“Inspection.”
He had ordered working uniforms, so they could not be spotless, but their shoes should be polished, and they should be clean and should be wearing nothing that was non-regulation.
Four double ranks of seven or eight men, quickly passed through and with nothing significant to notice.
“Good enough. I have seen worse – they were black men recruited as cleaners in India!”
That produced a few scowls, as he had expected.
“Parade in full dress tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. With muskets.”
They would hate that, there always being a chance of a musket putting an oil stain on their coats or shirts, almost impossible to remove. If they wiped the muskets dry, then they were at risk of a charge for having an unusable piece.
“Company…Attention!”
He put them through five minutes of drill, found them more than good enough, though he did not say so.
“The battalion is under orders for the Sugar Islands, which are full of the French. Your musketry will kill those French, before they can kill you. You will achieve four rounds a minute, unfailing, before we board ship. That means five rounds from loaded. Any man who cannot make the pace will find himself given extra practice, seven days a week, until he is good enough. Any man who wilfully chooses not to learn will find himself encouraged to do better at the triangle. There will be practice with bayonet and butt, as is expected of the Grenadier Company. You are supposed to be the best in the battalion. You will be the best in the battalion, at everything!”
Billy scowled, trying to show himself as a flogger, just hoping for an opportunity to make them dance at the triangle.
“Parade will dismiss to barracks, which will be ready for inspection at any time. Corporals to me.”
Billy glanced at the four, shook his head.
“The Grenadier Company leads the battalion into every fight. Six months from now, you will be doing just that. They must be good enough, and if they ain’t, I shall work them morning and afternoon and have them flogged in the evenings! There will be extra powder and ball for firing in the butts. We will use it. For the four of you – there is a choice. You will back me, or you will be private soldiers. Support me, and show that you can read and write well enough to make entries in the Company Books, and I will see you to your next stripe. Keep off the bottle. I find you smelling of the stuff on duty, I will break you on the spot – and the colonel will back me. Look after your men, but get rid of the useless. If any can’t do it for being too old, or too ill, or too damned stupid, give me their names and they will be dealt with. If any man raises a hand to you, or makes the threat, then do what is necessary – your choice, but I will back you whether it is flogging or any other action. You understand?”
He received three nods, but Corporal Archer seemed uncertain.
“Beg pardon, Sergeant Bacon, but the men all signed on as Fencibles – what is volunteers, you might say, and they don’t look to be treated like ordinary soldiers.”
“Then you must explain the error of their ways, Corporal Archer – or I shall! They are Regulars now, and will do the work and live the life, the same as every other man in their shoes!”
“What if they run, Sergeant Bacon?”
“Then they will be chased, Corporal Archer. They will never go home – for their homes will be watched. They can forget about going back to their home town even – for the Watch and the constables will have word of them, and there will be a five pounds reward to the man, or woman, who gives them in. And when they are caught – and the chances are high that they will be, for where have they to go? When they are caught, I say, then they will stand up before the whole battalion to dance at the triangle – but only for one hundred. Why only one hundred? Well, Corporal Archer?”
“Acos of that won’t kill ‘em, Sergeant Bacon, or even cripple ‘em, except they’s unlucky, and they will go back to the barracks an’ be a soldier again.”
“That’s right! No escape short of dying, Corporal Archer. Nor did there ought to be! They are soldiers of the King, and they are going to serve their King in his Army, like it or not. It don’t have to be a bad life, with a bit of luck. Not even in the Sugar Islands, provided the fevers ain’t too bad. I lived through fever in India. They can, as well.”
Corporal Archer seemed unconvinced.
“Well, Sarge, they says the good dies young, don’ they.”
“Yes, corporal. So they do. They may well be right at that. Dismiss!”
Billy consulted his watch, decided that he should show his face in the company office, on the offchance that there might be an officer present in mid-afternoon. He spotted Clarence making in the same direction, joined him, falling into step, straight backed and precise while they were in possible view of the private soldiers.
“Not as bad as I thought they might be, Clarence. Good drill and some idea of uniform. Musketry will be a problem, and I don’t think they’ve got any useful training in butt and bayonet, but I reckon I can turn them into something worthwhile. What about yours?”
“Same thing, Billy. Identical, in fact. The real problem is likely to be in here, in my opinion.”
The offices were hardly more than brick sheds, ten in a double row under a pitched timber roof, wooden floor raised above the ground on joists and drumming under their heavy, marching feet. The little rooms were just sufficient to hold a desk and three chairs and another man standing.
Billy presented himself in the first open door, ‘A’ whitewashed on the unpainted deal. He made a formal right turn into the room, double-stamped to attention and rattled off his introduction, rigidly staring through the window above the heads of the three waiting officers.
“Sir, beg to report, Sergeant Bacon, sir. Reporting for duty, sir.”
He saluted, waiting to see what the sitting men would do, listening to Clarence repeating his words in the next-door room.
“Ah… Thank you, Sergeant…’ there was a whisper from the man next to him. “Sergeant Bacon.”
It was the correct response for a bare-headed officer, but he should have stood to make it.
