“But the men follow you, sir, the better for your name as a fighting man, or so I have been told.”
Septimus laughed.
“They do indeed. But that is not a matter of honour, you know. They believe I am what they call ‘a mad bugger’ – that I am a ‘hard man’. They admire prize-fighters for the same cause – they are what a true man should be, in their opinion. I suspect that it is because our people are drawn from the poorest sorts, Mr Porteous. In the rookeries they come from, they will never be able to attract respect, and the girls, for being rich, for offering a comfortable life; they can though be known as the hardest, strongest, fiercest, best able to protect their women and children. Then they see me, and believe me to be even bigger and more ferocious than any of them – and that they have been taught to admire, to offer their respect to. The problem is, of course, Mr Porteous, that I am as good as my last fight.”
That was a difficult concept.
“You mean, sir, that you must win every time?”
“I must be the best every time, Mr Porteous. I can be defeated, by greatly superior odds – they followed me to Corunna, and that was no victory! But, in defeat, I must kill my man every time and step back reluctantly for there being too many more for any man to kill. If I am to be defeated, then it must be in glorious circumstances, and should not occur too often.”
It slowly occurred to the ensign that Septimus’ road could only end in his death; he could not win every fight against the odds, yet could never refuse a challenge. He said as much, tentatively.
“Yes, you are right. Was this war to have another ten years in it, then I do not see that I could hope to survive. I must show myself at the front – and in an increasingly conspicuous uniform! But, luckily, if the Duke wins, then this must be the end to the wars. I do not intend to fight another campaign, Mr Porteous. There will be battles in India; in Africa, no doubt; possibly in China one day – but I shall not be present – there will be no overwhelming demand to fight for my country, so I shall be sat in England, enjoying a retirement from bloodshed. Just this last campaign, Mr Porteous, and then Stroppy Seppy shall be no more, except in the stories told over other men’s campfires.”
Porteous was envious, now that he could see some of the reality of soldiering.
“I wonder whether I shall have the opportunity to bring the life to a peaceful end, sir? If the wars are to be over, then I shall be forced to scrabble for every campaign, every battle I can find.”
“India, Mr Porteous. There will be King’s Regiments sent to India, and officers very willing to exchange with you. Twenty years of service there and you will see battles and to spare, and return as a young colonel with a name of your own.”
It was a thought, a cheering prospect for the young man.
“Let us take a look at the dawn, Mr Porteous. Atkins!”
The servant strapped the belts around shoulders and waist, placed the six pistols in their holsters and sword to its frog.
“All loaded and with a fresh sharp, sir. Flints checked, sir.”
“I think I must buy percussion such as you have, Mr Porteous – I could envy you those weapons, sir. I hear the instruction has been passed.”
There was a rattle of musketry, disorganised, not the sound of conflict.
“The men are firing off damp charges, Mr Porteous. Fresh priming, sometimes three or four pans full before the cartridge has dried sufficiently. Always a wise move on a misty morning before battle, sir.”
“Will the French do that, sir?”
“No. Most of them will have left their pieces unloaded overnight. Those who have had sentry duty will have wrapped a piece of rag around their lock to protect it from the damps. They might not have a full cartridge pouch, Mr Porteous, and will be nervous of wasting powder. Their officers will be unconcerned, because they prefer to charge with the bayonet, if possible. They are convinced that the charge is the solution to all military problems. They do not understand that the soldier trained in musketry and stood in a trench or behind a wall has a major advantage over the man running towards him with a bayonet. When you have the powder, Mr Porteous, then the defensive is your best bet. Blunt the attack, let the enemy tire himself running, then fire the volleys and advance in lines against dispirited men. If the occasion is not right – then retire, having cost the enemy a dozen men for your one, and then let him discover he must charge you again, five miles down the road.”
“It is not the way of glory that the schoolteachers propound, sir.”
“Schoolteachers sit safe in their classrooms, Mr Porteous. Very few of them have stood in the field – a pity, they would be much the better for having fought a campaign or two.”
They walked quietly to the foot of the bridge where Colonels Jansen and Steenkirk were waiting with their adjutants and seconds-in-command.
“Good morning, gentlemen! A busy day in front of us?”
The colonels were unimpressed.
“Three battalions of foot, milord, and a weak regiment of hussars – no more than two hundred of them, and militia, at that. Their officers wear some very pretty uniforms, milord.”
“Little boys playing at being men, do you think, Colonel Jansen?”
“Escaped from the schoolroom and dressed up fine to parade in front of the girls, milord. They will probably fight the more fiercely for being ignorant of reality.”
Septimus laughed – it was not impossible.
“Guns?”
“None, milord. I am certain that they have no field guns as such. Light naval artillery at their camp possibly, but none with them.”
“Can you see how they propose to advance?”
“No, milord. I see no pontoons, that is a certainty. I do not know how they will cross the canal. Swim the horses, perhaps?”
