“The Forest is short of lordships, Captain. There are few manors there, because of its nature as a hunting preserve. I cannot think that the little folk will be of any great interest to you and the towns of Brockenhurst and Lyndhurst and Lymington are tiny places, Beaulieu even smaller. There is Hurst Castle, down at the Solent, but of that I know nothing, not even whether it is garrisoned. Best indeed that you march across towards Salisbury, which is a rich town, comparable with Winchester.”
Micah was prepared to wager that the Mayor knew of troops towards Salisbury and would be happy to see the regiment meet up with them. He suspected he would feel the same if his coffers had just been emptied by the soldiery.
“March this day, Major?”
“We can put ten miles in this afternoon, Red Man, and remove our happy recruits from their homelands. They will not have strayed five miles from town in their lives, will be lost by the time we have marched three hours.”
The land was heavily wooded and the lanes wound between the oak and beech plantations so that visibility was rarely as much as a furlong. There was little undergrowth between the trees and ambush was unlikely; a charge of cavalry down the road was well feasible.
“Might be half a minute between seeing them and receiving the charge, Red Man. Lead with a company of pikes, marching in fours. Muskets behind them, the sergeant to keep a length of match lit against immediate need; we cannot afford every man to stay lit – that would waste a hundred yards and more of match on the afternoon. We have not got so much that we can throw it away on maybes.”
Micah nodded and called his orders.
“What to do with your troop is the problem, Red Man. There is an argument for holding you to the rear to counter-charge after the enemy has hit home; equally, you might be useful well to the fore, seeking out the foe.”
“I had rather lead, sir. I am not one to hang back, even when perhaps I should.”
“So be it, Red Man. Take your troop out in front, not more than two or three miles ever and falling back on the column at intervals to be sure that all is well with us.”
“What will you do with the baggage, sir?”
“Keep it in the column rather than lagging behind. One company of pikes to the very rear and another of mixed and then the train, and the captains to know to prick the waggons on. We cannot afford to lose them or to be separated.”
Micah took the troop forward in pairs, the lanes being narrow; four abreast would have risked a trooper stumbling into the shallow ditch to the verge and laming his horse.
“Send a pair ahead as scouts, Fletcher. Not to go too far distant – two furlongs or so. Able to see round the next bend in the lane. If they come across the enemy, either fall back on us or fire a shot and flee into the woods, depending on what is possible.”
They walked the horses; there was little point in getting too far ahead of the marching column.
“Road is rising, sir. Climbing a bit of a hill. Likely to be more open on top.”
“Halt where the trees end. Keep ourselves in cover while we look out over the countryside ahead.”
Fletcher had been about to suggest the same, was glad to see that his ferocious but still green captain was learning the trade.
“Scouts coming back, at the canter, not a full gallop.”
Micah translated that to mean that they had seen something of interest rather than immediate danger. He raised an arm to call the troop to a halt, waited for the scouts to arrive.
“Down yonder, sir, in the bit of a vale on t’other side of the hilltop. Fields either side of a bit of a stream. Down to the plough except for them what’s fallow. Enclosed land, not champion, what ain’t been so much seen round these parts. Not by me, any roads. Bit of a village with a little church too poor to have a spire, sir. Not much of a place. Can see down into it, two farmyards with barns and a couple of troops of horse settled down between the pair, half to each. Too far to tell what sort they are, whether it be heavy horse, dragoons like, or more like mounted infantry, sir. Got cook fires going in the yards, so they’re camped for the night. Didn’t see no sentries, sir; could be they’re hidden up in the lofts and looking out from on high. Might be they’re slack and don’t see no need to be alert, sir. Full quarter of a mile of open hillside to get down to ‘em, sir. Bound to be seen, and pretty rough going for a night ride.”
The other scout agreed.
“Can’t get down unseen, sir. Couldn’t see no way round, neither. No other lanes or tracks coming out of the woods on the downhill. Bit of a bridge over the stream and couldn’t see no other for a ways east or west. Whiles they stay there, we ain’t going to winkle ‘em out without guns, sir. From the looks of them, they only got there a little time back. Might be, they going to ride out in the morning.”
The decision would have to be made by the major.
“Send a man back to Major Carew, Fletcher. Beg him to ride up and inspect our discovery. Explain what it is.”
“Best these two should go, sir – they seen it all.”
Micah nodded, sent the scouts back.
Daniel arrived within the half hour and went forward with Micah to inspect the scene. He came back mildly irritated.
“A single troop of horse. No more than sixty or seventy men and sufficient to hold us up in our march. They can do three things in the morning – ride back, come forward or stay put. If they go back we shall have to proceed cautiously, for not knowing where they may stop. If they come on, we shall meet them here in the woods and put an end to them – we far outnumber them. If they are such a nuisance as not to move at all then we are faced with the same problem as we have now and with twelve hours wasted.”
“Best we put a stopper on their capers, sir. Not now – some would certainly escape us and raise the whole countryside, or whatever troops there are in it.”
“Agreed. We cannot show ourselves in broad daylight.”
Micah suspected Daniel was trying to make him think, to use his brain on the problem, and was offering a hint.
