Septimus wrote the answers down; he would send the report to headquarters.
“Are all of the thousand fit for duty?”
Duvivier said that at any given moment as many as two hundred would be out in the hills, seeking out flocks or wild goats, occasionally coming across villagers with stocks of food, just a little, sufficient for a family or two for the winter, enough to make a meal for the garrison.
“And the villagers are left to starve, I presume?”
Duvivier asked the question, received a brief, dismissive response.
“No, sir. The villagers do not survive the encounter.”
“Barbarians!”
Duvivier did not translate; it was probably unnecessary.
“What of the sick? Are there many in the care of their doctors?”
Duvivier asked the question and then queried the answer he was given before turning back to Septimus.
“He says they have no doctor with them, sir. Their man fell ill and died on the march across Spain and was never replaced. Almost all of the wounded from their attempt to take the Castle died, he says, and any who fall sick are left in their quarters under whatever care their own people can give them. Generally they do not do very well. He thinks they might lose ten and more men every week to illnesses.”
“What of the artillery? Are they any better off?”
Duvivier asked the question.
“They say that they do not know. The gunners keep to themselves. They have taken their horses back a few leagues – how far he does not know – to seek pasture and keep them safe from the hungry men.”
“They will be unable to move their guns, it would seem. Where are the batteries located?”
The deserters were taken away and Septimus raised an eyebrow to Perceval.
“Well, major?”
“We might think about an attack, sir. Their guns at least could be taken.”
“I agree. When?”
Perceval creased his brow and gave himself to deep thought – there was obviously reason behind the question.
“The longer we wait, sir, the weaker they become… But if we delay too long, then they will be able to retreat and reorganise themselves. They will not wish to take to the tracks in winter, or so I should imagine. They will not be able to march in the first days of spring, in the thaw when the mud will be thick. I think, sir, we should not attack for a month but that we should then put out patrols and watch them. When we see that they are readying themselves to go, that is when we should make our assault.”
“I agree. Fully! For the moment, it is obvious that they have patrols out at night, in platoon strength. Our deserters were such. It would be an idea to put our own people out at night, I think. Get Mr Duvivier to discover the routes that the French commonly take and then send out half-companies to ambush them. We can cause them considerable annoyance, I believe!”
Man of Conflict Series
BOOK FOUR
Chapter Six
“They have a garrison in each of the villages, sir, and each is responsible for part of the valley. Sometimes they send the guard platoon on a march of their patch, sir, but some nights they sit in ambush on one of the tracks. They vary the pattern at random, sir, so that they never know which they will do until they actually receive the night’s order.”
Lieutenant Duvivier was slightly regretful as he gave information on the efficiency of the French. It would have been much more enjoyable to demonstrate that they were incompetent.
“Annoying. It would be so much easier if they would stick to a routine. Cancel the order to send out half-companies, Major Perceval. We might well be the ones who were surprised, I fear.”
Septimus sat back in his chair, leaning closer to the fire; he had no love for cold weather, he found. Corunna had left him with a desire to stay warm for the rest of his life.
“I do not wish to remain inactive for the remainder of the winter, Major Perceval. What can we do?”
Perceval said that he would think about the matter, and went off to confer with Major Taft, and then with all of the other officers.
The sole suggestion that was offered was to watch from the hills, to send patrols out every day with a telescope.
“But the Portuguese are doing that already, gentlemen.”
“Ah, yes, sir, but there can be little doubt that two sets of eyes will be better than one!”
“What of a return to raiding at night, gentlemen? A possibility, perhaps, of tossing stinkpots into a battery or through the windows of sleeping quarters. They will then be not only hungry but tired, unable to rest at their ease.”
“Have we such things, sir? I have seen none in our issue to the men.”
It was a good question. Septimus had heard of stinkpots and grenadoes, but he had never actually come across them. He called for Mr Black.
The Quartermaster had none of either in his stores but he believed them to be easy of manufacture.
“Traditionally, sir, one uses a clay pot with a lid that may be tied on tight, part filled with gunpowder and with shards of cast iron on top. A fuze to light, a short length of slow match or a much longer piece of quick, and a strong arm to throw and one has a bomb that may do great destruction.”
“Have we clay pots to hand?”
“No, sir, but we do have empty gin bottles, which are always made of very thick glass. There will be brandy bottles as well, but they are generally made of a better-quality, thinner glass, sir.”
“Brandy takes fire, does it not?”
Black gave thought to that, suggested that they could perhaps tie a bag of powder to a bottle of cheap brandy and light the fuze and throw, possibly to great effect.
“Is there any particular reason why it should be cheap brandy, Mr Black?”
Black was hard-pressed to remain courteous, his quartermaster’s soul outraged at the thought of using the best for mere arson.
They experimented and found that the resulting missile was clumsy but could be thrown over the distance of a cricket pitch with fair accuracy. They tried with empty bottles and a bag of sand, being unwilling to waste too much liquor; they thought it might well create some considerable annoyance, the flaming brandy probably spreading over several yards.
