“Where are you to go after Harwich, my love?”
“I do not know, but assume it is to the Baltic. There is a force in Swedish Pomerania, mostly King’s German Legion, heavy on cavalry and possibly short of foot, and I presume we are to join them. Our orders say nothing other than to reach Harwich and quickly. We do not know whether we are to join an expedition, no more than a raid in effect, or if we are to be part of a drawn-out campaign. I believe it to be the case that the Baltic freezes in winter and our ships must leave before the ice crushes them – so I would hope to be back in England by September, possibly October.”
The Navy delivered the battalion to Harwich without loss, to the soldiers’ surprise. Sailing in early spring they had met with westerly gales in the Pentland Firth, rolling and pitching in stomach-churning horror; the sailors had welcomed the winds, said they made the passage far quicker. Entering the German Ocean they had come under the influence of bitterly cold north-easterlies, blowing unchecked from the Russian ice; again, the sailors had said they would make a far quicker passage for the fortunate breeze.
“Seven days, sir, and with a great saving in rations for so many of the men feeling poorly and choosing not to eat!”
The Quartermaster was occasionally grating in his utter lack of sympathy, but he had to feed the men and unofficially ensure that their women and children did not starve. Seven days aboard ship and twelve hundred men meant that he had disbursed nearly eight and a half thousand rations; if, say, only one half of them had actually gone into the boiling pots then he had more than four thousands in hand in his uncovenanted stocks. Some would be sold, the proceeds going into his own pocket – he had to look out for his own old age – but the bulk would, directly or by roundabout means, go to the families of the private soldiers. Septimus was aware of this but took pains not to know about it – he had no wish to involve himself in court-martial offences.
“Very good, Mr Black. What are our arrangements for the immediate future, sir?”
The men were still disembarking, the naval line-of-battle ships so large that they had to take turns tying up to a single available deep-water wharf; the adjutant was organising the companies on shore into column of route to march to whatever accommodation might have been made available.
“There is an aide-de-camp, sir, who has just appeared with, I presume, orders for us. Lieutenant Green is conducting him to Major Carter, I think, sir.”
Septimus was on the last of the four ships, was still a quarter of a mile from the shore and his men. He called across to a midshipman who seemed to be staring in amaze at the crowded harbour and estuary.
“Excuse me, sir! Would it be possible to request a boat so that I might join my men on shore?”
Captain Grant was on his quarterdeck and within easy hearing range but Septimus knew better than to accost him directly; the Navy believed such to be ill-mannered in the extreme, and it was their ship.
The midshipman ran to the First Lieutenant, also within earshot and passed the request. The premier, a large and imposing gentleman of much an age with Septimus, paced gravely to his lord and master’s side and whispered to him. The Captain turned to Septimus and courteously offered him use of his personal barge, towing astern as soon as they had made port.
“Why, thank you, Captain Grant! I would be honoured indeed, sir. I really should make contact with the shore people at the earliest possible moment. As much as anything, sir, I would dearly like to know who is the Brigadier or Major-General in command, and then, just possibly, to discover what we are to do! The number of ships here – a positive fleet – suggests a larger expedition than I had imagined.”
“It smacks of an invasion, Colonel Pearce. I too would like to know who we are to invade, and where!”
Half an hour saw Septimus ashore – a captain’s barge taking precedence over meaner craft, or so it seemed from the ruthless way in which her coxswain steered across the bows of lesser mortals.
“Major Carter! All well, sir?”
“Very much so, Colonel! We are to march just one mile to a set of barracks said to have been allocated specifically to us as a larger battalion than most. The adjutant is making his way there now, sir. The aide-de-camp has brought a verbal order, sir, that you are to report to the General who has offices here at the harbour itself. You will see the Union flag flying, sir.”
“The General’s name?”
“Not given, sir.”
That could only be deliberate – he was to be surprised, was to express delight, or nobly suppress absolute horror. He had very few outright enemies, or none that he knew of, but wondered if possibly a member of the Edgeworth family had achieved the rank of general officer.
“I must not delay, I believe, Major Carter. How many companies have we ashore as yet?”
“Band, sir; five companies as well.”
“March them down to the barracks, Major. This is no place to hold a parade. Has the band accessed their instruments yet?”
“They have never been separated from them, sir. Indeed, the band master insisted on practice on most days, sir. The sailors much enjoyed their music, I would add.”
“Good! A march, then. ‘The Downfall of Paris’, do you think?”
“With respect, no, sir. I believe that to be a tune stolen from the French – I think it may have been ‘Ca Ira’ originally and some of its auditors might even now mistake it for the revolutionary dirge. ‘The World Turned Upside Down’ is always popular, sir.”
“My ear for music is limited, Major Carter, and my knowledge is perhaps best described as scanty. The choice is yours, sir.”
The Union flag was flying over the largest of the harbour buildings, a set of offices that might originally have accommodated the Harbour-Master or perhaps the naval Captain of the Port. It was now the base of Major-General Wellesley who had been appointed to command of the Reserve of the expedition which was, it was believed but not yet confirmed, to go to Jutland, or possibly Zealand, in Denmark, there to assist the Danes to defy the great enemy of the peace, Bonaparte.
