Spanish Tricks (Man of Conflict Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Exactly so, Major Perceval. The ground will still be there tomorrow, but there will be far fewer of the Frogs upon it. Torres Vedras showed us this new way – the French took the great bulk of Portugal and gained little other than space to dig their own graves. Let the Frogs attack, let them push us back until we reach a convenient place to stand, and let them pay for every yard with a soldier’s corpse.”

  “Not General Picton’s way, is it, sir?”

  “It is Lord Wellington’s desire, and that is all of the justification I need.”

  The morning opened with noise and smoke and all of the evidence of a major action to the right flank; Septimus could see no detail and was unconcerned. His Lordship was in control, he had no doubt, and would give any orders that seemed desirable to him. For the while, they would perform the tasks they had been given.

  “Let the men light their fires, Major Perceval. They will be better for a cup of tea.”

  “How they drink the damned stuff is beyond me, sir.”

  “And me, and you know the trouble of it, do you not?”

  Perceval laughed, evilly.

  “You must make your inspection of the position, sir, and you will be offered a mug at every fire, and you must be seen to accept one or two at least, and to drink them!”

  “Just so, Major Perceval. I must play the part – we are all soldiers together, after all.”

  The fighting on the right flank grew closer as the troops there were pushed in, but no messenger came and Septimus stood in ignorance of all that was happening. He knew only that the activity died down in late morning and that the remainder of the army had received no orders to change their position. Whatever it was, it had been neither defeat nor a victory over the French; they must wait their own turn, if it was to come.

  Noon saw movement across the river, another attack directly into the village and intending presumably to take the ridge. There were two battalions of Scotsmen in the village, behind the stone walls and they would not be shifted easily, Septimus believed. He called his majors to him.

  “Tell the captains that there is to be no retreat from the ridgeline here. When the counter-attack comes then we will follow behind it, to form another sharp point when the 88th finds itself blunted, if ever that may happen. The village is to be our killing-ground, gentlemen, preferably by volley fire. Bayonets as a last resort. Try to avoid hand-to-hand while we may.”

  “Two divisions this time, sir. The French are serious about the business.”

  “They may be, but they will not be able to push so many men into a compact village, using the bridges and fords available. I doubt they will be able to engage with more than a single brigade at a time. They will find it a long, slow journey up the ridge, gentlemen!”

  The French threw men across the river, taking casualties with no apparent concern. Septimus watched and made a rough count of blue-coated bodies tumbling to the ground; he estimated half of a battalion lost, possibly more, as they drove forward, pushing the Scots back by sheer weight of numbers.

  “Prodigal with their ammunition, Major Paisley. The French habitually use cartouches, do they not? Do you know how many rounds they carry?”

  Major Paisley did not; he called to Lieutenant Webb of the Grenadier Company, he being commonly supposed to know most things.

  “Sir? Cartouches? Ah, the French infantry use them as a rule. We have not done so since the days of the matchlock, finding them cumbersome. I believe that the normal rule is to have six rows of eight, sir. It is not uncommon for their people to stuff a few extra rounds in their pockets when going into an attack, or so I am told. At very most they would carry sixty rounds, sir.”

  “Thank’ee, Mr Webb. Your erudition, as always, puts lesser mortals to shame.”

  “Oh, dear! That had not been my intention, sir.”

  “I am sure it was not, Lieutenant Webb. You should return to your company now, sir.”

  “Strange to discover a man of such learning as a lieutenant, and thoroughly enjoying his life!”

  Major Paisley shook his head – it was not something he had met before in a subaltern.

  “It is indeed, sir. I must confess, I had my doubts of him at first, but he is fierce enough when the need arises. I have to admit, sir, that I have never come across a cartouche.”

  “I saw them in the Sugar Islands when we chased a defeated battalion of Frogs, throwing away everything that slowed them. A wooden frame, canvas covered, over a board somewhat like a tea tray and drilled to the size of a made cartridge. Probably a little quicker to lay hands on a cartridge, and certain to keep them dry, but bulky and inconvenient when running. Standing in line and exchanging volleys one might gain a couple of seconds, perhaps, but that matters little as we normally content ourselves with three a minute.”

