The Soldier Brat (Man of Conflict Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

There were pigs in the sties and four were slaughtered and put to spits over open fires while the cook in the kitchen set a haunch of goat to roast for the officers, presuming them to have daintier stomachs. The three women had been dragged from the house before it burned, were now held in a barn with a dozen young slaves, all under frequent patronage by the company. Septimus and Masters held aloof – it would not do for them to indulge in such a way. When St Jeanne fell the officers would be able to set up mistresses, little less of a rape as many of their partners would have no alternative to starvation, fathers or husbands dead in the fighting, their way of life destroyed - but crude ravishment in the company of the other ranks was not permitted.

  Masters passed the word that they would march at dawn and instructed that all of the slaves would accompany them carrying their bedding and foodstuffs for a week at least so that they could be lodged for the while at the next plantation – they must not be left to run wild. The sergeants were further informed that today’s diversions had been allowable – just – because they had been shot at, but that there should be no more such occurrences: tomorrow’s plantation was to remain all undespoiled, except that there should be a real fight and then he, Masters, would give his permission.

  They marched, discipline restored, apparently never having been lost, leaving the ruins of the plantation and two half-dead women behind them, forgotten. There had been very little liquor, a few bottles of wine and almost no hard spirits, and so the men had remained amenable to reason, had indulged and amused themselves but were quite willing to bring their unexpected holiday to an end. When they came to the last, the newest and smallest of the plantations, they behaved amicably and well, offering no insult to the young owner or his even younger, plump wife.

  The slaves passed the word on and it came rapidly to the ears of the owner, but the soldiers caused him no trouble at all and he could hardly credit it. He contented himself by sending his overseer back down the roadway to find out the truth of the matter while he confirmed the existence of the inland track, lent Masters a bright young lad as a guide and urged him to make haste to be at the edge of the timber by nightfall and have the whole of the next day to make its traverse, to be clear of the rain forest before dark – he would not want to overnight in the snake-infested wild woods, after all.

  They bivouacked that night high in the foothills of the mountain that formed the core of the island, nearly a thousand feet above sea level, much cooler, comfortable and relaxed. Their slave guide told them that he should return now but Masters offered him a silver shilling to stay as his servant, the lad entirely willing. None of the men said a word, but they glanced at the lissom boy of thirteen or fourteen and sniggered. Septimus watched, felt the mood and spoke quietly to Cooper, saw a rapid change in attitude as the message spread that he would be happy to see the backbone of any stroppy bugger, and would promise that that was exactly what he would do.

  Thousand-lash floggings had never happened in the New Foresters, but they had seen them in one of the north-country regiments in barracks with them in Kingston, had also seen the two unfortunates who had lived after such a punishment – general consensus was that the dead were better off. There was a feeling among the men that Mr Pearce would keep any promise that he happened to make – he was not a one to break his word and was a hard young sod, never afraid to get in close with them handguns of his, always willing to risk his own skin and not likely to care too much about anybody else’s – better not to take a chance.

  They settled around their fires, sentries in pairs out in the darkness where they would not be spotted, and ate their fresh pork and biscuit and such fruit as they had liberated on the march. There were coconuts and bananas at every fire, a few pineapples and papayas as well, luxury in the cool of a summer’s evening. Two penny-whistles were produced and the voices of the company sang to them – sentimental, old songs, all the favourites from home, ‘Robin Adair’ more than once, interspersed with a little of the bawdy, at least fifty verses of ‘Down in Martha’s Dairy’, familiar to Septimus from his roistering in the pubs of Winchester.

  Septimus listened from his place at the side, wondered how such simple, amiable fellows could be the same men as the pitiless rapists of yesterday; he decided, reluctantly, that they were soldiers, not ordinary human beings at all. Soldiers put off their humanity when they took other men’s orders to kill people they had never met, had no animosity towards, when they obeyed the order to do as they were told and not think for themselves at all. Soldiers simply accepted whatever came their way – death, rape, loot, flogging, drink, orders, all was one to the soldier and it was not up to them to choose or refuse all or any.

  Man of Conflict Series

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter Seven

  They slept undisturbed, followed the track into the dark, high canopied forest after dawn.

  There was no wind under the trees and the heat clamped back on them, stickier than ever. The earth underfoot was bare and slippery, never quite level as they wound along the side of twenty feet deep gullies and small ridges and crossed slow streams winding between the bare tree trunks. It might have been possible to take a mule-train through here, but never a wheeled cart, and there was no evidence of boot-shod feet having passed this way since the last big rains.

  Insects buzzed and bit, a few leeches appeared and drew howls of disgust from the unfortunate; a rare bird squawked but none was seen; the forest seemed deserted, empty, motionless and silent apart from the ever-present trickle of water monotonous in the background. Occasionally there was a rock outcropping, bare stones by the side of a stream and they stopped and rested at each, the only places where they could sit down dry.

  “Keep your bottles full,” Masters called. “Refill from the uphill, where the water runs fastest.”

  The men drank freely, wise enough already in the ways of the Tropics to know that they must sate themselves with water whenever possible.

