough having failed to stir him.

  “Mr Howton was ‘ere for first change, sir, said not to disturb you.”

  “I’ll thank him when I see him, Cooper.”

  He pulled his boots on, settled the pistols in his belt, slipped his hanger into its slings.

  “Cup of tea, sir. Fresh made.”

  “Thank you, Cooper.”

  Septimus cradled the heavy mug in his hands, sipped distastefully at the campaign brew – it was hot, at least.

  “Them pistols loaded, sir?”

  “Well…” Septimus did not know – as Cooper had seen, he had neglected to check them.

  “Bloody well ought to be, sir, on service. Give ‘em ‘ere, sir.”

  Cooper tapped the ramrods in the barrels, found them blocked by ball and powder; turning the pistols over he flicked the pans open, discovered them to be nearly empty, the fine priming powder having slowly sifted out in the time since last they were fired.

  “Bloody flash in the pans these would ‘ave been, sir!”

  Cooper tipped in a load from the priming horn and glanced at the flints before he handed them back to a chastened Septimus, accompanied him to check the new sentries.

  All of the men were present, awake, facing in the right direction, fully equipped. Septimus spoke to each, warned him to call the alarm at any suspicion – better the company stood-to for no reason than was taken by surprise.

  With about half an hour before first light there was no point in going back to sleep and Septimus wandered across to Smith’s area for a quiet chat. Cooper appeared at his side.

  “No point disturbing Mr Smith, sir.”

  “Still asleep is he?”

  “Doubt it, sir. Wouldn’t want to waste a night akip, sir, not in a Frog town we’re going to leave in the morning.”

  There was enough in Cooper’s voice for Septimus to stop by the closed shutters to Smith’s room on the ground floor of a cottage and peer through a crack. A pair of candles, well burned down, showed Smith in his shirt tails, bent over a table.

  Sudden anger rose as Septimus picked out the figures in the uncertain light. There was a young girl on the table, no more than a child; she was naked, blood bathed on her legs. Smith was flaccid, more blood covering his groin, evidently only just withdrawn. A flicker of movement on the floor showed another nude figure, a child younger still, spread like a broken doll, legs asprawl, trying to pull herself along with her arms alone.

  “Leave ‘im, sir! It’s too late to do them any good.”

  “I’ll kill that bastard, Cooper!”

  “Not now, sir! They’d call it murder, they’d ‘ang you for ‘im, sir!”

  The words penetrated; they would, too.

  “Come away, sir, leave ‘im,” Cooper repeated.

&nbs
p; “Can’t we at least get someone to help them? Their mother, surely.”

  “She’ll be in the back room, sir. Maybe ‘e belted her on the ‘ead and tied ‘er up. Most likely she’s dead. Come away, sir.”

  Septimus turned away, swearing quietly, walked back to his own men.

  “Walking dead, Cooper. That’s what he is!”

  An hour later and it seemed they might all be. At least two battalions of infantry charged the ford, appearing out of the dawn’s light with barely a furlong’s warning.

  Taylor’s Light Company, already formed up to march out, wheeled from column to line and in seconds had made a triple rank, twenty two men on the front, one kneeling, two standing behind them. They were twenty yards back from the ford and Taylor held them until the first of the French infantry splashed into the water, ignoring their random shots and howls.

  “Poorly trained, by the look of them, Johnny,” Taylor commented to Kincaid at his side. “Very ragged, their line.” He raised his voice.

  “Wait for it, my lads! More enthusiasm than sense, these little Froggy chaps. Let them come… wait, wait my word… Front rank, take aim. Fire!”

  Taylor counted the seconds, “and one, and two…” till six.

  “Second rank! Fire!”

  Taylor counted again.

  “Rear rank! Fire!”

  The French were still coming, their momentum carrying them on to the ford where they checked and bundled together as they saw the blood-stained water and the score or so of unmoving bodies and heard the screams and wails of a dozen more.

  Taylor called the ranks to fire again and again, steady volleys, held together, three a minute from each man, some two hundred musket balls ripping across the ford in each sixty seconds. Four minutes and the charge was over, the French had gone to ground and organised fire was coming back. Time to retreat.

  The rear rank ran back thirty yards to the edge of the market square and formed a line; the second rank leapfrogged them, the front rank fired a volley and ran back behind the others, into the cottages and small shops, reloaded and crouched at the windows.

  Firing arose to right and left as flanking attacks came in and stopped in front of the mincing machine of the rapid fire of the best-trained musketry of the day.

  Howton pulled his company back to the street leading out of the town, closing in on the colonel.

  “Lieutenant Pearce, where’s Mr Smith?”

  “Maybe in his billet still, sir, or rounding up stragglers. I’ll go and look.”

  Cooper at his heels, Septimus ran, crashed into Smith’s chamber, found him achieving a final release in the limp, dead looking, body of the older girl, a child of eight or nine years Septimus saw.

  Smith stood back from the table, glassy-eyed, looked about him in panic. “That’s firing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Septimus, pistol in hand, and shot him in the right knee, smashing the patella, crippling him on the instant.

  Smith screamed as he rolled on the floor next to the smaller of his victims.

  Septimus drew his second pistol, trod on Smith’s left leg to hold him still, destroyed the other knee.

  “That was in case you thought of hopping off, Smith,” he commented. “Reload, please, Cooper. Stray round, I think, nothing we could do for Mr Smith. Such a pity, fine officer that he was, a loss the battalion can ill afford.”

  They ran back, watched from cover as the first French reached the row of cottages.

  “I should imagine they will shoot him out of hand, Cooper,” Septimus observed.

