“Almost so, sir; connected by a lane of no more than two furlongs. Usefully, it is close to a crossroads, one track going a mile to the sea – two cottages and a strip of shingle with a pair of small fishing boats – the other inland more or less parallel to the border until it comes to a small river that flows south, perhaps a matter of four miles. The road forks at the river, following the banks in both directions. I call it a road – I should not like to ride it after a couple of hours of heavy rain!”
“We should move there in the morning. The house is deserted, you say?”
“Quite empty, my lord, apart for a housekeeper or cook or somesuch and a servant or two.”
“They will be useful to us. Mr Rowlands, the Headquarters Company to move south at dawn. Mr Worthington, inform the 4th, 9th and 12th that we are shifting towards the border. Each should by now have decided upon their camping place to the south. Beg their colonels to march tomorrow, if practical, and to be set up and ready to go to war within four days. Suggest that they may find it wise to dig a trench or two, but be tactful – no attempt to, what is it they say? ‘Teach granny to suck eggs’? Never understood that saying myself, but I know what it means.”
“I suppose, my lord, that grannies’ teeth have generally dropped out and they must seek their sustenance from more liquid foods.”
“How unpleasant an image is that, sir! I am sure that you are right. Slurping noises as well, I doubt not!”
They laughed, all feeling faintly ill.
The manor house was respectable, just so, by English standards. Septimus counted eight bedrooms, which was barely adequate to maintain the status of a gentleman. Usefully, there was a redbrick wall around the acre of gardens, perhaps four feet tall, and with a double wooden gate. Not a fort, but a convenient obstacle for a company of foot to hold. There were barns and a stable block close to, surrounded by another, higher wall – the horses in the stables and the crops stored in the barns presumably of greater value than the people in the house.
“The Flemings are said to be as careful with a bawbee as any Scottish man, my lord. I am told that the Walloons – the French speakers of Belgium – claim them to be one of the missing tribes of Israel!”
“I do not believe I know the word, Captain Forsythe.”
“A bawbee is a sixpence, in the barbaric vulgar tongue of Scotland, my lord. Worth far less than six real pennies of course, the Scots pound being very debased.”
Septimus laughed – he had never had any great argument with the Scottish nation, but then, he had met very few Scots, outside of soldiers, who were a different matter.
They established themselves, to the indignation of the servants who squawked and protested that they must not trespass so. Given the choice of serving the officers, and being paid, or going away to some other resting place, they became thoughtful, and then enquired what time the master wanted dinner served.
“Maps, Captain Forsythe! What have we by way of a large map of the countryside that could be pinned upon the wall?”
They had none such, but a little ingenuity sufficed. A large linen sheet was appropriated from the chest in the master’s bedroom and a few hours with pen and black ink, and much consultation with their note books, resulted in the outline of the coast, the border, the known roads and rivers and the greater towns and villages appearing, all within reason close to their proper place. Distances were given more in terms of hours of march than of miles, but the chart sufficed for their needs.
Half a day of riding out by the various officers showed the three regiments in their camps, each based around a large farm or smaller village with roofs to cover the men from the showers of late spring. All were located within two hours of marching from the main road to the frontier, on the inland side, none of the colonels wishing to find the sea at their backs and an army coming out of France.
They sat for two days, making themselves comfortable and comparing foreigners’ ways of farming with the English, and generally finding them inferior. On the third morning a dragoon messenger rode in, wordlessly presented a written message.
Translated, Major Maartens believed he had the answer to the Emperor’s intentions. Commissary troops were busy on the frontier well inland, building up stockpiles of rations in towns that could be regarded as on a marching line from Paris to Brussels. He had captured a pair of loaded wagons, and two drivers and their mates, who had ‘accidentally’ lost their way and brought themselves well to the west of their destinations. They had rations and boots in their loads, would have been able to sell them at a good price in the small towns suffering still from decades of war. Major Maartens had offered to return the four men to the Emperor’s troops and they had become voluble in their detailing of all they had seen on the roads from Paris, in return for being released, or, even better, taken into his service and protection.
Septimus sent the trooper back with a set of detailed instructions for Major Maarten’s next actions.
Septimus was satisfied that his predictions were borne out; an army needed spare boots and rations if it was to march any distance at speed. Bonaparte’s men were used to long, fast marches – he had won his campaigns by moving faster than could ever be expected.
“The Corsican Villain is to attack towards Brussels, gentlemen, no doubt of that. He has committed himself to the inland route – though that still gives him a choice of roads across a front of nearly fifty miles. Which exact road he will take, we can but guess. The Duke of Wellington will no doubt send out his own riders to discover that, as he did in Spain. I could wish that we were in receipt of information and orders from Brussels, but we are very much isolated – which gives us freedom to play, one might say.”
His staff could not fully understand why they were being ignored. They would have expected at least to be told whether the Duke had yet arrived from Austria.
“The Prince of Orange will not deign to notice my existence, gentlemen. Nothing will come from his headquarters. Horse Guards will be very busy raising regiments and sending them out – too much so to pay us any great attention. We received a ration carrier three weeks ago, might perhaps hope for another in the next seven days; there will be a pouch for us aboard the ship, but probably dealing only with routine returns. I much suspect that we are out of sight and out of mind, and there are worse things to be, when one considers the matter.”
