Hungry Harry: An Orphan in the Ranks

by Andrew Wareham

  Harry looked blank.

  “French and Portuguese – where you been not to know that, Harry?”

  “That’s the best that can ‘appen to them, you say, sir?”

  “They might think it ain’t so bad as dying, Harry. Not so final, anyway.”

  The first delivery of slaves was marched in just two days later, under the normal guard of Asante regiments. Everything was the same as it had been on the previous year, except that the Asante chiefs took careful notice of the Irregulars, counting heads and being seen to memorise the faces of the corporals among them.

  “Marked men, Harry; they don’t like the thought of an army of soldiers trained by the redcoats to use their muskets like the British do, not standing against them. They probably will send an invite to some of my blokes to join up with them as sergeants to train up some of their own people. A couple of wives and a good piece of garden land straight away, and a herd of goats or even some cattle after ten or so years; it’s a risk, but they’ll likely be straight with them, they don’t generally break promises when they make ‘em. Some of my lads would want to take that sort of offer. I wouldn’t argue about it, either. No sense moaning, and there’s going to be plenty of boys in the town to take their places if they go. If I was the boss here, then I’d recruit a full battalion of these lads, call ‘em the Bight of Benin Regiment and use them to garrison all of our places along the Coast here. Be cheaper than sending battalions out from England, and would lose fewer of lives.”

  “They won’t do it, will they, sir?”

  “No. New, ain’t it? Can’t do something new – it’s bad for you. Might make you go blind, or something.”

  “I suppose that’s right, ain’t it, sir. They don’t never make changes, not if they can ‘elp it.”

  The next week was marked by its outbursts of bad temper.

  The despatches had to be written first.

  The acting-governor showed a copy of his report to Colonel Roberts of the Fusiliers; it was a normal courtesy. It created outrage – according to his account the battle was fought almost wholly by the gunners and the Irregulars and was won entirely by them. The Fusiliers, it said, ‘had held the wall’.

  The colonel did not give the acting-governor a copy of his own report, and he sent it back to England by a different ship, a slaver that was actually intending to return across the Atlantic after docking in Antigua. Most of the traders ran between the Sugar Islands and the Slave Coast, their owners sending sugar and rum and the lesser crops to Liverpool and London in separate bottoms; very few slavers possessed conventional hold space as well as their slave deck. The few that made the Atlantic run would be in England well before the end of the year and the colonel’s words should be read in London months before the acting-governor’s, and they would offer a markedly different view of the skirmish – it was not so important as to be called a ‘battle’. The Irregulars, according to the colonel, had been formed using officers of the Fusiliers and had worked under their ‘supervision’ – he did not use the word ‘command’ – at all times.

  Colonel Roberts was quite proud of himself – he had, he hoped, made the acting-governor look a fool. His sole fear was that he might have done the job too thoroughly; he did not want to see a naval frigate come gliding into the harbour carrying a commission as governor in his name and condemning him to another five years at least at Cape Coast Castle.

  There was no substance to his fears and the relief battalion appeared towards the end of the Dry Season, fairly much to schedule.

  Harry and the remainder of the Fusiliers had assumed it would be the case and had readied for the return to England by divesting themselves of all of their possessions and burdens on the Coast. He found the massive sum of twenty-five shillings in silver and handed it over to his Mollie, thanking her as well for all of her kindnesses to him. It was more than she had expected and she left her room in the Castle swaggering jauntily; with so much money she could buy three nanny-goats and a dozen chickens and set herself up on a small patch of land on the outskirts of the town, an independent lady able to pick and choose among the many men who would hopefully present themselves to her.

  Harry said his farewells and turned his back on Mollie and the Fever Coast, or so he hoped. He very much wanted to be gone before the Quartermaster commenced his annual stocktake, the stores being rather short in some areas, the source of the money he had given Mollie. The people in the town would happily exchange toddy for red cloth and especially for gunpowder and thirsty soldiers were only too pleased to purchase their alcohol from him; he had, in fact, done both parties a favour, he thought. He had another two pounds besides, his own share of the takings, which would come in handy when he got back to England, he believed; he had never really discovered prices in England and thought they must be much like those on the Coast.

  The ships made their signals with the dawn and anchored an hour later. By that time the garrison, running for the first time since their arrival, had everything ready for the handover-takeover parade; they had even dug out their leather stocks and tied them around their necks so as to look smart. The Surgeon had emptied his sickbay of the score of fevers, bemoaning the fact that several of them would certainly die for being moved, but would have gone into a fatal despairing decline if left behind; he took an extra nip of gin as comforter, reminding himself that it was certainly a specific against any number of ailments.

  Colonel Roberts stood in front of the parade, proud of the fact that he had more than one hundred men in their lines. Counting the stretcher cases, he was bringing out one-third of the men who had come in two years previously, and that was a better record than most battalions would claim. He watched as the boats landed a battalion at full complement, the better part of six hundred men, the largest seen on the Coast in many years; they had two hundred of artillery men with them as well, the fort being made up to wartime levels. He exchanged salutes with the lieutenant-colonel who was to replace him.

