The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) (18 page)

Let us first consider generalship, which is the profession of soldiering elevation to its highest level. This is an equal mix of art and science, requiring many years of experience in barracks and on campaign before one is worthy to function in the capacity of a General. I flatter myself that I have personally attained some degree of proficiency in this role, and have spent no little time in contemplating its nature.

What have I concluded, you ask? Have I some complex explanation for what makes a man a good General, or more importantly, a truly great one…a Caesar, perhaps, or an Alexander of Macedon?

I have not.

By which I mean: I do indeed have an answer, but it is an exceedingly clear and simple one.

Simply put, it is this: all the business of war, and indeed all the business of life, is to endeavor to find out what you don’t know by what you do; that’s what I call guessing what’s on the other side of the hill.

On the battlefield, the vampire officer has a distinct advantage over his mortal counterparts, for more often than not he has the opportunity to quite literally see what’s on the other side of the hill, thanks to his inherent capacity for flight. This advantage can, of course, be nullified if the opposing army also employs vampiric combatants, who may act as skirmishers and form a screen in order to hide their own forces from the prying eyes of the enemy.

In such instances, the General must fall back upon deductive reasoning in order to determine just what, in all likelihood, does lie on the other side of the hill. A thousand factors, both large and small, must be weighed and judged in order to make such a determination accurately, and all in such a very short space of time — for no matter how good one’s logistical situation may be, if there is one thing that is found in terribly short supply on every battlefield, is it that most elusive of all commodities: Time.

And yet once the judgment has been made, the easy part — relatively speaking, at least — is over. What remains is all implementation, and implementation is indeed all. Maneuvering this body of troops to such and such a place, by such and such a time; deploying that body of cannons to watch over them, having covering fire in place to soften up the enemy before the infantry must go in with the ball and the cold steel; having the skirmishers positioned in their front, whittling down the enemy officers and other targets of opportunity; and sending the cavalry out to screen the flanks, lest our battle lines and columns be humbugged, sliced to ribbons by the eager sabers of the enemy horse.

Implementation. Implementation.
Implementation.

All else is secondary.

If one link fails, the entire chain breaks apart…and the enemy triumphs.

But what, I fancy that you are asking, of the ordinary man? What of the rank and file, that red-coated stalwart who marches under the King’s colors from one end of the empire to the other. What of him?

It may seem hard to believe, but intelligence and foresight are not necessary qualities for the infantryman, cavalryman, gunner or dragoon. In fact, more than one officer in my service has remarked that such characteristics as initiative and forethought, while invaluable attributes among the officer class, are transformed into a veritable curse when held by a ranker. I need the redcoat to march, to stand, to present his weapon, and to fire and then charge with leveled bayonet when my officers so order it. For this, independent thought is not required.

When standing face-to-face with the enemy, I need those noble British boys to do the small things, do them well, and do them under great pressure. I need them to pour the powder and spit the ball down the barrel, to ram the bullet and prime the pan, to present and fire, and then to do it all over again, three times each minute (four under exceptional circumstances, for the best-drilled regiments in my army) and all of it while the men on either side are screaming and dying, struck down by the enemy’s return fire.

Small things. Done well. Under pressure.

Upon this, all depends.

From the journal of Arthur Wellesley, 1803.

“At ease, CSM,” Colin waved protocol away dismissively. “Enjoy your pipe in whatever passes for peace and quiet inside the lines.”

“Thank you, sir.” The pipe settled down to a steady amber glow, lighting up the underside of Dan’s chin. He nodded appreciatively in Campbell’s direction. If the truth be told, he had been half-expecting this conversation to happen before the night was out.

“I’m sorry to disturb, but I wonder if I might have a word?” Campbell’s warm and ever so slightly worried-sounding courtesy marked him apart from the vampire breed of officer, most of whom were coldly polite, sometimes bordering on the frosty, toward the mortal NCOs. Becoming a were-tiger didn’t seem to have changed the man all that much, the CSM reflected idly. Yet.

