“Quite right, Joe – and if, in process, that means that they fight each other more than us, well…
that’s just one of those things, isn’t it?”
They nodded gravely to each other – it was all for the men’s own good, after all.
“I have been thinking of their housing, Joe – too many of them live in tumble-down shacks, cold and damp and unhealthy, themselves forever coughing, worried about their children who are being taken poorly all the time. Very bad for work! We could put up terraces, like I did at the pit for the Irish, years back. Four bob a week rent, no more than they are paying at the moment, less quite often, and they could have decent places for their families. If, say, we told them that every man who had been with us for a year, and was married, would go down on the list, taking their turn as the places were built, because we couldn’t do them all at once, then I reckon they would be even happier to work for us. Married men are better workers than single, too – more responsible when they’re worried about their children.”
“What would it cost?”
“Too much for this year – the only land within easy walking distance is either wet or steep hillside, would add to costs for drainage and roads. Next year I’ll have cash free again, that will be the time to start.”
“Will you be in London in April, Tom?”
“I am under orders, Joe – my daughter has informed me that I must go immediately after her wedding.”
“Good – you should. We could appear in the Lords, together, and stand in favour of the Factory Act. Where, and only where, employers will not behave reasonably then the law must intervene so as to equalise the power of master and man – any contract, to be fair, must take place between equals. We would get a name as sensible moderates, happy to listen to the people and able to act as go-betweens for the weak and down-trodden – free-born Englishmen who are suffering abuse.”
“Good point, Joe – we are not supporting anything new or radical, merely upholding the laws of Old England, protecting the rights of our own folk and incidentally persuading them to have no truck with the revolutionaries.”
Both believed that they could offer their employees more than they could gain through revolution, both knew that their people were the best off in the Lancashire coalfield and consequently some of the richest workingmen in England – what more could their people ask for?
Colonel Ogilvie led his brigade into a well thought out, precise, conventional campaign. He had been instructed to clear an area of the foothills and hold it safe while the main army passed by on his right, pushing further inland – he presumed there was another brigade out on the right flank doing the same there, but that was none of his business. Ogilvie’s force moved out on two tracks, in sight of each other, the Rifles leading on the left, furthest out, where they belonged, first into the field. A squadron of cavalry probed down the path on the right, the infantry battalions followed, guns immediately behind them, the remainder of the cavalry protecting the baggage train and ready as a reserve.
Sergeant Murphy had set the Rifles company out on the first day, showing James how they had deployed in Spain, open grasslands being very different to the jungle and swamps he had had experience of.
“Eight pairs on a front of a furlong, Sergeant Murphy, in a slight arc while it can be maintained, that was what they said in training.”
“Perfectly correct on a flat field, sir, but there are shallow gullies leading up these hills, not big, but just enough to hide a few muskets if they were to harass us, guerrillero style, like the Spaniards did the Frogs.”
“They said in training that the Spaniards were a great nuisance to the Frogs, but could not defeat them in battle.”
Murphy waved a hand, shook his head.
“True enough, in its way, to be sure, sir, but they could cut up the supply trains, kill the despatch riders, attack the odd fort when part of the garrison was out on a patrol or foraging. The end was they weakened them to the point where they could not bring their people to battle against us. Sometimes, so the captain said, the Frogs had two hundred thousand men in Spain, but three parts of them were trying to hold the country down rather than taking the field.”
“So, you are saying that we should check every gully as we go, keeping a little bit higher and looking in if possible. Foot must do that, the ground would be too rough for horse. Will it slow us down? The brigadier wants us to be at the ridgeline there, a mile off, within the hour.”
It was soon after the monsoon, the grass and cane growing fast but still short, not too difficult to walk through – another month and it would be waist-high, as bad as wading through the same depth of water.
“We’ll push the pace, sir, yourself in the centre, a little back from the line where you can see them all, sir, with your whistle. One blast to go on, two to stop, a series of quick shorts and they are to fall back on you, as you will remember, sir.”
James did remember, but the sergeant meant well, and neither wanted men to die.
The slope was empty, the gullies clear - there were no defenders, organised or partisan, and they grew in confidence, increased the speed of their advance until they reached the ridgeline itself.
There was an army waiting over the hill.
“That’s a lot of men, Sergeant Murphy.”
“It is, sir. That front part, from the big rain tree on the left to that clump of cane, sir, is about a fifth of their front, would you say?”
“About that, a quarter at most.”
“Right, sir, their infantry are standing in rough lines, now, six to eight men deep in the front, and counting quickly, about four hundred men shoulder to shoulder, so we say two and a half thousand or thereabouts in that part. Times five, that’s more than twelve thousand, sir. Behind them we can see the cavalry, at least as many again, in the valley bottom, sir, and another great mass of infantry on the far hillside. Guns, sir, I can pick out seventy or eighty of them, big and small, the most of them big old bronze pieces from the way they’re shining in the sun, no great worry there, they are slower to load because of their long barrels, and cannot be firing as often as iron guns, because too much heat softens them, causes the barrel to droop a fraction. But, unless I am much mistaken, there’s maybe two dozens of Frog twelve pound guns in four batteries, and they are nasty, sir!”
