There were sentries out, one at least of them alert; he fired his musket to give the alarm on seeing the flash of scarlet. The order had been to open fire at the first shot, expected to be fired by Septimus, and the trees puffed a cloud of grey smoke in instant response to the sentry. The instruction had been for ten rounds of rapid fire and silence fell in less than three minutes, more than a thousand shots fired.
Many of the rounds had been poorly aimed, too high, too low, erratic, but perhaps a half had ploughed into the longhouse, smashing into beams and pillars, the roof and the floor and often into the men staggering out of sleep. Barnes and Dowdy and a few other good shots had eased their way forward, had picked off the officers, sergeants, men of enterprise, any who had tried to shout orders, to bring organisation to the French. A few of the French grabbed muskets and ran, more fled empty-handed, near naked; many went to ground, behind corpses or huddled into the shelter of the palm logs.
Septimus called the cease-fire, prodded the plantation boy to shout a demand for surrender, a promise of quarter. Men came rushing out, hands high, the wounded crying out for help.
“Excellent! Very well performed, Mockford! You take your platoons north, as planned, and I shall work out somewhat more to the east than we had envisaged; most seem to have run in that direction, a better path, perhaps. Sarn’t Dowdy, your pair of platoons to hold the village, secure prisoners and all arms. Send one of the black men here with the boy back to the plantation to bring a company of Wiltshires to make a garrison. Have we taken any casualties?”
There had been no return fire, the surprise absolute.
Within the hour Mockford was out of sight with forty men and Septimus had as many on the tracks leading to the rain forest on the east. Inside another hour they had sent back two dozens of the wounded and panic-stricken, glad to be captured and sent to safety, and were striding confidently along the track.
The trail they were following was pushing through thick stands of mixed cane, some of it bearing signs of having been recently cut, used for building the barracks, probably; between the cane a thick, plumed grass grew nearly six feet tall, dense and brown at the end of the dry season. They could see only as far as the bend ahead in the track, walked in a tunnel in effect. A squad of nine men held point and then came Septimus and Cooper followed by two more platoons, the remaining men having taken their prisoners in.
The fusillade when it came from both sides of the track was utterly shocking, surprise total; had the French fired in two sequential volleys, the second aimed at survivors, rather than all together, they would have virtually wiped out the party. As it was, the leading group fell to a man, Cooper dropped silently, Septimus staggered and fell, hit across the chest, one rib at least broken, the pain momentarily consuming him.
The French needed nearly half a minute to load, ten seconds too long.
“Alternate numbers, left and right. Fire!” Septimus called, unable to fill his lungs sufficiently to shout.
Powder smoke showed the rough location of the enemy: the twenty musket balls almost certainly hit none, but they kept their heads down for a few more seconds.
“Back! At the double! Five hundred lashes to any man without a musket, powder and ball!”
Septimus heaved at Cooper, just managed to lift him and stagger to the nearest bend in the track, out of sight before the French fired again.
“How’s the wind, Sergeant Martin?” Septimus demanded, clutching his chest and heaving for air.
Martin was one of the older men who had come out with Septimus, slower to react, needing to think his way through any situation.
“Uphill, sir, mostly, like, a bit across but mostly up towards they.” Martin had no idea why Septimus should ask such a silly question, could not see what possible relevance the wind could have.
“Fire the grass.”
“Us can’t do that, there’s wounded men of ours up there, sir!”
“If the French come down, we shall be in the same case as them, Sergeant! Do it!”
Martin, horrified, looked about him for support, saw half a dozen men bundling dry grass and cane together; the rest avoided his eye. Septimus opened his mouth and he knew his stripes were gone if he said another word of protest.
“Empty a cartridge into they piles, Brown. Smith, Merritt, get into that bamboo over there, heave out the dead bits. Get a light into it, fast!”
A few seconds and the scrub was blazing, moving speedily uphill before the wind and much more slowly down.
“Downhill, quickly. Two men to carry Cooper. Is he dead?”
“Copped one across the head, sir. He’s breathing clean, not bubbling. He might be right, sir.”
It was dubious comfort – no head wound was ever good.
Septimus forced himself upright, signalled the men to precede him down into the valley; after a short while they heard faint screams from uphill, then the frenzied popping of musketry, then silence.
“Cartridges in the men’s pouches, sir. Took fire, sir.” Martin’s voice was flat, his face averted; this day’s work had added another to the stories about Septimus and he would make sure it was well spread.
“What’s the count, Martin?”
“Eleven lost, sir, they’ll all be dead by now. Two wounded, and you, sir. Twenty muskets left, sir.”
There was nothing to say to that – they had been thrashed and were running.
“Back to the village.”
Once in Libreville, Septimus sent a squad out to recall Mockford – there was an officer or a good sergeant out with the French, a man capable of mounting a counter-attack if he saw the village to be lightly held.
The following morning two platoons escorted the prisoners back to the plantation, carrying the wounded, Septimus among them, fevered and in pain, on stretchers. Half way down the track they met the Wiltshire’s company coming out; Septimus sent them to hold the village, informed them that Mockford had orders to harry the French, using the base they kept secure.