“Of course, sir.” Because despite the fact that he was tired and really didn’t feel like anything more than a quick smoke and then crawling into his bedroll, there was no other acceptable response to such a question.

Campbell came to stand alongside him, casually staring outward into the darkness that shrouded the plains. The two men passed a few moments in companionable silence, which the Captain finally broke. “You have done an exceptional job in commanding the company, CSM.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Truly. I happen to know that the general is very impressed. As, I should tell you, am I.”

“I appreciate hearing that, sir.”

“I…”Colin searched for the right words, not wanting this conversation to be any more stunted and awkward than it already was. He started again. “I hope that you don’t take my appointment as a slight, CSM.”

“A slight. sir?” Nichols turned to look at him, and even in the low light, Colin could see the quizzical tilt of his head that betrayed the man’s confusion. “How do you mean, sir, if I may make so bold?”

The captain sighed. Was the CSM being deliberately pig-headed, or was he truly that naïve? “What I mean, CSM, is that some men in your position – some men – might not like it if an officer were suddenly to be appointed above them. Especially if they had been running the company practically single-handed for the past God knows how many months.”

“Oh, I see, sir.”

“Good.”

“You’re right, sir. Some men might resent it. I’m not one of ‘em.”

Colin tried not to let the relief he felt at hearing those words show. “Very glad to hear it, CSM. I wouldn’t want there to be any lingering resentment, you know…that sort of thing.”

That earned him a smile from Nichols, flashing dull grey teeth in the dark. “We’re an officered army, sir. Oh, granted, it’s run by us NCOs” – they shared a snort and a chuckle at that – “but the officers command. I have no heartburn over that, sir. Never have, never will.”

Those words came as a genuine relief to Campbell, who had feared that Nichols had grown to think of the Shadow Company as being his and his alone. The truth was that the Major General really had let the company remain officerless for far too long, allowing it to tick along under the auspices of its senior NCO. Nichols had done a fine job, none could gainsay that, but a company needed an officer – a lieutenant, at the very least, but more properly a captain. That was doubly so for a specialist unit such as the Shadows.

“Permission to speak freely, sir.” Nichols interrupted his rumination.

“Granted.”

“About what happened at Assaye,sir…” Now it was Dan’s turn to search for the right words.

“The battle?” Campbell asked. “Which part of it, CSM?”

“The end, sir. When you…when you got stuck in there with that nasty little tiger bitch, begging your pardon.”

“Oh…that.” Seeing his general on the brink of being torn apart by the supernatural tigress, Colin had not thought – he had acted. More accurately, perhaps, he had reacted, hurling himself into the fray without a thought for his own safety. That act had arguably saved Wellesley’s life…and had almost cost Colin his own. The wounds he had sustained under Jamelia’s claws had turned him somehow, taken him to the very brink of death and then dragged him back again, but had also changed him irrevocably.

“I just wanted to say, sir, that what you did there was in the finest traditions of the Shadow Company. Getting between the general and a nasty great beast like that. That’s usually our job, you see. Taking on the monsters, like. And it’s one reason why we’re very proud to have you as our new captain, sir.”

Colin was glad that the enlisted man couldn’t see his face. He was deeply moved, more so than he would ever let on publically. Ever since Major General Wellesley’s announcement earlier that night, his mind had been conjuring up an endless parade of scenarios, all of which had one thing in common: the Shadows, and especially the senior NCO who had led them through fire and death, would resent his appointment to the post of company commander. Not that they would openly rebel or do anything so blatant, he knew, but there were a thousand small ways in which a body of enlisted men could make their new officer’s life miserable, if they so chose…particularly if led, or at the very least encouraged, by a senior man such as Nichols.

He felt an immense surge of relief, the opening of the emotional floodgates and the subsequent outpouring of emotion when he realized that it wasn’t going to be the case at all. Nichols and the men were proud of him, had said as much, and that was all that Colin needed to hear.

