Spanish Tricks (Man of Conflict Series, Book 5) Read online

  Man of Conflict Series

  BOOK FIVE

  Digital edition published in 2016 by

  The Electronic Book Company

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This ebook contains detailed research material, combined with the author's own subjective opinions, which are open to debate. Any offence caused to persons either living or dead is purely unintentional. Factual references may include or present the author's own interpretation, based on research and study. The cover image is adapted from an original photograph by Loozrboy @ flickr.

  Spanish Tricks

  Copyright © 2016 by Andrew Wareham

  All Rights Reserved

  Contents:

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  By the Same Author

  Introduction

  Spanish Tricks: Septimus and his men fight in a fierce battle to thwart French relieving forces marching to the besieged fortress of Almeida, before being sent to commandeer a supposed Spanish arsenal. Much to his consternation, an arrogant Spanish Count is foisted upon him after offering to help find the arsenal. However, Septimus discovers the Count has ulterior motives and takes drastic action that results in Seppy being hurriedly sent back to England where plans are made to send him to distant shores until the fuss dies down.

  Books best read in series order

  Author’s Note: I have written and punctuated Spanish Tricks in a style reflecting English usage in novels of the period, when typically, sentences were much longer than they are in modern English. Editor’s Note: Andrew’s book was written, produced and edited in the UK where some of the spellings and word usage vary slightly from U.S. English.

  Man of Conflict Series

  BOOK FIVE

  Chapter One

  Septimus had a headache.

  He woke every morning with his temples throbbing and the scar on his scalp itching and pulling. He knew that he must not scratch but it required all of his self-discipline to keep his hand away from the stubble patch where his head had been shaved and then stitched. The horse’s hoof had made a ragged laceration, not a simple, clean knife cut, and the healing was slow; add to that, an insult to his vanity, the hair that was growing back was showing white.

  He sat up and swore as the pain lanced through his skull. It would lessen in a minute or two, it always did, but that made it no less unpleasant while it lasted.

  “Coffee, sir.”

  “Thank you, Cooper.” He drank a cautious sip. “We should hire another man, Cooper, to take Dinesh’s place.”

  The dead man had made a far better cup of coffee than Cooper could manage. Outstanding in camp and barracks, Cooper nonetheless lacked some of the arts of more civilised existence.

  “Laudanum, sir?”

  “No. I have taken too damned much of that stuff in this past month, Cooper. I suspect that it may be causing these headaches as much as curing them!”

  Cooper politely agreed, showing no signs of recognising his own words quoted back to him.

  “No. No more of the laudanum, nor of that damned Black Drop either – the stuff tastes like…”

  Septimus cut himself off; the quarters he was occupying in Lisbon were shared with other officers and it was possible that gentlemen passing by his rooms might overhear unfortunate comments and come to doubt his politesse and breeding.

  “Breakfast is still being served, sir.”

  “And I must get back into the habit of eating regular meals, Cooper. You are quite right. A shave first – I am no damned valetudinarian to display weakly self-indulgent slovenliness!”

  “Well said, sir! I have the razors ready.”

  Half an hour later Septimus sat to table in full uniform, an announcement that he was no longer an invalid, was in the later stages of recuperation. He ate Wiltshire bacon and fried eggs and toast in proper English style – none of these damned foreign hams and ‘omelettes’ and suchlike things. He drank a second and far better cup of coffee.

  “Cooper! Find out who was the breakfast coffee maker this morning and ask him if he would accept the opportunity to become a servant and family retainer.”

  A retainer had a place for life, a far better existence than as a mess or hotel waiter; there was a good chance that such an offer would be leapt at.

  “Invitations, sir. Will you wish to attend dinner with the General tomorrow night, sir, or are you still too frail?”

  The General was in effect the officer commanding in Lisbon; it would be an extreme discourtesy to refuse his invitation while accepting any other.

  “I will write a note of acceptance for you to take, Cooper. Have you proper dress to hand?”

  “Brought all of your baggage from the Castle, sir. Sent Peter across two weeks since, soon as I reckoned you’d be needing it again.”

  “You are a master of tact, Cooper! I must sit down with pen and paper; I have not sent a word home in four weeks and Lady Pearce will be anxious. What am I to say?”

  “Wounded by a French cavalryman, got better now, sir. Taking dinner with the General tomorrow night – that will be proof, sir, that you are fit now, as you would not be in the way of a dinner party was you unwell.”

  “Sensible, as so often. Long experience of dealing with people… how old are you, Cooper?”

  “Don’t know, sir, not for sure. Joined the Army when I was a man grown, maybe thirteen or even a mite younger. Must have done nigh on thirty years, sir; thinking on it, nearer to forty, I suppose… I did my time in India, and the Sugar Islands, and the American War, and then Ireland and England afore I came to you, sir. Been with you for nigh on eighteen years, so I count it… I must be closer to fifty than I thought for, sir.”

