“None at all, Billy. Because of which, it is in my mind to discover if I cannot make a transfer across to a regiment where the opportunity does exist. Captain Canford will stand my friend, I suspect, Billy.”
It seemed unusual to Billy, in fact, he had never heard of such a thing.
“India, Billy. Battalions which are sent to serve there will often find themselves short of youngish sergeants who will be able to last out seven years of service. They can sometimes make arrangements to swap their old, experienced men for younger, fitter men from battalions staying in England. All done on the quiet, and normally between officers who are acquainted with each other. Almost always it is sergeants like you and me, Billy, who have some wish to better themselves, that accept the chance. I am told, from men I know of, that there may be a chance of a few guineas dropped in the hands of willing men who will take the risk.”
Billy wondered if Sergeant Muldoon had already made the agreement for himself, was trying to recruit another sergeant, whether he was in fact playing the part of the crimp.
“Why not? I’ve been there once, and I’m still alive.”
Sergeant Muldoon took this as agreement.
Six weeks later Sergeant Muldoon raised the topic of changing battalions again.
“Not India, Billy, but the Sugar Islands. The opportunity arises to join a battalion of Infantry going out on the next convoy, due to leave later in the year so as to avoid the Hurricane Season, the great winds that can – commonly do – sink even the largest of ships. There would be every likelihood of both of us taking commissions within two years, because the chance of death is high there. Young officers are far more likely to be taken by the diseases than hardened old sergeants such as us; you in fact are safer even than me, for having taken the cholera and come away in one piece. The battalion was recently raised as Fencibles in Warwickshire, and taking most of its men from Birmingham, at a guess, and not in any way fashionable; most of its officers will come from the middle order of people – they will be the sons of attorneys and doctors and such, possibly even of yeoman farmers, and certainly of the richer merchants. You will see no sons of lords in their mess, and probably very few from the squirearchy proper. They are now become regulars, no doubt to the pleasure of the officers. They will have no great problem in admitting officers from the ranks, and their mess bills will not normally be high; possible to live on your pay in that sort of regiment. Much to be said for them.”
Billy was not so sure, he had heard stories about Militias and Fencibles.
“You can get some bloody queer sorts of officers in that sort of regiment, Clarence. There were some very strange buggers in the local Militia, I remember. Fall foul of one of them and we won’t keep our stripes, still less be made lieutenant.”
“Their colonel will look after us, Billy. For sure. He needs good sergeants more than he wants bad ensigns and lieutenants.”
“If you reckon, Clarence, I’m in.”
Billy was quite sure he had seen the master from Bishop’s Waltham the previous week, driving though the town on the highway leading towards Poole. Prosperously dressed and in a post-chaise and four, which said money; without his brother, as sole owner of the butchers, he might have done well for himself. He could not imagine that he had been noticed, still less recognised, just another anonymous red coat, but it might be wiser to be somewhere else, just in case.
Captain Canford led them before the colonel, who seemed remarkably amenable to losing two respected sergeants. They were suspicious of the way in which he congratulated them on their initiative and hoped one day to welcome them as guests in his mess.
“You can go, and with my blessing, Sergeant Muldoon. You too, Sergeant Bacon. The Army can only benefit from your willingness to take risks to better yourself!”
They made their thanks and withdrew.
Captain Canford smiled and ushered them into the company office, door firmly closed.
“The younger brother of the colonel of the Warwickshire Fencibles is a lieutenant in their county Militia. He is to translate to our mess, as a captain, no less, and with one hundred men in his train! All of them with a year or more of service in the Militia to their name, and able to drill and load and fire a musket. Their drill will no doubt be good, their musketry hopeless – Militia do not get the issue of practice powder and ball that we receive, and often do not have access to the butts for more than one day in a month. No need for the expense of recruiting parties, or for taking dubious recruits from the magistrates; six months from now and we can again be a taut battalion at full strength. The price of that – two younger sergeants for a pair of older, tired men who can nonetheless do a half-way reasonable job in barracks! Cheap indeed, gentlemen. So much so that you can have a fairly much free hand with the Quartermaster to re-equip yourselves before you go.”