  “You have a very full complement of men, sir. Is it war?”

  “Possibly, Colonel Roberts. The French and the Spanish are both making noises, and the Dutch are unhappy with us – a little more fraught than normal. There is even word that Russia is restless – one would hardly expect to discover a Russian fleet on the Slave Coast but it may not be impossible, one is informed. You may not have heard that there are worries about the King’s health?”

  The new colonel tapped his head, shrugged his shoulders.

  “Madness?”

  “Hush! Not to be spoken aloud!”

  Colonel Roberts could understand that; he hurried through the necessary procedures and ventured to suggest that the new man should treat the acting-governor with some delicacy. He received a great smile in return.

  “I have no requirement to do so, Colonel Roberts. I have been given the honour of becoming Governor myself. The gentleman sat in the office pro tem will be invited to remain for a few more days while he hands over to me; there will be a frigate passing through in two or three weeks which will take him off. One understands he has been posted to India, to a position of some sort in Bombay. One trusts he will be pleased!”

  “I wish, sir - oh, how I wish – that I might be present when you give him such good news! But I must take my men aboard ship, the sailors will demand to up anchor before nightfall, in hope of avoiding the fevers. I give you joy of the posting, sir. I must introduce you to Lieutenant Hollis, who commands the Irregulars, and commend him to you, sir. He has created an effective and useful force, sir!”

  The new colonel said that he had been informed of the existence of the Irregulars and he was instructed to expand them and make use of them; he was pleased to greet Lieutenant Hollis and to inform him that he had been appointed captain, Army rank not regimental, because, after all, he did not have a regiment, as such!

  As Hollis had not purchased he had no commission to sell, and so the distinction meant nothing to him; only regimental rank counted in the purchase of commissions. The ris
e in pay was very welcome, however, and he liked the idea of being a captain and having a title that was his for life; even when he left the Army he would still be called Captain Hollis.

  The Fusiliers boarded their single transport, three of the four returning empty, as was generally the case. The word rapidly spread that they were Plymouth ships, not Bristol on this occasion; they none of them knew where Plymouth was, but as long as it was in England they did not care; one place was as good as another to most of them, for, if they had had families to return to, they would not have signed on in the first instance.

  “What you goin’ to do in England, Harry?”

  Smudger was only mildly interested, being more concerned with his own future; he suspected he looked too old ever to take the King’s Shilling again and could not imagine what he might do. Plymouth was a naval port, he had been told; perhaps he could find a berth as ship’s cook. If not that, then he would make his way to Liverpool, he thought, and see if he could sail on one of their slavers – they always needed hands at the cookpots, so they said… but he knew it was not real, he could not live outside of the Army, not after forty years following the Colours. He would look for the barracks in this Plymouth place, and if he was turned away there, then he would walk to the next town, and the next, until his money ran out, and then, he suspected, the will to live would have deserted him. He had not really expected to come back from the Slave Coast, was inclined to regret that the fevers had passed him by… there was no place in the world for an old soldier.

  Harry had not thought of what he would do in England; he knew only that he would not, ever, go back to the coal mines. Even the Fever Coast was better than the mines.

  “Dunno what I’m goin’ to do, Smudger. Start walkin’, I suppose. Look for work. Go up to the barracks first; the Army ain’t much, but it’s better than bugger-all!”

  They sailed slowly northwards; the first week was enjoyable, or so they supposed, lounging idly on deck, but then it grew a fraction colder every day, the Atlantic winds blowing sharp, the sun weaker and smaller, or so it seemed. Shirtsleeves became less common; mostly they wore their scarlet coats, wrapped tighter around their bodies as the miles stretched out.

  “Western Approaches, lads! You can’t see it, acos of the rain, but Land’s End ain’t no more than twenty mile north and east of us. Plymouth in the morning!”

  The mate by the wheel seemed glad to give them the news, but most of the battalion was huddled away below decks, out of the cold rain, wondering perhaps if they could persuade the sailors to turn the ship round to take them back to the warm again.

  They docked and stumbled wearily down the gangplank to form up on the quayside. The officers, who had hardly stirred from their mess and its bottles for the whole voyage, swayed bleary-eyed in front of them. The command was given to about face and then to form column of route and they were marched off to the camp at the edge of the small town and were pushed into old and smelly brick shanties which served as barracks-rooms. They had brought the remainder of their ration issue with them, which was fortunate as no provision had been made for them in the camp. They waited for nearly a week, ignored, forgotten about, never seeing an officer. On the seventh day since disembarkation they were ordered to parade in front of Colonel Roberts.

  Four tiny companies, a few more than a hundred men fit to stand upright; not an officer to be seen, company sergeants stood to the front, where they remained. They had heard the whisper that all of the officers had been sent away already, gone to the half-pay they had been promised. Only the Colonel remained, and they suspected this was his last day of service.

  “The Fusiliers are disbanded, men, as from today. Special arrangements have been made and you will be paid at the end of this parade. You will surrender your chest plates but may retain the remainder of your uniforms. You will leave the barracks immediately on receipt of your pay.”