  “The boy says we climb higher as we reach the far edge of this forest in mid-afternoon, and move out onto the mountainsides, Septimus. We sleep out on this side of the crest tonight and should be in St Jeanne by early afternoon.”

  “Will it be possible to reach the crest before dark, sir?” Septimus asked. “Better to see what’s in front of us at dawn, before we move.”

  Masters conferred with the boy, his few words of French apparently sufficient, there seeming to be a rapport between them.

  “The track goes over a shoulder, a distance below the top of the mountain, no flat ground for the whole company to camp on for a mile or two below the cone.”

  “Very good, sir. Shall I push on with Mockford to establish a picket on the ridge itself, sir, just as a precaution?”

  “Could be wise… yes, do it, please. There might be refugees from the port, could be anything – no harm in being careful, I suppose.”

  They left the forest edge, the temperature seeming to fall instantly, entered onto a land of tall grasses, sloping upwards, increasingly steeply to the right where the cone of the old, worn down volcano rose, falling away to the left to another arc of rain forest; in front of them there was a steep rise to a ridgeline running down from the northwest, the track running up to a level section then disappearing away to the south. Septimus estimated the distance at three or four miles, the rise perhaps as much as five hundred feet, and the men were tired from the difficult marching in the forest. He shrugged and ordered them to double so as to get to the highest point of the track while there was still light to see by.

  There was a shoulder of flatter ground a couple of hundred yards below the ridge, sheltered and out of sight; Septimus ordered the sweating men to stop there, to set up camp for the night while he and Cooper went on up to the ridge to scout out the lie of the land.

  The southern side of the ridge was much less steep, the countryside sloping away to the coast, the port just in sight on the absolute edge of visibility, a smudge on the shoreline, perhaps twelve miles away. The track crossed gras
sland for some two miles before entering a narrower band of rain forest, grassland visible again beyond the forest and then plantations stretching much further inland on the fertile coastal strip. Septimus surmised that it was wetter, rained more, on this side of the island, rain forest and plantation on the good soil, grasses on the poorer lands. They stayed ten minutes or so on the ridge, Septimus memorising the lay of the land, looking for landmarks, before Cooper called him to look at the track where it debouched from the forest, pointed out movement.

  They retreated out of sight, removed hats and coats – at Cooper’s suggestion – worked their way up through the clumps of grass to a vantage point just off the track.

  “Get Mockford up here, Cooper. Keep the men down the hill, below the ridgeline.”

  There was a column of marching men, under discipline, not fleeing civilians higgledy-piggledy all in a mass; light flashed on muskets carried on shoulders or at the trail; a vague impression of blue coats and white crossbelts at such a distance.

  “Frogs, sir,” Mockford whispered, quite unnecessarily at that range, “two companies of regulars in uniform, one front and one at the rear. The ones in the centre look like militiamen, in civvies with muskets, called up to the flag in their own clothes. I reckons there’s about two hundred and fifty, three hundred at the outside, in total.”

  “Send a runner back to Captain Masters, Mockford. Message is that we should hold the ridge here, I believe.”

  “Yes, sir. They’re slowing down, sir, holding while they look for a camping ground – they’ll want good water close by. I’ll just wait a minute or two, shall I, sir? Till we know just what they’re doing.”

  The French made their camp, put out sentries downhill, made no attempt to reconnoitre, to reach the top of the slope, almost as if they were more concerned to prevent their own people deserting, running away on the route they had come, than to look out for the English.

  Masters made good time, was at Septimus’ shoulder before the last of the light was gone.

  “Interesting! Shall we make a night attack on their camp or wait here in ambush in the morning?”

  Septimus noted, approvingly, that he made no mention of retreat.

  “They are four or five to our one, sir. Why not take them in the forest?”

  “No. Too easy for us to get split up as they break and run. We could play hide-and-seek in the woods for days, lose men and perhaps never finish the job properly. I like to see what I am doing!”

  “Yes, sir – I had not thought of that. A night attack makes no more sense, sir, for the same reason, so I think we would be best forming our line on the ridge here. Volley fire on the head of the column – if they break we sweep them up and if they keep coming we leapfrog back to the forest edge and hold them there - till the cows come home, as the men say.”

  “Quite right, Septimus! Sergeant Mockford! No fires tonight, sentries out, a pair here and a picket back towards the forest, just in case. Platoons either side of the track here in double line before dawn, loaded and ready. Clear?”

  Mockford saluted, confirmed all was in order and went back to the men, to spread the word and make all ready and to instruct each platoon exactly where it should stand and what to expect.

  “Sixty muskets, Septimus. Not a great number to meet damned-near half a battalion.”

  “Very thin, sir. If the Frogs don’t break we might have to move quite rapidly, I suspect.”

  They laughed – the alternative was to run, gibbering in terror.

  They took position well before dawn, two short lines on either side of the track, sitting in hiding, muskets carefully dry beside them. They waited, swearing or silently morose, chatting quietly with mates or, apparently, sound asleep – each making ready in his own way.

  “Dowdy, Barnes! Look out for their officers, or anyone giving orders, and kill them.”

