Hungry Harry: An Orphan in the Ranks

by Andrew Wareham

  “Can I wait till morning or should I take off tonight?”

  “No moon and thick cloud, Harry. You wouldn’t get five miles, leading the horse. First light. Nowhere near the Bristol road, and away from the shores as well – they’ll expect a smuggler to stick close to the sea. Was I you, Harry, I’d make for Chard and Yeovil, and then to Salisbury and across to Winchester before making towards Chichester and along the Sussex coast. Take a week, walking the horse quietly, short stages, ears flapping for any word of a chase. Get out of the West Country and they won’t be much interested in you anyway. Stay around these parts and someday you’ll be spotted. Seven bob change on your guinea, by the way. Luck, mister!”

  The morning was bitterly cold but still dry; there were clouds looming in the east, which was unusual, the weather normally coming in from the Atlantic. Easterly winds were frigid and lazy, going through a traveller rather than round him; if they brought snow then it was commonly heavy and prolonged. It was no day for a sensible man to travel, which was a good argument for making as many miles as he could. The landlord could give him no directions – he had never had any contact with the Gentlemen to the east, but he repeated his strong suggestion that Harry should keep well inland.

  “Suppose they’re spreading the word, mister, then like as not they’ll send a Revenue cutter along the coast. Quicker than overlanding it, special like in this weather.”

  There was a placard up on the notice board outside the church in Yeovil announcing a reward of fifty guineas for a notorious villain wanted for the heinous crime of arson, a young man sometimes called Harry. It gave a description which added two inches to his height and made his hair and complexion far darker than reality; it described him as wearing a brown frieze coat, which was a nuisance because it was too warm to simply throw away. He led the mare through the few streets until he spotted a second-hand clothes stall; he sold the brown coat for sixpence and bought a black for one shilling and walked quietly away, back to an outfitters he had seen earlier. It sold ready-mades for farmers, a step up from the cheapest trade but less than a tailor. Fifteen shillings, an expensive purchase and one that would lead the shopkeeper to remember him, and he possessed a thick leather coat, ankle length and with a warm woolly lining, ideal for winter travel.

  He left the black coat at the church gate as he made his way back out of town, expecting it to be picked up quickly by the first passer-by.

  The Salisbury road was more travelled, even in winter, and he was able to find rooms with little difficulty, the leather coat giving him an appearance of solid prosperity which helped; he saw no more reward notices, decided that he had been right to travel inland. He sold the mare to a farmer in the market at Salisbury, pocketing twelve guineas on the transaction, and took an inside seat on the stagecoach that made its slow way to Winchester, hoping that it might seem an unlikely means of travel for a runner.

  There was a barracks in Winchester, the coach rumbling by on its way to its terminus at the cathedral. The safety of army life was very tempting. He had his old red coat with its single stripe still in the bottom of his travelling bag; it was likely that he could find a place, young, strong and experienced as he would show. Ten years and he could be a sergeant, a comfortable place for life with the chance to get into the stores as a quartermaster and build up a nest-egg for when he eventually grew too old. It would be a safe life, provided they had no silly wars to get in the way of barracks routine.

  Not yet, though. He would see if he could find anything better first.

  Winchester was a slow county town; there was insufficient work for its own young men, nothing for a stranger with no trade.

  A day and he took another coach, on the road to Portsmouth where he changed for Chichester, not even delaying overnight in the port. The navy was everything in Portsmouth and was recruiting sailors busily, and with little regard for the law of the land; a fit man might well find himself bundled aboard a ship that was about to sail, giving him no opportunity to register a protest. The word was that Russia was making a nuisance of itself in the Mediterranean, wherever that was, and that the Spanish were playing the bully with British shipping on the western Canada coast, which was a hell of a way distant. As a consequence, the navy was making ready for war, recommissioning ships that had been laid up in ordinary.

  It seemed likely to Harry that the army must be making up its numbers as well, if the navy was thinking of war. Getting into the stores, which would be busy with the demands of new recruits, would turn a corporal into a sergeant that much faster, just as long as he was not sent back to the Slave Coast!

  Chichester was a small, quiet little town on the west Sussex coast, a backwater and just the place to look about for the Gentlemen. There was a big old cathedral, dominating the town and looking down on the market. Harry took a room in a pub overlooking the tiny harbour and in the morning wandered the short distance into the town centre. He glanced idly at the notice board outside the cathedral and stopped short. ‘Fifty Guineas’, he could see on a placard; closer inspection revealed that the notorious villain, smuggler and arsonist known as Harry was still wanted.

  It might be the case that every port with a Revenue office on the whole south coast had been sent one of the posters. If that were so then there was no place to run – they would be there before him. The Trade was too dangerous, he decided, and he knew nothing else, though he could no doubt make his way up to the North Country and find a coal mine to hide in. Better hanged than go back to the coal. He asked about the bar whether there was a barracks in Chichester, was told that Arundel, just along the coast, was the place to avoid. All of the drinkers assumed that he was a deserter, was taking care to keep clear of the soldiers; it did not occur to them that any fit and bright young man would intend to join of his own free will.

