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

by Andrew Wareham

  He explained his conclusions; Affleck was instantly convinced.

  “Orders, sir?”

  Billy had worked out what the problem was; now it was up to him, the officer, to solve it, to get his people out.

  “We can’t fight both front and back, Sergeant Affleck. We must cross the river. No choice. Get two platoons of the original grenadiers, the biggest and strongest men, and send them along the river bank, towards the higher ground, where the stream should be narrower. There might be a bridge – the Frogs got across somehow. Go with them and take them across the river as soon as you can, but out of sight of the Frogs. Come back down the other side as quickly as possible and open fire on them. The moment you fire a shot, I’ll lead the rest over the ford.”

  “You’ll lose half of them, sir. We’ll lose the lot if we don’t. On my way now, sir.”

  Billy heard Affleck calling two corporals to double, saw him lead the platoons out within three minutes.

  “Sergeant Jameson, here!”

  He gave Jameson the same explanation.

  “We have to hold the top of the slope, in case they get here before we cross the river.”

  “We’re buggered if they do, sir!”

  “Die hard, if that’s what happens.”

  “Sod it! I’m getting old anyway, sir. Don’t fancy getting them bloody rheumatics in me back and barely able to walk for lying on the cold, wet ground too many times over the years. Better to go out fighting the bloody Frogs. Be a bit of a laugh, anyway, sir.”

  Billy thought that he himself might lack that particular sense of humour.

  “If they don’t turn up in time, follow across the river with no further orders.”

  Jameson nodded; he could do that.

  “Call Mr McKay’s sergeant to me. What was the man’s name? He told me, but I have forgotten.”

  “Phelan, sir. A Paddy.”

  “So’s half the Army, Sergeant Jameson. Get him over here.”

  “Organise your men, Sergeant Phelan, so that they go running four abreast to the river at the first shot from behind us, and then double across the ford. Unloaded, bayonets fixed; their powder will get wet if they go across loaded. Keep the shooting across the river going until it’s time to cross. We’ll hold your rear, if necessary.”

  “Sounds like we might be well-advised to win that charge, sir.”

  “If you don’t, then we shall be rolled up from front and back and end up drowning in the middle. One chance is all we have if they turn up at our rear. If they don’t come in from behind, then wait on Sergeant Affleck and time your charge on him. Either way, you will have to cross the river.”

  The men took their new positions and then returned to their breakfasts – if they were going to fight, then food was even more important.

  A runner scuttled down the slope, hunkering down until he was well below the skyline.

  “Sergeant Jameson’s respects, sir. Seen a platoon to the rear, sir. Scouts, sir, so he thinks. Sergeant’s going to hold our men in cover and try to kill them silent when they get to us. Delay them, sir, while they wait for their scouts to come back, what they ain’t going to.”

  “Good. Tell Sergeant Jameson that it is my order that he does what seems best. Say he is to write down what he is doing and I will sign it.”

  Jameson would be happier if he knew that he was covered, that his officer would look after him. He would do the job better for being confident that he would not be blamed afterwards, right or wrong.

  Billy watched as the runner made his way back to Jameson, then hid away in the long grass, behind the little screens they had made.

  A few minutes later he saw the French, just seven men, clustered together and craning their necks to see down to the river where they could hear shooting. They knelt when they saw the redcoats at the river’s edge, pointing to the two lines and obviously taking a count. Sergeant Jameson’s men scuttled round behind them. There was a single choked scream as a bayonet went askew, no other sound as they dropped.

  Ten minutes, sufficient to strip and loot and dispose of the bodies, and the runner returned, Probably the one man had been chosen for his command of English.

  “Seven French, sir. All dead, bodies out of sight. No written orders, sir. Very little, except rations, what is fresh bread, sir. Baked overnight, sir. Cheese as well, sir.”

  Fresh bread meant that they were very close to the town – they would not be carrying a bakery with them. Reinforcements, if there were such, could be called up in short order. It seemed very much the case that they were depending on the Brigadier bringing the Fencibles into a landing.

  “Give Sergeant Jameson my thanks, soldier. You have all done well. Keep your head down, now.”

  The soldier grinned and ran – surprised a little that the officer had seemed to care about his welfare, but not displeased.

  Billy settled down to wait for Sergeant Affleck, or for the French to open the battle.

  Billy Bacon and the Soldier Slaves

  Chapter Ten

  A slow hour passed. The men all had finished a breakfast, mostly of cheese and biscuit washed down with water. Almost all had laid hands on coconuts, were chewing the fresh meat with a degree of pleasure – it made a change, even for those who did not like it much. A few had picked up bananas as they had passed them in the night; they were very smugly eating them, displaying their quicker wits and hands to the envious.

  Billy was irritated that he had not thought to grab a banana himself – he liked the fruit but had been far too busy to help himself.

  The runner came down the slope, reported movement in sight, still far distant and coming along slowly, at a crawl in fact.

  “Sergeant thinks they worried, sir, for not seeing their patrol no more.”

  “Good. Thank you. Tell Sergeant Jameson that we shall attack across the river now and that he should watch what is happening in front and behind him. Both ways, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I shall be with the attack, at the river, so he must make the decision when to come down. I will not be able to watch him – he must do it. You understand?”

