Half an hour later there was the sound of a pistol shot and a fatigue detail was sent out to clear up and take the body to a suicide’s grave. A runner came to order Sergeant Schultz to the General’s presence.
“There is a vacancy in your battalion, Mr Schultz. You are made Ensign, sir, if you wish to accept the honour.”
A refusal was possible, but not wise. Sergeants who rejected the generosity of a general were very foolish men.
“Thank you, sir. I shall live up to your expectations, sir.”
“That I do not doubt, Mr Schultz. Arrangements will be made for uniforms, of course.”
An officer, once equipped, could live on his income in India – but he could not buy all that he required by way of equipment from his pay. In this case, they would pass across all of Lieutenant Woodforde’s possessions that Schultz could make use of, and then make up uniforms to Schultz’ size from the personal effects left behind by the dead of the cholera. His room in the Mess would be furnished for him and he would within a very few days look exactly the same as the other officers. Three months on probation, as it were, and the Governor would sign the documents that gave him regimental rank without purchase as a lieutenant; he would have no right to half pay when he retired in England, but it was not expected that he would do so. Officers made up from the ranks in India almost always remained in country, transferring to the Company’s Armies or taking a post as a civilian; they could end up very well off.
Billy remained as corporal; he was far too junior in the rank to be made sergeant, and too young. He had obviously not reached the age of discretion, was not yet one-and-twenty, and could wait for at least five more years before he achieved the next step. It was, in fact, very bad timing, Billy thought, because they would most likely be sent home before he had been a sergeant for a sufficient number of years to look for his own commission.
Ensign, later Lieutenant, Schultz agreed.
Mr Schultz had been shifted to E Company – it being undesirable that he should stay in the direct command of men he had known as a ranker. The Battalion was so small, however, that he came in regular contact with Billy, was able to chat occasionally.
“Ten years, Billy, and you can be in my shoes. Maybe less. Learn to speak the lingo, boy! I always worked at sounding like one of the chaps – you do the same. Polite, clean-tongued and rather jolly! If you don’t fit in, you don’t get anywhere in the Army.”
Billy took the advice to heart. Not sufficient simply to be good at the job, he must show himself to be the right sort. Then, with luck, next time the battalion went overseas, he would fill a gap in the Officers Mess, and then, of course, he would never go back to England again, because ranker officers had a hard time of it back Home.
Nearly a year after the cholera and a response came from Horse Guards. They did not send a draft to make up numbers, they sent a new battalion and ordered the 70th Home. They could recruit and rebuild their strength with English farm boys, so went the word. In fact, the great majority of their men would come from Ireland as always, together with some Scots and a leavening of assorted foreigners who arrived in England and could not find work or scrape together the cost of a passage to America. Probably no more than one in three of the recruits would be local men, except if the harvest failed and there was no alternative in a hard winter.
Some of the officers and two of the sergeants found themselves places with John Company; the rank and file did not have that opportunity and simply boarded ship. Lieutenant Schultz spoke a last time to Billy.
“No more uniform for me, Billy! I am to become a manager for John Company, working at dockside, helping run the warehouses and keep the thieves out. A couple of years and it’s move up in the world, having shown what I can do. Twenty years from now and I may even retire to England, Billy – you never know! Farewell, and do the same as me, Billy – you can do it!”
Billy shrugged – he would if he could. For the moment, his sole concern was where the battalion would be posted in England. If they went back to Bristol, well and good – that was far and away from Bishop’s Waltham, but if they ended up in Winchester, as an example, then he might become just a little nervous. He would have been gone for five years, and had certainly grown into a man, no longer looked exactly like the boy he had been, but he could still be at risk. Perhaps he should have changed his name when he had enlisted, but it had not occurred to him to do so – boys tended not to think things through, he supposed.
They heaved their baggage up from the surf boats and climbed aboard themselves, looking around to see what the troopship was like this time.
It transpired not to be a troopship at all, none had been available for charter in England at the right time. It was a large merchantman, quickly converted as a passenger carrier with bunks knocked up in the holds and an adequate set of boiling hearths for the cooks. It had the advantage that there was far more space than would have been available in a purpose-made trooper, and did not force soldiers into hammocks. There was barely sufficient water for the voyage, however, too few butts having been stored in the lower holds. If possible, the ship would dock at Cape Town – but that depended on the Dutch being in a good mood. They were not currently at war, so it might well be possible, especially as they were not in convoy.
Six months of tedium. Billy had saved some of his pay and had bought two books, which would help. He knew of a dozen other literates in their ranks, some of whom had done the same, and they could at least swap with each other. But there were still, he remembered, many long hours to fill.
They diced and played cards and talked and sang and slept all the hours they could. A few had bought cottons in Bombay and they cut and sewed shirts and embroidered them as well. Half a dozen had knitting needles and painstakingly made themselves stockings and woolly vests against the cold of England. Mostly, they endured, polishing and oiling their muskets and working them over, shaving the butts and trying to balance them a little better – anything to pass time.
