“Open column of companies. Advance in five minutes.”
The leading company, the Grenadiers, wheeled 90 degrees from their line of march, and the rear two ranks marched to the end of the front two ranks, doubling the length of their front. Each company followed their example into a two deep line. Then all advanced with “open column” intervals, enough space between each company to enable each to easily wheel 90 degrees either way to quickly form up as a continuous firing line on either side. Then the order came for closed companies and the space disappeared and the whole battalion became one solid block of men. This was practiced up and down the half mile and, as the order came for “closed” or “open” or “half”, Captains, Lieutenants, and Sergeants screamed instructions, “close up” or “fall back”, their voices adding words to the signals beaten out my the drummers. After an hour, Lacey was satisfied. As the battalion marched past as a column of open companies, he turned to O’Hare sitting his horse beside him.
“It’s a start. Now, firing line; left flank.”
O’Hare spurred his horse away, relaying the order to each Captain. The column halted and each company swung around to the left, the last two men on the left of each company holding their ground to act as a pivot. It was performed with satisfactory speed apart from number three company, Captain Heaviside’s. Lacey had not failed to notice. He turned to the Lieutenant on his Staff.
“Present my compliments to Captain Heaviside. Tell him I want his outside half company moving quicker than that.”
“Yes Sir”, and off went the messenger spraying up a cloud of turf from his horse’s hooves.
“Colonel Lacey’s compliments, Sir, but he asks that you speed up your outside half company. Yours was the last in line, Sir.”
Heaviside looked up at the mounted messenger and immediately angered. Without replying, he strode off to find the errant Lieutenant in charge. It was D’Villiers and Heaviside didn’t bother to hold his peace until he reached a distance for quiet conversation. He gave his opinion at shouting distance.
“D’Villiers. Your men are moving like a collection of worn out washerwomen! Next time, be the first, not the last.”
Many men in the company sniggered and D’Villiers saw shoulders shaking with laughter. A “Holy Joe” he may be, but Heaviside was liked and respected by his men. D’Villiers was incandescent at such a public humiliation.
“Face your front, the damn lot of you,” although there wasn’t one man not already doing so, “And silence in the ranks, or there’ll be bloody backs before this day is out.”
He took himself up and down the line pushing and shoving with the pommel of his sword at any back more than an inch out of alignment.
Whilst the exercises in column had been taking place, a line of posts had been erected with three strands of whitewashed rope stretching along the whole length, forming a length of about 230 yards, the frontage of a battalion in a two deep line. It was 100 yards distant, and just overlapping the length of the battalion at either end. This was to serve as their target. Again, Lacey turned to “O’Hare.”
“Volley by ranks, 10 rounds per man. You take the left wing, Major Simmonds, the right.”
“Sir,” and he was away again, shouting orders and finally instructing Major Simmonds. Soon the orders rang out, “lock on”, “load”, “make ready” and “present”. Each Major gave the order to their own half of the battalion and the appalling noise began, front rank, then rear rank; load, present, fire. Burning paper cartridges, blasted from the muzzles of furiously worked muskets, fluttered down from the dense white smoke before them. The daily practice had enabled almost all new recruits to achieve three reloads in a minute, but Sedgwicke was still well short, two was his best. After five, he fell badly behind and his musket gave its lonely bark, whilst all around in his rank were busy biting cartridges. D’Villiers had noticed and he was still in a foul mood.
“Sedgwicke, you damned lazy shirker, meet the orders or I’ll see you flogged and in the Guardhouse. See if I don’t, you idle waster!”
The threat didn’t help Sedgwicke’s composure in the slightest, in fact he dropped his opened cartridge, but the soldier in the rank behind gave help, whilst subconsciously carrying out his own reload, that soldier being Corporal Toby Halfway.
“Don’t worry, Parson. Just bring up your musket loaded or not. No one will notice in all the smoke if you don’t fire, ‘specially not that bloody tripe-hound. If ‘tis loaded, all well and good; if not, well, no matter.”
