06 A Soldier’s Farewell (Man of Conflict #6) Read online

  Ensign Rowlands nodded, memorising what he must say and choosing the best words to express his instructions. He returned to the American major, spoke for a few minutes, exchanged salutes and came away.

  “The cavalry brought no baggage train with them, sir. Their doctors are well to the rear, though he would not give an exact location for them, sir. They will take their wounded away on horse litters, sir, which they will cobble together here. He will endeavour to be gone within two hours, hopes there might not be a close pursuit of his necessarily slow progress.”

  Septimus was more than satisfied; this was a war in which bloodshed should be avoided, if at all possible.

  “Go back to him with the message that I am happy with those terms. Inform him, less formally, that I have no wish to indulge in unnecessary killing. This war is mistaken, in my opinion, and we should be endeavouring to reduce its suffering. That said, any further butchery of our farmers will inevitably result in a major invasion and the clearing of all Americans from our immediate frontiers. Remind him, as politely as possible, that we are experienced, professional soldiers and that I am bringing the local militias and fencibles and yeomanry into the most rigorous training and discipline so that they will be fit to march at the side of the long-serving redcoats. Lay it on good and thick, Mr Rowlands – remind him of my name and record – Stroppy Seppy who has marched across many a bloody field, sword and pistols in hand!”

  Mr Rowlands indulged in a long conversation with the American, seemed to come to some sort of agreement with him.

  “The major thanks you for the truce, Sir Septimus, and is aware of your nature and history and much hopes that this war may not result in ‘unrestrained battle’ – but I don’t quite understand what he means by that, sir. He begged me to inform you that he has no control of the various irregular units, and has not issued commands to them. He commented that as a regular soldier, he had no sympathy with villainous brigands and much hoped that you might be able to discover them and bring their wickedness to a ‘condign end’.”

  “Big word! I wonder what he means by it?”

  “’Fitting’ or ‘appropriate’, sir. As they have committed acts of butchery, he hopes, but must not actually say, that we may kill them.”

  “Quite, Mr Rowlands. It is not entirely usual for ensigns to give brigadiers lessons in the use and meaning of English, you know!”

  Rowlands realised that Kidlington and Longhurst were fighting for straight faces; he flushed scarlet.

  “I am sorry, sir. I did not intend to be offensive. I merely thought that you might not know the word.”

  Faint squeals of laughter told him that he had not made the situation better by his patronising apology.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “No matter, Mr Rowlands – a life of soldiering has not improved my limited education. You were very wise to ensure that I understood you. Did the major give any indications of the location of these unpleasant evil-doers?”

  “Not as such, sir, but he implied that they were located very close to the border, suggesting that they travelled only short distances and would be difficult to catch on the march.”

  “On horseback, as mounted infantry, as well. If we are to deal with them, then it must be by attack on their camps – their locations unknown.”

  Septimus could not solve that problem where he was, called to Captain Presteigne to make arrangements for the men.

  “One company to stand down, taking a meal and cleaning their muskets. The other to remain alert, but one half of each platoon to light fires and cook hot food, if they have the wherewithal. Eating in turns. Company at rest will have duty tonight.”

  Septimus watched, surreptitiously, as the men made up their meals. Some of them produced substantial stews of issue salt beef and their own vegetables, picked up from the kitchen gardens of the destroyed farms; others had shown less forethought and ate hot beef and issue biscuit. The old and more efficient soldiers ate better. It seemed to him that more than a half of the men fed well, which was a good measure of their likely efficiency, and of the quality of their corporals and sergeants.

  They would all learn, he hoped; those who fed poorly would see the men at the next fire doing better and hopefully would learn.

  The Americans fell back at the end of their two hours, leaving sixty or more of graves and almost as many dead horses stripped of saddles and accoutrements. They had sent thirty of horse-litters off in front of them, stretchers between two horses, rough made of groundsheets tied around fresh-cut poles from the forest.

  “Three troops at most involved, say one hundred and fifty of their men. Highly satisfactory!”

  Septimus instructed Captain Kidlington to note the figures for their report.

  “Very high, are they not, sir?”

  “Cavalry always lose more than infantry in any fight, Captain. I suspect because they fall to the ground from a moving horse, which adds an extra injury to those already sustained. Many are trampled as well, going under the hooves of the men behind them.”

  “Very strange, sir, that they should have charged a firm line with bayonets fixed and ready to receive them. They must have known that they could not succeed.”

  Septimus laughed, commented that it was typical of the cavalryman’s behaviour.

  “They will never believe that they cannot be successful, and these are troops unused to European warfare and ignorant of it. The sole use of cavalry in the regular field is to cut up an already broken battalion or brigade and prevent it from reforming. Other than that, they must scout out the land and chase away enemy attempting the same task. Cavalry cannot defeat a square or a line that cannot be outflanked – but they will never accept that reality. Sit a man upon a horse, even a quite rational fellow, and he immediately believes himself to be master of all he surveys. Sad ain’t it!”

  “What next for us, sir?”

  “Return to our camp, Mr Kidlington. There will be no more trade on this road.”