“Just too wide to jump – who knows? If they had any sense, they would simply turn and follow the canal to the next bridge, leaving a force at this point. Farmers need bridges – there will be another a mile or two away, and more beyond that, I do not doubt. They have the superior numbers and could force us either to leave holding parties at half a dozen crossings, too small to defend them against serious assault, or to retire. If they have a thinking officer in command, that is what they will do. My bet is that they will choose to attack here and now. If I am wrong, you will soon know, and the orders to retreat will come very quickly.”
“A game, milord? You seem to be amused.”
“It can be no more, Colonel Jansen. If I am right, I win. If I am wrong, well… I may still not lose, but you will have to hop mighty fast!”
The French commander had little of imagination, it seemed. Perhaps he, too, was a militiaman, not a veteran sent from Paris to offer professional experience to the locals. Colonel Jansen thought that he might be a failure, a soldier who had shown himself incompetent when promoted, but who had been an old comrade of the Emperor or one of his Marshals.
“Put out to grass, Colonel Jansen? Sent to seem busy and granted a respectable rank, but kept out of harm’s way, or so they thought. Now the poor little fellow has the opportunity to show that they were wrong, to achieve a resounding success and retrieve his reputation. How unfortunate for the little man!”
The leading battalion formed up as a column; not a very large column, being made of so few men, but respectable enough for the provinces, Septimus presumed.
Septimus stood at Colonel Jansen’s shoulder, watching interestedly.
“Twelve men on the front, tight together, as they should be. Seventy or so ranks packed in behind them. Two drummer boys to the side. Look at those damned fools of officers, sir – they are on horseback! What do they think they are doing? My word! He has a band! Look – placing themselves to the flank, the drum major readying them. The Marseillaise, do you think?”
“What does he do at the bridge, milord?” Colonel Steenkirk was openly puzzled; this was not the way he had understood warfare should be conducted.
“Damned if I know, Colonel Steenkirk! That
bridge is substantially narrower than the front of his column. What are the other battalions about?”
“Watching?”
“They are doing something, Colonel Jansen, they are moving… forming fours? Column of route? They are readying themselves to march across the bridge as soon as it is taken, I believe. They could at least be brought forward to the canal side to act as skirmishers.”
There was a blare of martial music, the brass predominant, a first salute of some sort segueing into the French Anthem, as predicted.
“Here they come. Hold fire, Colonel Jansen, let them get very close.”
There was a single platoon in the cover of the upturned cart on the bridge, their muskets rested on the timbers and ready to loose a first small, but very accurate, volley. The remainder of their company was to the left of the bridge, in the cover afforded by the raised towpath. A second company knelt to the right and two more stood in their ranks thirty yards behind them while the remainder of the regiments waited at one hundred yards, ready to cover their retreat or run forward to harry the French as they failed.
The front rank of the French raised their muskets at about twenty yards from the bridge, intending to fire and then charge. Normally, the column would have spread into a double line at this point, but they had to remain together if they were to cross the narrow bridge.
“Now, Colonel Jansen!”
The platoon fired, followed by the two companies at the towpath; the head of the column disintegrated. The sergeants began to bellow the reloads and the company captains took charge, as previously ordered, and began the sequence of firing, front and rear rank, ten seconds between each, three volleys a minute from each man. Powder smoke rolled across, keeping low on the water, blinding the shooting men. The corporals watched, keeping control, ensuring the muskets were held to the horizontal.
“Elegantly done, Colonel Jansen, Colonel Steenkirk. Your men are well trained, gentlemen.” Septimus shouted above the noise. “Mr Porteous! Run to the upwind side and tell me what is happening.”
Porteous galloped fifty yards, peered, ran back again.
“The column has broken up, sir. The men are mostly running, those who are not down. There is one officer still there, but he is not doing very much.”
“Hold fire for one minute, gentlemen, let the smoke clear. Then either tidy up, or ready for the next battalion’s advance. No telling what these idiots will do!”
The smoke blew away on the breeze and the field disclosed itself. The bulk of the column was gone. Lieutenant Rowlands had a telescope, was certain that he could see men half a mile away and running.
“A fine display of athleticism if that be so, Mr Rowlands. It cannot be five minutes since the first round was fired.”
“Nothing like a musket ball for encouraging a burst of speed, my lord!”
They laughed, perhaps more than the little joke was worth, relieved at what appeared to be a very cheap victory.
“Two battalions, my lord. Forming into triple lines, advancing.”
“Three lines? I had thought the French normally used but two… I wonder why. It is easier to form square from three lines, of course… Is Major Maartens hovering in sight, Mr Rowlands? He should not be.”
Rowlands scanned the flat fields to the left, could see nothing untoward.
“Perhaps there is something else in the gentleman’s mind.”
“More likely, milord, there is nothing in the general’s mind!”
“That may also be true, Colonel Jansen. What now?”
The French advance ceased and a very junior officer, an ensign, advanced with a white flag held high.
“To the bridge, Mr Hendry. I presume he is to beg a truce to recover the wounded… How long might it take to trundle those naval guns this far?”
“Six hours, milord?”
“Probably. Mr Hendry, permit a truce of no more than two hours. There cannot be more than two or three score down – they will not require more. Send a runner to me if they demand more.”
A few shouts and the agreement was made and Hendry returned.
