“They can learn English, I would imagine, sir,” the youngest staff-lieutenant suggested.
“They can indeed, sir,” Septimus replied, “but they can easily form their own separate group, talking to each other and unable to be understood by their officers or sergeants. That will always create suspicion of plotting and black mutiny, whether it be right or wrong.”
The lieutenant had little experience at battalion level, the Brigadier being his mother’s brother, and could only imagine that that could be a problem.
“It may not be too great a difficulty, however, sir. I have two Irish sergeants who I believe to speak the Erse, and will thus be able to discover all that may be said. There is always to be remembered as well that the young men will be country-boys, and they are stronger, more robust than their cousins from the towns. The Light Company often has a proportion of townies in it, for needing their self-reliance, but the general run of the Line does better with phlegmatic, obedient, slow-thinking lads who will hold their place next to their friends in the platoon and company.”
That seemed logical in its way, particularly to a group of officers who had never been close to a musket fired in the way of business.
“You have seen several campaigns, I believe, Colonel Pearce.”
“I have been lucky, sir, on seven separate occasions, to be called out when there was work to be done. Two were merest skirmishes, outside Cork and near Bombay, and for one week I was part of one of those silly landings made on French soil early in the first war.”
“’Breaking French windows by throwing guineas at them’ was what they said about those expeditions, I believe, Colonel Pearce.”
“Apt enough, sir. Badly planned and worse executed, sir. Useful in one way – I now know many of the things I must not do if ever I have a landing to plan!”
“Then there were two campaigns in the Caribbean and, I presume, another pair in India, sir. You have been a busy man!”
“Lucky is the best way of putting it, sir. But it seems hardly likely that I shall have such fortune here.”
A few weeks later they celebrated and mourned Trafalgar, the victory that ended fear of invasion but lost the life of Nelson; for many it was difficult to decide which was the more momentous event, for the little admiral had seemed to encapsulate the spirit of everything British. He had been a hero, a patriotic Englishman, but he had also been a great one for the ladies and had misbehaved with a deal of publicity – all of which was in the true nature of the land; he was a Shakespearean character.
“We live in a lesser world, Colonel Pearce, for loss of a great man.”
Septimus could not but agree.
Marianne arrived within the week of Trafalgar, to his pleasure, and began to turn his residence into a house. The presence of the children was a delight as well – he had missed them. Within a very short while Marianne and Major Carter’s wife found themselves to be increasing – ‘something in the air’, they solemnly agreed.
The battalion trained and regularly marched out into the countryside for a day or two, in part to show the flag but mostly to keep the men active. It was a useful activity, for almost invariably they would return stronger than they set out.
Whether they set out to the west by way of Letterkenny or north around Inishowen, they passed through tiny and poor villages; fishing or farming they were much the same – too many young men and girls, too little for them to do. The men would look at the soldiers and know them for bloody-handed oppressors; they would also see them to be carrying flesh and seemingly healthy, laughing and smoking their pipes, happy in themselves. They would listen to their speech and know that many were as Irish as they were.
When the battalion made camp and settled down for the evening meal the local boys would sniff at the stew the Quartermaster had in his pots, recognising that it was meat and told that they ate beef or pork every day of the week. Biscuit was given out too, and enough to fill every belly. There was always a scraping left over as well, shared out freely among the watching lads rather than allowed to go to waste.
Without fail a few of the bigger boys would ask how old they must be to join up, and whether it was possible – would the English army take mere Paddies into its ranks?
Major-General Wellesley, returned from India, visited the barracks in his role as a member of the Government, one of the Secretaries for Ireland. He inspected the troops, was impressed by the massed ranks of the Hampshires and recognised Septimus’ face.
“Hah, Mr Pearce! Are these yours now, sir? A good turn-out, sir. Many of them veterans, of course, though a good few of new recruits, I see.” The new recruits stood out, their coats fresh, bright scarlet. “Good! We need more men under arms, sir. You will have heard that there is an expedition under consideration for Northern Europe, to aid our allies, the Swedes? I hope for a command there, a division with a little of luck. Would you wish for me to ask Horse Guards for you?”
“Very much so, sir. I have no great love for staring at parades, sir!”
“No, not your sort of thing, sir. I remember seeing you leading the way up the ladders at Ahmednagar; that is much more your sort of soldiering, I believe, sir!”
The Brigadier was much impressed, as Wellesley had intended, demanded the story when next they were in the Mess.
“The General was rarely flattering, sir. Ahmednagar was a fortified city that could not be left intact on the army’s line of communications, sir. There was a fortress, to the side of the town, and a wall around the city proper. The town was held by the local rajah’s troops, the fortress by Arab mercenaries; the one set Hindu, the other Mussulmen and no love lost between them. There was no time for a regular siege and General Wellesley called for an escalade. My colonel had foreseen the need for ladders and we had a couple of dozen made up and carried in our baggage train, so we were first to the walls and led the way up. In the nature of things I was with my own companies when we reached the top and made our way to the gates to throw them open. The Hindu troops were so pleased to see the Arabs receive their comeuppance that they made little attempt to fight us.”
