The under-sheriff was one of the few direct underlings of the Lord Lieutenant and could, in extreme need, be deputed to act in place of a Justice of the Peace. It was an expedient that was avoided when possible, for the Lord Lieutenant was appointed by the government in Westminster and there was a strong feeling that the peace should be kept by the local people, not by London.
They were called out again next day, a mob assembling in front of a mill which had been built on a hillside a mile from the town. There was a strong and clean stream and the mill benefitted from a waterwheel and a supply of water to wash the cotton, reason to build at a distance from the amenities of the town. Another, perhaps equally strong, motive was that the hill was useless for agriculture, barren and unpopulated, and had never been taken into a parish and so was not assessed for Poor Law or any other form of tax.
The under-sheriff came into the camp in person to inform Colonel Stevens that his services were required.
“I shall read the Act myself, Colonel Stevens, having been deputed by the Lord Lieutenant to do so.”
He showed the written authority that was permitted under the Act, though not often used by the present Lord Lieutenant for it required him to accept responsibility, and he much preferred to be blamed for nothing.
“I suspect, Colonel Stevens, that we should make all haste, for I much fear that this is no more than a diversion, as one might say. There are fewer than five hundred present – too many to be dispersed other than by threat of force, but far fewer than were out yesterday.”
Colonel Stevens considered this for a few seconds.
“You suggest, sir, that this mob has the purpose of keeping the battalion busy and distant from the town while a new insurrection is to take place at yesterday’s site?”
The under-sheriff was quicker-witted than the colonel, tried to contain his impatience with the slow thought processes of the soldier.
“Yes, sir. There are provision shops and liquor stores in town, sir, and the people are badly paid and worse fed, sir. Add to that, so many of them habitually booze themselves into oblivion, to escape their miseries. They will use the excuse of the miners’ grievances to steal all they can lay their hands on, sir.”
“Then they are no more than criminals, you say?”
“Some of them, Colonel Stevens, to be sure. I suspect that the men organising the mass meetings are honest in their outrage at the way they are treated, but as soon as dark falls the looting will start, ignoring the protests of the speakers who will beg them to act honestly.”
“Ah! You say that if we take up the ringleaders then we will be arresting men of integrity while the felons scamper off to the rookery with their ill-gotten gains.”
“Yes, sir, that is quite right.”
Colonel Stevens was shocked; he had not imagined such wickedness to exist. He thought for some minutes, before slowly smiling.
“I have a solution, sir! One half of the battalion shall proceed with you to the unlawful assembly at the mill, and will disperse it at your proper request. The remaining companies will go into the town – and there, they will stand sentry over the shops! There is no requirement for any Act if one is merely to stand guard over the property of the law-abiding, or so I understand the law. If they should be attacked, then they have the right of self-defence, of course.”
Chapter Nine
Captain Weightman listened respectfully to the colonel and made a mental note of his orders, sorting the actual instructions from the rambling mass of verbiage and deciding, not for the first time, that the gentleman was quite remarkably stupid.
“Thank you, sir.”
Captain Weightman had discovered that thanking senior officers was an effective way of silencing them, they generally halting to discover what they had said that might have pleased their subordinate.
“To recapitulate, sir, I am to seek out such stores, shops and warehouses as may contain goods of value and attractiveness to the mob in that area of streets due east of the town square, and I am then to stand guard over them during the night hours. I am not to leave my own area in response to disorder elsewhere. Four companies are tasked to stand as sentries and the fifth is to be the mobile reserve, responding to any outbreak of theft or rioting as reinforcement to the company already in place.”
“Exactly so, Captain Weightman. You must locate yourself in daylight, in order to identify those places most in need of protection.”
“Thank you for pointing that out, sir.”
Colonel Stevens was glad to see that the captain was willing to be guided by his seniors – the young man was able to draw upon the experience of his elders!
“It is your company, Captain Weightman, but, if I were you, then I would place one half under the direct command of Lieutenant Oxford and the remainder under your ensign, Mr Turner, while doing the rounds yourself. Keep a pair of men, at least, with you as protection in the darkness, when anything can happen. It will be good for your ensign; responsibility may be valuable in making him into a soldier, and if he fails then there will be reason sufficient to ease him out of the regiment. Your lieutenant is, if I remember, capable of his step, is he not?”
“He is, sir, and will wish to purchase at an early vacancy. If at all possible, sir, he should remain one of us, but, of course, there may simply be no opportunity for him – our captains are none of them either considering half-pay or about to purchase a majority.”
“I think I can correct you there, Captain Weightman. Major Barrington will not, I believe, wish to accompany us overseas on campaign when the time comes; he is no longer the youngest of men, and I have been told that his family has a seat in the House of Commons that could be made available to him. He is, as I am sure you will be aware, second son to Lord Darlington, a northern baron of recently increasing wealth and able to look after his youngest as he could not in the past – something to do with coal discovered in his pastures, one is given to understand – and now he has the opportunity to make another life for himself. He would not have accompanied the battalion to the Sugar Islands, had we actually gone, and may, in fact, choose to retire at any time in the near future. Captain Erskine of H Company possesses the means and inclination to rise, and so there will be a captaincy in the battalion for sale in the near future and I am very happy that Lieutenant Oxford should take it.”
