Craven's War: A Rising Storm, page 12
“I am sorry,” he declared.
“For what?” she asked.
“For risking my life in a petty dispute.”
“There is nothing petty about this, nor about you. You are an honourable man, Berkeley, and I love you for it.”
Paget did not know what to say, for it was a most touching revelation. He had to take several breaths before he found his voice.
“Of all the times we have faced danger, I knew that we must, but fighting duels amongst the officers of our army is counterproductive, or at least I used to think it was so.”
“But not anymore?”
He shook his head.
“Standards must be maintained. Examples must be made. If other men will not step up and do so, then I must do it.”
“Craven would fight any man for any reason, and yet you fret over the justification of it all. You are a special soul,” smiled Charlie.
“I should get an early night and be fresh for the morning.”
He settled in early and yet remained wide awake for some hours as he knew he would, but eventually, he fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of his sword dancing in his hand as he battled the most obnoxious Dalton. He knew he had the skill to beat his adversary and so there was no doubt in his mind.
He awoke fresh and eager, leaping from his bed and quickly dressing himself as the sun came up. He mounted Augustus, and with Craven, Charlie, Ferreira, and Timmerman by his side, they set out to settle the matter of honour.
“I am surprised,” declared Timmerman.
“Of what?” Craven asked as they rode on.
“After all that you have bene through, you support your man in a duel, in spite of Wellington’s condemnation of the practice?”
“Lord Wellington knows much about war and the strategies of conducting it, but in the affairs of men he is far removed.”
“And yet he would have much to say on this matter, more so for the man involved.” Timmerman gestured towards Paget.
“We do many things Lord Wellington would not approve of, but they must be done, and we will see them done,” insisted Craven.
They stopped at the top of a small hill with one great old tree atop it, the place where they would meet that morning. Craven let Timmerman lead them on through the affair as they rode up beside the old tree and secured their horses to a great old branch that almost reached parallel to the ground. They went on to meet with Dalton and his party where they found his seconds had laid out a box of duelling pistols.
“What is this?” Paget asked.
“You demanded satisfaction, and it is my choice of weapons,” replied Dalton with a wry smile as if he had realised how to defeat Paget.
He clearly thought it would give him some great edge to fight with pistols over swords. For those who followed Craven were infamous for their use of blades, and yet Paget was not intimidated by the prospect of duelling pistols, for he was a fine shot.
“Let us see it done,” he insisted.
Craven went forward to the case of duelling pistols and studied them both before taking one and seeing to the loading of it. He was careful and precise in every aspect, for he wanted to make sure Paget was victorious. The young Captain showed no fear and was confident in his purpose and his skills. Soon enough the two combatants were back-to-back with pistols in hands, and the time had come. The count began, and the two marched on in opposite directions before turning about.
Each raised their pistols and took aim. It was a tense standoff, but neither showed any fear. Though Charlie exhibited the most concern which she tried to conceal.
“If he hurts Paget, I will kill him,” she whispered.
“You will not interfere with a matter of honour,” insisted Craven.
“But after it is done, that bastard will die by his hand or ours,” replied Timmerman.
Craven looked to Ferreira for support, but he merely shrugged as he did not disagree with them.
Dalton fired first and his shot clipped the stitching of Paget’s shirt about his shoulder, but the shot did not even draw blood. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief, and Paget took careful aim at his opponent. Dalton looked horrified, as though he was fully confident in his ability to land his shot and had never even considered the possibility that he himself might be struck. Paget let him stew in his fears for a moment before raising his own pistol high and firing the shot into the air.
“You are defeated, Sir, but I would not rob Wellington of an officer, even one as pathetic as yourself,” declared Paget.
Dalton could hardly believe his luck that he had not been shot, but that relief soon turned to anger in that he had not achieved the success he had expected. He tossed the pistol away as he stormed off and gathered his horse. His party did the same, abandoning the weapons they had brought to the affair entirely. Charlie approached Paget wanting to wrap her arms about him but dared not do so in public.
“It is done, then,” he declared.
But he watched as Craven sighed and mounted his horse to ride away in frustration.
“I could not kill him,” insisted Paget to Charlie.
“I know, and that is why you are the best of us.”
“I don’t want to be the best. I only want to do what is best for us all,” he explained.
Charlie had no words, for she would have seen him kill the despicable Dalton as Craven would have done, but she knew Paget well enough to sympathise and understand why he could not.
Chapter 11
They watched as the sappers and gunners toiled on with hundreds more of the infantry attached to them as work details. It was back breaking labour as parallels and gun positions were dug and built. But Paget was focused on Craven who was fuming as he looked out into the distance, not wanting to engage with any of them. Paget took a step towards him.
“I wouldn’t,” insisted Matthys.
“But why? Why would he hate me so for not wanting to take the life of a fellow officer?”
“I sympathise, and I for one am proud of you for your restraint and compassion.”
But Paget could hear the doubt in his voice.
