06 A Soldier’s Farewell (Man of Conflict #6)
Page 4
The Artillery captain had command of the six-pounder battery and of the howitzer and galloper guns, had been thoroughly enjoying himself, scurrying from one to another.
“Trails down, sir. All in position and ready, sir.”
“Target the village that you can see, Captain Jones. Roundshot or canister over ball?”
“Roundshot, sir. Range is a little longer than I would recommend for double shotting or for canister alone.”
“Load and open fire as soon as you are ready. Six rounds as quickly as you may, then the cannon are to cease fire. The howitzer may continue to lob shells until we are close to the village. Ensign Martinsyde, you will command the howitzer.”
“Lieutenant Curry, Lieutenant Westmacott, we shall advance as soon as the cannon cease. Captain Kidlington, Yeomanry at your discretion, sir.”
His officers all knew what they should be doing, but Septimus could see no harm in reminding them; they were inexperienced in battle, might well become excited.
The guns fired, together, emptied the trees of every roosting bird and presumably sent invisible deer and rabbits scurrying over the next hill. The roundshot landed in the village and battered down half a dozen of tents and shacks. The howitzer shell dropped a couple of seconds later and set one of the smashed huts afire.
The artillerymen ran their guns back to position and reloaded, fired again in a fraction less than two minutes, sending balls skipping among the men who were rapidly surfacing from their blankets. Another howitzer shell added to the first panic, fortuitously landing in the middle of a group that was running towards the horse lines at the rear.
“What’s the weight of those shells, Mr Martinsyde?”
“Eight pounds, sir. Three of powder.”
Five pounds weight of shell casing, broken up into sharp-edged shards of cast iron and flying fast at just above ground level; nasty!
“Useful pieces of equipment!”
Septimus sat his horse in front and visible to his men, showing unconcerned, that being his main function at this stage of the fight. He scanned the village, trying to discover any pattern to the movement there.
“Mr Jones, you see that rocky section of the riverbank, about twenty yards on our side of the village?”
“Got it, sir.”
“I’ve just seen at least four men with rifles go into cover there. Use two of the guns to winkle them out, if you please.”
Two roundshot smashed into the rocks, shattering a pair of boulders and whipping shards of stone through the outcropping. Two men ran, hard. Septimus presumed the other two were down.
The guns ceased and the Fencibles marched. Half a dozen rifles cracked and four men fell. The Fencibles doubled and closed to within fifty yards of the village before the riflemen had reloaded. Two more redcoats fell as they commenced volley fire, making good practice, a steady three rounds a minute from each line, ten seconds apart.
Men began running from the south of the village, out in the open, making speed rather than holding to cover.
Two minutes and the 69th commenced their volleys. Men began running back to the north and were picked off from the treeline to their west.
The Fencibles fixed bayonets and advanced into the village. There were a very few shots.
“Mr Potter! Let us go down and see if there is a prisoner or two to talk to us.”
The onslaught had been overwhelming, as had been the intention, and apart from the wounded there were only five of prisoners.
They refused to answer any questions, saying only that they had surrendered and were entitled to be treated as prisoners of war.
Septimus inspected them, saw one to be slightly better dressed and to be wearing only holsters for pistols, no signs of a long rifle or musket. The other four all carried made cartridges in their pockets and at their belts, but the one did not. Septimus presumed that this made him an officer and separated him from the four, spoke to him privately.
“Your name?”
“Ebenezer Scroggs, lieutenant in the forces of the State of Massachusetts.”
“Have you your commission to hand?”
He had not.
“Are you Militia or Regular? What is your battalion?”
“Name and rank, that’s all I got to tell you.”
“Where are the other bands located?”
“I don’t have to tell you nothing.”
Septimus noticed that he did not say that he did not know, only that he would not tell him.
“Peter!”
His servant came across from where he had been sat at a small fire, starting to brew coffee.
“I want to know where the other gangs are to be found. He will not talk to me. Take him down to the river and ask him again, if you please.”
Peter smiled and called four of the Fencibles to him.
“These wishes to become your personal guard on campaign, sir.”
“Very good, Peter. I need guards and will pay them for taking the work.”
The four tied the unfortunate American’s hands and dragged him off to the riverbank. Septimus heard a splash and a rapidly cut off shout, followed by more splashing after a few seconds, and then another strangled shout, more of a scream on the second and subsequent occasions.
They brought him back after ten minutes, dangling half-conscious between them.
“You wish to give me the information?”
“You bastard! Bloody English! Yes, don’t take me back again!”
He drew a map as well, after they had dried him so that he did not drip on the paper.
A little later Mr Potter reported that he had managed to bribe one of the others to give direction to the nearest camp. His information coincided with that Septimus had obtained.
“Captain Kidlington! We have the location of a camp containing a score or more of these villains, about fifteen miles distant. Take the Yeomanry and kill them, if you please.”
Kidlington looked at the map, copied down the landmarks and then called his people to saddle up.
