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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Damn’ near fifty yards off, the last one. Not much chance of hitting him, sir.”

  “Put two more men to him, and one to each of the others, and that leaves you with one man loaded to knock down any still standing.”

  “Sir.”

  The sentries were carrying their muskets, possibly the only men in camp with immediate access to a loaded piece. Killing them might save several lives in the company.

  “Ready O’Mara, Nankivell, Archer?”

  Three grunts of affirmation.

  “Shoot, Corporal Gloag. Go, the others.”

  A volley of nine rounds, followed by immediate reloading. A single shot as one of the sentries came up to hands and knees and scrabbled for his musket. Yelling from the shelters followed by a scream and then a flurry of shots. A bellow from Corporal O’Mara, shouting something in his own language that brought a grin to the Irishmen, of whom there were several in the company.

  “What did he say, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “Something very rude, sir, judging by the way they’re laughing.”

  “Is it lawful to use a foreign language in the Army?”

  “Probably not, sir.”

  Billy’s voice was sufficiently discouraging that the boy took his question no further.

  “Can you see an Officers Mess, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “Well, no, sir. Not even an officer’s shack, sir. Perhaps the Frogs are serious about this fraternity and equality stuff, sir and they all eat and sleep together.”

  Ensign Farthing suspected that Billy was mocking him; there was nothing he could do.

  Corporal O’Mara showed himself at the front of his platoon. His coat and linen trousers were liberally smeared with blood.

  “One of them tried to fire a gun, sir. Calling the alarm, I suspect it may have been, sir, but ‘twas a misguided sort of thing to do, and most unwise of him. Six men, sir, and two big guns, eight or nine pounders, I would say. Roundshot and canister, sir, and charges made up in flannel, like the sailors do. No prisoners, sir.”

  “Well done, Corporal O’Mara. Ah…”

  Billy stepped in, the boy not knowing what to do next.

  “Get rid of the bodies – inconvenient things to have underfoot - and set sentries to the wall and on the guns, Corporal O’Mara. Keep the bodies out of sight, don’t just chuck them over the wall.”

  “Sir!”

  Corporal Gloag called from the far end of the wall, opposite to the end where the big shelter was located.

  “Bit of a kitchen sort of thing, sir, distant from where they sleep. Safer that way, can’t burn down their wood and grass shelters. Rice, sir, and salt fish, and coconuts and a sack of beans. Don’t reckon much to their grub, sir.”

  “Wine or brandy?”

  “Neither, sir. Reckon they were down to water.”

  “Small island, sir. Going to be low on stores.”

  “Do we want their food, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “Feed it to prisoners, there’s bound to be some. Pinch their beans, sir. They can boil up as an extra. The lads don’t like rice, and most of ‘em won’t have salt fish at any price. Don’t blame them. They didn’t even feed us that as apprentices!”

  They stretched out towards the other end of the little camp, wondering why neither Nankivell or Archer had appeared to report.

  Reaching the small shelter, they found a dozen of prisoners under guard, and saw a made path leading across the next hillside, concealed from view by the roof of the sleeping area.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but the Frogs legged it, most of ‘em, except for these what was asleep and woke up slow, and the ones what we killed and threw the bodies out the back, sir, bout ten of them. Corporal Archer and Corporal Nankivell and the rest of the platoons went a-chasing after the Frogs, sir. They was getting into the tail of ‘em something chronic, sir, with the old bayonets, sir. You can see the stiffs along the track, look.”

  There were at least a dozen blue-coated bodies fallen into the brush and grasses along the track.

  Ensign Farthing seemed doubtful.

  “Shows initiative, Sergeant Bacon.”

  “Yes, sir. If they turn a corner and find themselves in the middle of a battalion of Frogs it will show dead, sir. Best send a runner, sir, to the Brigadier, tell him that we have taken the Frogs’ forward position, sir.”

  “I shall write a note, Sergeant Bacon. We shall not, perhaps, choose a half-wit as messenger this time.”