Once in St Christophe the battalion surgeon inspected the forty hours old wound, tutting dry dissatisfaction.
“Left dirty! Bone splinters and foreign matter, fibres of uniform cloth, festering! Showing signs of infection, of course. I have said time and again that one man in every platoon should be taught the basics of cleansing and dressing a wound, but they will not listen to a mere surgeon!”
He shook his head and signalled to his assistants, watched as they brought leather-wrapped ropes into play to bind Septimus firmly to the table.
The little colour remaining drained from Septimus’ face as he realised the extent of the pain the surgeon expected to inflict on him.
“Brandy, Captain Pearce?”
“A little, Mr Jackson,” Septimus achieved a smile. “Not too much, I have a weak head for ardent spirits, I find.”
Jackson smiled back in acknowledgement, rolled up the sleeves of the blood-stained cotton shirt he wore for operating, dipped a swab of lint into the remains of the brandy and took a pair of heavy tweezers to the wound. For twenty minutes Jackson followed the laceration across the upper right side of the breast, a couple of inches below the armpit, plucking away scab, splinters of bone from the ribs and extraneous matter. It hurt, but not unbearably.
“Some muscle damage, but not severe, and no major blood vessel harmed. Two ribs broken, but no splinters piercing the chest cavity. A lucky wound in many respects, Captain Pearce. However, there is infection present; I can smell just the faintest whiff, so I can take no half measures, sir. Brace yourself.”
Jackson put a hand out behind him, out of Septimus’ range of vision. “Hold him,” he said, conversationally.
Septimus roared in sudden anguish, bellowed again and again as a red hot cauterising iron was applied to the open wound, repeatedly and thoroughly searing the flesh wherever it was broken.
He was too strong for his own good, did not fall into a faint at the excruciating agony. After a while, minutes or hours, he did not know, he became aware that
the pain was less, was now simply the raw burn hurt, no longer the torturing iron; he heard a voice monotonously spewing out a repetitive stream of blasphemy and obscenities, closed his mouth in sudden embarrassment.
Jackson bathed the wound in a cooling liniment, put light bandages on it and dispatched Septimus to his house for nursing, safer, he said, than the second-hand airs of the sickbay, already breathed by other soldiers. He then took a swig of the medicinal brandy and turned to Cooper, awake but concussed, eyes falling out of focus as he tried to concentrate on the surgeon. There was an open wound across the temple and the side of the head, but it was clean and Jackson could smell no corruption – rather than create a massive disfiguration he decided not to cauterise, simply swabbed and covered the wound, hoping there would be no infection because the normal remedy of amputation was impractical in this case.
Septimus’ fever lasted a week, but he was strong and the wound remained clean, began to heal over in a great red furrow. The Rains came with their normal electrical storms, unnoticed by Septimus or by Cooper, gradually regaining his intellects downstairs under the devoted nursing of the maid who had been sharing his bed. Monique cared dutifully for Septimus, feeding and cleaning him, quietly and efficiently, sufficiently tender that he became somewhat guilty about the way he had treated her. By the end of a month he was on his feet, ready to return to duty in the garrison, though not fit for the field by a long way.
Considering his obligations it occurred to Septimus that Monique was a gentleman’s daughter, was eligible to be a wife and could regain her respectability in that fashion – she was attractive enough, and undemanding, could fill the position satisfactorily, he felt. He broached the matter to her, was amazed and offended at her response.
“Would I marry you, Captain?” Her face registered incredulity and then the anger she could hide no more. “A filthy raper as husband? No! I would rather stay a whore for the rest of my life!”
Rape? Septimus felt that to be an unfair accusation which needed a strong response.
“You chose to come to my bed! You did not have to; I never forced you, never tied you or locked you up! You were, always have been, still are, free to walk out of the house at any time you wanted. I will pay you off any time you ask. You chose to play the whore so don’t shout rape now!”
She stared amazed at his injustice – she had had no choice, he knew that; in the back of her mind a little, niggling voice asked what the priest would say when, if, she went to confession – should she have taken the risk of going out into the town during the sack? She might have been able to find safe refuge, could perhaps have escaped to stay with one of the families she knew on a plantation – she did not think she could have remained unmolested, but should she have tried rather than gone unforced physically to the man’s bed? Whatever the reality might be, she wanted no part of him, that was for sure.
She ate in silence, not wishing to sit at his table, unwilling to go hungry. She shared his bed that night, lay unmoving as always, letting him do as he would; in the morning she waited until he had breakfasted before sharing her night’s thoughts.
“I want to leave St Christophe, captain. My father had money in his box, and I have it. May I keep it and use it to go away?”
As she had guessed, Septimus guiltily agreed, wanting to be rid of her before she might voice her accusations in public, false though they might be; gentlemen’s daughters did not generally turn to whoring, or not until after they were wed, at least, and his fellow officers might well be unimpressed by his conduct. He asked whether she wanted the money changed into guineas.
“No. Papa saved gold coins only, louis d’or mostly – they will be usable. You said you would give me money?”
“I have only fifty guineas in coin with me, but all of that is yours.”
It was much more than she had expected and would add to the thousand or so her father had put by, quite how she did not know, though she believed him to have supplied powder from the magazine to at least one privateer sailing from the island.
