A pause. Then he added, “Sir.”
“Correct, well done.”
Carravoy resumed his seat, but praise from his Colonel seemed to have done little to reduce his irritation.
“Captain Carr.”
“Sir.”
“You advocate three companies forming three sides of a square. The open side away from the cavalry, the Light Company in the lead at the end of your main line, the Grenadiers facing out to the threat, and Number One company marching forward in the rear. What are the merits of that?”
“Well Sir. At some stage the cavalry will attack you. If you can see them, they can see you, and a line of infantry advancing in open country would be an irresistible target for them. When you close with the enemy line, the Lights could take the copse, but you must have some protection against a cavalry attack against your flank and rear, Sir, whilst you are in a firefight with the enemy’s main line.
“Just so. And the disadvantages?’
“As Captain Carravoy said, Sir. You are weakening your main line.”
Lacey nodded.
“Ensign Rushby.”
Again displaying deep consternation, Rushby looked up.
“S,sir.”
“Well done, Mr Rushby. Your solution has merits. One company facing the cavalry as you advance, but I agree with Captain Carr, another would be needed in the rear.”
Rushby beamed with relief.
“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”
“All of you have described a solution based on those just described. In my opinion it is the correct course of action. Well done, but with one exception. Lieutenant D’Villiers.”
“Sir.”
“What is a cavalryman’s favourite target?’
“I wouldn’t know, Sir. I’m an infantryman.”
Stifled sniggers and amused grins broke out around the table, their relief at their own solutions not being selected for criticism gave an easy avenue for humour.
“Then I will tell you. It is broken infantry, scattered, all formation gone.”
“Sir.”
“And you heard Ensign Rushby’s meritorious answer to the question on how infantry defends against cavalry?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Then what, pray, can be the merits of sending your Light Company out in skirmish order to provide a screen against a cavalry charge?”
D’Villers’ mouth opened and closed, and his fingers stretched forward and back upon the polished table. His eyes bulged in a reddening face as he stared helplessly at the opposite wall.
“I, I, well Sir, I thought that the Lights would be able to retreat quickly, Sir, if attacked.”
“So, you expect your Lights to outrun a horse, and when they have retreated, what then?”
“Yes Sir. I suppose there could be some confusion, Sir, but I would expect them to rally.”
The amused expressions resumed.
“Confusion, Lieutenant D’Villiers, would be the least of it. Massacre would be more likely. If you had a Light Company that knew what they were about, they would refuse your order. You would have a mutiny on your hands and I would have some sympathy. I, personally, would rather be shot than sabred. If you have a tactics manual, I suggest you read it.”
The last sentence was spoken with some venom. After some moments, Lacey took his austere and withering gaze away from D’Villiers, who remained red faced and dismayed, and could not bring himself to do more than study the table surface.
“Gentlemen. Myself and Major O’Hare thank you for your efforts, and the serious approach you have taken to this exercise. I ask your forgiveness in that you are being examined in front of your brother Officers. This is something I know you are not used to, but I ask you to accept that soon you could find yourself being examined in a far more unforgiving place, and by a sterner examiner than myself. Upon our decisions rest the lives of our men, and the outcome of the day. Thank you, once again. This has been extremely useful and, after your hard work, I feel some refreshments are called for.”
He waved forward an Orderly, poised in the doorway, who quickly came forward with several bottles of port, and he was followed by another Orderly with a quantity of glasses.
‘Gentlemen, please enjoy your wine, and please remain seated. Thank you, and good morning.”
Nevertheless, many stood at the parting of their Colonel and Senior Major and returned his good morning. Drake seized a bottle, wrenched open the cork and pushed a glass at D’Villiers, which he then quickly filled.
“There you are, Royston. Get yourself around that, and put it behind you. Be of good cheer. You aren’t the first to get a roasting off your Colonel and you won’t be the last. We’ve all been there, am I right?” he said, regarding the rest of the assembly. Several replies came down, “yes, of course”, “well chewed up”, and “part of the game”, but D’Villiers was both incensed and inconsolable.
