Major Perceval suggested that they should keep them when they were no longer needed for the guns; they could be used in camp to quickly erect shelters in bad weather. He was corrected, pityingly, by very tolerant and patient soldiers – they could not use hurdles for that purpose, because hurdles were for sheep, not men.
“I say, sir! Does that make sense?”
Septimus grinned and sought for the right words; not finding them he was forced to be blunt.
“Yes. They think it does and we are not about to argue over something so minor to us but important to them. If we insist that they use the hurdles, then they will know we are treating them like animals. To make shelters from them is to say they are no better than sheep; it would be an insult that could destroy the spirit of the whole battalion. We may keep the hurdles to make wind-breaks round their cooking fires, as an example, or to help waterproof the quartermaster’s store of powder and flour; but we must not try to make the men sleep under them, for they believe that to be wrong.”
“That still don’t make sense, sir!”
“It does to them, Major Perceval, and what we cannot change, we must live with!”
“I still think it is very foolish, sir.”
“So do I. But then, considering the matter, so is the whole of an army. There is not so much in our world that is more foolish than us, but that does not stop us from doing what is necessary. We simply must not ask why it is necessary and then all is well in our heads. The same with the hurdles, Major Perceval – don’t ask why, because I suspect that if you once starting asking things, then you will never stop.”
“That youngster Meek was forever asking why, sir. It was one of the things about him that put me out of patience with him.” Perceval suddenly started to laugh. “I wonder if he has discovered his answers now? I doubt it, somehow, sir!”
Septimus could not be sure whether Perceval was displaying unexpected depths or commonplace shallowness; it was not a matter for soldiers to pursue, however. If they once started to consider, to acknowledge even, the presence of death, then they would find their trade very difficult to follow.
“Patrols in the woodland about the camp, Major Perceval – a matter of some debate. I cannot make my mind up whether we should continue them within perhaps an hour of us or if it would be wiser simply to put pickets out at perhaps a quarter of a mile distant.”
Perceval blinked and then realised that Septimus was changing the topic of conversation; no more of hurdles or death.
“Ah… yes. Pickets, sir. Full platoons out during daylight hours, returning to the camp before dusk, sir. As much as anything so that any Frogs in the area can know that they are there and stay at a distance. So they will be permitted to light their fires and brew up tea, sir, so as to be properly visible.”
“I agree. See to it, if you would be so good. The work of the next little while will be done by the cavalry, or so we expect, and the French infantry, even if out on patrol, will not be in the way of attacking the pickets and will be thankful for the opportunity to keep well clear of trouble.”
The Portuguese horsemen came in that afternoon, bringing the despatches from the Castle and carrying a mailbag as well. Peter spoke to them and informed Septimus that all was well in the Castle and that the villagers were moving back into their lands and starting to put a crop in, though mostly coming back at night to sleep in shelter. Some were talking of not rebuilding their villages but of staying at the Castle as a permanence, putting up with the inconvenience of an hour’s walk out to their fields of a morning as better than losing everything again if the French came back.
“It is their choice. No man can tell what will happen next year, Peter. The war may end, or it may go on for another ten years; the French may never be seen again outside their borders, or they may conquer the whole world. Was I a farmer, then I think I might be careful too.”
Septimus was more interested in the activity in the adjutant’s tent where the despatches were being opened first before the mailbag could be touched.
Collier appeared, shaking his head.
“Routine, sir, for brigade. I will send them across, sir. Returns of strength and suchlike, sir. No orders.”
The Portuguese regarded themselves as belonging to Septimus and would not report to the brigadier, although military courtesy said that despatches should cross his desk first. The brigadier’s staff were much put out by the procedure, but could find no way of changing it, making it more proper.
“Letters from home, sir! Two minutes while we sort them out, sir!”
The word spread and all of the off-duty men who had reason to suppose that they might be written to, a minority always, drifted across to stand waiting hopefully for the Sergeant-Major to call their names.
Collier brought three letters from England to Septimus.
He inspected the outer covers first – no black borders, so no reports of tragedy.
Two from Marianne, one from brother George; there was, as always, no indication of which was the earlier letter.
Man of Conflict Series
BOOK FOUR
Chapter Ten
The first letter he opened was three months old; Marianne briefly assured him she was well and that all was progressing as it should and then gave him what she regarded as the far more interesting news of the estate and of brother George’s business dealings. All was for the best at the Lodge and they were prospering despite the new taxes and the general downturn in trade that had occurred; the sheepwalks were newly grassed and new breed sheep had been bought in, exactly as he had planned. Brother George was writing a letter as well, one of some importance, she believed.
Septimus turned to George’s letter, in the hope of keeping the news in sequence.
George, it seemed, prospered more than ever and had bought out another local firm, for he had been protected from the slowdown by his government contracts for supplies to the barracks and naval dockyards; directly commercial dealings made up an increasingly small part of his trade.
