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

by Andrew Wareham

  “What have you in mind, milord?”

  “Raiding, I think, Colonel Jansen. One regiment at a time across the frontier to wake up any garrisons that may be set here. The Dragoons will be able to locate camps and barracks and outposts that might be tickled up a little.”

  “An excellent idea in itself, milord, but is there any greater aim?”

  “I believe that the main invasion will take the form of a direct thrust towards Brussels and an attack on the allies there. If we are active, then we may divert a few thousand soldiers towards the coast and weaken the Emperor a little. I think as well that you may see the advantage to us in fighting a little campaign here on the coast, our own set of successes to add to the great victory of the main armies.”

  “Provided, of course, that we are not beaten, milord.”

  “Well, yes, that would be an undesirable outcome, Colonel Jansen, and one that we must do our best to avoid.”

  The column returned to a welcome in Nieuwpoort. Many of the local inhabitants had been at most lukewarm in their adherence to the new kingdom they had been forced into and had been looking out their tricolours to display to the returning Emperor; the entry of the wagon convoys bearing prized goods did much to bring them an enthusiasm for the new regime. Larders and pantries were thinly stocked at this season and the loads of military rations – though coarse and common – would ensure full bellies for the townsfolk, at a low price, they did not doubt. The merchants saw stock that they might trade to rebuild their flagging businesses, worn down by the years of blockade and military rule; all had sold to the Empire’s military over the years and had given up on payment of their invoices – now they saw a chance to recoup their losses.

  The word had been rapidly spread that they might purchase against trade bills – on long credit in effect – and they had decided that just possibly the good times were coming again.

  There was a fine display of orange flags as the soldiers marched into town.

  Septimus grinned, discreetly; there would still be loyalists to the Revolution and to the Empire, and they would be writing down the names of the prominent supporters of the new Dutch-Belgic Kingdom, making their lists of those who should be ushered onto the scaffold and subjected to the attentions of the guillotine. The merchants would know that they had made themselves marked men – their commitment to the fight against Bonaparte was doubly assured.

  “Adam Smith, my lord,” Lieutenant Rowlands commented.

  “Where?”

  “No, my lord. The Scottish man who wrote of the ‘Wealth of Nations’, explaining how the self-interest of the individual created the good of the many. These merchants, my lord, are motivated by their own greed, yet their actions serve to protect and preserve their country.”

  “So they do, Rowlands. I had not realised that the phenomenon had been observed. In a book, no doubt?”

  “Yes, my lord. I read it with great interest – fascination, in fact. It is one of the wonders of our age, my lord.”

  Septimus was amazed – he had not thought that a mere book could be in any way wonderful.

  “I am to be a gentleman of leisure within a few months, I suspect, Rowlands. I shall read the tome, with, I have little doubt, an equal reverence and awe to that you display.”

  “If we win this campaign, my lord, then there will be small occupation for the soldier in future years. I must wonder what I shall do.”

  Septimus decided he must give Rowlands a few minutes of his time – he was one of his military family and had the right.

  “I have a little of influence with John Company and could probably find you a commission with their armies, if that was your desire. If not, then a life as a merchant might have much in its favour – have you spoken to the mayor since we returned?”

  Rowlands blushed brightest scarlet, confessed he had, and had been made to feel more than welcome.

  “A mention that you had some slight influence with the house of Pearce of Winchester, one of the leading importers of grains and fodder and hides and such, might well be of value to you, Mr Rowlands.”

  His Worship the Mayor might well be influenced by that consideration, Rowlands could see, sufficiently to tip the scales finally in his favour. The gentleman had no son and was certain to be concerned that his daughter made a proper match; Rowlands made his sincere thanks.

  “If you choose to remain with the Army, Mr Rowlands, you have your commission with the Hampshires, and service in the barracks will be there for you. I much fear it may be a tedious existence, however – it is one that I shall avoid.”

  “So I suspect shall I, my lord. To be a merchant in the Low Countries is not so bad an existence, after all… It occurs to me, my lord, that Nieuwpoort would be better for some defences, strongpoints to protect the families perhaps.”

  That was an acceptable request; Septimus sent the newly named Captain David Almond to set to work designing and building a few of tiny fortalices for the purpose. If young Rowlands was to become a merchant, then the people must be protected.

  The mercantile existence was more than very many young officers might hope for, Septimus suspected; there would be no few reduced to the existence of adventurers, wandering the world and hoping for a sudden stroke of good fortune that would return them to respectability in England. There would be many a prospector for gold tramping the wilderness who had once been a bold figure in a scarlet coat…

  ‘Bad luck, for them – but the world will be a better place for an end to the wars… Probably.’

  A month of drilling the foot and exercising the horse and guns to work together, dragoons and artillery practising the skills of the sudden bombardment and rapid retreat demanded by skirmishers in front of an invasion. The men were kept busy and the officers entertained themselves with imagination of the promotions they would receive for valiantly defending their country’s coasts. By mid-May they were becoming stale, in need of something more to do; Septimus called Major Maartens to him.