  “Got it, sir. You going to be busy, so he got to make up he mind on he own.”

  “Right! Off you go.”

  Billy ran down to the river bank.

  “Sergeant Phelan! Start your charge – they’re coming up behind us.”

  Sergeant Phelan shouted his acknowledgement and turned to his large company.

  “Cover platoons, volley fire! Corporals, charge!”

  Four platoons stood and formed three ranks and began organised volley fire across the ford from the right, hoping to keep the French down, under cover, more than to kill them. Four more platoons of twenty men apiece ran into the river and pushed across the ford. The remaining four trotted to the edge of the river at the left of the ford and dropped to their knees to aim across the river and attempt to pick off individuals; the range was long for muskets, but even when they missed, the French would hear the balls hitting close to them, would be inclined to fall back or take cover.

  Twenty yards in knee high water; the charging platoons would be exposed for at least half of a minute, longer if any stumbled and blocked men behind them. A single platoon firing volleys into the front of the column could stop them, four abreast and unable to spread out.

  There were individual shots from the French side; three men fell and were ruthlessly shoved out of the way, into the deeper water. Billy nodded to himself – if they stopped in mercy to their comrades, they might all die. They had to take the hard course. They were coming to the bank, to the deciding point. If the French had kept back a dozen men, loaded and waiting, they could still destroy the attackers.

  The first men climbed the low bank and there was a flurry of shots from the side, Affleck’s men striking into the defenders. Sergeant Affleck bellowed mightily and volley fire commenced, persuading the French that there was another substantial force outflanking them. The men in the river formed up in
line on the bank and roared and ran forward, bayonets fixed.

  Billy ran down to the ford, started across, calling the men on the left to follow.

  There was a bad fight developing on the French bank. The track away from the ford was narrow and led through a defile, an old, long dry stream bed worn down through rock, perhaps twenty feet wide and extending for a hundred yards before opening into plantation land. It was too tight for the French to fall back in order and the bulk of them had no choice but to remain and fight, or call for quarter.

  Most of the French refused to surrender to black men, it seemed. Many seemed unbelieving, the situation so far wrong, so much out of their experience and understanding, that they could not respond sensibly.

  Billy brought his platoons into the brawl, trying to work out what was best to do; he spun round to the nearest corporal.

  “Load and take your platoon to the side, over there. Fire into the back, up that gully, stop them running.”

  He pulled out the sword that he was obliged to wear and waved it over his head, mostly so that his own men could see him, and pushed to the front of the fight.

  “Come on, lads! Into them.”

  He took a mighty swipe at a French head in front of him – he had no idea of what to do with a sword, simply swung and slashed with it. He hit home, drew a long, agonised scream as he chopped through the man’s face and turned to the next. The French fell back, bunched up, fewer of them able to present and use their bayonets as they were pushed together. Volleys came into them from both flanks now.

  They would not surrender – it was going against all the rules that Billy knew. They were losing, they could not easily run, they must give up - but they did not, they died, and killed as well. He was losing men, not as many or as fast as the French, but his casualties were too high.

  Sergeant Phelan appeared, leading the remainder of his company, shouted that Jameson was coming and screamed as a French bayonet penetrated his guts.

  Billy swung and yelled, and pushed forward – he had to bring this shambles to an end. He spotted an officer, waving and shouting his men on, switched his sword to his left hand and pulled one of McKay’s pistols, aimed low, he thought, and blew the man’s head to pieces at ten feet.

  A French sergeant decided that it had been an officer’s fight, not his, and that it was over; he began to shout the surrender, ordering his men to drop their muskets. Most of them were glad enough to obey.

  “Pull back! West Indias, step back.”

  A minute and the fighting had stopped, the French cautiously raising their arms.

  “Sergeant Jameson, take over Mr McKay’s company. Sergeant Affleck, go to the end of this valley sort of thing and set up a block with your people.”

  Billy stared at the field of battle, decided the French had been daft for holding the bank of the river. Half an acre of grassland along the water’s edge and completely open. Where the track ran into the valley there was fallen rock and a couple of trees that had come over the edge; easy cover.

  Billy looked about him, spotted the runner, knew he spoke English.

  “You, private, here.”

  The man ran to him.

  “You are a corporal now. Pass the word to the platoons that were with Sergeant Phelan to set up a defence line just here, where the track goes into the rocks. Understand?”

  “Got it, sir. Line here, in cover, behind the rocks here. Let they French come across, sir, then kill they when they come out the water, on the grass, got no place to hide?”

  “Just that. As soon as we have tidied this bloody mess up, I shall send more men to you.”

  “Got it, sir.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Me, sir? Slave, sir, that my name.”

  “No it ain’t – you became free when you were made into a soldier. You will never be a slave again. What is your name?”

  “Freeman, sir. Corporal Freeman.”

  “So be it. I need a runner and man to act as a camp servant. If you want it, the job is yours.”

  “Can I say no, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I take the job, sir.”

  Billy blinked, then smiled to himself, liking the man’s logic.

