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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Good enough. No floggings necessary today. Watch yourselves on the road – don’t go pinching green apples off the trees as we go by – end up with upset guts and you’ll still have to march your fifteen miles – and that ain’t easy with your legs crossed! Just remember that the officers ain’t going to have the comforts of their mess, so they ain’t going to be pleased with life and if an officer ain’t pleased, you’re like to be very unhappy! Don’t step an inch out of line where you can be seen! Don’t get caught out of your billet at night, or stealing from the locals – it will be five dozen as soon as look at you, and fifteen miles to march with a bloody back!”

  He hoped they might take his words to heart; he prayed that a fool from another company would be caught first. The sight of a flogging would remind them to be careful. He dismissed them, calling Corporal Gloag to him.

  “What of Jimbo, the natural, Corporal Gloag? Will he make fifteen miles in a day?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Bacon. The lad’s strong on his feet. It’s only between his ears that there is a problem.”

  “Watch out for him on the march. Don’t let him get lost or do anything stupid. Not that he can do much else, when you think of it.”

  “He’s willing, Sergeant Bacon, and does as he is told, just so long as ye tell the boy slowly.”

  “Make him an officer, then. They’d never notice anything wrong with him.”

  “We have enough generals already, sergeant!”

  Both looked around to ensure there was no eavesdropper; those words could lose both their rank. They grinned in relief and went their separate ways before they said too much more.

  Fifteen miles is not a great distance, especially when seen on a map. Marching with a sixty pounds pack, fifty minutes on the road, then ten of rest, it rapidly becomes tedious. Repeated daily it taxes the strength of fit men – and many of the redcoats had been under-nourished since birth and had then drunk far too much since boyhood and were a long way from robust. The regimental surgeon had a small cart drawn by a single and ancient pony in which to transport those who fell sick on the march; he had to select who should ride and who should walk slowly behind from the first day.

  Being high summer, the battalion marched out early, expecting to go into bivouac by noon. Even on the first day there were stragglers coming in at four o’clock. At the end of the week they reached Bristol with some of the men a full day behind.

  “What is to be done, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “Nothing, sir, not now. If the regiment had gone on route marches three times a week last year, then they would be better able to journey now. But we can’t do anything in Bristol while we’re waiting to board ship and there will be six weeks, at least, at sea in idleness, and you can’t march men hard in the hot countries, sir. Just take it, sir; we have lost a dozen men and even if they catch up with us, they ain’t going to be a lot of use.”

  Captain Higgins was not pleased to effectively be told that he had been lax in his supervision of his men over the previous year, but he could see no way of passing the blame onto Lieutenant Whitaker, who had entertained the officers at least by twice falling off his horse, having dropped into drunken sleep.

  “What do the men do at sea, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “Depends how big the ship is, and how many are put aboard her, sir. Mostly, very little, for lack of any place to do anything. Play cards and dice, sir; drink their rum; smoke their pipes, when they’re allowed on deck to sit in the sunshine. Six weeks, sir, if we’re lucky with the passage, and each man with a sleeping space two foot wide by six foot long, unless the ship is crowded, sir. Not pleasant even in good weather. I saw a storm at sea, sir, when the sailors did what they call ‘battening down the hatches’; they lock every man below in the holds to stay there until the sea has gone down again. Might be three or four days, sir, the men stuck in the dark with biscuit and cheese to eat and a ration of water and an empty barrel if they was lucky.”

  “An empty barrel, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “For their personal needs, you might say, sir.”

  Captain Higgins was appalled, sniffing mightily to emphasize the fact.

  They were billeted in a dockside warehouse for three days, awaiting the arrival of their convoys and its troopships. Two other battalions marched in and were accommodated along the quay from them, kept strictly apart to avoid trouble. Both new arrivals were long established battalions of the line and their men would have no time for Fencibles newly turned into regular soldiers.

  On the second day a runner came to Billy with instructions to attend Captain Higgins at his billet in the Blue Boar Inn, a mile away from the insalubrious air of the docks.

