Billy Bacon and the Soldier Slaves (Colonial Warrior Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  The word came back in just a few minutes.

  “Shallow, sir. Not twenty foot wide and running over stones, sir. Bananas growing, sir, so either a village or the garden land of a plantation.”

  “Cross, one platoon at a time, first platoon to load and guard the ford until we are all across.”

  The track rose by ten feet on the other side of the stream, back to drier land again, more coconut palms in their rows.

  Another hour, at a guess, and they rested, moved out again and then came to a sudden halt as musketry volleyed half a mile away.

  Billy listened and swore. The volleys were heavy, full platoons at least, possibly half-companies, and frequent. There could be half a battalion in action, possibly more.

  “Can you pick up return fire, Sergeant Affleck?”

  “No, sir. Might be Mr McKay ‘as pulled ‘is men out on the quiet like, is leaving them Frogs to shootin’ into the dark, like, sir.”

  “Advance, Sergeant Affleck. Keep in single file, either side of the track. Dead quiet. At my shout, the men to form their three lines across the track, front with bayonets fixed as if to receive horse. Second and third lines to fire alternates, if needed. First line to stay loaded.”

  Billy thought hard, trying to work out what should be done. It was his first experience of truly independent command, and he did not much like it.

  Got to push forward to the town – if possible, he mused. But we can’t fight even a thin battalion with two companies at night.

  He could not imagine what he must order, pushed his way to the head of the leading platoon so that he would be in the best place to react to the situation as it revealed itself. It had been easier as a sergeant; in the same position, a sergeant would not be blamed for making the wrong decision when left on his own. An officer would be put through the wringer if he got it wrong – and it was a certainty that the major would not have made the mistake. A new lieutenant, promoted from the ranks, was the ideal scapegoat – no family to offend; no money behind him; no powerful friends.

  The firing was lessening, the volleys still held together, but fewer of them. That suggested a force behind a wall or barrier of some sort, not on the move, easily kept under control. Perhaps the town was closer than they had been told, or, just possibly, some sort of fortification, an earth bank or something like, had been thrown up in a hurry. Perhaps there was an inland village, which had not been shown on the maps. Guess work – he had to see, which really meant holding on slowly until first light.

  “Feet, sir!”

  A harsh whisper from one of the men immediately behind him and evidently with sharp hearing.

  Billy picked up the noise after a few seconds; running men, not in boots, few of them, perhaps only a pair.

  “Halt. Stop them. Do not shoot. They may be ours.”

  Two men from Lieutenant McKay’s company, both carrying their muskets which made it unlikely that they were in flight. Men running from defeat, in fear, almost always dumped the weight of their muskets.

  “Here, soldier!”

  The men stopped, peered about them; Billy’s platoons were at the side of the track, hidden by the dense blackness of the low scrub.

  “Lieutenant Bacon. Over here.”

  They came to the voice, showed themselves as a corporal and a private soldier, presumably an escort through the dangers of the dark night.

  “Sir. Mr McKay say come quick. A small river, French on the other side.”

  “How many French? How far?”

  “Many, sir. Ten minutes, less. We come to the river. They come to the river at same time. We fire proper volley, sir, one, then two, then three, reload, wait command. Proper, sir.”

  “Good. Well done. What about the French?”

  “They stop, sir, then shout orders and line up and they fire volley. Lieutenant McKay has say, ‘kneel down’, and the French miss, sir.”

  “Very good, corporal, you have done well. I shall tell Mr McKay I am very pleased with you.”

  Billy made a quick decision; he had to support McKay.

  “Sergeant Affleck. Company to double forward to Mr Mckay’s position. Following me. I shall place the platoons as we reach the river ahead. Ten to fifteen minutes distant, at a guess.”

  Billy led the way, McKay’s corporal at his side.

  “Pathway go down now, sir.”

  A fairly steep slope, easy to sprain an ankle here.

  “Pass the word back that we are going downhill towards the water.”

  There were murmurs down the column, the men warned to take care.

  The musketry had died out, suddenly flared again. Billy assumed that the French had sent a patrol into the river to find out where McKay was and if he had pulled back. The musket flashes of the return fire would have told each side where the other was. If the French had field-guns and began to fire canister then the river line would become untenable. If they had the numbers Billy guessed at, they would be across the river in the morning in any case.

  They could see the river ahead, bare ground between the trees at first, then the sound of running water.

  “A Company coming in.”

  “Here, A Company.”

  Billy set his platoons into three lines, shoulder to shoulder across the track and spreading down the river bank on either side, uncertain just how wide the ford was and where the French would attack in the morning.

  “Sergeant Affleck, command to the right. Sergeant Jameson, to the left. Get the men into cover if there is any. Look for the best line out if the Frogs come in hard.”

  Lieutenant McKay was sure his men had come out best in the first exchange of fire – but quite why, Billy could not ascertain, as he had been unable to count the French casualties, or even certainly see that there had been any.

  “How many did you lose, Mr McKay?”

  “Two dead, and six wounded, Mr Bacon. I am not sure what to do with the wounded. I do not want to waste men carrying them back – it would need at least another dozen to take them to the fishing village.”

