Septimus did not specify what the pity was - whether it was unfortunate that the Count had lost some of his followers or whether it was to be regretted that the Count himself still survived.
“Do not fire until we have certainly identified the first group, Captain Boldre. In fact, wait my command before firing at all; we do not know who is chasing him, if it is the Count.”
The Count came in on a blown horse a few minutes later; he dismounted and stumbled across to Septimus, making no attempt to look to his animal’s welfare.
“Captain Boldre, one of your men to walk that poor bloody horse and either water it or put it out of its misery when he can see what’s best.”
Boldre waved to his own groom to leave his second horse and look to the Count’s stallion.
Three of the Count’s followers rode in a few yards behind him, one of them sagging in the saddle, bloodstained across the body.
“What happened, Count?”
“I was attacked, of course! What else might happen when I was refused escort?”
“Who attacked you?”
Septimus could just see the pursuit and could pick out no uniforms.
“Damned traitors! So-called guerrilleros, deserters from the King’s Flag!”
“Captain Boldre! Have you any Spanish speakers to hand?”
“No, sir.”
“Annoying! Damned foreigners who will not speak a civilised lingo! Let us hope that some of them have English. I doubt the Count will interpret for me!”
A group of shabby and poorly armed horsemen drew up at a distance from the square. Septimus took a quick look – ten of them, only three with long arms and another four with pistols; two carrying lances, one an old sword without a scabbard. Two of the pistolmen had sabres as well; French at a glance.
“Mr Boldre, take the pistols and swords from the count and his followers, if you please. We want no accidents in the next few minutes. I shall go out to speak to the guerrilleros; be ready with a volley if the need arises but do not fire without very good reason.”
“Yes, sir.”
Boldre let it be seen that he was not happy with the order – far too vague for his liking.
“Cooper, at my back. Are my pistols to hand?”
The pistol belt was settled around Septimus’ waist and he mounted again, slowly walking his charger towards the waiting men. He drew up at a polite distance.
“I am Colonel Sir Septimus Pearce, of the Hampshires, under the command of Lord Wellington. I much regret that I cannot speak Spanish. Do you have any English?”
A brief whispering among the group and one paced forward, well out of sword’s reach of Septimus still.
“Sir! Ryan, sir. Got lost on the road to Corunna, sir. Cut off. Been with these folk ever since, sir. Cutting up the Frogs when we could; runnin’ when we couldn’t. El Campesino, so he calls himself, the officer, sir. Learned a bit of Spanish, so I have, sir.”
“Then you have done well not to die, Mr Ryan. Do you wish to return to the ranks or will you remain with the guerrilleros now? I do not consider you a deserter, but I cannot promise that other officers will agree.”
“Nothing for me back in Ireland, sir. Less in Bloody England! I will stay, sir, and thank you for giving me the choice! I have a lady of me own here, sir, and will make a life, or not as the case may be.”
“So be it, man. Now, Mr Ryan, what can you tell me of this business today?”
“Not much, sir. We was making our way along the river down in the valley, keeping an eye out for Frogs what might be out stealing so as to cut up any party small enough. This fellow in the silks and satins comes riding along and shouts at us to fall in with him. It seems that we was joined up in the Grand Army of the King of Spain, or so he says. Our fellah, well he says he ain’t in favour of any king no more and we’ll just go our own way and talk about the way things should be when the Frogs are all killed off. The fancy chap calls him a traitor and starts to wave a sword and tells us we join him or gets killed as enemies of the King. There’s fifty or so of us and we can see seven with him, and them not exactly bursting with the desire to start a battle there and then, so Campesino tells the little sod to run away, and he hauls off with a pistol and tries a shot at us. Well, we shoot back, a bit surprised, and two of his people go down and the rest take off at a run, him at the front of them. So we sort of follow along behind to see if there’s an army waiting for them and if we need to get out at speed. First thing we find is you, sir.”
