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

by Andrew Wareham

One at least of the villagers spoke some English – another seaman perhaps. Many of the young men took to the sea for a few years to save a little money and then come back in their thirties to wed and settle down. There was a growl of protest, followed by the shouting of their leader, the mayor or village headman or whatever he might be. The interpreter turned to Septimus.

  “Sir, he says they will do it but they do not have carts enough to carry everything at one time. They must come back three or four or even five times over.”

  “Tell them to start today. They must go to the Castle and there they will be shown dry places to store all that is theirs. They will as well be told where they can sleep and cook their food. They will be safe in the Castle. The lady of the Marquis will look to their well-being, and will, no doubt, find them work to do.”

  The interpreter turned back to the villagers.

  “Mr Taft, will you send a runner back to the Castle. A message to Major Perceval to inform him of all that I have agreed; another to Mr Black to see to the storage of the foodstuffs; a third to her ladyship to ask her to take charge of the women and families.”

  Quite deliberately, Septimus did not write the messages himself. It was time for Taft to grow into his rank.

  Some of the young men of the villagers were still protesting to their headman, trying to reverse his decision. Septimus beckoned to the interpreter, asked him what they were actually saying.

  “Sorry, sir. They say the French will kill the Marquis, cutting off his head. Then all the land will belong to the villagers. They should help the French.”

  “Say to them that the French will not be here for at least two weeks. I am here now, with four hundred muskets.”

  The interpreter shouted at the young men, told them what the English soldier had said. All except a very few became thoughtful.

  “Is there another village further along the valley?”

  The headman replied that there was not. The hills became very steep, not high especially, but impossible to plough, and only a few shepherds and goatherds were to be found there.

  “Send a messenger that they must bring their flocks in to the Castle or hide them very high where the French will not find them.”

  He said that it would be done.

  “One company to stay here overnight, Mr Taft, and make certain that the villagers are moving. A reliable captain, one who can maintain the most rigorous control of the men. Inform the men that I will hang out of hand any who think to sack the village. Tell the captain that he will lose his commission in front of a court-martial if so much as one of his men abuses the villagers.”

  “I think we may trust the men, Colonel. We have no gaol-delivery this time, sir.”

  “I hope you are right, Major Taft. We are to remain in this vicinity over the whole of the winter. I do not want a bitter population of villagers taking knives to our backs.”

  One company remained and the other four turned their faces to the west and marched for nearly two hours to the next village, a smaller place, the valley narrowing as it turned between the spurs of two sets of hills before opening up towards the sea.

  “More of animals, less of grain here, sir.”

  Major Taft had grown up on his father’s estate, was far more attuned to the agricultural life.

  “Paddocks and pens, sir, rather than big barns.”

  “So it is – I would not have noticed that had you not told me. Can you tell what sort of animals they might be?”

  “Some horses, sir, riding stock for the Castle, I suspect. It may well be the Marquis’ own private stud and his personal land, the sort of thing we would call a Home Farm.”

  Septimus wondered if that might mean that the people would see themselves as the Marquis’ personal retainers, bound to him by a special loyalty.

  “We will require all of those horses to be brought into our control, Major Taft. The French must not lay their hands upon them.”

  The interpreter seemed somewhat nervous, begged a word with Major Taft.

  “He says that this estate is under the control of the Marquis’ agent, or perhaps bailiff might be a better word. Seneschal even, because it seems a mediaeval sort of place. Whatever, sir, if he is seen to be working with us then he will be remembered when we are long gone; he will have no place, no future here if the agent takes against him.”

  “I need a man to speak for me. Has he any Spanish, do you know?”

  A brief conversation and he said that he had as much or more Spanish than English.

  Septimus turned directly to the interpreter, offered him a place as his servant.

  “For always, to stay with me and to go back to England, or to wherever I am sent. You will be paid and will be part of my staff until you die.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Your name?”

  “Please to call me Peter, sir. I am to stay with you, then I shall have an English name, sir. If you please.”

  “Peter it is. Cooper!”

  “Sir?”

  “Peter is employed with us, to join with you and Dinesh. Look after him. Work out a proper wage for him as well.”

  Cooper was happy to assist – the employment of another man, junior to him, increased his prestige.

  They marched into the hamlet, its cottages identical to those further up the valley and dwarfed by a manor house, small by the standards of the English country house yet, at twenty bedrooms, vast by comparison to anything Septimus had seen outside of Lisbon.

  “Billets for the night, Cooper. See to it.”

  Cooper saluted and made his way to the house.

  “Peter, do you know where the agent is normally to be found?”

  There was a cottage close to the stables that served as an office, and presumably dwelling for the agent.

  They entered and were ordered out; the agent had received no instructions from his master and in their absence had nothing to say to foreigners, or to their traitorous lackeys.

  Septimus remained unmoving.

  “Inform the gentleman that he will take himself, his grooms and all of the horses to the Castle today. In the event of refusal he will be placed under restraint and the grooms will take the horses at the point of the bayonet.”