  “There is no sign of a colonel arriving to supplant you, sir. I think we have averted that undesirable event. I have recommended, by the way, that you should be given that promotion, but I do not know that I have the power or influence to achieve it. I do not believe that the Prince of Orange will wish to oblige me.”

  Maartens laughed, agreeing that it was in the highest degree unlikely.

  “Not to worry, milord. I have no doubt that I shall be pensioned off and replaced by a little boy of proper birth and no ability at all, but not till after the war is done now. I have an amount saved and will purchase a piece of land and settle to an honest existence – providing I am not killed in the fight that is coming. If I am, well, I have had twenty good years and that means I owe a debt to the God of War – I cannot complain, milord.”

  It was a novel point of view to Septimus; thinking on it, he had enjoyed his life up to now, and it was war that had made him. Perhaps he owed his life in debt for his good fortune; he would delay payment for another thirty or so years, he trusted.

  “I want you to see what there is of interest along the border, Major Maartens. It is time to start trailing our coats and inviting attack from the French. I would also like to gain some slight idea where the Frogs are concentrating their armies. I believe that inland, around the direct road to Brussels is most likely, but I would much like confirmation of that surmise. If Bonaparte has chosen the coast instead, then we need to make arrangements for a speedy retreat!”

  Maartens laughed again, said that few would be speedier than him in such an event.

  “Speaking seriously, milord. Should we move out the peasants along the coast? If Bonaparte invades, then there will be no mercy in him for people he will see as traitors. He believes that the Low Countries naturally belong to France and those who disagree with him are not, by definition, good Frenchmen. He will set his armies loose on those farms, just as he did in Spain.”

  “Warn them, Major Maartens. Tell them of the danger they face, but do not spend time on forci
ng them to flee. You are to be riding the borders, sir, and simply have not the leisure to save hinds who will not be helped. By all means explain to them that the land will remain for them to return to, but if the French come they will lose the whole of their food, their stock and families to the soldiers. They must run, or die. But, they will not understand that, almost of a certainty. In my experience, people believe what they wish to be true. Anything other than what they want, must be false, so they will say.”

  Major Maartens agreed, but felt that he must at least make the attempt to save them from themselves.

  “If I do not, then, milord, I might feel guilty when I buy their empty farmland at bargain price after the war!”

  “One must do all possible to keep a clean conscience, Major Maartens – but, you will not succeed in persuading them, sir!”

  Septimus passed the word to the three battalions to make ready to march and sent to the artillery as well, hoping that they would be fit for the road. By some miracle of ingenuity, Horse Guards had purchased and sent out the horses that had been requested, strong English stock, well suited to the work, but needing to be brought to an understanding of all they must now do. The process of training was still far from complete, Septimus suspected.

  “Time to shift to the border, gentlemen. I have a feeling that we may have stirred the French pot sufficiently for it to boil over, and I wish to be there to see what happens for myself.”

  Captain Forsythe had sat in any number of bivouacs in Spain, boiling up a stew for officers of his company, and had a feeling that stirring the pot stopped it from boiling over – but that was merest nit-picking, he suspected.

  “Are we each to accompany our regiment, my lord?”

  Septimus wanted his family with him, primarily to act as gallopers, carrying his orders to the regiments.

  “If we are to form a headquarters instead, should we not have a company of our own as well? We might feel just a little exposed, sir, a round dozen with our servants.”

  Septimus gave a superior smile – he had considered that question.

  “We should indeed. Mr Rowlands, how have you progressed on that matter?”

  “Not quite a company, as such, sir, but I have a pair of strong platoons, recruited from the wharves and the out-of-work sailors there. A small wage, in addition to rations and a rum issue, has proved most attractive to them. Thirty-four men, to be exact, sir, plus one who was a boatswain on one of the laid-up ships and is now to be their senior sergeant. There is what they call a ‘leading hand’ to each platoon, a corporal in effect. They have muskets and cutlasses, sir, preferring the blade to a bayonet. I much suspect that some, possibly even all, have worked the privateers on occasion; they volunteered where other seamen said they were peace-loving souls.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Dockside, sir. Probably every one of them drunk at the moment, but they will be ready to march in the morning, sir. The shortage of horses says they must stay afoot, unfortunately, unless we can lay hands on three or four wagons.”

  Transport was in short supply; the wars had swept the countryside almost clean of horses of any sort. Septimus had observed the fields, now that spring was come, had seen ploughs pulled by women and children while a part-crippled veteran of the wars hauled at the handles to try to keep a straight furrow. The wagons and teams taken from the supply depots across the frontier had sold for almost as much as the value of their contents, merchants needing them so badly.

  “They must walk, I fear. Possibly we shall remedy that when we meet up with the first of the French crossing the border. Pass the word that the men should try their best to take horses rather than kill them.”

  He turned back to the others in the room.

  “In answer to your question, Captain Forsythe, we do need a central headquarters, and that, as you suggest, needs its guard. I would expect the French to break the border on several roads, rather than keeping just to one, and we may have to coordinate the process of falling back before them, or holding and ambushing one column while trying to persuade another to advance too far so as to cut it off. I must have you to hand as gallopers.”