“Two choices, sir. We might charge in the dawn, before they are wide awake. Otherwise, a night escalade is the possibility.”
“Which?”
Micah was silent, considering the advantages of each course; a couple of minutes and he had decided.
“Night, sir. On foot and not with the dragoon troop. My company of muskets in two parts. In front, myself and say two score, twenty with me to one farmyard and the remainder with Eglinton to attack the other. Those forty not to have their muskets but with blades only. The sixty remaining with match lit but hidden, to run past the yards to the other side of the village and block the road there, facing inwards to pick up runners. They can come to the aid of either of the attacking parties at need. Say two hours before dawn. The cooks will not be moving at that time, though they would rise soon after. The dragoons to be ready and to come downhill just as soon as there is light for them. The regiment to follow as practical.”
“That sounds best to me, Red Man. Do you wish your men to carry pistols? The dragoons could give them two apiece.”
Micah shook his head.
“Not in the black of night, sir. Wiser they should not be shooting blind. Give me a few minutes to think the business out, sir, and I will give you a final plan for the night.”
“Do that. I will halt the regiment back in the woods, downhill far enough that cookfires will not be seen. Keep your people here. I will send your company forward when they have eaten. You can pass the dragoons back then, to use the hidden fires.”
Micah set the horsemen to scouring the woodland for dead branches and twigs, had them make bundles of wood that should flare quickly when dropped on the coals of a cookfire banked overnight.
They ate army hasty stew, boiled over an open fire for no more than an hour. It was better than going hungry, but not by a lot.
“What was in the pot, Rootes?”
“Dried mutton, sir, smoked over the fire for a few days and kept overwinter in a cold shed. Onions a
nd turnips besides, sir. A bit of greenstuff – burdock and dandelion leaves, for them being good for a man’s health, as is well known. Stuck in boiling water and left to it as long as can be, sir.”
“God help my poor innards, Rootes!”
“All in a good cause, sir. Sentries are set, sir, and know to wake you up at moonset, that being a couple of hours before first light, sir.”
“I’ll get some sleep, Rootes.”
Micah had the feeling that Rootes would have been upset by any other answer.
Rootes woke him at the set time.
He joined the men at the pit they had dug back in the trees and readied himself for a day’s violent activity. Rootes had provided him with a handful of broad dock leaves for his convenience. Micah grinned quietly, having heard the tales of officers who were disliked and discovered stinging nettles hidden inside the dock plants. No such misadventure befell him and he stepped out to lead his men unscathed.
“Mr Eglinton?”
“Here, sir. All of my men present and correct, sir.”
“Mr Halleck?”
“I have my sixty, sir. When do I light the match, sir?”
Micah thought quickly.
“On entering the village, after you cross the stream.”
“Very good, sir.”
He called out to his own twenty, selected the night before.
“Here, sir. All present, sir.”
“Good.”
He raised his voice, still not too loud.
“You all know what to do. Exactly as I told you last night. March downhill keeping together and silently. Go with God! My people, follow me!”
Eglinton waited until the twenty had filed past him and called his own men onto the track. Halleck counted off sixty seconds, as he had been ordered and marched his own men after the first attackers.
Chapter Thirteen
The track was rough underfoot. Fist-sized sharp stones stuck out every yard, an inch or two proud, enough to catch a man’s heel as he walked. Men stumbled every minute, it seemed, but they were disciplined sufficiently not to cry out. Micah was content with his decision; had he ridden there would have been screaming horses with broken legs raising the alarm before they were halfway down the slope.
They heard the stream before they saw it, slowed to cross the bridge.
“Silent! Don’t thump your boots down on the wooden planks!”
The men shuffled across and Micah led his party to the nearer farmyard.
“Fires, sir!”
He peered over the waist-high fieldstone wall, saw men stirring up a pair of cookfires. Perhaps they were to march early, were to eat before dawn. There were four men working the fires, two tending while another pair took an axe to branches they had gathered the previous evening. They were thirty feet distant from the wall, would be able to shout an alarm before their throats could be cut.
“Can you see Mr Eglinton’s people?”
“They was on our heels, sir. Went straight on past us.”
That was the instruction given; they were to attack immediately on arrival at their yard, perhaps two minutes further up the lane. Micah counted slowly to one hundred before giving his order.
“Line up on the wall… Go!”
Micah scrambled over the stones and ran, was at least ten feet in before the first cook heard a noise and started upright to see what was happening. The cook began to shout.
“Wake up! Up! Attackers upon us! Wake…”
Micah swung the backsword, slashed into his throat, heard the others falling as his men reached them. He ran towards the farmhouse, Rootes and two others at his heels.
The farmhouse door was barred but not especially strong. Micah rammed his shoulder into the door next to the frame and it sprang open, wooden bar clattering onto the floor. He burst into the room, found a man who had been sleeping on the floor and was stumbling to his feet. Micah jerked a knee, hard, then rammed the hilt of the heavy sword into his face as he doubled over and swung round, sword outstretched down to his right, the back of the blade crunching into another unready figure, waking up slowly from deep sleep, coming to his knees.
“On the stairs!”