James noticed that Murphy’s accent, normally music-hall Paddy, had become much less, his vocabulary more conventional.
“What were you before you became a Rifleman, Sergeant Murphy?”
“Just a boy, sir.”
“And earning a living?”
“Very poor, sir.” Murphy shrugged, the lad was not going to let it go at that, and he needed to talk a bit while he worked out what to do next. “I was articled to an attorney, sir, and what with one thing and another I felt it wiser to leave old Ireland. No great point to hanging about there.”
It occurred, slowly, to James that he might mean hanging by the neck and that it was better to ask no more.
“We could hold our position here and continue to observe,” James said, “sending a pair of runners to brigade, or we could retire before we are spotted and give the alarm. They do not seem to be moving, yet the valley is a strange place to offer battle, they would surely be wiser to hold either this crest or the one opposite.”
“So, sir, they might well have it in mind to move forwards yet. They are using oxen for their guns, sir, and will need to rest them often and will have wanted to water them at the river in the valley bottom. Oxen are strong but slow and have to be fussed over or they will up and die on you. The Goosers with the baggage always said they wanted no more than eight miles in a day from their beasts, but they was lazy buggers when all was said and done and never liked moving far from home in Portugal.”
James listened very carefully, put two and two together - slowly, arithmetic had never been one of his strengths - and drew the correct conclusion.
“They would not wish to move in the heat of the day, I would thin
k, and so will march up here in late afternoon, dig their guns in overnight and be ready for the morning. Two runners, Sergeant Murphy, the men to rest up but no fires, and we keep a watch from here. A minute while I write a note.”
The runners trotted off and James peered carefully over the hill at the enemy below, noting the absence of uniforms and the casual, often clumsy, way the foot held their muskets.
“Do you think this is their whole army, Sergeant Murphy?”
“No, sir, though much of it, sir, and not where it is expected. Possibly this is the less-trained part, the ones called up, local lords and their retainers stiffened by the horse and guns. It could be that they are being sent forward to raid into our territory, sir, while the king’s trained men, fewer of them but much more useful, are held back to make a solid defence when these lads have weakened our attack. The guerrillerros in Spain, sir, were not so hot at sitting behind a wall in defence, but they were at their best in attacking, would often take fearsome losses and still keep going. Attacked by surprise and they could break almost at the first shot – it’s the discipline that holds troops together, sir, and raw recruits and militia do not have enough of that.”
Colonel Ogilvie arrived to see for himself less than an hour later, listened to James’ report and his recommendation that they should force-march to the ridge and attack the enemy as they moved up the slope, all unsuspecting.
“We could not bring the guns up unheard, Lieutenant Andrews, so they would have to be held back with, say, a half-company to each battery as escort, and that would leave say a thousand of foot and slightly fewer of horse to attack forty thousands. It has been done before, both Clive and Wellington faced similar odds, but I have no hesitation in saying that it is not the best of ideas, not a risk one wishes to take every day. The alternative, however, is to fall back on the main column, permitting them to disrupt and delay the advance, quite possibly holding us up for weeks. They could hold each ridge of the foothills, one after another, each a fortified line in effect, and having to be stormed one at a time, unless we break them now. We will join you within two hours, sir. Keep a careful eye on them and if they move earlier than expected withdraw and get a runner to me.”
The sepoys formed a double line along the ridge, five hundred paces long. They would fire half-company volleys, odds then evens, three rounds per man per minute. The plan was that the cavalry would charge from either flank as soon as the opposing infantry broke, aiming to kill the artillery crews before they could emplace their pieces to fire. Colonel Ogilvie did not expect the enemy cavalry to play any part in the battle – they should, he said, going by past experience, decide that attacking the sepoy infantry would be too expensive as they would be charging uphill over terrain littered with bodies and fleeing men, unable to make a gallop or keep their ranks.
The Rifles were to perform their normal role, to fire at will, picking off officers and leaders, selecting the most expensive targets, often quite literally because a man displaying silks and gold and jewellery was likely to be of some importance, to be worth putting down.
All went to plan, or very nearly so.
The King of Kandy’s forces advanced uphill, the foot in a casual, chattering mass, muskets slung, often unloaded, the men encumbered with cooking pots and firewood and odd comforts they had managed to pick up by looting their own countrymen. The artillery followed haphazardly, each gun choosing its own line and seeking the easiest path. The cavalry mostly hung back at the river, wanting to water their horses before dark and in any case not wishing to bivouac near the lowly infantry. The sepoys dressed forward ten paces, stood on the very crest and commenced fire, aiming low for they were shooting downhill, and creating immediate chaos. Almost as one the enemy flung down muskets and all other burdens and ran, the reserve across the river disappearing as well.
The Rifles moved forward in their pairs, calling their targets and hitting with almost every round they fired. James stood gravely behind them, watching, offering his congratulations on particularly good shots, giving no orders because none were necessary.