  The two stocky poachers grinned and nodded and patted the stocks of their muskets; ‘consider it done’, they implied.

  “Cooper, keep an eye out for an extra pistol or two for me. A brace isn’t enough – I think I might like to carry four or even six into a fight.”

  Cooper, too, nodded and winked, knowing just why Septimus was talking as if the skirmish was over and won, a mere matter of form, nothing for the men to worry about.

  The French were leisurely slugabeds; they stirred slowly, after the sun, lit fires and ate and drank and pissed and yawned and stretched for a full hour before forming up.

  “Companies of regulars van and rear, like yesterday, sir,” Mockford called. “Christ! I reckon as how that’s two companies at the front, not one, from the way they’re standing behind their officers. Can’t be more than two dozen men in either, sir.”

  Masters and Septimus peered out together, agreed with Mockford.

  “Taken the fever badly, Septimus?”

  “Or the revolution, sir? Perhaps they have killed each other?”

  They considered that possibility and liked it – a battalion at war with itself would be a far less effective opponent, would have lost the sense of family that brought the men to fight for each other.

  “They’re counting those militia carefully-like, sir,” Mockford reported. “Looks almost as if they don’t expect them to stay if they’re not watched.”

  “Which is why they are formed up with regulars to the front and rear,” Masters replied.

  Masters was silent for a few seconds, turned to Mockford as he stood in the middle of the company.

  “Pass the order, Sergeant Mockford, that we are to try to avoid making targets of the civilians – they might run, might even attack their own soldiers, could be much less willing to fight us if they see that we are not their personal enemy. Plantation owners and shopmen and overseers – they aren’t the sort to make a revolution, surely to God!”

  It was a good possibility and well worth the risk – all depended on whether the French could persuade themselves that they hated the new enemy of the Revolutionaries more than the old enemy of the English.

  The French were very slack, Septimus thought: they had obviously decided that they were the attackers, the crafty ones making their flanking assault, the four day march that would take them to the enemy’s rear and then enable them to roll the invaders up. Having come to that conclusion they seemed unable to see anything else, to consider any other possibility, such as the English also attempting an outflanking manoeuvre and meeting them head to head before the four days was up. They were relaxed, knew that nothing was going to happen today or tomorrow, and probably not on the day after, were not alert to anything unexpected.

  That overconfidence was going to kill them, Septimus concluded.

  “Shakoes off!”

  Bareheaded, the men were six inches shorter, that much less likely to be seen as the kneeling front rank slid the muzzles of their muskets through the tussocks and tufts of grass. It was a pity that they had to wear their red coats still, could not remove them for greater invisibility, but the demands of decency insisted that the men did not fight in mere shirtsleeves; the Americans had done so in the last war, but they were no more than backwoods hicks who knew no better, and their war had been won for them by the properly uniformed French, anyway!

  A rattle of clicks as the hammers came back to full cock, the French marching uphill four abreast, noisily, chattering, muskets slung, quite possibly not even loaded; their boots were dull, Septimus noted, too dirty to be accounted for by a couple of miles of marching – they had not been polished overnight.

  A hundred yards; fifty; thirty – let the officers at the front, two together, nattering casually, come right up to the muzzles, get as many as possible into close range. Close enough for the inevitable alert, bright man to realize, to take a deep breath, to yell…

  “Fire!”

  A single crash as thirty musket balls, three-quarter inch spheres of soft lead travelling at hundreds of feet a second, smashed into the front of the column, hardly any failing to find flesh.

  The
front rank stood back, reloaded, and the second rank took a pace forward and briefly aimed into the congested mass where the column had come to its disordered halt.

  “Fire!”

  Ten seconds later the first rank fired again, their volley biting into the column further down the track, not so effective at even slightly greater range; there were forty men down at least now, most of them screaming, howling, writhing in front of their comrades.

  “Fire!”

  The French scattered, platoons generally holding together but breaking right and left at random to get away from the ridge that was flaming and thundering at them, thirty muskets looking like fifty, sounding like a hundred.

  The militia panicked, the bulk fleeing back down the track, through the remaining formed company of regulars, destroying their ranks.

  Some of the French had loaded now and were returning fire, a couple of platoons come together and trying to fight.

  “Left of the track at forty yards, the formed platoons! Front rank! Fire!”

  A controlled volley, half a dozen of the French going down, the wail and whine of near misses in the ears of the rest – they looked right and left, saw no support and ran.

  “Cease Fire! Reload! Fix bayonets!”

  Masters waited twenty seconds, watching carefully.

  “Sergeant Mockford! In line, dress forward at walking pace. Go!”

  The command was not orthodox but Masters wanted no screaming, erratic, wild charge – he needed to keep tight control of his small group of attackers.

  They paced slowly downhill, shakoes on their heads again, each man seeming six feet tall, giants on the upslope.

  Groups of nervous militiamen clustered at a distance; a few edged closer, raised their hands hopefully while the others waited, ready to scatter like frightened rabbits.

  “Take their surrender, Sergeant Mockford. Easy with them.”

  There was an almost audible sigh of relief as scared civilians came trotting in, anxiously displaying empty hands.