Septimus smiled appreciatively; George contributed heavily to the government’s private fund for indigent politicians, of whom there were an increasing number, it seemed. The government in return steered any number of generously priced contracts in George’s direction, and incidentally displayed a benevolent interest in Septimus’ military career. It was the way of the world, and Septimus was not about to complain that it was so.
George continued that profits were up and showing most respectable indeed and he would place the sum of four thousands to Septimus’ bank account for the year.
Septimus made a quick calculation, deciding that George was probably making an income greater than that of most peers in the realm; his son must surely rise to the ranks of the aristocracy, especially if he was put into a well-chosen marriage.
The second letter from Marianne was more recent, less than four weeks since it was penned, and it was rapidly obvious that there had been another, written at the two months mark, for Marianne sent five or six sheets faithfully every month. She assumed that the missing letter had reached him and made references to ‘the children’ that puzzled him until he reached the second sheet and discovered that they had been baptised George Septimus and Henry Michael.
“Twins! Small wonder she was so great!”
Both were thriving, strong boys, she told him, though she had had to supplement their feeding with the services of a wet-nurse, being unable to supply a sufficiency for two big lads herself. They promised to be true Pearces, she thought: great, powerful men they would become.
“Cooper! Lady Pearce has been delivered of twins, two big boys! All three are well!”
The word spread: the men grinned – more power to the colonel’s elbow, randy old bugger that he was! The Mess demanded a celebration, resulting in the inevitable hangover.
Septimus stirred out of his cot late next morning, to be greeted by the news that French horse had been spotted at the limit of visibility.
“Tell them to go a
way, Cooper. I am not up to fighting today. Send a messenger to tell them we are not open for business!”
Cooper was unmoved by his agonies.
“Breakfast is on the table, sir. Black coffee and a nip of brandy. Drink both, sir, because you got to be going in five minutes.”
“Damn it to Hell, Cooper! All right, man, stop bloody moaning!”
Septimus tossed the brandy down his throat and manfully forced it back down as it tried to return; he held onto the back of his chair and shuddered and swore. The coffee he sipped, too hot to gulp. A few minutes and he felt slightly more human. He pulled on his uniform, hearing a stir outside. He stood upright, made the effort of getting to his desk so that he seemed to have been disturbed from his paperwork when an ensign trotted in.
“Yes, Mr Noakes. What can I do for you?”
“Major Paisley’s compliments, sir, and there are French cavalry at about one half of a mile distant beyond the southern wall, sir. At least a full troop, sir, and possibly more to their rear.”
“My thanks to Major Paisley. I shall join him at the wall in two minutes.”
There was no need to hurry; it was clear that the French were not attempting to charge.
“Take a look outside, Cooper. Can you see the brigadier?”
“He’s just gone to the north wall, sir.”
“Good! Checking that they are not simply attempting to divert our attention from an attack actually coming in from the other side.”
Colonel Dudley was clearly competent in the circumstances; it was not perhaps the most complex tactical situation but it was pleasant not to have to tactfully guide him to the correct course of action.
“Bring out the pistol belt, Cooper. We might be busy later. It keeps the men entertained as well.”
Cooper chuckled; the word would go round that Stroppy Seppy was looking for trade and that always perked the men up. The gamblers would lay their bets on how many he would knock down today and the younger men would be told all of the old stories again. It all helped build up the right mood. The New Foresters would see as well, and they would be much heartened, knowing that he was one of theirs originally. Cooper pulled out the belt and slowly checked each of the six heavy pistols before making a performance of carrying it out and strapping it round the colonel’s waist.
“Ha! Your squire arming you for battle, sir?”
Major Paisley was not used to the ritual, was somewhat surprised by the attention it drew.
“I like to carry half a dozen of pistols, Major Paisley, and Cooper insists on checking each before putting them on me. I am much in favour of that – I have never had a misfire, which is useful when you are busy at close quarters. Add to that, Major, it looks very fierce and the men do like it!”
“They are very heavy, sir. What are they?”
“Ten bore; a ball of one and three-fifths of an ounce, ten of them to the pound weight. Hit a Frog with one of these and he goes down.”
“I should think he does, sir! And very few ever to get up again!”
“Well, that is the aim of the exercise, when all is said and done. Just what are those bloody Frogs doing now?”
The cavalry had edged closer to the wall, though still a good three furlongs distant, and now seemed to be engaged in offering taunts to try to bring the English out onto open ground, or at least to display their strength. They were galloping their horses across the turf and waving their sabres and generally trying to offer a challenge. A Portuguese gunner, a captain, walked across to Septimus – he was an officer and must not run, however great the perceived urgency.
“Peter?”
“The captain says that the French are in range, sir, and he is sure his guns could hit some.”
“Thank him for the offer but say that we want them to come within canister shot. We shall wait until they are at one hundred paces. They are more than six hundred paces distant now and we could do them little harm yet. We wish to hide the big guns from them until the last minute, and then we shall give them a great surprise!”
Peter explained at length; the officer demurred.
“He says they are insulting us, sir. They are calling us cowards.”