  There were screams of outrage, lasting several minutes unbroken.

  “He says, sir, that he will not and you will not. He makes big threats, sir. His master is a very great man, sir, and will see you shot!”

  “Major Taft! This gentleman to be placed under arrest – in irons would be best, I think, so as to make it clear to the lesser people of the estate just what has happened. One company to take the stables, the others to empty the cottages and workplaces and bring all of the people together. A platoon to the big house; we shall be sleeping there tonight so the cooks need be busy and we shall want beds made up for the officers. Inform the company officers that they should discover comfortable quarters for their men. Make arrangements for a guard, if you would be so good.”

  The stables contained the riding stock for the estate, as Taft had surmised, a dozen of blood mares and a single uncut stallion in addition to seven geldings of good enough configuration to be retained as riding stock, even if not to breed from. There were colts and fillies of the season’s breeding as well; Taft thought it must be a very profitable undertaking, a source of revenue to the estate.

  “Peter, do you know the senior groom?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring him to me, if you please.”

  The groom was inclined to refuse to cooperate, at first.

  “Peter, please to inform the gentleman that every horse still here by dusk will be shot. He may choose whether to lead them to the Castle or to see them killed. They may not stay here for the French to take them.”

  “What of foods for the horses, sir?”

  “Everything to go with them to the Castle. If it takes more than one day then that is acceptable. If the French come first then then the fodder that is left will be burned. The grooms are to take their fam
ilies with them and all of their own food as well. The village is to be emptied of everything of use to the French.”

  Peter was very persuasive, and the sight of the agent in cuffs and leg-irons horrified the men sufficiently that they would not argue. The threat to their horses completed the process of obtaining their cooperation.

  “I have told them that you have locked the Marquis into a cell, like a criminal, sir. You have said he is a traitor. They do not like it, sir, but they will not fight.”

  The Marquis’ retainers were too much shocked to consider violent refusal to cooperate. They had spent lifetimes obeying orders and now, bereft of the Marquis and his man, they could not act for themselves.

  It all seemed quite simple and Septimus began to relax. A firm hand, the issue of a few realistic threats and all was easy enough. He rose from a comfortable bed, probably the Marquis’ own, in optimistic mood. Cooper provided hot shaving water and he was even more convinced that all was well with the world.

  Breakfast included fresh-baked bread, a rare luxury on campaign.

  Taft had done the rounds of his sentries and could confirm that every horse had been walked out before dusk, and had been taken to the correct place.

  "I thought maybe they might try to take them off into the hills, sir, so I sent two platoons with them, just to keep an eye cocked. They ain't happy, sir, but the first ones to get to the Castle came back and told them that the Marquis is under arrest in a cell and might not ever be let out again. His son as well is in prison and they know that his lady is more inclined to be easier-going than either of the men. Many of them are still worried that the Marquis will be let out in a few days and then they will be in deep trouble, sir."

  "He won't be free while there is a French army close. What will happen when the Frogs are chased out is a different matter, but there's no need to tell them that."

  A company had to be left at the stud village, to ensure that everything was removed, only the bare walls left to the French. Three companies marched west in mid-morning.

  The next village had received the word, which was hardly surprising, and was busily loading carts. The older men promised faithfully that nothing would be left - the cousins of the headman had lived in a village taken by the French in their previous invasion and they knew what to expect of them. They offered bread to the soldiers and promised to do all they could to help them over the winter.

  "What of the Marquis, Peter?"

  "They say that he is locked up now; the French are free, sir."

  "Sensible!"

  They marched quickly to the next place which was the market for the whole valley, almost one hundred of cottages and slightly larger houses set around a square on one side of the river in four separate, crossing streets. It seemed likely, at a glance, that the river was deep and sufficiently wide to take small barges, even coastal boats; there was a stone quayside. They also had their own Militia, stood behind a barrier across the roadway.

  "Peter?"

  The interpreter walked forward and there was an exchange of Portuguese, lasting for the better part of ten minutes.

  "They say they will not go. They will say the same to the French. This war is none of theirs, so they say. They will fight any soldiers who come into the village."

  "Silly men. Speak to them. Tell them they can take all of their people and all of their food to the Castle. We will steal nothing. The French will steal everything, including their women."

  Peter began the task of attempting to persuade the villagers to change their minds while Septimus turned to Major Taft.

  "How many would you say, Major?"

  "I count nearly forty at the barricade and probably one hundred in the village itself, sir. I can see muskets and fowling pieces at the windows, sir."

  "Send one company to the river bank to the east, another to the west and order the captains to move into the village as soon as the first shot is fired, and to work their way back to us here. Burn out any strongpoint. Torch all storehouses of any sort. Be ready for a ceasefire and do not let the men get out of hand."

  "Yes, sir."

  Taft said no more but let his whole manner show that he was unhappy with the orders.

  "Peter?"

  "They will not change their minds, sir."

