06 A Soldier’s Farewell (Man of Conflict #6)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Amazing what boredom can do to a man, Captain Forsythe. I was lucky, I think, in that I spent only one winter in Spain, apart from that damnable affair at Corunna.”

  “I missed that one, my lord. I have long been very thankful for that fact!”

  Lieutenant Hendry said that he had been there, but well towards the front of the long column, had arrived in Corunna three clear days before the rear-guard.

  “Even so, my lord, I was bitter cold and hungry when I came in. I saw your battalion return, my lord, was posted on the walls when you brought them in. I was glad I was not one of yours on that day, my lord!”

  “I was honoured to be with them, Mr Hendry. I was cold and exhausted, like all of them, but so very proud of those men who had fought and never given up. It was a bad business, but many of the men showed outstanding. Others, of course, behaved with vicious criminality – I wish I knew why it was that some excelled while others fell into depravity, but I could never decide what determined which way they fell.”

  “The lash, perhaps, my lord?”

  “Possibly, Hendry – I do not know. I have ordered bad men flogged, and thought it made not the least difference to them. Often, they simply did not care. I have seen careless men beaten, seen some never slack off again, others seemingly fall into despair and become utterly useless. I don’t particularly like the use of the whip, for I fear it may brutalise the officers who resort to it. The great majority of the bad officers I have seen have been very keen floggers, determined to hand out a thousand a week. I really do not know whether the lash is a good thing or a bad, a useful tool of discipline or a vicious weapon of tyranny; I do know that I simply don’t like it – very nasty, watching a man have the skin slowly peeled off his back.”

  They had all seen thousand lash sentences carried out; the Army had been restless after Toulouse and some of the men had been tempted to sack the French in the towns and villages where they had been billeted. A number had hanged, some had been given their thousands, and the indiscipline had rapidly subsided.

  They concluded that the lash had its place, but that it should probably be a very minor place, if at all possible.

  “We shall meet at Dover on the Second of January, gentlemen. Equipped and ready for the march.”

  “What of horses, my lord? Will we be able to ship them?”

  “I much hope so, Mr Tanner. I shall take some pains to ensure that there is transport for them. I understand that Bonaparte’s armies stripped the country bare of riding stock and that it will not be easy to purchase over there.”

  Man of Conflict Series

  Book Six

  Chapter Four

  “Nieuwpoorten, my Lord; or Nieuport if you are to be more modern, or indeed, Nieuwpoort, if you prefer a compromise.”

  “Dutch, French or Flemish, I presume?”

  “Exactly so, my Lord.”

  “What is the language here?”

  “More Flemish than French, sir, and no Dutch at all. Nieuwpoort is probably best, sir.”

  Lieutenant Rowlands was very happy to share his knowledge with his master, and thus be seen to be of use. He was second youngest of the six aides and had no experience of service with a real army – having remained at Septimus’ side with his only partly professional brigade in America; he felt much inferior to the other lieutenants.

  “An ancient town, mediaeval, in fact.”

  Huddled houses, black and white, commonly three-storey, tiny bricks under tile roofs, looming over narrow, crooked, cobbled streets. Clean, not a rookery, but with few signs of wealth. Septimus compared the town with Winchester, decided it was poorer.

  “Far more so than one finds in England, my Lord. We have lost the old towns, sir, yet they remain here. To an extent the small and unthrifty towns are a result of poverty in the countryside, I have been told, and the system of lordships which have prevented the growth of merchant families who would wish to pull down the old, small houses and straighten the narrow, winding streets, sir. It is also the case, sir, that the land has been fought over repeatedly. The Low Countries have been called ‘the Cockpit of Europe’, sir.”

  Septimus felt that made sense. There were still a few old streets in Winchester, but they were disappearing as the city grew richer. If these towns were still poor, then they would be old, modernity would have passed them by. It was a condemnation of Bonaparte’s empire, he suspected, that its population had remained poor.

