“March when, my lord?”
“I am inclined to take a risk, Captain Forsythe. The word will go out quickly that we are here – the presence of the dragoons will already be known. If there are substantial forces to oppose us, they will be on the move and will be here by tomorrow. If, as I think likely, the Emperor’s loyalists have yet to get together and form up in their regiments, then they will be calling the alarm, sending cries for help to Paris and anywhere else they think might have troops to aid them, and generally spreading panic through the whole countryside. We could march in the morning to discover very little in the way of formed opposition, sufficient to give an easy victory or two, which would do the men a lot of good – nothing like winning for convincing them they are on the right side.”
“March at dawn, my lord. Pickets out through the night, of course, sir, to pick up any advance that might occur, but expecting to take our two objectives quickly in the morning.”
“With a little of good fortune, yes, Captain Forsythe. With bad luck, we shall be retreating at dawn. Take a look around the village here, sir. Identify points where we could hold for a while.”
They slept undisturbed and marched out in the first light of a dry morning.
“Lucky, that, Captain Forsythe. I hate marching in the rain, worrying whether green men have managed to keep their powder dry. I fought one little action in the monsoon in India, years back, haven’t liked wet weather ever since.”
Captain Forsythe had not experienced India, but he had heard of the dreaded monsoon and did not envy Septimus his experience. It added a little more to his respect for his fighting master.
“Don’t much like splitting up the brigade, Captain Forsythe, but the battalions won’t be more than five miles apart. Less than two hours march. Too damned far if there is a brigade of cavalry about, of course.”
“What are we to do in that eventuality, my lord?”
“Jansen of the 4th has been ordered to take his battery and fort up in it. If he has a wall in front of him then he can whistle at cavalry. I will get ships to him to evacuate by sea. If we come under attack, then it will be battalion squares with the artillery in between us, all by the book. Provided we have three minutes of warning, then we can effectively ignore cavalry – as you will have observed in Spain.”
Captain Forsythe was confident that well-handled infantry must always slap down cavalry. Horse was useful only when it could charge infantry in line or column; against a square it never prevailed, except in the company of artillery. The sole function of cavalry in modern warfare, he believed was to turn a defeat into a rout by cutting up a retreating enemy or to provide information from carefully controlled scouting parties.
“Retiring under attack by cavalry is a nuisance, my lord. But it has been done, as we know.”
“I am no Wellington, of course, to handle my men so as to win in any circumstance, Captain Forsythe, but I think I could do that trick. I saw and heard of some of the work at Fuentes de Onoro, where the proof was given that cavalry no longer has a function on the field of battle. I must say, however, that I do not believe we will see more than a troop of gendarmerie, mounted policemen rather than true soldiers.”
Captain Forsythe did not know that Septimus had served in Spain, was inclined to ask what and where, but his master did not seem to wish to discuss the question. He made a promise to himself to enquire, quietly, among those of his acquaintance who would know.
The gendarmerie barracks was of red-brick construction with a six foot wall enclosing it; it was not designed as a fort, the wall was intended to keep prisoners inside and to be a threat, a warning to local trouble-makers, no more. There was a gate, hurriedly closed as the battalions came in sight, but made of wrought iron bars that could be seen through. It was not meant for defence – because policemen did not expect to stand against soldiers. No doubt poachers and smugglers and gangs of highwaymen would find the edifice imposing; Septimus laughed.
They reached one hundred yards distant and a man on the wall fired a musket, by way of warning they presumed; he did not seem to be aiming in their direction. Septimus ordered the guns to drop their trails.
“Fire a single roundshot, Captain Smit. At the gate – we do not want to hurt men hiding behind the wall."
The eight-pound gun fired and the gate rattled and banged and fell in a heap some twenty feet back from the opening. The ball carried on, bounced once and hit hard into the wall of the barracks itself.
“I might have preferred to knock on the door, Captain Forsythe, but it announced our presence. Colonel Osten! Be so good as to form your men into a line of companies.”
There was a shout from behind the wall and a white flag was waved on the end of a broom handle, the holder hiding as much as he could behind the gate pillar.
“Call the man out, Captain Forsythe. Guarantee him truce.”
An officer, they presumed, in riding boots and black breeches, a short coat, also black, overall, and wearing a tricorne hat. He marched straight-backed and swiftly out to them, putting on a show for his own people, which was only right. He stopped thirty feet distant and Captain Forsythe walked out to him; they spoke briefly before Captain Forsythe reported back.
“He is a captain and in command of the two troops that are posted here. He makes much of the fact that they are police, not military. He is a civilian, he says, and must obey the government, whoever that may be. He will offer no resistance of any sort, he says, and his men will not take any part in the coming war.”
“Take a written statement from him to that effect, Captain Forsythe. He must continue to keep the peace, if he can. He will not arrest or delay any refugees attempting to make their way out of France.”
Captain Forsythe took Frederick’s demands back to the captain, came back at a run.
“He says he received orders yesterday to take up refugees and he has a party of twelve or so in his cells. I have ordered their immediate release and the return of all their possessions.”
