Chapter 32
Murphy’s Laws of Tactics #17
“If you can’t see the enemy, he still may be able to see you.”
Major Brooks was a good companion. Rig found him smart but easy-going. He kept his uniform clean but was no stickler for regulations. Unlike many majors that Rig had known, including the ones he’d recently met, Brooks didn’t look down on Rig’s inferior rank. Like most men he’d met in this time, Brooks was several inches shorter than Rig. He did have the good British looks of a Hugh Grant or Clive Owens. Brooks also liked to talk, which made it easy to ask questions about the army and his career.
“Me?” Brooks grinned. “I am the second son of an Earl, so the military was the most attractive of few options. Happily, father and uncles were more than willing to buy the various commissions on my journey to the rank of major in the First Foot Guards. It’s a good life. You, Captain, would make a fine Guards officer, with your reputation and height. Yes, the grenadiers are for you.”
“My reputation?”
“Come, come, Captain, no modesty. You have quickly made a name for yourself with your fight at the bridge and Tomlin’s praise for your quick work saving his wagons.”
Rig shrugged and changed the subject. “And what are your duties with the First Guards?”
Brooks laughed. “Well, there you have me. When I reached this rank, Colonel Wade, our brigade commander, said I could be the Guards’ brigade major, tedious, thankless work on campaign, or I could command the Brigade’s composite light battalion. As I had attended Moore’s school at Shorncliffe two years ago and would have no command unless the composite battalion was formed from the brigade’s light companies, it proved an easy decision.”
He pointed to the white cloth wings fringing his shoulders. “Most all my duties have been something needing an officer of the moment, such as dumping the army’s treasury or burning supplies. I am looking forward to a real fight.”
They came to the slope where Rig’s company was supposed to be camped. He clenched his teeth. Across a bare slope, thirty to forty men in green uniforms lay about on blankets or sat around one of several campfires. Slumped, standing, or sitting, they all looked morose and eyed the two officers riding toward them with undisguised animosity.
He had no idea what the procedures might be or orders he could or should give. Fear of the unknown, of his ignorance in the demands of command of a Napoleonic light company, Rig needed the remaining corporal. Dismounting and approaching the group, he called out, “Who’s in charge here?”
A thin, towheaded soldier with corporal stripes rose from a blanket and strode toward them, stumbling when he recognized Rig in his new uniform.
“Mother’s mercy,” he whispered as he finally came to attention before Rig.
“Well, Calley, we meet again.” Shit. What are the odds? The smartass Rig had forced to act as guide two weeks ago in Bembibre.
Calley, wide-eyed, blurted out, “Y-You be Captain Sparhawk?”
Major Brooks glanced at Rig curiously when he came up towing the horses.
“Major Brooks, meet Corporal Calley. We collaborated briefly on the march here.”
Calley stood sweating in the chilly air, the company looking on with rabid interest.
Major Brooks frowned. “Corporal, why haven’t you been billeted in houses or one of the churches?”
“We were ordered here several days ago, on account of our losses.”
“From fighting several engagements,” Rig added.
“Uh, yes, sir. There was no plan for billeting the army yet and we was sent here to be recuperated until the officers thought it out. They said it would be a day. We’ve been stuck here in the wind and rain for five bleedin’ days —beggin’ your pardon, Captain— only to be told today that with the army arriving all the billets are spoken for.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Rig asked.
Calley gave a gruff laugh. “Me, a corporal? No officer listened or cared.”
Rig frowned. “What have you had to eat?”
“We cut up a horse three days ago. That’s pretty much gone.”
What to say now? Rig studied Calley, standing at attention, eyes forward, the practiced blank expression of the enlisted. What to do? He remembered something his Battalion commander had once told him in officers’ training. “When facing the unknown, like David against Goliath, you stick with what you know.” He let a half-smile escape. He knew a commissariat officer.
