Fire and Folly (Man of Conflict Series Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Two hundred men, sir, maybe more. Women and children, too, just a few. Not one of them will go any further, sir.”

  The Regimental Surgeon sounded despairing; Septimus had no comfort to offer.

  “Get a hot drink into them, man. Feed them as we can. Build the fires high – use the big logs, the ones we cannot carry easily!”

  The cavalry of the rearguard began to come through, mostly still disciplined in troops and squadrons, but their horses were looking sorry for themselves.

  A waiting staff officer passed orders to them and then left the village, preferring to ride the mountain tracks through the night rather than wait for the dawn and the French.

  A cavalry colonel was brought to Septimus.

  “Sir Septimus Pearce? The Hampshires?”

  “I am he, sir.”

  “Pocock, Ninth Hussars. I am ordered to make a stop for you to retreat behind. I shall take my men up the hills a few miles, no more than an hour, I trust, until I find a suitable place – a bit of flat in a valley. I shall scrape the Frogs off you and then retire.”

  “Thank you, sir. We shall pass through you and hold where your valley narrows, as close as we can.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  It was not much of a plan, but it was all they could manage.

  The last of the cavalry, heavies of the King’s German Legion, walked across the bridge in good order. They looked as if they had been out on exercise, until the watching men counted the number of spare horses with empty saddles trotting along behind. Septimus had been told that the Germans trained their horses to return to the herd if they lost their rider. The Germans dismounted at the edge of the village and began to care for their horses. Septimus sent a message to the Quartermaster to contact the dragoons and offer to feed them; they were the sole protection when the inevitable retreat came.

  A polite young lieutenant brought the colonel’s thanks for the food and his promise to be ready at dawn.

  Septimus was relieved – he had seen the Germans at work in Denmark, knew that they were professional soldiers, did not regard campaigning as an extended jolly fox hunt.

  Calls came from the sentries at first light; there were still stragglers limping in but the French were among them, slashing them down, driving them off the track, out of the way.

  “All of your men up, Major Perceval. Cooper, run along to Major Carter and tell him to feed his men and then be ready to relieve Major Perceval. Warn the gunners, if you please, Major Perceval. Block the bridge.”

  There was a small sawyard behind the barns, the local men cutting trees into firewood over winter, an occupation for the otherwise idle days. The soldiers had pulled the short, twisted pines, useless for building timber, across to the bridge in readiness; they now pushed them lengthways, crown first onto the bridge, a makeshift abattis that would hold cavalry off until a galloper gun could be brought forward.

  The block also cut off the remaining stragglers. Septimus watched as the French drove them into the river, quite merciless; he turned to the six small guns.

  “Fire!”

  Canister shot was effective at that range, and came as a surprise, the French expecting the guns to have been pulled out to prevent their capture. The dishonour of losing guns seemed greater to them than the advantage of using them.

  Even six pounders were useful at short range against cavalry. Horsemen were less able to take cover than foot soldiers, had no alternative but to retreat and remained targets until they had managed to get back up the track.

  “Half an hour, Major Perceval. Only one way in, other than the track we came down, and we can watch that for a mile and more. It is, in any case, on the wrong side of the river for the French – it must take them hours to backtrack and find a way to it, and there are no maps to tell them of its existence.”

  “What do you expect, sir?”

  “Guns, if they have them. They will have seen the abattis and will know they have to destroy it. If they have no guns immediately to hand, and we may hope they have outstripped their artillery, then they may choose to waste their infantry on an assault. The very moment the first cannon arrives, we shall withdraw, Major Perceval. We shall pull back to the track and then repeat ambush after ambush. We must fight for time, sir. It is less important to kill the French than to delay them and give the bulk of the army the chance to get out of the mountains. When Major Carter relieves you, then you are to feed your men and send Mr Black and his people off in front of us. He is to advance at least ten miles and then is to ready food, as he can. Thinking on the matter, give him an escort of a company of ours; the stew he cooks up is for the bellies of our men, not for stragglers to steal!”

  “How long, sir?”

  “I have no map. I would imagine that two weeks is the least we may hope for. What is the date?”

  “The First of January, sir. It is now 1809, by the new way of reckoning. Happy New Year, sir!”

  “Corunna by the fourteenth, if we are lucky, Major Perceval. We have food, just, provided we protect the Quartermaster. Pass the word to the men that we are to hold our order. They have seen what happens to those who fall out and throw themselves on the mercy of the French.”

  Major Carter brought his men forward, rested from a night under cover and just fed. Perceval took his companies back to the fires and the stew pots.

  Septimus walked casually across to the guns, emplaced to the side of the bridge where they could shoot across the river and see part of the track leading into the valley.

  “That was good work, Captain. I expect the French to bring up their own guns to clear the bridge as their next move. Roundshot in the hope of destroying their cannon, if that eventuates. Canister or grape again if they send infantry to do the job. We will not be able to bring the guns away, sir. When the bridge is in the way of being taken you must destroy your barrels, sir. Bring your powder away, if it be possible; I imagine you will wish to mount your men on the limbers and horses. I would recommend you to dump your shot, sir – it will be no more than useless weight.”

