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

by Andrew Wareham

  “They must protect their baggage against the dragoons, I presume. Are they truly marching directly towards us, up the road, Mr Rowlands?”

  Rowlands waited a few minutes, confirmed that both columns were making a march directly towards the ford.

  The three colonels gathered around Septimus.

  “Hold them at the ford again, milord?”

  “No. We did that last time. We hold at the ridge, using the guns to punish them as they cross. They must know what we did to the previous column, so they should have found an answer of some sort. If we do something different, they will be ineffective. Where are the hussars?”

  Lieutenant Rowlands could not see them.

  “If they moved out in the night and crossed further upriver, then they might be somewhere on the flank by now. Colonel Osten, your men in a triple line to hold our east flank, do you think? Company squares in the last minute. They will not be able to mount any great charge in that rough ground.”

  “A thin regiment, milord. It will be thinner still if they have it in mind to charge my men.”

  “That I do not doubt, sir.”

  Colonel Jansen had a suggestion.

  “Milord, the howitzers, could they be used to unsettle the rear of the columns? I suspect that if they are subjected to a shower of shells as they form fours to enter the ford, they will become most upset.”

  “Well said, sir. I agree. Please to tell the gunners. Mr Rowlands, can you see the nature of the columns? There are two of veteran battalions, we believe, the remainder militia.”

  Lieutenant Rowlands scanned them carefully, trying to examine uniforms and flags, and particularly the company officers.

  “I think, my lord, that the columns are made up of militia only; the officers are certainly very gaudily dressed. The camp is too far distant for certainty, but I believe the veterans are holding it.”

  It could be assumed that the militia officers especially would be dressed in newly-purchased finery while the veterans would be wearing their old, much used uniforms.

  “Cannon fodder, Mr Rowlands. The veteran officers do not believe the columns will succeed and are unwilling to lose their more valuable men. Understandable, but harsh.”

  The first column reached the banks of the river and three of the battalions debouched into a double line, its men kneeling at the banks, presenting their muskets to fire at the line that they expected to face them. The fourth battalion broke down into fours and doubled forward into the ford, giving a great shout as they commenced their charge, their yelling petering out as they saw an empty slope facing them.

  The cannon fired, roundshot ploughing into the stream, well inside accurate range. Ten of eight-pound roundshot carved furrows through the oncoming men, necessarily huddled together in the ford. Two small howitzer shells fell into the men waiting their turn to enter the water.

  The cannon were run back to their firing position, swabbed out, reloaded, fired again, the gunners working as if on practice, no return fire to upset their routine. They fired six rounds before the shout came to halt. The howitzers continued to fire, the fleeing men having to run through their exploding shells.

  Septimus called the ceasefire.

  “Limber up. Retire to Nieuwpoort.”

  Colonel Osten reported that he had seen no horse.

  “Chasing the dragoons then. Not a profitable occupation for light horse, from all I have heard, particularly when the heavies outnumber them.”

  “It is the sort of trick that amateurs play, milord, while they are learning to become professionals.”

  Man of Conflict Series

  Book Six

  Chapter Ten

  “Captain Smit, you had a young interpreter in your company, did you not?”

  It had occurred to Septimus that he might have use for another voice if there was to be a fight through the streets of Nieuwpoort.

  “Van Arents, milord. He left the better part of three weeks ago.”

  “Had you no further use for him, Captain Smit?”

  “The opposite, milord. He had no use for us. He has turned in favour of the Emperor, I believe. I do not know if he has joined his armies or if he has merely gone into France to show loyal to him, but he is no longer hereabouts, or so I am told.”

  “A pity. As long as he has left Nieuwpoort he is of no concern to us. I just hope that he has not remained to try to encourage others to betray us.”

  “Small chance of that, milord. That one is a talker, not a doer. He will not be leading a guerrillero band against us.”

  “Well and good. What happens when he discovers his mistake, Captain Smit?”

  “He, and many another in like case, must make a life elsewhere, milord. I suspect that he will become a citizen of the Americas – there will be no few of them who go for their own safety, milord.”

  “A pity, in many ways. After so many years of war, though, I cannot imagine that old enmities will be easily forgotten – better to leave than to face down one’s neighbours, perhaps.”

  “After more than twenty years of war, milord, the temptation will be to pull the trigger rather than talk. A man of less than forty, milord, will have spent often all of his adult years in uniform – small chance of him turning the other cheek.”

  “I forget how much a part of your lives the war has been, Captain Smit. For most Englishmen, the war has been a thing to read of in the newssheets – only a few have gone overseas as soldiers, and a few more of sailors. Not like you over here, where the war has affected every family.”

  “Coming to an end, milord. Though it may never die in my mind.” Captain Smit shrugged, turned to immediate business. “What are we to do in Nieuwpoort, milord?”

  “Captain Almond has been busying himself these few weeks, Captain Smit. He will probably have emplacements ready for you. Be very sure that you can withdraw easily. Make ready to face a division or more determined to enter the town. If they get in, they must be tied down, and killed.”

  “Fill the limbers with canister, milord! It will be done.”

