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

by Andrew Wareham

  Septimus noticed Cooper and Dinesh out with the parties working with the wounded, shifting the dead horses from on top of their late owners and generally making themselves useful before the French arrived with their spring carts to collect their live bodies and shovels to take care of their dead.

  “They take better care of their wounded than we do, Major Paisley. Those spring carts – ambulances, they call them – are a damned sight better than anything our medical people have.”

  Septimus watched out of the corner of his eye as Cooper led Dinesh between the bodies, from one officer to another, it seemed; the youngster was being taught the trade and no doubt he would be a richer man for it.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but what is to be done with the dead horses?”

  “Good question, Captain Boldre. The French must not get them; we are not contributing to their rations. My compliments to the Portuguese Militia officers, if you would be so good, and enquire, tactfully, whether their men would eat horsemeat. Better than burying or burning it.”

  Major Paisley showed his surprise; he had thought that their own men might fancy the fresh meat.

  “They would, Major Paisley, and no doubt will scavenge the field when our backs are turned, but the Portuguese are far less used to eating meat and will value it the more highly. Always wise to encourage one’s friends, sir. Besides that, there might be sufficient to feed the Portuguese a meal apiece, but I much doubt there is enough for the whole brigade and we could create ill-feeling between those who feasted and the remainder who did not.”

  The business was over by midday, the wounded taken away, their crying removed from earshot, to the relief of all. It was always upsetting to listen to a grown man wailing for an end to his agony and the French surgeons seemed to be short of laudanum to silence their miseries. The Regimental Surgeon reported to Septimus, wearing his favourite amputation coat with the turned back cuffs; he was dripping blood, again.

  “I made a count, sir, thinking it my duty to the battalion.”

  “Well done, sir! One may not ask a surgeon to do such a thing, but I much hoped you might. What was their bill?”

  “Steep, sir. As always with cavalry, more dead than wounded, the opposite to foot. I suspect it is because they fall off their horses at minimum, and often are dragged or rolled on as well. Thirty-one buried on the field, sir. Eight amputated before they could be moved – mostly because of bones that had pierced the skin so that the limb could not be shifted without causing agony. None of those eight will live, in my opinion, sir. Another four, arms in each case, who will see the knife later today; they might not die. Two face wounds, one kicked, the other a canister shot; they will not survive, nor wish to once they have seen a mirror. Thus one and forty who may be counted among the lost, sir. Just seven who should recover, except they are taken by the wound fever.”

  “Thank you. I doubt there were more than sixty of them. High figures!”

  Septimus repeated his comment when he made his report.

  “Highly effective, Sir Septimus. I have already spoken to the gunners, offered my respect for their good work.”

  “A very good day, sir. The French must consider a response, I believe, or simply accept that they have taken a defeat. I think it will be as well to set additional sentries, sir.”

  “See to it, if you please, Sir Septimus. I will inform Major Howton and Colonel Watson of the need. Before you go, Sir Septimus, a glass of wine?”

  Septimus accepted willingly; the brigadier was setting their meeting onto an informal basis which suggested that he had a delicate topic to discuss. He wondered what it might be.

  “Ah… the drinking of tea, Sir Septimus, stood upon the wall, no less… A little out of the ordinary run of things, was it not?”

  “It was, sir, but not mere braggadocio, I assure you. It amused the men no little to see me behaving thus. It may have irritated the French, but that is the least important part. The men like an officer who is larger than life, sir. I stand and swagger and wave my pistols like any hero on the stage or at the fairground booth, and the men laugh and cheer and say that old Stroppy Seppy’s at it again, and those who might have been a little inclined to be shy think that anything I can do, well, they can match it or close to. For the most of them who enjoy a fight and have very few fears of any sort, they will take the extra risk, make that additional effort that may win the day, because they are determined to be as good a man as I am. They will obey orders that might kill them, because they know that they must look to their front to find me – I will not be skulking behind the line.”