  “Can’t, sir. We only got the one. Best send two men, sir, just in case there are any other Frog positions we don’t know about.”

  They waited, and watched the track for signs of Archer or Nankivell coming back.

  “Twenty minutes, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “Do you think it might be possible to shift a gun over here, sir, to cover the track?”

  They looked, could pick out faint wheel-ruts where the guns had been moved some days or weeks earlier.

  “Try it, Sergeant Bacon.”

  “Corporal Gloag! Get them prisoners to shift a gun across here. Our men to carry the powder.”

  Gloag discovered that at least one French prisoner understood a little English and muttered that the French outpost had had no contact with the main body of soldiers for weeks. Another prisoner, a sergeant perhaps, tried to make an objection to being forced to move the guns; a musket butt between the shoulder blades silenced him and persuaded the others to show willing.

  It took a surprisingly short time to shift the gun across and to turn it to cover the track at about eighty yards.

  “Don’t know how it’s loaded, sir. If it’s canister or grape shot, sir – they’re much the same – then eighty yards is far enough distant. If it’s ball, then it gives a chance to reload before they get on top of us. Easy to fire one of these guns, sir. They showed us in Bombay when the cholera was high and they thought they might lose all the artillerymen. Fire her with a linstock, sir – that’s the one they’re using, sir – just a yard-long pole with a grip at the end to hold a piece of slowmatch, which we had as well light now, sir. Then, swab out with the bit of sheepskin on the pole, sir, good and wet. Then load in the cartridge and push in down to place with the rammer; a net of grapeshot, or a tin box of canister, rammed down again, hard on top of the powder charge. Being as how they are using made cartridges, no need to use a wad, sir, particularly because we ain’t firing downhill with a chance of the shot rolling even a little bit down the barrel. Then run her up, sir, to position and the gunner takes hold of the pricker - here – which makes a hole in the serge of the cartridge – and then pours in the priming powder, which the French have got loose, sir, just about like it was a big musket. The gunners in Bombay had what they called quills, sir, which are fuses filled with gunpowder and spirits of wine dried up and which flash faster than gunpowder on its own. Just using powder, there’s a little bit of a delay between lighting the powder and the gun firing, not much but it puts aiming off if the target’s moving. Make sure the gunner and everyone else is clear of the recoil, sir.”

  “What are spirits of wine, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “Don’t know, sir. The gunners just took the fuses out of the box what comes from Woolwich, sir, from the Arsenal.”

  “Right. Is this cannon primed?”

  “Shouldn’t be, sir. If it rains on a primed cannon then you get wet powder to be brushed out before you can do it again and fire her. Always prime last thing, sir.”

  The conversation took their mind off the minutes ticking away, and the continuing absence of Archer and Nankivell.

  “Do you think they have run into trouble, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “No musketry, sir. They might not have.”

  “If they are still chasing them, then the main body of the French are a long way distant…”

  “They are that, sir… You don’t think that maybe this is all of them, sir? Just this one small strongpoint and the Welsh battalion never found out that there ain’t no more of them, sir?”

  “Surely not, Ser
geant Bacon! They can’t have been that… Nothing more to say, Sergeant Bacon. What shall we do now?”

  “With respect, sir, the best thing is for you to hold the camp here. I will, with your permission, sir, take a platoon down the valley here to the coast road and then stretch out along it until we come to a plantation, or find the rest of the Frogs.”

  “The battalion must catch up with us soon, Sergeant Bacon.”

  “Then Captain Higgins takes over, sir.”

  “So he does – and he takes over from me as if it was me who captured this position.”

  “You were officer in command, sir. Best thing is if I make sure we’re back with you before dark, sir, with the results of the scout you sent me out on.”

  “Come with me a minute, Sergeant Bacon.”

  Ensign Farthing led Billy a few yards away, out of earshot of the men.

  “Why, Sergeant Bacon?”