  He said nothing else; no thanks for their time in the ranks, no reference to the work they had done, no comment about their future. The Colonel made it clear that he did not care.

  They filed past the Paymaster, sat at a little portable desk at the side of the ground, their sergeants identifying them and where necessary witnessing their mark on the pay sheet. They collected their few coins and picked up their knapsacks and walked out of the gate, soldiers no more. There were no farewells from the sergeants and few of the men had anything to say to each other; there was not even a wave from the gate guard. They walked out, slouching like civilians.

  The Duty Sergeant stood watching them out, face expressionless; Harry stopped by him for a few seconds.

  “Where’s the next barracks at, Sarge? Are they recruiting?”

  The sergeant looked at him, saw the corporal’s stripe on a young man, his back still straight, lowered his dignity sufficiently to respond.

  “Dorsets are in Dorchester, soldier. Might be they’re after men. North Hampshires are in Andover, back from India last year so they’ll be short of bodies still. Was I you, soldier, I’d go for to take the road east along the coast. It ain’t the straightest, but it’s flatter and you might find work as you go.”

  The sergeant pointed the way for Harry and then stood back, sneering as the bulk of the Fusiliers made their way back to the docks and the pubs and brothels they had spotted there. They would be broke within two days and probably in the lock-up inside three and destined for the prison hulks in the river, unless they were lucky enough to hang.

  It was not yet midday and Harry, who had not the least idea how far distant Dorchester might be, strode out down the road, putting a few miles behind him and away from what he suspected would be a riot in the town.

  There was an inn in one of the small fishing villages, twelve or so miles down the coast from Plymouth; it refused Harry entry, having no use for soldiers of any sort. They told him there was a beerhouse at the other end of the street and that he might get a bite to eat there; they had no beds.

  Bread and cheese; the bread two days old and dry, the cheese hard.

  “Eat up and bugger off! If thou’s still ‘ere come dark time, the constable will take thee up!”

  It was coming on to rain and the road stretched black ahead of him; the village constable walked up while he stood looking at the prospect.

  “Can’t stay here, young fellow!” The constable was old and had had experience of paid off sailors and soldiers, desperate characters who cared for no man; he tried to be helpful. “Down the high road, a mile or so. There is an old quarry what is not worked no more. Still a roof on the big shed and scraps of timbers inside. Make theeself a fire for the night but don’t burn the place down! I never told thee nothing!”

  Harry muttered his thanks and made his way down by the shore, the wind blowing cold off the sea. The quarry was there and there was a single stone building standing under a slate roof, still waterproof; the doorway faced inland, away from the wind and rain. Some dry grass had blown in over the summer, sufficient to scrape together and take a light from his flint and steel; he found dry twigs and some old timbers small enough to be broken over his knee and was warm inside the hour. He had nothing to eat but had kept his water bottle so was not thirsty. He was alone, and had no sergeant to give him orders or advice; he did not like this England.

  He walked two days, following the coastal track and eating a little in the villages; there were no shops as such, but the cottagers were willing to sell bread or fried fish to passers-by. They told him he was close to Brixham, but there was no work there, or so they expected.

  He came to the town in mid-morning, was able to buy a loaf of fresh bread and a hot pie, for sixpence; a month, at most, and he would be out of money. Prices were high in England. He spoke to the baker, asked him whether he knew of work in the town.

  “Nothing! And if so be there was, there’s men and to spare of our own what needs it, soldier! Times be ‘ard, mortal ‘ard.”

  Did he know of a barracks nearby, of a battalion that was recruiting.

&nb
sp; “Dorchester, might be. Don’t have nowt to do with soldiers, meself. You been foreign, soldier?”

  “Slave Coast for two years. Garrison at Cape Coast Castle.”

  “Never ‘eard of it. Was I you, young feller, then I’d be to keep me eyes open along the coast as you go. Might be you could come across somethin’ ‘appening what might pay a few pennies off and on.”

  Harry had no idea what he was talking about, but thanked him for the advice. Thanks came cheap, and he might hand over another pie.

  “No need to thank me, young man. You see that stall at the bottom of the road? You can get a hot cup of tea there, set you up for the walk.”

  It was kind advice at least.

  The tea came in half-pint mugs, black but with a spoonful of sugar and costing a halfpenny. Harry wondered why the sugar did not put the price up, was told that sugar came in cheap, if you knew where to get it.

  “Where beest goin’, soldier?”

  “Dorchester way, so I been told.”

  “Best thees keeps thine eyes well shut on the road. Don’t thee go seein’ owt thee shouldst not!”

  “What?”

  “Where hast thou been, soldier? The Gentlemen!”

  “Ain’t never ‘eard of they, mister. I been on the Slave Coast, came back not a week since and got discharged in Plymouth. Goin’ to Dorchester acos of I was told they might be recruiting there.”

  “Ah! Thass different, then. Might be thees could find something better nor that, likely lookin’ sort of lad what knows ‘ow to handle ‘imself, or theeself, as it might be. Do thee walk just three mile down the road towards the village, then. When thees sees a man watchin’ then thou tells ‘im what Jemmy Teaman said thee was to talk to ‘im.”