“Thank you, sir. One thing, sir, off the record, as it were – is it entirely legal? Will there ever be questions asked? Might we find ourselves on the mat, as it were, explaining how we come to be where we are?”
“Legal? Well, Sergeant Muldoon, I do not believe you will find a regulation specifically to forbid our actions. Common Law must apply – ‘anything is legal which is not illegal’. If there is no law against it, then it may be done.”
They nodded; the regulations had been bent, but not quite broken. Provided nothing was said, there was nothing to fear. They saluted and made their farewells.
The problem arose of how they were actually to travel to their new regiment; they could hardly march cross country, two sergeants on their own, demanding billeting of the pubs they passed. Questions would inevitably arise.
They had to be sent by stagecoach, as inside passengers, which was more expensive but kept them out of sight, for visible red coats would lead to questions asked, such as who might be paying the fares for soldiers to loll in idleness on a coach while their betters walked. As everyone, including the village idiot, generally was regarded as better than a soldier, there would be a lot of questions.
Christchurch to Newbury, then to Birmingham and finally the short run to Warwick; three days of travel, hot and dusty in summer, but good meals in the coaching inns where they had to spend their nights. The landlords did not like to have soldiers on their premises, but they had to accommodate coach passengers, by agreement with owners of the coaching line and to keep the conveyances stopping outside their doors; so they tucked them away in their most obscure rooms, bribing them with free beer to stay out of sight.
In the nature of things, the two sergeants talked to each other – for the rest of the inside passengers tried not to so much as look at them.
“Why are you so keen to get a commission, Clarence? More bother than it’s worth to our sort. Make more money as a quartermaster-sergeant than as a lieutenant with a mess bill to pay.”
“Not always, Billy. Get a commission, back to England and then transfer to a regiment going to India. Easy done, that is, as an officer. There’s always subalterns who don’t want be eight years out of England – a seven year posting and six months at sea either way; often they are moneyed men and will slip an accommodating gentleman a couple of hundred in gold. Do your seven in India, sometimes less, and then you can shift again, into the Indian armies or out of the military altogether and get a place under John Company. Work it right and by the time I’m forty I can be pocketing a thousand a year, in a country where a hundred pounds lets a man live rich. All I’ve got to do is stay alive, for four years in the Sugar Islands first, and then in India. Ain’t never coming back, if I get to India. Can even end up with a wife and kids in India.”
Billy had not been aware of all of the possibilities open to him in India. Perhaps there was more to life than misappropriating the quartermaster’s stores. He remembered Sergeant Schultz saying much the same as Clarence – he had not realised then just how much Schultz might make.
They found the Fencibles, in barracks on the outskirts of Warwick, all together in the one new set of buildings, si
x hundred strong, quite small for a battalion, but sufficient.
They stood to attention in front of the Adjutant and reported their presence.
“Very good! Sergeants Muldoon and Bacon, as expected. Colonel Searson will wish to speak to you, this once. I shall wheel you into his office.”
They had expected a degree of formality in their reception, had delayed in the gatehouse to wipe off the dust of travel and present themselves close to parade-ground smart.
The colonel stood as they marched in, came to attention and saluted, precisely together. He was impressed.
“That’s what I want to see! Proper soldiers, turned out as a man should be. You are welcome, Sergeant Muldoon, Sergeant Bacon. I shall expect you to bring our people up to your standard of dress and deportment. Your colonel assures me in his letter that you are of the best, and, looking at you, I believe him! Sergeant Bacon, you ‘ave experienced India, have you not?”
“Yes, sir. The regiment returned early, sir, taken by the cholera after three years. Just the one action after that, sir, for being down to three hundred men.”
“It must have been very difficult to do anything with so few.”
Billy chose his words carefully; wise sergeants did not criticise.