“Say four hours to walk there, sir, cautiously. An hour to finish them, if they are in camp. Back here for dusk, sir.”
“Very good. Take longer, if you need to, Mr Kidlington. We shall remain here overnight.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, Mr Longhurst?”
“Was it right to torture that American?”
“No. Torture can never be right, but it is sometimes very convenient. These scoundrels have committed rape and murder of women and children, in the process of looting and burning their farms. That does not make it right to torture them, but it would be wrong to allow them to remain free to continue in their evil. Whatever we do with them is wrong, Mr Longhurst. As a soldier, I have the power to do anything I consider necessary – and do not ask me to define that word! The gun gives me the ability to do what I choose – and sometimes I must choose between one evil and another. I learned as a very young ensign that a soldier has power, and that power will inevitably be misused. I decided to torture that prisoner, because I thought not torturing him was a worse alternative. It was not right, but it was convenient. When you reach my rank – which you certainly will, by the way, you will be a very good soldier – you will discover that right and wrong are very important words, and often impossible to define or act upon. But never forget them!”
Ensign Longhurst was not sure that Septimus had solved his dilemma, or that he understood what he meant.
“What about Captain Arrowsmith of the 69th, sir? Are his actions acceptable?”
“I don’t know. What has he done?”
“His Company, sir, was set in one of the ambushes and engaged the sole group of the Americans who fought as a platoon under command.”
“Successfully?”
“From what I hear, yes, sir. He used controlled volley fire, sir, his men in three lines and firing in turn. I am told that he took less than two minutes to kill twenty-three men armed with rifles, and that of the shots fired at his men, only one drew blood, and
that a trivial flesh wound, the soldier still marching.”
“Very good, Mr Longhurst. What else?”
“He then ordered his senior sergeant to cut their ears off, sir, and thread them on a string, like a necklace. They are hung up to dry by their bivouac, sir. He intends they are to be kept as a company trophy, sir, dangling from a sergeant’s spontoon, sir.”
“Go to the 69th, Mr Longhurst, and beg Major Holden to honour me with his company. As soon as is convenient.”
Septimus called Ensign Rowlands to his side.
“Have we a count of bodies and of our losses, a butcher’s bill?”
“Yes, sir. I have listed all of the reports, sir. Our own losses, sir, amount to three men shot dead and another eight wounded, of whom it is thought that seven will die, sir. The Americans were very accurate with their rifles, sir, and hit the abdomen most often. They fired very few shots, sir, but generally did not miss.”
“Perhaps we should equip with rifles instead of muskets, Mr Rowlands. What of the Americans?”
“Killed, sir, forty-three. Wounded and taken, sir, thirty-two. Surrendered unhurt, sir, fourteen. That gives a total of eighty-nine, sir. We have also taken some seventy riding horses, one wagon and its team, and a small herd of beef cattle, eighteen head, sir. Twelve horses were dead or later shot for being injured by the guns, sir. It is thought that three or four horses ran and escaped into the wild, sir.”
They looked at the figures and decided that a few men must have made it away on foot. Not all of the villagers would have kept riding stock and the figures for horses and men did not quite add up. Septimus decided not to send out search parties in pursuit of the few who had got away into the forest. The Americans would have local knowledge, would probably be woodsmen. Some of the Fencibles would probably be equally at home in the woods, but there was little point to sending them in chase, for there would be the chance of ambush, and they had already lost more men than Septimus had wanted.
“Good enough. Write the report as I have shown you, Mr Rowlands. Remain in the tent when Major Holden comes, to act as a witness if need arises, together with Mr Longhurst.”
Major Holden was in self-congratulatory mood when he joined Septimus; within the minute he was outraged and humiliated.
“Unbelievable, sir! Arrowsmith was a damned Militia lieutenant, of course, made up for bringing men to the Colours! I shall require him to sell out of the Regiment, sir.”
Septimus hesitated, he wanted no overt action that might give rise to gossip.
“I am not certain that you can, Major Holden, except at risk of the business becoming public knowledge. I must presume that you will not wish the Battalion to be known as the Ear-Trimmers, or whatever tag the wits may invent. I have no desire to be tarred with the brush of his infamy, either! I much fear that we must suppress all mention of his misconduct, sir, and I am not entirely certain of how to go about it.”
They discussed the possibilities and decided that detached service might be an answer. Captain Arrowsmith might be sent into garrison to hold a town or area of the countryside, possibly with two or three companies and breveted as acting-major.
“So, we reward the bloody man, Sir Septimus! Yet, like you, I have no wish to see my name associated with his vile actions. What do you think best, sir?”
“Far distant, Major Holden! Inland, to the head of the Penobscot River, might be wisest. To pacify and hold the whole of the countryside from the Penobscot to the border with Nova Scotia, a major undertaking, and one to be given only to a man who has shown himself a very capable officer. His family has money, and influence in England, or so I presume, and he must therefore believe himself to be rewarded.”