  “Good. I need a good man and you seem as good as any, probably a lot better than most. After this day’s business is over, report to me, stay at my side.”

  “Yes, sir. French coming, sir, other side of the river.”

  “Right. Get the defence set up. Sergeant Jameson! Leave the stiffs. Get our wounded into cover up the track. All of our people first before you look after any of the Frogs. Let the prisoners deal with their own. Quickly, the rest of the Frogs are coming.”

  The remainder of the French battalion worked their way slowly to the ford and began to realise that the gamble of splitting their force had failed. The British were between them and the town they were intended to defend and they had lost one half of their strength, taken or killed. The officers went into a huddle around their senior while the men settled uneasily, as distant from the ford as they could get, but still aware they were inside long musket shot.

  An hour and the French officers came to a decision. A Sergeant bound a white shirt to his halberd and marched slowly to the edge of the ford, waving his flag frantically.

  Billy met him on the opposite side.

  “What do you want?”

  “Parley.”

  “Send one officer across. You have my word that he will not be harmed or held prisoner.”

  The sergeant turned back to the cluster of officers, passed the message.

  “Sergeant Jameson, if one of them comes across, go to escort him, and lead him through the middle – let him see how many dead and wounded his battalion has already lost.”

  There was an obvious argument among the officers which ended when a captain stamped down to the ford and laid down sword and pistols before wading across.

  Sergeant Jameson saluted him and brought him to Billy.

  “Marchand.”

  The captain bowed.

  “Bacon.” Billy clumsily returned the bow.

  “I wish to speak to the commander.”

  “That’s me. I am the only officer left. The Brigadier is with the main invasion, which should be landing at St Pierre harbour very soon.”

  “Then it will all be over, Bacon. You have won. We are in the wrong place. I wish for truce, Bacon. Permission to collect our wounded and bury the dead.”

  “How long, Marchand?”

  “My major said two hours. Now, I must talk to him again, if you will allow.”

  “Sergeant Jameson, escort this officer to the ford. If he returns, bring him back to me.”

  It took another hour, but they agreed to a day-long truce with no hostilities before first light next morning.

  “Count the Frog dead and wounded, Sergeant Jameson, and get me a report on our butcher’s bill. Corporal Freeman, bring Sergeant Affleck to me.”

  “We lost more than forty dead and eighty wounded, Sergeant Affleck, from about two hundred. We have just two sergeants and me to command the remainder. What I intend to do is to leave you here with the wounded and a single platoon of about twenty men. Hold this barrier here, if you can. Delay them in any case. Can you do that?”

  “No choice, sir. I must. You must get to the town to show at the rear and make sure they surrender. That’s what the Brigadier wants. So you’ve got to. Some of the wounded can act as loaders. I’ll scavenge all the muskets, Frog as well as ours, and load the lot. I reckon we’ll be able to get off a dozen volleys in a minute from the twenty fit men. That ought to upset them Frogs a bit, sir. It won’t last all day, but we can hold them for a few hours and maybe hurt them hard enough that they choose to go back the way they came.”

  “Do that, Sergeant Affleck, show them how the West India Regiment can fight.”

  Billy intentionally spoke the last sentence in a louder voice, for the men to hear and hopefully be heartened.

  “They
know by now, sir. We lost one hundred and twenty, all told. I’ve counted ninety Frog stiffs, and we’ve already seen sixty carried back to their doctors and as many again walking wounded, and there’s some few who managed to get to the side, into the bush land there. I’m sure the Frogs lost two for our one, sir.”

  Billy took out his notebook and pencil, given him by the Brigadier in person when he was made an officer.

  “I’ll make certain those figures get into the hands of the Brigadier. I’m thinking as well, Sergeant Affleck, that we must have another lieutenant – and that could be you.”

  “No, it couldn’t sir. I ain’t like you, always wanting to go up in the world, and I ain’t as bright as you neither. Senior Sergeant to the company, that does me. Jameson will say the same, too – we both knew it was on the cards when Mr McKay went down, sir, and we can’t neither of us handle it.”

  “Your choice, Sergeant Affleck. We must have two more sergeants and corporals to make up for those lost. You know the men – give me their names when we meet up again tomorrow.”

  “The men won’t believe it, sir, when I tell them. Most of them still think they’re slaves. In their heads, that is.”

  “They fought like bloody warriors, man – you tell them so if they argue. Two sergeants, and whisper very quietly that in a year or two, there will be a place for regimental officers, like they have in India, what I saw there.”

  “Bloody hell, sir – that would mean me calling them ‘sir’.”

  “Not if you invalid out, Sergeant Affleck. You have a promise that you will be looked after, I believe? I will push for that promise to be kept, man.”

  “Bloody hell, sir! I wouldn’t mind seeing it, sir. But not promoted too high – there’s got to be a limit, sir!”

  Billy laughed and led his own three platoons, sixty men, down the track towards St Pierre.

  St Pierre was no more than five miles distant, a little less than two hours on the track.

  They saw no other traffic in the first hour – no farmers taking vegetables and fruit into the market that the town must have; no refugees fleeing the invaders.