  “My men will walk, sir. We shall load the wounded and sick from the barns onto the limbers, sir.”

  “You will not do so at my absolute order, Captain. I will give you that in writing, sir. Those who cannot expect to survive will remain here, sir. You will be at liberty to pick up our people as you go during the day, sir, but you will consult with our Surgeon each evening and leave behind those who will not survive. Your sentiments do you credit, sir, but we must endeavour to save those who have hope, sir, and those alone.”

  “Then the dying and despairing are to be left behind, sir, uncomforted?”

  “That is my order.”

  “Then God save your soul, sir!”

  “I will see to my soul, Captain. You will obey my orders!”

  There was no choice. The sun had risen, thin and feeble, but the temperature was still below freezing; even fit men would be hard pressed to survive such a day. The severely wounded and stragglers, already weakened and spiritless, could not hope to live and would be no more than a burden on those who could otherwise come through.

  Warning shouts came from the men at the bridge, brought Septimus back at a slow run. He was sure that if he risked working up a sweat then he would die as the moisture froze on him. He found himself regretting that he had ever left Bombay; he would never complain about excess heat again.

  A battalion of infantry was deploying from column of route into line, quite pointlessly in Septimus’ opinion – they could not cross the river other than by the narrow bridge, the width of a single oxcart. The guns opened fire, using roundshot at first, the range too great for grape or canister.

  French skirmishers reached the bank of the river and opened a harassing fire, sufficient to drive the Hampshires into cover behind rocks they had piled up overnight.

  Septimus paced across to Major Carter, taking pains again not to run, this time as an example for the men.

  “Pass the word for platoon volley fire, M
ajor Carter. Annoy them, kill a few, keep them all busy. Keep one of your companies loaded, if you please, waiting my command.”

  It was obvious that the French must intend to clear the bridge by hand rather than wait, presumably for hours, for their guns.

  They watched, saw a party forming up on the track.

  “Coils of rope, look, sir.”

  A dozen or so of men with ropes on their shoulders; a company surrounding them as cover.

  “B Company is loaded, sir.”

  “Good. Wait till the men with ropes are close to the abattis, Major Carter, then call the ‘fire’. They cannot have too much rope available, will be forced to waste men attempting to recover the first coils. Make it expensive for them!”

  Septimus watched, making a show of casual idleness, as the French reached within ten yards of the bridge, perhaps seventy yards from the British; he nodded his approval as Major Carter gave the word.

  Eighty or so muskets crashed as one, at least one half of the rounds hitting home; the French stopped for a few seconds. The guns fired their six rounds of canister into them, finishing the job. The few men remaining on their feet turned to run as B Company completed the reload and fired again.

  “Well done, Major Carter. How many did we lose?”

  “Nine killed, sir, by the skirmishers. As many again wounded.”

  “Damned expensive!”

  “Very much so, sir. The French are feeding more skirmishers along the bank, sir. I can see another battalion on the track, sir. I think those are lancers waiting behind, sir.”

  “Not a lot longer, I fear, Major Carter.”

  “No, sir. They will make it far too costly for us soon.”

  “Cooper! My compliments to Major Perceval. He is to take his men up the track to a convenient ambush point, there to hold for us and the cavalry. Immediately, if you please.”

  Cooper ran.

  “I had hoped to gain the whole morning, Major Carter. We shall be lucky to win three hours.”

  “Too many of them, sir. We can hold a while where the track is narrow and the mountains are steep and rocky. If we come to open valley sides, lightly tree covered, such as you often see in Wales, then we shall be hard-pressed indeed.”

  "I know very little of mountains, Major Carter. Are such slopes very common?"

  "They are the normal sort, sir."

  "Well, sod that! Let me think."

  They needed to make speed, such as it was, to get out of the mountains before the cold and snow weakened them too much. They dared not make less than their fifteen miles a day, needed to push to twenty in all probabilities. That demanded marching in columns. Collecting firewood as they went said open order. Cavalry to the rear and their flanks would insist that they fell into square at frequent intervals. It was impossible. It had to be done - the regiment was not about to give up, to surrender.

  "Major Carter, as soon as we reach open ground you must order your rear two companies to march in close order, ready to form company square, echeloned, one ten yards from the other. The remaining three companies to make another furlong or so and then form square in their turn. The rear two to march in square to pass through them."

  Marching in square was difficult and slow, but it could be done and still allowed for platoon volleys. It demanded the most rigorous discipline of the men.

  "Yes, sir. I shall explain to the sergeants that the alternative is to be cut up by the cavalry. These lancers are likely to be a damned nuisance, sir."

  "Agreed - what do you suggest?"

  "The normal, sir. Aim low. Kill the horses and turn their riders into untrained infantry in clumsy boots."

  The fire of the skirmishers rose to a crescendo and another party stormed the bridge. The guns broke them up but many still reached the cover of the abattis and started to tie the ropes to the trees.

  "Cooper, run to the gunners, instruct them to fire roundshot into the abattis. The splinters will do the Frogs no good. They might weaken the bridge too."

