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

by Andrew Wareham

  They crammed into the windows of two houses, shutters pulled part closed to give them shadow to hide in. They waited nearly an hour, wondering whether the French had decided that one taste of blood was sufficient.

  “Coming, milord. I can hear window-glass breaking.”

  “The back doors are open wide – why smash their way through?”

  “Wickedness, milord. The French wish to destroy. The Emperor has taught them to hate, milord, and they know nothing else now.”

  It was a bleak summation. Septimus wondered whether it was correct; he feared it might be. The alternative was to assume the French to be an inferior nation, less civilised than the British, and that was not impossible – few nations were as advanced as Britain, the home of the new industry and the world’s finest culture. It was a privilege to be British, English particularly, Septimus concluded.

  “Wait till a good number show themselves.”

  “Coming now, milord.”

  There was a louder crash of glass as men lined the windows, musket barrels peering out in case of a force waiting for them.

  Septimus picked out muffled shouts, orders to advance, he thought.

  “The French officers say that the Prince of Orange’s men are running, milord. They are cowards who will shoot from cover and then flee, they are not to be feared. They are ordered to form a line, two lines, in the roadway.”

  “Oh, good! Wait for them to form up, then aim at officers and sergeants. Wait for my command.”

  Septimus drew a pistol, checked the priming in the pan and then cocked it as the first men scuttled cautiously out of the houses. Two companies at least, he estimated, one hundred men, a few more. There was a particularly gaudy officer to their front.

  “Chef de Bataillon, milord.”

  “Major,” Septimus translated.

  Well worthwhile; he raised the pistol as the ranks formed.

  “Shoot!”

  It seemed likely that the uniform had attracted the aim of several men; the major was thrown off his feet to lie in a puddle of blood.

  Septimus fired his six shots, the last cracking as the first of his men achieved their reloads.

  The French ran back to the houses and some reappeared in the windows levelling muskets.

  “Out!”

  Septimus led the gallop to the back door and away across the garden, into the road and through the open front door opposite.

  They waited again, listening to the rattle of musketry rising from the streets around them. There was a crash of volley fire, three times repeated.

  “From the first market square, milord. That will be the 9th.”

  Small cannon thumped, the militia with their little trench guns joining the killing.

  “Smoke, milord. Some of the houses are afire.”

  A pity, but almost inevitable. Septimus glanced at his watch – barely an hour passed and the French were two streets into the town, coming close to the old town, where they were to be held. Many of them had penetrated further in, past his present position; they would find it far less easy to leave again.

  Firing gradually spread throughout the whole southwestern quadrant of the town, a confused mass of tiny actions, platoons facing each other for seconds before running in the most convenient direction, meeting another enemy, killing and shifting again. Septimus found an attic, a third-storey window to peer from. He could see nothing meaningful – there was no pattern; he came downstairs and outdoors.

  He ran from house to house along the street, crouching low in the gardens, until he found a bend in the road opposite a garden with apple trees that offered a little shelter. He made to cross, was grabbed by the sergeant of his headquarters company.

  “Stay!”

  The sergeant gestured to four of his men. They ran across and into the garden and house, shouted the all clear and then set themselves, two facing each way.

  “Run, milord!”

  Septimus crouched at their order, pistol in hand. He realised suddenly that he was enjoying himself, playing the old game again, sniffing powder and loving it.

  “To the left!”

  There was a platoon of fearful French militiamen hugging the garden fences, looking every which way, bayonets fixed, which would slow their reload, almost crawling along. There was an old corporal behind them, swearing, occasionally actually kicking one or another into movement.

  “Kill the corporal,” Septimus muttered to the man next to him, who was holding a musket as if he knew what to do with it.

  “Milord!”

  “Now!”

  Septimus jumped out into the roadway and fired his first pistol, yelling and heaving out a second. The headquarters company fired, the corporal fell and so did half of the platoon. The rest dropped their muskets, hands climbing high.

  “Take them away, sergeant.”

  “Milord!”

  Eight prisoners led away, out of sight, by half of the company; a sudden outburst of screaming and wails of protest cut short. The sergeant returned tucking away a knife. Others were putting bayonets back into their little holsters.

  It was not what Septimus had wanted, but they could hardly be burdened with prisoners at this time and place. He ignored the trivial by-play – it was not important.

  “Move now.”

  They picked up spare muskets and pouches of powder and ball. A quick second shot would be useful when holding a window.

  They ran to another house, another ambush, another set of bodies. A few shots came in return, men fell and were left inside the houses to look after themselves. If they lived, their mates would be back, as soon as they could. If they died – bad luck.

  Septimus worked his way around the inner town, making to the northeast where, he hoped, the line would be holding.

  In late afternoon he shouted across to Colonel Steenkirk and ran to his ranks.

  “All well, Colonel?”

  “Holding everywhere according to the messages, milord. Have you been busy?”

  “Here and there, Colonel. Mostly just watching other folk enjoy themselves. Do we know how many French are in the town?”

