A Victorian Gent (The Making of a Man Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  Parsons agreed – they must allow for the sharp-shooting ability of their enemy.

  “Single column, I think, Mr Burke. I will take one half of your men under my command, so as to have men for scouting. You and your Sergeant Schafer will return to Kansas City, where you will find the Governor of Kansas still, I understand, though he should not be there at all, by rights… However, all is untidy at the moment, as you will appreciate! Beg of the Governor that you may make your numbers up from the volunteers who will, I have no doubt, have flocked to the Union, and return when you have all in place and the troopers fit to ride.”

  Dick saluted and obeyed – he had discovered little liking for this irregular warfare of riding and ambush. He had read his accounts of the Thin Red Line and the great charges of the Crimea and had expected this civil war to be equally well organised; back-shooting from the undergrowth lacked the glory he had looked for. A return to the relative civilisation of Kansas City would do him quite well and he had no doubt that it would take several weeks to recruit extra bodies, equip them and bring them up to an adequate level of training.

  Lieutenant Fisher’s father was grieved and displeased. That his son should be a hero of the war was highly satisfactory, but posthumous honour was of slight value to him; however, he had two other boys so the loss to the family and the bank was not irreparable.

  “What happened, Mr Burke?”

  “Shots fired from ambush, sir, with no prior warning. The Southrons aimed at the officer who was obviously in command, and killed him. Fortunately the troop was so well trained that the men were able to react properly, carrying out their orders for such a situation efficiently and defeating the cowardly foe in very quick time.”

  The editor of the newspaper was listening and took his words down verbatim, as Dick had hoped.

  The Governor called Dick to him, listened to his report and confirmed his impression that the men were mounted infantry rather than true cavalry.

  “That bein’ the case, Lieutenant Burke, there ain’t no reason why you didn’t ought to be officer in a battalion of foot. First Kansas Volunteer Light Infantry, sir – in which you are gazetted captain, unless you gotten some damned good reason why not!”

  “I will go where duty sends me, sir. Are the First to go to Washington or will they remain in the west?”

  “Washington, sir, to join the Eastern armies, for that is where the war will be won. Our tasks here are important, for we must hold our own, but the so-called Confederacy can only be defeated in its heartlands.”

  Dick was much in favour – it would take a substantial part of Lincoln’s ninety days for the battalion to actually shift across to Washington and then settle down in its place in the line. Additionally, there would be a plethora of generals there, all needing staff officers; with his combination of literacy and fighting experience it might not be too difficult to find an important position with a significantly lesser degree of exposure to shot and shell.

  “Might I say a word for Sergeant Schafer, sir? He is a good fighting man and would make an excellent officer. I would have no hesitation in recommending him as lieutenant in my place.”

  Governor Robinson was delighted to hear that – he needed men of ability. He called Schafer to him and made him lieutenant on the spot, then appointed him to Dick’s company of infantry as his number two. Schafer, who wanted to fight for his Union, was more than happy to follow Dick to battle – he had a great respect for the young Englishman; he promised to keep the Governor in touch with all of their undoubtedly heroic doings.

  Book One: The Making

  of a Man Series

  Chapter Four

  Colonel Mayberry was an old-fashioned man, set in his ways, many of which were good. He had volunteered for service in Mexico as a young civilian, nearly fifteen years before, with the Engineers, and had become involved in a number of hot little actions that had given him a name and a commendation, sufficient to give him command of a makeshift infantry battalion at this later date. The men were all volunteers and the lesser officers had seen a little of peace-time service in some cases, but were enthusiasts to a man and of his own selection. Now he had a captain and a lieutenant wished upon him and had to put them into the same company, or so his adjutant told him.

  “Governor’s request, colonel.”

  The Governor held the purse-strings, it was his regiment in effect; like the old British Colonels, he was the proprietor.

  “Why?”

  “Captain Burke has a name as a fighting man, sir. He met up with Border Ruffians twice last year, and shot them to pieces quite mercilessly! He will not back off when he smells powder, sir.”

  “Burke… is he the man I met over winter?”

  Mayberry was a gambler by habit – not a professional; he played a good hand of cards and enjoyed the sport as well as the money. He owned a small firm that constructed commercial buildings mainly and had a good income, enough to let him play high when he wished. He had seen the gentleman employed by the hotel to keep order, had once watched him quietly stand in front of a troublemaker and invite him to ‘put up or shut up’, had seen the man fold and leave peacefully.

  “Did they not have one of these names for him, Riordan? One of these appallingly vulgar gun-fighting monikers?”

  “Yes, colonel. ‘The Sharps Kid’, I understand. He is still quite young, sir, and the name would have been bestowed by others, would not be of his seeking.”

  “Do we want that sort of a man as one of our officers?”

  “I believe we do, sir. The men will swagger the more for it and other regiments will be aware that we have a known man in our officers’ mess. It will bring attention from Brigade as well, will give us the chance to shine.”

  Mayberry was not pleased, surrendered ungraciously.

  “The new recruits have brought us in numbers enough to form the eighth company. Give him that. If he’s any good he will drill them up quickly; if he’s useless, we’ll damn soon see it!”