  The guns started rapid fire as Cooper came running back.

  "The captain says he's going to fire all he's got, sir. Then he's going to blow his barrels and get out, sir. He reckons fifteen minutes, sir. He's sending the limbers off now, sir."

  "Right. Pass the word back to the Germans that we shall be pulling back soon - as soon as the guns cease fire."

  Cooper ran, holding low and breathing hard; he was getting old for this game, he thought.

  "Pull three companies back to the far side of the village, Major Carter. Behind the dragoons. Ready the other two to run. Keep up fire on those damned skirmishers, keep their heads down."

  The abattis was reduced to fragments of splintered timber; the men who had been pulling at it were in much the same condition. The guns changed target to the river bank, searching through the rocks with grape loaded over ball and keeping the skirmishers' heads well down.

  The fire from the guns slowed and Septimus heard much louder explosions from them as the artillery men destroyed their pieces one after another.

  "Lancers are coming, sir!"

  A first troop of the lancers, dressed in green with tall hats of a peculiar shape, bent to the charge.

  "Poles, sir. Those things on their heads are called schapkas, I believe."

  "Interesting, Major Carter! My command, I believe. Hold fire, men! Wait!"

  The Poles charged in on a troop front, belatedly realising that they could cross the bridge only in pairs; the troop commander began to shout his orders as they came together, spurring their horses to be first across. A leading horse fell and they lost all order.

  "Front ranks! Take aim! Fire!"

  Septimus counted off ten seconds, slowly, holding himself back.

  "Rear ranks! Take aim! Fire!"

  One minute; three rounds from each man and there was a barrier of horseflesh blocking the entrance to the bridge. The screaming was horrifying and the soldiers, most of them countrymen, showed unwilling to fire more.

  "Bring them back, Major Carter."

  "I have never heard the like of that before, sir."

  "Nor me. We shall hear it again, I fear. More than once in this bloody war! Fall back!"

  They watched as the dragoons of the King's German Legion gave a lesson in how to expose the weaknesses of the lance in the close. Once inside the length of the lance the sabre had all of the advantage and they cut the Polish regiment to pieces.

  The Hampshires marched slowly up the steep track across the shoulder of the mountain and made an even slower descent into the valley beyond. There were half a dozen shallow, fast streams in the bottom land, none of them bridged, all with slippery stepping stones; it might have been possible to cross dry shod in summer.

  "No obstacle to cavalry, sir. We must climb higher."

  The hillside was open but very steep, covered in some sort of tough bramble and thorn bushes. The horsemen would be forced to keep to the track.

  A mile uphill and they came to Major Perceval and his companies, in good cover and with fires lit. The track snaked through a short pass between a pair of inaccessible peaks, could be ambushed at three separate points.

  "The Hussars are down the other side of the next valley, sir. Open ground. They say they can charge on it. We just want to get across it, sir, if you ask me."

  "We must wait on the dragoons. The last I saw of them they were busy cutting up lancers."

  Perceval reluctantly agreed that they must delay - it was only honourable.

  "Carter has had some losses, has he not, sir?"

  "A quarter of his men, I would estimate."

  Major Carter came through with the last platoon of the rear company; he looked worn, fatigued, shaken by his losses.

  "Get your men round fires, Major Carter. Boots off, dry their foot rags at least."

  Three hours and the Germans came through, silently, fifty or so strong. A young lieutenant appeared to be the sole surviving officer.

  "Colonel? There are no more of Polacks to chase yo
u with lances, sir. Two regiments, there were, sir. Your men broke the first regiment and they were easy for us, but the other crossed the bridge while we were busy. They were more hard, sir."

  "Thank you. Go ahead, if you will. Take your men to join with another of your regiments - there is at least one other, I believe. You have done well, sir, better than I could have believed possible. If we come through, sir, my report will say how much we owe to you!"

  Septimus turned away, bellowed to his men.

  "Hampshires! Attention!"

  The battalion scrambled up, stiffened where they were.

  "Battalion! Present arms!"

  The weary dragoons managed to sit straight in their saddles to acknowledge the salute, rode away proudly.

  "Battalion! Stand Easy!"

  Septimus glanced quickly at his own men, trying to assess their condition. They had a few more miles in them on the day.

  "Major Carter, march your companies out!"

  Septimus gave them half an hour and then brought Major Perceval's companies behind them.

  As they marched down the hillside they passed a trail of bodies, stragglers who had finally collapsed. They looted the bodies of their cartridge pouches and carried on.

  Two hours, perhaps four miles covered, and they came upon the Quartermaster and his stew pots. The hussars were feeding as well.

  "Well done, Mr Black. We need them."

  The French caught up with them in the morning; they lost another thirty men fighting the cavalry off and then made their way up the track to the next ridgeline.

  Later that day they made contact with the main body of the retreat at a large village just above a wider river. It was a foretaste of Hell.

  Man of Conflict Series

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter Nine

  A pair of roads crossed at a village which stood on the valley side by a big stone bridge across a wider river, perhaps fifty yards across. It had been an important local centre with a marketplace and several inns and two of merchants' general stores.