  “Make the decision in daylight, when we can see whether we are all going back to the village, Mr McKay. Do you know just how strong the Frogs are?”

  “Not for certain, no. They fired volleys on a half-company front, I thought, perhaps as many as thirty rounds at a time. Six quick volleys, with too little time between them for a reload in the dark. That says about two hundred men.”

  That was not what Billy had wanted to hear. Fewer and they would have a good chance of crossing the river and charging home with their own numbers. Many more and it would have been entirely wise to retire. Between the two companies they had some two hundred and forty men; they outnumbered the French, so could not retreat before them; their advantage was so slight that they would have difficulty in winning an attack upon the French, especially if they had felled a few trees or dug a small trench to shelter behind.

  “Wait for the dawn, Mr McKay. I am going to tell my men to sleep while they can. Six hours to dawn, maybe. One man in three to stay awake for two hours at a time.”

  Billy was senior in the rank to Lieutenant McKay and could give the orders, but McKay was not so much his junior that he could not discuss them. It was a potentially difficult situation. Lieutenant McKay was feeling young at that moment, meekly accepted Billy’s word, but he might regain his confidence later, which could lead to indecision, to hesitation, even to one company advancing while the other held its line or retreated.

  Billy swore, very quietly and found a dry-seeming patch of ground to lie down on; a couple of hours of sleep would do him good as well.

  Sergeant Affleck woke him after four hours, having intentionally guarded his sleep. Mr Bacon was inexperienced as an officer, and was a ranker, but he was all they had and he was learning; he needed sleep if he was to be of use to the company.

  “Light soon, sir. Mug of tea, sir. Fire’s out of sight, sir.”

  Billy drank the tea thankfully; it was hot and less sweet and went down well in the hou
r before dawn when even a tropical night feels cold.

  “Any sound from across the river, Sergeant Affleck?”

  “Nothing, sir. No gun wheels, sir.”

  That was the most important consideration.

  “Where’s Mr McKay?”

  “Down at the riverbank, sir, trying to see across.”

  Sergeant Affleck’s tone was deeply disapproving. The young gentleman was exposing himself to the view of the French, unnecessarily. If the light improved just a little without him noticing then a platoon volley would finish him; he should not be where he was.

  Billy made his way forward, cautiously, keeping to the cover of clumps of scrub while he could, dropping to a crouch over areas of short grass, keeping an eye out across the river.

  “Mr McKay?”

  “Here, Lieutenant Bacon.”

  McKay called loudly and walked across towards Billy, just visible in the darkness.

  “Have you spotted the ford, Mr McKay? How wide is it?”

  McKay did not know, he had not thought to find out.

  It was too close to dawn to risk sending men down to the ford to discover how deep the water was to either side and how many men could cross abreast.

  “Is there a path along the riverbank?”

  McKay had not seen one, was fairly sure that they need not worry about forces coming up from left or right.

  “Do we attack or defend in the morning? That is what we must decide, Mr McKay.”

  “Attack? There is at least a half battalion there, Mr Bacon. I do not think we wish to cross a river and assault a number greater than ours. I really cannot commit my company to that.”

  “No attack.”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  Billy was relieved, on two grounds – he had not fancied an attack across the water and McKay had refused to join him, making it impossible.

  “We should give our orders to the sergeants, Mr McKay.”

  They fumbled their way back up the slope, found Sergeant Affleck waking the company and organising fires where they could not be seen, over the low crest.

  “Do you know where Mr McKay’s senior sergeant is, Sergeant Affleck?”

  Billy was within reason certain that the man would be within reach of the tea bucket.

  “Here, sir. Sergeant Phelan, sir.”

  “Mr McKay has decided that he does not wish to make an attack across the river, so we must hold our ground here. I suggest, Sergeant Affleck, that as soon as it becomes light we should place our men in a half circle here, on the edge of the coconut palms. Platoons together, in any cover they can find or make. Mr McKay, you should hold the river while you can and then pretend to be broken. Your men to run up the slope and over the crest and then form their lines ready for us to fall back through you. We shall hold as long as we possibly can, killing as many of the Frogs as possible. If we can, we will draw them forward and then close in round them.”

  McKay was young and not particularly wise in the ways of the world; he agreed with Billy’s suggestions and made no attempt to deny that he had refused to attack. The pair of senior sergeants would make excellent witnesses at any enquiry or court, would tell the truth as they knew it: Mr Bacon had forced Mr McKay to fight but had been unable to make him attack.

  “Right. Place the platoons, Sergeant Affleck. Ensure they are loaded and know that they are not to fire until I give the word, or you if I fall. Tell them where they are to withdraw to, and make very sure they know that they will not fall back without a very precise order to do so. Any man who runs without an order will need a very convincing argument or will be looking through the circle of a hemp collar!”

  Sergeant Affleck much approved of hanging men who ran. In his opinion men were less likely to run from the fear of death if they knew that desertion under fire brought a certain execution.

  “Yes, sir! I shall place them now, sir. Where will I find you, sir?”

  “Here, where I can see down to the river and give the commands as necessary.”