  Chapter Seven

  The leather coat was too flash for a man seeking to enlist; no man who could afford a coat like that would want to join up in the normal way of things. It was a statement that the tipstaffs or the constables, even the Runners from London, were hot on his heels. It sold for four shillings in a used-clo’ shop, the best piece Harry had ever worn; he shrugged, that was the way life was. A quick tour of the three pubs on the eastern outskirts of the town and he found a carrier’s cart going to Arundel; a shilling in hand and he was on the bench seat next to the driver.

  “Only a small place, Arundel. Where be goin’, mate?”

  “Barracks, driver. I got a couple of mates what tells me the battalion’s short of men and payin’ a bounty to any bloke what signs on. It ain’t a bad life so long as you got a stripe up.”

  The carrier thought he was mad - stark, staring loony. Volunteering to join the army; he had never heard of such a thing.

  “Did a turn on the Slave Coast not so long back. Lived through that so I’m safe wherever we gets sent. If the Slave Coast can’t kill you, no bloody thing will, except a bullet, of course.”

  “They ain’t likely to send you any place, mister. There ain’t no war, and ain’t goin’ to be. The Frogs can’t go to war because they’re too busy ‘avin’ this revolution and killin’ each other. Stands to reason they ain’t got time to go killin’ us as well.”

  “So much the better, driver! Don’t want bloody wars, not if you’re a soldier. People get hurt that way, goin’ off to war!”

  They trickled along the road by the shore at little more than walking pace, but it was easier than footing it and less obtrusive than the stagecoach. People looked at the stage, glanced at the passengers as they got down, and they might be surprised to see a man who could buy a ticket walking up to the barracks in the morning.

  “Getting’ late to try to join today, driver. Do you know a pub where I can get a bed overnight?”

  The carrier did, he knew everywhere on his route, and set Harry down by the back door of a place close to the wharves on the river.

  “Barracks is a mile off, mister. Twenty minutes’ walk is all, but you won’t see any redcoats in ‘
ere of an evening. Does a decent meal as well, landlord’s missus knows ‘ow to cook!”

  Seven pence it cost, and well worth the price, Harry thought. If he had been intending to work the local coast then he might well have taken the room on as lodgings; he gave a final thought to the possibility, but he was sure that the local Gentlemen would have no use for a new man whose name was on posters over the whole of the South of England. The notices might announce that he was a professional in the Trade, but they also said he was dangerous company to keep; if Harry was taken up then the constables or dragoons or whoever would look askance at any man with him.

  He spent an hour in the kitchen that night, returning his red coat to proper condition and polishing up his shoes. Everything would be issued new, but he must show willing. He turned up outside the gate just after eight o’clock, not too early for the working officers to have got out of bed. The sentry glanced at the unfamiliar facings on his coat, saw no chest plate and knew immediately that he was not one of theirs, called to his sergeant before Harry could speak.

  “Well, Corporal, what can I do for you?”

  “If you are recruiting, Sergeant, then I wants to join again.”

  “What regiment?”

  “Bedfordshire Fusiliers, Sergeant. Raised nearly four years back for service at Cape Coast Castle. Disbanded on return last year.”

  “Did your two years on the Slave Coast, did you? How many?”

  “Nearly four hundred went out, Sergeant. They wanted more but couldn’t get men to sign up. I was too young to know! A bit more than a hundred came back.”

  “Needs strong, healthy men in our battalion. You sick?”

  “Had the recurrent fever but got cured. Been workin’ this last year, outdoors in all weathers. Fell out with a young lady and thought I’d do better someplace else, but there ain’t no jobs to be found, so it’s back to the old red coat, I reckons.”

  “I’ll take you in. The Adjutant will want a look at you, and the Surgeon too.”

  The procedure was familiar, the sole difference being that the Surgeon was sober, rare in the breed.

  “Strong and healthy. He’ll do, Sergeant. What did you catch on the Slave Coast?”

  “Recurrent fever, sir. The bad airs, the Surgeon called it. He gave me somethin’ he called bark, sir.”

  “Quite right too! The only cure. Nothing else, no great outbreak of disease?”

  “Scrub typhus, sir, but it only took the men in the barracks rooms on the other side from our company. The typhoid came through, but that wasn’t too bad, didn’t kill more than a score, or thereabouts. Yellow Jack never hit, sir. A few men got dysentery, some every month, but not too many. We only had two big fights and I never got hit.”

  “Very good. You will do for me, soldier. You may inform the Adjutant that I believe you to be of good constitution. You are certainly better muscled than most.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will be taken before a magistrate to be sworn in, Belper. No doubt you know that. You will not be a corporal and will join a training platoon for your first weeks, as is normal practice. If you show well then you may expect your stripe back in very quick order as we are short of corporals. Can you read?”

  “Yes, sir. Got taught by a missionary down on the Coast, sir.”

  “Well done. You are a welcome recruit, Belper, and will do very well, I doubt not, in the 25th Sussex Regiment. Now take that old red coat off, Belper – it is out of place, here.”

