Religion? Apart from the enthusiasts - a vulgar bunch at best - the church was no more than a social charade, to which one paid lip-service and no more. George had made his way up in the world, had had, consequently, to be seen in the pews of the Church of England on a Sunday, and the Established Church, while demanding nothing of its congregation, offered very little other than convenience – one had to be married and buried somewhere, after all.
Other than that, all that could be tendered was a sort of generalised indignation – she had been too young to die, and there was very little comfort to be gained in that.
Three of his surviving sisters were in the house when he arrived; the children were with the fourth, the new-born baby at the breast of a wet-nurse and seeming likely to live. George was at a loss, aimlessly drifting, wandering from room to room, unable to sit, to concentrate, to do anything for more than a minute at a time.
“Has he eaten, Anne?” Septimus demanded of his eldest sister, eighteen years his senior, a year younger than George.
“Almost nothing, Seppy.”
The nickname that had so infuriated his childhood meant nothing to him now, went unnoticed.
“Then he must. I can be useful there, perhaps.”
He bullied his brother into sitting at the dinner table, saw that his plate was reasonably filled and nagged him into emptying it; later, finding him dozing in his wing chair, he took him up to bed, made him lie down and had the satisfaction of seeing him fall into almost immediate sleep.
They buried Jane next morning, the funeral having been delayed by the frozen ground which had defied pick and shovel, made a two-day job of the grave. The men gathered, mourned and fled inside, out of the bitter wind and cold, empty, grey sky. They said little.
George seemed easier with the body gone from the house, the looming physical presence no longer there. His sisters had attacked the bedroom during the funeral and her clothes were gone, her ornaments and personal jewellery boxed and packed away, a space left where she had been.
The children came back three days later, the heir, Jonathan, aged eight, his sister, Amelia, five, and the baby, hurriedly baptised Frederick for fear of his survival in the first few hours after his hard birth, solace for the still-born daughter of his nurse. The older two were aware of their loss; their brother George’s death from the fever was still fresh in their minds and they knew mother was not coming back, however much they were told that ‘she had gone away’. The presence of their soldier uncle helped, a little, Jonathan being able to boast of him to his friends – all merchants’ sons, none claiming an officer relative – and Amelia happy simply to have a lap to climb into, a chest to rest safe against. George, too busy becoming a gentleman to be a good father in the past, found more time now for the children, their loss his first justification, his own need the reality.
A week before Septimus must return he sat with George after dinner, a rare bottle of brandy between them. They drank more than either was used to and they talked, George demanding to know about the West Indies, about soldiering, a world wholly unknown to him. Septimus told him, described the taking of the island of St Jeanne, sparing none of the brutality.
“Those poor women!”
“Stupid bloody men, my brother! War is no place for posturing fools.”
“Nor it is, Septimus – it seems the right place for you, though, you seem to be very good at it. Jonathan tells me he will be a soldier when he grows up.”
“A merchant, surely, George.”
“Not necessarily. Not even desirably, in some ways. Bring in good managers and the family is a step away from Trade. His sons would be two steps away. His grandchildren … who knows?”
It was possible; the nobleman was rare who wished enumerate all of his great-grandparents.
They sat silent for a few minutes, staring at the fire, Septimus cracking walnuts, pushing the meat equally across the table.
“Thank you, brother. Jane was used to do that, she loved the nuts. A good woman and wife – but I never loved her, did you know, Septimus? Twelve years wed. She came with eight thousands – that will go to Amelia, and more. Two hundred and eighty in the three and a half per cents, and she was sufficiently well-looking, and Father approved the match, suggested it, in fact. And I … I had no better in mind. I tried, Septimus, I was kind and I never strayed or brought her shame. I wonder if she knew?”
Septimus said nothing.
“I think she must have,” George answered himself. “Sad, if ‘twere so! I owed her so much, the home, the children, so much of comfort and kindness.”
Finally, quietly, he wept, the tears perhaps as much for his own failures as for her.
