“Yet we see drunkenness among the men on a daily basis, Sir Septimus.”
“We do, sir, and it is our greatest single weakness as an army. I presume you have heard the tales of the retreat to Corunna? Five thousand, at least, of men dead through the abuse of alcohol, and the crimes committed were appalling.”
“But not among the officers, at least, Sir Septimus. I cannot imagine that gentlemen would have been taken that way.”
“None of mine, though I lost far too many of the younger men. Not through the alcohol, however, sir.”
Colonel Dudley returned to his original theme.
“Surely, Sir Septimus, a good flogging will persuade the men of the unwisdom of drinking to excess.”
“No, sir. Have you observed the men after their beating? They will stagger from the triangle, those who can still walk, and go to their bottle, their cure-all. Most will come to the cat half-drunk if they possibly can. Nothing cures a drunkard!”
Dudley had to admit that he had noticed a number of both officers and men who tended to abuse the bottle, and who would not listen to admonition or order.
“It is still the case, Sir Septimus, that the men must be led, and only an officer and a gentleman can do that, drunk or sober!”
“Of my young men, sir, fewer than one half would make a claim to be gentlemen born. One at least I know to be the younger son of a successful apothecary who owns a number of shops in Winchester and Southampton and Portsmouth; a second is the son of an attorney in the town of Wickham, a man who had just sufficient funds to purchase and equip his boy. I myself, of course, am the younger son of a grain merchant; my brother is owner of the firm now. We have so many battalions under arms, and ships at sea, sir, that we must recruit heavily from the middle and lower orders of folk. I have my eye on three of my sergeants who will be offered a gentleman’s hat as we suffer losses on campaign.”
“I shall oppose that most strongly, Sir Septimus! It is entirely wrong that sergeants should be brought into the Mess to sit at table with their betters.”
“It is the case in every battalion in the field, sir, that good men are brought into the Mess. They soon learn to fit in, sir, in my experience. By the end of a long campaign, sir, one will commonly discover a large number of officers who have not purchased. Volunteers; sergeants; Militia officers who have brought recruits; all will be found and will be, normally, wholly competent in their duty. A year from now and I shall be amazed if as many as one half of my officers have the right to draw half-pay or to sell their commission. I expect still to have one of the best fighting battalions in this, or any other, army!”
Dudley was not convinced, but he needed Septimus and his large battalion if he was to register the success that would bring him employment in the field when he became major-general, which might well be at the next round of promotions announced. He was married and possessed a son who would much like a title to inherit, and that demanded recognition in battle, normally as a general.
“Well, Sir Septimus, discipline in any battalion is a matter for its colonel and I shall make no attempt to interfere with your effective ways, sir. No doubt you will wish to make the acquaintance of the officers of the other regiments in our brigade, sir.”
Septimus left the brigadier’s office with the foreboding that there would be conflict during the coming season. The man had no experience and little sense, he believed, and he knew that he, himself, lacked a little of tact and tolerance in his dealings with his seniors. He went in search of the New Foresters.
“Good morning, sir! A pleasure to welcome you to our encampment, sir!”
Major Howton saluted formally before permitting a smile and accepting Septimus’ hand to shake.
“May I say just how very pleased I am to see you in your rank and honour, Sir Septimus? The prospect of fighting alongside your battalion is one that I much look forward to, sir!”
“Thank you, Major Howton. I have no doubt that you will recognise all of our ways, sir – I learned them from you! How is Colonel Walters?”
Howton grimaced, commented briefly that the colonel was looking forward to the campaign. It would make a change from the tedium of keeping watch on the Channel coast for invaders who never came.
“He had no doubt that we should, single-handedly, defeat any force that tried to land on our beaches, Sir Septimus. I understand that he proposed to charge them with the bayonet as they came ashore.”
“Interesting! Leaving aside that they would have come in their thousands, just how did he propose to charge through the sand, or wet shingle, of a beach?”
“Mere technicalities, sir! Quibbling! British courage and high honour would overcome all such trivia!”
“I am glad to hear that, Major Howton. I shall very happily concede the place of honour in any campaign, so that my men can stand in awe and admiration of his verve.”
They entered the Mess, a large but tumbledown cottage very close to collapse under the unwonted use of too many men, where Septimus recognised fewer than half of the faces. It transpired that many of the older lieutenants had chosen to take promotion by purchase in other battalions; they had felt increasingly out of place in the battalion that Colonel Walters had been determined to create.
“A rather young Mess, Major Howton?”
“Young, green and moneyed, Sir Septimus! All very fierce and full of the destruction they shall wreak upon the French, and none of them with the least comprehension of war. The old ways of training the ensigns have been dropped and almost none of the new men know their drill or are familiar with the manoeuvres. They are expert at playing cards and sit their horses very prettily. What other skills does an officer need?”
“I see some of the older captains are still with you. Their presence must offer some comfort, Major Howton.”