“He asked for one hour, milord. I granted that.”
“Well done. Perhaps I was unduly cynical – it may be that the French general was moved solely by honest motives. Perhaps I should not judge every other man by my own standards, gentlemen!”
They almost laughed.
“Let us use the hour profitably. What does he do now? The column has failed. An exchange of fire across the canal will cost us a few casualties, and him a few more. But it will not get him over the bridge. So, what must his plan be?”
“Dragoon coming in, sir. Messenger?”
“Possibly the answer to my conundrum, Mr Porteous”
The dragoon was cantering, in no especial hurry, exercising his horse in effect. He walked up, leaned down in the saddle and handed a note to Lieutenant Hendry, nearest to him.
Septimus glanced at the message, made his thanks.
“The nearest bridge is two miles distant and the hussars are watching it, possibly debating a charge. Major Maartens will hold it, he says. There is another bridge in sight, and must be others beyond that. he doubts he can hold them all – the hussars, in the nature of things, are able to ride faster than his heavy dragoons, will inevitably reach one of the bridges first.”
Septimus passed the message to Lieutenant Hendry, who was keeping the account of the morning’s activities and would write up the formal report on the day.
“That tells us what we must do, gentlemen. Make ready to march, Colonel Jansen, Colonel Steenkirk.”
He wrote a quick reply, sent the trooper off.
“Major Maartens will fall back on us in sixty minutes.”
Septimus turned, called back to his servant.
“Atkins! Have we any lamp oil?”
Atkins trotted off, reappeared with a gallon jar.
“Soak the cart’s timbers, if you please.”
Thirty minutes later, the cart blazing on the bridge as a temporary obstacle, they retired in good order.
The pursuit recommenced, much delayed by the need to cross the bridge two by two. Barely two hours later Septimus crossed the frontier and soon thereafter joined up with Colonel Osten and the artillery at the stream they had chosen.
“I had expected at least one more skirmish before reaching this far, gentlemen. I wonder if the French have orders not to penetrate too far north, are content merely to chase us off?”
Lieutenant Rowlands announced that he could see the hussars, riding at the fast walk-march.
“Then they are still coming on. Major Maartens has the word to make his way by a roundabout route to join us. We have little use for him today, gentlemen. Let us look at the block you have made, Colonel Osten.”
The stream was wider than the canal, had banks some five feet high, broken down in the one place where the road entered a made ford.
“Heavy stone laid in the watercourse, milord, a single carriageway, the water running less than a foot deep. I might not wish to cross in winter, or after a summer storm, but it will be passable most of the year round. The sea is just two miles to the west, sir, the coast taking an easterly trend just here. The river is too wide and the ground around it too wet for a practical crossing on the seaward side, milord. Inland, the river winds and the banks remain quite deep. There is neither bridge nor ford for several miles. The ground is rough as well, milord. Heath, you would call it, tangled underfoot and difficult to march across. The French must take this ford or go inland at least ten miles, and as far back to come up to us, of course. A day’s forced march.”
It made a good place for a block, the French forced to accept their choice of ground.
“What of the guns, sir?”
“Both batteries on the inland side, milord, half a furlong withdrawn.”
Colonel Osten pointed to a low, sandy ridge, perhaps thirty or forty feet high.
“There is sandstone there, milord. An outcropping of rock, quarried to a small extent –
probably by local farmers to build their barns and houses and cottages over the years, possibly even to construct walls about their fields. The result is that it has been easy to emplace the guns behind stone walls, much to the gunners’ pleasure. They like to have protection against passing cavalry, it would seem, milord. You can just see the barrels, milord, over by that little tree, and perhaps fifty yards to the left.”
Septimus walked across to the ridge and saw that the left-hand battery could traverse to cover troops coming in from the east. The heathland was almost flat, but the tangle of gorse and briars and sloes and ferns would make a cavalry charge almost impossible. Infantry would be slowed, he suspected.
“Very pretty, sir. A well-chosen location. Where exactly do you intend to place the foot?”
Colonel Osten had been thorough, had hammered stakes into the ground in two lines, one either side of the roadway leading up from the ford.
“Two battalions, sir, one just thirty yards from the ford, the second fifty yards behind and to the east. The third battalion, sir, will sit behind the ridge, out of sight. As soon as the guns fire, the powder smoke will hide them until the French are thirty yards or less distant. I had it in mind that the 4th and 9th would fall back through my 12th, and then reform on the ridge itself and, at your liking, break the French there, milord.”
“Colonel Jansen? Colonel Steenkirk?”
The two colonels agreed immediately – Colonel Osten had created a fine little killing ground, provided the French cooperated by attacking.
“You will join me in the third battalion, milord?”
“No, I am much afraid that I must not do that, Colonel Osten. I must display myself in my gaudy uniform, playing the part of the brigadier so as to offer a reason for the Frogs to attack. I think it certain that some, probably not all, of the French officers will have seen the field of battle and will not especially like this one. They may offer the voice of reason, so I shall provoke them to foolishness, I trust.”
06 A Soldier’s Farewell (Man of Conflict #6) Page 20