“The General said that was how you would tell the story, Colonel Pearce! He bade me ask you who was first up your ladders, sir.”
“Twenty ladders, each with men scrambling up them as fast as they could, sir. Who is to say which man was a second or two before the others?”
“Enough said, Colonel! I shall not strain your modesty further!”
There was a murmur of applause from the assembled officers – they were not Frogs to boast of their bravery! An English gentleman showed reserve and a proper degree of self-deprecation. The junior officers of the Hampshires, all of whom knew the tale, many of them present at the occasion, nodded proudly, sharing the glory.
Septimus wondered why Wellesley, not renowned for being generous in praise, had made such a performance on this occasion. It did not occur to him that he was colonel of a battle-hardened and very large battalion, one which would be very useful in the field, particularly in an expedition in which action could be expected at an early moment, before the General had the opportunity to impress his own personality and ways upon his troops. Wellesley wanted Septimus to use any influence he had to push for a place under his command, whatever it next might be.
Bonaparte led his troops east in the weeks after Trafalgar to defeat the Austrians and deal out some very substantial reverses to Russia. The British government responded by keeping its troops at home for the most part, having no wish to send expeditions miles away to be stranded in a land about to surrender to the French.
Bonaparte extended his Continental System, his answer to the British Blockade and endeavoured to force Russia, Denmark and Portugal to join in.
The great bulk of British naval stores and timber came from the Baltic and could not easily be replaced except from Canada, much further distant and less exploited commercially. Additionally, Canada was neighbour to the new United States, a nation that could put a swarm of privateers to sea if its
generalised low level of hostility to Britain ever became war. The need seemed to be to preserve trade with the Baltic Sea, which was controlled at its mouth by the state of Denmark and its colony of Norway.
Portugal was an old ally of England, and seemed set to remain that way, was likely to respond to Bonaparte’s pressure by declaring war and begging for an English army.
The British government placed the problem of Denmark and Russia into the erratic hands of Canning, the Foreign Minister, a man of intelligence and wit and very little scruple; one who was far more likely to respond to the demands of perceived necessity than to be bound by morality or human decency. Canning had only one aim in his life, and that was to be Prime Minister; he never could understand why other, lesser, mortals could not see that he was the only possible choice for the post and his every policy was aimed to enlighten their minds.
The Continental System stretched the resources of the Royal Navy to the utmost; not only was it necessary to blockade every significant port along the Atlantic seaboard of Europe, it was also incumbent upon the sailors to escort British merchant ships into the Baltic and to protect those smuggling into the German States by way of the smaller harbours along the coast from Holland to Jutland. The First Lord was forever complaining that he needed more ships, frigates and sloops especially, though he would not object to a few extra line-of-battle ships.
British shipyards were short of timber to build new warships and had little additional capacity to do so; there was a shortfall of skilled woodworkers as well. The American shipyards would have built for the navy, or for the Devil himself for that matter, and had the ability to produce the finest of ships – but they demanded payment in gold, and that was also in short supply.
More than a tenth of the ships of the Royal Navy had been captured from the enemy in battle, repaired and sent back to sea under British colours.
The Danes had a large navy, almost all of which was sat in dock in Copenhagen, laid up in ordinary for lack of men and money to go to sea except under urgent necessity.
Canning made tentative overtures to Denmark, suggesting an alliance.
The Danes - similar to the British in being ruled by a monarch who was occasionally sane, dissimilar in possessing a Crown Prince of intelligence and ability – showed little interest in formal alliance but were very clear that they did not want war. From the Danish point of view the major problem was the presence of Marshall Bernadotte with fifty thousand men just to the south of their border. They could imagine no way of defending Schleswig and Holstein and the whole of Jutland if the French attacked, which limited their wish to talk to the British.
Canning could not see what the problem was – the Danes had merely to display a little of backbone, he thought.
Talks dragged on through 1806 and into the next year and then the French soundly defeated Russia and forced the Emperor Alexander to the negotiating table with Bonaparte, resulting in the Treaty of Tilsit, which on the surface was not too harmful to British interests but contained a number of secret clauses.
The secret clauses were never wholly revealed, but both Bonaparte and Alexander leaked information about them, which might or might not have been true, but was generally hostile to England. It came to be believed in London that the Baltic was to be closed to British trade and that all ships there were to be interned.
Some of the information was probably true; some was deliberately false; an element may have been of Canning’s invention; part was sent by intelligence agents of greater or less veracity.
There was a British fleet in the Baltic to protect the more than five hundred merchant ships scattered around Finland, Russia and Sweden, and an expeditionary force of eight or so thousand men working with the Swedish Army in Pomerania. Canning saw this as a basis for something to be done, but inadequate in itself to secure the Scandinavian trade for Britain.
The word went out and regiments were ordered to march to ports on the East Coast for embarkation to an unknown destination.
Septimus, out of the way of news of what was happening in London, was hauled out of his office early in 1807, was dragged urgently across to the Brigadier.