Inevitably, they quarrelled, and Billy and the other NCOs had to keep on top and prevent the squabbles turning into fist-fights – they would all be in trouble if discipline broke down, especially as they had the officers aboard ship with them, the battalion being so small. The flogging triangle was available immediately if any man was so unwise as to annoy an officer, who would also be suffering the tedium but had far greater access to alcohol, and consequently very short tempers.
A good passage, no massive storms on this occasion, and they made port early one morning in England. They wondered where, they were, not recognising the town.
“This is the Isle of Wight, Billy. I recognise it. Cowes, in fact. There’s a barracks over at Carisbrooke, in the middle of the Island.”
Smudger Smith was proud of his knowledge and was almost immediately proved right.
Major Mandeville called them to parade and informed them that they were to go into garrison on the Island, to provide a force to hold it in case of another war with France, which was, of course, bound to eventuate, sooner or later. The Frogs, he told them, were England’s natural enemies and needed to be defeated at regular intervals.
“This posting is an easy one, for good soldiers. It is very difficult to desert from the Island, of course, which will make it simpler for us to keep our recruits when they come in. We shall bring, I hope, another five hundred men to our ranks in the next year or so, and the old soldiers, you, will be kept busy bringing them on. There will be many opportunities for you to achieve promotion.”
They kept silent, as was only right, and faced the front and waited to be dismissed.
The march to their new barracks was hard going after six idle months at sea and they collapsed into their new rooms almost too exhausted to cook and eat. Later, they looked about them and moaned.
In most towns the bulk of the private soldiers were billeted on pubs and inns and put up in barns or warehouses, all commandeered for them by the Magistrates. A few places had large barracks that could accommodate
a full battalion, normally ancient and run-down and dirty, leaking and cold. The barracks at Carisbrooke dated from the Civil War, were nearly one hundred and forty years old, and they had not been treated well. Major Mandeville complained and was given some money for builders; in the nature of things, he rebuilt the Officers Mess first and then followed with the Sergeants. The private soldiers’ rooms came a long way down the list, dealt with only after the Armoury had been made water-tight.
It was not so bad in summer, but the rooms were bitter cold in winter and damp all year round.
The Grenadier Company had been given a new sergeant, taken from D Company. Sergeant Muldoon was a kindly sort of man, but devoted to his own interests, which included a commission in the next war. Those who could help him towards this aim were his friends; Billy rapidly found himself on that list.
“Efficiency, Corporal Bacon, that is what will make us stand out. Nothing else will do the job for us. As the new men come in, we must bring them up to scratch, and quickly. There will be new officers purchasing within weeks, and we must impress them, in order to protect ourselves.”
Billy agreed, and settled down to work.
Billy Bacon and the Soldier Slaves
Chapter Three
Billy brought his platoon back from the butts, walking quietly rather than marching, satisfied with their performance. They had ended the morning by firing twelve rounds in three minutes by the clock, virtually every ball hitting the targets – the eunuchs, as they were known for obvious reason – man-sized straw dummies that would need to be rebuilt for the next platoon. Four rounds a minute was good practice, even allowing for the fact that they were on firm, dry footing, sheltered from wind and rain. If ever they went to war, the platoon would be able to look after itself, he thought.
He had eighteen men, the company finally being up to strength – a captain, two lieutenants and an ensign for officers; two sergeants, four corporals and seventy men to do the work. Eighty men all told; one of ten in the battalion. They were increasingly in the expectation of being posted somewhere to do something – there was a war, more than a year old now, and they were still sat on the Isle of Wight doing remarkably little.
The word was that there would be German troops coming to the Island at any time. Foreign troops were not permitted in barracks on the English mainland and it was argued that the Isle of Wight did not qualify as such, so the Hanoverians would be camped there. If that was to be the case, then Horse Guards would wish to move an existing battalion out – leaving them there would lead to riots and mass fighting in the streets whenever the two sorts came into contact in the beerhouses.
“Officer, Corp!”
The whisper brought Billy alert; he noticed that the platoon were all suddenly stiff-backed and marching in perfect time. Good lads, looking after him, knowing that he was on their side and would do what he could for them.
“Platoon, halt!”
He waited for the double-crash of their shoes, then called them to face right and come to attention. He stiffened in front of them and saluted his captain.
“Thank you, Corporal Bacon. Very smart turnout, as always. How did the practice go?”
Billy made his report.
“Good! Return to barracks now and prepare to move out. The battalion is to board ship at Cowes in two days from now. All kit to be checked, Corporal Bacon. Replace any musket that may be too worn for service. Shoes to be repaired as necessary.”
“Sir!”
Captain Canford stepped back, signifying that the formal giving of orders was ended.
“The battalion is to be part of an expeditionary force that will land on French soil, Corporal Bacon. We are to replace a battalion of the Devons who have experienced an outbreak of gaol fever. They, and their ship, have been withdrawn from the expedition. The expedition sails from Portsmouth immediately upon our arrival; there will be no opportunity to make last-minute changes. Everything must be right from the moment we board ship.”
“Sir!”
They marched to the barracks room and swore then, out of hearing of the officer.