  “Last campaign, Cooper?”

  “Better I should look for a man for you, sir, just as soon as we get back to the battalion, maybe here in Lisbon. Take a year or more to train him proper-like. Pick up another one here in Dinesh’s place – turning himself into a good man was that youngster, won’t be easy to find his like, sir; maybe that bloke what makes the coffee will do. Then, next year sometime, I reckon I go back to the house to work for the missus, sir, her ladyship, that is. Never suppose you’re going to get old, sir, but it creeps up behind you, don’t it!”

  “Perhaps, Cooper – but you are fifteen and more years in front of me. I shall tell you when I find out.”

  Cooper shook his head, going through in his mind candidates from the battalion to replace him – old enough to know their way around in the Army but sufficiently young to be good for twenty hard years of campaigning. Not an easy task, for the colonel’s man must be of the very best; he had to be more than a mere expert at making coffee. He might put the word round in Lisbon perhaps – it was often the case that wounded officers had brought a batman to base with them, expecting to recover and return to their battalions, b
ut then found that they would never regain full health and strength. The batman might accompany them home, but only if there was an income sufficient to keep a servant; a poor lieutenant going onto half-pay would be hard-pressed to feed himself on his three shillings a day, paid long in arrears.

  The city had a few so-called taverns – not that they sold decent beer – that the other ranks used, one in particular that was the haven for the officers’ servants and which saw Cooper two or three times a week. He would let it be known there that he was looking for a young man to share the burden of keeping Stroppy Seppy alive, eventually to take over fully. There would surely be a few who might fancy the challenge, having heard of him, and any number who would much prefer continuing in the batman’s life to the drill square.

  The General’s billet was a bare hundred yards away across one of the many squares in Lisbon, occupied one half of an imposing mansion, his offices taking the rest. Septimus walked across in late afternoon – the Army kept earlier hours than was the ordinary habit in London or Lisbon and expected to be fed before six o’clock and to take a drink or two first, to lay a foundation for the many that would come after.

  The General was a large man, tall and vast in the belly and effusive in his welcome to Septimus – he had been present at the levee when Septimus had most recently made his bow to his royal masters and knew that Colonel Sir Septimus Pearce was a coming man, or might be, in any case was known in London. No major-general seeking employment and worldly promotion would snub any man who might conceivably have influence. There were many major-generals, far more than could be employed at any given moment even in the much-expanded army of the Wars, and they had to be alert to the main chance.

  “One gathers that you have been busy yet again, Sir Septimus! Stirring up a French corps with your battalion, one is told! Was not that a trifle bold, even for you, sir?”

  A smile and a handshake followed the bow, conveyed the message that the General was being playful.

  “A slight error on my part, sir. I had thought the French to be slugabeds and gave them a wake-up call, but one cavalryman was stirring already. It did him little good in the long run, of course, but it gave me an unwelcome surprise as well!”

  There was a chuckle among the guests already present as General Cookson-Waring turned away to greet the next arrival, his aide taking over introductions.

  The Army was large and still growing, its battalions and regiments scattered over much of the known world and Septimus had met none of the other officers in the room. A very few had heard his name and expressed some interest in him; two of those were of fashionable birth, habitués of Society, and had an interest in his battalion.

  “I say, Sir Septimus, is not Major Perceval one of yours, sir?”

  “He is second in my battalion, much to my good fortune, sir. A fine soldier and an exceptional comrade.”

  “Thought it was you, sir. He has said much the same thing!”

  Perceval’s recommendation – one gentleman to another – was important, it seemed.

  “Young Major Taft, as well, is one of yours, is he not?”

  “He is still, sir, and I hope he may continue to be – he again is a man who knows what’s what when he smells powder. However, he has returned England quite recently for having lost an arm in a skirmish on the frontier. I much hope he will regain his strength and will choose to return to the battalion, but a man who has taken such a wound may very reasonably decide that he has given enough to his king and country. He was as well wounded on the retreat to Corunna and, like so many of us, found that campaign to tax his resources, and so he must take care to receive the advice of the best of doctors before he can be certain that he would be wise to return to us.”

  The news of Major Taft was upsetting to the young major who had enquired; Septimus presumed that he had never been to war before and did not like to discover that an acquaintance had been so much wounded. Bloodshed was all very well when discussed in a mess in England, at a respectable distance, but was less attractive when it came close to hand. Septimus rather suspected that he had been lucky to have been blooded very early in his military career; even as an ensign he had known that the musket ball could kill or maim a bright, shining young officer just as much as any common private soldier.

  “When you say ‘lost’ an arm, Sir Septimus, I presume you mean shot away by a cannon ball?”