  "So be it. Tell them that it is on their own heads. I shall burn the whole village, starting in five minutes from now. Shout the message and run - they may well try to shoot you first!"

  "Some of them are hunters, sir, with rifles. It is too far to run!"

  Septimus stood, watch in hand, very obviously counting down the minutes. Peter gave his last message and walked back, swaggering, defiant of the rifles he was sure were aiming at his back.

  "Advance the men, Major Taft!"

  Septimus stepped ten paces in front of the men and led the march forward to the barricade, deciding how best to get across it. Two oxcarts lengthwise, tree trunks from the firewood piles laid across. Deep ditches on either side of the road making it difficult, but not impossible, to go round. The defenders were relying on the accurate rifles to hold the muskets off, he assumed. Rifles were slow to reload and his eighty men in the single company would fire at least two shots to their one, and the wooden barricade would splinter under the heavy rounds of the muskets.

  The range closed, inside one hundred yards and every rifle bullet should hit. Septimus increased his pace a little, brought the men to eighty yards then called the halt.

  "Fix bayonets!"

  The sergeants called the orders and the men responded with parade ground smartness, the blades all flashing together.

  A volley or a further advance?

  Once the firing started then there would be a battle; far less chance of a quick surrender. But a first and accurate volley might possibly break the back of their resistance immediately. Eighty rounds at eighty yards should put forty at least of lead balls into the barricade, many of them to penetrate and hit the men behind and the shower of splinters to wound more. Perhaps as many as one half of the defenders would be hurt. It might be sufficient to cause them to give up. It might make them bitterly determined to avenge their sons and fathers and brothers. There was no way of telling.

  "Bring the men forward behind me, Major Taft. Drop back another ten paces. A volley at the first shot."

  Septimus marched forward; he could hear a muttered litany of obscenity from Cooper, at his shoulder, musket in hand.

  Sixty yards.

  He saw the long barrels shifting to point directly at him, six or seven of them. No other movement to his front.

  Forty yards.

  They had delayed too long; they would not be able to reload before the bayonets were upon them.

  Twenty yards.

  He could pick out the faces behind the stocks of the rifles and muskets and fowling pieces. If they were loaded with buckshot, muskets and fowling pieces both, then they would make a mess of his men... Keep going, he was committed, could not hesitate now.

  Ten yards.

  He could step up onto the cart on the left and then vault over the logs there where they were a little lower... it should be possible. He would look a complete bloody fool if he stumbled and fell on his backside in front of them...

  "Peter! Call them to put their guns down."

  He heard the shout as he heaved himself up onto the cart and looked squarely into the barrel of a scatter gun. Twelve bore, he thought, possibly a fraction bigger; it would spread his head over half an acre if the man pulled the trigger. It would be quick, though - no chance of a lingering wound here!

  He looked the shooter in the eye.

  "Well?"

  They needed no interpreter to understand the challenge and the choice. The gun lowered and its owner jerked his head sideways, an invitation.

  Septimus climbed down among them; he pointed to the barricade and raised the other hand to halt the company.

  The defenders pulled the carts and timbers to the sides of the track and stood back, all in silence. />
  "Peter, tell them they must leave the village; they must start today. Let them keep their guns - they will need them when the French come. Some of them may wish to join with us to raid the French; others will want to hold the Castle's walls, to protect their families."

  "They say you crazy man, sir. Must not shoot or you come back to the village every night and keep them from sleep. Mad bugger!"

  "Thank you, Peter. I am quite happy not to become a ghost just yet."

  Cooper had run out of obscenities to mutter but was heard to say very quietly that he had a spare pair of breeches in his pack if they were needed.

  "Very nearly, Cooper. Not this time, but a near-run thing!"

  "That'll shut the new blokes up anyway, sir. Half of them didn't believe the stories they was told about Stroppy Seppy - they do now, I'll be bound!"

  Septimus laughed - he wondered just what this tale would be exaggerated into. It did the men good to believe that some at least of the officers were wild men who could outdo them in the field.

  Major Taft was staring at him again - he had been silent, uncharacteristically so, since they had entered the village.

  "Excuse me, sir, but do you have to do things like that when you become a colonel?"

  "Occasionally, Major Taft. You know the old saying, 'Rank hath its privileges'? Acting the fool like that is sometimes one of them."

  "Perhaps I shall remain a major, sir!"

  Septimus laughed, wondering if he might not have been better advised to do the same.

  He took all three companies with him next morning, making the point that he trusted the villagers to keep their word. They had made a promise and he would not display doubts of their honour.

  "How many more, Peter?"

  "One village and one little fishing place, sir. The fishermen, they will not be waiting, they have boats and can bugger off away from the soldiers. They will leave nothing, sir, if they go. But, maybe they come back again."

  "The French will butcher them if they do. I will have a message sent to the navy, perhaps, to work inshore along the coast. They may well be doing so already."

  The last inland village was half-empty, its people passing them on the track leading to the Castle.