Fire and Folly (Man of Conflict Series Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  Carter nodded vigorously – as a parade ground manoeuvre, forming square was simple, almost instantaneous of achievement – but on uneven pasture land with bushes and rocks in the way it could become difficult to hold shoulder to shoulder, and the least gap in the ranks could be fatal. He explained the point, carefully, to Perceval.

  “We are still one lieutenant short of establishment, sir.”

  They discussed the ensigns at length, decided in the end to invite one of Carter’s boys to accept a commission.

  “West has withdrawn from the battalion, gentlemen, as you know. We are therefore short two ensigns on establishment. We can live without them. The chaplain has also chosen to accept a curacy, he tells me, and will no longer be able to serve us.”

  Major Perceval was delighted at the news, said so with his normal subtlety.

  “That one is no damned loss, sir! No love for the smell of powder, that Johnnie!”

  Carter demurred that a man of the cloth could hardly be expected to be a fire-eater, but accepted that Mr Scott had been a little too timid for the post.

  “Will you discourage any more ensigns from joining, sir?”

  “I would, Mr Carter, but I believe I am not able to do so. Should any young man be bought the vacancy, then I must welcome him. It is possible then, as we know, to make him sufficiently uncomfortable that he will choose to go – either to another career or to a more congenial battalion. Young West has gone to the Militia, I understand!”

  The three sneered in unison. It was not at all uncommon for the better sort of man to transfer from Militia to Regulars, but a movement in the other direction was low indeed, was an acceptance of inferiority of ability or character.

  “There is word, by the way, gentlemen, that we are at liberty to encourage private soldiers of the Militia to volunteer to our ranks. The fear of invasion is reduced now and so the Militia is less needed in England. We are to be generous with the bounty – money has actually been made available for the purpose – and we should perhaps be less often to be seen to employ the more vigorous methods of discipline.”

  They explained to Perceval that the flogging triangle was to be used very rarely. The Militia had a bad name for beating its men and many would be encouraged to join simply to escape the threat of the triangle.

  “Are we to tell the men that we may expect to go to war again soon, sir?”

  “Not as such, Major Perceval. You know what the Army is like – delay is the staff of life to Horse Guards. 'Never do tomorrow what may be put off to the week after' is their motto, sir. And the prospect of going to Spain, to the land of mañana, must be a delight to them!”

  Over the weeks Septimus rode out to one of the halves of his battalion on most days; his presence, quietly watching was sufficient to alert the men that something was in the air.

  He came home one afternoon, walking his charger, in no great hurry, Cooper at his heels on a less handsome but equally strong horse of his own. He turned into the gates of the Lodge – he could not give it its full name in embarrassment – and entered a strangely silent stables yard. There was a gig, a man just harnessing up a nondescript trotting horse.

  “That’s the doctor’s boy, sir!”

  “Stable the nags, Cooper!”

  Septimus strode quickly inside, almost bumped into his butler, just coming to the door.

  “What is it, Portland?”

  Portland shook his head, close to tears.

  “It’s Master Jonathan, sir…”

  “Where?”

  “In the Green Withdrawing Room, sir.”

  Jonathan was laid out on a chaise longue, a towel wrapped round his head as a bandage. His eyes were closed and he was motionless.

  Marianne was weeping in the arms of her maid, turned to Septimus as he entered, tried to compose herself to speak. The doctor was closing his bag, caught Septimus’ eye and shook his head.

  “He was out riding, Septimus. A pheasant suddenly took off from behind a bush, almost under the pony’s feet. He was thrown, landed with his head on a stone. Moffat picked him up and ran in with him, they were not a quarter of a mile down the lane. But he has not moved…”

  The doctor looked up again.

  “The front of the skull, the temple, Sir Septimus, is quite crushed. I must imagine that the poor boy was gone before the groom reached him.”

  There was nothing to say or do; there could be no blame – a pheasant made a great clatter when it was disturbed and any horse would rear. Experienced riders had died in like circumstance; a small boy had little chance of surviving such an accident.

  “Where is Moffat?”

  “In the kitchen, sir,” the maid answered.

  Septimus went through to the groom.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll go and pack me bag, sir. I’ll be off the place inside the hour. I only stopped this long so as to face thee first, sir, so as thou did not think I ‘ad run.”

  “Stay, Moffat. It is not your fault and you are not to be punished. Go the parson at Micheldever, if you will. He should come here.”

  Septimus paced heavily back, took Marianne into his arms, let her weep on his shoulder; he could offer nothing else.

  They buried Jonathan three days later, an honour party from the regiment at the graveside – the colonel’s family was their own.

  Much of the County was present, many in real sympathy – riding accidents occurred too frequently and several of the families had lost a boy that way.

  “Will you go to half-pay, Sir Septimus? Might you wish to comfort your lady with your presence for a while?”

