Blood and Famine (Man of Conflict Series, Book 4)

by Andrew Wareham

  Neither man commented that England might gain much for the same event; both knew that the battalions of the British Army, rapidly becoming the most effective in the country’s history, were commanded increasingly by the middle and lower sorts of people and seemed the better for it.

  “The Portuguese Army is officered to an extent by the British, Sir Septimus. Most of these are sergeants made up to ensign or lieutenant and transferred across; you may well discover one or two men in your own ranks who could honourably follow such a course.”

  “I might well, sir. It is more possible, however, that any sergeant who is made will be encouraged to take a command in another of our companies. We have a small history of looking after our own, sir. Perhaps when the battalion is sent home again then some of such officers will prefer to remain here; that will be their choice.”

  Professional, ranker officers were valued in time of war, sneered at in home garrisons; it was a fact of life.

  “You will find a double line of fortifications between the upper valley of the River Tagus and the sea, Sir Septimus, stretching across through the hills, based around the town of Torres Vedras. They are predominantly earthworks and new-made, and very scientific, I would add; primarily artillery positions and the strongpoints placed to cover virtually every possible angle of attack. They are manned almost wholly by the Portuguese, thus allowing the British troops to fall back into reserve to rebuild their numbers from home and regain their fitness and health after a hard campaign. To the north, not so far from the sea, there is an older castle, less suited as a gun-platform, which is to be yours to hold, sir. There will be more specific instructions in the immediate future, Sir Septimus, but I would say that Lord Wellington has singled you out for the task, stating that you may be relied upon to carry out his orders to their fullest extent, like them or not.”

  “That sounds remarkably as if I will not like them, sir! They will be put into effect, unless I find them wholly intolerable, and in that case I shall inform my lord of my inability while tendering my resignation from the Army.”

  “He is aware of that, Sir Septimus. Said indeed that was precisely what he would expect of you – ‘no damned compromise in that man’, was his words, sir!”

  “Thank you. That is one of the many facets of his lordship’s character that I much admire, sir; he is a strong man and able to respect strength in others. He finds no need to act the bully-boy, sir.”

  “True indeed, Sir Septimus! Roads are a problem in Portugal, sir. You will find the longer way the quicker, I believe. March along the made road of the valley until you reach the first earthworks, then turn north-west along the tracks created in the construction process until you reach the Castle of Nostra Senhora – its full name is a yard long and that is how it is referred to in our papers, the spelling varying, it would seem. Settle your people how seems best to you and be ready perhaps to move forward within the week, leaving a holding force behind in the castle, which you will return to; fall back on might be a better term.”

  It seemed that a raid, or more than one, was envisaged, in less than full battalion strength. There was little to be gained by wondering what might be planned for them; Wellington would inform him in due time.

  “Mr Black, we are to follow the valley for some three days and then must cut off to the north on tracks of possibly poor quality. It may prove difficult to move stores in winter, such being the case, and we should carry all we can with us.”

  Black saluted, seeing no need to comment.

  “All that you can beg or borrow, Mr Black. I shall not add the third part of that old saying, sir!”

  Black gave a tight grin; ‘beg, borrow or steal’ was a familiar concept.

  “The ox-wagons are ours for just the one journey, sir, and then must be returned to the Commissariat here. Our own pack-train is a different matter of course. I am told, sir, that it is possible to hire companies of armed horsemen, to escort ration trains. I am assured that they are reliable. The Portuguese are so unused to being treated honourably that they respond very well when they are. I have sufficient in the battalion funds to pay a score of them for a month, sir, and would wish to use them to run back to Lisbon from our place of posting, possibly two or three times over.”

  “Do so, Mr Black. I shall beg extra cash from the General as well. I have no idea whether there is any actual money available, or if we will be able to lay our hands upon it, but pay the Portuguese up front, sir.”

  Septimus called the majors to him, glancing again at the brief written orders he had received, noting again that they detached the battalion from its brigade while he held the Castle; there was no level of command between him and Lord Wellington for the while.

  “Major Perceval, Major Taft, thank you for coming so quickly, gentlemen! We are to be held in the General’s hand for the time being, or so it would seem. We are to march along the river valley till we reach some set of earthen fortifications which, apparently, are to be the winter lines; once there we must proceed almost to their northern end where we are to hold a stone castle which may well be something of a weak point, or so I interpret the first orders. Once in garrison – and I presume we are to be the sole force there – then we are to ready ourselves to mount raids in some strength, while still holding the ground.”

  “Do we know of the nature of these raids, sir?” Perceval seemed mildly concerned – he had not indulged in ‘raiding’ before and was always suspicious of the novel.

  “I am sure we shall find out and rapidly come to terms with them, old fellow!” Taft, as ever, had no doubts about anything at all.

  “I know nothing more, I am afraid. The little I have been told, I have passed on to you. I have faith in his lordship, however; I am certain as well that he trusts us to perform the task competently. He has a considerable affection for us as a battalion, you know.”