“All of the officers performed their duty, sir, and were supported by the sergeants and corporals. We all worked together, sir.”
“Well said, Sergeant Bacon. You are to have the Grenadier Company, Sergeant Bacon, and you will take B Company, Sergeant Muldoon. You will be senior sergeant of your companies; sole sergeant initially, sergeants being short just now, there may be a second appointed if the need arises overseas. The decision may be made to appoint a Sergeant-Major, and in that case, Sergeant Muldoon, you will receive the warrant. Horse Guards will decide soon whether the appointment should be made standard in all of our regiments; I am in favour of it myself. The battalion will march to Bristol for embarkation towards the end of August, to arrive in the Sugar Islands after the Hurricane Season. Have you any recommendations to make, Sergeant Bacon, for service in a ‘ot clime?”
The colonel was remarkably unsure of himself, Billy thought, to be asking a sergeant directly for his opinion. Even when a senior officer wanted information he would normally speak to the company captain and instruct him to ascertain it.
“The leather stock, sir. It cuts into the neck and causes sores when men sweat. In an English summer it is uncomfortable. In a tropical posting, sir, the sores quickly become ulcers and can weaken men to the point of death. Any broken skin, sir, will become infected and may cause death. Even a pin-prick can be dangerous. The leather stock is worn only on parades by most regiments in hot postings, and sometimes not even then. I do not know what the habit is in the Sugar Islands, sir, but I would expect it to be the case there that the leather stock is not worn at all.”
“There is a battalion of the Warwicks at the Castle, Sergeant Bacon, not too many years returned from service there. I had not thought to enquire of their experience, but I shall do so.”
Billy noticed that the colonel’s accent was not perfect, his King’s English slipped just occasionally. He was trained in the language, rather than born to it, not unlike Billy himself.
He asked Clarence if he had noticed anything untoward.
“Searson, Billy – I have seen that name somewhere. It is not so common a surname. I am almost certain I came across it in Arundel, before I joined, in fact, I know damned well I did! It was on the front of the biggest warehouse in the town, and on others in every large town in Kent and Sussex and up to Surrey as well. If he is the same family – and I will lay odds he is – then he is a younger son of a very rich merchant, bought a Militia commission for being all he could get, not being a gentleman. Then he purchased as captain or major into the Fencibles, which are almost Militia but better regarded, for being willing to serve overseas. Then, when the Fencible battalion became Regular, father bought him the colonelcy, and now he is in line to become major-general by seniority, and a general is a gentleman, pretty much in the nature of things. Stroke of luck for him, this war, letting him become a Regular by the back door, and his young brother, too, from what Captain Canford said. That’s why he wants some real soldiers to bring his people on, because most of them are just Militia in disguise. His officers ain’t going to be the very best, either. If he’s lucky, his major will be a Regular, a poor man with just sufficient money to buy a commission carrying no premium, just the regulation price to pay. Might be some of the captains will be the same, but most won’t; they’ll have come across from the Militia. We, Billy, are going to stamp and strut and be the horriblest bastards you have ever seen, so that the no-good officers are frightened of us, too. Otherwise, we shall have to watch our backs, for bad officers not liking NCOs who show them up. Let’s get our packs into the Sergeants Mess and then go out and find our companies – poor sods!”
The Sergeants’ Mess had eight men inside it, sat at the tables with glasses in front of them at midday. The quality of the NCOs was immediately obvious.
“Morning, gents. Clarence Muldoon, senior to B Company. Billy Bacon who has got the Grenadiers, poor buggers! What’s the billeting here?”
A soldier servant trotted forward, an ancient of fifty or so, long overdue to be signed off the roll but kept on in the Mess, never to be seen on the parade ground.
“Room each, Sergeant Muldoon, Sergeant Bacon. I’m Smith. So’s the Mess Cook, and the barman. Easier that way, all you got to do is shout ‘Smithy’, and one of us will be there.”