  They marched back to their previous night’s bivouac, close to the scene of a recent raid. There was a settler’s house, a little more than a log cabin with, originally, three downstairs rooms and a pair built into the loft space. There had been a wooden stables, a barn for the milch cow to overwinter and a large corn crib. Surrounding the rear, a wooden enclosure for the horses still remained; the rest had been set on fire, was no more than ashes. Six new wooden crosses over mounded graves showed the resting place of the settler family; four of the graves were no more than four feet long.

  “I want to find those bastards, Mr Kidlington. Very badly.”

  “We all do, sir. The men are very upset, bitter, in fact. There will be no mercy if they lay their hands upon them.”

  “None at all, sir. They are to be treated as outlaws, pirates of the land, every man’s hand raised against them. I shall turn the blind eye to the manner of their deaths.”

  Septimus spoke conversationally, but loud enough for the troopers riding escort to hear him. The word would spread.

  Their base camp was three marches distant, a matter of forty-five miles through the hills and towards St John on the Bay of Fundy. From St John it was a quick crossing to the far side of the Bay and then another ride to Halifax, the fifth day seeing Septimus back in his house in the smelly port city.

  The children greeted him, noisily, rather to the indignation of Miss Lonsdale, the governess, who believed in more of decorum. She was of some education, more than sufficient to teach Jack his letters and numbers so that he might go off to a school or, more likely, be ready for the attentions of a tutor on their return to England. Sarah would be hers to form until adulthood. The twins, little boys rather than infants now, made their bows more gravely, inclined to be far more serious in their ways; they intended to be soldiers, they said, when they grew older. Rachel, the Ward in Chancery, healthy and strong, giggled in the background, still in her nursemaid’s care.

  “Is all well, my love?”

  “Another merchant ship from Englan
d taken by a privateer not thirty miles offshore, sir! The navy has instituted convoys now – at long last. Word is that there has been another single-ship action and another success to the Americans. It belongs to our soldiers to protect us, it seems, husband!”

  “Not so difficult a task, I think. The people of New England have little enthusiasm for a war on land, and small liking for any hostilities at all, I think. The warfare we have seen is conducted by brigandish ruffians at one extreme and by their regular army at the other. The Militias, who should have provided many thousands of men, are most disinclined to march. I shall beg the General to consider again invasion of the old lands of New Ireland; I am quite certain we would be welcomed. The first need is to restore peace to our borders, and then to march.”

  The General was inclined to agree and insisted that the raiding must be ended.

  “That demands information, sir. There is an area of thousands of square miles, much of it forested and high hills, mountains in effect. A party of cavalry could pass within one hundred yards of a camp and not see it. We must have certain word and guides to lead us to the villains.”

  Major-General Haigh smiled, rather like the stage conjuror with a rabbit in his hat.

  “We have both, Sir Septimus! There have been discussions with gentlemen of New England who have always been opposed to this war, and to the Embargo prior to it. The result has been that an agreement has been reached which will enable us to march into the eastern parts and return them to commercial stability. They are starving as a result of Washington’s policies and will have no more to do with Madison’s war.”

  It seemed good to Septimus.

  “I never did quite understand this ‘Embargo’, sir.”

  “Obvious, sir! The British had, still have, placed the European coast under blockade – thus forbidding neutrals to trade any goods of a warlike nature with France. The French had done the same, banning the Americans particularly from trading anything with Britain. The French have very few ships at sea, the British many, so the British blockade bit harder. The President came up with the idea of banning Americans from all trade with Britain, thus hurting the American shippers even more. I am sure it seemed very logical in Washington! Of course, so much was smuggled that the Embargo only hit the honest few. Word is that tobacco from the President’s own plantation managed to reach London – though, of course, without his personal knowledge!”

  “Liars, damned liars and politicians, sir!”

  “Exactly so, Sir Septimus! The position is now that the bulk of merchants in New England are sick of being abused by other parts of the country, believing, probably rightly, that the war is benefitting the South and the inland parts while hurting them. So, very quietly, they have invited us to bring them relief.”

  General Haigh proceeded then to introduce a gentleman newly attached to his staff, one who had previously occupied an apparently insignificant office attached to the Navy.

  “Mr Potter has been here for some years, Sir Septimus, and knows many people of Nova Scotia and the Maritimes generally, and New England both. He has made many friends in his time here, and they have told him much. I shall beg him to call upon you in your barracks, Sir Septimus, where he may safely deal in names.”

  Mr Potter appeared and begged Septimus to close the office door and windows so that he might not be overheard.

  “There are a number of names, Sir Septimus, of minor significance and one of importance. Banastre Tarleton, sir!”

  “The would-be King of New Ireland, Mr Potter? I met him, or to be more exact, he took pains to meet me, in London early last year. His none too subtle advice to me made it clear that he had ambitions hereabouts and I have taken some pains to discover those families that have a connection to him and to ensure that they have places in the Fencible and Yeomanry forces – but only as subalterns. They will fight, but they will not command.”

  “Wise indeed, Sir Septimus. Are you not to make an enemy of Tarleton, sir?”