  “Ah, there you are, Sergeant Bacon. This is Ensign Farthing, who has returned to the battalion after a few days of furlough at his home.”

  A young boy, very recently begun to shave, stood to attention and accepted Billy’s salute. The youth was much the same size as Ensign Farthing and was probably wearing his uniform, but he was a year at least his junior and far more athletic in his stance, and more alert in his face.

  Billy responded in the only way a sergeant could.

  “Sir!”

  “Ensign Farthing is very happy to come back to the regiment, having long wished to be a soldier. He had thought that his elder brother might have the only opportunity in the family, but is very pleased to take his chance.”

  “Sir!”

  “Ensign Farthing will wish to be reminded of the basics of drill, Sergeant Bacon. In the stable yard to the rear of the inn, where there will no doubt be a secluded spot.”

  Billy found his way to the rear of the yard and very quickly checked the boy’s uniform, correcting the position of the belt, which was worn too low, and placing the stock higher under his chin.

  “Very good otherwise, sir. Your stance is correct, sir – belly in, shoulders in a direct line above the heels, back straight. Now, sir. You showed already that you know the attention, just to double-check, sir.”

  “I have read the drill manual, Sergeant Bacon, and think I have memorised most of it.”

  “Very good, sir. I wish all young gentlemen did the same.”

  “I wanted to be a soldier. I know another quite well who had no desire at all to don a red coat, Sergeant Bacon.”

  Billy spent a profitable hour with the boy – not more than fifteen, he was certain – discovering that he knew a lot and was very willing to be taught more. A contrast with his brother, who did not exist and never had!

  Billy sat in the bar of the dockside beerhouse that the sergeants used, shaking his head as he told the story to Clarence Muldoon.

  “It ain’t lawful, is it, Clarence?”

  “Ensign Farthing is serving with us, Billy. This lad’s name is Farthing, or so it seems, so how can it be illegal?”

  “What about his first name? That can’t be right.”

  “They will fix it all up, on the quiet, Billy. Who in Horse Guards is going to know, or even be interested in, the Christian name of a new ensign in the most junior regiment of the line on posting in the Sugar Islands? They won’t know, and they ain’t likely to care. All that matters is that the family will have a young man who has been turned into a young gentleman. The Searson family has got money, Billy, and they are going to buy gentility with it. If we do our part, then they will be open-handed to us as well, I do not doubt, because that way they can keep our mouths shut, Billy. The officers ain’t going to talk, because any scandal would reflect on every one of them – that’s how the Army works – one bad officer means a bad battalion in Horse Guards’ eyes. The sergeants are the only people who might shout their mouths off and be heard, you particularly; so you must make it very plain indeed that you ain’t never seen nothing out of the ordinary in Mr Farthing. You might want to take the lad under your wing, as it were.”

  It was easy enough for a sergeant to smooth the path for a young ensign. A whispered word on the parade ground; an almost imperceptible nod or headshake; a quick turn of the
eyes – any or all of these could give the cue an uncertain boy needed and make him stand out as efficient in front of his superiors. On the march or out of barracks on campaign it was possible to do more, to actually discuss what must be done next. Most officers recognised that they had been able to show well because of their first sergeants; those officers known to be incompetent, untrustworthy on their own, generally blamed their company sergeants and corporals for letting them down.

  “What about Whitaker, Clarence?”

  “Pleasant sort of chap. Your lads like him for giving them a laugh. He won’t last – take him out of barracks for a week and his supply of bottles will run out and the quartermaster won’t let him into the men’s rum issue and he’ll go into delirium – that’s the surgeon’s name for it – and he’ll die. He won’t come back from our first campaign. They never do when they hit the bottle so hard, so young.”

  “What if the quartermaster lets him have a pint or two of his rum?”