  Tidy and painless in the young gentleman’s mind; better he should discover the reality of his new existence.

  “No, sir. A spent musket ball, clattering off a stone wall and smashing the lower arm, the bones actually sticking out of the flesh, and flying fragments lacerating the skin at the elbow. The surgeon – a rarely good man – having to cut high on the upper arm for safety’s sake. Major Taft was lucky – he avoided the sepsis, and few do that in the field.”

  “Cut off… afterwards, Sir Septimus?”

  “I fear so, sir. Major Taft awake the whole time, though the surgeon is an expert in his trade and was barely a minute cutting and no more than two sewing after that. Not an experience one might enjoy, I must say.”

  The major was quite green in the face by now; Septimus nodded to a waiter, stood just within hearing range, an old soldier fighting back a grin. The man produced his tray of drinks, pushed it in front of the major’s nose and made no comment as he tossed a glass straight down and then took a second.

  “By the way, Major, I did not quite catch which battalion was yours.”

  “I am to join the New Foresters, Sir Septimus, having recently purchased the vacancy. I am Major Featherstonehaugh – pronounced ‘Fanshaw’ for centuries, though why spelled as it is, I know not. Colonel Worth is also for that regiment.”

  Colonel Worth was stood nearby, had been listening with undisguised appreciation as Septimus had educated his junior. He was an older man, face tanned by tropical service.

  “Sir Septimus, I believe you were a New Forester, were you not?”

  “I was indeed, sir. I learned soldiering with them, much to my advantage. They have since had a good few years in garrison in England and many of their officers and men are new to the business of war. Major Howton, however, is an experienced and able man and has been busy as brevet colonel. You have a fighting battalion to go to, sir.”

  “Excellent! What are conditions like here in Portugal, Sir Septimus? I have experience in India, and on the Mauritius more recently, but have never campaigned in Europe.”

  The Mauritius campaign was one of those rare examples that had provided prize-money to the Army and Colonel Worth had no doubt purchased on its back.

  “Do not fall into the error of believing that one is in modern Europe, sir! The moment you leave any city you fall into the Middle Ages – poverty-stricken, primitive, bereft of roads and with no canals, but full of fast-running rivers mostly bridged in the days of the Romans. The hills are almost impassable to anything more than a single battalion and one is restricted to the valleys, where the army that possesses the bridge controls the war! One marches slowly, carrying all of one’s supplies in jealously guarded wagons or more often primitive ox-carts. I marched at much the same speed in India as in Portugal, sir.”

  “I was told that one could not purchase anything in Portugal, Sir Septimus, yet Lisbon is not a poor city and has shops that match many of those in London.”

  “The towns belong to our times, Colonel Worth. The countryside does not. Mind you, sir, when I say that the towns belong to our century I overstate the case; you will not find a steam engine in the whole country, nor a manufactury. I do not know if there is coal in the hills, but there are no great mines such as England has. There are rich aristocrats, and no doubt merchants, but not a single Ironmaster or Cotton King such as make us rich.”

  Few of the officers in the room had seen a mine or manufactury, and those fortunates had generally come across them when serving in support of the civil power and suppressing rioters. They did not appreciate the wealth that the new industry represented.
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  Septimus grinned and fell back on his old argument, one that he had found highly persuasive in past discussions.

  “My elder brother, who is a leading man of business in the South Country, has told me that the Land rarely returns two per centum on investments. Consols are fetching a little less than four, or were when last I was in England. Investments made in coal and cotton earned him between eight and ten per centum two years ago – I have not had the opportunity to discuss the matter with him since. I believe that your rich Portuguese gentleman relies almost wholly on the Land for his income.”

  There was a moment of reflective silence while those officers who could count and were certain what a ‘per cent’ might be considered their own sources of wealth.

  “Lord, Sir Septimus! I could wish that I saw that sort of return – it would do my income some good, I shall tell you!”

  Colonel Worth was open in his envy of the man who might clear ten per cent; he wondered as well how he might become one of that fraternity.

  “That is a question I am wholly unable to answer, Colonel Worth. My brother, Mr George Pearce, has power of attorney over my funds and takes care of them for me, for understanding business, which I do not! I merely look, in some awe, at the figures he presents to me whenever I return to Winchester. He tried to explain all that he did when I was younger, but I have no head for trade, I fear. I am content to be a simple soldier man. I believe that acquaintances of mine have placed their trust in their attorneys, most of whom are able to find agents in London who can put money to work for them; I leave it to my brother, as I say, for preferring to keep all in the family.”

  Major Featherstonehaugh was much inclined to disapprove of ‘Trade’, but was equally in favour of a substantial private income; it was very difficult. He was one of those who knew a little of Septimus’ record in recent years and was forced to accept that he was a good enough soldier despite his unfortunate family connections.