Ten minutes and a bedraggled group of civilians were brought out, together with the two carriages they had been travelling in.
“Who are they?”
Captain Forsythe quickly questioned them, came back much relieved.
“Only Frogs, my lord. Some sort of Count from the Ancien Regime, come back to claim his hereditary lands. The local people rose against him, for having tried to reinstate all of his rents and taxes. He says he was lucky to come away whole, with his son and grandchildren. He demands that you should take your soldiers the forty miles south to properly punish the peasants who dared rise again. He insists that the gendarmes must go to the scaffold, all of them, for laying their dirty, common hands on him.”
“Tell him that he is lucky to have come out alive. I presume he has some money to live on?”
“The captain says that he had no more than a few hundreds, which he has taken from his safe and returned. He would like a signature on his receipt, my lord.”
Septimus laughed – he must respect the man’s honesty. He called for pen and ink, scrawled his name in the appropriate spot.
“Order this count on his way to Ostend. He must not halt before Ostend and will be wise to take ship there. It is impossible to march my little column forty miles into the interior. I would expect Bonaparte to be defeated with three months, four at most, and he will then be able to return, if he insists.”
Captain Forsythe passed the message and watched the carriages trail off towards the frontier before coming back to Septimus.
“He was in tears, my lord. He said he had been more than twenty years in exile, was broken-hearted to go again. I suggested that if he ever came back he should treat the peasants more kindly, as I doubted he would survive a third uprising. I do not believe I convinced him, my lord. If there are many like him, there will be another Revolution, irrespective of what happens to the Emperor, my lord.”
“Their problem, not ours, Captain Forsythe, but you are right, I am certain. The peasants have had
twenty years of freedom from the arrogance of the hereditary rulers of France; they will not take kindly to the return of the so-called ‘blue-blooded’.”
Septimus instructed the two battalions to make a halt, to brew up tea, or whatever it was that they drank, and be ready to move out within the hour. He went into the Gendarme’s office and found, as he had expected, a large and detailed map of the area that he policed.
“What are these large places, Captain Forsythe?”
A short inquisition disclosed them to be Quartermaster’s depots, four of them, created in the Emperor’s final years to hold stores for the armies operating immediately over the frontier.
“They were created to be used in the event of a retreat, my lord. Obviously, they will also be of value to an army marching out of the country.”
The nearest was no more than a mile distant, on a river that would take a small barge or coaster. The other three spread out along a military road that paralleled the frontier, the furthest barely ten miles away. Septimus brought the two colonels and their adjutants into the office.
“Colonel Steenkirk, your light infantry should hold a fast pace better than Colonel Osten’s men. I want you to march one half of your battalion to each of the two farthest depots and take them under your control. Make an inventory – not detailed, obviously, a rough count – of what is there. If there are wagons and horses, start loading them and move the contents to Nieuwpoort. Bonaparte will not feed his army from these places. I will ride out to you later today or tomorrow to take the final decision on what is to be done. If you are attacked and driven out, burn them behind you.”
Colonel Steenkirk saluted, said it would be done, delayed a few seconds to ask what would become of the stores once they reached Nieuwpoort.
“They will be tallied, sir, and valued and the Army will buy in anything it wants, at full price, and anything else will be put on sale to the local merchants. The sums accruing will be placed in a Prize Fund, which is distributed according to a laid down rule. Every one of your men, and officers, of course, will be entitled to a share, larger for the higher ranks. We do not pick up prize money very often in the Army, sir – it makes a pleasant rarity!”
Colonel Steenkirk agreed and went out to spread the word among his officers.
“Colonel Osten, you to take the nearer pair of stores.”
“My pleasure, milord!”
Septimus turned to the Gendarmerie Captain, asked whether he would be in trouble with his masters for not putting up a fight against the invaders.
The answer was that he expected so, but could do nothing about that. Policemen were always in the middle, he said, and took the blame for everything that went wrong. He hoped he would keep his head.
“Tell the gentleman that he is at liberty to cross the border, with all of his men if need be, and wait for the end of the war. Honest policemen are sufficiently rare that they should be protected.”
Captain Forsythe spoke with the captain and came away laughing.
“He regarded that as by way of a back-handed compliment, my lord. He said that he must stay while he could, to try to prevent a breakdown of law and order. It is not impossible, however, that he may arrive at the border in the middle of a dark night, begging asylum. He offers his thanks for your courtesy, my lord.”
Septimus rode out with Colonel Osten, twenty minutes to the first of the depots. It was a pair of large warehouses, possibly used in peacetime to collect the surplus of the harvest and send it to the markets for sale, now converted to the use of the military.
There were a few soldiers there, Quartermaster’s clerks and not militarily inclined; the bulk of the people, another score, were civilians, mostly elderly and none in a mood to resist a half battalion. They had been in process of loading a convoy of wagons in the yard and a small barge at the wharf; all work halted as the soldiers marched in.
Colonel Osten gave brief orders and the work resumed; a senior clerk came trotting across with a set of inventories for the transport.