  They smiled knowingly, believing it more correct to say that he trusted Septimus as a subordinate. It was not appropriate to say so – this was an orders meeting, not a social event for the offering of flattering courtesies.

  “Force the march, sir?”

  “No. An easy first day, no more than ten miles so that the men can get back on their feet again after their idleness aboard ship. Fifteen on the two next should bring us much of the distance. Thereafter we must accommodate ourselves to the terrain. There is no gain to exhausting the men in the hills; I do not know how tall or steep they may be or whether they are wild land or cultivated. I gather that we are not to be given further orders for the better part of a week. Remind the men of the rules, if you please. Some of them were here before and know that they must not use olive groves or vineyards for fuel; others must be told. Explain, if you would be so good, that I shall see the backbone of the man who fells an olive tree or rips the posts out of a vineyard to make his fire. The foodstuffs of the Portuguese are not to be touched, except they are bought, willingly, against money. Any man who lays violent hands on a Portuguese woman will hang, and so will any of his squad who see and do not prevent the assault.”

  “How will we obtain timber to cook on, sir?”

  “Do not. Tell the men that fuel will be supplied to them. We have sacks of charcoal and there is more ordered and to follow on later ships. We have braziers as well. Advise the sergeants that they must not be wasteful but they will have quite sufficient to cook on, and possibly to burn on very cold nights.”

  They marched, Septimus inspecting each company as it passed him. He was within reason satisfied with their appearance and bearing – they looked like soldiers. Every man carried a clean and polished musket and wore a full uniform; the colours varied to an extent – the old soldiers faded and worn, the new bright scarlet – but that was of little importance. The mules moaned at him as they passed; he wondered again whether they were bright enough to recognise him as the man who gave the orders that set them to work; it seemed hardly possible, but they showed no liking at all for him.

  He shrugged and mounted his new charger, No
sey by name, and set off for the head of the column, observing the demeanour of his officers more than the men as he came up behind them. Some of the younger men rode as if in a dream, eyes almost closed; the better of them watched their companies, observing the men, noting who was comfortable with the pace and who seemed likely to fall out. It was as good an indication of the ability of the gentlemen as any he would obtain by other means.

  If they were to go out on raids then he must know the quality of each company, and that was really determined by the worthiness of the officers. One at least of the lieutenants seemed totally unaware of his surroundings, his mind most likely a thousand miles away, perhaps with a true love in England. Bad luck! If he wanted to see her again then he must show alert on the field of battle – drooping and lamenting their parting would do him no good at all!

  “Major Taft – the youngster in G Company, Meek, is it? Has he a belly ache or is he crossed in love?”

  “’Megrim’ Meek, sir! God alone knows what his trouble is, sir! I am told that he has the ambition to be a poet, or perhaps a writer of plays, but that his unsympathetic papa has insisted that he enter a profession if he wishes to keep his allowance. He spends much of his days rehearsing his grievances, one understands, sir. I believe he has a sweetheart too. I have told him that at his age he should have one in every town he has ever been posted – but he seems to believe that makes me show as barbarian as his father.”

  “Wake him up before he ever goes on outpost duty! Whisper in his flower-like ear that I shall see him court-martialled if by dereliction of his duty he causes any of the men to be killed. See if that will sink home!”

  “I will speak to Captain Collins as well, sir. I believe that he is running very short of patience with the young man.”

  “Inform him that he will have my backing if he finds the need to take extraordinary measures with the boy. Any of the normal sorts of thing – double duties, prohibition of alcohol, any of the like will have my support.”

  Major Taft nodded, his face set in unaccustomedly serious frame.

  “I shall be sure that Collins knows you are unhappy, sir. The officers will all jump under that spur, sir. You have a name for severity, after all!”

  That was a pity, Septimus felt; he could have wished he had some other reputation. It would do in the field, however.

  Man of Conflict Series

  BOOK FOUR

  Chapter Two

  The tracks through the hills were, inevitably, muddy. They had been made by work parties concerned only to make their way from supply dump to site by the easiest route, which was always low in a valley floor. Rain made puddles in the roadway, because ditch-digging was not part of the job. The paths often wholly avoided the villages; the soldiers had had to keep well clear of the vineyards and olive groves and ordinary gardens that fed them; the only thing in their favour was that they were better than trying to climb the steep and stony hills.

  The hills had been stripped by goats over many generations; almost nothing grew on them and they were heavily eroded, lined by gullies for lack of vegetation to hinder the run off of the rains.

  Septimus gave up on the idea of fifteen miles a day. There was no point to pushing the men to exhaustion and to forcing the animals to collapse. They pottered along and took twice the time he had expected, and that led them to run short of fodder for the oxen. He sent the mules back to bring up the food that would keep the oxcarts moving, and that delayed them even further.

  It was an insightful introduction to campaigning in the Iberian Peninsula; it was slow and the wise soldier was self-sufficient.

