Major Maartens begged elucidation – was he to cross the border, or was he not?
“Do not cross for the purpose of making reconnaissance, Major. Do not hesitate to enter France if you see the need to protect civilians attempting to leave France – particularly if they are foreign nationals - of any nationality at all, that is. I am given to understand that a large number of foreigners flocked to Paris after the reestablishment of the monarchy – many of them will have left it to the last minute to escape. I have little doubt that the rich and idle of every country of Europe will be fleeing in panic – and Calais will have been the first place closed, Dunkirk soon after, and there will be any number attempting now to get away overland.”
Major Maartens understood now, could appreciate the wisdom of Septimus’ orders. The officer who rescued foreign aristocrats could find himself in an enviable position after the war was won – their gratitude could take the most tangible form, as well as being a cause of promotion. He gave up the pretence of needing the interpreter, spoke directly to Septimus.
“We shall ride out within the hour, milord.”
“Good. I shall send Lieutenant Tanner with you. There will be English among them, and they will speak no other language, almost of a certainty. There will, no doubt, be some senior officers among them – do not tolerate any attempt to take command from you.”
“Why might they do that, milord?”
Septimus shook his head – he could imagine a dozen reasons, crass stupidity probably top of the list.
“Some of them will know of other refugees behind them on the road and will wish to go to their rescue – possibly with the intention of riding halfway to Paris in process! Others will have no doubt that the people of France all love their king and will follow any leader who rises against the Usurper. Some will simply be of the opinion that they are of higher rank to a mere major and therefore have the right to give orders. A few will have seen a military opportunity – a small garrison that could be destroyed, a Town Hall flying the tricolour, the residence of a Napoleonic general – and will wish to take you into an attack upon them. If, and only if, it makes good sense to you, you will retain the command, but may follow their suggestion. Your written orders come from me, and you may display those orders if need arises – but if there is the chance to take action, and if that action will be useful to us, then you are free to use your own discretion – and your orders will say that, so the responsibility, the blame if it arises, is mine.”
Major Maartens thought that through, remained silent for a minute and more before cautiously clarifying exactly what he had been told.
“The orders are yours, milord. But I am free to apply, shall we say, those orders according to the conditions I discover on the spot?”
Septimus achieved his best smile.
“Exactly, Major Maartens. I am writing your orders here, twenty miles and twenty-four hours, probably, from the scene. You must do what makes sense, what you think I would do. That is my order to you, and so, if anything, or all, goes awry, then the mistake is mine.”
“That is very brave of you, milord – for all you know, I may make the wrong set of decisions. It could be, milord, that my superiors gave me to your command because they did not want me to make my mistakes for them.”
Septimus’ smile became an outright laugh.
“I hope not. I don’t think so. If I am wrong, then we are all in trouble, Major Maartens – but at least, sir, you will be closer to the Emperor’s guillotines!”
Maartens was not entirely certain that he shared that joke.
“The renowned English sense of humour, milord. My thanks for your confidence in me, milord. If I find refugees, milord, where should I send them?”
“Ostend, I believe, will be a port used by the troopships coming in, and should be able to take any number of civilians out of the Lowlands. Better they should go the few miles north than settle in Nieuwpoort to recover from their first panic. Put simply, Major Maartens, I don’t want a group of damn-fool aristocrats hanging around my neck here.”
“But, milord, are not you an aristocrat too?”
“You know damned well what I am, Major Maartens! My children will, I much hope, be such – but I ain’t!”
“Promoted from the lower levels of the Army, like myself, milord?”
“No. You were a ranker, I believe. I joined as an ensign, in a marching regiment. It is possible to rise from the ranks to the highest levels, but very uncommon. To captain? Perhaps one in ten, possibly more, of captains joined as private soldiers. As brigadier? I know of none. It is easier for an officer to rise, even though he is very much a commoner, but I have done uncommonly well, sir. I am a baron in the English peerage, able to sit in the House of Lords. I shall probably be employed after these hostilities end, though not as a soldier. I doubt that one in a hundred of infantry officers will achieve as much. But, what I am not, is an aristocrat. To the day I die, I shall be a parvenu, a newcomer – I have a brother who is a merchant. Mind you, that will come to an end with my children – they will have inherited their rank, done nothing to deserve it, so they will be accepted.”
“Much the same in France, milord. The Emperor made his lords and ladies, but the old aristocracy curled a lip at them – they were never quite the match of those born to the rank.”
“Everything changes, but it is still the same, you know, Major Maartens. Off you go, sir. You can be halfway to the frontier by nightfall.”
“Captain Forsythe, how long have we got, do you think? How soon can the Emperor call his armies together and actually equip them?”
“To organise the volunteers into armies, my lord? Two months at the very least. He cannot march en masse before the beginning of June. There will be discharged veterans and returned prisoners of war in every town in the country, few of them yet back into a job. They will hear of the Emperor’s return and will have to decide what to do – they will wish to take advice, the bulk of them. Some will instantly march to their old barracks and bang on the doors expectantly, but very many will need to make a thought-out decision. Men from the Vendee, as an example, may well decide to rise against the Emperor again – I have been told there is a deal of ill-feeling there. There may be other risings, small or large. All will have to be dealt with before the order to march can be given, my lord.”
