‘Now it’s time for some live firing. Have some men posted on the turnpike to hold off any travellers. Now then, the hedge is a line of French soldiers, Chambers. What now?’
This time Chambers did not delay and instantly gave the order to form line at the double. His men trotted into place, their haversacks and water bottles slapping up and down as they hurried across the trampled grass to their positions.
‘Battalion will make ready to fire by companies!’ Chambers called out. ‘Fire when ready! Five rounds!’
The sergeants called time as the men grounded their muskets and began the loading procedure. Then they raised their weapons and waited for the order.
‘Fire!’ bellowed the sergeant of the first company to be ready, and a sharp crashing thud reverberated off the hard ground as a cloud of smoke swelled into life in front of the battalion’s Light Company. A moment later one of the other companies fired and then the rest came in with a ragged discharge along the line. Over by the turnpike, bits of twig and small branches leaped into the air as the musket balls raked through. The companies continued to fire their volleys, and such was the efficiency of the Light Company that they had managed to loose their final round before the slowest company had finished loading their fourth.
Gradually the fire slackened.As the last echo died away and the dense clouds of choking powder smoke began to dissipate, Arthur waited a moment for the men’s ears to clear and then called out, ‘Gentlemen! Bonaparte has eight soldiers for every man in King’s uniform. Man for man they are not your equal, but we are not fighting man for man. We are outnumbered, and the only thing that will save us is killing them faster than they can kill us. That means we must be able to fire more volleys than our enemy on the battlefield. Today, the Light Company took nearly eighty seconds to fire the first three rounds. That will not do!’ Arthur paused and turned towards the battalion’s commander. ‘Colonel Chambers!’
Chambers stiffened his back as he replied. ‘Sir?’
‘I want your men to be able to fire the first three rounds within a minute by the end of the month.You may continue with the live firing, and then drill the men in the movements for the rest of the morning.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well, carry on.’
The two officers exchanged a salute, then Arthur wheeled his mount round and galloped back towards his billet on the hill east of Hastings. He could trust Chambers to drill the men to the standard he required of them so that they would perform well whenever the time came to send them off to war.Arthur smiled grimly to himself.With Bonaparte’s present run of successes it was unlikely that his brigade faced the prospect of any action in the immediate future. Especially if Fox held to his purpose of attempting to negotiate a peace with France. The more Arthur thought about it the more frustrated he became with his political masters. Even if the French Emperor was prepared to negotiate, there was every chance that the talks would follow the pattern of the earlier Peace of Amiens, where France added further demands each time the treaty was about to be signed. After the peace took effect, Bonaparte blithely snapped up further territory and made preparations for forcefully expanding French interests as far afield as India and the West Indies. The Corsican tyrant was truly insatiable, Arthur reflected, and he did not care how many bodies were buried on the path to realising his ambitions.
As he entered the town, Arthur slowed his horse to a walk. Fox’s plans for peace, however well intentioned, were doomed to fail.The war would continue. Britain must choose the ground to wage land war against Bonaparte very carefully. Somewhere on the periphery of Europe where the small but highly trained and highly disciplined British army could pick its battles carefully and gradually wear down Bonaparte’s marshals and their armies, and prove to the rest of Europe that the men who marched under the tricolour could be defeated again and again. Once more Arthur’s mind turned to the Iberian Peninsula, where such a scheme would most readily bear fruit. If only a British army, under a competent commander, could be landed in the Iberian Peninsula there was no telling how much it could achieve, and perhaps shift the balance of victory in favour of those nations allied against France.
When he arrived back at the riding school that served as brigade headquarters Arthur dismounted and handed the reins to a groom. Then, stepping into the entrance hall, with its smell of leather and polish, he hung his coat on one of the pegs outside his office and entered. Corporal Blake, his personal clerk, rose from the ledgers on his desk and stood to attention.
‘Good morning, Blake.’
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Better put in a request for ten thousand more rounds of ammunition.’
‘More live firing exercises, sir?’ There was a hint of disapproval in the corporal’s tone and Arthur paused at his desk to stare levelly at the man.
‘Yes. If they have been issued with muskets, then it’s as well that they have the opportunity to learn how to use the bloody things. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, sir. But then I’m not in supplies. And you know what they’re like, sir.’
‘I do. Can’t bear to deal with ’em.That’s why you have the job, Blake.’
‘Thank you, sir. Much obliged.’
Arthur smiled and strode on, through the door into the small adjoining room where he had his personal office. One wall had shelves floor to ceiling on which Arthur kept his paperwork in an orderly manner. His desk, unlike rather too many desks of commanding officers, was bare. It had long been his practice to deal at once with every letter, report, request chit, leave application, disciplinary form or any other piece of paper that landed on the in- tray.That, in addition to the regular training and exercise, is why the men under his command were always amongst the best soldiers in the service of the King.
He sat heavily in his chair and stared out of the window for a moment.The riding school sat atop a hill overlooking Hastings and the sea beyond. Down on the shingled shore the fishing boats were being hauled up from the surf towards the large cluster of net-drying sheds that rose above the tiled and thatched roofs of the town. Beyond the sheds the beach became a mad jumble of large rocks beneath the looming cliffs, and Arthur looked forward to the afternoon walk he regularly took there for exercise. He always found it a fine opportunity to think, uninterrupted by the duties and minutiae of commanding the brigade.
Foremost amongst his concerns at present was the upcoming election for the seat at Rye. He had submitted his name, and been approved by the local landowners who largely dictated the manner in which their tenants would vote. All that remained was to take a short period of leave from the brigade to wine and dine the voters, as was the custom, make a few fine speeches and, after the brief formality of winning the vote, accept the honour of