  The guns left for the town. Septimus waited to see what the French had in mind.

  “What do you expect, milord?”

  “I do not know, Colonel Osten. I cannot put myself inside the head of this French general – because I would not have made the assault he attempted, so I do not know what he will do next.”

  “Are we to retreat to Nieuwpoort, milord?”

  “Almost certainly. I cannot see that any other course will be possible.” A sudden thought struck Septimus. “How deep is the stream? Is there water to float a gunboat within half a mile of us?”

  “No, milord. I examined the river myself, the two miles to the sea. It spreads out, quite a wide estuary over mudbanks. I could see it to be shallow for the number of eel traps the local people have put out.”

  “In that case – unless he attempts an attack in the night, he can only take great losses here, so he must sit and wait for guns to come up. Or he must cross elsewhere and outflank us. Lieutenant Rowlands, what is happening across the river?”

  Five minutes with the telescope suggested that nothing was happening at all. The French had retired on their camp, might possibly be digging a trench, or it could be a grave for their many dead.

  “I don’t like this, Colonel Osten. I do not know what the French are doing; it is possible, of course, they are doing nothing at all – but I would be busy, was I that general with Bonaparte’s police breathing down my neck! Your regiment to draw back to Nieuwpoort, sir. Colonel Jansen, your men to follow after fifteen minutes. Colonel Steenkirk, your regiment after a further delay of about a quarter of an hour. If nothing is happening here, then it is possible – probable, perhaps - that something is happening elsewhere. Let us leave.”

  Septimus sent a messenger to Captain Forsythe to abandon the manor house and return to Nieuwpoort, taking the headquarters with him. He felt it was time to withdraw his small forces from the open countryside.

  “Just in case, gentl
emen. We are exposed here. It is time that we trotted back into cover.”

  They saw nothing on the march back to Nieuwpoort. The men settled back into their comfortable quarters and the officers wondered whether milord had not been over-cautious. The older officers had no great objection if he had been, but the younger men wanted another dose of glory.

  The naval packet had arrived in their absence and Septimus had orders from Horse Guards as well as an accumulation of letters from home. Duty called and he first opened the sealed packages from his military masters.

  “Expenditure of powder – returns required; consumption of fodder – explanation of the quantity of oats purchased; payments to the Arsenal in Paris for rounds for Gribeauval eight-pound cannon – explanation thereof; transport of chargers to Nieuwpoort – why not to Ostend? Wonderful! Captain Forsythe, please to write the appropriate lies in response to these demands. We have no orders, no information on the progress of the war, no requirement to report to the Duke in Brussels. Nothing of any use at all!”

  Captain Forsythe offered one useful piece of paper which he had found waiting on his desk.

  “From the Harbourmaster, sir. There are two of naval bomb-ketches tied up and awaiting your pleasure.”

  “Then I must make an immediate visit to them, Captain Forsythe. Yourself and at least one other of the family. We must ride, to be seen in the streets. The people here must know that we are here and ready to defend them.”

  “They will know that, sir. Lieutenant Rowlands has gone trotting off to visit His Worship the Mayor – as part of his liaison duties, no doubt.”

  They laughed – the poor lad was showing all of the signs of the love-struck youth.

  “Ten minutes, if you would be so good, Captain Forsythe. I must read my own letters first.”

  All was well, he discovered, with very little change at home – the children were growing and his family missed him. His brother reported that there were great profits to be made in the way of supplying the troops mustering to be sent to Belgium. He said as well, that Consols were falling in expectation of a long war that would result from a victory for Bonaparte. Septimus penned an indignant letter to the effect that he was utterly certain that the victory would be won by the Duke – brother George should not fear defeat.

  He put the letter to go to Ostend for the postal service there and thought no more of the matter.

  The Navy was its normal condescending self, smiling very kindly upon Septimus and his requests.

  “We are here, Lord Pearce, to assist you in the event that the French may make an attempt on Nieuwpoort. Stromboli ketch has thirteen-inch mortars, my lord, and Wallsend has ten-inch.”

  “Heavy, sir, and very useful. What is their range, sir?”

  “Up to two and a quarter miles, Lord Pearce.”

  “That could be useful indeed, sir. I have been most remiss, sir, in not requesting your name.”

  “Captain Pickles, sir, master and commander. Wallsend’s captain is Lieutenant Rooney.”

  Septimus noticed that the names were hardly aristocratic, but he had been told that bomb-ketches were poorly-regarded commands in the Navy and attracted the less influential officers.

  “I believe you fire an explosive shell, Captain Pickles?”

  “That is the most common sort, my lord, but we can instead fire up to one hundred pounds of lead shot, each of about one-pound weight, or two if it is preferred. Not over so great a range by one half, and tending to scatter. I have not fired them ever my lord, but I am told that they can be very effective against masses of men, dropping from several hundreds of feet upon them.”

  “By God, sir! I must imagine that would do a great deal of harm to a column or mass attack. It is by no means impossible that I shall beg you to make use of them. Would it perhaps be valuable for you to come ashore and inspect the possible site of our battle? Not that it is at all certain that the Frogs will come, you know. We have just indulged ourselves in bloodying their noses over the last few days and they may feel that, what is it they say, ‘sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof’?”