Rootes’ voice yelling the warning.
Micah hauled a pistol from his belt, left-handed and clumsy, thumbed back the hammer and pointed to the movement, to an idiot holding up a lit candle and trying to distinguish what was happening and making a target of himself. The room was a chaos of shouting and screaming and a thick and particularly loud voice yelling from close to his feet.
“My nose! My bloody nose!”
Micah squeezed the trigger, felt the pistol buck in his hand and saw the figure with the candle slowly double over on himself, falling onto the little flame.
The crash of the shot, deafening in the little room, silenced the wailing man.
“Get a bloody lantern, Rootes!”
Micah jumped across the room, hurdling a pair of bodies writhing on the floor and landing on a third, the man he had just pistoled; he screamed, weakly.
Crouching on the bottom stair he made out vague, cautious movement at the top.
It was a single flight, straight up to an open loft rather than sleeping chambers. There could be three or four men up there still… He fumbled the empty pistol back into its holster, thinking he should have done that before he moved. He pointed the second pistol up and fired, heard a crashing as the shot blew tiles off the roof. He drew a third before running up, bellowing at the top of his voice, sword held out in front of him.
A thin voice squeaked and cried out.
“Surrender! Quarter! Mercy! Don’t kill me!”
“Or me!”
A third quavering little whisper came from the other corner.
“My hands are up!”
Micah suddenly found the whole affair funny, had to force back the laughter. He managed his fiercest voice.
“Strike a light or die!”
“I will, I will!”
There was a sudden clatter.
“I’ve dropped my tinderbox!”
“Pick it up then, prick!”
One of the figures scrabbled on the floor and then made a performance of striking flint and steel and blowing hard on the tinder and lighting a little spill which he touched to a lantern hanging at the back wall.
The flickering light strengthened and showed one older man in drawers and undershirt and two youths in breeches and shirtsleeves, all pressed back against the wall, hands at shoulder height, heads bent forward under the low roof. There were four pallets.
“Weapons?”
“On our coats, sir.”
Micah followed the pointing finger, spotted four swords and a collection of pistols in the corner, next to the chimney breast.
“Downstairs, now. Rootes! Three prisoners coming down!”
“Got ‘em, sir.”
Micah followed the three and ran out into the yard. He had been inside for nearly five minutes, or so it felt, far too long away from the main business of securing the bulk of the men in the yard and barn and stables. The cook fires were blazing bright, dry wood flaming high.
“Driver?”
“Got ‘em all, sir. Threw a lit torch into the barn in front of us and held ‘em as they come running out yelling ‘fire’. Put it out before it caught the barn alight, sir.”
“Well done, man! Clever!”
Sergeant Driver nodded. He knew that, was glad to see his officer recognise his virtue.
“How many?”
“Thirty, sir. Nigh on forty horses in the stables and picketed outside, sir. Counts for the officers and their men inside, sir.”
“Good. Heave them out from the house. Should be three or so wounded and one stiff, unless he’s lucky. Be kind to them or they’ll swoon, Driver – not the most martial of gentlemen!”
“They’re out, sir. Rootes has kicked them through the door.”
Micah glanced behind him, saw the party from the house being manhandled into the light, heard the laughter
at the skinny-legged older officer in his underclouts.
“Likely to be their captain or major, Driver. Throw his breeches to the poor old fellow – not the most handsome of sights!”
A couple of minutes passed and Rootes came out with breeches and coats, having taken the opportunity to run his hands through their pockets first. He ducked back into the farmhouse and came back dragging one dead man.
“Hit him clean, sir. Right in the middle of the belly. Left-handed as well. Good shooting, sir!”
“Good luck as well.”
“Anything from Mr Eglinton’s farm, Driver?”
“A few pistol shots, sir, then I heard the muskets fire two platoon volleys, sir. Went quiet after that.”
“Untidy. I hope they didn’t kill too many horses. We could use extra mounts.”
“Never heard no screams, sir. You know the noise horses make when they’re hit, so I reckon they weren’t touched. Runner coming, sir, down the road. Hear his boots clattering.”
“Get ready in case he’s one of them trying to escape.”
The runner turned into the yard, came across to the fires.
“Message from Mr Eglinton, sir. Farm is taken, sir. Eighteen prisoners and seventeen dead and wounded. Lost six of ours and seven more hurt, sir.”
Micah whistled – that was too many for a small skirmish.
“Go back to Mr Eglinton. He is to hold the taken men and secure the horses and all weapons. Feed our men a breakfast from stores there. Be ready to move out at first light.”
The soldier repeated the message and then trotted off.
“See what you can work up by way of grub for ours, Sergeant Driver.”
“Yes, sir. Got our people looking for their stores, sir. Can’t use their cooks seeing as how we topped the lot when we come over the wall, sir.”
“It happens, Sergeant. What are the figures?”
“Running a count now, sir. None of ours dead, I know. Might be some with scratches and stuff. Of theirs – four cooks and the one you shot, sir, stiffed. Wounded, looks like three from the house, sir.”
“One of them took a thumping to the face and another was rapped over the head by the back of my sword. Rootes did for the third.”
Red Man Page 22