“Six of the companies are wholly reliable still, sir. It is a sad relief to me that they have captains who cannot afford to purchase. They have all six seen service, of course. You know them all.”
Septimus did, and remade his old acquaintance with them.
“Will you dine with us, Sir Septimus?”
“I must join the general at table, I am afraid, Major Howton. It will, I have no doubt, be fatty mutton as a main dish!”
“You have dined with Lord Wellington before, it would seem, sir!”
“For my sins, yes. In Denmark and before that in the field in India.”
“Were you at Assaye, Sir Septimus?”
“No, we were given the garrison at Ahmednagar and were not present at the battle. Massively outnumbered and outgunned, Lord Wellington achieved one of the great victories of our age. I much wish I had been there.”
“Can the natives actually fight, Sir Septimus? Was it little more than a matter of knocking down spear-waving savages?”
“Yes and no. The Indians make the best of soldiers when treated properly. Their own leaders offer their people no more than contempt; they abuse them cruelly. John Company takes Indian volunteers and makes them into soldiers – they call them sepoys – who will stand toe to toe with the best in the world. The Indians are defeated solely because they have no great wish to fight for their own princes, and because those princes will not bestir themselves to learn generalship. Suffice it to say that I would have no hesitation in taking my battalion against ten thousands of Indians led by one of their rajahs and that I would tread very carefully indeed against a single properly officered regiment. I am told, by the way, that the people called the Sikhs, further to the north, are as strong a foe as the French and that those to the mountains are capable of defeating any who come against them. If you are ever posted to India, Major Howton, treat their armies with respect – they are more than capable of giving us a bloody nose, given a proper opportunity.”
“Much like the French, in fact, sir.”
“Very much. The little I have seen of the French in the field says that they have grown arrogant and are unwilling to learn from new experience. The Austrians, like the Indians, are
badly led by aristocrats who have nothing but contempt for their own people, and they are not too difficult to beat as a result. Russia seems not to be led at all! The Russians have huge numbers and nothing else, I believe. The Swedes have too few to match the French armies, and are officered by aristocratic idiots. As a result, the French believe that they can march over their opponents, that they can overawe them by noise and numbers and cause them to run. The attack on the fortifications I am currently holding was made on that basis – a pair of thin battalions attempting an escalade against walls held by equal numbers with two batteries of guns, which they knew about, I believe. They beat their drums and confidently expected the defenders to waver, and they had no plan in place against failure.”
Howton nodded thoughtfully.
“Disciplined musketry will break them, you say, sir.”
“I believe so. They expect to overwhelm a defence, which is all very well when it works, as it so often does, it would seem, but leaves them vulnerable when it fails. I have not myself seen what they are like in defence, but I suspect they will not be easily overcome. It is in attack that they may be defeated, I imagine.”
They talked and named past acquaintance and then Septimus made his farewells. He was amused that Colonel Walters, who must have been informed of his presence in the Mess, had not joined them, had made no attempt to offer a greeting. It would lead to an interesting summer season, he suspected; cooperation inside the brigade would be limited.
Lord Wellington had a welcome; brief and in no way effusive, he nonetheless made it clear that Septimus was a desirable guest.
“Too many newly raised battalions, Sir Septimus. Most of them will do their job, but they have to learn it first. Could say the same for too many of their officers as well. Your report on the action at the Castle of Nostra Senhora says that the French are not up to much, sir? Second-rate troops sent to a backwater do you think? A weakness in their line?”
“Possibly, my lord, but I suspect that they are too used to foreign Johnnies running from loud noises, my lord. They turned up outside the walls banging their drums and shouting their warcries and really seemed surprised that we did not run away. The Portuguese gunners behaved very well, my lord, and the battalion peppered them nicely with volley fire, and they seemed not to know what to do next. I am sure in my own mind, my lord, that they expect to walk over an enemy. They will exchange fire for a little while and then charge, because they know they are not to be defeated. Hit ‘em hard and push ‘em back and they are left at a loss for what comes after. Even when they were rallied, all they knew to do was to press forward again when they should have been taken away in good order, the day lost. They took more than three hundred dead and I know not how many wounded, most of them when it was obvious that their assault had failed.”
“So, you are inclined to let them attack and then break them before attempting to push forward yourself, Sir Septimus?”
“I believe that exposes their weakness, my lord. They are in the habit of victory, and that must be taken from them.”
“I agree. When I have faced them on the field of battle they have taken pains to attack first, even when they would have been wiser to hold and let me break my regiments on their defences. Strange way of doing things – they will march and countermarch for weeks, seeking the advantage, but when once they are committed to the battle all caution flies out of the window and they simply attack.”
“Is it the master they serve, my lord? This Bonaparte has the name for rewarding success and for penalising failure most severely. Did I not read, for example, that the French admiral at Trafalgar, one Villeneuve, was found to have committed suicide in the most dubious of circumstances just a few weeks later?”