The Grenadier Company was the obvious choice to use the weapon first; they were always the largest and strongest men of the battalion, chosen to lead the charge or hold at hand-to-hand. They regarded themselves as the elite of the battalion and seemed unaware that the rest of the men were quite happy to let them go first when there was a wall to take or a trench to be secured.
Septimus wanted to go out himself, but was frowned at when he made the suggestion. Raiding parties were not to be commanded by colonels, he was sternly told. The senior lieutenant of the company took the job for himself, to the annoyance of his junior who wanted the opportunity to shine.
“You know your task, Mr Webb?”
“Yes, sir. I have sat up on the hill with a telescope and I know the land, sir. The battery nearest to our little valley, the one that covers our track, is some three hundred yards across the fields from the point where the track turns up to us. It is badly sited, sir – that is too great a range for canister to be fully effective and they must fire ball which will do less harm to infantry. I think they will have put it there because it is on a slight rise and will be drier underfoot, far less muddy in spring. They have built stone walls about the guns for protection from musket fire, and they have wooden shacks and one stone place behind the guns. I suspect that the sole stone building must be their magazine, their powder store; I have not seen a door, so it must open backwards, towards the rear, which again suggests it to be at risk from explosion. There is a track which leads down from the hills and across the valley nearly a quarter of a mile to the south-east of the battery, joining the little road that runs up the valley. I would wish, sir, to take my patrol down the track from the hill in the last of the daylight and wait in hiding until it is fully dark before advancing further. Then,
if it be possible, we shall try to bomb the magazine, sir.”
Septimus had hardly spoken to Webb previously, other than casually in the Mess over a glass. He was taken aback by his educated eloquence; one did not expect literacy from subalterns.
He enquired of Major Taft later whether Mr Webb commonly spoke so long and fluently.
“Yes, sir. He went to Latin school, sir. His father had wished him to attend at the University and perhaps become a scholar, or take Holy Orders, sir, but Mr Webb wanted the Army and persuaded him so eventually. He is a third son, so his death would be no disaster to the family and his father was able to make him a good allowance. One might have thought he would have gone for a more senior regiment than ours, but he wanted the Hampshires for being his own county regiment. I have a liking for the young man and will be happy to see him a captain, sir.”
“Possibly a problem, Major Taft. We have more than one able lieutenant seeking a vacancy as captain. We may have to choose. I would like to see young Melksham rising very soon, but Mr Webb is certainly impressive. Will he go out tonight?”
“Tomorrow is the plan, sir, except it rains heavily. It might be difficult to light fuzes was it to be pouring. Snow, of course, would be very useful.”
There was a high wind and almost horizontal rain next afternoon and they decided it were far better to stay at home in the warm and dry barracks rooms in the Castle, but there was a thick snowfall on the following day. Septimus carefully did not notice as the platoon set out under Webb’s command, not a man wearing his shako or greatcoat but all wrapped up in sheepskins and waterproof oiled canvas hats. They were wearing gloves, he saw, peeking out of his window; woollen nether garments as well, no doubt. He could not officially approve of so blatant a breach of Army regulations, but he could make damned sure he never saw it, he thought. He had intended to walk down the ravine after dark and observe events from a distance, but the snowfall was such that he would not have seen a thing at three hundred yards distant. He sat by his fire, only part regretful that he was not out where the action was.
Perceval and Taft were both out on the ramparts, pointlessly, for they could see no more than half a furlong, but neither could be at ease while they waited, able to do nothing. Septimus peered out at them and decided that he must be seen to be at least as concerned as they were. He wrapped himself up warmly and ventured outside. It was well below freezing and he regretted moving almost instantly.
“How soon, gentlemen?”
“Not for an hour at least, sir. Mr Webb was not to stir before full dark and then he has to follow the track, locate the sentries, place his men and make the attack and then to fall back to the ravine, sir. I have detailed the remainder of his company to go down to the foot of the track, sir, where the Frogs built that wall, to hold there in case of pursuit.”
“Sensible, Major Taft.”
Septimus was quite pleased with the pair; they were growing far more useful in their jobs.
“How many bombs did Mr Webb take with him?”
“Four of the brandy incendiaries, sir, and a dozen of gin bottle grenadoes. And long lengths of slow match to light them, sir, so that they do not have to struggle with a tinder box in the snow. It seems very English, somehow, sir, to make war with booze!”
It was a hard drinking country, Septimus had to admit. Mr Pitt, he remembered, had consumed his three bottles of port a day for a number of years; it had killed him in the end, admittedly, but he had not been so exceptional an example.
“I cannot recall, gentlemen, that we experimented with the grenadoes.”
“Oh, I am sure they will detonate, sir.”
“So am I. Do we have any knowledge of how far they will throw the glass and iron shards? We think they may be tossed over some twenty yards. What if the debris of the explosion is cast out over thirty?”
That was a very good question, they belatedly realised.
“They are to be cast through the windows of the billets, sir. We must trust the French do not have shutters.”
“There will be doors as well, and they cannot keep them permanently shut, or if not then the first explosion may blow them open.”
There was nothing to be done. They waited a few minutes then decided they would do better in the mess where there was a large fire.