“To ‘assist’ the Danes, sir?”
“We are to assist the Danes to place their fleet into the hands of the Royal Navy for the duration of the war, Colonel Pearce. This will, in the very nature of things, deny the Danish fleet to our enemies, and ensure that the passage into the Baltic remains wholly unimpeded for our convoys.”
“Ah… One must ask, sir, whether the Danes want, or will appreciate, our generous aid to them?”
“A very good question, Colonel Pearce, but one, fortunately, that must be answered by the politicians, sir.”
Septimus said no more on that topic.
“Do we know when we will embark, sir?”
“No. The whole matter is still in the hands of the diplomats, but the word I have is that it is confidently expected that the talks must fail and that an action will be necessary. That will demand that we sail before high summer so that there is three months in hand to do the job and get out before the winter freeze. The problem is that the Danes are not their own masters – they must do as they are ordered by the foreign powers most able to coerce them. For many years they have looked towards Russia to protect them from Sweden and England while simultaneously looking to England to protect them against Sweden and Russia. Now there is France.”
“Do we know what the French want, sir?”
“To rule the world, perhaps? I do not know, Colonel Pearce. I do not think Bonaparte knows. I do know that Bonaparte must be stopped – if any country is to rule the world, it is us, sir!”
That seemed not unreasonable to Septimus. He inquired who else was to be part of Wellesley’s command.
“Five companies of the Ninety-fifth, the Rifles. Two at least of regiments of cavalry, which I am not yet certain of. A number of batteries of Royal Horse Artillery – again, how many is yet to be decided. Probably another battalion of the Line. A small command, but able to march hard and hit hard, sir. It is probable that some or all of the King’s Germa
n Legion currently in Pomerania will join us; they may form the cavalry units. I would hope so – from all I have been told their cavalry is by far the best in our service.”
“I have little experience of English horse, sir, but what I have heard does not fill me with confidence. I will, however, state that the Hampshires may be expected to do all that you demand.”
“So I have seen in the past, Colonel Pearce. That is why I requested that you should be placed in my command.”
“Thank you, sir. Do you have knowledge of the availability of butts, sir? One can march a battalion on any highroad but firing live places a few constraints upon one.”
“My staff will speak to you on this matter within the week, Colonel Pearce.”
Septimus saluted and bowed himself out of the offices. Wellesley was a very pleasant surprise as a commanding general; there was almost a certainty of action under him. He walked the distance to the barracks, wondering if it would make sense to send for his horses, deciding it would not. They would be left onshore at Harwich when he sailed with a groom who must return them to Winchester – if he did not run away and sell them instead. Simpler perhaps to walk, or even to hire from a livery stables, if he could find a nag he was willing to be seen on. In the field he would grab any farm cob he could lay his hands on, but in England he must ride a within reason well-bred charger.
He came to the barracks gate and was saluted by a sergeant and picket on guard. He must commend Major Carter for that – highly efficient.
“Where is the Officers’ Mess, Sergeant Anstey?”
“The big place, sir, on three floors, to the right of the square, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The Mess was functioning, the Mess Sergeant and his people having obviously worked their hardest to stock drinks cupboards and put the kitchen into commission. The adjutant must be praised for that, it was to a great extent his responsibility, together with Major Carter who was Mess President. He stood at the door, hearing a pair of unfamiliar voices cutting across the restrained babble of officers describing their voyage to each other and vying for who had been most nauseated and had vomited the hardest, furthest or most frequently. He looked about, spotted Major Perceval, come off half-pay for the campaign, and a captain who had chosen not to dwell in the damps of Ireland.
Perceval greeted him happily, saying how pleased he was to be back again.
“Been living in a wing of the Mitchells’ place, you know, Colonel. Seemed better than to buy our own house, so old Mitchell said. He was right, too. Amazing how often he is, thinkin’ on it! Got a son now, Colonel! Bright little fellow, too – though at only six months he don’t have a lot to say for himself! Got a painter chappie down from Town to take his portrait – can’t recall his name, Laurie or some such, but they say he’s pretty good. Damned well should be – choused me out of two hundred guineas for the privilege!”
“In oils, for that price, Major – no water-colours for three figures!”
Major Carter, overhearing, retired to laugh quietly elsewhere.
“Got the word from my old chap, Colonel. Good chance of smelling powder, he said, help the old career along, you know! Another year or two in the wilderness and then every chance of buying a colonelcy in a good regiment, the Buffs or some such, or being sent as Military Attaché to one of the better embassies.”
Septimus agreed that the diplomatic side was very attractive, needed men of discretion.
“Have you heard what is likely to happen to us this next while, Major?”
“Canning wants war, and soon, but His Majesty is holding him back. He can’t prevent his government going to war in the long run, or so people are saying, but he can insist on attempts being made to settle the matter peacefully. Strange business: either he is King or he ain’t, but just at the moment it’s neither one thing nor the other. The quiet word is that they expect him to go mad again and be put away and then the politicians will push Prinny into a corner where he will do as he’s told if he wants to be kept in money. What my father said was that the King is half-way clever and is a decent sort of man besides, when his brain’s working, but the Prince of Wales is very clever and an absolute shit all the time. The politicians would far rather deal with Prinny.”