“I have been told the same, Sir Septimus. Success gains extravagant praise, failure equally extreme condemnation. It is not my way, sir. You have your Castle secure, I presume? If the French are weak there, will it make a base for the whole army to press forward in the spring?”
“It is safe, my lord, but it is not in any way suitable for the army. A single and poor track leading to it and little more than hill paths going forward from it. The Castle serves to protect a small region rather than to be of national importance. There is no highway. I am not at all certain that one could even push a division forward to threaten a flank. It could be an irritation to the French, forbidding them the local hills and snapping at their lines of supply and possibly causing them to use troops that would otherwise face the main army to keep their rear and commissary trains secure. A brigade of infantry could be used to some effect, my lord, but I rather doubt one could move more than galloper guns over the tracks, and cavalry would lame too many horses to be useful. As for taking a train of wagons forward, my lord – I would not wish to be the Commissary entrusted with that task!”
“Good enough, Sir Septimus! Spain has very few highways, and an army is limited in its routes as a result. We must live with the world we have, however much we might like it to be different. What of this marquis fellow? Little more than a traitor, the Portuguese tell me.”
“He was determined to keep his feudal status, my lord – a servant of the king and knowing no other law. He believed that in the absence of his king he had no master.”
“Did I hear the word ‘was’, Sir Septimus?”
“You did indeed, my lord. I placed him under restraint and informed him that he was to be charged as a traitor and that I had no doubt that the Portuguese government would see him hanged. He was much upset by this and took counsel of his son, a young gentleman of like mind to him, and they secured their honour by dashing themselves onto the rocks at the bottom of the keep – a drop of more than one hundred feet. It seemed a fraction drastic to me, but his lady wife assured me that he had found it the least he could do in the circumstances. He had bidden her farewell in the most courteous fashion, she assured me, being content that she was with child and thus his line was secured.”
“One trusts he was happy with his decision, Sir Septimus.”
“One does indeed, my lord. It would be distressing to believe that he had changed his mind half way down!”
Wellington gave his great neigh of laughter, turned to his other guests, assuring Septimus that he would be busy in the summer and that he should give thought to the garrison he would leave behind.
The Portuguese militia and gunners would be wholly trustworthy and competent, Septimus was sure, and would probably prefer to remain in garrison. He would invite them to accompany him, any who wished, and he could then blood them in the first few days of the spring campaign when they moved forward into the big valley. They would show sufficiently reliable, he thought.
Returning to the Castle, weary from travelling through fresh snow and wanting little more than a hot dinner, he was confronted by an excited Major Perceval.
“I am glad to see you back, sir. Was all well at Headquarters? We have had a most interesting turn-up of events, sir!”
“What has happened? Has Bonaparte appeared outside the gates to offer his surrender?”
“Well, no, sir. Not that interesting! Deserters, sir, a whole platoon of eight and their corporal!
They showed themselves at dawn yesterday, waving a white flag on a stick and begging entrance. They were half-starved and said they had smelt our breakfast cooking and could not stand it any more. They said that they had had word that their rations were to be cut again next week and they are on barely one-half at present. They spend their off-duty hours huddled around their fires, drinking mugs of hot water, they told us, too tired and hungry even to play a game of dice!”
“Are they French or one of the conscript nationalities?”
Perceval did not know; it had not occurred to him that it might be important.
“A French general might well choose to keep reliable, loyal Frenchman on full rations while cutting the issue to Italians or Dutch or German troops who might not be so trustworthy when it came to battle.”
“But that would be shocki
ng cruel, sir! As well, would it not serve to make them of even less service to him?”
“Good point. Well thought, Major Perceval. Let us discover who and what they are. Bring them to me, with a French speaking officer.”
The nine were produced, nervous of a senior officer who might refuse their surrender and send them back to their own people and certain execution.
“Do any of you speak English?”
No response.
“Ask of the corporal, Lieutenant Duvivier, what are their nationalities.”
Duvivier was a Jerseyman, wholly bilingual.
“Beg pardon, sir, but I have spoken with them and their accents say they are townsmen from the north of the country, close to the borders. They might even be Walloons from Namur or nearby.”
“They would be considered to be Frenchmen?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Well, that knocks that theory on the head, Major Perceval. It also strongly suggests that they are all quite equally hungry in the garrison, except probably for the officers.”
“But, sir, would not the officers share the hardship of the men?”
“They certainly should, I agree.”
Perceval shook his head; he would not have eaten a single crust more than the least of his men.
“Ask them how many men remain in their garrison, Mr Duvivier.”
The corporal said he thought there were no more than six hundred of foot, together with three batteries of twelve-pounder guns. A thousand altogether.
“Cavalry?”
All had gone, pulled back some weeks before. According to rumour, they had been sent out to forage well to the rear.
Blood and Famine (Man of Conflict Series, Book 4) Page 13