  The last men to volunteer were those who had had the farthest to travel, were farm boys from the north of the new state, a mixture of the sons and younger brothers of Irish, German and English immigrants together with a few Americans who had recently settled from the East. All of the boys claimed to be eighteen or older, as the law demanded, but many had voices very recently broken. Most had handled a rifle and all seemed willing to learn. The greatest problem was that many of them were used to work barefoot in the fields and wear the lightest of moccasins by choice at all other times; army boots came hard to their unconstrained toes.

  Colonel Mayberry had found a pair of old sergeants and four of the mature recruits claimed to have seen service in the British or German forces and were made acting-corporals. The eighty men were assigned to four large platoons and were told that as more leaders showed themselves they would be split up into smaller, more comfortable units.

  They were equipped with British Enfield rifles – robust military weapons with percussion locks, but muzzle-loading. The demand for breech-loaders had surged and their price had doubled while delivery time had fallen to nearly nine months. Other manufacturers besides Sharps were said to be tooling up, but there was no prospect of purchasing modern small-arms inside a year.

  Dick appeared in camp late in the afternoon and met his sergeants within the hour.

  “We have just one lieutenant, Mr Schafer here. We are promised an ensign as soon as another volunteer comes in.”

  The sergeants said nothing – they knew the value of boy officers.

  “Parade in the morning, the men need to see me first thing. Sergeant Pullings, what time is best?”

  Pullings had Mexican experience and some years of regular peacetime soldiering besides and had announced himself as senior sergeant.

  “Reveille, then breakfast, sir. Then give them time to smarten up and shave and put themselves into some sort of order, sir. They’re all new to it and need time to get themselves together, sir. Give them a week or two and they’ll g
et the idea of doing things at the double – but they ain’t soldiers yet. Say, sir, you show yourselves on the parade ground on the dot of nine o’clock, sir.”

  “What is your custom, sir – officers to parade on foot or on horseback?”

  “Horse on the march, sir. Parade inspection is far better done on foot.”

  “Side-arm in the cavalry was a Bowie knife, sergeant. Is that allowable here?”

  Pullings was pleased to be asked, to be treated with respect.

  “Better not, sir. Colonel Mayberry is a mite old-fashioned, sir. If you possess a dress-sword, then wear it; if not, then a revolver is best.”

  It would serve as a reminder of who he was as well.

  “Have you a side-arm, Mr Schafer?”

  “Walker Colt, Mr Burke – heavy but shows business-like. Should we sell our horses, sir? I doubt we will be easily able to put them on the cars with us when we go east, and we can always buy again outside Washington.”

  Dick shook his head decidedly.

  “With fifty regiments or more of foot and a dozen of cavalry, not to speak of the sutlers and artillery, Mr Schafer? If we could find a horse it would cost us ten times as much as we sold ours for here.”

  Schafer had not thought of that, he confessed.

  “For the next weeks we must march with the men, I think, Mr Schafer. Just to show that we can, that we use horses to be seen and to move quickly around the field but that we are as hardy as they are when it comes down to it.”

  Schafer was junior; he agreed although he had no love for walking.

  “Colonel Mayberry likes smart parades, so I am told, sir.”

  “Pity! But if that is what he wants, then that is what he must get, Sergeant Pullings. You know how to present the men, but try not to push them too hard. From what I saw with the cavalry the men will need time to learn to wear a uniform properly. Who are the majors, Mr Schafer – I am right that there should be a pair, am I not?”

  “Doubt it, sir. I reckon the Colonel will lead us to war and he will want just the one major as second to him. I don’t know that a major has been made yet, sir.”

  “It may be interesting to see who comes to us. Do you think it likely that Washington might send a regular soldier to us, to bring us up to their standard?”

  “No, sir. From all I hear they are terrible short of senior captains and existing majors – too many of them have gone South or have resigned their commissions, unwilling to fight against the Union, unable to commence hostilities against their home states.”

  The concept of conflict between State and Country was alien to a Briton; the two were synonymous, except in Ireland. To Dick’s mind the war in America was a simple issue of Patriots and Traitors – and he was utterly convinced that the gallows was the only acceptable cure for those who committed treason. A soldier who refused to fight for the Union was just as much in rebellion as one who actively bore arms in the conflict, in his opinion.

  “A shame, but it does enable the army to cleanse itself of the untrustworthy. I presume we must wait to see who the Governor can dig out of retirement or find elsewhere.”

  Major Curtis-Manvers arrived next day.

  The Major was an Englishman and claimed to have recently graced the Brigade of Guards, to have sent his papers in and come overseas in search of adventure. Discovering the war in America, he had volunteered to show the Union how to do things properly; he was just a little disappointed to have been sent to a bunch of amateurs in the sticks, but he would make the most of a bad job.

  Colonel Mayberry had no choice but to accept the major: he had been sent from Washington, claimed to have spoken to General Winfield Scott in person, had certainly seen the old man from his description of him – ‘ancient, decayed and close to senility’.

