“In India, the Sugar Islands, on the French coast and in Ireland, sir.”
“Real soldiers, ja? Too many of your army have fought nowhere. A good day, tomorrow – much blood and none of it ours!”
Septimus made his way back to the battalion, rather proud of the compliment he had received. The King’s German Legion were far the most experienced of the forces fighting for Britain; to be called a ‘real’ soldier by one of their men was something out of the ordinary.
The two forces broke camp at dawn, the Germans marching out to the west to cross a small rivulet and then to angle onto the flank of the Danes.
The Rifles pressed forward their scouting parties and reported that the Danes were sat in a rough camp in the shallow valley on the other side of the hill. They seemed unaware of Wellesley’s presence – they had dug no trenches and were making no attempt to move up to the crest of the low hill to hold a line there. They seemed to be taking a leisurely breakfast - they had smelt bacon - and the Rifles had not been able to identify a senior officer among them. It was probable that every man from captain up was a distance away in a mess or inn down in the town of Koge, waking up and making ready for the morning in their own good time.
The Rifles also reported that there was no sign of the King’s German Legion.
The sun rose and the Danes began to put themselves into a sort of order, and there was still no movement to the flank.
A platoon of the green-coated Rifles came in at their fast march, made their way to Wellesley, mounted and increasingly impatient.
“Beg pardon, sir, but the Germans are stuck. That little stream, sir, it ain’t no more than knee-deep and they crossed that easy, but there’s a bloody great bog on the other side of it!”
Wellesley stared at the sergeant for a few seconds, weighing him up; he decided he was reliable. He turned to the gallopers of his staff, sent one to the King’s German Legion with instructions to pull back and skirt the bogs to the east and then to march south in pursuit of the Danes, or towards the field of battle if they were still fighting.
He then trotted forward to his infantry and ordered them to advance, to occupy the crest line in front of them as a first movement.
Septimus sent the boy ensign Purkiss to give the order to the two majors, to explain what was to happen, then stood tall, ordered the Colour Party forward and waved the line to advance behind them.
“Are they not rather exposed to the enemy, sir?” The adjutant, who had seen little of war, sounded rather perturbed.
“The Colours? Yes, just a little, but the headquarters people can hold for a minute or two if needs be. The Danes have no great force of cavalry to pick them off and the majors will not permit the Colours to be endangered – they know to bring themselves into line with them.”
It occurred to Septimus that it might be wise to agree a few simple signals with the majors, much as he had done in Bombay – it would be quicker than sending Purkiss running, though not so useful in working the last fat from the boy.
They stood on the crest, displaying their red coats to the Danes in the hope that they might decide to take themselves off and play soldiers somewhere else. Instead there was buzz of activity and some four battalions of infantry began to array themselves in arms. Two or perhaps three squadrons of cavalry tried to set themselves in their lines; the British officers extended their telescopes and peered in amaze at the horsemen. A runner came from Captain Taft, possessor of the largest glass.
“Sir, Captain’s compliments, sir, but most of they Danes is sat on plough ‘osses, sir. Bloody girt Punches and they’s like, sir!”
That was a shame, Septimus thought; if the Danes charged then most of those horses would be killed, which would be a disaster for the local farms. Nothing to be done about it, however, he could not pass the word not to shoot at the horses – that would be to put his men at risk.
“My thanks to Captain Taft, soldier!”
There was a stir in the Danish ranks as a few galloper guns were wheeled up to their front.
“Three and four pounders; old bronze pieces, unable to fire too often for fear of barrel droop. No great problem there, gentlemen, unless properly used in conjunction with their cavalry.”
The melting point of bronze was low enough that repeated firing could overheat the barrels and distort them; the guns would need an hour at least of cooling after firing as many as twelve rounds in quick time. That dozen rounds could, however, be just sufficient to break a square as the horse charged, provided cavalry and artillery were well together.
The Rifles sent their men forward of the line in pairs, in skirmish order, and opened fire, aimed shots at three hundred yards that drove the gunners away from their pieces before they could fire more than a first round to warm the barrels.
Septimus watched, hands clasped behind his back, Purkiss and Green at his side.
“Theoretically, gentlemen, the Danes should release their cavalry at this point to drive the Rifles in, but I doubt they will wish to risk them so close to our line. Our own two batteries should be brought forward now to break up the Danes’ ranks. I doubt that the general will wish to inflict such casualties, however.”
Wellesley walked his horse forward and waved the line to advance downhill on the Danes, halted them at fifty yards distant, the Rifles clearing away from their front, having no wish to be caught in the middle of volleys fired from both sides.
The Danes fired, a disorderly and poorly aimed discharge. A few Redcoats fell.
“Sod this for a game of skittles!” Septimus paced forward, turned to face the battalion, raised an arm to attract attention, inflated his lungs. “Hampshires will take aim! By company! Mr Carter, the command is yours!”
He skipped rapidly out of the line of fire, stood behind the line as Carter gave his orders and the ranks of muskets flamed and coughed out their clouds of smoke.
The 92nd, the Gordons, followed the example of the Hampshires, either assuming that Wellesley had given the command or none too concerned whether he had or not.