Sedgwicke half turned and gave his thanks. He managed eight shots, but by taking the advice, he made false “presents”, and came no more to the attention of Lieutenant D’Villiers. Then the “cease fire” came; ten rounds and nine reloads completed.
Lacey turned again to his Lieutenant.
“How long?”
“Just over three minutes, Sir.”
“How much over?”
“Six seconds, Sir.”
“Hmmm, we’re getting there. O’Hare, let the men take a drink. And clean muskets.”
Canteens were eagerly found behind their left hip and the men washed the gunpowder from their mouths before swallowing. Then, as best they could, they cleaned their muskets of the fouling that remained after ten rounds. They could see, after the smoke had cleared, that most of the white ropes were cut and all the posts severely splintered, but it was not over.
“Do it again, O’Hare,” and it was, and again after that, achieving three minutes 3 seconds, each time.
After the third time, the posts were uprooted and driven in to form a rectangle with a front facing their centre of only two companies width. The remaining posts stretched back at right angles. Most recognised this figure to be the outline of the columns they had been practising earlier, an impression made stronger by the addition of more white ropes. All complete, Lacey turned again to O’Hare.
“This is what we will most likely face. Our line against their column. Now, each wing independent, you start the left, Simmonds the right. I want half company volleys, ten rounds per man. The front ranks of outside companies fire first, following on into the centre, then the rear ranks, starting from the outside again. Fire when reloaded, and encourage the outside companies to wheel in upon the target’s flanks.”
Again the orders rang out and many Officers took the short time to explain what was needed. Sedgwicke stood confused.
“What’s happening now?”
Again Halfway spoke up.
“Don’t worry Parson, just listen to Heaviside. He’ll say when to fire, front rank, then rear rank. Do as he says, concentrate on what he says, he’ll be just over to the right. When he says “front rank present”, do just that, loaded or not.”
Over to their right and way over to their left, the half companies responded to the order to fire, and the volleys ran down the front rank towards the centre, then the company half volleys began along the rear. For the recruits and anyone new this was a hell of noise and smoke that surpassed anything before. The crash of muskets was continuous, the volleys, each of about 40 muskets blended one into the other to form one continuous wall of sound that made their ears ring and their heads spin. Captains didn’t wait for their turn to fire to reach them, they looked for their men to be stood at the “make ready”, either front rank or rear rank, then screamed their orders above the din, “present”, “fire” at the tops of their voices. No Captain wanted to cause a break in the rippling volleys. In the midst of this ordered mayhem, all in the ranks endeavoured to reload in time. Eventually the rear rank of the centre companies, Four and Five, delivered their last volley and “cease fire”, “order arms” rang out all along the line. Again Lacey asked the crucial question,
“How long?”
“Ten rounds in three minutes and 27 seconds, Sir.”
“Hmm. Get a message to Heaviside about D’Villier’s Company. He fires too soon, they’ll be putting bullets into men already falling over, tell him to pause. Now; do it again, O’Hare,” and it was and, as before, once mo
re after that. The final time was three minutes 19 seconds.
“That’ll do.”
Lacey rode out before his men, placing himself halfway along their line and half way between their target. His tone was in marked contrast to the formal way that he addressed his Officers. His first act was to point at the cut ropes and shattered posts.
“Well done, lads. If that were a French column, they’d be halfway to the Dorset border by now! That’s how we do it, boys, ten rounds each man. When the time comes, get off your ten rounds and you’ll cut ‘em to bits, just like you cut these ropes here. Alright lads, time to take a drink, and when we get back to barracks we’ll all have something stronger. At least you’ve no full cartridge box to weigh you down!”
Suddenly, all was good cheer as the men again opened their canteens, but many raised them to the Colonel before using the longed for water. Lacey rode back to O’Hare.
“Good enough, O’Hare. Enough for first off, but I want better. Tell the Officers so, but tell the men well done. For first time, that’s pleasing. Perhaps we have the makings here? D’you think?”
“Perhaps Sir, but one’s things for sure. Any animal the was once alive in that column is for sure dead by now!”