  “Easier defended than a modern town, perhaps, Mr Rowlands. Each of these streets could be held by a company and invading troops would be much slowed, however many of them there were. To a great extent, I suspect that may be our function, you know, if Bonaparte makes his return.”

  Lieutenant Rowlands had heard that possibility mooted and knew that if Bonaparte came back he was to be outlawed. The question would then be simple – who could get their armies to the frontier first. If Bonaparte could bring two or three hundred thousand men unopposed into the Belgian provinces, then he would conquer them. If he was delayed sufficiently for the Austrian and Russian armies to mobilise a million men between them, then he would lose. The main function of the British and Prussians was expected to be to create that delay, to slow the French invasion.

  “If Bonaparte can take the towns along the coast, then he will have to be evicted, one by one – a slow process, and one that would not be completed before the inevitable peace negotiations, Mr Rowlands. If he still possesses those towns, then he has a bargaining card. It becomes wise to keep him out in the first instance. If we hold the coast, then he will push inland, directly towards Brussels, which is where the Prussians and the Duke will be. So we have an important part to play, if he leaves Elba. Unfortunately, Mr Rowlands, we must play our part in the game with some probably rather inferior pieces.”

  Septimus had taken rooms in the largest, effectively the only, hotel in Nieuwpoort; the other hostelries were no more than inns. He was now inspecting the town before meeting his command on the following day. The other staff officers were endeavouring to locate his battalions and regiment of cavalry in order to arrange that meeting. The artillery, luckily, had based itself in the town and he had already discovered its batteries.

  They had old Gribeauval guns, taken from the French, two batteries of five eight-pounders and a howitzer, each gun drawn by six horses, and with their caissons as well, three to each battery with a pair of horses apiece. A captain, two lieutenants, a sergeant-major, two sergeants and four corporal-bombardiers, and six men to each piece; drivers to the caissons; a farrier and spare body or two – the artillery amounted to one hundred and twenty men and eighty-four draught-horses, together with the officer’s and senior NCOs’ mounts, all of which had to be housed and fed, somehow. They would need practice powder and ball as well as food and fodder, all to be organised by the brigadier and his staff.

  The land was still recovering from the years of war, and the deaths of many of the agricultural workers needed to pull in a harvest. Bonaparte’s conscriptions had almost depopulated the land, every strong young man having been taken away and too many never returning. It would not be easy to purchase the provender needed.

  “A nuisance, Mr Rowlands – we are shopkeepers as much as we are soldiers. So be it; we must do the job. What do you know of the artillery officers?”

  “Both captains are older men, sir. Artillerists by training, rather than gentlemen who have recently taken commissions. The lieutenants the same, sir. One might describe them as professionals.”

  “Professionals in the French army, I doubt not. Probably joined the Dutch-Belgic forces for the need to eat rather than from any consideration of patriotism. If they decide that Bonaparte is winning then they may well return to their old allegiances. I must imagine that the sergeant-major and sergeants are in the same boat.”

  “What are we to do, sir?”

  “Offer them discipline and loyalty, Mr Rowlands, and hope that will suffice. Make it very clear to them that we shall be supported by the navy, bein
g in a port, and will hold against Bonaparte. Let them be made aware of the vast Russian army billeted in the old Poland, waiting for the excuse to march, seeking revenge on France for 1812. Persuade them in fact that they would be well advised to adhere to the winning side, which will be us.”

  “Will it be, sir?”

  “Eventually, yes, Mr Rowlands. The Duke is not in the habit of losing, I believe.”

  The staff officers returned in late afternoon, none of them having had to ride far.

  “The troops are billeted in barns, sir, none more than four miles distant from the town. Their officers are living more comfortably, naturally enough.”

  “In the town, Captain Forsythe?”

  “No, sir. The Fourth Battalion of Foot, which I located, has taken over a chateau as its mess, with the consent of its master, who has left for Brussels, they claimed. Not a huge place, but more than adequate for the officers of a battalion, and for their many servants and grooms and retainers.”