“I would rather put a bullet through his head! You are right though, sir. I shall call him to me tonight and explain just what is to be done and why he is the man to do it. Then, in the morning, I shall bring him to you to be given his formal orders, and we shall send him on his way. I am humiliated, sir, and must thank you for saving my Regiment’s name. I shall send a letter to my Colonel, sir, outlining the case and your actions; General Sir George Osborne is not entirely unknown in England, Sir Septimus, and will no doubt express his gratitude.”
The Colonel of a Regiment was generally a man of some influence at Horse Guards, and certainly wealthy in his own right because the post commonly cost money – the Colonel would be generous in some way, possibly in terms of the wine cellar of the Officers Mess, sometimes in the way of extras for the men – heavy winter greatcoats not an uncommon gift. Such being the case, when the Colonel was informed that his Regiment was in some way indebted to an outsider, then he would be able to express his gratitude in concrete terms – a good posting for a serving officer, or political favours perhaps, well within his power.
Septimus made the normal demurrals – his actions were for the benefit of all, should not be seen as in any way out of the ordinary – but he could not be otherwise than pleased to have made a useful friend.
“What do we do now, sir?”
“Now, Major Holden? We make our way across to the Penobscot River and follow the valley towards the Atlantic coast, allowing word to run before us that we are marching. Hopefully, any units of the American forces will conclude that we outnumber them and that they must, reluctantly, withdraw, or even come to terms with us. The probability is that the New Englanders do not want to fight – not for cowardice, but because this war is ruining them for no sensible purpose. The Navy is destroying their commerce, and ransoming their vessels and towns, I am told! They mostly want to bring this aberrant conflict to an end.”
Major Holden had heard whispers to such an effect.
“There is reason to suppose that talks are being held about talks – believe it or not! The government is discussing where negotiations can actually take place without creating an embarrassment to either party. The Americans will not talk in London – which is not surprising, it would be to humiliate them – and our masters will not come to America, for the same reason. So agreement must be made to discover a convenient neutral location, preferably close to the sea.”
It was foolish, but in some ways sensible – the talks must be seen to be conducted fairly, or both sides might be calling a grievance within a very few years.
“Once the talks start, Sir Septimus, I must imagine that they will very quickly be successful. Neither party wants this war, do they?”
“We drifted into the war, as far as I can tell. I hope we shall find a way out of it. If Bonaparte is defeated, then the Navy will have no need for seamen and the deserters, so-called and real, may be released from their servitude. This land of Maine may perhaps be useful to the talks. If we have conquered it, then it may be a bargaining card, though we must in all honesty demand that the people shall not be persecuted as traitors thereafter.”
That sounded wise to Major Holden; he was growing tired of war, he discovered, and rather wanted to sell out and retire to a farm in Lincolnshire, and possibly as well enter into a belated domesticity. He was ten years Septimus’ senior and suspected that life had passed him by, that he was on course to a lonely decline as an aging bachelor.
“Who wishes to be an ancient soldier, Sir Septimus? One cannot in all honesty step back from conflict, but when the conflicts cease, then it is time to quietly fade away and become an insignificant country gentleman. Let us hope this war, and that in Europe, may very quickly end. What are your orders for tomorrow, sir?”
“Remain in camp here, Major Holden, waiting on Captain Kidlington and his Yeomanry. On the day following, if all is well, then we march for the Penobscot and south – slowly. I shall speak with the American gentleman, Mr Lyautey, and ask him to be our precursor, to ride through telling every town that the British are coming, but will be very pleased to accept surrenders and offers of neutrality.”
Major Holden hoped that all would go well; he had no wish to bring fire and sword to the townships of New England.
Mr Lyautey was of the same mind.
Septimus was pleased with the young man’s quickness, congratulated him on his perceptiveness.
“Thank you, sir. My mother has often said that I took after my father, that I should in fact become a soldier, which I gather he was. I do not, however, believe that life in the Army would do for me, keeping a garrison in times of peace. I shall simply become a trader, I think. A merchant buying in furs from inland in the first instance, then perhaps expanding into the trade in wheat or leathers for France and perhaps England.”
“A letter to me, or better still, to my brother, Sir George Pearce, in Winchester, will bring you his favourable attention, and he is one of the larger merchants of Southern England. He already trades much with Nova Scotia and Canada and will, I do not doubt, always be happy to expand.”
Making contact with a trading partner was always one of the most difficult tasks for the young merchant. Mr Lyautey was happy indeed to note the name for future use.
“Where does your mother live now, Mr Lyautey?”
“In New York, sir, with her husband, my stepfather, and her other son and two daughters. They are some years younger than me, of course. Her husband is well-off, sir, and may well assist me in starting my own firm. You are based in Halifax, are you not, Sir Septimus? I would like to pass through the town in the next while and shall, with your permission, be very glad to call on you.”
Septimus had a suspicion that Marianne might not be wholly delighted was the young man who resembled him so greatly to come knocking on the door. He could not turn him away, however, and expressed his delight at the prospect of furthering his acquaintance.