  “Possibly so, my lord. But I really do hope not, my lord – this may be the last chance for many a year to fire the mortars in anger. Stromboli missed Copenhagen for being delayed in the dockyard and has not been present at any great action since. I would really like to use my skills, my lord.”

  “It is the last chance for all of us, I fear, sir. When Bonaparte receives his comeuppance then I believe the world will be due for a very tedious outbreak of peace – and then where will we military sorts be?”

  They laughed, but not entirely convincingly; men who had learned only military skills and who had no private income could not look kindly on the prospect of peace.

  Captain Almond had amused himself by creating miniature fortifications apt to the little battle he expected to eventuate. He had dug a trench and bank on each of the roads leading into the town, carefully forming a chicane, a double bend, on the roadway itself and placing a wet ditch to the side so that there could be no cavalry charge into the town. Inside the built-up area, he had erected little walls of dry stone, simply removed when the need was gone and civilians wished to walk their streets again, adequate to hide a company and a small gun to cover crossroads and the two little market squares. Some of the side lanes and alleys had little obstructions, sufficient for two or three men to hide, to shoot and to run away in some safety. There was a larger redoubt on the quayside, commanding the fish market.

  “All, milord, designed to delay, to hold up an attacker and lose him a platoon here, a half-company there, and to allow small forces to appear behind him and shoot three or four and perhaps bayonet another pair and then to quietly disappear in the night. Assuming, milord, that the French have too few men to fully invest the town, we shall be able to draw them in and then hold them while we send forces around to take them from behind.”

  “And if they put a division into entrenchments, Captain Almond?”

  “Then we sail for Ostend, milord. The civilians have been warned and many of the families are making their way to safety already. We may lose the buildings of the whole town, milord, but its people will take few casualties.”

  “Very good, sir. Please introduce yourself to Captain Pickles aboard Stromboli bomb and discuss the question of how he may best use his great mortars in the defence. I believe he has some wish to distinguish himself, will be very willing to assist.”

  Captain Almond smiled appreciatively – he would make the Navy welcome.

  “Mr Rowlands, are the militia ready to serve?”

  “Most willing, sir. The wagons of foodstuffs and of military stores have quite converted them to our cause. They have also observed the creation of little walls for them to take cover behind, and regard that as a great kindness on your part, sir, they not being the boldest of military men themselves. Many have now permitted their part-grown sons to take up a musket and the original four hundred has swelled close to five, sir. In part, of course, they have some hope of a victory in which they will share much of the glory but little of the fighting – which is natural, one must suppose, sir.”

  Septimus laughed – he thought that to a great extent that epitomised his military career. Other folk had made much of his successes, more than he truly believed they were worth.

  “Perhaps it is the case that to be seen to be a hero is more important than actually performing heroic acts, Mr Rowlands. I do not know – have never considered the question in any depth. I am more inclined to shake my head over the grey hairs I discovered in my mirror this morning than to debate the nature of military virtue. Good luck to them.”

  Lieutenant Rowlands allowed his own hero-worship to show.

  “They believe you are their good luck, sir. They have listened to the ordinary soldiers discussing the actions of the past few days, sir. The men have, in the nature of things, congregated in the taverns by the quays and have drunk enough to talk loudly – and many have made much of you sitting yo
ur horse and very casually shooting down cavalry as they charged. Two horses and one officer, was it not, my lord?”

  “I believe so. I fired six shots, so probably one half might hit. Why?”

  “According to common report, you shot the leading six, knocking them off their horses, one after another and laughing the while before turning away and allowing the rest of us a fair chance at the rest. Men saw that and swear to it, sir. You were there at the very front every time the French came near, leading the men without a qualm so that they had no choice but to follow. So they aver, sir. I have heard old sergeants saying that the English sent you so that they did not need to bother with marching a pair of battalions this far.”

  “That is not entirely sensible, you know, Mr Rowlands.”

  “It is firmly believed, sir. I wonder if the French have heard the same tales, sir?”

  Septimus doubted that to be the case.

  “What is the date, Mr Rowlands? Are we in June yet?”

  “It is the eighth, sir.”

  “Then Bonaparte must be marching from Paris, Mr Rowlands, He has had nearly three months and must not delay longer, not if he is to attack rather than defend his borders. He would do far better to wait another year, if he could. But he cannot, because the Russians must be on the move by now and the Austrians will be marching through Lombardy, on their way to break his southern borders. We must assume that Bonaparte will want a month to take the Low Countries and put them into some defensive order, and the Russians must be here before the end of July, or so I was told – they would require four full months to bring themselves as far as Brussels. The timetable is pinching Bonaparte now. Had he intended to invade by way of the coast, then he would be in reach of us now – we would know of the army’s presence. So, we must make our stand against the lesser, local forces, and hope we may be attacked.”

  Septimus rousted Major Maartens out of his comfortable farmhouse and sent him off to the borders to see what might be discovered.