Billy Bacon and the Soldier Slaves (Colonial Warrior Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  The cavalry turned and galloped out of range.

  “Form line from trees to river! Corporal Bacon, your platoon to clear the field.”

  With two anchor points available on the flanks a square was not the best means of defence. E and F Companies trotted up from behind and created a strong triple line across the open ground.

  “No bloody guns, but it will do,” Sergeant Muldoon grunted.

  They moved forward in pairs, killing the screaming horses and dragging the French wounded to the shade of the trees, shaking down their pockets as they went. Billy found an officer’s charger down, its rider still underneath it. He possessed a gold watch, still ticking, a few coins in a purse and a pair of pistols to sell; well worth finding.

  As they reached the site of B Company’s defeat Billy shouted the order to strip the redcoat bodies of powder and ball and shoes and to pick up all usable muskets.

  “Beyond the bridge, Corp!”

  Billy followed the line of Doyle’s pointing finger, saw a full regiment of cavalry trotting into sight and beginning to form pairs to cross the narrow bridge.

  “Sergeant Muldoon!”

  “Got them, Corporal Bacon. Fall back, at the double!”

  They ran, leaving the wounded at the side of the track. Those who could walk had already gone back; the rest would probably die in any case, but had to be left to the mercy of the French. There was a yell from the captain.

  “Corporal Bacon! Grab any French officer you can spot! Bring him in.”

  There was a youngster, a cornet or whatever the French called them, down with a broken leg, just a few yards away.

  “Doyle, pick that one up and bring him to Captain Canford.”

  The big man grabbed the French boy, ignoring his screams of pain, and heaved him over his shoulder.

  “Well done, Corporal Bacon. We might discover what’s happening now. Lieutenant Orton, you speak French, do you not? Find out what you can.”

  Captain Canford stepped back, nodded to Billy and Sergeant Muldoon to join him.

  “That was you I saw to shoot the running man from B Company, Corporal Bacon?”

  “It was, sir.”

  Billy straightened his back, waiting to be placed under arrest.

  “Well done. Exactly the right thing to do. Sergeant Muldoon, you are Company Senior Sergeant and now have Corporal Bacon to be your second; he will, I have no doubt, grace the company and the battalion in the very same fashion as you. Put your stripes up immediately, if you will be so good, Sergeant Bacon. Sergeant Muldoon, I require a report on the state of the company within the hour.”

  “How do I put the stripes up, Sergeant Muldoon?”

  “Clarence to you, Billy! Sew these on!”

  Muldoon produced a set of cloth stripes and needle and thread from a pocket.

  “Put them in before we sailed, Billy. Thought you would need them. Just tack them on quickly-like for now, do the job properly later.”

  Men came out of the trees in a slow trickle over the next hour; there was no sense in deserting the battalion in their present location. France offered no place to run to; the only possible course was to rejoin and hope not to be charged with cowardice.

  The private soldiers and corporals were accepted without question, simply put together in a new and small company. One uninjured sergeant showed his face and was broken on the spot, reduced to private and thinking himself lucky to get away so lightly. A second NCO from C Company came in cradling a slashed arm, thrown up to protect his face; he was sent back to the surgeon with the word that if he survived and could use his arm ever again he could keep his rank.

  The cavalry held its distance, waiting probably for guns to come up to break any squares or lines for them so that they could cut up the running men.

  The mauled battalion held its position for the hour, while the colonel made up his mind, then began a slow retreat to the landing place, companies leapfrogging each other, two always facing inland in their ranks at any given moment.

  There had been absolute silence from the area of the castle and the shore-battery and they were too far distant from the Nottinghamshires to hear less than a full-scale engagement.

  A runner came from the Berkshires, whose colonel was senior, ordering them to retire to the ships and to return across the Channel. The naval escort would decide whether they were to return as a single fleet or in small parties. There was no mention of the success or failure of the expedition, which said enough in itself.

  “All cocked-up, gentlemen!”

  Colonel Mandeville had nothing else to say on the matter.

  “Grenadier Company to cover re-embarkation of the battalion – of the companies that remain to us, that is!”

  Captain Canford acknowledged the order.

  “How long can we delay for our stragglers to come in, sir?”

  “That is a matter for the French to decide, Captain Canford. As soon as you see artillery in the distance you are to board ship so that we may sail out of range. You may hold against cavalry, if it is practical. For infantry, the same applies. If there is a large force, come aboard immediately. We shall give the remnants of the two companies their chance, but you will not send parties out in the attempt to locate them or bring in their wounded. The risk is not acceptable.”

  “At your order, sir.”

  Colonel Mandeville noted that Captain Canford did not like his order; while he obeyed it, he did not care.

  “No officers have come in from either company, I am glad to see, Captain Canford. This is very much one of those occasions in which the honour of the battalion demands that its officers should be dead or too much wounded to avoid capture.”

  “I can only agree with you, sir. I would not like to suppose that any man holding the King’s Commission should have chosen to save his own skin by running.”

  “It is an uncommon occurrence, that is for sure, Captain Canford, but I can remember one gentleman, so-called, who did so in America. He was given a loaded pistol, of course.”