Captain Forsythe agreed, but wondered if they might not upset their superiors if they stirred the French into action by their efforts.
“Perhaps the Duke and Prince might prefer that all remained quiet on the coast, my lord.”
“All things are possible, Captain Forsythe, but if they do not tell me so, then I must form my own opinion. And, sir, my opinion at the moment is that we are at war, and it is more than time that we smelt some powder. We are not here to feed our faces and lay out in the spring sunshine, pleasant though such an occupation might be! We should put one of our regiments through its paces, ensure that officers and men alike are ready for the exhilaration of combat. The 12th, I think, Mr Hendry. Be so good as to ride to Colonel Osten and beg him to move out towards the border, on the main road, at dawn tomorrow. The sky seems set clear, and we should march a few miles and see what may be discovered. There might well be a naval-manned battery, or a camp of sorts that could benefit from being stirred up.”
Lieutenant Hendry rode out and Captain Forsythe came across to Septimus where he stared at the big map, trying to commit it to memory.
“Will we not succeed in bringing the French together to chase us away, sir?”
“With luck, yes, Captain Forsythe. They have green troops, we think, and poorly trained men do better behind walls or trenches than in the open field. If we can just persuade them to march, then we can rapidly bring them to regret the endeavour. If they stay in their fortalices, then we will do nothing with them. It might be argued that we will do enough by simply holding this part of the Kingdom free of invasion – but it will seem just a little inglorious, and if the Prince
of Orange chooses to pursue a vendetta after the war is over, we will seem insignificant, easily sacrificed to his malice. If, however, we have fought a snappy little series of actions and have kept our tiny province free of the invaders, have in fact driven them back with bloody noses, then we shall be on far stronger ground.”
Captain Forsythe had not thought that far; when it was pointed out to him, he realised that if Septimus was sent home in disgrace, then his staff would follow, tails between their legs and careers much impaired. They needed, in fact, to take care for themselves, and a successful little campaign would be very handy.
Man of Conflict Series
Book Six
Chapter Eight
Septimus put his Headquarters Company to hold the manor house against his return; Captain Forsythe was to command them and bring them back to Nieuwpoort if the need arose. Lieutenants Rowlands, Worthington, Tanner and Hendry were trailing him, riding next to Ensign Porteous, who was off to see the elephant for the first time and rather excited at the prospect.
“Watch the lord and master, Mr Porteous. Don’t duck before he does, but if he dives for cover, follow very quickly indeed. Have you loaded your pistols?”
Mr Porteous had, displayed them proudly.
“New pieces, Mr Porteous – where is the flintlock?”
The pistols had a flat-faced hammer that snapped down onto a touchhole at the rear of the barrel, nothing other than a small indentation around the hole to distinguish it.
“Percussion caps, gentlemen!” He pulled a round tin a little bigger than a snuffbox from his pocket and showed its contents of squares of wafer-thin copper plate, each with a little black lump showing in the middle. The squares were perhaps a quarter of an inch on the side.
“I slip the little copper square into the cup made for it and the falling hammer causes the mercury compound inside the cap to explode and send a flash onto the powder charge. It works in the rain!”
They were immediately won over to the new system – rain turned flintlock pistols and muskets into poorly balanced clubs, useful for beating an enemy over the head, provided he would stand still.
“They are rifled, too – but whether that is of great value in a pistol, I know not. They are a standard twelve gauge, so that it is easy to obtain ball for them. The caps have to be ordered from London, however. They are made by Henry Nock.”
Nock was the leading producer of military small-arms; a Nock pistol was robust and reliable in the field. They noted the information, and mentally recorded that Mr Porteous’ family was not poor; they did not know the price of the pistols – and could not be so vulgarly ill-mannered as to ask - but suspected that twenty guineas might not buy the pair.
“A fine weapon, Mr Porteous. I shall know who to hide behind if it is raining!”
They laughed, just a little enviously. Lieutenant Hendry continued with the boy’s military education.
“You will note the Brigadier to be armed to the teeth, Mr Porteous?”
“No fewer than six pistols and a heavy hanger!”
“That is how Stroppy Seppy made his name, Mr Porteous. When he sniffs blood, the berserker rises in him and he leaps onto the nearest wall and dances and bellows his defiance and shoots the Frogs down as they rush upon him!”
Lieutenant Rowlands added his mite.
“And Indians as well, I am told, Mr Porteous. He performed the same trick in Bombay, they say.”
Atkins was riding behind but in hearing range, drew his horse up to them.
“And in Ireland, when he was an ensign, sir. They tell me he stood in front of a great Paddy rebel carrying a duck-gun, and shot him down in his tracks! Then he made his way to the Sugar Islands with the regiment and led them in a charge that took a French island out of hand.”
“Small wonder he has his nickname!”
Atkins smiled quietly – his master was of the finest, he believed, and it was as well that these young men in their fancy uniforms should appreciate just who they served. Lieutenant Hendry agreed that he was a fine exemplar.