  “Might not, sir – they might want to cut ‘is ‘ead off, proper like. Still, sir, they’ll know, the Frogs, that we found ‘im out and did what was right.”

  Septimus saluted Howton, reported briskly and efficiently. “Sorry to say, sir, that Mr Smith has been shot, sir. Dead, I am sure.”

  Howton stared suspiciously, there was something badly wrong with Septimus’ manner and Cooper’s face was impenetrably blank. No point to asking questions, he would receive no honest answers from either man and it was unkind to put them to the trouble of lying to him. Eventually he would hear the story – Cooper would tell Sergeant Mockford, and Mockford would pass it on to the sergeant major who would, in time, when any fuss had died down, tell him. Stratton would hear the buzz as well, would give him the quiet word, in time, when it was all a matter of ancient history. For the while, all he could do was trust young Pearce’s judgement, and hope that Cooper would not have let him make any great error.

  Allington marched his five companies out of the village while the French were reorganising, bringing up field guns and cavalry, counting their dead and generally taking a less sanguine view of the task in hand. The senior officers of both sides recognised that half-battalions of infantry were not expected to stand against the assaults of a full brigade and a breathing space developed for the convenience of both. Last stands were messy, bloody affairs and in this case would result in the destruction of much of the little town, major civilian casualties and unnecessary losses of valuable troops – much wiser to let the British slip away, defeated and in retreat as they obviously were.

  The New Foresters marched up a steep hillside, a river bluff, following a narrow track, two abreast, the ground on either side rocky and covered in scrub, a tangle of gorse and briars, uncut and wild. Their guide knew exactly where he was going and took them up onto a ridgeline that paralleled the river and led in a twelve mile loop back to their fishing port. The rear company marched with their heads on their shoulders at first, watching for pursuit, but it was soon clear that cavalry could not attack them, not in single file, and infantry could not catch them up. They saw cavalry, at least two regiments of light dragoons in their squadrons down on the bottom land and hoping, no doubt, that impassable cliffs might force them down; the valley was just wet enough that horse artillery had to keep to the single track and could not close into practical range. The two forces watched each other and marched steadily; occasionally men waved, once there was a great roar of laughter as a horse reared and threw his rider sprawling into the dirt, but generally they simply went about their business in a professional manner, the one retreating by the book, the other pursuing correctly.

  By nightfall the battalion was reunited; the frigate had fired a single broadside to announce that the port was to be held and both parties were settling for a siege.

  “Interesting, Septimus, that the French attempted an assault at dawn with no preliminary probing, and that the flank attacks came in after the main frontal charge. Not very professional. Tells us what to expect over the next few days. I must imagine that the bulk of their officers are new to the job, amateurs still. Many Royalists, as we know, have fled to Austrian territory or across the Channel, and I much suspect that the best of those troops remaining will have been sent to the frontier to hold the Austrians. Here, out in the sticks, is not the place to find top quality regiments. These will be newly formed, inexperienced men in training still and battalions regarded as being politically unreliable, and their senior officers will have been selected more for commitment to the Revolution than for military virtue.”

  They were stood on the quayside, relaxing, savouring the cool of the evening, easing their feet, sore from the two days of marching. They had watched a longboat cast off from the frigate and head away under sail down the coast, had surmised that their seniors were reporting to brigade, begging permission to withdraw.

  “We have a week, Septimus, I would estimate. By tomorrow evening they will have decided that they will not be able to take us by storm and will have called for siege artillery. That will take anything from two to four days, say, to get here, depending on what is to hand, where it is located. They would need to emplace two or three batteries on the ridgeline, protected by rough walls, and then they could force the ships out to sea in an hour of firing – eighteen or twenty four pound cannon or smaller howitzers throwing shells would be too much for the ships to stand and would make life impossible for us soo
n thereafter. Then we would take horrible casualties evacuating by small boat under fire. It will take a few days, as I say, but if we are not out of here by the end of a week we will be in trouble.”

  “On the bright side, of course,” Howton grinned, “we have had a very cheap blooding. We have all smelt powder, real battle, not skirmishing with irregular civilians, and the company has lost only three dead and five wounded, four of whom will probably return to duty in a few weeks.”

  “What of the battalion as a whole, sir?”

  “One officer missing, believed dead,” Howton cast a very sharp glance at Septimus, gained no response at all, increasing his suspicions to near certainty. “One sergeant and thirteen men dead, twenty-five wounded. Very light.”

  Septimus was woken before dawn, stood-to with the company in expectation of an assault, listened to the hammering of the big mortars from the ketch.

  “Up on the ridge, sir, look, where it’s ‘igh,” Cooper pointed to the wig-wagging red and white flags of a naval signaller. “You can just see another one with a telescope, sir, one of they midshipmen, telling ‘im what to send.”

  Septimus nodded, saw the dirty-white puffs of exploding shells out of direct sight of the ship, heard the fire quicken as they found the exact range and broke up the force approaching the defence line.

  The bomb vessel ceased fire, no soldier in the port having seen an enemy, no musket having been levelled; explosive shells of about one hundred pounds were too much for any infantry to advance through, however zealous they might be.

  No orders arrived that day.

  The longboat returned the following afternoon, flying down the wind on a scrap of sail, tying up at the frigate and then almost immediately bringing Captain Wendover to shore to confer with Allington.

  “Withdrawal, gentlemen, tomorrow; we are to fall back to Portsmouth, where we will very soon be joined by the rest of the brigade. No warlike stores to be left on shore and any of the population who wish to may come with us; they should be told that the French have been chopping the heads off of all villagers who have not actively fought us – if they did not fight us then they must have been on our side, it would seem.”