  “Would not four be better, sir?”

  Septimus shrugged; it would, obviously, but there were drawbacks.

  “Was every man young, strong and healthy, then yes. But look at our companies, Major Paisley. I would guess one man in ten to be forty years of age, or more. I know Cooper to be nearing fifty, and I do not believe him to be the oldest in the battalion. Many of the men have been taken by fever and not all have regained their whole strength. Far too many are drinkers, boozers, bottle-hounds, their constitutions subverted by gin, unable to concentrate and push themselves hard. Three a minute, they can do; try for four and within two minutes fire would be ragged and after five it would be every man for himself.”

  “It is a shame, sir, that the men cannot be turned away from the drink.”

  “Ours is a hard-drinking country, Major Paisley, and, do you know, sir, was I a poor man or a private soldier, then I might well wish to drown my misery, to hide inside a bottle.”

  Major Paisley, who did not think of such matters for knowing that all was well in his own, beloved country, was taken aback. He made a show of peering down to the fight in the village, commenting that the smoke was moving uphill.

  “Where were we? Ah, yes, the French firing off their ammunition with a degree of profligacy. In attack one needs to husband one’s rounds, Major Paisley, for the quartermasters may not be able to keep up with the men if one achieves a penetration of the enemy line. In defence, of course, the matter is rather different for as you fall back so you come closer to your ammunition wagons.”

  “That is a point that had not occurred to me, sir.”

  Septimus thought that very few points had ever occurred to Major Paisley; not to worry, he was not shy and little else counted in a battalion officer. Septimus could do his thinking for him if the need arose.

  An hour and it became clear that the Scots could not hold; they were inflicting casualties and the French were in effect ignoring them. For every dead Frenchman who fell another pair trotted up from behind.

  “I could wish that the Scots would break off the action and fall back on us, Major Paisley. When they are finally pushed back they will be intermingled with the French and we will have difficulties in placing our volleys. We may be forced into a charge with the bayonet to tumble them back and give us the space we need.”

  It became obvious that the Scots had allowed a gap to form in the centre of their line; probably they had lost senior officers and the companies had diverged from each other as they fell back from one piece of cover, one wall to the next.

  “Major Perceval! Your companies to your right, if you please, and hold the church and the graveyard. Bring yourself into direct contact with the 88th, sir.”

  Perceval trotted off, had his men moving within five minutes. Major Paisley was left with no reserve behind his line along the crest.

  “Face the Grenadier Company half-right, major Paisley. The Frogs will funnel into the area of the church, or so I expect. When they do, sir, you will commence volley fire into their rear. Allow a company or two into the graveyard, and then forbid any reinforcement while Major Perceval kills them. If the possibility arises, repeat the process. When the charge comes, join in, sir! I shall b
e at Major Perceval’s shoulder, to hand if there is a need to bring the Scots together, or to watch over the Connaughts, they having a tendency to lose their officers early in any fight, for their habit of standing to the front and hurling their defiance at the foe.”

  “Is that so undesirable, sir?”

  “It is when the foe hurls musket-balls back, sir!”

  “I would estimate that there is the larger part of a brigade coming straight uphill to the graveyard, sir.”

  “Refuse the men until they are at fifty yards, Major Perceval. Keep them down below the back wall, then commence volley fire.”

  “I doubt it will stop them, sir. There are a good few too many.”

  “Bayonet when they get close. The man trying to climb a five foot wall is at a disadvantage, I believe. Have you got your sword bloody before, sir?”

  “No, I have never had the opportunity, sir.”

  “Thrust when possible, back cut to the neck as they go over. Don’t hit too hard. An inch of steel in a man’s chest will kill him just as dead as a foot of blade sticking out of his back. Jab and keep your balance. Unless you need to put on a show, that is – if the men are wavering, then you must yell and do your possible to lop a Frog’s head clean off his shoulders.”