“One wonders whether it might not be a good idea to lay hands on another four pistols apiece.”
Rowlands snorted with laughter, said he would imitate Septimus when he was quite certain he could use the pistols as well as he did.
The lieutenants accepted that his was not the easiest of examples to follow. Hendry made a final comment on the topic.
“Lord Pearce has, however, honoured me with a place in his family. Such being the case, I shall be found at his shoulder – even if, perhaps, sheltering behind it!”
They reached the border and discovered an empty Customs Post; a cloud of dust in the distance suggested that the detachment there had chosen to leave rather than argue with a whole regiment.
“What now, milord?”
“Follow those fleet-footed gentlemen, Colonel Osten. We may reasonably assume that they will be running to the nearest safe place, defining ‘safety’ as the presence of soldiers.”
“Let them be our unwitting guides, milord! A clever plan.”
Four miles, an hour and a half, brought them to one of the camps mentioned by the Dragoons in their reports. They halted at a quarter of a mile distant and surveyed the fortification.
“A ditch and a palisade, six feet tall, not especially sturdy. A field-gun would lay that in swathes, so they must not expect to face a siege. Pass the word to your officers, Colonel Osten, to be ready to form square.”
“Cavalry, milord? Where?”
“That palisade cannot hold us out, Colonel Osten. Therefore it is there to draw us on, to persuade us to bring a battery forward and drop trails at a hundred yards.”
“Hah! A strong probability, milord. Where from? They will not wish to file out of the little gate in the palisade.”
They looked about them.
The area was within reason flat, the palisade on top of a gentle rise of at most twenty feet. There was a region of heath-scrub to the right, towards the sea, gorse and brambles no more than three or four feet high, far too low to hide horse. The land to the left rose a little, a very few feet, to a clump of trees almost a quarter of a mile distant.
“They could conceal themselves behind the woodland, milord, but the distance is too great – they cannot surprise us from there.”
“Perhaps they think to frighten us, Colonel Osten.”
“Surely not, milord… though it is possible, is it not. A green commander, noted more for enthusiasm than sense, might believe that he could make us run at the sight of his ferocious charge. Cavalry can never break a square, except by the worst of luck – but the horsemen do not believe that. Perhaps he believes that he can panic us, make us flee in disorder.”
“Shall we give him the opportunity, sir? We may assume that the Customs men will have had at least one horse – they have an officer and he will not walk to his post, we may be sure.”
“Therefore, milord, they will have had the better part of an hour to set themselves up. It is likely, milord. Let us do it.”
The regiment marched forward, a small band of musicians to the front and playing suitably martial airs, the drums battering out the time.
“Here they come, Colonel Osten! Fools! They should have let us get within musket range of their infantry.”
The colonel had a good voice, used it to roar out the orders for the battalion square, had it settled in less than two minutes, a furlong, perhaps a little more, distant from the palisade.
Septimus sat his charger and watched almost unbelieving as the cavalry used that two minutes to settle themselves in their ranks by the side of the coppice.
“Their sole hope was to get into us before we had formed up. All they have done is dress their ranks, Colonel Osten.”
“Ah, milord, but see who they are. Very amateur and needing to be held together. The front two ranks are, I believe, a locally raised militia – the sort you call ‘yeomanry’. Behind them is a row of gendarmes. At the very rear, a thin sprinkling of what seems to be
Customs officers – you know them as ‘Revenuers’, do you not?”
“My dear Colonel Osten, I am an English gentleman! I do not know Revenuers at all!”
The interpreter explained the joke and drew its proper laugh.
Septimus lifted his telescope, peered at the rank of gendarmes.
“You know, I believe that is the gentleman I spoke to when last I was here. I wonder what coercion was used to bring him into the field. He was very sure that a policeman had no business playing soldiers.”
“He might have wife and children, or aged parents perhaps, and wish to ensure their continued safety, milord. The Emperor has no compunction in sending whole families to the guillotine where he believes he sniffs treachery.”
“That bloody Emperor would do better for having his neck stretched, Colonel Osten!”
“A noble ambition, milord!”
A further thirty seconds passed while a figure in full dress uniform trotted self-importantly from one rank to the next in brief inspection before placing himself to the front and beginning to shout, presumably an encouragement to glory or the grave.
“That fellow has misjudged his men, Colonel Osten.”
Septimus sat thoughtfully in his saddle, scanning the ranks of the cavalry, trying to get a feel of them, what he thought of as the ‘smell’ of the troops. He could not detect the least whiff of enthusiasm.
“Colonel Osten, you would please me greatly if you would detail one of your platoons to hold their fire until they can get a clear sight of that gentleman. If they could then knock him down, I think we might bring this business to a tidy end. Do you recognise his uniform, by the way?”
“Hussar, milord, one of the lesser regiments, at that. A captain sent out to the provinces to bring a makeshift regiment to the colours, but for local service only, would be my guess, milord. He would be the source of the threats that have brought the gendarmes to his command.”
“In that case, all the better that he should be killed, sir. Here they come, at long last. Oh, how vainglorious!”
06 A Soldier’s Farewell (Man of Conflict #6) Page 17