“A month at the very least, Captain Forsythe. Then he must put his battalions into brigades, the brigades into divisions and then corps. That means he must appoint his officers and generals, and ensure that they are trustworthy. The King will have disbanded much of the artillery and left the guns to rust, because Bonaparte was a gunner first of all – they will have to be brought back into order. You are right – not before June. There is a shortage of horses as well, so he will have trouble organising his cavalry. That means we must keep our brigade together for two months of rumour and argument. There will be many of our men who will at least think of returning to the Emperor… We must march, Captain Forsythe – there is no other way of keeping the men in hand. We must break the French border and make ourselves unloved across the frontier – there is no alternative. Sit idle and half our men will slip back to the Emperor. Invade, destroy a few Customs Posts, take a small port or two, hopefully find a barracks full of the Emperor’s new soldiers and pound them flat – and the men will not be welcome if they attempt to desert. We must, I suspect, make ourselves into the enemy. Later, we can consider how best to defend the coast, but first, let us create havoc!”
It occurred to Septimus that it might be wise to ensure that any French they attacked actually were enemies. He would not be popular if he was found to have destroyed nests of Royalists, all readying themselves to defy the Emperor. Working the coast, there would be the problem of smugglers as well; he might well come across warehouses of brandy and wine, and it would not be desirable to interfere with their speedy transit to England. Once again, it seemed that he must be well to the forefront of any action, to take the decision of friend or foe
in person.
The infantry battalions were obedient to command, leaving their barracks at dawn. Septimus was at first relieved that was so, then wondered whether they were happy to march towards the border with France, having intended to set off in that direction. The artillery also took to the highway without demur, showing a quick efficiency that drew his respect. He remained in Nieuwpoort for a few minutes in last minute discussion with the mayor.
“I shall leave Mr Rowlands with you, sir, to act as liaison with the Navy, if ships should make harbour. Your militia should, I think, be ready for the call to arms, but there is no need to mobilise the men yet. I shall do my best to give you a day’s warning of any French column moving north.”
“And if it is a French army, milord?”
“I shall send the message to make all haste to Ostend, sir. Once there you will be able to make a choice, either to flee to England or to go further north. I would recommend evacuation of the town, most definitely. There are ships in the harbour, I believe, laid up idle. Could they be brought into repair against the need to cross the German Ocean?”
It was possible – the town council would consider the matter.
Septimus left, needing to reach the head of the marching column and show himself at an early stage.
They made more than the official fifteen miles laid down as a day’s march by Horse Guards, conveniently just short of the frontier.
“We shall be able to break the border less than an hour after dawn, Captain Forsythe, giving us a whole day to make mischief. No word from Major Maartens.”
They camped, the three battalions within a few hundred yards of one another, on the banks of a small river. Septimus gave his normal orders for camp hygiene, not knowing what the French practice might be.
“Protect the water supply. Keep it clean, gentlemen.”
The three colonels showed the same incomprehension that had typified their English counterparts - water was water, what was the fuss about?
Septimus gave up the fight – it had been difficult enough without a language barrier.
“Atkins, boil every drop of water we use.”
Atkins was inured to his master’s foibles – if he wanted clean, sterilised water, then he would get it, however foolish his demand.
“We never get dysentery in the field, Atkins!”
“No, sir. Naturally strong guts, sir, and eating the right sort of food, sir.”
“Even so, Atkins – you will ensure that the water we use is clean.”
“Always do, sir, even if it ain’t necessary, sir. Stands to reason, sir – the odd turd in the water can’t do no harm, sir – if it comes out of a man’s body, how can it do harm going back in again, sir?”
It was a logical argument, Septimus had to admit; even so, he was not to be moved from his stance.
They ate ration beef and fresh bread brought with them from Nieuwpoort.
“Better victuals as soon as we get into the Frogs, sir. Bound to be some beeves or hogs in the farmyards, sir.”
That was a cheerful thought – they were at war with France so it was entirely legitimate to feed themselves from their farms.
“Might be a goose or two, Atkins.”
“I’ll tell the lads to keep an eye out, sir.”
They followed the highway over the frontier, passing a burned-out Customs post.
“Following in Major Maartens’ tracks, it would seem, my lord.”
“It certainly appears so, Captain Forsythe.”
Minutes brought the 4th, leading their little column, to a small and unharmed fishing village. There was a white Bourbon ensign on display on a newly cut flagpole.
“Keep your men in hand, Colonel Jansen. What language do they speak here? Is it French only, or are there Flemings here?”
“French only, milord. The Flemish is forbidden in France, whatever may be the wishes of the inhabitants.”
That seemed entirely reasonable to Septimus – the Irish and Welsh and Scots tongues were forbidden in the Army, for reasons of loyalty to the English-speaking Crown.