Later, more brandy inside him, George asked of Septimus, of what his future had to hold for him, would he stay indefinitely at Christchurch, permanently on the strength of the Second Battalion. He looked grave when told of the impending return to the Sugar Islands, computed though that the battalion would have been out for nearly three years when Septimus returned.
“Probably only one year more in the Islands, Septimus, there is reason to think that the bulk of troops will be returned to England, because of the possibility of invasion and to mount more expeditions on European soil.”
“So I hear, too, George. The rumour we have is that there is some thought of attacking French Channel ports, destroying their facility to mount a sea-borne assault. Having seen one such expedition I hope and pray there will be no such attempt, George!”
George nodded – public opinion had turned against such aggression, ‘breaking French windows by throwing guineas at them’, one of the newspapers had dubbed the policy, and common sense seemed to suggest that if there was a French army of invasion quartered on their coasts then it was not the best time to land a brigade or two in that area.
They fell silent and the bottle lowered itself further.
“Septimus, you said you would not consider marriage in these next few years?”
“Not till I am a major, and after my return to England in any case. Some young lass who will take a soldier on board, who will sail to India or wherever fortune takes her and make do with what she finds there.”
“Nobody in mind, then?”
“No. Some squire’s daughter, somewhere, a schoolgirl who probably hasn’t even put her hair up yet. I’ve not met the girl I wish to marry, not as yet, so waiting is no hardship. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered … I shall probably marry again, myself, I expect. If for no other reason, it is best for the children to have a mother in the house.”
George said no more on the topic and Septimus was not interested to pursue it: his brother’s private life should be just that, he believed – private.
One indulgence that Septimus permitted himself in his month was to ride out to the north of Winchester to look at the three hundred acres of enclosed land at the lower end of Spring Vale which was his since four months before. There was no farmhouse on these fields, but they were rented out at twenty three shillings the acre, being best wheat land. George had his eye on as much again only a couple of miles further onto the downs, intending to take the land by private treaty, its yeoman owner old and childless, all of his offspring gone young in the big fever, and willing to retire to the comfort of a small town cottage, convenient to store and public house. The land looked much as frozen, winter acres always would – barren and bleak – but it was dear to Septimus, it was his. Forced by wound or ill-health to go into retirement, the income of his acres would provide a comfortable, secure, if not luxurious, existence, independent of the firm and the vagaries of Trade, which, because he did not understand it, Septimus distrusted.
“Jamaica again in a couple of months, Cooper. Do you like the idea?”
“Very good, sir! I bought twelve labourers’ ‘ouses whiles we was in Winchester, sir, in a terrace, down in Middle Brook Street. Put them gold pieces to work for me. Got an agent, an attorney-at-law, ‘e’ll pick up the rents for me, three and a tanner for me f
rom each, every week, and ‘e gets a tanner a time for ‘is fee, like. The money goes into my bank, each week, two guineas a week, regular as clockwork, more money in a month than I gets in a year of soldiering! Another stroke of luck an’ I’ll die a rich man, sir! Mockford was goin’ to do the same, sir, it was ‘im what tipped me the wink, down in Poole, closer to ‘ome for ‘im.”
“Good! It makes it more worthwhile, something sat at home, waiting.”
Early in May they marched to Portsmouth, Septimus on horseback, Cooper leading a pony and trap in the baggage train, and in between them two hundred and twenty fit soldiers and a group of moderately competent officers. Lieutenants Brookes, Duvivier and Howard had put their names forward to serve overseas; Ensigns Brough, Micklewhite and Alderman had also volunteered. Sergeant Mockford was there with his men, he had added a dozen to his ranks, now had a very full platoon; it was natural for him to be going, he had said. Four others of the sergeants had been willing to go to the West Indies, when asked; obviously, no sergeant ever volunteered, not after their length of service.
“Volunteers, sir?” Mockford had said. “Them’s blokes what didn’t understand the question, sir!”