He led them to the rear of the brick building and upstairs to a corridor lined on both sides with small rooms, twenty of them perhaps, half with their doors open, untenanted. Smith showed them into a pair, each with a bed with a pallet and a blanket in addition to their own issue. The room was clean, recently and carefully swept out and scrubbed.
“Got two old widows what does for us, Sergeant Muldoon, Sergeant Bacon. Each sergeant pays them a bob a week, a tanner apiece, and they cleans and does the laundry. They eats in the kitchen, so they do alright from us. You pays ten bob a month, mess fees, and you eats bloody well, so you do.”
The fees were less than they had paid in the 70th, and they wondered just how well they would eat at that rate, but it was not impossible that Colonel Searson would have a hand in messing, if he was of a merchant family.
“You can ‘ave beef on a lump of bread now, if you fancies.”
They did and ate a slab of well-done beef on a buttered slice of good, fresh white bread. Life promised to have some compensations in the Fencibles.
Then they went in search of their companies.
It seemed that the Fencibles had retained many of the habits of the Militia, including that of working for half a day at most. The Militia flogged more frequently than was normal in the Regulars, quite possibly because the amount of idle time left more opportunity to fall into mischief; Billy had decided that his company would discover the change in their ways from the very first minute they met him. They were idling in their barrack room, with the obvious expectation of doing no more that day, and having probably had little occupation in the morning.
Billy stood in the doorway and looked at the unpleasant sight; the better part of sixty men, barefoot and in shirt sleeves for the most part, many with tankards or leather drinking jacks in their hands and the room full of tobacco smoke and smelling like the lowest of boozing dens.
“Grenadier Company corporals to me, now!”
His bellow silenced the room; they peered in dismay at the uniformed figure silhouetted against the afternoon sun. Four men looked at each other uneasily and then grabbed their coats and ran to the door, trying to do up their buttons and belts on the way. Two of them had no shoes.
“I am Sergeant Bacon. Senior sergeant, Grenadier Company. Who are you? What happened to the other sergeant?”
“Beg pardon, Sergeant Bacon. There ain’t no other sergeant, being as ‘ow ‘e dropped dead of a conniption last week, as ever w
as.”
“Probably very sensible of him, for not having to explain this bloody mess! Four corporals makes four platoons, which will be on the drill square in five minutes from now.”
Billy pulled out the watch he had removed from the French cavalry officer’s pockets and made a show of discovering the exact time.
“Well? What are you waiting for? You’ve just wasted half a minute! Working uniform.”
Billy marched himself off to the drill square, positioned himself where he would not have to squint into the sun and waited, watch in hand. The first men arrived in the third minute and more than fifty were present at the end of the fifth, which was in fact not at all bad. He looked at the four platoons, called to the corporal of the one that looked the smallest.
“You, corporal! What’s your name?”
“Nankivell, Sergeant Bacon!”
“Corporal Nankivell, you will present me with a list of names of all late-comers at the end of this parade.”
“Beg pardon, Sergeant Bacon. I ain’t got me letters.”
“Well, you will never make sergeant if you can’t write, Corporal Nankivell. You, corporal,” he pointed to the next platoon. “Can you write?”
“Corporal Archer. No, Sergeant Bacon.”
The third corporal, a Scotsman, Gloag, was literate; by the time that was established the last men had puffed into line.
“What about you?” Billy pointed to the fourth corporal, short at little more than five feet and only allowed to serve by grace of a doctor who had stretched his measuring rule, but broad and heavily muscled.
“Corporal O’Mara, Sergeant Bacon. I am by way of learning my letters, Sergeant, but ‘tis a slow old business.”
“Well done for trying. Speak to me after this parade.”
Billy stared at the men, assessing what he had got. They were standing at ease, waiting his orders, as was correct, and gave the general impression of being at home with the drill, which was much as he had expected. Their musketry would be far weaker, but they were probably in the habit of two or three hours on the square every morning.
Billy Bacon and the Soldier Slaves (Colonial Warrior Series, Book 1) Page 8