“Well, I think its all damned wrong and unfair on top. To spring that on us without some kind of warning. Who does he think he is? I’m going to write to my Father to see what he can do. That was public humiliation. Uncalled for.”
Carr also tried to mollify the aggrieved warrior D’Villiers.
“Calm yourself, D’Villiers. This is our trade, and we have to know it. Like he said, life and death depend on it. He treated you harshly here so that you get it right when it counts. Now have a drink and then another. You are amongst friends and we know how you feel. We all have sympathy, no one thinks any less of you. He’s the Colonel; you’re a Junior Officer. It’s a Law of Nature. Junior Officers get verbally scragged by their Colonels, and I can see his point. Many here now, know what they didn’t before and may well be grateful for.”
Carravoy sat forward, his face black with anger, and no glass of port before him.
“I don’t see it that way, Carr. You set yourself apart. I tell you it’s beyond justification for him to treat one his Officers in such a way. Damn him! I know plenty who would now call him out on a matter of honour. That was in front of peers and inferiors. I know the D’Villiers family; on a par with my own, his Father’s a Knight. I object to my thoughts and opinions on his damned puzzle being openly discussed. I’m taking my leave. Damned “call back” that he is, him and his Irish lackey. D’Villiers, are you with me?”
He rose and left at speed. D’Villiers had his second glass of port poised for despatch, but he gulped it quickly, rose from his chair, and with all the bruised dignity that he could muster, followed Carravoy out through the door.
oOo
The King’s Sedge Moor, the name for this part of the Somerset Wetlands, stretched away over flat, grey miles to merge with a thickening mist that shrouded the surrounding range of low hills. In the hidden distance, these emerged just enough from the chequer work of square water meadows and ditches to mark an end to that table flat area known by that name. Bleaker than most in any December, this featureless expanse of identical farms and fields had given its name to the last battle fought on English soil and witnessed retribution of the most savage kind. The Recruit Company, their grey drill coats in marked contrast to the bright red of those worn by their several instructors, marched smartly along the raised bank that carried the burden of a gravel track out into the dank emptiness that contained, for them, a destination unknown. A necessary good dinner of hot stew fortified them securely against the damp chill that pervaded all on that drab winter afternoon.
Grey bark willows, pollarded into alien shapes and standing sentinel at the margins of the track, they loomed up beside them, then fell behind with their onward march, monotonously beaten out by the lone Drummerboy at their rear. Seth Tiley, marched alone at the rear, under special escort. Tall reeds dripped moisture gathered from the mist and hid their progress as they marched on through a landscape that seemed unfamiliar and hostile, although it was but a few short weeks previously that they had marched through it as recruits, either as prisoner or as volunteer.
“Company. Halt.”
The reeds be
side the track on their right had ended to reveal a wide, rough grass expanse that had been levelled and drained up to the wilder areas at its margins. Fifty yards from the track, and parallel to it, was a long rank of vertical poles sunk into the ground in pairs. The left hand pole had a number. Deakin was the NCO commanding and, as such, he began to arrange his company as he required.
“ Both right hand files, stand fast. Both left hand files, by the left, march.”
As commanded the two left hand files marched on beyond their comrades until the order came to halt when the last pair were past and clear. A “right face” and a “two paces forward” produced his command in two ranks facing the poles, each pair of poles by now being linked by a white sheet. With this complete, his fellow escorts ran back to take their places at either end of the line. Preventing possible desertion was on their minds. A deep rhyne was behind, but they were there to stop escape either way along the track. Deakin strode up and down the line, 52 men, 26 in each line, his own musket loaded, but slung over his shoulder.
“This is a firing range. You now have cartridges that contain real gunpowder. On the command, you load your muskets, but this time you leave the ball inside the cartridge and stuff all down the barrel, ball inside the paper, like you saw me do this morning. Load your muskets.”