  “The men do better for having an officer, sir. We can’t run the Company proper with just Captain Higgins and me and with a lieutenant who’s useless and an ensign who’s no more than a little boy. Can’t do nothing about the lieutenant, sir, but the boy’s turning into a man, and quickly. A boy would not be asking me the question now, sir.”

  “You are generous, Sergeant Bacon. If I was useless, then you might be made an officer to do what was needed.”

  “Ain’t a matter of what’s good for me, sir. There’s more than forty men here, sir. I’ve got a responsibility to them. That’s what a sergeant’s for, sir.”

  “It should be an officer’s job, too. Another of today’s lessons. Take your platoon out. Who do you want, Gloag or O’Mara?”

  “O’Mara, sir. Might be we have to fight hard at hand to hand, coming on the French all of a sudden. Gloag will fight the men well in a proper battle; O’Mara will rip into the Frogs with butt and bayonet and boot and fist, teeth as well if need be.”

  “Dear me. I don’t know that I could do that, you know, Sergeant Bacon.”

  “Or me, sir. Takes a certain sort of man to do that, and I ain’t quite sure what makes a man into that sort. I’m not – and I reckon I’m glad of it, too.”

  The platoon kept to cover as well as they could down the valley, just in case there was a picket out on the coast road, but they saw nothing. Billy led them three miles, as well as he could guess, along the flat land, saw that the hills inland were coming to an end, and that the landscape was changing. The brown scrub disappeared in the space of a furlong and changed to sprouting light green cane, the edge of the sugar plantations. There was no sign of activity on the road. The cane was no more than waist-high, offered no cover.

  “What do you reckon, Paddy?”

  O’Mara did not especially like their situation.

  “Too open, sergeant-me-dear. They can see us coming at half a mile, if there might be a man to be looking, that is. For sure, it is not the place I might choose to be, not with a single platoon to me name.”

  Billy felt much the same; add to that he did not like the fact that they had captured just two guns.

  “Cannon don’t generally come in pairs, Paddy. A battery will have five or six of the buggers, and the others might just be tucked away in the cover hereabouts. Pity we don’t have Jimbo with us.”

  “Now, that’s a hard thought if ever there was one, Sarge! Send the boy along the road, whistling and chewing a straw with not a care in the world, for not having the know to reckon there might be a bloody great cannon ball with his name written on it.”

  “Wouldn’t make much difference if he did, Paddy – poor little chap can’t read.”

  There was a snort of laughter, shame-faced, from the men who had been listening.

  “Go back, I think. About face, lads. Keep an eye out behind us and watch the hills. Should not be any horse on a little place like this, but if we see cavalry then it’s up the hillside, front half with the corporal, back half with me, turn and turn about, shooting together from what cover we can find.”

  It was ordinary practice, but better done with a company than a thin platoon.

  There was no cavalry it seemed, but they met the battalion on the coast road, a mile from the redoubt they had taken.

  Captain Higgins was present, as was Ensign Farthing and Corporal Gloag, leading his platoon and Corporal Archer’s.

  “Report, Sergeant Bacon.”

  “Sir. I took the platoon down this road as far as the edge of the sugar cane, sir. Saw nothing. No evidence of recent traffic on the road, no sign of the enemy to the front, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Bacon. Ensign Farthing has informed me of your actions during the day. Lieutenant Whitaker has been left with Corporal Nankivell and the remains of his platoon to hold the redoubt. The two corporals pursued the French for some distance, cutting up the stragglers, until they made a stand; a brief fight resulted in the death of Corporal Archer and of eight men from the two platoons, but they believe they killed every man of the French. They brought back nearly forty French muskets with powder and ball, at your orders, I understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Important not to leave muskets where slaves might come across them. I do not believe we want the slaves to arm themselves, sir.”

  “By God, we do not! I shall speak to the Brigadier on that point immediately. Well done, Sergeant Bacon!”

  Captain Higgins ran off to the Brigadier, halted with the remainder of the battalion on the road.

  “Beg pardon, Mr Farthing, sir, but where is the other battalion? The Welshmen, that is?”