Two discharges from each man and Carter delayed to see what their effect had been. A minute for the smoke to clear and they saw an almost empty field to their front. A few dozens of dead and wounded lay sprawled on the grass; the field guns remained, abandoned by their crews; there were hundreds of lumps of wood where the Danes had been. In the distance, towards the edge of the town they could see men in some sort of formation, a rear guard perhaps.
Wellesley waved from his horse, sent the line forward.
Septimus gave his commands.
“Bandsmen to our wounded, get them back to the Surgeon. When all of ours are in then come back to tidy up the Danes. Advance, Hampshires!”
A few paces and they could see that the lumps of wood were clogs, abandoned by peasant soldiers preferring to run rather than keep their feet dry.
“Mr Purkiss, run to Major Carter and Major Perceval and ask for the butcher’s bill.”
The boy showed a blank, uncomprehending face, but had sense enough to run and hope that the majors would know what he was talking about.
Septimus peered towards the town, realised that the Danes had formed another, smaller line, were intending to hold against them. Their cavalry – if such they could be called – were forming in the single street leading into the town.
“Our cavalry to the west, sir.”
Septimus glanced where Lieutenant Green was pointing, saw the first regiment of the King’s German Legion deploying into line out on the flank.
“Hampshires will dress forward!”
The line of muskets advanced, began to take fire from the Danes at a hundred yards, almost ineffective at that range. They continued to march, halted and raised the Besses to their shoulders at fifty yards. A pair of Danish officers stood their ground, calling their orders, realised suddenly that there was no volley coming from their own people; they turned to see that the great bulk of the militia had fled, were jamming the street shoulder to shoulder in their panic
to escape.
The Gordons gave their wild Scots howl and charged with the bayonet while the Germans advanced at a controlled trot, sabres drawn and ready.
“Hampshires! Hold fire! Ground arms!”
Septimus watched as the Gordons burst into the town; he wanted no part of the nasty business that must ensue.
General Wellesley rode across, nodded his silent approbation at the sight of the disciplined battalion stood in its ranks.
“The Hampshires to skirt the town to the west, Colonel Pearce, to pursue as necessary, and to break any further resistance. Allow the remnants to escape towards the west coast of the island. Take prisoners as appropriate, sir.”
Septimus saluted and called the orders.
The fields around the town were flat and peaceful; there were still cattle grazing the fields, waiting for milking time.
Septimus strode the line, informing each captain, loudly, that the farms were to remain untouched. Wellesley wanted to conciliate the population, and Septimus wished to be on good terms with a young general with useful political connections.
“The cattle will not be butchered! The farmyards will keep their chickens! Any man who touches any of the females will hang! The pigs will not be slaughtered! You will not loot or despoil any property on pain of the most severe punishment!”
The sergeants reinforced his words, passed the message that Stroppy Seppy was a bastard in the field. Captain Taft’s senior man, Sergeant Walker, made the point loudly.
“He ordered a thousand in the New Foresters for a man who annoyed him, that I do know for a fact, lads. He looks after his men in barracks, but when it comes to fighting you do just as he says, and first time at that!”
“But they Gordons, sarge – they’s getting’ into ‘em in the town. You knows that, sarge.”
“So they are, man – but you watch what comes next! The general’s just ridden in with they Rifles marching at his tail. They’ll be acting as provosts, for sure, and there’ll be a gallows building come the morning and the flogging triangles raised as well. In the field, so it don’t need no court-martial to order a hundred – that can be done on the colonel’s word, out of hand. You watch those Gordons dance in the morning! Next week, time they’ve had a court, then you’ll see the gallows filling as well. You lads keep your noses well clean and old Seppy will make sure you get a rum issue over and above what’s due. But don’t you go crossing him!”
They marched, surly but obedient, the farms untouched, the cows watching as the strangers passed by them, the pigs crowding to the walls of their sties and squealing as the new folk went by, unaware of the lips licking at the sight of pork on the trotter.
South and a little west of the town they came upon a battalion of Danes assembled under their general, formed into another line and offering an ill-judged defiance.
“Silly men! Hampshires will…”
Septimus’ command was cut off by a roar from his men and a single volley. Then they charged, fixing their bayonets and thirsting for blood – they might not have had the pleasure of sacking a Danish town, but they would cut a few throats instead.
Some of the Danes ran; the great bulk surrendered on the spot, very few of them cut down regardless.
“Hold the prisoners under guard. Mr Green! Inform the Quartermaster of our location and bring the baggage party up. I believe the business of the day is finished, sir.”
Later Septimus heard that there had been a final stand in a churchyard a couple of miles further south, a last hundred or so surrendering under threat from a battery of field guns. For untrained, ill-equipped militia the Danes had put up a good performance, they thought.
Purkiss found Septimus and read out the list of dead and wounded.
“Just twelve of ours dead, sir; one ensign, Mr Houghton, one sergeant and eleven private soldiers; thirty two wounded, of whom only eight are to be feared for, sir. One officer, Mr Melksham, lightly wounded; two sergeants, one of whom is shot in the belly, sir; twenty-nine of private soldiers.”
“Very light, Mr Purkiss. What is the wound to Mr Melksham?”