  “You expect to cause the French some damage and delay, my lord?”

  “Expect? Not as such – hope perhaps. All depends, you know, on what we face. I have been thinking these long evenings, and it seems to me that Bonaparte must move at the end of this month or early next, the first week of June at latest, if he is to forestall a massive invasion of France itself. That allows him just two and a half months to recruit and arm his force. If he puts one army together in that time, he will do remarkably well, and he simply will not have a sufficiency of experienced and trained men to send detachments out to each of the likely trouble-spots. He will be forced to send men to the Vendee, which is on the Biscay coast, just south of Brittany, and no few of them considering their history of insurrection, and he will be wise to place a covering corps down in the south-east against the van of the Austrians who might otherwise entrench themselves as far as the Rhone. And that leaves him with precious few troops spare from his sole veteran army. I cannot imagine that we are to face a professional division.”

  They listened and agreed that seemed sensible.

  “So, the question arises of where will Bonaparte be?”

  They nodded gravely and advanced no answer.

  “I have come to the conclusion that he will march hard and fast on Brussels, to take the city and drive the British and the Prussians away from the Low Countries before the Russians arrive. Ensconced in Brussels, he will be able to offer negotiations from a position, not of strength, for he will be much outnumbered, but from far less weakness. So, he will not be found in person or with the bulk of his army on this coast, but he will wish to cut the British off from their reinforcements, so he will send lesser forces, possibly in some numbers, to achieve his aim. We will not see the old moustaches of the veterans, but we might face young enthusiasts – and also conscripts brought in unwillingly, and Customs Guards and Revenue Men and Gendarmes, all pushed together to pretend to be an army. He will not waste his artillerymen on the coast, but he will have sailors who cannot take ships to sea and may be pressed into service as gunners.”

  It seemed a reasonable hypothesis and they added to the possibilities.

  “We know there are few horses, my lord. Those there are will go to the main army. We might expect few of cavalry, and them makeshift gendarmerie rather than true hussars and lancers and dragoons.”

  “I agree, Captain Forsythe.”

  Rowlands was unwilling to raise his voice in the company of the experienced men, but ventured to ask about the naval gunners.

  “They will not have horses either, my lord. Are they to pull their guns by hand, think you?”

  “Probably, Mr Rowlands, but not very far. They are more likely to be found close to the border, forbidding the roads to us from newly made batteries. How much does a naval twelve-pound gun weigh, do we know?”

  Lieutenant Tanner, commonly preferring to listen to the wisdom of others, raised his rarely heard voice.

  “A few hundredweight less than two tons, I believe, sir. I read once that naval gunners are expected to pull five hundredweights each – a quarter of a ton – and I believe a twelve-pound gun has a crew of seven men.”

  “How did you learn that, Mr Tanner?”

  “A long passage out to Lisbon, sir, and talking to the officers of the old fourth-rate ship of war that carried the companies of recruits I was with.”

  Septimus nodded, accepted the information as good.

  “So, we can say thirty-five hundredweights. They would have to put the gun onto some sort of land carriage rather than the little naval trucks – it would never pass over a road on those tiny wheels that work on a smooth deck. There must be a caisson as well for powder and ball. I am inclined to doubt that it could be done at all, you know.”

  “Perhaps a six-pounder, sir, which must be smaller, but not a twelve, except they have horses
or mules to hand.”

  “Even then, they would not get very far if there was a rainstorm. I think it fair to expect no more than small guns, and few of them. Our batteries of eight-pounders may well have the advantage. That might be very useful. The French will have the numbers, for sure, but we should have the training, the professional soldiers… An interesting fight to come – unless the Emperor spoils it by choosing to come up the coast.”

  Major Maartens sent a galloper back, reporting three separate camps of militia, of locally raised and organised battalions, all seemingly with a core of old soldiers, but fleshed out with boys and old men and unemployed sailors. There was no sign of the true army and his regiment was turning inland. Although they had been seen, no yeomanry had appeared to ride out and challenge them and the militias had been content to stand-to at the perimeter of their camps.

  “So… A defensive body, one must assume, Captain Forsythe. We shall wait a little longer before we stir them up, I think. We must know exactly where the Emperor is to be found. He will not have left Paris yet, I must imagine – far too much to do and he must not wish to leave the politicians to play unchecked behind his back. Have you determined exactly where we might wish to set up our Headquarters Company?”

  Captain Forsythe had spent two days riding the coastal road, had made his decision.

  “There is a small manor house, sir, not three miles north of the border. We would regard it as little more than the farmhouse of a yeoman farmer, but the locals tell me that the owner is a baron, or was so – he has not been seen for some little time. They would not say so, for fear of Bonaparte winning and the word reaching this baron, but I am certain he has gone south to join the Emperor. He was a soldier, a major, I believe, and has sat at home since the end of the last war. Now he is gone, and I believe to Paris rather than to Brussels.”

  “Good, it is legitimate to take over the house of a traitor. That saves argument after the war, and bills for damages to the furniture and fittings, you know. Is it at the roadside?”