“Have they any information?”
A few minutes established that Major Maartens had been there two evenings previously. There had been refugees present, seeking accommodation for the night and being chased away by families frightened of being called traitor by the Emperor’s troops when they finally arrived. Major Maartens had arranged for the fugitives to be put aboard boats – in exchange for gold – and transported up the coast to Ostend. The fishermen had arrived back within the past hour, sailing through the night in their familiar waters.
Questioning confirmed that the refugees had been landed and had found a welcome of sorts in Ostend, where there were hotels and inns catering to the travellers to and from England.
“Take any more who arrive up the coast in the same way. If they have no money on them, then call in at Nieuwpoort and I shall pay you myself.”
Gold was rare in fishing villages; the men were happy to cooperate, volunteered information on the little they had seen in Ostend.
“They did not stay long, my lord, but tell me there were big ships in the harbour,” Captain Forsythe translated. “Red coats and green as well on shore. They say very many soldiers, but have no idea of an accurate count – the numbers greater than their comprehension.”
“Green? Must be Rifles. Some were due to be among the first troops to return from America, though the bulk of them were expected to be among the later convoys. Useful troops to have to hand, Captain Forsythe.”
“The fishermen said that there were eight big ships tied up or at anchor for having unloaded their men.”
“How big is big, I wonder, Captain Forsythe – assuming them to be old East Indiamen, then we should be talking about a full brigade; three or four thousand men.”
“A useful addition to the strength, my lord. And in time to march to Brussels and join the army there and get their strength back.”
It was heartening news, particularly as they must be just one of several convoys crossing the Atlantic and carrying experienced, old-enlisted fighting soldiers. It was known that the bulk of the British troops around Brussels were newly recruited, green young fellows, many of them from the last batches of Quota men, conscripts pulled reluctantly from their villages and sent to the wars willy-nilly.
“What do the fisherfolk say about the feeling in the area generally, Captain Forsythe?”
“Not good, sir. The King has made himself unpopular. Heavy taxes and imposed by old lords who fled more than twenty years ago and have come back to steal their lands from their new owners. The great bulk of the local people are for the Emperor, my lord. I much suspect that these are Royalists because they were quick-thinking when faced with a regiment of dragoons; the offer of gold on top changed their loyalty most effectively. They say that they have already had word that the Dunkirk privateers will be sailing again.”
“Then we must march, Captain Forsythe. Dunkirk will be too great a town for us to attempt, but we can beat up the countryside close to the port and perhaps discourage them from sailing, needing to leave their men ashore to defend themselves.”
They had no maps, a normal state of affairs, but annoying when making plans for an advance. Septimus was forced to ask the fishermen for advice.
There had long been a coastal battery at the point, three miles to the west, the fishermen said, and they believed that it had been reinstated in past days – they had certainly seen activity there. Septimus asked what had become of the guns in the months of peace, was told that they had been left there, kept greased and covered by a few caretakers. The powder had been taken away, they knew that for sure, having gone to discover that for themselves.
“Powder would have been sellable, my lord, at a good price. There are men with hunting rifles in the Ardennes who want to hunt the wild boar for food, and many with scatter guns who fancy wildfowl. It is not easy to get hold of for a civilian.”
Captain Forsythe was of a sporting inclination himself
, had talked with the local people about the possibilities of rough shooting.
“The 4th to the battery, do you think, Captain Forsythe? A formal assault upon a fortification should be their sort of business.”
Captain Forsythe noted the order.
“What have we besides, do you know?”
“A barracks of the gendarmerie, sir, again just a few miles from here. Armed police, sir, with the function of keeping order in the rural areas, mostly mounted. The local people say that most of the men had the same job under the Emperor, did no more than change the badges on their helmets when the King returned and will, no doubt, have done the same again. The barracks will probably have served as a recruiting place for the new battalions called up by the Emperor.”
“The 9th and 12th, I think, under my direct command. I wish I knew where the dragoons had gone, Captain Forsythe.”
“Possibly into Dunkirk, sir, or, more strictly, to its outskirts where there is a checkpoint on the highway. The local men have begun to talk to me, sir, and suggest that some refugees may have been held there. They think that Major Maartens went off to see what, if anything could be done just there.”
“And not back yet? Bitten off more than he can chew, perhaps?”
“Or gone further inland or down the coast, my lord, following information discovered there.”
It was unsatisfactory, but Septimus had given the Major freedom to act as he thought best; he could not complain that the man seemed to have done just that.
“Artillery, my lord?”
“With me. I trust Smit and Blankenburg.”
“I agree, my lord.”
Neither man was comfortable with the allegiance of the infantry, nor would be until they had fired against the Emperor’s forces and had committed themselves irretrievably. Private soldiers might be able to desert after that, but the officers would be unable to keep their heads on their shoulders if they came into the Emperor’s hands.
06 A Soldier’s Farewell (Man of Conflict #6) Page 13