  “Astley’s damned Circus again!”

  “Beg pardon, Major Perceval?”

  “No matter, sir. There is room for just one Stroppy Seppy in a battalion, sir, and I really doubt that I can play the role.”

  “Excellent! As you say, one of that kind is more than sufficient. Here they come now!”

  The volley fire commenced, was rapidly joined by Major Paisley’s companies and the French charged through it, apparently convinced that they were on the verge of success, that one more push would give them the ridge and put them into the wagon train, which was, they were assured, full of English food.

  “Fix bayonets!”

  Septimus could hear his sergeants giving the men the time, all by the drill manual, calming them with the familiar routine.

  The French came to the wall and started to haul themselves over, hoping to swarm the defenders under by the mass of numbers. The line began to buckle, forced back into the graveyard as the French gained a foothold at one end.

  Major Perceval ran forward, calling his orders from the front, slashing with his sword and bellowing. He was quickly joined by platoons from either side, stabbing their way forward, led by their lieutenants. Septimus spotted the new man, Entwhistle, well to the fore, picking out a French sergeant and ramming his sword deep into his belly, to the consternation of the men following him as he screamed and fell.

  Septimus approved – kill the leaders and the rest will falter.

  Entwhistle drove forward, pushing the French back, a wedge of men behind him with their bayonets; he reached the wall as another wave of French came from the other side, still loaded. A whole platoon fired their volley at the lieutenant, shot him to the ground, certainly dead. The men of Entwhistle’s company roared and pressed forward, over the wall and into the French, taking wild risks in their anger and bringing the French onset to a halt.

  The 88th bellowed as their officers let them off the leash in a wild charge, picking the moment when the French were hesitating and vulnerable. The French tumbled back, downhill and into cover behind the first stone walls; the Connaughts were into them before they could form ranks and reload and the rapid retreat became a rout.

  Septimus ran forward, shouting.

  “Hampshires will advance! Hold your line! In order!”

  The battalion swept down the slope, tidying up, chasing platoons and squads of French out of hiding behind walls and in stone sheds and cottages, taking surrenders when they were offered but not asking twice. They watched as two companies of the French took a wrong turning and found themselves in a closed yard with ten foot walls on three sides and then tried to make a defence with their blades and died to the last man.

  “No powder, Major Perceval! Fired off every round they possess. Pass the word to pull back and reload, keep out of bayonet reach.”

  The noise changed from close quarters howling to platoon and company volleys, a clinical scouring of the village.

  “Push to the river! Drive them back!”

  The officers yelled and the sergeants and corporals kept the men together, checking every building, emptying the village and completing the work so well commenced by the Irish and Scots to their front.

  The noise slowly dropped and the powder smoke cleared and they were able to bring order to the battlefield and then start the process of counting their own losses.

  “Just one officer dead, sir, the new lad, what was his name, now? Three sergeants, who will not be easily replaced. At a quick count, fewer than twenty men. Very light, sir. A number wounded, cut about by the blades, but bayonet wounds are commonly cleaner and more like to be surface slashes than musket shots which penetrate deep. I think we may have been lucky, sir.”

  “Very good, Major Perceval. Will you write the letter for the boy, or shall I?”

  “I’ll talk to young Webb. He writes a good letter, sir, very literary, and it won’t take him ten minutes and he is always willing to oblige. Tell him the name and he knocks out a heartfelt and sincere set of condolences – he has the gift, it seems. What was the boy’s name, now?”

  Man of Conflict Series

  BOOK FIVE

  Chapter Three

  “An interesting experience, General Picton. I am glad to have seen a real battle. Tell me, sir, is it always the case that one is isolated in absolute ignorance, aware of all that is happening in the one hundred yards about one, and with no idea what is occurring as little as a furlong distant?”