  Lieutenant Hendry had found the Seventh Battalion, in similar circumstances.

  “A larger estate, sir, the men put up in the outhouses of the Home Farm – or so we would call it – which has very large barns and a run of stabling.”

  Mr Worthington had discovered the Ninth Battalion actually on the edge of the town, using a pair of warehouses on the docks for the men, the officers having appropriated a merchant’s house for their own.

  “They said he had been a Bonapartist, so they had taken his all from him, sir. He has a pair of ships tied up at the wharf as well, lying derelict now.”

  “What of the Dragoons, Mr Tanner? They must in the nature of things be in the farming lands.”

  “On the edge of them, sir, south of the town, down coast towards the French border. There are sand dunes and thin turf, which are excellent gallops, they told me, and a farming village which they had taken over – a few barns, a large farmhouse and two smaller which serve as mess and sleeping accommodation. Not more than three hundred of them, sir, in eight troops. Carbines and straight swords and a pair of pistols apiece, sir. Four captains and eight lieutenants and two or three cornets, sir, under a major; there was a lieutenant-colonel, but he has gone on furlough to recover from wounds taken in the final campaign of the war, sir. I believe that it is their habit to form into four squadrons, sir.”

  “Well observed, Mr Tanner. Mr Porteous, what have you discovered today?”

  “There is a mayor, sir, and burgesses, much as in England. The mayor will wait upon you in the morning, sir. There is some sort of question about language, sir. Some of the townspeople speak French, most are Flemish, but a lot, I heard, seem to speak both quite easily. They are not best pleased with the House of Orange, sir, and might well welcome the return of Bonaparte as less of a bullying dictator.”

  “A disaffected population would make our life very difficult, I believe, gentlemen. We must take great pains to purchase from the shops and to employ grooms and servants from the town. They may like Bonaparte, but they could easily come to love our guineas.”

  They laughed and retired to change for their dinner.

  The Mayor of Nieuwpoort was an old man, could remember the days of royalty; he did not regret them and had no love for the king who had been wished upon them.

  Septimus was unable to make the local people’s desires clear in his mind, and was worried that he might exacerbate their apparent hostility by displaying ignorance.

  “Tell me, sir. What do you wish for your people? It is possible that the present arrangement could be altered in the next year or two, when it becomes apparent that there may be revolution hereabouts.”

  The mayor understood English quite well, but chose not to speak it. He waited while Rowlands translated.

  “We were once of Burgundy, milord. Not Dutch. Not French. Ourselves and independent. Our language is not French. Nor is it Dutch. It is ours. We would be no more than a small country, too small to survive - the French would take us if the Dutch did not. I would wish to be partly free. To be ruled by the House of Orange, yes, but as a province with rights. England could offer a guarantee that we would be protected. Wallonia could be the same.”

  These were not thoughts off the top of the man’s head, Septimus realised; he was setting out a political platform, discussed with others over the years.

  “Have you made these proposals to the Dutch and to the English?”

  Rowlands replied that they had not – they had not been consulted – they had not been spoken to at all.

  Septimus needed a willing population; to get it he was ready to make any number of promises, which he would then attempt to convert to a reality. That reality could only come to exist after any threat from Bonaparte was past, by which time, his task would be complete – he would be gone. He proceeded to perjure himself, happily.

  “I shall speak to His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, sir. He will almost certainly wish to visit the Low Countries this summer. I shall tell him of the disquiet caused in Flanders and of the simple solution to it. It will take time, sir – I can say that it is almost impossible that anything can happen in this year of 1815. I cannot promise that anything will ever happen – but I have some slight influence, and I shall use it to assist the people here. It is to my advantage to do so – what will my superiors think of me if there is revolution here?”

  The unashamed self-interest instantly convinced the Mayor of Septimus’ good faith. He was making his pledge for his own benefit, and only incidentally theirs.