“Well, Corporal,” Rig intoned, “it looks like it’s just you and me. If you do your job, we’ll be fine. You might even make sergeant. Fail me, and I’ll gut you where you stand.” Calley paled. “You know my word is good, don’t you, Calley.” Calley nodded with jerky conviction.
“All right, assemble the company.” Calley ran about calling the men to form line.
Once they’d strolled in and formed a line of two ranks, Rig walked down the rows of men. It was a motley crew, most all under five-five, with muddy, torn uniforms.
Rig glowered at them. “Where are your weapons?” The men looked at each other. “Go get them and return.” They all turned to go, and Rig yelled, “Double time! You’re goddam Riflemen.”
Back again on the run, they formed up a little straighter. Rig looked at these soldiers with their nineteenth century personal experiences and inexplicable motivations. He knew farming. “How many of you have been farmers?” Two-thirds including Calley raised their hands. Good. A place to start. He decided to make the introductions short.
“I am Captain Sparhawk, your new company commander. We have a battle ahead of us. We will have to practice with our half-company until then.” There was a wilting among the troops and a grumble here and there.
Rig stood silent for a long time, studying the men until they grew nervous. The group’s quick glances at particular individuals and Calley told him who the leaders were. He finally said, “It seems you all have been given the shaft these last several days.” One man in the second row said, “Aye, buggered we’ve been.” There were noises of agreement.
Rig nodded. “Well, fighting men in my command are not going to be treated that way. I’m off to the commissary to see about food and tents if we can’t find billeting for you.”
“Tents?” There was laughter. “Which officers will give over?”
Rig’s stern gaze quieted them. He mounted and told Calley, “Have the men clean their weapons, uniforms, and kits. I’ll be back this afternoon.”
Riding out, Rig turned to Brooks, who was smiling at him. “I need to find Tomlin and get a wagon, then hunt up Schaumann and the army commissary.”
Brooks waved a hand toward the city. “I’m afraid you can’t just walk in and demand supplies, old boy. You need a requisition and those are generated by General Moore’s staff.”
“We’ll see. Schaumann and I see eye-to-eye about requisitioning procedures.”
Four hours later and two dozen silver doubloons lighter, Rig arrived back with a wagon loaded with pork, beans, peas, dried apples, potatoes, bread, blankets, a barrel of rum and ten four-man tents. Schaumann assured Rig the various officers would never miss their army tents, living it up as they were billeted in nice houses. “Like us,” he added with a jaunty grin.
Amid cheers, Rig left a partially drunk, fed, and happily sated company assembling tents as he and Brooks headed back to their billet that evening. Brooks hadn’t stopped grinning since Rig threatened the corporal with a gutting and then borrowed two wagons from Tomlin. The grin grew wider as Rig bartered with the little commissariat Schaumann for all the supplies absent any proper requisition.
Brooks finally laughed. “Schaumann is part of the King’s German Legion, so who his superiors are in the British Commissary is always a question. How did you know he was taking advantage of the situation?”
“I’ve met him before.” Rig frowned. “Major, do you have any books on light infantry practices or army regulations?”
“That I do. Had to study them assiduously at Shorncliffe. I have the army’s Field Regulations, The Rifle and Light Infantry Regulations by Captain Rothenberg and Cooper’s recent tome on light-infantry tactics. Which would you like?”
Rig scrunched up his mouth for a moment. “All of them, please.”
“I’ll have to dig them out of my trunks. I will be with my battalion tomorrow. Why don’t I bring them to you at Graham’s dinner?”
“That would be terrific. Thank you.”
Brooks eyed Rig with a lopsided smile. “You Canadians have a unique form of communication, with gutting corporals, bartering for supplies, and your ‘terrific.’”
What could Rig do but grin back? Brooks just shook his head and laughed. “You, sir, are proving to be rare entertainment.”
~ ~ ~
January 12th
That evening, seven sharp, with Panama hat in hand, Rig checked the shine on his new boots at the door of Colonel Graham’s house. That morning, after he’d seen several officers wearing a straw Panama, with the don’s directions, he hunted up one in the market three blocks from Mascoso’s house. On the way back, he passed a cobbler’s shop with boots in the window. His desert boots were falling apart and had lost a good portion of the blacking Mel had applied.
