Not an elegant gentleman, Septimus reflected, as he returned carrying the three printed documents, spaces filled in and signed by General Picton. Not even a particularly warm-hearted man, but useful, and very willing to fight all comers, French and English alike.
“Sergeants Exton, Chisholm and Walker to me, Cooper!”
The three sergeants entered Septimus’ presence together, stood at the entrance to the tent where his desk had been set up. They saluted with the precision of the senior NCO who is not sure what is happening but is quite determined to survive it unscathed.
“At ease!”
They fell into the correct stance, slight signs of relief showing – they were not in trouble, not if they were permitted to stand at ease.
“The battalion did very well yesterday. General Picton has passed on his compliments.”
They stared unmoved; they already knew they had performed well, that the battalion could put another honour on the Colours.
“We lost one lieutenant and were already short of subalterns due to sickness, two young men having taken furlough to England. I have no reason to suspect that the two lieutenants will ever return to duty, and in any case am unwilling to remain short of officers. You will know that we have no Volunteers in our ranks.”
Volunteers were penurious young gentlemen, unable for lack of funds to purchase as ensigns, and who joined a regiment as anomalous, hermaphrodite sorts of beings, accommodated in the Officers Mess yet carrying a musket in the ranks. They would, on showing competent, step up into the places vacated by ensigns as they died or were promoted on campaign; generally, they were enthusiasts and made competent officers, but they had no private income and could not purchase their next step and were often an embarrassment for their efforts to win a lieutenant’s commission in the field. If a campaign came to an early end then the Volunteers might return to England, still unmade; almost worse, they might come back as ensigns and remain in a peace-time barracks in that rank for many long, dragging years.
Some regiments encouraged Volunteers, particularly those who were the sons of serving officers, born to the Army. The Hampshires, however, were insufficiently fashionable to attract the sons of the impecunious aristocracy and happened to number no officers with sons anxious to serve.
“I do not know of ensigns or lieutenants in the Second Battalion who intend to voyage out to join us, gentlemen.”
The word ‘gentlemen’ alerted them – no ranker was a gentleman, by definition. The three were, in the nature of things, among the most intelligent of the NCOs and showed comprehension. They frowned, unsure if they wished to become ensigns – more than sergeants, less than a whole officer.
Septimus swiftly reassured them.
“I wish you, all three of you, to become lieutenants, company officers, in the battalion. You may at a later stage in your careers, if you so desire, shift across to the quartermaster’s stores; that will be your choice. For the while, and for the next year or two, I need you doing what you are very good at – leading the men at the front. General Picton has signed Lieutenant’s Commissions for you, and has sent his despatch to Horse Guards to inform them that you are promoted for valour in the field and as exceptional soldiers. I shall be able to offer assistance to you, if needs be, when the Hampshires are sent home again; it is always possible to arrange a transfer, to India if you might wish it, or to an active battalion elsewhere.”
Once in India a ranker officer could transfer to the East India Company’s Armies, there to earn higher pay and eventual retirement in some comfort; many instead took civilian positions, normally with the Company, and made themselves well-off indeed. Service with the Company would result in a respectable life and probably a family of their own, while return to England as a ranker officer could, too easily, leave them as outsiders, an embarrassment in the Mess, commonly turning into a lonely drunk.
The three accepted the offer, each aware that a brevet as captain was a fair possibility if the campaign should last for four or five years, and that that would make a life in India even more comfortable. They recognised that they were almost certainly making their farewell to England by taking a commission, but peacetime England had no use for soldiers anyway. They were pariahs in England, wearing the scarlet coat, and they could only benefit from leaving the country.
“I intend, gentlemen, to move you to companies on the other wing of the battalion. Those of you who were Major Paisley’s people will serve under Major Perceval, and vice versa.”
That was normal practice – a good sergeant kept some distance from the private soldiers, but they knew him as one of them, a buffer between the officers and the men. Better that they should break that relationship from the very beginning.
“Beg pardon, sir, but Mr Grundy remained with Mr Taft, when we was in India.”
“He did indeed, Mr Exton, but that was by way of being a special case, I think. I do not believe you are needed to so great an extent in the Light Company.”
“Not needed, no, sir. But I have been a Light all my service, sir.”
“No. That is, if anything, more reason for you to get the feel of a line company. You could easily find yourself as a captain, as you must know, and that would demand familiarity with the line outside of the Lights. As well, Mr Exton, it is my intention to extend some of the training of the Lights to the other companies. I would like every man to be able to work a skirmish line if the need arises.”
Exton fell silent – he had made his request and had received a refusal; he must not now argue with his colonel.
“Uniforms, gentlemen, will be supplied in the first instance. I have spoken to the Quartermaster and he is to make the arrangements – how, I know not.”
They grinned, being on terms with Mr Black already, as any sergeant must be with the stores officers. An officer normally bought his own uniform, but that was financially impractical for a serving sergeant, who could not have a private income, and an expedient had to be discovered.
“I have it in mind that you should equip yourselves today and show yourselves in the Mess tomorrow. That will give you time to look the part.”