Seniority was less of a factor when lieutenants purchased their captaincy; the colonel’s word effectively determined who should have the opportunity to progress up the chain. For the purchase of a majority, Captain Weightman had the seniority but lacked the cash; a bachelor godfather was expected to leave him his all when he eventually died, and that would see Weightman up to colonel, but the old chap showed remarkably healthy despite advanced years, and Weightman remained a captain still.
“Well, sir, would leave an opening for an ensign to take his step. I cannot imagine that Mr Turner will be ready this year.”
“His uncle, the Viscount, has an amount of influence, Captain Weightman, and it may not be possible to refuse the young man, unless he has behaved in such a manner that the General Commanding must understand him to be unsuitable for a commission.”
That, Captain Weightman reflected, would demand that he must prefer charges worthy of court-martial against the young gentleman, and that could be a risk to his own career if the Viscount had so much of pull at Horse Guards. Except the ensign’s behaviour was actively felonious, which was a rarity, charges would not be proceeded with and he would be permitted simply to withdraw from the regiment. Few battalions would wish to experience the scandal of a court-martial of a gentleman and it was not so uncommon for undesirable ensigns to find that their health did not permit them to embrace a military career; it left a bad taste, however, and the ensign’s younger brothers, if he had such, might find it difficult to discover a battalion that would take them if they decided to purchase a pair of colours. The captain directly responsible for casting a slur upon the whole family would not be a well-loved man and would n
eed influence of his own if his future was to be secured; Captain Weightman had no powerful relatives or friends.
“We must see how matters eventuate, sir.”
The half battalion marched into town, Major Barrington to the fore, the band playing suitably martial airs immediately behind him, then the companies in order.
Captain Weightman thought that had he been the major, then he would have placed the band further to the rear. Major Barrington was obviously senior, and very clearly exposed, nearly fifty yards in front of the nearest musket. A man with a half-brick and a convenient alley to hand might well be tempted.
The captain was wrong in the detail, in fact. A dray had passed along the street just minutes earlier and its horses had left obvious evidence of their passing, a fortuitous combination that a group of guttersnipes found it impossible to ignore. There was a howl of outrage from the major as a shower of horse apples descended upon him and a dozen of little boys disappeared, hooting with laughter.
There were outraged whispers, demands for discipline, from the sergeants along the column as the men saw and fought for respectful silence.
The major’s batman led him away to the seclusion of a respectable inn and then ran at top pelt back to camp to fetch another uniform. The landlord fed the major brandy and he was seen no more that day.
Captain Weightman was senior company commander to Major Barrington and stepped into his shoes, leaving D Company to the sole care of Lieutenant Oxford and Ensign Turner.
The area to the east of the square was part of the ancient town, its shopping streets narrow and tending to wind; they covered no more than three or four acres, but it was not possible to keep the various platoons all in sight of each other. Lieutenant Oxford took his half of the company into the pair of streets nearest to the rookery, judging the risk of looting to be highest there; Ensign Turner was given three short roads, more or less parallel with each other and connected by back-alleys, and each with a dozen or more of the richer shops and opening out at the one end to the square close to the church.
Ensign Turner was at a loss for orders; he did not know where to place his men and would not ask Sergeant Muldoon, of all people, for advice. Muldoon kept his mouth shut and waited to be told what to do, knowing that he could not be blamed in case of trouble. The forty men stood in their four platoons, utterly silent, correctly ‘at ease’, buttons and belts all as they should be, not a snigger to be heard although almost all knew what was happening. Turner panicked; he had to do something.
“First platoon to remain at the edge of the square with me. Second, Third, Fourth platoons, into the roads, one each; a sentry to stand at every shop door.”
There were more shops than men.
Harry trotted his platoon into the nearest street and placed eight of the men singly, some of them directly outside a large shop, others between two smaller. He kept two of the privates with him, centrally where he could see both ends of the curving road.
“Private Coles, keep an eye out to the left, towards the square; Tiler, you watch right. Stay here; I’m going to walk the street for ten minutes, try to see what’s where. Whistle if you need me.”
Harry marched quickly along the roadway; it was made, not mud, heavy granite setts, stone blocks roughly squared off at about six inches, probably a hand deep and heavy, but just small enough for a strong man to be able to throw for ten yards or a little more. They would smash a window easily; held in the hand they could batter down a locked door. He counted as he walked – fourteen shops, three alleys, probably a narrow track behind them, wide enough for a delivery cart. One bakery; two wine merchants; a jeweller, well barred; four general provisions stores; a hardware store, probably with all sorts of useful hammers and tools and such that rioters could grab; a tailor; next to that a haberdashery; two dress shops; a bookstore to complete the row.
Harry weighed up the situation, shook his head, muttering to himself.