  “Not a chance, Billy! We know his sergeant, or we will by the time we reach the Sugar Islands, and Captain Higgins will drop a word in the officer’s ear – so long as you speak up first, on the quiet. Can’t be doing with falling-down drunks when there’s a battle to fight, Billy!”

  Billy spoke to Captain Higgins next day, while making his routine report on the condition of the men in their temporary barracks at the quayside.

  “Lieutenant Whitaker, sir… Not seen a lot of him in the company this few days, sir.”

  “No, Sergeant Bacon. I am sure that he is no more than resting from his duties for a few days and will be ready for anything when we go to war.”

  “Of course, sir. If he is not, sir, then there will be a burden placed upon Mr Farthing. Might be, sir, that the young gentleman could be given a little practice in working two of the platoons, sir, and in giving me the orders for the other two, sir.”

  “That is an excellent idea, Sergeant Bacon. You are quite certain that could be done?”

  “The gentleman is a very quick learner, sir, and could very soon pick up that responsibility. Better he should have an idea now, sir, than be left as the sole officer unexpectedly and unprepared. One cannot be sure, sir, that Lieutenant Whitaker could survive the hardships of a campaign, in the field and far from the mess.”

  “I agree, Sergeant Bacon… You have something of the turn of the gentleman in your speech, Sergeant Bacon, as does the Irishman, Sergeant Muldoon… is that normal in the more senior, shall we say, of regular sergeants?”

  “No, sir. Not at all, sir. But Sergeant Muldoon has been a friend to me since I joined his company and has shown me his way of going on. I do not think it a secret, sir, that he wishes to take a commission, if ever it becomes possible. He might then wish to go out to India, sir, where he says it is possible perhaps to join the Company’s armies, or even in the end become a servant of the Company. He wishes to make something of himself, sir, and believes the Army may be his way up in the world.”

  Captain Higgins was not entirely sure he approved of men moving so far out of their station in life, but accepted that he was himself taking a step up in the world, with a little of luck and application. Perhaps there was no overwhelming harm in two sergeants doing the same, maybe…

  “You have the same ambitions, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “There ain’t nothing for me in England, sir. The Army is all there is for me, and it has been good to me, sir. A home, you might say. If so be I could find a place overseas, then it might not be so bad, sir. Sergeant Muldoon is a cleverer man than me, and I could do worse than follow his lead.”

  “You may well be right, Sergeant Bacon. I shall mention your names to Colonel Searson. He knows already that you are a most beneficial influence on the battalion, has spoken more than once to me of that fact.”

  Billy was almost pleased to know that his colonel was awake to his presence in the battalion; it might be a good thing, but a wise man tried not to come too much under his officer’s eye. It was very useful to be a favourite, but a sergeant could turn into a scapegoat very easily when things went wrong.

  The West Indies convoy started to build in the docks, ships appearing every day from the lesser ports of the West Country and Bristol Channel. The Admiralty in London would coordinate their sailing so that they could join the ships that had sailed from the Downs and the English Channel ports at a rendezvous just off Cork, in the south of Ireland. A large convoy could easily contain three hundreds of merchantmen of various sizes, all to be shepherded across the Atlantic Ocean by a small naval escort. Troopships would normally be placed well inside the convoy, protected by sheer numbers from attack by the French, if they should venture out to sea at all.

  A flotilla of ancient East Indiamen, too old to carry valuable cargoes across the long seas to India, appeared in the harbour and the word came that the battalion was to board one of the largest. Being a small battalion, barely six hundred strong, they could be squeezed aboard a single ship. That was a pity, Billy thought, because it meant that the officers must all be aboard the same ship as the men, rather than safely segregated from the bulk of them; a rigorous discipline would result instead of a relaxed and quieter life.

  He warned his company that they must watch themselves and then led them aboard at the head of the line.

  A ship’s officer was waiting for them, looking for the officer in charge. Captain Higgins was still ashore; Lieutenant Whitaker could hardly stand; Ensign Farthing was unwilling to press forward; Billy stepped up.