He entered the shop and for several more doubloons, Esteban, the cobbler, drew a pattern around his feet, the largest that he claimed he’d ever fitted. Rig then watched him cut the leather, stitch the boots together, and shine them right there. Esteban even added metal studs on the toes and heels. Rig kept admiring his calf-high boots, though little of the shine was visible beyond his pant cuffs. He had worked to keep them clean the rest of the day while he had Calley run the company through maneuvers, ‘tactics,’ Calley called them instead of drill. That way he saw what they did as a unit without—he hoped—appearing ignorant of everything.
He finally saw what the little whistle hanging from his cross belt was for. Calley blew signals with a similar whistle he carried. Tomorrow he was going with Brooks to watch the Guard’s exercise to see close order drill.
A soldier answered Graham’s door and led him into a large, candlelit dining room. Several officers were already there along with two women. He didn’t see Mel. Graham greeted him with a hearty smile and introduced him to the others—colonels, majors, and captains.
When Rig came to shake hands with Lieutenant Bentley of the 75th Foot, the man grinned like he was meeting a movie star. “Ensign Merriweather sends his regards. Your attentions and generous gift of gloves saved his fingers.”
Rig smiled back. “Yes, the gentleman with frostbite. I’m glad I could help.”
The ladies were next. One young, perhaps nineteen, and an older woman thirty-five or older. Both were brightly dressed in piles of lace. The younger one, the daughter of Colonel Haverlock, whom he’d just met, curtsied. Rig gave a little bow he’d seen given Melissa in the past by various officers. Miss Haverlock smiled with a pouty, small mouth, gazing at him with overly large blue eyes through her eyelashes. She spoke with a breathy soprano that made one lean close to hear her.
“With your arm in a sling, Captain, I would be honored to sit next to such a brave warrior, and cut your food for you,” she said, continually batting her eyes. He nearly asked if she had something in them.
Rig was taken back by the offer but shook his head. “There’s no need, Miss Haverlock. I have enough use of my arm but thank you.”
It was evident from their expressions, several officers would have been delighted to have her cut up their food.
The older woman was the Colonel’s wife, Carolyn Haverlock, a handsome woman. Her curtsy revealed a great deal of cleavage and a dangerous come-hither look that telegraphed images of both daughter and mother sharing his bed together. He quickly turned to meet the next officer.
Graham said, “And this is Captain Mountharron of the 40th Foot. His father is General Baron Mountharron.”
Well, crap. A general’s son.Rig shook Mountharron’s hand once. “Captain.” Turning to Colonel Graham, he said, “We met briefly on the march.”
With a black look, Mountharron agreed. “Yes, I remember,” the yes coming out as a hiss. “It is fortunate you didn’t suffer from frostbite, giving up your gloves as you did.”
“They weren’t my gloves.” Rig held up his hand. “It’s hard to find gloves that fit. No, I gave the ensign one of several French pairs we had.”
There were chuckles among the officers at this, which only made Mountharron appear more incensed. “I thought your name was Stark, not Sparhawk.”
Rig studied Mountharron’s pinched face for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, you weren’t the only one to make that mistake. It was a very windy that night.”
Mountharron opened his mouth to say more when Mel entered with several servants, saying, “ladies and gentlemen, Please be seated. Dinner is served.”
The places were assigned, colonels and majors close to Graham at the head of the table, with Colonel Haverlock’s wife and daughter next to Haverlock. This placed Miss Haverlock facing Rig one chair up from him. Unfortunately, Mountharron sat next to her, directly across from Rig, though Mountharron seemed pleased to be sitting next to her. Lieutenant Bentley sat the farthest from Colonel Graham, the chair at the other end of the table remaining empty. The seat to the right of Rig also had no occupant.