“Good enough, Mr Ryan. Would you speak to your man and tell him that we have no quarrel with him. We have this gentleman wished upon us, and had indeed thought we were rid of him when he rode off this morning; I will say that I am none too pleased that you have chased him back to us!”
Ryan translated and received an offer to cut the man’s throat for him; Septimus considered it wiser to decline.
“Do you have any knowledge of what may lie to the south, Mr Ryan?”
“None, sir. We have been workin’ our way down from the north, there being little by way of forage for us.”
From the little Septimus knew, the bulk of the guerrilla bands recruited from a home area and then stayed there or close to. Ryan’s band smacked more of brigands than of irregular soldiers. A band of horse could be very useful, particularly one that had no inconvenient prior loyalties.
“I am taking my battalion south, Mr Ryan. There may be an arsenal, which may still have its contents intact, and which we must then deny to the French. Anything there is to be given out to a band of guerrilleros, who may or not present themselves. If the arsenal exists, then it would be possible to find say fifty of muskets with powder and ball sufficient for a goodly while. If you will join us, then we can at least promise you a ration for the next few days. If the arsenal exists, then we will arm you from it. A lot of ‘ifs’, I fear.”
“You are sent by Lord Wellington, sir?”
“I have orders direct from him.”
“Well, he may be wrong, any man can be misinformed, but he is one who is not in the habit of making mistakes, or so I am told. I must speak to our man, sir.”
There was a brief discussion with the leader of the band, which was growing all the while as more men rode in, those on slower horses or mule-back.
“Campesino asks that you give him the little chap in fancy dress, sir.”
“No. I can’t. Lord Wellington himself told me to look after him. He is supposed to be our guide.”
“Sure, and it’s your choice, sir. Me, I wouldn’t trust the bastard an inch, but then, I am no gentleman soldier!”
“Nor am I, Mr Ryan. But I have no choice.”
“As you will, sir.”
There was another discussion, followed evidently by agreement; they would join for a few days, until the arsenal was found, or discovered not to exist.
“Good. Will you scout ahead for us?”
“No other reason for having horsemen with you, sir. We shall. I would be sayin’, though, sir, that it won’t be bright-eyed with the dawn and galloping off into the sunset or whatever the army does.”
“Find me the French and place the tracks over the hills, Mr Ryan, and you can do anything else you wish.”
“Very good, sir!”
Ryan achieved a salute, probably in mockery, and led the band forward. The Count was not pleased.
“This is an outrage! They have tried to kill me and now you will employ them!”
“You have not supplied the guides, my lord. I must find them elsewhere. They have promised not to kill you, so you need not be afraid.”
“I shall not remain here to be insulted.”
“That is your choice. I must add, in all honesty, that El Campesino has made no promise regarding your safety when not in my company.”
“I must in any case remain while my valiant companion lies wounded. I cannot desert him.”
“No, my lord. How is he?”
The Count did not know; he had made no attempt to enquire of the Regimenta
l Surgeon.
“Cooper?”
Cooper returned inside five minutes.
“Ball in the belly, sir. Not a chance. Doctor’s filled him with opium, sir. That laudanum stuff he uses, that is.”
The Count was suddenly beset by grief for his lost companions.
“They are murderers; you must hang them!”
“You shot at them first, they say, my lord.”
“I have the right to shoot peasants who show rebellion against their king.”
“You have some strange habits in Spain, my lord. They are, of course, wholly your affair. If you wish them hanged, my lord, you must set about the business yourself. I would advise you to take some care to ensure that your bivouac is well separate from theirs at night.”
“I shall make personal complaint against you, Sir Septimus. I assure you that the honour of the whole Spanish nation has been impugned by your wayward behaviour.”
Septimus allowed himself to be irritated with the young man. Their countries were, in theory, allies against the monstrous invasion of the French and this lordling had no concern for anything other than his own greedy privilege.