The Company cavalry charged, driving the broken infantry before them and descending on the guns, all of them still limbered.
The Kandyan horse decided the day belonged to the English and retired across the river in good order, sensibly accepting that they could achieve very little. The guns were lost – they could drive the sepoys away, temporarily, but would not themselves be able to turn the gun-teams and drag them downhill and over the river. If they tried, the Company must have its own guns to the rear and would be able to bring them up and take advantage of a sitting target clustered together crossing the river at its shallow point – it was time to go home. They could, and militarily they should, have killed the gun teams, but they represented half of the draught animals of the lowland villages and they could not bring themselves to so disastrous an act, to create certain starvation for tens of thousands.
Many of the sepoys had worked buffaloes in their villages before joining up and they found it easy enough to persuade the oxen into movement and to start the guns uphill and into safe captivity. There was a difficulty at the very top of the hillside where rock showed through the soil and there was no easy path. One huge old bronze gun, a siege-piece, they thought, drawn by twelve span of oxen, found the going especially hard and James ordered his Riflemen to hook on the drag ropes carried on its limber, to throw their additional weight onto the pull.
“Must be sixty pounds, Sergeant Murphy?”
“Easily, sir, possibly more – an old, old gun, that will be Portuguese or Spanish engraved round its muzzle, look, I don’t think it’s Latin, sir.”
“I think so, I can’t quite see…”
James stepped closer as the wheel next to him slipped on loose rocks and the whole unstable mass spun and toppled on its side, the tons of bronze barrel falling off the carriage and dropping onto his left leg, crushing flesh and bone equally just below the knee.
James reached Bombay three months later, able to walk on crutches for an hour or so at a time, the empty trousers-leg - breeches and pantaloons neither yet practical - pinned neatly up to his thigh. Hewett and Donnelly, batman and servant, carried him down the gangplank having accompanied him quite naturally; so at his request did Sergeant Murphy, ‘discharged on medical grounds’, his papers said. He was driven to Wolverstone’s bungalow, to stay there until his passage home was organised.
Wolverstone took one look at his unexpected visitor, whistled to his servants to prepare rooms, led him through to his lounge.
“A drink, Lieutenant Andrews?”
“Please, Major Wolverstone, a pale ale would be very welcome, sir! It is ‘Mister’ now, of course, sir.”
“Yes, of course, I am sorry – there is very little future for a Rifles’ officer in your case. Have you received letters from England yet?”
“None, I suspect they have followed from Bombay to Burma to Madras and then to Ceylon, never quite catching up.”
There was nothing surprising in that, it often took a year for first letters from England to reach their recipient. Wolverstone had expected as much, but still wished it had not been the case, his voice was heavy as he addressed James.
“Probably – it falls to me to tell you then of an additional misfortune, Mr Andrews. Your mother, Lady Verity, was taken suddenly ill, I am afraid, and the result was her early death. I am sorry indeed to have added to your woes in this way, sir.”
Wolverstone found reason to be out of the room for ten minutes, returned with a brandy bottle. He had never been able to break the news of a death with any ease, but he had found that a stiff drink always worked wonders, for him at least.
“Thank you for telling me, Major Wolverstone. Do you know when she died?”
“More than six months ago, sir, before you had actually landed here.”
“So long… my father will have been sorely smitten, I wish I might have been with him… I will return to England, of course, Major Wolverstone. Will I
have to wait until the Indiamen sail later in the year?”
“No, sir. There will be Americans with berths available as far as Madeira and it is quite easy to find a ship there for London. The Americans are often faster ships as well, many of them doubling up as slavers, I suspect, when times are favourable for the trade, and you could well be in London in as little as four months. What will you do then, sir?”
“As a cripple? Not very much, I suspect, Major Wolverstone! What can I do? I only ever wanted to be a soldier!”
Men did not cry – James fought the tears back.
“Then you must find something else, sir, unless you wish to do nothing at all, in which case I doubt you will live very long, for you are not an idler at heart, would not be able to stand the life.”
James remained silent a few minutes, digesting Wolverstone’s comment, deciding it was true. He could not live in London, on the town, a curiosity and an embarrassment amongst the young gentlefolk, and if he was to settle at Thingdon Hall then he would have to find an occupation to fill his days. In any case, he would wish to move into his own house when Robert inherited, he would need to be out of the way to be fair to himself and to his brother.
“I could look after the dogs, the mastiffs, I suppose, and that would force me to take exercise. As well, there are the big horses, the Punches – we do not breed enough of them, I think, always could sell a dozen when we take one to auction. I would not want to be a farmer, as such, but I could run a working stud for the estate – that would be useful, I think.”
Wolverstone agreed, wondered if there might not be other animals as well – a pedigree herd of German milkers, for example, could well be profitable in the long run. Anything, he thought, that would give the boy an interest and make him believe that he was paying his way, that he was not merely a crippled burden, for otherwise he would soon take to the bottle or to laudanum and die a drunk or an opium-eater.
The Pain Of Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 4) Page 23