“No butcher, at least; they ain’t going to loot a bookshop, but every one of the rest is likely. Bloody fool, Turner! Split the platoon into two squads. One lot to wait in the middle; the others in pairs to walk a beat, front and back, up and down the alleys, out of sight half the time so they won’t know where they are. That might put the frighteners on them, but sentries spread out on their own ain’t no more than targets.”
Turner appeared after an hour, walking inspection unaccompanied and shouting in rage.
“Belper! I ordered you to place one man to each doorway! Why have you disobeyed me?”
“Fourteen doors, sir. Eleven men. I have placed a sentry to each of the largest, sir, and spread the others out to cover two. The remaining two men are to assist any man in trouble, sir.”
“That is not what I ordered, Belper! You will be in front of Captain Weightman in the morning for deliberate disobedience; it will be fifty for you, and Private Belper thereafter! Now do as you are told!”
Harry said nothing. Argument would only add insubordination to the charge.
Darkness fell and a crowd slowly built up in the square, men drifting out of the shadows in groups of twenty or thirty at a time, organised in advance so that the mob grew slowly and might perhaps take the authorities by surprise. There was no evidence of Constable or Watch or Justices of the Peace on the alert; they had probably gone out to the earlier decoy at the mill outside of town.
Turner came down the street again, still without escort, shouting and drawing attention to himself. The shops all stayed open until at least ten o’clock at night, later if there were customers still inside, and Turner’s yells brought their owners to the doors, probably as he intended. Quite possibly Turner expected the shopkeepers to be reassured by the sight of a regular soldier protecting them; most simply saw a big-mouthed boy behaving like a bully and were unimpressed. The tailors particularly were members of Corresponding Societies, groupings who received letters from more-or-less Radical political gentlemen in London, and suspected that the Army existed to oppress the people; Ensign Turner was exactly what they had expected, what they had been warned to look out for - an upper-class thug out to destroy the liberties of Old England.
The crowd in the square began to move to spread outward into the nearby streets, becoming noisier. A sudden chant began near the church; Harry strained his ears to pick out the words as more and more men picked them up. There were women present now, and children, all screeching the same chorus.
“Bread! BREAD! We… want…. BREAD!”
The chanting was coordinated, leaders in the crowd bringing the voices together, organising the crowd into a mob.
Ensign Turner ran to the end of the street, was seen by the nearest men who screamed the warning and picked up stones and rubbish to throw at him. He scuttled back, roaring for the platoon to form up on him. Harry stepped forward and waved to the sentries to leave their posts. The shopkeepers saw the soldiers running away, thought they were abandoned and started to haul down their shutters. The mob charged in to start looting.
“Load! Load your muskets! Now!”
Ensign Turner had forgotten the sequence of orders; Harry remained silent, letting the boy’s panic show.
“Form up!”
Harry put the platoon into a double rank, odds and evens as was normal.
There was the sound of breaking glass and sudden shouts at the bakery; they watched as the women fought their way forward and grabbed at loaves.
“Stop them! Forward and fire!”
Turner had lost all control; his orders had no meaning. Harry was forced to act.
“Platoon will dress forward in line. To my command.”
Harry stepped in front of the short line and led them forward in slow time, stopped them some fifty yards short of the bakery. The wine shop nearest to the square was broken into as they halted.
“Prime your locks.”
The men had already been told to load but it would calm them to go through the routine of checking that all was ready.
“Fire! Fire! I ordered
you to damned well fire!”
Turner was in panic, but he was still the officer; there was no alternative to obedience.
“Odd numbers! In the air…. Wait for the command.”
Harry checked that all five muskets were pointing safely high.
“Odd numbers! Fire!”
Five shots, a thin volley, but sufficient to be heard by the remainder of the half-battalion and to bring Captain Weightman at the run.
“Odd numbers, load!”
Harry counted the men through the drill, calming them with the routine of holding the musket, tearing open the cartridge, priming the pan, pouring in the powder, then using the cartridge as a wad and ramming, following with ball and ramming again, the full extended process of the drill rather than the foreshortened sequence used in action when the normal was to ram but once, priming the pan as the final step.
“Even numbers, present your pieces.”
Turner was still shouting but they ignored him, obeying the corporal as was their habit.
“I did not say fire in the air, Belper! I shall have you flogged for mutiny! Mutiny, do you understand? You will be shot! Fire into the crowd! Now!”
Turner had drawn a pistol, was waving it excitedly.
“Has the Riot Act been read, sir?”
“None of your damned affair, Belper! Fire!”
“It is unlawful to fire unless the Riot Act has been read, sir. We may be charged with murder!”
“Do as I order you!”
Turner pushed his way forward, past Harry, shouted the command for the men to level their muskets, ordered them to fire and then discharged his own pistol towards the looters around the wine shop. Presumably he missed – he was nearly fifty yards distant in near darkness. A shower of stones and brickbats came in reply and men could be seen kneeling at the sides of the road, levering setts out of their bedding. Stones came out of the nearest of the alleys, some of them striking home judging by the yells from the platoon.
Hungry Harry: An Orphan in the Ranks Page 20