  “Not at all, Mr Potter. To his knowledge, I have taken his men into my forces, but have been unable to secure their promotions, such lying in the hands of men senior to me and local to Nova Scotia. I have done my best, it will seem, and will take pains to ensure that they have opportunity to shine if we actually come to battle. You may recall the example of Uriah the Hittite, sir! We shall be fighting soon, if only I can locate these vicious brigands on the borders.”

  Potter nodded, made notes in a little book, coded, Septimus saw, blocks of letters and number rather than words.

  “Not a perfect cypher, sir, but sufficient to take a good few hours to break. It will do for these parts. I shall send my report to London, and they will be pleased to hear of your actions, and will approve of all of them! As regards these frontier bands, Sir Septimus, there is a young man who had entered employment with a shipping firm in Boston and is consequently now out of work – the firm has lost all of its ships to the blockaders, like so many others of the city. The gentleman volunteered for the Militia and was sent to the north of Massachusetts as an ensign and then was placed as liaison, one might say, with one of the bands. He was so sickened by their behaviour that he spoke out in protest, where one of my people could hear. He has agreed to provide us with the information that will enable us to destroy the largest of the brigand groups. It is hoped that we will discover more about the lesser troops of ruffians at the site of the camp we are to destroy. With your permission, Sir Septimus, I shall accompany you on the expedition I presume you will wish to mount. General Haigh is much in favour, I would add, and has informed me that this is ‘right up your street’, I quote – a very strange expression, but one of enthusiasm, no doubt, though I do not quite know where your ‘street’ may be.”

  Septimus gravely nodded his agreement – it was an expression long known to him, a commonplace, in fact, but he would not comment on such a trivial matter.

  “What are the details, Mr Potter? How many men? Where are they located? Are they all mounted?”

  “A band of about eighty of the ruffians, Sir Septimus. They have a camp outside a small village, a hamlet really, not too far inland. I shall show you on a map, sir. All have horses and are armed with the long rifle of the frontier lands and with various knives and pistols; some carry fowling pieces as well. They are said all of them to have fought the Indians further to the west, but that is not necessarily the absolute truth, I believe. Many seem to have originated in the gutters of the larger ports, which is hardly Indian-fighting territory! The village is effectively under their control – or possibly, a merchant located in the village has recruited and pays them. It is not impossible that a gentleman from Washington has their command, seeking to whip up the war in New England so that alliance between Britain and disaffected men of the states bordering Nova Scotia becomes less likely. It seems to me that if you were to use a mixture of mounted infantry and foot soldiers, Sir Septimus, you could surround the village and interdict the tracks and single road leading from it and thus be able to utterly destroy them.”

  Septimus raised an eyebrow, very drily suggested that he might prefer to make the military decisions himself.

  “Destruction of these villains must be our aim, sir. I wholly agree there. As they are mounted, then it will be well to take units of Yeomanry with us. Other than that, we must see. I would much like to take some galloper guns along – the sound of a cannon can often discourage men who might otherwise fight fiercely. I would like to take prisoners, Mr Potter.”

  “But, are you not to kill them all, Sir Septimus? They have behaved vilely on occasion. Rape is as nothing to them, and not always of the grown womenfolk, I know.”

  Septimus nodded, grim-faced.

  “I would wish them to have the opportunity to talk to us, Mr Potter. Those who refuse may be court-martialled as criminals and then hanged, which may encourage a certain volubility among their comrades waiting their turn. No doubt you will be able to take advantage of that.”

  Mr Potter was shaken – he had
thought to examine papers discovered in their camp rather than interrogate captives.

  “Might one not expect the great bulk of such men to be illiterates, Mr Potter? I cannot imagine that they will have taken their little writing desks with them and to make entries in their commonplace books every evening!”

  The sarcasm was rather sharp for Mr Potter’s taste, but he agreed that it seemed unlikely that the ruffians would keep written records of their deeds, or maps of the location of other bands.

  “I must confess, Sir Septimus, that I have been more in the way of analysing the greater strategic issues of our time. I am more used to discover what is happening in the capital than out in, one might say, ah, ‘the sticks’.”

  Septimus smiled politely.

  “I am afraid that I was last employed in Spain, sir, which accustomed me to the more vulgar aspects of the military existence. The irregular war there was conducted in the vilest fashion, and some aspects of this conflict seem too similar for my liking! This young man of yours, sir. How old is he? Do you consider him sufficiently experienced to form a reliable judgement? Will he perhaps jump to conclusions rather than maturely consider all that he has seen?”

  Mr Potter waved his hands vaguely, suggested that all things were possible.

  “I do not believe Mr Lyautey to be so very immature, sir. He is a clever young man, yet is capable of using his hands it would seem. At least, he held his end in the fighting that he saw and gained the respect of the band as a reliable man.”

  Septimus had heard the name before, he thought, though he was not sure where, but he was sure he should have been.

  “About how old is he, sir? I have seen that boys here are considered men at a far earlier age than can be the case in England. Some of the militiamen are, I am certain, not more than sixteen years of age.”

  “Oh, he is a little more than that. About eighteen, I would have thought. The name is French, of course. I understand that his mother was widowed when still little more than a bride in the Sugar Islands and then travelled north and eventually remarried in New York. He has younger brothers and sisters, I know.”