There would need be swift needlework to make the uniforms fit as they should. Septimus was within reason certain that there would be private soldiers who made themselves a side income tailoring for the men, picking up a few pennies or tots of rum in exchange for repairing torn and worn uniforms. No doubt a few of the officers’ servants were involved, some of them having the skills of valets, and experienced sergeants would know exactly who to speak to.
The uniforms and camp equipment of officers who died overseas in theory should be returned to their families at home; prized personal possessions – watches and finger-rings and lockets containing strands of hair – normally made the trip back to England, while the remainder of their uniforms and accoutrements might be auctioned in camp but tended to be ‘lost in battle’. These items would equip the ranker officers in all probabilities, the process almost formalised and overseen by adjutant and quartermaster together; there might be an arrangement for payment, but more likely there would be mutual favours offered. The quartermaster often needed out-of-hours working parties to shift officially non-existent stores, as an example.
The new lieutenants were sent about their business and Septimus proceeded to the next step in their induction to the officer corps; he called Majors Perceval and Paisley to him.
“Lieutenants Exton, Walker and Chisholm will appear in the Mess before dinner tomorrow, gentlemen. I do not doubt that they will be made welcome.”
The majors were silent for a few seconds as they assimilated the news.
“Not too difficult, bearing in mind just who they are, sir. Three together may be in some ways advantageous. Mr Walker might perhaps have the occasional problem with the bottle – I have seen him enjoying himself of an evening before now…”
“I had heard that to be the case, Major Perceval. Can you speak to him, quietly, on the side as it were, and recommend him to contr
ol his drinking?”
“I will try, sir. As President of the Mess, of course, I will have a view of his mess bill and may well be forced to have words with him. We shall see.”
“He is a good soldier, and I have taken the risk that he may not be able to control himself as he should. I shall give him to the Grenadiers and set Lieutenant Webb to take him in hand. Walker is brighter than many and Webb might be able to lend him a book or two. Worth a try, gentlemen.”
Major Paisley agreed that the effort should be made; he thought it might be a good idea to give Webb the extra responsibility as well, the young man tending to think too much for his own good and needing to have his leisure time reduced.
“On the topic of activity, sir – have you any word on what we are to do next?”
“I am to report to General Wellington in the morning. I believe that we will march very soon. I would expect the men to spend tomorrow on making ready. How many are we to leave behind, gentlemen?”
Between them they reported only a score of sick or seriously wounded and unlikely to return to the line. As many more had taken lesser injuries and would be unable to march for a week at least; they would be obliged to remain with the army and would almost certainly never find it possible to rejoin the battalion, being sent to short-handed companies as they became fit again.
“Less than one in twenty, which is an acceptable rate of losses for a hard-fought action. Commendations, now – are there officers or men who should be singled out for their virtue?”
“Young Melksham, sir, went up against a damned great big Frog with a half-pike, or something like, similar to a sergeant’s spontoon, which he was using to some effect; stepped inside and shoved his sword through the Frog’s belly. When the sword stuck, then he hauled out a pistol and shot him off! Then he turned around and shouted to the men to close up on him, calling out, ‘We’re the stroppy buggers, lads! Show the Frogs how the Hampshires deal with their sort!’”
Septimus shook his head; it sounded horribly like hero-worship, and that could kill a young officer.
Major Perceval continued with his tale.
“The Lights all yelled then and pushed forward again and then young Purkiss was nicked by a bayonet and they pushed a half-company of Frogs into the river when they tried to surrender straight afterwards.”
“I can hardly write that in my report! Was Purkiss badly hurt?”
“Stitches in his arm, sir, and not too many of them. Lad’s quick on his feet and managed to pull away from the Frog who lunged at him; surface cut on the outside of the arm. Stings, you can be sure, but no worse – unless he gets the blood poisoning, of course.”
The least of wounds could fester; any scratch could kill if the recipient was unlucky.
Septimus made his report, another set of papers written in duplicate by his soldier-clerks and destined for Horse Guards, where eventually they would be read, summarised and filed away never to be seen again. The reports were essential – failure to provide them was a certain source of disciplinary action – but they never led to a response from London. He made his returns of men dead and wounded, of powder and ball expended, of equipment destroyed by enemy fire, of replacements required; a great mass of paper, all to be signed by him and most to be ignored.
He took his requisitions for stores with him to headquarters next day. The demands for powder and ball would be honoured, he knew; the requests for rations would be met in part, depending on how many convoys arrived in Lisbon and the availability of carts and wagons to carry the barrels and chests of biscuit inland; indents for uniforms, for shoes especially, would be ignored for lack of any supply.
Lord Wellington was in a passion when Septimus was ushered into his presence.
“I am surrounded by fools, knaves and incompetent congenital idiots, Sir Septimus!”
That seemed to Septimus to be a reasonable summation of any staff he had ever met; he was surprised to discover that Wellington was not referring to his own retinue.
“I demanded of the cavalry that they should inform me of Massena’s line of retreat, Sir Septimus. The answer? Eastwards, they think! One quarter of the compass! I begged a little more of them, and what did they respond?”
Septimus could not imagine what they might have said.