Rig watched Mel circle the room, making sure that the servants were serving everyone, starting with Colonel Graham. Only once did her gaze meet his. She smiled, asking if he might need help with his meal, to which he shook his head. Her smile grew. “Aye, I’ve heard you have an independent streak.” He gave her a wry look as several others around the table grinned at the exchange.
Every piece of the heavy silverware had the letters ‘TG’ stamped on the handles and there was a lot of silverware. Mel disappeared through a doorway behind the colonel with a number of Spanish servants, while others waited silently behind the guests. It all felt very odd as everyone sat waiting, looking to Graham. More food on large plates was laid down in the center of the table. There seemed to be no end to the fish, pork roast, chicken, and vegetable dishes. There were even bean casseroles that he recognized as Spanish.
Mel finally entered and sat in the chair at the far end from her uncle. The waiting over, there was light conversation while everyone was served, Colonel Graham first. No one began eating until Colonel Graham gave a nod to the table and spooned some soup.
The clear liquid turned out to be turtle soup. Rig was about to take a tentative sip, when he noted that everyone spooned the soup from the front of the bowl back. He followed suit. During this time, Mel left the table and returned repeatedly. Colonel Graham cut through the quiet conversations.
“Captain Sparhawk, how are your injuries healing?”
“They are doing well. I should have the stitches in my shoulder removed in the next few days.” There was a little gasp from Miss Haverlock and glances from the officers. Rig guessed he’d been too graphic for mixed company.
Graham didn’t seem to think so. He nodded and was about to say something when Mountharron cut in. “And who tended to your wounds, Captain?”
“Miss Graham.” He looked at her standing at the kitchen doorway, and smiled, noting the pink bloom on her cheeks. Rig met the eyes of several guests at the table. Miss Haverlock was having difficulty keeping her soup down. “Several soldiers as well as I were grateful for her skills as a seamstress.”
Around the table there were chuckles and the atmosphere relaxed back into conversation. Miss Haverlock recovered quickly. Rig said no more, just listened. Most talk dealt with when the fleet should arrive and whether there would be a battle with the French.
Graham spoke up again. “I understand, Captain Sparhawk, that you have been running your company through their paces today, after apparently gathering rations and establishing them in tents.”
“Yes, sir. There were no billets available, and they’d been on that bare slope south of town in the rain for several days.” When Graham waited, Rig continued. “The company has been reduced by half. They are good men, but I had to see what they are capable of now. You will be glad to know they are still an efficient fighting force.”
Mountharron just had to speak up again. “You are new to the army, Captain. The task of drilling the men is best left to the sergeants. It’s not in an officer’s purview.”
A number of officers were nodding in agreement. What nonsense. “We have no sergeants and just one corporal.” The dinner guests shook their heads at the situation, lamenting the army’s losses.
Mountharron was going to say more, but just then Major Brooks strode in with apologies to all for being late, saying “I was delayed with our pickets east of Carral. The French have deployed a skirmish line close by but seem disinclined to make trouble after we provided a lesson or two.”
He grabbed the seat by Rig and rubbed his hands together, saying, “This looks marvelous.” Glancing at the servants, he merrily waved his hand. “Please, serve me.” As they began filling his plate, Brooks turned to Rig. “I left the books in your room.”
When Rig thanked him, Miss Haverlock spoke up. “Oh, are you a reader, Captain?”
Raising his eyebrows comically, he said, “Sometimes.” This brought a laugh.
“So, what are you reading from Major Brook’s library?”
“Dull stuff. Infantry and light infantry regulations and tactics.”
Graham asked for the titles, which Brooks recited, but when finished Mountharron barked, “Why, Captain? I hope you are not following after the German Legion officers, as though employed in Trade. Such instructions and regulations belong to the noncommissioned to instill in the lower classes, not British officers.
“The owner of the estate does not learn how to plaster walls or tell his carpenter the proper way to make a chair.” He turned to the table, proclaiming. “Book learning is not capable of shaping a proper gentleman and officer, the natural leader of men, always Britain’s shining examples of courage.” Around the table, there were some thumping of the table and “Here, here’s.”