“If you consider your honour to be imperilled, Count, then you have but to say so. I will happily give you the opportunity to regain your personal honour. You have but to name your friends, my lord! If you should at any time wish to do so, then you may speak to Major Perceval who will gladly make the necessary arrangements!”
There was no witness, none at all in earshot other than Cooper, and he was a mere servant and irrelevant. The count was able to walk away, confident that none would know that he had refused to make his challenge.
Cooper, of course, informed every gossip in the whole battalion of all that had occurred. The Count’s remaining entourage knew every detail before morning, their own servants passing on the word.
The battalion made good time through the hills, the guerrillas pointing them from one track to the next and finding stopping places with water every night. Septimus estimated that they made a little more than their fifteen miles each day, seeing no live French soldiers on any of the five days.
They passed through six more villages, all dead and burned out.
On the fifth evening Septimus sat down with Ryan, telling him that they were within reason close, he thought, to the location of the supposed arsenal.
“In a valley, you say, sir. Tracks leading up from the south and the east and others going west, more or less, and into Portugal. Located for a base camp, you might say, in time of war with Portugal. A long time since that last happened, sir.”
“It is Spain, man! The fact that there has been no such war for ever and a day is no reason to change the old way of doing things. No doubt there is a hereditary baron of the fort or whatever and he has to be paid his fees for the job, even if it no longer exists.”
Ryan laughed, said the colonel had learned the ways of the Spanish, right enough.
“What if there is a French garrison there, sir?”
“A small one, we kill. If it is large, then we must weigh up the prospects. If they are Spanish, well that will be a different matter, depending on who or what they are.”
“Your little Count fellow seems to think there will be a regiment or two of his King’s men there, sir. Talking, he has been, in front of his servants and to the other gentlemen riding with him. None of them exactly delighted with him, sir, not any longer. The servants have never seen a penny in pay and the food has been thin on occasion; they are on half rations now, for him wanting to husband his resources, as you might say. The two of his officers what are with him are unhappy that he made no attempt to see his man who was belly-shot before he died; they know that he will do nothing for them either if things go wrong. They are by way of regretting they ever joined him and have been very willing to talk things over with me.”
“I can understand their point of view, Mr Ryan. It is, by the way, time for you to explain yourself just a little more, sir. Your diction, sir, is just a fraction inconsistent. What was your rank, Mr Ryan?”
“Well now, Sir Septimus, having left His Majesty’s service, does it matter?”
“Yes, Mr Ryan. It does. Not to the extent that there will be any attempt made to take you up – I have said that I do not consider you to be a deserter and I do not go back on my word. I will not even ask your regiment, sir.”
“Lieutenant, sir, and a battalion of infantry of the line. I thought it better to be a cavalryman to explain why I was easy in the saddle, which a private soldier would not otherwise have been. You may appreciate, Sir Septimus, that life can be irritating for a Catholic in His Britannic Majesty’s Army, and that I am not desirous of returning to my battalion. I had no private income which made a difficulty as well, and I could not have purchased my company. I did not intend to fall out when I did – but I am not sorry that it happened. Snow thick and nasty, the Frogs said to be into the rear-guard and the battalion called on to double; I dropped back to chivvy up the stragglers, at the colonel’s order, and lost the column in the dark and never found ‘em again. I was lucky that I came upon a side track leading downhill and followed it hopefully and ended up a day later well clear of the retreat and the Frogs both, and then I ran into El Campesino and the little band. We was attacked by a squadron of cavalry later that day and I showed useful with a musket and that was that, I was part of Campesino’s troop.”
“I understand you have a Spanish wife, Mr Ryan.”
“I have, sir. A girl who managed to escape a village as the French entered it. She was working at a distance in a garden and was lucky to hide away. She was inside listening range, however. When Campesino came through she joined as a hanger-on, a camp follower, you might say, and attracted his attention when they captured a few of the French. Inventive, so she was, it would seem in disposing of them. He looked after her to an extent, and when I joined she and I struck it off together. She is a strong lady and I have more than a kindness for her, sir.”