“Thank you, CSM,” he responded quietly, hoping that his voice would not crack. “That means a great deal to me.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” Unless Colin missed his guess, the Company Sergeant Major was smiling. “And on that note, sir, we should probably talk about how you’re going to run things. You know, your expectations of us, and so forth.”

Glad of the subject change, Campbell said, “Certainly, CSM. That should actually be rather simple.”

“How so, sir?”

“Because you’ve already been doing a damned fine job, and I’m not inclined to make changes simply for the sake of making changes.”

Now it was Dan’s turned to feel relief. He had been watching Lieutenant (as was) Campbell for a while now, and liked the cut of the younger man’s jib. He’d shown real guts at Ahmednuggur, one of the very first to climb the ladders during the escalade, with that Sergeant – what was his name? Pace? – at his side. Storming a defended bastion was no small thing, and officers that led from the front in such situations were all right in Dan’s book.

Then there was that business with the tigress the other night. If the truth be told, Dan still felt a bit of shame at that. Protecting the general was the primary job of the Shadow Company, but they’d failed miserably at that on the plain outside Assaye. The cunning little cow had come out of nowhere, flinging herself at Major General Wellesley before any of the Shadows had time to react. Most of them were so heavily engaged in the fighting, which had gotten down to the hand-to-hand level of melee by that point, that they couldn’t have broken off to come to Wellesley’s aid even if they had known about it.

No, Campbell had done a damned fine thing so far as Dan Nichols was concerned, and had earned that battlefield promotion to captain, no question about it. But deep down inside, there had been the lurking fear, the nagging little doubt, that perhaps the incoming captain was the sort of man that would want to make some fairly major changes. Dan had seen it before, when an officer who was new to his post in charge of a company (and often newly-gazetted to the rank as well) felt the need to make his mark, disrupting what was usually a body of men that functioned to the same standard as a precisely-calibrated watch, simply for the sake of doing so.

That had been Dan’s biggest fear, and he was relieved beyond words to discover that it was unfounded. Tamping down the end of his pipe and being careful not to burn his callused fingertips, he told Campbell as much.

“Our roles and responsibilities haven’t changed,” the Scot thought out loud. “We protect General Wellesley at all times, whether on the battlefield or off. We safeguard the burial place of the senior officers during the hours of daylight, and serve their meals in the officers’ mess.” By ‘we’ he meant ‘the enlisted ranks,’ of course. “And last, but by no means least, we must always be prepared to deal with any supernatural threats that might be encountered on the battlefield.”

“Vampires and suchlike,” Nichols nodded quietly, and then added, “Were-tigers.”

“Quite so. Were-tigers.”

“Which brings us to our mission, sir.”

“Yes. In theory, it sounds rather straightforward. If the villager is to be believed, then Jamelia has taken up residence in the vicinity of Talwada. Probably to lick her wounds and regain her strength, unless I miss my guess.”

“Makes sense to me, sir.” Dan looked at his pipe regretfully, realizing from the now barely perceptible amber glow that he was down to the last dregs of tobacco. He glanced sidelong at the captain. “But what if it’s a trap?”

“Then we’ll do what we always do, CSM.” His wry smile showed just a hint of gleaming teeth. “We’ll fix bayonets and have at the bastards.”

“Amen to that sir,” Nichols chuckled. “Amen to that.”

The entire Shadow Company mustered on parade a half hour before dawn the following morning. Dan paced slowly along their ranks, checking each man’s general turnout but giving added emphasis to their fighting kit. It was one thing to know that their leather boots had been blacked and their crossbelts whitened, for such things spoke to the company’s overall standard of discipline; but of for more importance, at least in their CSM’s mind, was to make sure that each musket was lovingly maintained, kept clean of as much dirt and dust as was humanly possible under such austere conditions.