“Express from Horse Guards, Colonel Pearce! The Hampshires to march at soonest and to reach Harwich in Essex within fourteen days.”
“Impossible, sir. Given troopships in harbour by tomorrow’s dawn then we will be in Liverpool within three days. The prevailing wind will aid us. Then… where is the map, sir? What is the distance from Liverpool to Essex? What are the highways? The men can march their fifteen miles a day, but can they reach, where is the place? Harwich? Never bloody heard of it!”
Man of Conflict Series
BOOK THREE
Chapter Four
“Two hundred miles, Colonel Pearce – Liverpool to Birmingham and then cross-country to Harwich in Essex. And that is the straight-line measurement taken from the maps! Following the roads, which are never straight, then we must allow at least one part in ten more, possibly twice that.”
“Say two hundred and forty miles, sir. Sixteen days of unbroken marching, assuming no rain and roads that can fairly be called highways.”
They shook their heads – a battalion that marched for more than a fortnight would need a month to recover, unless it was on campaign when it might be forced into action in fatigued condition.
“By sea, sir? Is that possible?”
It was, but it demanded a consistency of the wind that none of the soldiers trusted. Going north around Scotland was not impossible, provided the weather co-operated, and should in ideal conditions demand less than the fortnight – ten days, perhaps. They called for their horses and rode the two miles to the wharves, spoke to the harbour-master.
“Harwich, sir… Not the easiest of places to be reaching from here, sir. In fact, sir, this is a very bad place to be starting that journey from… To Liverpool and take the road South, which is all very well until you reach Birmingham when you must go cross-country, which is tedious slow, the roads being no better than lanes and you having to choose the right one to follow. Better to be at sea an extra day and disembark at Bristol and take the Great West Road to London and then the highway to the Essex coast. To sail the whole distance might be seen as a temptation, but like most such is better resisted, sir. To traverse the whole of the Scottish coast is an interesting adventure, but not one that I am to commend to you; the route southabout demands that you must double Land’s End, which can be an experience in itself in the older merchant ship, sir. Bristol, I would advise, sir.”
Ships arrived next day – naval vessels rather than the superannuated merchantmen they had expected, four seventy-fours of the line and not best pleased to have been turned into transports. Their senior captain, an old Scot called Grant, was in a hurry and demanded that the battalion should board immediately.
“We are ready, Captain Grant, and can send our Quartermaster with his stores within the hour. Obviously, sir, we are not to beg of your rations.”
Captain Grant had not considered that point, was aware that he looked foolish for not having done so.
“Equal amounts to each ship, I presume, Colonel?”
“I would think so, sir. How many days do you expect us to be aboard, sir?”
“Not less than eight, Colonel. We are to take the northern route, being sent to the East Coast ourselves. We had been ordered to Greenock, in Scotland, when an Admiralty packet out of Liverpool found us in the narrows off Anglesey and changed our destination. We had expected to escort the Scottish convoy to the West Indies, sir, and now are for the Baltic waters, our pursers having brought light cottons aboard for the men’s tropical suits!”
“Then we must hope, sir, that we leave the Baltic before winter supervenes. If you will excuse me one moment, I must just speak to my adjutant.”
Lieutenant Green was called in, given his instructions and sent on his way, running, Major Carter his first destination. The major appeared a few minutes later.
“Captain Grant; Major C
arter, my second in the battalion. Four ships, ten companies, Major Carter, plus the band and the Quartermaster’s people.”
“Three hundred or thereabouts to each ship, sir. None too difficult I suspect. Do we expect to return to Londonderry, sir?”
“We do not, Major Carter. Wives to go back to Winchester, I believe.”
“Families aboard ship, sir?”
Captain Grant shook his head vigorously.
“Then we must make arrangements, sir. Charter another ship from battalion funds, sir, for on Home Posting the wives have the right to accompany us. We cannot abandon them in Ireland.”
“We will not have time – I will put the matter in the Brigadier’s hands.”
More than a thousand soldiers two years in a posting had come up with almost as many wives and twice the number of children; being on Home Establishment the wives had the right to a half ration apiece, though the children had somehow to be fed from the father’s pay. When they were sent overseas then eighty wives, drawn by lot, would accompany the whole battalion; the rest would simply be left behind to fend for themselves. The great bulk of the wives were Irish peasant girls who found those conditions preferable to staying in their villages.
The officers’ wives had no official position – did not appear on any ration chit – but their husbands were assumed to be able to look after their own family. Septimus and Carter had already made arrangements for post-chaises to Belfast and cabins in an Irish Sea ferry to Liverpool where they would hire four horses for Winchester. The journey was ruinously expensive, the better part of two hundred guineas when allowance was made for overnighting in posting-houses, and would take four days, but it was easily organised. The Brigadier would deal with the contents of their quarters, hiring a firm to make the moves at far less cost.
Marianne stood at the quayside, nurse behind her with baby Jack, the other two children holding her hands, knowing that they must not cry or display more than polite emotion as their Papa went off to the wars. The colonel’s family must set an example.
Fire and Folly (Man of Conflict Series Book 3) Page 8