Both laughed as they turned their horses to the track back to barracks, leaving the men to be formed up in fours ready for the road home. The march back began and Lacey exchanged a knowing and satisfied look with O’Hare as singing came up to them in time to marching feet. “She Never Blamed Him, Never” more than once, but not as often as “Yankee Doodle”.
oOo
The return to barracks had never been more welcome. Column exercise in full kit, followed by sixty rounds rapid fire had taken its toll. First a wash, then a thorough clean of all kit, the very fouled muskets taking the longest, but all was done in time for the evening meal. This eaten, then, with perfect timing the rum buckets arrived. This time there was enough and all received their full half pint, even Tom Miles being satisfied having carefully noted that the Orderly’s thumb was well out of the measure. All drank some, but all left some for later. This was New Year’s Eve and in every barrack room the atmosphere was cheery and neighbourly, whilst waiting for the significant hour. Around all the tables sat the occupants of each room, talking, jesting, and telling tall stories.
In the Officer’s Mess, this was an important Dinner. Drinking too much on this occasion was excusable, almost obligatory, in fact drinking too much was almost impossible to avoid, the usual three courses, being extended to five, each needing to be washed down with their own glasses of claret. Come ten o’ clock, Lacey and the other Majors toasted all present, wishing them a happy and prosperous New Year, hoping they would all see the end of it, and left the Junior Officers to their revels. These began at something around 10.30. First, all furniture was cleared away to the anteroom and the Mess table disassembled, leaving a very satisfactory space for a long succession of roughneck games that required a significant level of inebriation in order to ignore the danger of taking part. First came piggy back fighting with rolled up towels, then “hobby horse” where two teams had to compete to be the first to be all sat on the backs of other team members who were braced against the wall. Both teams collapsing was the usual result.
More drinking was required, so came “Snap Dragon”, where a basin full of brandy and raisins was set on fire and each had to fish around in the bowl to obtain raisins, which, when eaten, still on fire, constituted your turn. This being done with the lights out, so Drake, in a state of acute inebriation, couldn’t understand why his hand was surrounded by a blue fire and regarded it stupidly until Carr, himself the worse for wear and concentrating furiously on accuracy, blew out the flames, much to Drake’s joy and surprise.
It came to five to midnight and in came Old Father Time, on a pair of sack trucks filched from stores. On close examination Old Father Time proved to be the eldest Captain, William Reynolds, draped from top to bottom in some old grey dust sheets, still dusty, which added to the effect. On his feet, obtained from where was a mystery, he had a pair of Arab sandals, over his shoulder was a giant scythe and on his head, for nothing else could be found, was a black bicorn hat, worn “athwartships”. He was wheeled helter skelter several times around the room, at all times being pelted with anything that wouldn’t do too much damage; food, screwed up paper, and the odd half glass of wine. He didn’t seem to care too much about this assault upon his person, for he was swigging copiously from his own bottle.
At two minutes to midnight he was despatched through the door to make way for the appearance of the New Year, on a second pair of sack trucks. This was not hard to recognise as Ensign Rushby, the youngest Officer. He was in the guise of a new born babe thereby naked as the day he was born, save a white sheet bundled around his loins, supported in the folds of which was a giant wooden safety pin. On his head was a frilly blue bonnet and in one hand he had a giant rattle, but in his mouth was a huge wooden dummy painted pink. In the other hand he also had his own bottle, but it was plain that he was so much the worse for wear that it was doubtful if he had any idea what was going on, a conclusion supported by the fact that he was lashed to the sack trucks with some of the white target rope. He, too, was whisked several times around the room. At seconds to midnight the mess clock began to chime and those who heard the venerable instrument called for silence. “This is it”. At the last stroke “Happy New Year’ rang out around the room and everyone toasted whoever was nearest. In this sudden reduction in the level of wild and raucous revelry, the sounds of “Auld Lang Syne” could be heard from outside on the Parade Ground. The soldiers and their families had issued out of their rooms and were joining each other out on the barrack square.