“Then what? What else?”
“That is between you and Craven. For in the eyes of God you are resolved, but to the Major, well that is something else entirely.”
“Then I should go to him and discuss it like men.”
Matthys shrugged as he could not imagine it would go well.
Paget heeded his advice and stayed away as they watched the siege works go on. Two days passed with no words spoken of the duel. Craven would not even look at him as he settled about a fire for another night with a number of their companions.
“He will let it go in time,” insisted Charlie.
“Are you so sure?”
She shook her head, for she knew how strong-willed Craven could be.
“What would you have done?” he asked her, though he already knew the answer, or he knew she would not have shown mercy.
Ferreira joined them as he tried to find some way to patch up the rift.
“And you? Do you think I should have killed him, too?” Paget asked him.
“If we kill each other, who will be left to fight the French?” he replied in support of his decision.
But Paget looked about the camp to see that many others did not share Ferreira’s logical approach. The goodwill Paget had earnt from his victory in the first duel with Dalton was now rapidly fading away as rumours spread of his conduct in the second.
“How can I fix this? I did what I know to be right, and yet I am hated for it,” sighed Paget.
“I wish I had an answer for you, but this rift must be mended before the time to assault San Sebastian comes, for we must be strong together,” declared Ferreira.
Paget went to bed with so much on his mind as he tried to find a solution. The next morning, he arose to find Craven and Matthys up early and eating breakfast about a fire. He could not take the cold shoulder any longer and decided to confront Craven directly. He stormed up before the Major angrily.
“Sir, enough of this, what is your problem with my actions?”
Craven sighed but looked up at him with sorrow, as if not wanting to break it to him, but now he demanded it, the gates had been opened.
“You did not fulfil your duty,” growled Craven.
“Come now,” Matthys pleaded in support of Paget.
But Craven shot to his feet angrily as he tossed away his bowl of hot stew and pointed an angry finger at his old friend.
“Do not dare defend him! You do not defend those who endanger the lives of us all!” Craven roared with intense anger.
His voice carried and many of the regiment had awoken to witness the confrontation as Craven turned his attentions to Paget.
“What is it? What did I do wrong?” Paget pleaded.
“That man came to kill you, and you let him live. You think it was an act of compassion, but it was the action of a fool.”
Paget did not understand what he meant, and so Craven finally came out with it as he revealed the true depths of his frustrations.
“Remember Bouchard? The last time you hesitated to kill an enemy it cost us one of our own, and a dear friend.”
Matthys looked down in sorrow as he remembered that fateful time, but most of all he was sympathetic to Paget who was getting a beating in a way that seemed almost cruel.
“And remember Captain Gore? He fought off his enemies and let them go about their business, only to be shot down the very same night? When a man comes to kill you, you do not suffer him to live. If you cannot see this, you will lead yourself and others to their deaths.”
The camp was silent. Matthys’ heart felt for Paget, but as much as he sympathised, he knew Craven had a point. Paget was close to tears, but nobody intervened.
“What would you have me do, Sir?”
“Do your duty and defend your own life with as much fervour as you would your companions.”
“And if I cannot, Sir? If I cannot find it in myself to do a wicked deed?”
“Then you have no place here, for you are a liability to all around you!”
Craven stormed away, for it pained him as much to say it as it did for the young Captain to hear it.
Paget was at a loss. He did not know how he could please Craven and abide by his own ideals at the same time.
“What should I have done?” he asked Matthys.
“I could not condone the killing of any man, but as in war, when one’s own life is at stake, you must not throw it away in the pursuit of being a better man, for a dead man cannot be anything.”
Charlie came to join them looking most sympathetic to his plight.
“You think I should have killed him, too, don’t you?”
“A duel is not a game, but a battle, and you have a responsibility to yourself and to others to win that battle,” she replied.
It was a sobering moment for Paget as he realised that nobody was on his side in the affair, not even Matthys whose morals and values he respected more than anyone else. He dropped down to the ground and hung his head in shame as he tried to process it all.
They watched for another two long days as the works continued, but finally, after six days of labour the Royal Artillery opened fire upon the walls of San Sebastian to great applause by all those watching, many of whom had conducted back breaking labour so that they might reach this point.
Craven made his way towards the gun batteries to find Major Smith angrily condemning two of the artillery officers as their crews struggled to repair the carriages of several of the guns that had been borrowed from the Navy. They remained on their ship carriages that had failed and fallen apart amid the rough treatment they had endured being dragged and fired over the very uneven ground. The gun crews hurried to mount the barrels on better and stronger carriages so that they might go on firing.
“A town to capture, and we are hindered by our own equipment and men,” complained Smith as he saw Craven approach, almost glad to see a friendly face who might understand his frustrations.