Looking across the table at Mountharron, Rig said, “So, you don’t think I should bother with learning from those books as captain of my company?”
“I do not. It is a wasted effort, outside an officer’s responsibilities.”
Rig stared at his plate for a moment, the entire table silent. At this point he was grateful for the officers’ school, what he remembered from it. Everyone was looking at him.
“Well, Captain. I agree with you. An officer must set a good example in leading on and off the battlefield. I also agree with the ancient Greek general, Thucydides. He wrote, ‘The society that separates its scholars from its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting done by fools.’”
There was dead silence until Colonel Graham laughed, slapped the table, and said, “Well said, Captain, well said.” Other officers palmed the table chorusing “Here, here.”
With only a glance at Mountharron and his murderous glare, Rig went back to tackling the second course of pork. He knew he had just driven the captain from irritation to revenge. Not that he was sorry. The man was an idiot.
Mountharron also returned to his meal, now and again speaking to Miss Haverlock, attempting to gain her undivided attention. Unfortunately for him, she seemed intent on peppering Rig with inane questions.
Throughout the meal, Mel rarely stayed seated. Instead, she was continually jumping up to work with the servants to ensure glasses were full, spills cleaned up, and seeing that various dishes reached everyone. Graham would direct her to bring something or fill someone’s glass.
It annoyed Rig to see her behaving in such a subservient manner instead of enjoying the meal and joining the conversation. Mel again disappeared through the doorway into what he assumed was the kitchen. He caught Graham watching him as he frowned.
A few guests were asking to be excused, to use the latrine out back. Rig used that reason to follow Mel. Through the dining room doorway others had used was a hall with a large room off to the side, counterspace on every wall filled with plates of removed servings. The kitchen was reached through that room. He stopped and waited for Mel to come out. She started when she saw him, almost dropping a large serving dish.
“It is amazing, the amount of food Colonel Graham has for this dinner,” Rig said, waving a hand at the counters.
She glanced both ways down the hall. “He felt it was a pleasant and welcoming gesture to the returning officers.” She tried to step around him, but Rig didn’t move.
“And you?”
“Please let me by.”
“Why aren’t you at the table enjoying this meal? You are his niece.”
“I’m also the luckie.” He raised a questioning brow at that. She pursed her lips and said, “The hostess. As such, I want to see the dinner go well.”
“When can I see you?”
She relaxed and gave him a bright smile. “Come for dinner tomorrow, noon.”
“Alone.”
The smile disappeared. She glanced down the hall and whispered, “In the market tomorrow, ten. I have to shop for food.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.” She gave him an exasperated look, one ending the discussion. “Now, let me by, before someone sees us.”
The sharp tone of her comment surprised him enough that he let her by.
When Rig returned to the table a bit later than Mel, officers related tales of the march. Graham requested Rig to describe Mel’s and his travels. There proved to be more than mild interest in his narrative around the table. Social interaction with anyone, especially when it included Mel, felt like he was continually asked to cross minefields at a run.
He had to splice in Sparhawk’s actual arrival at Vigo, then travel east to find his battalion, discovering Mel instead. His initial fight with the French soldiers was ignored and the Chasseur fight partly fabricated. The only unvarnished part of the story was Mel’s aid with the musket, which was given as the cause of her shoulder injury. When he was done, Miss Haverlock, hand to her necklace, gazed at him intently. “And you two were alone all that time?”
This was why Mel didn’t want to be seen with him alone now. Irritated, he grinned at Miss Haverlock. “Well, as alone as one can be while marching in the middle of an army.” That garnered chuckles and the discussion wandered to other topics.
The dinner lasted until eleven. Exhausted by four hours of talk, Rig was ready to go. Graham declared the dinner over, and everyone rose to leave with coat-gathering and farewells, Graham and Mel seeing everyone off at the door. Brooks and he were about to follow the rest of the officers when Colonel Graham called his name, his new name, which he almost missed. “A word, Captain Sparhawk.” Brooks raised an eyebrow, but said he’d see him later.