  “What do you require of us, milord?”

  “Have you fishing boats? Will there be fish that my quartermasters can buy?”

  “Buy? Purchase, you mean? For money?”

  The Mayor was used to the French Army, which had lived off the land and had paid for nothing in coin, offering only paper promises that were never honoured.

  “We may not pay the highest of prices, sir, but we do not steal. That is not the way of the British, sir.”

  It was an almost true statement – the British did not steal from their allies.

  “We could catch more, perhaps. I will talk to the fishermen, the owners of the boats. There are older men who have left the trade; many of them could go back to sea for a few hours with the inshore boats.”

  It was a start; the British were to be seen as a source of gold and silver.

  Septimus suggested that they should meet every week, to discuss the condition of the town and of what they could do to aid each other. He appointed Mr Rowlands as liaison officer, the man who would always be available to the Mayor.

  Later he explained to Rowlands that he was giving him the opportunity to shine, to be known as an important figure in the town.

  “Go into town every day, Mr Rowlands. Talk to the merchants and shopkeepers, get to know them and their needs. What do they do over winter, for example? It must be cold here next to the sea – how do they get on? It might be the case that we could arrange for winter fuel, somehow.”

  Rowlands was not sure that he understood entirely, but he would do his best, he said.

  The afternoon saw four of the commanding officers in conclave with Septimus, their first meeting, the opportunity to get to know each other.

  “I am Brigadier Lord Pearce, sent here to ensure that the frontier and the coast is held safe. The British King is anxious that the Low Countries, and particularly Flanders and Wallonia, are kept safe from Russian or Prussian invasion in case of war. Inside these four walls, gentlemen, and not to be repeated, if once either power sat down here, it is not certain they would ever leave!”

  They were sat around a table in the hotel’s smaller dining room, glasses in front of each man. They had expected introductions, a set of orders perhaps, an explanation for milord’s presence. It had seemed probable that they would be ordered to fight the Emperor, which might not be to their fancy; they had not anticipated a threat of invasion by the two most brutal military powers of Europe. The level in the glasses fell as they thought.

&nb
sp; “The war is over, milord. We lost.”

  Septimus noted the ‘we’; the colonel regarded himself as part of Bonaparte’s forces.

  “The word in London is that Bonaparte is dissatisfied with his existence on Elba. The spring may well see him back in Paris. If he returns, there will be war again. He will be defeated – he cannot win for lack of men. You know that Bonaparte fielded armies of Poles and Italians and various sorts of Germans, and almost every other nationality of the Continent in addition to his own French. Only the French will be available to him this time. There will be half a million of Russians and the same number of Austrians and another quarter of a million of British and Prussians, all on the march by mid-summer. Bonaparte may make some advances, but he must be beaten by such numbers – a year and he will be tasting his own guillotine. Our fear, to be frank, gentlemen, is not of France. Our enemy is less of a worry than our allies!”

  Septimus said no more, having sowed the seeds of fear.

  “Now then, gentlemen, you know my name. I have fought in India, France, Denmark, Spain and Portugal, and in America. Oh, in Ireland as well. You have each met one of my aides, my staff officers. I know, I must confess, nothing of you, gentlemen. Can you tell me who you are?”

  Captain Forsythe was sat back from the table at a little writing-desk, apparently recording the meeting. Septimus had instructed him to watch the Dutch-Belgians and try to decide who was senior of them, who exerted most influence, who they listened to.

  The cavalry major stood, horse being senior to foot, in his opinion.

  “Maartens, milord. Second Dragoon Regiment. Recruited from Flanders, milord, and in effect, of the local people. I too have fought widely, milord, from trooper in ‘94 to major today. I have reason to suppose that I am to be supplanted by a colonel, a lord born, probably from the old nobility who fled; the rumour is that he is a boy of twenty whose sole experience is as a member of the Prince of Orange’s staff. Little more than the Prince’s whoring companion, milord.”