Captain Forsythe glanced through the papers, announced his satisfaction.
“Military stores, my lord. To the barge, uniform jackets and trousers; belts; boots; light infantry shakoes. All in blue, of course, but all except the shakoes of immediate use to a civilian population that has been short of clothing for years. What about the wagons? Foodstuffs – of course, my lord, in France itself, the army purchases its rations, it does not live off the land; looting is reserved for the conquered. Much as one might expect – dried peas; beans; flour of two sorts; rice – tons of rice, they must like the stuff! What else? Barrels of red wine – and I will bet that is of no vintage known to mankind! Olive oil and cheese, a little – that would not store for years at a time. Brandy, no small amount; if your soldiers are to march happily, they must have their ardent spirits, my lord. Probably at least as good for the purpose as our rum. Load up and direct all to Nieuwpoort, my lord?”
“Almost all, Captain Forsythe. Send one wagon of foodstuffs to the fishing village, with the message that we will look after them in future provided they continue to protect the refugees coming through.”
“Sensible, my lord. There may well be some important people on the road and needing to be helped on their way to safety, courtesy of our efforts.”
“I believe that a number of British people of leisure chose to visit France, Captain Forsythe. No harm at all in offering a little of assistance to them in their time of need. An act, sir, of purest charity!”
“Exactly so, my lord!”
They smirked, the pair together.
“Now then, the brandy, Mr Forsythe. That must be placed under guard – it will not travel a mile unescorted. Colonel Osten!”
They agreed that a reliable company must march with the wagons as far as Nieuwpoort and there set pickets on the warehouse where the brandy was stored. Septimus wrote a letter to the mayor, informing him of the intention to auction the contents of the wagons and barge when they arrived; he further made it clear that sales could be made against commercial paper, Bills of Exchange properly made out and preferably countersigned by a banker.
“There is almost no hard currency in Nieuwpoort, Captain Forsythe, but there are several merchants who will be able to sell foodstuffs in bulk, and clothing and eventually to lay hands on coinage or respectable banknotes. A few months as brigadier in Canada taught me much about the basics of commerce, sir. My brother could have demonstrated far more to me when I was young, would have done, had I had the slightest interest in becoming a merchant; I am glad I became a soldier instead. My father did me the best of good turns when he bought me an ensign’s commission, even if I knew it not at the time.”
“Did you not wish to become a soldier, my lord?”
Captain Forsythe was shocked – he had desired nothing so much as a red coat since being a very little boy.
“No, I was a surly and unwilling brat, I believe. I was fortunate to be taken up by a very fine soldier and then had the good luck to see action in Ireland in my first few months, before I could find the life boring. I had no love for the life at first, until I had smelled powder and discovered that I found fighting easy, enjoyable in fact. One is never so alive, Captain Forsythe, as standing with pistol in hand and challenging all comers, begging them to show if they are men, if they are one’s equal. That, of course, will be my one great regret when the wars come to an end for me – never to feel that sense of coldness while, paradoxically, one’s blood is boiling. Do you not find that so?”
Captain Forsythe had fought, had stood his ground with his company of the line, and more than once, but he could not honestly say that he had enjoyed the experience. Fighting was part of the life, and he was not in any way bad at it, but he could not revel in bloodshed; he thought, perhaps, that was why His Lordship had been promoted young and had become a peer while he was no more than a captain who would purchase as major and perhaps become lieutenant-colonel in his regiment, but would never attain distinction. Each to his own, he th
ought, and was glad that he had managed to land a place as one of Septimus’ family – some of the glory might rub off, he expected.
“What now, my lord?”
“March along to the next depot, when this is emptied, see what is there and as quickly as possible, reunite the brigade. We are too much spread out for my taste. I wonder just where those dragoons have got to… I would not wish to discover that they had returned to the Imperial fold, and to find out when they came charging down upon us.”
“I do not distrust Major Maartens, my lord. I believe that wherever he is, he has a good reason for what he is doing.”
“I agree. I like the man – he feels honest. So have other men in my past who have later tried to take a shot at me. Not to worry, or not for a day or two yet.”
It took half a day to complete the loading, more accurately, the gross overloading, of the wagons and send them slowly on their way. They marched then, three companies strong - one escorting the wagons – and rejoined at the second depot.
“More of the same, my lord. I suspect they have been organised to provide the necessary victuals for a whole division, so that they do not need to shift from one to another and cross each other’s line of march.”
It smacked of military efficiency – something that was alien in the rear of the British Army.
“The Duke of Wellington has sworn in my presence, Captain Forsythe, at having to do the work of the Commissary for it, of having to write orders himself to send ox-carts here and dray-horses there in order to keep his men fed and supplied with powder and ball. I think he would be much impressed to see this sort of organisation. Perhaps this is one of the reasons that Bonaparte did so well for so many years.”
They overnighted and moved out to rejoin the 9th, found them guarding warehouses still half-full.
06 A Soldier’s Farewell (Man of Conflict #6) Page 14