There were no stragglers for they took four days on the march, an easy stroll through the late spring countryside – they had orders to be seen, to encourage young men to flock to the Colours; it was hinted that it would be better if the life did not seem too harsh. They marched at full pace through the empty miles of the New Forest and then paraded slowly and gravely through Southampton – a tiny, decayed port huddled inside its old walls – and up to Botley for their second night and then to Fareham through the rich countryside, full of small farms and market gardens and with a high population of under-employed young men, bored and attracted by the bright scarlet. The boys looked at the fit, meat-fed soldiers, carrying an exciting musket, smoking their short clay pipes, ambling along, their packs in the wagons of the baggage train, looking healthy and swaggering just a little for the benefit of the girls. Most of them hearkened to their mothers’ calls to get back to work, but a few of the more impressionable decided to have a talk – just a chat and maybe take one of those free pints he offered - with the recruiting sergeant at the market next week.
Once in Portsmouth they were loaded immediately onto the transport waiting for them – to Septimus’ surprise – and joined the West Indies convoy as it sailed past two days later. There were already three hundreds of merchantmen in the convoy, those which had come from the Pool of London or joined in the Downs, and they were reinforced by extra merchantmen from every port they passed, the Bristolmen last of all and joining company south of Cork. Escorted by four frigates and a couple of sloops and a tiny brig, commanded on this occasion by a third rate seventy four en route to the West Indies Squadron, they expected to cross the Atlantic safely despite all the French navy, various privateers and assorted minor pirates might attempt.
The convoys, sprawling across thirty or more square miles, were, in theory, indefensible. A group of privateers should always, the pundits argued, be able to split the defenders apart and snap up the merchantmen at leisure, thankful that all of their prey were conveniently together. This was true enough, as far as it went, but ignored the fact that the corsairs who chose to act as decoys for the naval escorts would almost certainly be sunk – with all hands, the Navy being notoriously remiss in rescuing drowning privateersmen. Few self-abnegatory souls could be found to die so that their compatriots might wallow in gold; the Atlantic convoys remained almost inviolate for the whole of the war.
Late in June saw the huge draft united with its parent battalion, the New Foresters brought up to six hundred and fifty strong, a third of them still untouched by fevers, as yet.
Man of Conflict Series
BOOK ONE
Chapter Ten
Colonel Allington, perilously lean but still active, welcomed Septimus back, gave him B Company, previously commanded by a lone and very green lieutenant.
“You are just in time, Mr Pearce – we are off to the Antilles again next month. We are to land before the hurricane season, rather than after, as has ever been the habit – to take the Frogs by surprise, I understand – a very crafty move, the general informs me.”
Loyalty forbade them to comment on the intellectual powers of the lieutenant-general who commanded them; both, however, firmly believed that the tiny amount of brain he had been born with had since been thoroughly pickled in brandy and probably salted with the pox – he was, in addition, a younger son of the aristocracy and honourably descended from one of Charles II’s whores, so the chance of hereditary syphilis could not be ignored, bearing in mind the symptoms of the Merry Monarch’s death.
“So, sir, we descend on an island, and hopefully take it, and then suffer the wet season, cut off by sea for much of it, isolated on land with a hostile population. And that is the best that can happen – a drawn out, protracted campaign could be a disaster!”
“Best we should be efficient then, Captain Pearce.”
They boarded another motley collection of small craft, took their naval escort and sailed from Jamaica early in July, a month before the earliest of hurricanes might appear, according to local wisdom. The New Foresters were accompanied by a battalion of Wiltshires and a battery of field artillery, five six pound guns and a twelve pound howitzer, with mules to pull them, draught horses not thriving in the islands. Two seventy fours acted as escorts and were to overawe the harbour defences and threaten to bombard the port, the decision having been taken not to land on a beach and the charts not showing fishing villages with certain stone quays.
The expedition closed St Christophe in the dawn, intending to take them by surprise and make a lightning onset; a mile offshore and there was a ringing boom and a thirty six pound iron ball splashed into the sea a cable off Theseus’ bows, leading under the Commodore’s pendant. The gun was cold and its second round would certainly have the range. Another piece fired and telescopes aboard the ships spotted a battery high on the cliff tops above the harbour, at least two hundred feet above sea level and unassailable by the guns of the line of battle ships. Four twenty four pound cannon fired from a fort at the end of the quay, Theseus shuddering to the hits as they made good practice. The early morning mist over the cliffs seemed to thicken, as if a furnace had been lit, possibly to heat shot, though it might just as likely be breakfast time.