“They told me that they had discovered a regiment of cuirassiers and that they had cut them up, but had, as was only to be expected, been delayed by so doing and had lost sight of Massena’s army. They had, however, certainly killed one hundred and more of troopers, though taking the loss of some few horses and men themselves. They had no doubt that I would wish to inform Horse Guards of their fine achievement!”
“Well, sir, one cannot truly expect a lot more of horse-soldiers; the concept of using their eyes and brains is beyond the most of them. If they cannot charge it, sir, then I am much afraid they cannot comprehend it.”
“Witty, Sir Septimus, but of little value in planning my next moves! I am informed that Massena is to be replaced, which is a pity, for he had become very predictable in his strategy. There is a rumour that Bonaparte himself is to return to Spain, but that I much doubt; he is far more likely to be looking to the east. I believe that his overarching aim is still to take the wealth of India and the Orient. A brief campaign to break the immediate power of Russia to be followed by an alliance, or more likely, armed neutrality with Austria, then a march through the Balkans and into the Ottoman Empire, then through Persia and into India from the north, or possibly to Egypt and then once again to march across the deserts and down to Bombay. Wildly ambitious and utterly impossible, but he will not be brought to understand that he is making impractical demands of his army. He cannot take naval control of the Indian Ocean, cannot send his army by water, though he may not believe that. The march from Egypt across the Sinai Desert and then through Arabia simply cannot be achieved – the land is inhospitable. Thus we return to conquest of the Ottoman Empire followed by the invasion and subjugation of Persia and then to cross the great mountains to the north of India and enter the Kingdom of Nepal and then the land of the Sikhs before finally meeting the British in India itself.”
Septimus tried to envisage a map of the world; he had a vague schooldays memory of Alexander the Great attempting much the same, attended by some degree of success.
“Another Alexander, my lord?”
“That may be in his mind – but Alexander did not have Britannia to his west and controlling his oceans and probing his every area of weakness. I do not believe Bonaparte to be wholly sane – delusions of grandeur! He may make an alliance with Austria, but can he trust them when he is embroiled in Turkey? He may crush Russia in one campaign, but will he be able to match them the next year when they have whipped up another million of serfs from their unending Steppes? He claims to be unbeaten, his Empire to be impregnable – but we shall bleed him here in the Peninsula and let the message be heard that he can be defeated.”
“Will that not make it increasingly imperative that he must come here in person, my lord?”
“I hope so, Sir Septimus! I would like to pit myself against this All-Conquering Hero – but, he will not come! There is a chance that he may be not merely thwarted in his conquest but actually beaten in the field; he will not take that risk, because he knows that if ever he personally loses a battle then the dogs will be biting at his heels! Lose just once when he is himself commanding then the message will spread that he has lost his genius – and then see how the Prussians will rise and the Danes will join with a Swedish army and the Russians will rearm and the Austrians will send armies into Italy, while Americans will take his remaining possessions in the New World under their control. His advisers will tell him all of this, and he will rage and threaten them and make vast proclamations and hold reviews of his army, but he will not venture across the Pyrenees!”
Septimus wondered if the delusions of grandeur were restricted solely to Bonaparte, but it was not for him to prick the general’s bubble of self-conceit.
“An interesting speculation, my lord. For the while, I presume we are to consolidate our positions here on the borders?”
Septimus had perhaps made insufficient allowance for Wellington’s intelligence; he received a very piercing look.
“Quite, Sir Septimus! You are to take yourself to the south, as we briefly discussed before our little battle. You did well to hold the ridge, Sir Septimus, and to take possession of the village. I ordered General Picton to stand his ground, and that he did. Would it have been possible to have ventured further, in your opinion, Sir Septimus?”
“Across the river, my lord, and onto the plain? Not with the one division, my lord. Given a dozen batteries of field artillery to advance with us, and heavy cavalry on one wing, out to the left to circle about the French, and at least another eight battalions forming square and passing through each other, then we could have pushed the French back. Not otherwise, my lord. If I might say so, my lord, General Picton is a fire-eater and would have attacked if possibly he could have.”
“I agree, Sir Septimus! There are those who were not present at the proper time and place, and therefore know far better than those who were, and who do not scruple to suggest that General Picton was over-cautious.”
“No. They are wrong, my lord. I will take a risk when the occasion arises, but I most strictly ordered my officers not to venture beyond the near bank of the river. We took very low casualties – fewer than I had expected, in fact – but we would have been slaughtered if we had extended across that stream.”
“Good enough, Sir Septimus. Now then, I have guides and interpreters for you, Sir Septimus, who will lead you to the arsenal in the south. The gentleman who commands this little party is a major in the army of Spain, and is therefore of the nobility. He imagines that his birth is such that he must take overall command; I shall leave you to disabuse him of that notion, Sir Septimus! I have informed him that you are his superior in rank and that he is to be obedient to command. He is, I much suspect, capable of hearing only that which is pleasing to him and will do his possible to give the orders. He has subordinates in his company, some whom know the road south at least as well as he does, so, if worst should come to worst, he may be replaced as guide.”
Spanish Tricks (Man of Conflict Series, Book 5) Page 7