  The Adjutant was pleased – old soldiers were always welcome, especially when a battalion was expanding rapidly. In this particular instance, moreover, the man was almost certainly not a deserter, not a bad lot signing on to collect the small peace-time bounty and with every intention of disappearing again.

  “What Company were you, Belper?”

  “Grenadier, sir, at first that was. The way the men died, and the officers, they had to cut the number of companies, sir. They’re short blokes, mostly, in Bedford, sir, so I were bigger than nearly all of ‘em.”

  “Well… we are almost at full in the Grenadier Company, and have all of our corporals. I shall place you in D Company, Belper, which has a few more men to take yet and is short of two corporals.”

  “Right, sir. Be good, that would, sir.”

  It would not have been right for Harry to give his thanks as such; it was not correct to respond to an order with gratitude.

  He was taken into the town and put before a magistrate, swore his oath and signed his name. The Justice of the Peace peered distrustfully at Harry – literate, young and not especially ill-spoken, there had to be a reason, almost certainly discreditable, for him choosing to join up. He was marched back to barracks and now stood to attention before the Adjutant; he was a soldier, no longer a civilian.

  “Private Belper! D Company, provided you show satisfactory in your first weeks. Awkward Squad for the present.”

  “Sir!”

  The remainder of the day in uniform issue and into training in the morning.

  There were eight men newly enlisted, all with less than a week in and still unable to present themselves smartly or even wear their uniforms correctly. The sergeant, old in the battalion and no longer into the business of route-marching and such vigorous activities, was used to dealing with the new men, was patient with them for the first few days. He walked slowly down the rank, putting the men right one by one. He came to Harry at the end, the newest man but precisely uniformed, shining bright.

  “Who ‘ave we got ‘ere, then?”

  “Belper, Sergeant. Private, no number yet, Sergeant!”

  Harry stamped to attention before he spoke, unthinkingly, the action inbred.

  “Sergeant Jackson, Private Belper, was it?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Jackson.”

  “What regiment last?”

  “Bedfordshire Fusiliers, Sergeant Jackson.”

  “Don’t know them.”

  “Raised special for to garrison Cape Coast Castle. Disbanded last year when we got back, Sergeant Jackson.”

  “Was you now! Knows it all, do you?”

  “Some, Sergeant Jackson. Never served in a home barracks, Sergeant Jackson.”

  “So you don’t know it all. There’s something, anyway!”

  Jackson had been given the word in his mess that morning; he had been tipped off that he had a new man who might be a good soldier, but could be one of those who knew his rights.

  “You get any rank, Private Belper?”

  “Corporal, Sergeant Jackson, for the better part of the last year.”

  “I shall be watching you, Private Belper. Most of these objects in the rank next to you still don’t know left from right! Half of them are still dreaming of the sheep they left behind them!”

  Harry knew better than to laugh.

  “They needs a man to watch when it comes to drill, Private Belper. You ever been fugelman?”

  “No, Sergeant Jackson.”

  “Right. Keep your eyes open. Might be we does some things different in the Sussex Regiment. Bit more polish on your shoes as well!”

  Harry said nothing; his shoes were better than any others in the rank, more than good enough, but the sergeant had to find something wrong, just to make sure he did not feel pleased with himself.

  Sergeant Jackson kept Harry for a week, mostly so that he could talk with the new men during their short breaks, advising them how best to survive in their new existence. Two of them had formed the intention to desert and Harry cautioned them strongly against that course.

  “You wants to go, that’s up to you. But you got to ‘ave someplace to go to. It ain’t no good leggin’ it in the night and turnin’ up at ‘ome in the village at daybreak. They knows where you comes from and they’ll be knockin’ at the door same mornin’. If you wants to run, then you got to go a long way. You needs money for that, acos of there ain’t no work about round ‘ere. You got to go bloody miles, and then you got to find a job and a place to live, all in a town what you don
’t know. Or else you goes to Portsmouth, to Pompey, and ends up as a sailor, and that ain’t no better than the army and you gets wet as well.”

  “So you sayin’ we just stick with it?”

  “You ain’t got no choice, nipper. We get sent to a big town up north, well you can get lost there easy enough. But while we’s out in the sticks like we are now, there ain’t no way out. You seen a floggin’ yet?”

  They all shook their heads nervously; they had heard of the triangle and the lash – everyone knew of them – but they had not seen them in use.

  “You will. From what I seen, this ain’t one of the bad battalions – some of them are a thousand a week acos of the officers likes watchin’ – but you’re goin’ to see one sooner or later. Just make good and sure it ain’t you. It don’t ‘ave to be. I reckons nine out of ten swaddies don’t never get beaten in their whole life. But some do acos of they’s careless or won’t learn or are too bloody lazy to bother; and some do acos of they’s thieves or pissheads. If you wants to get drunk, that’s your business; but not on parade or where you makes a nuisance of yourself.”

  “What about thieving, Harry?”

  “You wants to steal you better make good and sure you don’t get caught. You nick stuff in your own barrack room and you’ll get the shit kicked out of you first, that’s before they takes the knotted cat to you. Pinch off an officer and they’ll ‘ang you. Grab ‘old of stuff from civvies in town, that’s different – they don’t count!”