  “It is only if you are located on a bloody hilltop that you know that sodding much, Sir Septimus!”

  General Picton was in a good mood; his 3rd Division had done well and had taken few casualties and, importantly, had given up no ground. He had already heard that his arch-enemy Craufurd had conducted a brilliant fighting retreat with his Light Division, falling back several miles in good order, saving the army’s guns and humiliating the French cavalry – but, as would be noted by foreign observers and by Horse Guards, Craufurd had surrendered literally miles to the French. Picton had not given up one foot, and his hold on the village was very obviously more secure than before the battle.

  “Remarkable work by the 88th, Sir Septimus, in charging and first throwing the Frogs back; sort of thing that the Irish soldiers are good for, of course! And then the soundest consolidation of the ground by your battalion and the others at your back, sir! I sat my horse on the ridge and watched, Sir Septimus, ready to throw in my little reserve where you might need it. Never called upon the buggers at all! No need! I saw as well that you and your officers were where I wanted to be, sir – right at the goddamned front! I saw one of your boys go down gallantly, Sir Septimus. Did you lose many of your officers?”

  Septimus shook his head.

  “Only the one lieutenant, sir. Young Entwhistle, who had barely had time to introduce himself, joining us yesterday, in fact. It is harsh to say it, but he is little of a loss for never having had a presence! A pity, for he showed well. To replace him will not be easy, and we are to be employed at a little distance again, sir, out of the way of ensigns seeking their first step. I am not sure of what to do, sir, but have no wish to be detached and short of officers.”

  General Picton had played the game for many years, and he could recognise that Septimus was setting him up for some purpose.

  “Out with it, man! What do you bloody want?”

  Septimus grinned, raised a hand in silent apology.

  “Three sergeants, sir. Battlefield commissions that will stick! I could make them, will do so as ensigns if necessary, but I had rather they were lieutenants and that Horse Guards should accept them as such. A General has far more chance of being listened to in London – indeed, I cannot imagine that Horse Guards would raise an eyebrow was a despatch from you
to note that three sergeants had been made for gallantry in the field and to fill vacancies in their battalion.”

  General Picton could accept that; a colonel had a very wide degree of discretion to appoint ensigns to his battalion, but Horse Guards might frown upon him raising rankers by two steps. Generals, however, had more freedom in this regard, though they did not have the power to offer promotions in the ordinary run of business.

  “Strange bloody way of running an Army, Sir Septimus. I cannot make a captain into a major, but I can turn a sergeant into a lieutenant, which is in many ways a far greater step!”

  “No doubt I will be just as irritated in my turn, sir, when seniority makes me a major-general! Mind you, sir, that is a few years off yet, and if I am lucky there will be no wars and I shall be sat growing a paunch in idleness at Micheldever!”

  Picton scowled and shook his head.

  “Do you believe the wars will ever end, Sir Septimus?”

  “No, sir, not really… I am not sure I wish them to. Being honest, sir, we are fighting soldiers, you and I, not the sort who love parades and standing guard for royalty dressed in pretty uniforms. Is there another life for the likes of us?”

  General Picton frowned, staring at the younger man, choosing his words with a rare degree of care.

  “For you, Sir Septimus, yes! You have a wife and family, and an estate, you tell me, to grow and nurture; you can go to half-pay and still have a worthwhile occupation. I am a score of years, more or less, your senior; bachelor, and certain to stay that way now; going half-blind as well with all the bloody paperwork, cooped up in a tent peering by sodding candle-light! No sense in me seeking a good life in retirement! I own farms but cannot wish to spend years staring at corn growing in a field and waxing enthusiastic! When the battles end, then, I much suspect, so do I! Ah, enough of this! I am growing maudlin, Sir Septimus, and not even the excuse of a bottle! Give me the names of your three sergeants, Sir Septimus, and I shall wave my magic wand and turn them into gentlemen in an instant, and if any bastard at Horse Guards shall open his bloody mouth then I shall go there and ram my sodding fist straight down it!”