Mel glanced at him with a worried frown but shot off to the kitchen with plates. Alone in the dining room, Rig silently waited, meeting the Colonel’s gaze.
~ ~ ~
Mel quickly returned to the hallway, pressed up against the wall as near to the dining room as she dared, remaining out of sight. The silence was unnerving and only stoked her worry. Her uncle was a principled man and insisted the same from everyone. What would he demand from Rig having traveled with her for a dozen days?
“So, Captain, how are you settling in?”
“Well enough. I am still getting to know the men, how they operate.”
“How they operate?” Mel thought she heard a chuckle from her uncle.
“Yes, sir. How they work together, their norms.” There was a pause.
“I see.” Giving that some consideration, Graham asked, “What are your conclusions about how they operate?”
“I’m still learning the ropes and haven’t made any decisions just yet.”
“Learning the ropes? Were you in the navy, Captain?”
“No, sir. Just an expression. As I was saying, the men are veterans and know their business, but they’re worn out and have been ill-treated over the last weeks by the army, by officers, so it will take time for me to earn their trust.”
There was another long silence. Mel cringed. Why did he have to criticize the army and its officers? Mel closed her eyes, knowing her uncle was judging Rig, his words, his worth.
“You don’t approve of me, do you, Captain? Why is that?”
“I am sure you are a fine officer and will very soon be a general.”
Graham gave a grim laugh. “After eight years of waiting with my ‘temporary rank,’ I have lost hope of attaining ‘general’ any time soon. However, that isn’t what I asked, Captain.”
Another long silence. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
Another chuckle and the sound of wine being poured. “Please do.”
“You shouldn’t have let Mel—Miss Graham—come on this campaign.”
Not that again.Mel clenched her teeth at his monumental presumption to judge such things, her, and her uncle.
“She wanted to come, asked me to take her.”
“When I was four, I wanted a horse. That didn’t mean I needed one or should have gotten one.”
“Melissa is not a child.”
“I know. She is a grown woman, competent, remarkable, with a mind of her own. You still shouldn’t have brought her on this campaign—at least made her remain in La Corunna if nothing else. War is no place for a woman, or any civilian.”
“Hmm, I see. You seem to—”
“Then, you lost track of her, which led her to wander off without any security, facing near death at the hands of the French, and then made no effort to find her, not even staying in the neighborhood where she was lost. Instead, you put two hundred miles between you and her. She had to endure one of the worst-conceived marches I have ever had the misfortune to experience.”
When her uncle remained silent, Mel tensed, ready to intervene in any altercation.
“And now you are treating her like one of the servants. So, Colonel, no, I don’t approve of what you’ve done.”
“I see.” More silence. “I am glad you were there to protect her. I am in your debt, Captain. I hope, as a soldier, you understand, or will understand, that a soldier’s duty to orders often supersedes personal, familial obligations. I did arrange what I could for her—and you—along the march.”
“Which we both appreciated.” There was another long silence, making Mel want to scream. What were they doing, trying to win a staring contest?
“Well, thank you for your candor, Captain. If there is nothing else, you are dismissed.”
She heard the knock of boots on the floorboards and then silence.
“You can come out now, lass. He’s gone.”
Mel gave her uncle a peeved squint when she joined him. She glanced at him questioningly, and he threw an arm around her in a half-hug. “What are you going to do to him?”
Graham frowned at his niece. “Do? Nothing.” With a last squeeze, he let her go, and then with a smile, said, “I like the lad. He has grit, a thinking man with his own opinions.”
Mel stood with her mouth open, unsure what to think as her uncle went to the clothes rack and retrieved her coat and shawl. He held the coat for her. “The captain cares for you, Melissa. I suspect you care too. Our brethren are holding a cèilidhout on the parade ground. So, go invite him to join us. Let’s enjoy the evening.”
Mel stared at her uncle.
“Off with you, lass, you can still catch him if you hurry.”