“Beg to report, sir, that the Grenadier Company is ordered to report to the drill square in full dress with muskets for eight o’clock, sir, in the morning.”
Some officers thought that time should be given on a twenty-four hour clock, most used morning and afternoon, while a few die-hards still started their days at noon rather than midnight and referred to the ‘forenoon’. It would be interesting to see what these officers chose.
“Captain Higgins, Sergeant Bacon. Company officers are Lieutenant Whitaker and Ensign Farthing.”
“Sir!”
Billy noticed that Captain Higgins had a blocked nose – probably the result of an injury - and snuffled his words; he also had problems with his aspirates – he pronounced his name H-iggins. The man showed no signs of a cold in the head – he simply had a permanent, if slight, speech impediment. The men of the company would be merciless behind his back – he would be nicknamed Snotty ‘Iggins, or something like. His fellow officers would probably be no kinder. That sort of treatment, if he was aware of it, might well make him touchy, irritable, protective of his dignity. Best to offer him the most rigid respect.
Lieutenant Whitaker had had a very friendly smile on his face as he acknowledged his introduction – he also smelled of a very good brandy, and lots of it. He was a drunk, but quite a well-off lush. A nuisance - he would have to be carried, sometimes literally, no doubt – in his duties.
The boy, Farthing, was a new ensign, very obviously, and typical of all that Billy had heard of the Militia breed. He was spotty – which might not be his fault, many boys were – but he was shifty-eyed, unable to hold any man’s gaze, and round-shouldered, slumped and limp. A nasty little boy who might well grow up to be an unpleasant man. The Sugar Islands would sort him out, Billy thought – the hardships would turn him either into an adult or a corpse, and in quick order.
Only
one lieutenant; the establishment was for two, but very few officers would go to the Sugar Islands if they could avoid the posting. The richest of the Militia officers would be able to transfer across to a home-based regiment, unless they really wanted to become Regular officers and were prepared to take the risk that went with the social standing. The parents of the ensigns would be able to choose to a great extent where they sent their boys; if they were willing to allow them to go to the Sugar Islands, then, again, they either badly wanted to see their son become a Regular officer, or they cared very little whether they ever saw their son again.
It would be interesting to see what the morning brought.
“Sergeant Bacon! The colonel tells me that you have experience in the high tropics.”
“India, sir, first enlistment and promotion to corporal, sir.”
“Then you survived the fevers, Sergeant Bacon.”
“Luck, sir. Three men in four did not. Depends on whether you see Cholera or just the Spotted Fever, sir.”
“Might one see neither, Sergeant Bacon?”
Lieutenant Whitaker sounded as if he had suddenly become sober; shock could do that to a man, so Billy had heard.
“Luck, sir,” Billy repeated. “The Carmarthen battalion what went out to Goree in the American War, sir, they died to the last man. Not one lived, but they had Yellow Jack and Spotted Fever, all in the one Wet Season. Others I have been told, but have not seen for myself, sir, have survived a four years posting to the Slave Coast or India or the Sugar Islands and met neither, and came back having lost no more than one man in four to the dysentery and the recurrent fevers, which always come, every year. Take plenty of Bark, sir, and the recurrent fever will not kill you. The dysentery is another matter, though I was told by the surgeon that gin will soothe the belly, sir, but I do not know if he spoke truth.”
“Is there any other remedy for the dysentery, Sergeant Bacon?”
“Not that I was ever told of, sir. Some of the Indian people said that boiling water will prevent dysentery, if used properly to clean all eating utensils before and after they are used, sir. But I suspect they might not have known too much, sir.”
It seemed an unlikely prescription, smacking of ju-ju and magical practices. They could not imagine that putting boiling water on a plate or spoon could affect the workings inside one’s belly!
Billy did not mention that he adhered strictly to the practice, always washing his own eating utensils and keeping them separate, allowing no other man to share them. It might be magic, but he had kept his guts inside his belly, apart from the cholera.
“Coming back to the company, Sergeant Bacon, I think you will find them well-trained on the drill square.”
“Yes sir. I gave them five minutes this afternoon and they were well together. Very snappy in their drill, sir. Musketry may be another matter, sir. I shall take them to the butts every day, with your permission, sir. I want them to give four rounds a minute on firm ground, all properly pointed, sir. Then it will be bayonets, sir, and finally close quarters with butt as well. They are the Grenadiers and must be first over the walls or into the trenches, sir, when the battalion fights.”
He noticed that none of the three seemed especially enthused by the prospect of fighting.
“Beg pardon, sir, but is the company fully organised in the new platoons or as two sections, sir?”
“Colonel Searson says we must use platoons, Sergeant Bacon.”
“Very good, sir.”
“What is your opinion, Sergeant Bacon?”
“Don’t have an opinion on the colonel’s orders, sir. Not for me to do so, sir. My understanding is that platoons is the new way, sir.”
Captain Higgins seemed taken aback by that; possibly he could see nothing wrong at all in discussing the colonel’s orders with a sergeant. Billy agreed, in fact, but any such debate must be private, not conducted in the presence of a drunk and of a possibly tattling schoolboy.
The parade next morning was very satisfactory, in Billy’s eyes. All three officers were present and displayed their talents before the men.