“Ball, sir, upper arm. Little more than a graze, he says, sir. A few stitches and a bandage and he is still with his company, sir.”
“Very good! Light casualties for a busy day. We would not have come away so easily against the French, Mr Purkiss. I shall write my report later, sir, and then you will carry it to the general. Take your batman with you, in case there are still Danes wandering the fields around the town.”
It would do Purkiss no harm to be seen by Wellesley and his staff; they would know that Septimus was satisfied with the boy’s conduct to have complimented him by giving him the despatch.
It was a pity about Houghton; he had been a bright lad and had been in line for the next lieutenant's vacancy. It was not to be worried over, however - ensigns were unimportant to the efficient running of the battalion.
They brought the prisoners together into a column and marched them towards the town, carrying their dead and wounded with them. At the original battlefield they set them to tidy up, counting and burying their dead and bringing in the final casualties, mostly men hurt so badly that the Hampshires' bandsmen had not bothered to bring them into the surgeons.
"One hundred and fifty of dead, thereabouts, sir. Three times as many of wounded, one may expect, though quite a number have made their way off the field. The town is quiet now, I see, sir."
"Brought under control very quickly, it would seem, Major Carter. No fires."
"Not a rich place, by the looks of it, sir."
"It will be a damned sight poorer now, Major. The Gordons and the cavalry will have got into the warehouses and stores, hopefully before they started to break into the houses... Is that a red coat I see, creeping behind the hedgerow, over there, on the left?"
"Three, sir, sneaking down into the town, the villains!"
"Sergeant-major!"
Septimus pointed out the three would-be looters, watched as they were taken up by a hastily despatched platoon from the nearest company.
"B Company, sir. Joined in Winchester, sir, gaol-delivery men from the Assizes. Said they were just going to have a look around the place, sir."
"Is that so, Sergeant-major. Sight-seeing, no less! That gives me a choice, of course. I may send them to court-martial for desertion in the field, or accept a plea that they intended to steal from the town. They will come before me in the morning. No doubt they will be made aware of the alternatives."
They would be sentenced to be shot if found guilty of desertion, no lesser sentence available to the court, but mercy a strong possibility in their circumstances with commutation probably to transportation. Intention to commit theft would certainly not be a capital crime, but it would result in a flogging. The three men could spend the night weighing up the chances - Botany Bay against fifty, or one hundred, or five hundred, even a crippling thousand lashes.
Only one of the three had stood before Septimus before, charged with back-answering an ensign and receiving a dozen for his pains. The other two were said to be good enough soldiers.
Septimus had no wish to waste useful soldiers - he needed men and they were difficult to replace; against that, there must be discipline. He could not expect his officers and sergeants to watch every man for every minute of every day - they had to be trusted to behave when out of sight. There had to be a combination of reward and fear - neither too much nor too little of either.
He called the quartermaster to him as soon as he brought his wagons into their camp on the field.
"Will there be a hot meal for the battalion tonight, Mr Black?"
"I have firewood, sir. I can put a stew together, given three hours, sir. We were lucky to be bivouacked close to a bean field, sir, and there were cabbages as well, not so far distant. Fresh greenstuff will do the men good. The Danes have not discovered the potato, it would seem, but they have turnips in plenty."
"Well done, sir! What of rum?"
"We are well off
for liquor, sir. Not necessarily rum as such, sir, but a rather fine poteen, sir, brought with us from Ireland. I was able to exchange an amount of excess issued shirts and blankets, sir, for a supply of the stuff."
"Very good, Mr Black. An issue to the men tonight, if you would be so good. I believe it is not impossible that we shall be placed in the vicinity of a farm or two in the next few days."
"Excellent, sir."
The men could not stay healthy on a diet of salt beef or pork and hard tack - they had to be fed something in the way of fresh vegetables, and an amount of cheese or milk would do them good. Looting of the civilian population was strictly forbidden, but a little of common sense had to be applied...
An eighth of a pint of neat alcohol was very welcome to the men, a reward for their service during the day. Some mixed it in their tea; many diluted their issue with water to make a grog which they could sip for an hour or more as they talked and sang at their fires; a few tossed the ration down in one or two gulps and fell rapidly into sleep; a tiny minority exchanged their portion for tobacco or against future night-sentry duty; none refused the Quartermaster's bounty.
They all knew that they were better off than most other regiments on the expedition, that they were favoured, lucky to be in the Hampshires. Theirs was a 'good' regiment.
Septimus sat at his table outside his tent in the morning, conducting his hearing of the three defaulters; there were a number of men within hearing range, carefully placed working parties, not an audience, but able to tell the whole battalion all that had happened.
"Privates Pollock, Mears and Finch, sir!"
Septimus stared at the three, nodded to the adjutant to carry on.
"Did absent themselves from their place of duty, sir, with the intent to commit theft, sir."
Septimus made a show of writing the details on his report of the morning's proceedings. If he passed a sentence that required confirmation then he must send a full account to the general; it appeared that he thought that might be necessary.
"Have you anything to say before I hear the case?"
Fire and Folly (Man of Conflict Series Book 3) Page 14