“Let them. They show their stupidity and their ignorant lack of dignity by so doing. We are gentlemen and must not take notice of the underbred mouthing of king-killing peasants.”
Peter passed the words on and smiled as they hit home; the captain realised he was being manipulated by the French, that they were behaving with typical dishonour. He returned to his battery, passing the word to his juniors.
Septimus smiled and bowed and waved and turned back to the business of the day.
“Keep an eye on those honourable idiots, Major Paisley! I must not be seen to be distrustful of them, but they are far more concerned with their supposed dignity than with winning the bloody war!”
“Yes, sir.”
Paisley was stiff in his manner; honour was important to him as well, he believed. It should not be said that a bunch of Portuguese, mere Dagoes, were more punctilious than was he.
“Brigadier, sir!”
Septimus turned at the quiet call, made by one of the sergeants, he imagined. He came to attention and saluted, all very formal on what might be a day of battle.
“Hussars, sir, edging forwards but slowly. A small unit at the moment, perhaps one half of a troop, sir, possibly a full troop attenuated by their long winter. There are others almost concealed behind them. No guns; no infantry. Not, it would seem, a full-blooded assault. Major Perceval will be organising the companies back in the woodland, sir; he has sent no messages so all may be assumed to be well.”
“All then is as we planned for?”
“At the moment, yes, sir.”
“The initiative lies wholly with the French, it would seem.”
“It does, sir. Rather annoyingly so; but while they are sat on their horses at a distance they are achieving nothing. They have a choice of going home empty-handed or pressing forward, and they must have a suspicion that we know that and are waiting for them. It becomes in the end a matter of what they fear most – they may return to report failure to the general who sent them, and almost certainly be called cowards, or they can instead take casualties and still probably fail to obtain a complete understanding of who and what we are.”
“As a soldier, I could feel sympathy for their commanding officer.”
“So could I, sir. But not very much.”
Colonel Dudley was not particularly surprised to hear that; he did not believe Septimus to be a man with any great fund of kindness towards the French, professional soldiers or not.
They waited for nearly an hour; Septimus permitted the battalion to light fires and brew their tea, then he and Major Paisley sat down together on top of the turf wall, cups in hand, talking animatedly and ignoring the cavalry. While the French made martial poses, the English were holding a tea-party.
“We could organise a cricket-match, sir?”
“That might be seen as excessive, Major Paisley, particularly if the French volunteered as umpires.”
“Better than drinking tea, sir. Horrible stuff!”
“Nasty, I agree, fit for ladies in their drawing rooms, perhaps. They might not appreciate army tea, however; it is not for the genteel. What’s the name of that silly fellow in London? Petersham, is it, who makes such a performance of being a connoisseur of the brew? Very peculiar.”
“One of the fashionable set, sir, idle and needing to find something to do. I have never met him, of course – far beyond the touch of a mere soldier, a fourth son at that! My eldest brother has come across him, I believe, but he has his five thousand a year in prospect when he inherits and so is welcome in Mayfair… It looks as if they are moving, sir.”
“Hussars, waving sabres. No lancers. No dragoons with carbines or horse pistols. They will not penetrate the abatis in the absence of galloper guns. Some of them, the officers especially, will have pistols in their saddle holsters, but they will be lucky
to score any hits from horseback. Time to put on a show, I think. The men do like to see a little of melodrama, you know, Major Paisley, and it does them good to be entertained occasionally.”
Septimus stood up, carefully balancing his tea cup, and watched the French as they cantered easily along the turf by the river. He raised one hand.
“Unmask the guns! Load canister over ball!”
It was not a normal command but its meaning was clear. The mantlets were pulled away and the ten nine-pound field guns and six twelve-pound fortress cannon were run forward in their embrasures.
“On my command!”
Septimus waited until the horsemen were at less than one hundred yards and showing signs of slowing; he spotted their senior officer scanning the wall, counting the gun muzzles, saw him speak to his trumpeter, giving the command, probably to about face.
He dropped his hand and bellowed.
The guns made a vast noise as they fired all together; a second or two later the pair of howitzer shells exploded, adding their little to the butchery.
A handful of very lucky troopers spurred their horses away at a flat run; the bulk remained on the field, a mess of screaming men and horses.
“Get a couple of platoons out to kill those poor bloody animals, Major Paisley.”
There was a delay of five minutes before the men could be organised and set to work, then the sound of muskets rapidly silenced the horses.
Another delay, nearly half an hour, and two distant Frenchmen walked their horses towards them.
“White flag, sir. One officer and a trumpeter.”
“Keep him at far, out of easy inspection of us, Major Paisley. Go out to make the arrangements, take Mr Duvivier with you.”
They agreed a truce of two hours to allow the wounded to be taken up.
“Permit the surgeon to assist if he should so wish, Major Paisley, but the French wounded are not to be brought into our encampment. Let them encumber the Frogs, not us!”
Blood and Famine (Man of Conflict Series, Book 4) Page 24