Carr turned to Drake, he didn’t have to turn very far because each was supporting the other. Speech came with difficulty.
“I think we should join the men. ‘Specially our Company. Wish them a Happy New Year.”
“How will we tell who they are?”
“Well, they won’t be very big, and they’ll have those shoulder wings.”
“Ah, yes. That’s why you’re the Captain.”
Carr returned a drunken nod and both lurched out of the room, giving a good impression of competitors in a three-legged race. All in the Mess thought likewise and out they went, leaving Rushby on his trucks, slumped as far down as his bindings would allow. On reaching outside, it was clear that Carr’s clever wheeze was not clever at all; very few were wearing their jackets. Not to be beaten, they ambled around the square, greeting all whom they recognised, which included Davey, with Molly on his arm, Joe Pike and Tom Miles. All politely and respectfully returned their Officers’ loud and hearty best wishes that were accompanied by claps on the shoulder. Except Tom Miles, who, thoroughly disconcerted to see his two superior Officers in such a state, including one from his old Regiment, thought that the best thing to do to avoid embarrassment was to spring to attention. Drake gave him an extra, “Good man, Miles”, and Miles replied, “Thank you very much, Sir,” keeping his eyes averted by staring between both, as an experienced ranker should. On and around the pair went, wishing “Happy New Year” to anyone who looked familiar, until they encountered Sergeant Major Gibney. By this time Drake had very much lost the plot and greeted him with,” Congratulations, Sergeant Major.”
“Congratulations, Sir? Don’t thee mean Happy New Year, Sir?”
“It is certainly one of the two, Sar’ Major, and I wish it to you most sincerely.”
“I think thee two would be best off to tha’ beds now, Sirs, if thee don’t mind my saying so.”
Carr replied, accompanied by vigorous nodding.
“You are right,” he turned to Drake, “He is right. Time to be off to our comfortable billet. Good night, Sar’ Major, and we both wish you well.”
“Thank you, Sir, and good night to thee both.”
Gibney had drunk his half pint of rum, but a constitution such as his had not even quivered. He wasn’t shocked and he didn�
��t condemn. His feelings towards both could best be described as Fatherly. He had enough of that sentiment in him to appreciate that they were two young men, both good Officers in his estimation, enjoying what could be their last New Year’s celebration. He watched them guide each other away in the wrong direction and waited for a correction in their course that never came. Instead, they found themselves at the door of the Sick Bay, found it inviting and took themselves in. They told the Orderly that they wanted a bed, he pointed anxiously at a room for Officers with two beds, both made a choice and collapsed upon it. Their last words to each other before oblivion claimed them were, “Happy New Year, Nat.”
“Happy New Year, Henry.”
“I wish you well with Cecily, she’s a lovely girl.”
“Thank you, I think so too.”
“You don’t deserve her, you’re a drunken bugger.”
oOo
Lacey, mindful of the exertions of the previous day and the celebrations of the evening, wisely decided to give the battalion a rest, although Reveille was sounded and many were up and about at their usual time. Unsurprisingly, the Officers in barracks woke late. Carr and Drake woke together and Drake looked around, immediately confused.
“Are we wounded? Has there been a battle, or some similar kind of strife?”
“Wounded, no, dead, yes,” replied Carr, dragging his throbbing head off the pillow, but failing to open his eyes.
A question arose in Drake’s mind.
“Do you think anyone took care of Rushby? The last I saw, or should I say remember, was him sat on those sack trucks in the middle of the room. We should go see.”
“We should. Yes, we should. Have I got my boots on?”
“You’ve got everything on, minus headgear.”
“Is it raining?”
“Can’t tell.”
“Come on.”
Carr opened his eyes, felt a stab of pain, but resisted the idea of closing them again. They left the Sick Bay and took themselves into the Mess. All was as normal; table, chairs and furniture. A few Officers were sat in their places, drinking coffee and eating bread rolls. The two joined them and were grateful to receive their share of the coffee and bread. Drake looked both up and down the table.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 19