  “Five battalions, we think, milord. Three I know have forted up in blocks of houses, have muskets pointing out of front, rear and sides. They are going nowhere, milord. One battalion has scattered, having lost its colonel and most of his officers. He called them together, brought them in to give them their orders!”

  “Silly man! Who saw him?”

  “Your Captain Forsythe caught the runner bringing the message to come to him. He asked the runner where they were to meet and took a half-company of my men there.”

  “He asked the runner?”

  “So he said, milord. The runner had died and so he could not confirm one way or the other.”

  Septimus shrugged. A lot of things would happen that day, he suspected, and only some of them would go into his report.

  “Where are the 4th and 12th?”

  “The 4th has the fish market, milord. The 12th was in the big market square an hour ago, holding off two battalions and doing so easily. Major Maartens rode out a few minutes back, to discover what was happening on the coast road. There is a navy rowing-boat offshore and he will signal it for the big guns to fire, if the other battalions are in range.”

  “Excellent. You are doing very well, sir. All three battalions and the dragoons, as I expected. I must do the rounds and speak to Osten and Jansen.”

  “I have coffee brewing in the house I am using as my headquarters, milord.”

  “Lead me to it, sir! Can you find something for my people?”

  “The cooks are busy, milord. They will have something hot to hand.”

  Septimus sat thankfully, coffee to hand. A set of four explosions, each at ten seconds interval, stood him up.

  “Guns, milord. The big navy mortars, I believe.”

  A delay and then the crash of the huge shells.

  “They will signal back now, milord – range and bearing, for any alterations necessary.” />
  Five minutes and the mortars sounded again. A shorter delay and then suddenly the mortars went into rapid fire, a four minute interval for each gun.

  “They have their target, milord.”

  The firing stopped.

  “The other battalions have run, milord, their remnants, that is. I walked down to the quay, milord, and inspected those mortars. They are huge. No infantry could stand their fire.”

  “Five battalions in town; their reserve routed, off down the coast road, probably never to stop. Half your men to sleep for half of the night, then alternate, Colonel Steenkirk, the awake to close on the French and fire at anything they see. Let the Frogs have no sleep tonight. I must take the message to the others. My thanks for the very welcome coffee, sir.”

  Septimus found Lieutenant Rowlands, in company with the Mayor and probably half of his militia, surrounding one of the French battalions in its makeshift fortalice. They had six of the little trench cannon and were blasting grapeshot through windows and doors at the range of one hundred yards. One platoon was made up of hunters, men who went out to the heaths and forests in happier times with long rifles, bringing home deer and wild boar. Now they watched for movement inside the houses, firing occasionally and very often successfully.

  “Do we accept surrender, sir?”

  “We should, Mr Rowlands. March them back and sit them down under guard at the fish market. Keep the officers separate. If you finish these, see if you can find some more to treat the same way. We are winning this battle and should have it over before the end of tomorrow. Keep your head down – no sense getting it shot off now.”

  Colonel Osten was moving forward, slowly, one company rushing at a house while three fired at its windows and doors, two houses at a time.

  “Your Lieutenant Hendry is gone, milord. A musket ball. A pity.”

  “A shame – he was a pleasant lad and would have been a good soldier. Have you taken many casualties, Colonel Osten?”

  “A score of dead, as many wounded. Two officers lost, at the front, where they should be. The French are giving up, milord. Many surrender now as soon as they see us coming forward.”

  “Good. The mortars were in action against their reserves. I do not know how many they killed, but they seem to have run.”

  “Excellent. All according to plan, milord. Have you fired your famous pistols, milord?”

  Septimus laughed, said that he had been forced into doing so – much against his will. The men nearby laughed as well, passing the word that Mad Milord Seppi had been at it again.

  Morning found a quiet town, parties of soldiers and militia bringing in the casualties and clearing out a few hiding French. Captain Forsythe woke Septimus from his own bed in the hotel, which the French had never reached, to inform him that all was over now.

  “Messenger down from Ostend, sir, says that the British and the Prussians, separately, have fought battles and are retiring on Brussels where they expect to come together. There are refugees pouring into the port, demanding ships to England.”

  “Well, we have kept Ostend safe, Captain Forsythe – there will be no French column threatening them. Let us send their messenger back with that glad news.”

  Septimus stretched, pulled on his boots and walked out at Captain Forsythe’s side. A musket cracked from a house across the street and he fell.

  Man of Conflict Series

  Book Six

  Chapter Eleven

  “Up, milord, up! You cannot sit here in the street – the men are worrying.”

  Septimus heaved himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his sergeant’s arm. He shook his head, which was aching and was unsure how long he’d been unconscious.

  “Creased, milord. Nicked a piece out of your ear and broke the skin along the side of the scalp. Damned fool aimed at your head, milord, not at the chest as he should have. Amateurs, milord – they are all the same!”

  The interpreter was breathless, translating the sergeant’s outburst.

  “Who? How do you know he is amateur?”