“Good. If you need to protect her, then tell Cooper at any time and she may become one of my servants as far as we are concerned. What is your opinion on the arsenal?”
“It exists, sir, and the Count knows it. He thinks it is held by his people. What he intends, I do not know, but there is a possibility that he has it in mind to be general in command of a brigade made up of your battalion and as many again of Spanish Regular troops. What then, I cannot even guess.”
“That is useful information, Mr Ryan. If the battalion was to stay in camp just here, could your people discover the exact location of the arsenal and perhaps take a look at whoever is there?”
Ryan agreed and made his way back to the guerrillas.
Septimus called the two majors to him and explained all that he knew and outlined Ryan’s guesses.
“What next, sir?”
“We wait on Mr Ryan, Major Paisley. Depending on his report, we shall take action to neutralise the Count.”
“What, cut ‘em off, sir?”
Major Perceval was scandalised and had to have the difference between ‘neutralise’ and ‘neutering’ explained with some precision.
“My mistake, sir, I had thought you meant to make a gelding of him! Not that that might not be a good idea – no great need for that one to breed more in his own image, as they say. But it is not quite the thing, even so!”
“I shall not commit that particular act, Major Perceval, though I am much inclined to doubt that the gentleman would actually notice the loss!”
Perceval considered that remarkably witty and haw-hawed to himself for several minutes.
“All I can say, gentleman, is to be ready. When we discover the whereabouts of the arsenal and obtain information as to who is inside it, then we shall march, loaded, and prepared to defend ourselves against all-comers, as they say in prize-fighting circles, and on our toes to attack any French we may come across.”
Septimus could give no more precise an order, to a great extent because he was still himself uns
ure of what he would do. Lord Wellington’s original orders had been to deliver the contents of the arsenal to a particular guerrilla leader known as the Black Friar, but it seemed not impossible that this gentleman existed solely in the Count’s imagination.
“Sod it, Cooper! Can you organise a cup of coffee? I had as well be comfortable while I wait.”
Atkins lit a fire and put a can of water to boil; every platoon in sight instantly did the same and the word to ‘brew up’ passed through the battalion in seconds.
Septimus debated whether his dignity would survive sitting down on the grass, relaxing in front of the men. Reluctantly, he decided that he could not go that far; he must stand until Cooper had unearthed his camp chair. He looked around the three companies in plain sight, saw that the captain of each was sat on the ground, at least one sprawled out and leaning on an elbow; it was a sign of the changing times, he thought – he could never have done that when he was a captain.
Ryan rode in with a half a dozen at his back, one of them his lady, his personal escort, or his own squad, depending on how one interpreted the command structure of the guerrilla band.
“Found it, sir. No more than three miles distant, down in the bottom land where the hills level out for a distance. A bit more than a river valley, but not what you might call a plain. I would say that it had once been a castle, back perhaps in the years of fighting the Moors, stone made and with a bailey enclosing a good four acres, and a dozen of barns, or warehouses you might say inside. At a guess, sir, I would say that it had been slighted, intentionally blown up, many years ago. A dozen holes in the bailey wall, and filled in with wooden fencing and gates; the donjon or keep or whatever you might call it half blown down, and I would say unusable for fear of falling stonework.”
“So, not defensible in case of a siege, Mr Ryan?”
“Half a day with a pair of big guns would take down all of the wooden fences, sir. It is not a frontier fortress, that is for sure. From what I saw at a distance, I would say that two of the sheds are in use as barracks, sir, perhaps a pair of companies apiece. I saw men in uniform walking about, and I might have a feeling it was French blue that I saw. I chose not to go too close after spotting that, so I cannot be certain, sir.”
Spanish Tricks (Man of Conflict Series, Book 5) Page 10