  “It will kill you one day, I fear, Sir Septimus.”

  “No man lives for ever, sir. I have not died yet, though too many, perhaps, of my officers have for doing the same. But that is what an officer is for, when all is said, sir. Generals – and brigadiers – must make their plans and give their orders, and the rest of us must carry them out, leading from the front. We have no other purpose, sir. Add to that, ain’t it fun! Standing there alive with the other side dead or surrendering – I know of nothing better in life!”

  ‘Mad! Raving bloody lunatic’, thought the brigadier, but judged it wiser not to say so aloud.

  “Well, one must not deny that your men display a remarkable esprit, Sir Septimus.”

  “They are the best, sir. They know that, and so, of course, do I. No gaol-deliveries in our ranks, sir, and I believe that may have great effect. The older soldiers are often outraged when forced to march alongside the vermin of the criminal gutter – and I believe them to be correct in their emotion! Spend the little extra, sir, and send the recruiting parties out into the poorest rural parts of our land, into Ireland especially, and one can pick up the best of good fellows.”

  “You would say that the Irish make better soldiers, Sir Septimus? Are they naturally more inclined to be fighting men?”

  “No, not at all, sir. One hears this nonsense all the time, but it is quite untrue! It is merely that Ireland is the more impoverished; give a man a choice between being a good soldier or a starving bog-trotter, it is hardly surprising the alternative he takes.”

  Colonel Dudley was most upset to hear the reality expressed in such stark terms.

  “Perhaps, Sir Septimus, we should do more to aid the Irish. Better Poor Relief and the building of roads and bridges to make work, for example.”

  “A noble suggestion, sir. But not while I need to recruit soldiers, if you please.”

  They finished the bottle – it being inappropriate behaviour to send it back half-full, a gross breach of military etiquette – and Septimus returned to his tent, feeling somewhat better in himself.

  He sat to his paperwork, poring over the Quartermaster’s Returns, bemoaning the fact that he had never paid attention when pottering in his father’s offices in his school holidays; an acquaintance with bookkeeping would have come in useful, he suspected. He signed the ledgers in the end, for discovering no evidence to say that he should not, but he did not believe them to be true bills; he prayed that Mr Black was a masterful hand with his frauds and would remain undetected.

  “Cooper, I think I could do with another brandy to set me up.”

  “Bottle’s empty, sir. Ain’t got none.”

  That he knew was a lie; he knew as well why it had been told. He waved a hand in acknowledgement and silent apology, asked for coffee instead.

  “How did you do this morning, Cooper?”

  “Not much, sir. Couple of pocket watches and a signet ring and three thin purses between us, sir. Still, Dinesh was happy enough; he wanted a watch of his own and was saving his money for one.”

  The Portuguese riders trotted in during the afternoon, bringing despatches to be taken to brigade. Colonel Dudley’s dogsbody came to Septimus later in the evening, on his way to speak to all three battalion commanders and the Portuguese Militia and the gunners.

  “Breakfast with Brigadier Dudley, sir. At seven of the clock, if you would be so good, sir.”

  “Cooper, best
bib and tucker for the morning.”

  Cooper had heard and knew the form, but he did like to be told as well.

  Colonel Dudley’s man was an uninspired cook with very few ideas of how to make a tasty meal from limited foodstuffs. They supped their porridge, which was more of a water gruel in consistency, and chewed manfully at ration beef cut thin and fried in imitation of bacon, then chomped down on toast made from two-weeks old bread and dry for lack of butter in camp. The coffee at least was palatable.

  They sat back, sampling the little Spanish cheroots handed round as a novelty, dubiously puffing out clouds of blue smoke and wondering just what the attraction was. Neither pipe nor snuff; a novel use of tobacco, no doubt great fun for those who thrived on the new and wonderful. The brigadier brought the meeting to its purpose.