With some precision, practised all morning, the recruits began to load, but their real cartridges contained an unpleasant surprise. The sand had been gritty in their mouths when they bit into the cartridge, the real thing was both gritty and bitter and some tried to spit or wipe the grains away, to Deakin’s annoyance.
“Never mind all that. Get your pieces loaded, and then grounded at order arms.”
Within a minute all were stood with the butt of their musket besides their right boot.
“Now. You in the rear rank. You can’t see anything. Front rank’s heads are in the way. I wants you to move, to your left, just enough so that you can look between the heads of those in front. We calls that “locking on”, and that’s the command. Rear rank; lock on.”
All in the rear rank moved and their heads appeared as though a child had pulled a string to which all were tethered.
“You will fire by files, one in front with one behind. Now, the “brown bess’ has a kick. Get the butt hard into your shoulder. Private Stiles will tell you your target.”
He waited for Stiles to instruct the first two, one in front, one behind.
“Make ready. Present. Fire.”
The reports from both muskets, almost simultaneous, were subdued in the wide stretching space, the opposite to within the confines of the barrack square and the sound quickly rolled away to be absorbed into the lonely emptiness. The smoke slowly drifted away on the breathless wind. Number two target had jerked.
“Stiles. Who fired at number two?’
“Davey here, Corporal.”
“Right. Keep a record of who hits. From you now Stiles, give ‘em their targets and order to fire. Peters, the same, but start from the middle. Keep ‘em firing. I want ten shots each.”
Thus it began. The firing by files rolled up the line, about half the targets twitching with the passage of the half-inch ball. The smoke and crash both rolled away to be lost on the moor, leaving each man hurrying to reload before his turn came again. Deakin walked up the rear of the line, giving advice, making judgments. His attention was pulled away. He heard the fall of a hoof on the gravel, then the jingle of a bit. A horse meant an Officer. He came to instant attention, just as Captain Heaviside reached the lines of men, all furiously working to put a hole in their targets.
“Afternoon, Sir. Musket drill, Sir. All present and correct.”
“Just so, Corporal. How are they doing?”
“Not too bad, Sir. Reloading is about two a minute, and at the 50 yard target just over half is hits.”
“Well done. “Their arrows shall be as of a mighty expert man; none shall return in vain. Jeremiah, chapter 50, verse 9.”
“Yes Sir. Just so, Sir.”
“Carry on Corporal.”
“Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
Heaviside allowed his horse to amble past, his left hand holding the reins, the right his coal-black Bible, cover worn and pages well thumbed. He was there for his daily sojourn in the wilderness, to read his Bible and compose his daily prayer. He rode on, through the cheerless landscape until the sound of the musket drill became no more than a dull thump and the image of the firing line lost in the mist. He dismounted, took a blanket from his saddlebag, along with a cross on a stand and then a small miniature of a pleasant looking, but unsmiling woman. Still folded, he placed the blanket on the ground and the stand and the picture beyond. He knelt on the blanket before both cross and picture, grasped the Bible in both hands before him and bowed his head.
“Oh, Lord, thou knowest that I am away from the bosom of my family, preparing now to march against my country’s enemies. Soon, but I know not when, I will be leaving these shores to fight overseas. Whilst I am away from her side, may I commend my beloved Mary into thy safe keeping. Give her comfort and hold her in thy mighty hand away from all harm. Also, please take under they merciful gaze, my two dear children, Joseph and Matilda. Keep both safe and well. For Jesus Christ, Our Lord’s Sake. Amen.”
His prayer done, he opened his Bible and read out loud, to the thickening mist and the glistening trees, their thin willow branches pointing up from their pollarded heads to the Heaven he addressed. He also gave accompaniment to the silent, scurrying creatures, tracking their way home. Reading finished, he rose and stood a while in silent contemplation, then he packed away his items of prayer, remounted his horse and turned her back to retrace his route. The sound of the musketry grew louder and soon the figures at their practice appeared in detail through the mist. As chance would have it, Deakin was again the first he encountered and again he came to instant attention.