  The Lord Lieutenant was moved in part by fellow-feeling, but he needed as well to know what was to happen in the regiment. He was the main contact with the government and must think of the stability of his region.

  “I think not, my lord. The battalion is to go to war and I have a duty to my men. I have discussed the matter with Lady Pearce, and we are agreed that I must go.”

  Marianne threw back her veil, added her agreement.

  “The world must go on, my lord. My poor boy lies in his grave, but we have another son and a daughter too. The family continues and Sir Septimus must do his duty.”

  “You are very brave, Lady Pearce. I believe you are correct, too.”

  Orders reached the battalion a few days later; they were to embark for the shores of Northern Spain, to join the army commanded by General Moore, probably to land in Corunna in August, unless they were put down in Lisbon instead. Septimus called all officers to Winchester.

  “We march to Portsmouth at the end of next week, gentlemen, there to take ship for Spain. Orders will be as for Denmark. We have the recent experience to go by, should have no difficulty in taking ship. You should inform the men immediately and arrange to ballot the wives within the next three days, so that they have the chance to make such arrangements as they can.”

  A thousand men would sail, but only eighty wives would be permitted to accompany them; eight per company to organise laundry and cooking for all of the men. Unofficial women would be added in Spain, no doubt, but only eighty would cross the sea. The army made no provision for those left in England. Those soldiers who still had parents, and were on terms with them, might be able to send their wives and children to their care – but most had nowhere to go.

  “Watch for deserters in these last few days, gentlemen.”

  Inevitably some of the soldiers would try to stay with their wives and children, to keep them from harm in England. Any caught would be flogged before being dragged aboard ship.

  “I would advise all officers to leave their families in England in the first instance. When we become aware of the nature of conditions in Spain, then it may become possible for them to join us.”

  There were no questions – all of them knew what they must do. The Danish campaign had been very useful experience for the battalion.

  Majors Perceval and Carter joined Septimus in his office as the others filed out to return to their companies.

/>   “Couldn’t bring my lady out, sir. She finds herself in the family way again!”

  This would be Perceval’s third; he had two boys, quite hoped for a daughter. He said no more on the topic, not wishing to cause upset to Septimus.

  Septimus offered his congratulations and best wishes, as he must. He missed young Jonathan more than he could ever have imagined. The whole topic hurt.

  “Should you not like to stay with your parents for a month or two after I go, Marianne?”

  “No, my love. Our house must be ours still, and Sarah and Jack so much like it here. Jack is young still, but, is he to learn to ride?”

  “He must, my dear. A man must ride, especially a man with broad acres such as he will possess. Let him go to the stables with poor Moffat.”

  Moffat had aged twenty years. He had never wed and had children of his own and the loss of Jonathan, for which he blamed himself, had hit him hard. He knew that he should have been closer by, should have been in a position to catch the boy’s rein, hold the pony down; he could not be persuaded that he was demanding the impossible of himself.

  “At least he has not taken to the bottle, husband, but he will never be the young man he was.”

  “Poor old fellow!”

  Septimus did not say that he could never be quite the same man either; he had buried a son, and had left his last youth in that little coffin.

  Man of Conflict Series

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter Eight

  The Transport Board was gaining in efficiency every year, or so it appeared. A flotilla of transport ships was waiting on the agreed day and rations had already been loaded when the battalion marched into Portsmouth. The sailors knew what they were doing and set about lifting the officers’ chargers by slings and depositing them quickly and neatly into the hold of the horse carrier where stalls were awaiting them; less than six hours saw the seventy animals stood in their stalls, all uninjured.

  Moffat had begged to accompany Septimus as his personal groom, there being little for him to do with the colonel’s chargers gone from his yard, and he was happier away from the Lodge and its memories. He reported that the stalls were properly made, well lined with straw and dry, adequate for the purpose. The sailors had told him that they had carried hundreds of horses on previous voyages and that they generally did well enough, except a very great storm blew.

  They none of them wanted any part of Biscay gales, prayed that they might be spared them.

  The convoy that left Portsmouth contained some eighty ships carrying eight battalions of infantry and several batteries of field artillery – Septimus did not know the exact number of guns, the artillery not being in the habit of speaking to infantry of the line. He had noticed a few siege pieces being lifted aboard one of the largest ships, hoped he had seen only the last of the train, as twelve guns were insufficient to prosecute the siege of even the smallest fortress. He consoled himself that other convoys were leaving Weymouth and Falmouth at much the same time, that eventually some sixty-five thousand British, German, Portuguese and Spanish troops would be assembled in and around Lisbon. Horse Guards must have envisaged the probability of sieges; there would certainly be a full siege train – long guns and mortars both and of the largest calibres.

  There was a massive escort – six of line-of-battle ships and a score of frigates and sloops and gunbrigs; he wondered how many of those ships had recently been Danish. He was quite sure that no French privateer was likely to be successful with this convoy.