  “Orders came from Lord Wellington yesterday, gentlemen. We are to make our presence felt from tomorrow morning by means of launching an onslaught on the rear of the corps nearest to us on the south. We are to cut up the baggage train and particularly burn or otherwise destroy any forage, powder and ration wagons. We are to fall back grudgingly, attracting the attention of as many as may be possible of the French, and we should seek to hold a position of natural strength within reason close to their line of retreat. The army will the meanwhile be pressing forward and taking an offensive posture. The verbal was that the ground is unsuitable for any major action and Lord Wellington wishes to encourage the French to move elsewhere, to break what is likely to become a stalemate. They will shift to protect their flank, or so it is hoped. He hopes they may retreat directly to the bridge we have pointed out to him; could he catch them there, delayed by that bottleneck, then he could destroy them for sure.”

  “Very logical, from His Lordship’s point of view, sir. A few hours of gnawing away at his soft rear and the French general must decide either to destroy us or to shift away. With the main army closing on him he will be, one trusts, unwilling to detach a full division to deal with us. A day’s march will take him clear of our location, and then the two armies may recommence their manoeuvres until they decide upon a suitable field of battle.”

  Major Howton managed to sound quite dispassionate; Colonel Watson was less stoical.

  “Are we to continue to hold the ford, sir?”

  “We shall, Colonel Watson; I think this may be called a position of natural strength, unless we come across a better. Your battalion together with the fortress guns are to have that privilege.”

  Watson bowed in his seat, his face once again expressionless, not a sign of relief.

  “The remainder will form a column and march out this afternoon, bringing ourselves as close as possible to the French today in order to launch ourselves at them with the dawn. Ideally in line, Hampshires to the right; Portuguese to hold the centre, the place of honour in the British Army”. That was not entirely true, but the Portuguese were not to know better. “The New Foresters to the left, if there is a sufficiency of open ground for the purpose; if not, forming a reserve at your discretion, Major Howton. Guns to put their trails down where seems best to them, target of opportunity but seeking to cut up the baggage train primarily. We do not know the ground, gentlemen, so may well find ourselves forced to improvise. I shall place myself as close to the centre as possible, begging escort from our allies of Portugal.”

  To be entrusted with the safety of the commander in the field was an honour, a statement of confidence in the Portuguese Militia. The senior Portuguese captain stood and expressed his delight and gratitude in a short but well-turned speech that probably deserved a more scholarly interpreter.

  Despite the early hour they toasted each other, the alliance and their forthcoming victory in the best brandy.

  Septimus called all officers, briefly acquainting them with their orders.

  “We are, in short, gentlemen, to make the French run. They do not do that very easily; it may in fact be the case that they are perfectly happy where they are and most unwilling to go away at our convenience.”

  There was a general, restrained chuckle.

  “Issue eighty rounds. I would make it more if the men had pouches large enough. Mr Black, mules to each company carrying between them one half of our reserve of made cartridge.”

  “Yes, sir. The remainder of our stock may be placed upon the few wagons we possess.”

  Wagons, Septimus noted, not oxcarts; he raised a suspicious eyebrow to discover Black smiling benignly.

  “Our last consignment of ration beef and pork, sir, was brought by a convoy of wagons. Six of them, sir, were so damaged by the rough tracks as to be unable to return to Lisbon. Happily, we have been able to find the timber and ironwork and, not least, skilled men, to render them serviceable again. Two of the Wiltshires’ most recent recruits worked for a wheelwright in Marlborough before becoming involved in a drunken affray on market day and then volunteering for service as preferable to transportation. Colonel Watson very kindly loaned them to me.”

  There was much unsaid in that little explanation, but it was as close to the truth as he would ever arrive. Septimus smiled his congratulations at such initiative.

  “I presume the teams remained with the wagons, Mr Black?”

  “But of course, sir.”

  “Very good. Detach a company to provide close escort to the baggage, Major Perceval. We would look very silly was the French to take our wagons while we was beating up theirs.”