  “Unknown, Sergeant Bacon! We have no word of their location. The civilian population will not speak to us and we have found no soldiers.”

  “Well, sir, they must be somewhere, so I must imagine them to be further down this road. Presumably wherever the other cannon are, sir. Don’t very often get just two cannon on their own, sir.”

  The message came soon after that the battalion would retire to the creek below the taken redoubt, camping on water overnight.

  Sergeant-Major Muldoon found Billy as they retraced their steps.

  “Busy day, Billy?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it, ‘Clarence!”

  “Heavy casualties, from all I hear.”

  “Damned fools chased after running Frogs. No need for it. They were doing no harm, running. Killed perhaps forty Frogs, but lost men we cannot replace. Nine dead, and where will we find bodies to stand in their stead?”

  “Locals, it will have to be, Billy. If you can find young men willing to join up – volunteers, of course – then the problem will be solved.”

  Those volunteers could only be slaves, offered freedom in exchange for service; necessarily, they would be runaways from the French plantations on the island. They would have no immediate loyalty to King George, but it could be taken for granted that they would hate their former masters.

  “The lads might not be too keen on black men sharing with them. Of course, if it is explained that they need men if they are to survive this campaign, and the next, and the one after, they probably will come round to it. If the choice is die or serve next to black privates, I reckon I know which way they’ll go.”

  “So do I.” Muldoon glanced about him, saw that none of the men were in hearing distance. “How did the boy do today, Billy? I am told he was very complimentary about you.”

  “He is a good lad, Clarence. If he lives long enough, he will make a good officer. He’s quick to learn and he knows what loyalty means. You can trust that boy, and you will be calling him a man soon, I believe.”

  “You will need him. Whitaker was given the redoubt because he can’t keep up; he lacks strength, Billy. Was there any booze there?”

  “Not a drop, Clarence.”

  “Then he’s dead, or will be very soon, for I know he has emptied his flasks, both of them and has only water left, and his only use for water is to wash in it. He will be raving by morning.”

  “No loss, he has not done a full day of duty since I have known him!”

&nb
sp; “Agreed. Where are these bloody Welshmen, Billy?”

  Muldoon was worried – that was the strongest language Billy had ever heard from him.

  “Same place as the Frogs, Clarence – and they ain’t besieging them, for I hear no guns, no volleys of musketry, and surely on a place this small, we would pick up something.”

  “Then, if they are not fighting, Billy, what are they doing?”

  “Well, reckoning that they would not have declared their own peace treaty, Clarence, I can see just one possibility.”

  “Hell’s teeth, man! So can I. I shall suggest, very strongly, to Brigadier Searson, that we send a small patrol forward, early tomorrow, to examine the ground. It must be you, Billy – you know your way about in a hot land. Do you want an officer as well?”

  “No, but if I must then the boy will do. He will not play the fool. Can we have the messenger back, by the way, Clarence?”

  “You are lucky he’s still alive, Billy. You sent him back with a piece of paper, and he don’t quite understand writing. Seems he was caught short on the way and retired into the bush to empty his bowels, so he put the paper to what seemed the proper use to him. He explained, slowly, what he had done with the paper, and wanted to be told he was a good boy for keeping clean, is my opinion. His message was you was going up the hill. When he was asked which hill, he said it was a high one. Brigadier Searson was not pleased, as you may imagine. Lucky he ain’t a cruel man by nature, or Jimbo would have been up at the triangle for a hundred.”

  “I thought he would be safe, or I wouldn’t have sent him, but I didn’t need Captain Higgins on me back. I wanted a day to teach the boy how to go on.”

  “I shall go to the Brigadier now, Billy, and we will get your orders for the morning. Who will you take with you?”

  “Gloag – I reckon, Clarence, that we might need more than talent to fight tomorrow.”

  “You may need a man who can think for himself, and who knows what to do in an out of the ordinary situation. Your choice.”

  They ate, and enjoyed the Frenchmen’s beans, for having stolen them from the enemy, and boiled up their tea and drank it thoughtfully.