“Sir. Welcome back, Sir. We was just finishing. I was going to finish with volley fire by ranks, but with you here I was wondering if you would like to take over, Sir. They’ve been listening to me since we got out here. A change will do them good. I’m hoping that they can get off three shots in a minute, with two reloads. Sir.”
“Why, yes, Corporal. I’ll do that with pleasure, and after I’ll lead the men in.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
Heaviside dismounted and handed the reins, without looking, to a nearby Private.
Deakin turned to his charges and raised his voice to Parade Ground level.
“We are going to finish with volley by ranks. That means one rank fires, while the other reloads. You will get the order; front rank fire or rear rank fire, and you has to reload in time to meet the order. When you are reloaded, adopt the “make ready”. I wants three shots in a minute, from each rank. That means two reloads. Captain Heaviside will give the orders. Attention.”
The company came to the attention as Deakin saluted and stood aside for Heaviside to step forward.
“Now men, this is, as Corporal Deakin has said, volley fire by ranks. Against any enemy this is the most effective way to organize our fire. It means that an enemy isn’t hit wastefully by two balls when one will do, and they come under fire twice as often. Now, reload.”
Deakin stepped forward and whispered.
“They’re already loaded. Sir.”
“Just so. Now, front rank. Make ready. Present. Fire.”
26 muskets went off with a deafening crash, and the 26 in the front rank immediately lowered their muskets to begin reloading. Most of the white targets had jerked back. Heaviside allowed the smoke to clear.
“Rear rank. Make ready. Present. Fire.”
Again the angry bark of 26 muskets shattered the evening silence. Heaviside knew he had to wait for about 25 seconds for the front rank to return to the “make ready”. This came and the round of volleys continued.
For ex-Parson Percival Sedgwicke this was far worse than anything previous, and in this opinion he was not alone. The
musket, after two hours of firing practice, seemed made of solid lead. His throat and mouth burned with a raging thirst which each bite of a cartridge made worse. Either side of him, three feet forward, were the muzzles of two muskets that exploded into dense white smoke that stung his eyes, assaulted his nostrils and deafened his ears. Within a foot, either side, were the flintlocks of the two accursed muskets, the pans of which flashed more smoke around his buzzing head and, finally, burning embers from the pan on his left had stung his face more times than he could count. Within this, he was expected to load and fire his musket and he knew he was falling behind. In the front rank, he had just made the second volley, bringing up his musket and firing just as the others had fired and were dropping their muskets to begin the reload, but he was going to miss the third. Heaviside saw the time arriving and called for “present”, but Sedgwicke’s ramrod was still down the barrel. He pulled it out and thrust it behind one of his straps, then pulled the hammer to full cock, came to the “present” and fired, again just after his comrades, but enough to be counted as one of the volley. The three shots from the front rank complete, along with the rest, he ordered arms and waited for the flash and explosion from the two muskets beside him. It was not long in coming and again his face was enveloped in the stinging, foul smelling smoke, but it was finished.
Heaviside walked along the front rank and stopped in the centre.
“Well done, men. Three shots and two reloads in a minute, well done, and as far as I saw, not one missed his volley. Ye shall chase your enemies, and they shall fall before you by the sword. Leviticus, chapter 26, verse 7.”
Deakin was a pace behind.
“Yes, Sir. I’m sure the lads appreciated that, Sir. Shall I form them up, Sir?”
“Yes, Corporal, do. Soldier, my horse!”
As Heaviside took himself off to mount his horse, Deakin studied Sedgwicke.
“Sneaky trick that, Parson, b’ain’t it, stickin’ your ramrod down behind a strap. But,” and he leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “that’s exactly what the lads does, when things gets a bit hot. Smart move, Parson, you must have some brains!”
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 14