  Septimus briefly outlined the order of march and gave the normal admonitions to keep well closed up, to watch their rear as much as their front and for the Light Company to be used sensibly.

  “No pressing ahead regardless, gentlemen! Remain in sight of each other and of the head of the column.”

  They gravely assured him that they would be good.

  “Now then! To the important part of the business. We shall have the right of the line, initially, with the Portuguese and New Foresters properly placed. We are to advance, and hopefully keep in our formation; I am sure that we shall as long as it is possible. It is more important to cut up the Frogs than to hold the hands of our companions in battle!”

  They nodded gravely, faces carefully composed.

  “I am a little concerned, gentlemen, about the prospect of loot.”

  There was a sudden upsurge in the interest displayed by the faces in front of him.

  “The Frogs, as is well-known, steal everything that is not nailed down. Much of their spoils may be expected to be found in the baggage train. The men must fight first! If needs be, leave a discreet platoon to hold anything that appeals to their greed, and yours! But do not become tied down by these treasures. Fight first, fill your pockets afterwards!”

  They laughed, knowing very well that they might just grab hold of a handful of anything interesting, such as gold, in passing.

  Captain Colquhoun spoke up, given leeway for being the battalion’s acknowledged jester.

  “They say that the French bring a field brothel in the train of every corps, sir. What do we do if we capture that?”

  “Two platoons on guard, sir! Preferably selected from the ranks of the elderly and the Methodies!”

  They broke up still laughing and strolled leisurely off to acquaint their sergeants with the business of the day. None ran, despite feeling some urgency – running was reserved only for times of desperation. Little short of a whole corps of cavalry at the charge was regarded as reason for an officer to break out of a walk.

  “Cooper! Biscuit and beef for a week. Be sure that the three of you are carrying food for yourselves as well. Spare water bottles would be sensible. Change of stockings for me – the rest can stay for a few days. A little of sweat will offend very few noses in the field. Be sure that you each are equipped with a long gun as well as your pistols – it might be as well for Peter and Dinesh to carry one of my shotguns apiece. We are sent out to tweak some Frog general’s tail, and it is well possible that he may not like it; we might be busy this week.”

  They marched ten
miles that afternoon, making easy time on the flat grassland along the edge of the river. At the point where Septimus estimated that they might be a mile away from the reported position of the French he called the halt and sent the Light Company forward to reconnoitre. They returned in two hours, job done.

  “Like the Wiltshires said, sir. The river valley widens as it leaves the hills here and becomes something of a broad plain, sir. There is a full corps in camp, sir, facing south west, away from us. There looks to be a thin line of pickets out towards us, sir, but the bulk of the troops are five and six miles distant.”

  “Very good, Mr Collins. What of their baggage train?”

  “I saw two wagon parks, sir, and some tents and rough-made huts that may well have been their stores. There was just one of their large marquee tents that they use as hospitals, sir. Either they are still short of doctors or they are in the habit of returning their sick and wounded to facilities located further to the rear. They are retreating and manoeuvring actively, sir, so it would make good sense to push the unfit out of their way.”

  “So it would. What of cover and the best means of attack?”

  “Difficult, sir.” Captain Collins shook his head gloomily. “There is the track we followed to this point, sir. It does not widen out to any extent and carries on past their rear. The bulk of the baggage train is to be discovered on slightly higher, but still flat, ground; a terrace some twenty feet above the level of the river and secure from flooding one must imagine. The slope leading up is short and steep and covered in scrub. Much of the undergrowth has been cut back, presumably for firing and thatching the men’s little huts, and will be easy to traverse in daylight, though keeping a line will be hard. At night it would be a different matter, sir. The men could do it, but some would stumble and the process could not be silent. There are tracks and pathways leading up from this main pathway and the river, of course, but they would attract sentries, one must imagine. I would expect to be able to send a pair of men in advance and cut the throats of the picket on one of the tracks, and then pass the company up in silence to attack in the dawn.”