  “Quite right too, sir!”

  They stood in line as the other companies piled aboard the ships, doubling up the jetty and across to the furthest first, irrespective of which they had arrived in. The three outer ships sailed as soon as they were full, dropping anchor well out in the estuary, leaving just the one tied up.

  A few walking wounded hobbled in, sometimes singly, most commonly in twos and threes helping each other along. A handful carried their muskets still, but most were unarmed and often had thrown away everything of any weight, were wearing trousers and shirt and shoes only.

  There was a sudden shout from Private Doyle.

  “Sergeant, will you be coming over here now!”

  Billy ran; there was urgency in the man’s voice.

  “What is it, Doyle?”

  “Over there, Sergeant, up the track, do you see, maybe half a furlong away and as well further away, at closer to the quarter of a mile.”

  There were four men, come out of the trees and struggling along the path, one with a dangling arm trying to support the other three, mates presumably, and making crawling pace as a result. The cavalry had seen them as well; part of a troop was galloping down to intercept them.

  “Hold the line! Do not go out to them! Captain Canford, sir!”

  Canford trotted across.

  The men were out of accurate musket range; any volley was as likely to hit the redcoats as the cavalry now closing on them.

  “Stand still. Do not move!”

  They obeyed, watching silently as the four were slashed to the ground and run over by the cavalry horses.

  “Cock your locks and take aim.”

  The cavalry’s gallop had brought them into range; Canford delayed until they realised they were too close and tried to halt and turn in the confined space of the track.

  “Front rank, fire!”

  Captain Canford counted off the seconds; they must never be left empty in the face of cavalry.

  “Rear rank, fi
re!”

  At a distance of fifty yards they had put eight horses down out of twenty as they retreated; respectable shooting with the Brown Bess.

  “Distant, sir. Behind the regiment of cavalry. Horses in sight, sir. Guns, I think.”

  “Well spotted, that man. Doyle, is it not? You have good eyes, Doyle, and a brain behind them.” Captain Canford raised his voice. “Company will withdraw to the ship. By platoons. Sergeant Muldoon!”

  Muldoon pointed to his corporals one after another to take their men aboard.

  Billy waited his turn, doubled his old platoon across to the jetty last of all, saluting Captain Canford at the gangway.

  “Will Doyle do as corporal in your place, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “He has the know, sir, and the men like him. A terrible man when the booze is in, sir, but that need not be too great a problem. He will do, sir.”

  “Good. Doyle, to me, please.”

  Private Doyle stepped the four paces to stand in front of his captain.

  “You are Corporal with immediate effect, Doyle. Well done.”

  “Sir!”

  Billy passed him the single stripe he had cut off his own jacket and the needle and thread lent him by Sergeant Muldoon. He had spent a little time that morning sewing the sergeant’s stripes in the correct place.

  “Put them up, Corporal Doyle.”

  “I shall, Sergeant Bacon, with my thanks.”

  “No thanks needed; you’ve earned that stripe, Corporal Doyle.”

  The sailors cast off from the jetty and the small ship slipped out into the stream, took the other three out of gunshot range. A sloop bore down on them, made a signal which the merchant seamen could not read, was forced to come within shouting distance.

  “Follow me. Course for Portsmouth.”

  They disembarked two and a half days later at Portsmouth, discovering the remainder of the expedition in the harbour before them.

  Word came for the battalion to march the few miles to Portchester Castle, empty of troops at the time and being readied to provide accommodation for prisoners-of-war, of whom the Navy was taking no few.

  The senior officers were called to the rooms of the Admiral Commanding at Portsmouth, no doubt to make their reports.

  joined the battalion before dusk, called all officers to him in their mess.

  “In brief, gentlemen, the expedition was a complete failure. Not through any fault of ours, but because the information it was based upon was wholly false. King Louis XVII may or may not be alive, but he was certainly not in any fortress along the coast of Normandy. The castle was found to be empty and derelict. The reported battery was also long abandoned, its guns taken away. The Nottinghamshires discovered a small village and spoke to its inhabitants, who informed them that there was a regiment of cavalry, new formed and in training, in camp just two miles beyond our river. There was, as well, a full brigade of infantry and guns in garrison in the same area. The landings were abandoned at the first sound of gunfire from us. The whole business, gentlemen, was quite futile. The source of the information upon which we sailed is now being queried.”

  “Good gold paid for fairy-tales, I do not doubt, sir, and the informant long run away!”

  Colonel Mandeville agreed – they had been made to look like fools.

  Fingers were snapped and the mess-waiters summoned following the colonel’s disclosures; the officers were generally displeased. Captain Canford, senior survivor of those who had actually been engaged, was particularly unhappy that they had gained nothing from the experience but had lost valuable men who would be hard to replace. He had put hard work into rebuilding his company and now much of it was to be done again.

  “What happens now, sir? Do we return to the Isle of Wight?”