“Where can I go to, captain? France is not possible, you say.”
“England, if you wished, though that could present difficulties. There are many French settlers in Upper Canada, I understand, around Quebec, and on the mainland, south of the States, it is called Louisiana, I believe – the States themselves contain people from all countries. That would be my advice, New York, then wherever seems most convenient.”
She thought briefly, decided America was the best if she had to make a new start in life.
“New York, if you please, captain. Be so good as to get me a wedding ring and I shall be a widow of the war, seeking refuge in a new land.”
There was no American in the harbour, but passage to Jamaica was easy to organise and there was a regular flow of American ships taking coffee north from that island; a week and she was gone.
Another week and Septimus rode out with Cooper on liberated French horses, to tidy up at Libreville.
The captain of the Wiltshires in their new barracks there greeted Septimus respectfully, treating him much as one might a visiting tiger known to be a man-eater when not on best behaviour. He led Septimus to their armoury, pointed to neat tripods of French muskets.
“Your Sergeant Mockford comes in once or twice a week, sir, with these. As soon as the worst of the rains ended he started to make two and three day patrols, sir, said you had ordered it. He comes back with prisoners almost every time, carrying the muskets and the corpses. We have buried six of yours and more than forty of theirs in the weeks.”
Cooper, listening quietly, grinned and nodded.
“He says, sir, that he thinks there are no more than a dozen left out, hungry and running, including their officer; he wants them all, he says, because no Frenchman is ever going to attack his regiment and live to boast about a victory.”
“He is a good man, captain. Where is he at the moment?”
“Somewhere, sir, out there.” The Wiltshire made a broad, sweeping arc with his arm, pointing to the inland. “He goes out, sir, down one of the tracks, drops off two platoons in ambush and then makes a wide patrol with the rest, round in a circle. They run before him, mostly, until they reach a dead end where they have to stop and either fight or surrender. Most surrender now. A few cut back behind him and try to make a break to the plantations, and they run into the ambush. The French don’t know the inland, sir, they kept to the plantations and the town, they don’t know how to go on in the bush.”
Mockford returned with a pair of muskets next afternoon, three prisoners, half-starved, limping in front of his party burdened with a corpse, others carried by their captors.
“Killed five, sir, only two carrying muskets. Good to see you on your feet, sir. Very good!”
“Thank you, Mockford. How many are there left, do you suppose?”
“Five or six, sir, no more. This lot say that they haven’t seen their officer for a week – they say he was unwell, fevered, when they spoke to him last.”
“Could be dead, then. Leave them, Mockford, let them go. Tell the black men here to pass the word that they can come in, if they see them. You’ve finished the job, I believe, there will be no resistance, no uprisings here. You have done well, and it’s time to get some rest, you and the company as well.”
Sergeants did not argue with captains, not directly; when given a direct order they obeyed, however much it went against the grain. Mockford wanted to be tidy, to finish the job, but he saluted and gave the appropriate orders, led the company back to town and very welcome barracks.
Colonel Chalmers of the Wiltshires was ranking officer, decided that a single battalion sufficed as garrison and returned the New Foresters to Jamaica, their job done. He was rather relieved to have a good excuse to avoid any more campaigning, felt he would much prefer life as garrison commander in a forgotten backwater; he had smelt powder and taken part in a successful campaign and saw slight need to repeat the experience.
The General Officer Comma
nding interviewed Howton at length, fleshing out the reports he had received, before calling Septimus before him and addressing the pair as de facto commanders of the New Foresters.
“Your colonel dead, the captain and both lieutenants from A Company, captain from D and three other lieutenants besides. Bloody, for a little battle!”
“Very, sir, the French governor set up a hammering match and they would not retire when it became obvious that they were losing. From the little we were able to glean from the French afterwards, it seems that they were in some fear of being guillotined as traitors if they refused to fight. Nobody dared to be seen to be first to run. A Company was at the centre of the line, opposite the French regular battalion – good troops, sir, slow with their muskets, fortunately, but well together and not at all shy – and the colonel was at their head, not a man for the rear rank, sir.”
“He never was – I knew him in America, respected what I saw of him there. We talked before he went off on this campaign, of course, decided what the best thing would be if he fell, and the reports I have had from Chalmers tell me nothing but good of the pair of you, so I shall keep to his recommendations. You, Major Howton, have the battalion, and should buy the colonelcy, if you can. You, Captain Pearce, are brevetted major; again, you should purchase, if possible.”
Septimus stood to attention, gave his thanks, said he would put the purchase in hand immediately; he was aware that Howton did not have the money to buy his commission as colonel, that the command was his only temporarily, but was sure that the pair of them, second and third in the battalion, would have little trouble in running things the way they wanted.
“You need two captains, can you name a pair of men or must we wait for them to come from England? I can promote one man, will brevet a second.”
Howton reminded the general that he had named Lieutenant Brookes for bravery, that he had been wounded early in the battle but had stayed in command of his company all day after the captain fell. The most senior of the other lieutenants should be brevetted.
The Soldier Brat (Man of Conflict Series, Book 1) Page 22