  “Van Arents, milord. The man – the boy – who spoke for Captain Smit. He left three weeks ago. He must have come back with a gun. The Headquarters Company caught him, milord, Captain Forsythe ran straight in with them after the shot; he thought you were dead. He was very angry. They have taken Van Arents to the Fish Market, milord, which does much of its work in the early mornings and has high lantern holders above the benches.”

  Septimus could not entirely see the relevance of that information.

  “They took a rope with them, milord.”

  “Ah! I see. Should there not be a trial, Sergeant?”

  “There was, milord. We found him guilty. Took us a whole minute to reach our verdict!”

  Septimus hurt; his head ached. He was in no case to call for the procedures of justice, assuming that he had ever cared for the shenanigans of the courts, for judges in fancy dress and lawyers screwing great fees from all present.

  “You are sure it was him?”

  “He was there. He had a musket which he was reloading, milord. If it was not him, then he was making a convincing pretence.”

  It seemed good enough.

  “Give me your arm, I feel a little dizzy. Let me walk down there, it is only a couple of hundred yards.”

  His sergeant was happy to assist Septimus, felt it was important that the men should see him and know that he was little hurt, but he knew it to be a pointless excursion.

  “There will probably be nothing to see by now, milord. The men were in no frame of mind to dally.”

  Less than five minutes later and Septimus saw that his sergeant had been right. Van Arents was hanging from the highest lantern, was not even kicking. The men of the Headquarters Company cheered as they saw Septimus on his feet, pointing to the body and shouting that they had seen to the murdering little sod – he would not be getting up to his tricks again; there would be no further chance for him to shoot after a surrender.

  Septimus made his thanks – they had done a good job, they were reliable men and he was proud of them.

  They cheered again.

  Captain Smit appeared, full of remorse, and said that he had been wrong – he had thought Van Arents to be harmless. He must apologise.

  Septimus smiled and accepted gracefully – it was not Captain Smit’s fault that the boy had transpired to be a fool who could not even aim a musket at twenty yards. There was a general burst of laughter – the mad Englishman living up to his reputation.

  Septimus waved, put a hand to his aching head and made his way back to the hotel, and to work.

  “Business, gentlemen! What are the butchers’ bills?”

  The six commanding officers sat around the table in the hotel, all with their reports to hand. Captain Forsythe was next to Septimus, pen and paper ready to collate all.

  The guns had lost no men and the dragoons one only for getting too close to a running sergeant with a halberd in the rout. The three infantry colonels were very cheerful, had lost no more than one hundred men and four officers between them.

  “Lieutenant Rowlands has given me figures for the Nieuwpoort militia, which again are remarkably low. They lost seven dead and three wounded who will not recover and some fifteen with scratches of various sorts. They are pleased with themselves, it seems; the shopkeepers intend to build a memorial in the market square, in marble, if they can afford it. What of the French?”

  They had so far buried six hundred, which included the dead from the reserves who had been mortared. Another hundred were laid out in a pair of warehouses, under the care of their own medical staff, such as they were; most of these would die, it was confidently expected.

  “We have prisoners, my lord, in another warehouse. Eight hundred and twenty-seven, milord. We must feed them soon, I suppose.”

  “We must not starve them, Colonel Osten. A ration of biscuit and a half-ration of beef will do.”

  They noted the figures and added them up.

  “I had thou
ght that the better part of four thousand entered the town, gentlemen. If so, this leaves two and a half thousand unaccounted for.”

  “Running, milord. Scattered and lost. Some will be dead under hedgerows; some will have fallen into the sea; others will have simply run very fast. None of our concern, milord. We have companies marching the coast road, tidying up, and the dragoons have made a first sweep around the heathlands near the town. They will be no problem, milord.”

  Septimus accepted their word – it was not for him to show concern for the numbers of French who had undoubtedly been cut down and dumped into the nearest fast-flowing river to disappear out to sea. Things happened in the aftermath of battle that were far better forgotten about.

  “So, gentlemen. thousands of French entered the town and were met by half their number of soldiers and militia who proceeded to utterly destroy them. I am most impressed. I venture to suggest that the Duke of Wellington will be pleased, quite possibly grateful, because your actions prevented the French from advancing on the important harbour of Ostend. The reports will reach his hands tomorrow, and will be placed before your king very soon after.”

  A courier arrived on the following afternoon, informing them of a great battle fought and won near Brussels. Bonaparte had been defeated and was in flight, closely pursued by a corps of Prussians and running faster than he had from Moscow. The French had taken such losses and had been so demoralised that they could not possibly reform. All that remained was to tidy up and invade. British losses were the highest ever known in any single engagement – first figures guessed at thirty thousand, including a disproportionate number of senior officers.

  “A bloodbath, gentlemen! The Duke has survived unhurt, it would seem, but there are huge losses, including well-known names. The Prince of Orange was shot on the field and has been taken to Brussels; it is feared that he will live, however.”

  There was quiet laughter as Septimus’ words sank home.