  “We do not, Captain Canford. We remain here for a few days, until we have recovered all of our baggage from the Island, and then will be sent to a place ‘suitable for recruiting’, to recover our strength. Our first count, made aboard ship, suggests that we lost two captains, four lieutenants and two ensigns from our officers; besides that, two sergeants dead, one wounded and one broken, and one hundred and five men dead or to be discharged as unable to serve. We could have come out of a major battle less harmed, gentlemen!”

  Major Molyneux took up the tale.

  “Two companies destroyed by cavalry, for being unable to form square or line to receive a charge. Men panicked in front of the dragoons – which is understandable in its way – but they ran for shelter into a forming square so that it could not be made. We must train the companies better than this, gentlemen!”

  There was general and sour agreement; they had thought the battalion to be at a good level of readiness and had been shown to be sadly wrong.

  Four days and the word came to march. They were to remain on the mainland, in Hampshire itself, where there was a surplus of agricultural labourers to be found, men pushed off the land as enclosure slowly spread. They should be able to pick up one hundred men easily.

  Billy heard the news with some trepidation; he had no great wish to show his face anywhere close to Bishop’s Waltham.

  Billy Bacon and the Soldier Slaves

  Chapter Four

  They ended up in Christchurch, on the coast and at the edge of the New Forest and not in an area ideal for recruiting, farming not being so rich as it was in the north and east of the county. The battalion was mostly billeted in the pubs and four of the larger barns of the farms closest to town, the headquarters and officers and some of the sergeants located in a small barracks, ancient and run-down and built they suspected after Monmouth’s rebellion, a little more than a century previous.

  There was space in the barracks for the new recruits they hoped to bring in to be kept together and trained - and prevented from running - and a parade ground adequate for the whole battalion.

  Colonel Mandeville took pains to be pleased with the outcome of recent events.

  “No battalion here in Christchurch this last thirty years, gentlemen, and so no loyalty to any other regiment among the local folk. We should be able to bring in the local boys with little difficulty. We may, incidentally, be called upon to assist the civil powers here – the Revenuers are hard pressed to cope, for this is a very bad area for smuggling.”

  “Is that not a function best performed by dragoons, sir? We will find it difficult to chase smugglers on foot.”

  “We shall indeed, Major Molyneux, but it would seem that cargoes may be intercepted at the beach, ambushed, as it were, provided there are men in plenty, sufficient to persuade the villains that they are not to fight. More than that, I am told that it is not unknown for them actually to land at the quayside of local fishing villages in the night, to load their cargoes direct into wagons or even into warehouses.”

  They shook their heads at such wicked disdain for the Law.

  “Might I be right in suspecting that there could be Prize Money for such captures, sir?”

  “I do not know, Captain Canford. How might we discover if that was the case?”

  “We might enquire of Horse Guards, sir. The General Commanding in the South of England would be entitled to a share, I must imagine, and he would be able to find out.”

  “I shall send a letter. An excellent point to make, Captain Canford.”

  They were all gentlemen, and most had a private income that was adequate, or a little more, to their needs as officers, but the prospect of a hundred or two besides was very pleasant. The general mood swung in favour of chasing smugglers in the night.

  Billy had been relieved that they were to remain in Christchurch; he had not fancied marching into Winchester or Bishop’s Waltham itself, to possible shouts of identification from the bystanders and demands for their twenty-guineas reward. It was unlikely, he thought, for he had never been well-known in the town, being a foundling. He had made only a few casual acquaintances, and most of them would keep their mouths shut even if they did recognise him, for not wishing to cause an upset and be known to hav
e pocketed reward money. The only real problem that might arise would be if he bumped into the master himself and that was not about to happen in Christchurch. But there was always the niggling fear in the back of his mind, the ‘what if’…

  All Billy could do was to keep his eyes wide open, to remain alert. The problem was that they might well remain in Christchurch for a long time, the chance of coming face to face with someone from his past growing with the passage of the years.

  He sat in the bar of the pub the NCOs had adopted as their own, and which was avoided by all the private soldiers as a result, drinking a quiet pint and chatting with Sergeant Muldoon.

  “Bloody slow recruiting in these parts, Clarence. Twenty men in a month, no more.”

  “Colonel’s none too pleased, from all I hear, Billy. He does not wish to take the sweepings of the local clinks – drunken farm-labourers and their like sent down by the magistrates - and he will not accept Gaol-Deliveries, the scum from the hulks. Best they should go to the Navy where they cannot desert so easily.”

  “What’s to be done?”

  “Send out recruiting parties. A Lieutenant and a sergeant and three or four reliable private soldiers, perhaps a drummer as well. If he can find one, then a dwarf to dress up in the uniform and perform drill will always attract the crowds on market-day for a laugh, and give a chance to pull some into the regiment. He might purchase a monkey to do the same. Some placards as well, though the most of the farm-boys we want cannot read.”

  “What about crimps, Clarence?”

  “Cost too damned much, and they can’t be relied on. Most of them work in the big towns, as well. Not much trade for them in the countryside.”

  “No, I suppose not, when you think about it. What about you, Clarence? Not much chance of making a commission while we sit in Christchurch.”