“No time to do sod all! Muskets and bayonets first. I don’t care how much you like what you’ve got – anything worn or corroded or polished too much and too often ‘as got to go!”
Bayonets might be polished and sharpened to the extent that, although they shone beautifully for inspections, they were wafer-thin and would snap on actual use. Much the same applied to muskets; men would work on the wood and brass so that they gleamed, ignoring barrels that had been worn by repeated ramming or which were starting to show honey-combing around the touch-holes from the acids released by exploding black powder.
Four men reluctantly pointed to their musket barrels and six more proffered bayonets worn almost to needles.
“Quartermaster ain’t going to love us for these, but they got to be changed. Bring them with me to the Armourer Sergeant. The rest of you, get your gear together and work out what’s missing. Have a good look at your shoes. Won’t be able to do sod-all about them in France, so if you don’t fancy marching barefoot, you’d better get them repaired or replaced today!”
“What ‘ave you got ‘ere, Billy-boy?”
The Armourer Sergeant had been long in the battalion, had been in the job since well before Billy had joined.
“Six bayonets, Sarge, and four muskets – three of them worn around the muzzle and one with a touch-hole that must be burning his cheeks every time the daft bugger fires it. Let’s have a look at your face, Private Baker!”
The soldier stood to attention while his skin was peered at. Any experienced infantryman had blue scarring on his right cheek from the explosion of priming powder in the pan each time he fired. Baker’s scarring extended almost to the corner of his mouth and high on the cheekbone.
“Another couple of dozen rounds and you’d be getting sparks in your eye, soldier! I can see what you ‘ave looked after this piece well – the butt is gleaming, much too good to throw away. What I shall do, Private Baker, is strip this musket right down and use the butt to rebuild another in the rack. There’s some what comes new with splintered stocks what ain’t no good, and can be made up to be useful. I ain’t got time to do it now, what with the whole bloody Battalion coming in for new. When I ‘as got time, I shall look after you.”
Private Baker had been in for six years and knew his way around; he made his thanks and took his new musket without complaint. The issue piece was dull and would require hours of polish and oiling to bring it up to parade standard; Baker would get little sleep for the next two nights. He knew that at some future time he would either discover a couple of bottles of gin in his knapsack, or find himself transferred to the Armoury or into the Stores to live a much easier life for most of his days. He knew as well that the new muskets with splintered stocks would be condemned as unusable, written-off strength, as would his own; the Armoury would gain an extra musket which could be sold or bartered to smugglers or other criminals who could pay in cash or kind. Had he shown unwilling, then he could have been issued a musket returned by a discharged soldier which would have been in far better condition than the new piece fresh from the foundry. The others were given no choice, received second-hand muskets which had been sat in the racks in the armoury for a few months and kept in fair condition by the men working there. The Armourer could not take too many risks, must not put too many muskets into the hands of the local criminal fraternity for fear of eventual questions and of felons turning King’s Evidence.
“Who needs new shoes?”
Just one taker, Private Doyle, biggest man in the platoon, well over six feet tall and broad on the shoulders and strong, but heavy on his feet. He wore through a pair of shoes in the space of six weeks, and the Quartermaster was not prepared to make an exception for him – one pair every eighteen months was the rule; anything more, he must pay for. The battalion cobbler did his best for Doyle, nailing on an extra and thick leather sole and putting on a replacement as it wore out, but h
e was always on the verge of being left barefoot.
“Bloody hell, Doyle, we’re goin’ to have to fit iron shoes on them feet of yours, like as if you was a cart-horse!”
Private Walsham spoke up.
“Pity as ‘ow we ain’t Dutchies, Corp. Could put wooden soles on ‘im then. You knows, Corp, them clog things.”
Private Walsham was the most intelligent in the platoon, and was often seen to read books, when he could get hold of them - they were more expensive in England. He knew about foreign things such as clogs. He was promoted to corporal every year or two, was broken down for drinking within the month.
“Wears them up North, so they do, Corp, as. When we was up at that St Helens place, years back, before your time, some of them blokes ‘ad them.”
If Walsham said so, then he was probably right – there was no reason at all for him to lie.
“Pity we can’t – but they ain’t uniform, so that’s it and all about it. Appear on parade with wooden soles and they’d see my backbone for allowing it.”
That was true, and ended the discussion.
“Let’s get you to the stores, Doyle, and I’ll do the arguing. What about your parade pair?”
“Still good, they are, Corporal me dear, for I look after them just as if they was made from gold. Wrapped up neat and tidy in their own little piece of woollen cloth, so they are.”
“Sensible. Well done. Anybody else need anything from stores?”
Heads were shaken. Billy was on good terms with the Quartermaster Sergeant and the platoon was within reason well looked after. They watched mute as he pulled back the curtain on his own bed space, nominally separate from them, and pulled a bag out from under the tiny cupboard that also distinguished him. He extracted a quart bottle, which they had all known about and none had attempted to lay hands on; they would not steal from a good corporal.
Billy Bacon and the Soldier Slaves (Colonial Warrior Series, Book 1) Page 5