The Grenadier Company marched out, well bundled up with scarves and gloves and fleeces discreetly tucked away under their greatcoats. All were big men; tonight they were massive for the layers covering them. Septimus stared keenly, noted that every man had rag wrapped round his flintlock, his priming powder protected from the snow.
“Damned flintlocks, gentlemen! In this day and age we should do better than mere flint and steel to ignite our powder!”
“I have heard tell of percussion tubes, sir. A little, open straw of powder with a substance at its end that explodes when struck. Push the straw, or piece of paper as it might be, into the firing hole and then strike it with the hammer and there is a jet of strong fire into the charge. I have not seen one, though. I believe it to be a device invented in the Germanies, sir.”
“I would like to see the invention, Major Taft. There would be much to be said for it, if it worked and was not impossibly costly.”
They talked idly, and waited. Dinner had been delayed, would be taken late that night, the Mess having agreed that it would not be right for them to be sat down eating in comfort while some of their people were out risking their lives. Besides that, Mr Webb would be hungry when he returned…
The Mess Sergeant appeared, trotted across to Septimus.
“Grenadier Company is in, sir. Mr Webb is with them.”
“Tell the cooks. Thirty minutes.”
The sergeant scurried off – he never walked.
Septimus made his way to his office, Perceval and Taft behind him. Webb came in a few minutes later, having removed his top coat and brushed the snow and mud from his boots.
“Successful, Mr Webb?”
“I believe so, sir. One man lost, sir. He ran in close to the barrack room and lobbed his grenadoe against a window, sir, and missed, sir. It hit the wall, bounced back and rolled down the slope towards him, all unnoticed in the thick snow, sir. We spotted and shouted too late, sir. They explode very strongly, we discovered.”
“Very unfortunate, Mr Webb. What of the others?”
“The brandy bombs were most effective, sir. Five of the men made their way to the rear of the magazine and killed the sentry they found huddled up in the shelter of the doorway. Then they lit the slow match on four bombs at the same moment and rolled them inside and ran, sir. The explosion was most impressive, sir! The stone was dry laid, I think, sir, and the walls were thrown out for a hundred yards or more! Two of the barracks rooms were almost flattened, sir, with, one must presume, a number of gunners inside. Windows were blown in on all of the other buildings and we ran up and tossed grenadoes through the openings, which was when Private Hawker died. All of the grenadoes fired, sir, and I pistoled the two sentries on the battery itself when they challenged us. They were hidden out of the way of the cold and snow, I suspect, sir, and did not appear till late on. We would not have had time to spike the guns, sir, nor to overload them. I cannot estimate just how many French we killed, but it was certainly no few, sir.”
“Well done indeed, Mr Webb! I am very pleased with you, sir, and with your men, as goes without saying. There is a rum issue waiting for the men and I suggest you go and warm yourself in the Mess, sir. We dine in a few minutes.”
Septimus made brief notes for the report he would send to headquarters before going into dinner himself. It had been a good evening.
He called the majors to him next morning.
“Was you a Frog, Major Perceval, what would you be doing this morning?”
“Swearing, sir, and writing a report to the General Commanding to say that we had taken substantial losses and needed a load of powder in replacement as well as more gunners… As well, sir, I would be out for blood, thinking on it. C
ourt-martial for the gunner officer in charge of the battery; he’ll be lucky to avoid a firing-squad, the way the French go on! Then, I would want to hit back at Johnny Rosbif…”
“Rosbif?” Taft enquired.
“Roast Beef, so I am told, Taft. One of the things the Frogs call us. One of the politer ones, I expect.”
“Pickets out on the hill paths, gentlemen, and a platoon down the ravine. Two hourly reliefs, night and day. Well concealed pairs of men, regularly checked by their corporals and sergeants. Tea hot in the cookhouse at all times; extras cooked during the night so that the men are fed when they come in cold and tired.”
They agreed it was necessary, reluctantly because they knew that they must inspect the pickets themselves at least every other night.
“They ran, sir. The picket fired, just the two rounds, and the Frogs just upped sticks, sir, and were gone into the night. No bodies – both missed, which is no surprise in the night, sir. They just gave up whatever they had intended, sir.”
“They have taken high casualties, eaten too little food, slept in cold billets for too long. Their spirit is gone, for the while. They will recover, probably quite quickly, but for the while, they have had enough, I believe. Their men cannot be brought to command, it would seem. They must know that we will advance in the spring. I wonder what their generals intend.”
The French retreated just two days later. Septimus was woken with the news that the villages in the valley were burning.
“They’re running, gentlemen. Stand-to as soon as the men have eaten. We must push forward, nip at their heels if possible, deprive them of the time to settle themselves. Mr Collier! A messenger to headquarters to inform Lord Wellington that they are moving; as yet we do not know whether it is a tactical withdrawal to straighten their lines or if it is a full retreat. Mr Perceval, two companies to hold the Castle. Mr Taft, march your people down the valley to the sea and then take them onto the track over the hills to the Count’s villages. All necessary caution, sir! Do not stumble into a rearguard all unwarned! That said, push them hard – cut up stragglers, make them run, get into their baggage if they have any.”
Blood and Famine (Man of Conflict Series, Book 4) Page 14