  The ship he travelled in was one of those recently set up specifically for troop carrying rather than being a merchantman pressed into service; they were mostly Fourth Rate ships of war, too small to stand in the line of battle, too big to act as frigates, but finally useful as troopers. There were cabins for the officers and hooks for three hundred hammocks along the lower deck and the galleys were set up to feed the men thrice daily. The lower holds contained massive water butts, sufficient for an Atlantic crossing or to voyage to the Cape. The decks were too small for the men to parade or take formal exercise, but there was space for them to stretch out in the sun on dry days, to enjoy the luxury of idleness.

  Merchantmen carried men at the rate of one to every one and a half tons burthen, a three hundred ton ship carrying two hundred soldiers, although fewer if sailing far foreign; the troopers, which were mainly converted old men of war, averaged one man to every three tons, were thus more convenient to the men, and more expensive to run and unpopular with government which much preferred soldiers to be cheap than comfortable.

  Septimus surveyed the arrangements, to a very great extent approving.

  “They will dice and play cards, Major Carter, and I doubt we will be able to stop them; they must do something in their spare time. We can, however, pass the word to the sergeants that gambling debts will be frowned upon. Farthing stakes will be ignored, but if silver is seen then there will be stern retribution. The sergeants will know who runs the Crown and Anchor schools and who offers to play Two-Up and will be able to speak to them. As for thimble-riggers, they will be put down, most sternly!”

  Thimble-rigging was the generic term for the various sorts of tricksters who preyed upon the gullible at country fairs; many of these individuals ended up before the magistrates and were translated into the army, thus very often putting them alongside their original victims.

  Carter agreed – card-playing could not be stopped, and the men had to do something in their hours of idleness. The officers would certainly play whist and there would be gambling schools in their mess – the men could not be prevented from doing the same. But there had to be sense in their betting. A few of the cleverest would make money, that was inevitable, but they must take care that none were impoverished.

  “I will speak to the Sergeant-Major, sir; he will know who will need to be watched.”

  “All of the normal old criminals, no doubt, Major Carter. As well, a word to the junior officers, better unofficially from you than thundered from on high by me, I think: the ship’s officers are employed by the Transport Board and so are civilians, but many are lately of the navy. Whatever their origins, they will be given respect and their authority will not be undermined. They may well see the need to commandeer the services of some of our men in time of storm or other emergency and their orders will be obeyed implicitly. It is late enough in the year that we may well be caught in a Biscay gale, or so I am told – though I hope not. We are first of the convoys to sail – those who are even a week later than us may meet the onset of winter in the Western Approaches, and the sailors I have talked to say that can be a miserable time.”

  Carter grimaced; he had memories of the return from India when they had encountered the edge of two deep storms; no more than the edge because the convoy had steered away from them. The ship had reeked of vomit for days.

  “How long do we expect the voyage to be, sir?”

  “The distance is a little less than twelve hundred miles, I am told. The transports will be lucky to average five knots; say one hundred and twenty miles a day – ten days, if all goes well. Unfavourable winds might force the convoy to tack deep into the Atlantic or leave us windbound in one of the South Coast ports. Two weeks if we are lucky; six if we are not!”

  The luck stayed with them and they reached Lisbon in three weeks; men and horses were both fretting after twenty days confined aboard ship but neither had taken significant injury. Had the passage been much longer then there would have been casualties among both.

  Lisbon was a beautiful city, to look at.

  There had been a massive earthquake fifty years before, probably more than one tenth of the population killed, certainly more than one half of the city destroyed. The government of the day had taken the opportunity to create the capital anew with great squares and truly magnificent churches and public buildings; they had forgotten, however, to install sewers.

  Lisbon stank.

  All waste, of all sorts, was deposited in the broad gutters that lined
the streets, waiting for the rains to wash them clean. Unfortunately, Lisbon enjoys a long dry season each year. A massive population of pi-dogs had grown up, one hundred thousand or more, that cleared the streets of the more organic rubbish, but the French Army, recently present in the country, had seen them as an unsanitary menace, and had shot the lot. The smell had reached a dimension previously unknown, worse even than London in a dry mid-summer week.

  The British army landed and recoiled in horror; the soldiers’ comments on the country and its habits did little that was good for the alliance.

  The Hampshires came ashore, formed up in the square behind the wharves and swore at the smell. Septimus sent an urgent message to the Brigadier, demanding instructions. He was called to conference.

  “Billeting, Colonel Pearce, is a difficulty, inasmuch that no arrangement has been made for it. Although the Portuguese authorities were aware than an army was due, and indeed, welcome its presence, no thought has been given to the, shall we say, physical demands that it makes. We have brought our own rations, knowing the country to be poor and the French to have looted everything they could lay their hands on, but we had expected the supply of roofs for our soldiers to lay their heads under.”

  If in doubt, say very little.

  “Yes, sir.”