  “By the little tree, over here, sir, if I might suggest. Provides a bit of cover, sir, and you can still see to the front. The men will all be able to see you there, sir. Do them good to know their officer is out front of them, sir.”

  “I hope it may do me good as well, Sergeant Affleck.”

  Lieutenant McKay accepted a mug of tea, choked on his first mouthful and staggered shuddering back to his company.

  “Don’t know what’s good for ‘im, sir! Put hairs on your chest, sir, a good mug of tea.”

  “He’s only young yet. More concerned about growing hairs in other places, I should imagine, Sergeant Affleck!”

  “I’m sure you did not say that, sir! Mind you…”

  They laughed, quietly, Billy much heartened now that he knew he had his sergeant’s loyalty.

  Dawn came and the men hunkered down behind the cover of fallen palm fronds and quickly woven grass stems. The tropical grass grew coarse and tall, almost like reeds, and was adequate to hide the men, though it would not stop a ball. Billy approved – they could mount an ambush where they would be wholly unexpected. The French would be looking for a line along the little crest in front of them, could easily be panicked by unexpected enfilading fire.

  He was perhaps ten feet above the level of the little river, part way up the valley side, the whole no more than a furlong across. McKay had his men lined up along the bank, necessarily visible – there was no cover. The ford crossed at a slight angle, could be placed by the water rippling over the stones just a few inches below the surface. It was wide enough for a single wagon, four or five men shoulder to shoulder, two horses just possible.

  The French began to stir, two hundred or so of them, making up into four companies. The faces were all white; it was a European regiment, much thinned by fever, probably out in the Sugar Islands since before the Revolution. They wore coats that had once been white, were now patched with local homespun and dirtied beyond the ability of any laundry to make good. Importantly, there was not a sign of a field gun. If they had any sense, they would exchange a few volleys across the river and send back for reinforcements; while they were waiting, the news should come in of the landing behind them and they could then retire gracefully.

  It was only much later that Billy discovered that they were incensed to be opposed by black men, and refused to be second best to them.

  There was much of shouting and beating of drums for a good half hour before the first company lined up in a column, ten abreast. They marched into the water and the outside files fell waist deep within two paces. They turned and went back to the bank. Another session of yelling and drumming and they formed up five abreast, the column twice as long. They marched, muskets held high, stumbling and splashing. Billy watched, wondering when Mr McKay would call his first volley; mid-stream might be best as the men would try to rescue the wounded from drowning and might well get their powder wet and would certainly have difficulty reloading, even in a foot of water. The three companies left behind were firing right and left of the marching column, but were sixty or seventy yards distant from men spread out in a skirmish line, were hitting very few.

  McKay called the first volley at forty yards, which was wise enough, but he had forgotten to split his men into two lines. All of them fired.

  McKay flapped and called the fix bayonets and then reload, the commands in the wrong order and delaying the men by a good thirty seconds – ramming being difficult with the bayonet in the way.

  He got off a second volley as the remnants of the column reached the riverbank. It was effective, but insufficient. Had he managed a third, he would have stopped the first onslaught.

  The two companies crossed bayonets and the French discovered they were outnumbered three to one and ran within the first seconds. Billy had heard that bayonet fights were uncommon and almost never lasted as much as half a minute. The bayonet encouraged the losers of a fight to run, very rarely drew blood.

  The company began to sort itself out, und
er command of its sergeant. Mr McKay was not to be seen. A quick search disclosed his legs and half of his body sticking out of the water, his head well under. He had been shot through the chest and had collapsed forward. His sergeant checked his pockets for personal possessions and stripped a pistol belt from his body.

  “Still dry, sir. Two Army pistols, and two pouches with ball and patches and powder. Lost in the field, sir.”

  Billy strapped the belt round his waist and checked the loads of the two pistols. Both were, as the sergeant said, dry and immediately usable. He deliberately did not see as the sergeant pocketed a heavy purse; the late Mr McKay’s father was a merchant and could afford the loss.

  “Sergeant, I want the men to form two lines. One on the bank, one ten yards back. Front rank to kneel. By platoon, they are to keep up a harassing fire across the river, the corporals to select targets – officers or formed platoons or anything they fancy.”

  The sergeant set to work and the platoon volleys were immediately effective, knocking down an officer and scattering the reforming company on the far bank.

  “Sergeant Affleck. Half of our men over the crest and to breakfast. The other half to eat after they are done.”

  The French would be foolish to make another assault across the river, and so would the British. It was a stalemate that would be broken easily by a battery of field artillery. The French had some horse; if they were sufficient in number they might be able to force the ford. Billy had neither horse nor guns to hand, could only defend, giving the initiative to the French.

  He sat and thought, and then stood, horrified at his own stupidity. They had passed through planation land during the night, and plantations had wagon tracks; the slaves collected the fallen nuts every day, taking them to the plantation yard where they were husked and split to make coir and copra. Where wagons could roll, soldiers could march, quickly. The Frogs across the river were only half of a battalion, because the other half was marching through the coconut palms to come up behind them.

  “Sergeant Affleck! Here!”