“More familiar to them, I doubt not.”
Perceval laughed at that – he could appreciate that sort of joke.
“Funny thing is, Colonel, the Danish King’s as mad as a March hare as well. I expect he’s busy telling his people not to go to war, if they’re listening to a word he says!”
“It runs in royal families, I must imagine – they’ve problems in Portugal and Spain, I understand, and the Two Sicilies are no better, while half of the Princes and Arch-Dukes and Electors of the Germanies are very dubious.”
There was a stir at the door and a few loud greetings followed by a happy voice who was congratulating himself on having finally found the damned place.
“Captain Taft is back with us, could not resist the smell of powder, it would seem.”
“He is useful in his way, Major. The men like him, and he is good in the field. I have not missed him in barracks in Londonderry, I will admit – he would certainly have found himself in some sort of trouble – but he will prove himself again when it comes to standing in the line, that I do not doubt.”
Septimus glanced at the time and decided to find his own rooms and change for dinner, all in leisurely fashion. He could have put an hour into his paperwork, bound to have mounted up while he was at sea – Horse Guards generated vast quantities of forms to fill in, regulations to read and observe, modifications to uniform and equipment that must instantly be implemented, and they would have sent them to Harwich to wait for him. They could wait another day.
Cooper and Dinesh were busy, transferring the contents of his trunks to hangers and brushing and fussing over cuffs and lace and epaulettes, all of which had been crushed or dulled despite their care in first packing them.
“Salt air – always the same, sir!”
“Tissue paper, sir! None in Londonderry! How is one to pack gold lace in the absence of tissue paper?”
Septimus sympathised, for he feared that Dinesh might burst into tears, his face so tragic.
“It is probable that we shall campaign in Denmark this summer. I would expect us to return before ice closes the Baltic, so just three months away. Not for a few weeks yet, so we shall need full dress – I am almost certain to dine with the commanders of the expedition, probably more than once.”
They needed to know what would be expected of them so that they could turn him out appropriately for a summons to dinner at two hours’ notice.
“We are to be part of General Wellesley’s Reserve, and will certainly be part of any action available, so it will be best if you remain at my shoulder, Cooper. Dinesh, you will normally protect my quarters and the baggage – there will be thieves in plenty in the back areas when we are busy to the front. Have you pistols, or a scattergun?”
“Yes, sir. Cooper has informed me of such problems and we have assigned weaponry to ourselves, sir. I have learned, sir, to load and to fire such pieces!”
“Then you have done very well, Dinesh. I shall rely upon you!”
The battalion was almost at full – the Mess displaying very few vacancies. Two majors; ten captains; eighteen lieutenants and seven ensigns – five officers short of their complement in the companies. Of the remainder, the adjutant was present, inevitably, and there was a battalion surgeon, the Quartermaster and his lieutenant and the bandmaster, who had a warrant but was definitely a gentleman and could not mess elsewhere.
“There is a Chaplain to arrive tomorrow, sir; I received notification an hour ago from London.”
“Well, we could not expect to go on campaign without one, Mr Green, and at least he can say grace before dinner and take that job off my hands. Useful to have our own for burials, so that we don’t have to wait about for another battalion’s man to finish and come across to us.”
/> Dinner was served and was, if not good, then at least edible and better than the rations they had eaten at sea.
“Mess-Sergeant’s apologies, sir – he had to make do with whatever he could lay his hands on today. He will be able to get to the markets in the morning, sir.”
Septimus accepted that it had not been possible to do better. In an ideal world the Mess-Sergeant would have arrived in barracks at least a day in advance, but that had not been the case on this occasion; they had all been stuck on the same ships.
The morning brought the Chaplain and a pair of green ensigns. None had served before and all expected an enthusiastic welcome.
The Chaplain had spent his terms at Oxford and had been ordained as soon as he had come down. There was a family Living which would one day be his - a plump parsonage tucked away in the rich farming land between Petersfield and Guildford – but the incumbent was unfortunately healthy, despite being nearly seventy years of age. When the old vicar finally died then Mr Scott would move in to his comfortable four hundred pounds a year tithe and a glebe as well; until then, he would serve with the Army, to the benefit of the troops as well as himself, he ventured to suggest.
Septimus made him welcome and assured him that there would be a Church Parade every Sunday, as regulations demanded when there was a Chaplain on strength, and no doubt he would wish to give comfort to those unfortunates under the Surgeon’s care at any given moment. He would be expected to say a brief grace before Dinner.
“I think we can all give fifteen minutes to the Lord on such occasions, Colonel.”
“One, Chaplain!”
“Oh, but consider the immortal souls of those who are to go to war, sir!”
“Mr Scott, you may have noticed a crown and a star upon my shoulders, sir. They say that in this battalion I give the orders, and I do not expect to hear argument about them. I am always open to rational discussion, in advance of an order being made; but after I have spoken I expect to hear no more than ‘yes, sir’”
Fire and Folly (Man of Conflict Series Book 3) Page 9