  “A Company, sir. Where are we to go, sir?”

  “Fore hold, sergeant. Pallets are laid down on deck, each man to have his own, singly. Keep them together.”

  “Sir.”

  At least they were not to be expected to sleep in hammocks; one point in favour of this ship. It meant that in time of rough weather the men would at least have a place to lie down.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but what times are the company to eat, sir, and what do we do about cooks, sir? Does the ship have a galley which supplies food ready cooked, sir, or do we send our own men to boil the beef every day?”

  Ensign Farthing did not know and Billy escorted him to the ship’s officer who had first given them their billets.

  “Forecastle, sir. Next to the sailors’ galley. Hearths and boiling pots enough to feed three hundreds of your men at a time. Two shifts, sir.”

  Ensign Farthing made his thanks – he was a polite lad. Billy escorted him back to the stern cabins.

  “Best thing, sir, will be for the men to eat one meal a day hot, the other cold. Turn about, like, sir, forenoon and afternoon. Need to steep the salt beef, sir, and keep an eye to it so that none of the rations get pinched by other companies. Use the salt beef water, sir, for mixing up pease pudding or suety pudding or whatever we get on a cheese day.”

  “Oh… to give a meaty flavour as well, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “That’s it, sir. Tastes a bit better, sir. Food gets tedious boring after a few weeks at sea, sir. Anything to give it a bit of flavour’s got to be to the good. As well as that, sir, the ship’s biscuit is middling hard on the teeth, sir. Bit of broth of some sort to soak it in does the lads no end of good. Best thing, sir, is to find lads what wants to be cook, sir, rather than go turn and turn about; you can sometimes get blokes who can do a bit with the rations and then the boys will be happier, as well as knowing that the officers try to look after ‘em.”

  “Is that important, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “Could be, sir. The men are going to obey orders whatever happens. They’ll fight, for their own pride; but they’ll fight that little bit harder for officers what looks after them. When other companies might be falling back, they’ll still push forward, if they got the right feeling, that is.”

  The boy listened and realised that he had no other source of information – none of the officers had been to war.

  “You say that soldiers will not just obey orders, Sergeant Bacon?”

  This was dangerous ground – a would-be
martinet might decide there was a mutinous spirit to be crushed in the men, starting first with Billy.

  “Not quite, sir. You give an order and the men will obey. Always. But they might obey sort of nervously if they are afraid it might be a bad order; contrariwise, they might charge the harder if they want to look after the officer who has looked out for them, sir.”

  “You are saying that it is better to lead from the front than drive from the rear, not just on the field of battle but in the kitchens too?”

  “Just that, sir. Some men are better for a flogging, sir, and some men are worse, but all the men, except a few bad ones, are better for being led, sir. Don’t matter who by, of course. The men prefer to follow an officer – it’s easier, but I have been told of platoons who followed a private soldier after their officer and sergeant was killed.”

  “You are saying, Sergeant Bacon, that the leadership is more important than the leader?”

  That concept was too complex for Billy, far too philosophical in its nature for a man who had almost no education.

  “Dunno about that, sir. What I’d say is that the men fight better for a good officer, but they generally enjoy a fight anyway. Except for a few, of course, and they’re just plain bad. They need a good flogging.”

  “You mean you think flogging is a good thing, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “No, sir. It ain’t meant to be. It’s a bad thing for bad people, and for lads who are on the edge of good and bad, trying to make their mind up what they are, you might say, it can help them decide which way they’re going to go. Watching a man being beaten until he can’t never walk easy again – seeing the skin go, then the flesh, and towards the end, the bones starting showing through the blood, that can give a youngster to think some very deep thoughts, sir, and change his ways all of a sudden-like.”

  Billy noticed a distinctly grey pallor to the ensign’s skin, decided he had been too graphic in his description of a flogging. No matter, the boy could do with thinking about the reality of the Army. He was still in love with his bright scarlet coat and needed to look a bit below the surface.