  “You do realise, Major Curtis-Manvers, that our men are all from the west? Some are farm-boys, others have been trappers or buffalo shooters and one or two have herded cattle. What they are not is naturally obedient to orders – they commonly have to be persuaded that all that we ask of them is right. They are very keen and willing to learn how to fight, and you will find no problems in bringing them to the rifle-range, but when it comes to the parade-ground there will be problems.”

  Curtis-Manvers was dismissive – they would do as they were told. He had experience, he said, of dealing with the recalcitrant, and his officers would soon learn his ways and provide him with the support he needed. The colonel should sit back in his office and leave matters of discipline and training to the professionals.

  All officers were instructed to report to the Mess to meet the Major.

  Eight captains and a dozen lieutenants and five ensigns attended, all in the working dress which was all they possessed. None had bought mess kit; few had heard of it.

  Colonel Mayberry stood and briefly introduced Curtis-Manvers as an English gentleman and a professional soldier, an officer of the Brigade of Guards.

  The major stood, stared silently, disapprovingly, at their dress, then spoke briefly.

  “We are to go to Washington, gentlemen, to join the army to be built there. We must go as a disciplined, effective battalion, ready for everything war may throw at us. Perfection on the drill square will enable the men to stand in battle and we will spend the next six months attaining that perfection! I am sure you all will support me in this, both on the square and in the mess. Having instilled the rudiments of discipline we may then start the process of training them.”

  There was no response to the cultivated English voice.

  Colonel Mayberry coughed gently.

  “I rather reckon you have misunderstood things, Major. These boys are on a ninety day enlistment, and we take to the cars next Monday. Wednesday of next week, we goin’ to be in the front of them Johnny Rebs, and, with any luck within a few weeks we goin’ to be chasing them all the way back home to Old Virginny!”

  “With respect, Colonel, it takes at least a year to train a soldier!”

  “Reckon we goin’ to be fightin’ with untrained boys then, Major!”

  Dick permitted himself a quiet smile – it seemed to him that the new man had fancied a long attachment to a training depot rather than a quick march to battle. He wondered just why this man had left the Brigade of Guards, or whether he had indeed ever been a part of them. His accent was very good, too much so, perhaps; he believed that Guards officers cultivated a fashionable drawl.

  “Company Commanders! Please to inform me of your state of readiness, prior to your written reports.” The Major was trying to seem enthusiastic, it appeared.

  The captains’ responses varied from seven weeks to Dick’s one day of training.

  “We must leave the newest four companies here, sir. They cannot possibly go to war.”

  “With respect, Major,” Dick interrupted, “my lads all wish to fight. Two more days to get used to the Enfields and then a day to learn what the orders mean – they will be fit for a fight, even though they may not look very handsome on a parade ground. They won't stand in straight lines and they ain't going to be dressed pretty, but they will know which way to point their rifles.”

  “Impossible, sir!”

  Colonel Mayberry shook his head, quietly said that it must be so – they had to fight, they carried the honour of their state. The battalion must be seen at the front - there was no choice, no alternative, no possibility of even the slightest delay.

  The meeting broke up and the officers carried the important news to the tents – they would entrain on Monday.

  At six o’clock the officers wandered up to their mess, ready for their steak and beans and hopeful maybe of a slice of apple pie besides. All had made an effort to be presentable and had washed themselves and dusted off their uniforms; those who had a spare shirt had changed into it and at least half had discovered a neck-tie, in courtesy to the new man.

  Curtis-Manvers was in full mess dress, infantry pattern, commissioned from a Washington tailor and very smart. He stared in horror at the apparitions
arrayed in the ante-room.

  Dick, who possessed civilian evening wear but had no intention of putting it on, at least appreciated the Major’s reaction. Correct dress was all to the great bulk of British officers – they said that many had changed every night to eat half-raw horse in the mud of the Crimea.

  "Evening, major," Dick said, breaking the ice. "You are dressed very smart, sir, quite outshine all of us back-country boys. I presume you are used to the conventions of the regular messes, or of the Brigade, back home? Things are different here, major - these men are not soldiers, they have signed on for a fight, no more than that. When the war ends - if indeed it is ever, foolishly, permitted to start - then they will very thankfully go home again, back to their real lives. For the while, sir, can I suggest you might wish to join me in a drink?"

  "The mess-waiters do not seem to be present, Captain Burke."

  "There are none, major, except for a pair of boys who help the cook by putting the food on the table. The barman will be pleased to serve us, major. Oh, by the way, major - we pay as we go in the mess - none of these embarrassing accounts!"

  The major stared at Dick, to see if he was serious; he needed a drink now.

  "I'll take a dry sherry, Captain, very dry!"

  "You won't, major. Beer or rye whiskey or Kentucky if there should be a bottle. Nothing else to hand, major. Miss Elizabeth at the hotel might have a bottle or two of wine in the house, but I have not asked her today."

  The major accepted beer - it was ineligible to drink spirits before dinner, and water was unthinkable; he had no choice.

  The doors to the dining room were opened and the cook shouted for them to come and get it while it was hot. Dick, assigned as nurse-maid by general consent, bowed the major before him.

  "Colonel generally eats at home, major, except once or twice a week for company's sake. Cook's made an effort tonight, I see, presumably in your honour. Steak and beans and boiled Irish potatoes. Dig in, major!"