The guns were soon repaired and fired once more to a tremendous effect. The hornwork was battered, and the Eastern walls of the town struck time and time again. For now, the wall held firm, but the ramparts had already collapsed under the tremendous bombardment. As the sun went down, there was a sense that the thick town walls would be breached the next day. Anticipation and dread were building in equal measure. Craven waited and watched for another night, supported by fifty of his riflemen once again. Paget was amongst them, but he made no attempt to speak to Craven as he tried to prove himself worthy of his rank and uniform once more.
At midnight a French cannon roared from the castle, but not at the British positions, but into the bay. Moments later, French troops poured out from the hornwork and town as they rushed into the suburb to attack the besiegers’ positions once again. Craven was about to order an advance when the guns of the Royal Artillery roared and smashed into the French troops as they sallied out. Their enthusiasm was sapped away in seconds, and they soon turned tail and fled without a fight. The tables had been turned. For now the besieging force was well established and able to cover all angles between them and the town to devastating effect. Yet in the fluttering light that the cannon fire had brought, Craven spotted movement amongst one of the British parallels that was now completed. The activity made him curious as he could make out Smith down there seeing to some work despite the late hour.
“Stay here,” ordered Craven as he went on to investigate.
Paget desperately wanted to follow him, but he dared not create a scene and anger Craven further.
Craven soon reached the parallel and dropped into the safety of the road that had been dug so that they might close up to the enemy walls without being exposed to their fire. He soon reached Smith and found him most animated and excited. He was peering down the mouth of a large drain that had been laid bare by the work on the parallel.
“What is it?” Craven asked.
The pipe was substantial being four feet high and three feet wide, and Craven could hear the echo of someone tunnelling through in the darkness. He could just make out the silhouette of a man framed by the torch he carried as he continued on through the small channel.
“It is the aqueduct that brought water to the town. It was cut off by the Spanish once they arrived here.”
Craven smiled as he could see what was going through Smith’s mind. To undermine a fortification required weeks or months of work, and yet he might have just stumbled upon such a work that was preprepared for him. They watched as the tunneller returned, a young and enthusiastic Lieutenant under Smith’s command.
“How far does it reach?”
“To the counterscarp of the hornwork, Sir.”
Smith beamed with joy.
“What a stroke of luck. I want thirty barrels of powder run up there and eight feet of sandbags to stopper it.”
“I will see it done, Sir.” The Lieutenant hurried away to see the work done.
“Sandbags?” Craven asked him.
“To create compression the same way that you ram home the wadding of your cartridges down rifle and musket. When that powder blows, we do not want the blast to vent through the same tunnel which we now see, but to create a great globe of compression inside there so that it goes off like a cannon,” he replied excitedly as he is mimicked an explosion effect with his hands.
Though in truth it was more like a mine, for a cannon contains the blast with thick iron or bronze so that the blast was forced in only one direction. Whereas, Smith now sought to send the earth around the blast catapulting into the sky. The next day the bombardment continued as the compression remained a closely concealed secret, ready to ignite at the right moment. The gunners targeted the Eastern wall of the town once more, and after a prolonged barrage, a breach was finally blown open, causing cheers to echo out across the hills surrounding the town. Yet as the sun went down once more, the besiegers could see the enemy working diligently on the interior defences behind the breach. The next day Craven spotted Smith angrily swearing to himself as he walked away from a mass of officers as they oversaw the work.
“What is it?”
“General Oswald insists that a second breach be made.”
“Where?”
“Further along the wall,” he replied as he pointed further North.
“Where the river is deeper, and an assaulting force will have to pass beyond the main breach?” Craven asked in disbelief.
“Quite so,” replied Smith furiously.
“And what does the General know about siege warfare?”
“It matters not, for now we shall waste a day to no good end,” replied Smith as they watched as the guns of the Royal Artillery were re-directed to this new effort. The wall was relatively thin, and as the day progressed, it was pounded into submission until a thirty-foot-wide breach was opened there. Further cries of triumph from the soldiers watching on echoed out, and it was at least a boon for morale if nothing else.
“Be ready, Craven, for soon the time will come that we will draw swords together.”
“Yes, it will.”
He strolled back to his camp to be sure that all those under his command were ready, but on the way, he spotted Paget riding alone, slowly plodding along without any purpose or sense of direction. He looked lost. It pained Craven to see it, and yet he could not forgive the young Captain for the failure of his duties as far as he saw it, especially whilst he clung on to the belief that he had done the right thing. Paget climbed down from Augustus as he led him to a small stream to drink. Craven was about to turn away when he noticed Paget flinch as if he was being shot at. Craven’s hand reached for the grip of his sword in readiness to defend him, for he would still give anything to protect his young friend, no matter how furious and disappointed he felt.
He studied the scene for a little longer when he noticed something shimmer across the water and followed its path to find Dalton skimming pebbles across the water so that they splashed Paget and spooked Augustus. Dalton’s comrades cackled with laughter at the scene, and he continued to throw rocks, clearly in the belief that he could get away with murder now he knew Paget would not do him any harm. Craven growled angrily as he began to draw his sword.