  On the ninth day of travel they crossed a low hill and came in sight of the Castle of Nostra Senhora in its narrow and precipitous valley and were duly impressed. The rest of the Lines that they had seen, and they had been well in the rear of the works and had come across only a few of the lesser redoubts, had all been earthworks of thirty or forty feet high, massive but with sloping faces that disguised their height. The Castle was stone-built and traditional in its nature, designed in the age before cannon and relying on vertical walls and deep ditches to keep foot soldiers out and provide protection from arrows. The keep stood well over one hundred feet tall and the curtain walls were at least thirty, exaggerated by the dry ditches at their foot.

  The works had been taken by siege in past years – it was a frontier fortress and had presumably been a vital mediaeval defence point, controlling a valley that provided a route to the Tagus and Lisbon. The walls were broken in two places, presumably to allow a simultaneous assault that would split the defenders, and their stonework had tumbled down into slopes that could be walked with a little care. To the front of each of these breaches there was a new set of earthworks, still raw and brown, quite low but with a dozen artillery platforms each with a twelve- or nine-pounder gun in place.

  The mixture of ancient and new fortifications could be held, but would need good infantry as well as the artillery that sufficed in the modern redoubts of the rest of the Lines.

  The gate at the rear of the Castle was obviously the main entrance and was protected by a double set of towers set on either side of a deep but dry ditch. There was a sergeant’s guard in place, a dozen of green-uniformed men carrying muskets.

  “Who are they?”

  The adjutant sent a runner to find out – they could not recognise the badges.

  “Portuguese Militia, sir. Locally raised and commanded by the lord of the manor, or whatever the Portuguese call him. Carrying British muskets, sir, and quite smart, sir. Good challenge to our man.”

  Some of the Portuguese troops were said to be very good; others had the potential but still needed a great deal of training. The great bulk needed new officers before anything could be done with them.

  The gate remained closed.

  “What are they doing?”

  “The sergeant sent a man inside, sir, to get his orders.”

  They could not argue with that – it was just what a good sergeant should do.

  They waited another ten minutes before the main door was heaved wide open and a private soldier of the Militia came trotting down to them.

  “Is sorry for delay, sir. Please to enter inside, sir. There is big rooms for soldiers and small rooms for officers. And there is stables and place to put foods.”

  “Thank you. You speak good English, soldier.”

  “Was sailor, sir. On ships to London.”

  “Of course! I had forgotten that there is a big wine trade with Portugal.”

  “Officers to meet Commander, if please, sir.”

  “Of course.”

  Septimus was a little surprised – as far as he knew he was to take command of the Castle.

  One castle looks much like another to the casual eye – the keep that Septimus was led into was just another old, grey tower as far as he could tell. It was in use and had been inhabited forever so that all of its wooden floors were intact, unlike the few he had seen in England which had been hollow shells. He was led up a stone staircase that spiralled tightly in the wall and reached the first level in residential use. The rooms at ground level had all been full of stores, mostly in the form of sacks of flour.

  There was a man in a resplendent uniform, dazzling in gold lace and braid; a Field-Marshal, one might have said. Septimus had been told that every senior officer had fled to Brazil with the Royal Family; he was a little suspicious.

  “The Marquis of Almeirim, sir. He is major in command of the Militia.”

  “Colonel Sir Septimus Pearce, First Battalion, the Hampshire Regiment.”

  It seemed a good time to be formal, and to emphasize his rank.

  The Marquis nodded and said nothing; presumably he had no English. There was a group of officers behind him and some womenfolk, presumably their wives. One of the females stepped forward and made a formal curtsey; she announced herself in good English to be the wife of the Marquis and proposed to act as interpreter.

  “A courier came yesterday, Sir Septi
mus, and left sealed orders in a leather bag. They are here, sir.”

  Septimus took the bag from her, with his thanks. Close to, he noticed that she was much younger than her husband; he was nearing sixty while she was in her thirtieth year at most. She was a good-looking woman as well, black haired and with a well-rounded shape; he could understand why she had attracted her old husband, just the sort to give new life to the old dog.

  “May I retire with my orders, ma’am? I appreciate that it is discourteous, but I had expected to be here to receive them. As you will notice from my uniform, the battalion was delayed by mud!”

  She showed Septimus to a side room with a table and set about the process of introducing the two sets of officers to each other.

  The orders were simple, clear and easily understood. Septimus read them three times over to be sure of the fact.

  The Lines around Torres Vedras were designed as the winter base of the two armies, British and Portuguese; obvious enough. The French were to have no forage available to them; the harvest was to be brought inside the Lines or burned and all animals were likewise to be made unavailable to them. The people were to leave their villages and either flee to safe places of their own choosing or be brought behind the Lines. For two days' march, thirty miles north and east of the Lines, there was to be nothing for the French; beyond that range there was to be as little as possible, but it might not be practical to raze everything there.