Captain Higgins knew what to do and how to stand and precisely what performance to give; he showed well, in fact.
Lieutenant Whitaker had a blinding headache, was at least two snifters of brandy short of human; he was late in his response to every command and was unaware of the fact; he was hardly aware at all. Captain Higgins watched him and sniffed – but he sniffed at least once every minute, so that had no effect upon Whitaker.
Ensign Farthing did not know his drill yet, and he was hardly trying, watching the men’s feet and following them belatedly. He was a joke, in fact, and there were sniggers from the rear ranks, men hoping themselves to be out of sight.
Twenty minutes and Billy caught Captain Higgins’ eye and the performance was brought to an end. The officers handed over to the NCOs and withdrew from the square.
Billy stood to the front of the company, called them to stand easy.
“Company will stay in barracks this morning. Working dress for the remainder of the day. Musketry this afternoon, firing live. No further company parade this week. Not necessary.”
The next parade would be the weekly colonel’s parade of the full battalion; that would give the men time to bring their dress back to standard.
“Parade to dismiss, by platoon. Corporals to report to me afterwards.”
Again, satisfactory; the men had been drilled long and thoroughly and would do on the parade ground.
The four corporals presented themselves to Billy.
“Stand easy. Good parade, you have your platoons well in hand. We shall keep drill to the least you think necessary to maintain the standards. One thing that needs be said is that officers are not to be laughed at; Captain Higgins noticed and if he sees it again then it will be in front of the colonel on Tuesday.”
The colonel held court every Tuesday, flogging on Thursday, Billy had been told.
The corporals knew who had sniggered and would warn them to mock only in private.
“Musketry will be a part of every afternoon, if I can organise the powder and ball. Watch the men and pick out the slow and give them extra practice afterwards. They’ve got two weeks’ grace. Fifteen days from now, any man who cannot keep up to three a minute will be on a charge. A month, and it will be any man who won’t fire four to a minute who will be in trouble. No choice, no second chances. Volley fire is what kills the Frogs. Or any bugger else who wants to stand against us. If you’re standing in square with the bloody dragoons coming hell-for-leather at you, then steady volleys will save your skin, and nothing else will! Any man who can’t fire his round is letting down the whole company, is putting every man’s life at risk. I won’t be having that! Tell them the facts of it, and lay it on thick. Let the company down and they’re going to dance at the triangle, and no two ways about it. Remember what I said about the sick and the old and the simple – name them now if you have any.”
The corporals had none of them been to war, were not wholly convinced of the need for flash musketry, but they were not going to argue with their new sergeant.
“Begging your pardon, sergeant, but there’s two of my lads what is good soldiers but not so young as they was used to be, and their fingers getting stiff and their backs not so limber as they might have been twenty years since.”
“Then get them out of the line, Corporal O’Mara. Officers’ servants or battalion cooks, maybe. Give me their names and I shall talk to Captain Higgins and see what is to be done about them. The company needs more men, not less, so I ain’t too happy about them standing out of line, and that’s for sure! What about the other platoons? Any of yours what you reckon ain’t fit to serve?”
Corporal Gloag raised a finger.
“One of mine is a natural, Jimbo, they call him, Sergeant Bacon. He can march – the men taught him that between them, so as to protect ‘im, you might say. But the musket, sir, he does not like the bang so close to his ear, you might think. Ve
ry hard to train him different, sir. Very hard to train him at all, him having so little between his ears, poor lad.”
Billy had been told that the ballot for the Militia took no account of the men’s abilities. Provided only they were physically sound, then they were sent off to serve if their names were drawn in the lottery. The reality, in fact, was that the villages were normally perfectly happy to dump their idiots on the Militia, to take the burden of keeping them off the Poor Law, and the drawing of the ballot could very often be manipulated for the convenience of the Parish Vestry, which had to find the money for those who could not earn their own living.
“Do we have a company mule, for carrying the spare powder and ball?”
“Not got one of those, Sergeant Bacon.”
“Pity, he could have been its keeper. Do what you can for him. No gain, and a lot of bad-feeling in the men, for flogging a natural. Can he run?”
“Well… no more than any other might do, Sergeant Bacon, and he could never be remembering a message, that is for sure.”
“See what you can do with him; try to teach him his musket. If needs be, he can stand at my shoulder, as if he was doing something useful there.”
The men would appreciate that, Billy thought. Most of them would have a casual pity for the unfortunate and would be upset by cruel treatment meted out to a half-wit.
“Right, final thing to say. The young ensign will need to be brought to his duties. Be very sure that the men appreciate that.”
Billy could say no more, could not openly warn them to watch out for the ensign as likely to be a bad-tempered and cruel-hearted little fellow. He had little doubt that the corporals would know what he meant. He dismissed the corporals and made his way to the company office, hoping that the captain might be there, hopefully alone.
“Captain Higgins, sir. A word if you would be so good?”
“Certainly, Sergeant Bacon. A good parade, I thought, in most respects.”
“It was indeed, sir. I was pleased with the men.”
Billy Bacon and the Soldier Slaves (Colonial Warrior Series, Book 1) Page 9