A hoist of flags appeared in Theseus’ rigging and she tacked, bringing herself slowly across the wind and opening her hull as a target to both batteries. Jets of white appeared as she started to pump; extra sails bloomed hurriedly as she made haste to get out of the way of fire she could not meaningfully answer and might not long survive.
The flotilla huddled together well offshore just before noon, the expedition’s commanders in conference.
The Commodore was blunt, and gloomy – he had a very respectable record in his service, was not used to defeat or retreat.
“Two line of battle ships, one frigate, two brigs and a cutter escorting fourteen transports and I doubt that four vessels all told would win through to the quay. I will not lead a frontal assault, gentlemen – suicide is a sin!”
There were no objections from the army, who regarded drowning as inappropriate for soldiers, a habit much better left to seamen.
“We must land elsewhere, sir, and march overland,” Allington responded. “Our orders give us no leeway in this matter. We must make our assault.”
“So be it, sir. Wasp cutter is evaluating the prospects now. It would, I suspect, be wiser to return to Jamaica, Colonel.”
“Was I a wise man, I should not be a soldier, Commodore,” Allington laughed. “I should be a politician instead, and order attacks on French islands, no doubt!”
Wasp found a fishing village with a stone quay and deep water some forty miles round the coast. The French army could not get there faster than the ships, so a landing was possible.
The village had deep water because it was set in
a cleft in the high eastern cliffs where a small stream came to the sea, a narrow track visible behind it, winding some two miles and nearly a thousand feet up to an apparent plateau. Rather embarrassed, the navy offered the services of a landing party to assist in shifting the artillery to the top of the track, volunteered a few carronades as well, to hold the beachhead.
It was too late in the day to land both battalions but two companies of the New Foresters were put ashore, one to hold the village, the other to follow the track to the upland area, make a first reconnaissance and confirm that there was a road leading inland to the capital, if such it could be called.
At dawn they crowded in, two abreast against the stone quay, landed the remaining soldiers and swung the field artillery and mules onto dry land then frantically offloaded reserves of ammunition and basic stores, all going into the cover of the stone houses abandoned by a fast-moving population on the previous afternoon.
A brig bellied up to the quay later in the day and landed her broadside of twelve pound carronades and parties of sailors who would manhandle them uphill, build drystone walls and then man their makeshift batteries. They seemed quite content in their ability to perform the task and to hold the village as a supply station and a safe place for re-embarkation in case of retreat. Septimus had not seen carronades at close range before – he knew that he had sailed in ships possessing them, but he had never examined them in a practical fashion. They were mounted on slides rather than the conventional carriage, which made them awkward to shift on land, but they were far lighter than long guns, shorter in the barrel and thin walled, compact pieces, much easier to carry up a mountainside. The lieutenant in command explained that they were short range weapons, their ideal use being at barely a furlong, but they were quick to reload and could lay down a barrage of grape that very few infantrymen would charge through.
There was no response from the French – they had hardly had time to react, in any case - and the battalions camped overnight on the clifftops, moved out in the dawn, a column of a smidgen more than a thousand muskets setting off on a march of thirty or so miles – without maps they could not be more exact. Septimus noted the lie of the land, rising to his right, the north, to rugged hills, almost mountains, falling away to the south and west, forest covered in the distance; if he had to bring his people back in a hurry he would be able to take a rough direction from the slope, if say they were forced into a night retreat. He did not like their present position, exposed to an unknown enemy who should know the country and who consisted of unknown numbers of foot or horse but certainly possessed heavy coastal guns that could possibly be traversed to cover the land approaches to the town. It was not an encouraging prospect.
The Soldier Brat (Man of Conflict Series, Book 1) Page 18