Bold and Blooded
Page 3
The gaol deliveries were all innocent men, put in prison by mistake, so they said. They had never thieved or poached or thrown stones through the squire’s windows. It had been ‘somebody else’ in every instance.
After the sixth repetition, Micah grew suspicious, but he said nothing; wiser to keep his doubts to himself.
“Why did some fellow throw stones through the window, Thomas?”
“Acos of squire being a big-mouthed moaning old bugger, Micah! Just acos of what I took a pint or two in the beer‘ouse the night before and didn’t fancy working the flail too ‘ard, ‘e called I an idler, so ‘e did, and threatened to put me out of the old village, so ‘e did! Goin’ to throw me out of dad’s cottage, so ‘e said!”
Micah scowled, having little doubt that Thomas was a drunkard and lazy besides. Luckily, Thomas took his expression to be disapproval of squire’s mean-spirited nature.
Sergeant Patterson returned with his party to eat his dinner, no other recruits at his side. He led them inside the castle walls to the cookhouse and sat them down at a rough table inside a barn, the castle being far more of a working farm than a place of war in these days of peace.
“Stewed mutton and beans, with cabbage as well. Bread ain’t too bad. Cooks set up the pot for twenty men, what is what we ought to ‘ave, so eat your fill. You won’t get this every day, not by a long chalk!”
They gorged and collected their hot drinks and Micah found himself sat by the Sergeant, a little distant from the others.
“Are they all like this, Sergeant Patterson? Soldiers, that is?”
“Some a bit better, some a bit worse. Country boys, all of these, and not so vicious by nature as them from the towns. Not so likely to steal from your pockets as the boys from the rookeries. That don’t mean to be careless with your money. Wrap your coins in a stocking and keep them under your blanket when you sleep, Micah. But they ain’t too bad. We stay here tomorrow. Day after, we march.”
Corporal Meadows took Micah into the market next morning and showed him how to buy those extras that would be useful to him.
“Smouch and a leather pouch to keep it in. Hung from your belt is best and carrying a good pound weight, if you can find one big enough.”
It took twenty minutes, but they found a new-made pouch of good leather for fourpence and filled it with smouch for three pennies more.
“A knife, that is a handy thing to have, Micah Slater. There will sometimes be meat to slice up, and often enough you will want to cut shavings off a dry stick to start a fire. A sharp blade will be of use to you.”
They wandered around every stall of the market, weighing up the knives to be found there. Two of the stalls were owned by cutlers who had a stock of new sheath and clasp knives, but many of the others had the odd second-hand cooking knife.
Sixpence eventually found a butcher’s slightly curved ten-inch carving knife, honed repeatedly over the years until the edge was as sharp as a razor. It came with a sheath and could be attached to the belt, next to the pouch.
“Cut any man’s throat, that would, Micah Slater. Do you be careful not to draw that when in an argument. Let not your red hair bring you to the gallows, young man!”
Micah was tempted to give the knife back if it was so dangerous.
“No. Keep it. A soldier needs a blade about him. Have you still a few pennies, Micah?”
He had spent almost half of his money, wanted to keep a little back, just in case.
“A few, Corporal Meadows.”
“Then buy thyself a set of woolly small clothes, lad. They will serve you well when winter comes in the northern parts where we are to go. Sleeping out in the snow with a leather sheet and a single blanket be a good way to die, unless you are wrapped up underneath.”
Eightpence it cost him, but the garment was of thick, oily wool and would cover him from ankles to neck, all in one piece with flaps and leather tie-strings front and back as appropriate.
“Put that on when the weather becomes chilly and do not take it off till spring is come, Micah. It may smell a tad by then, but will save thy life of the nights.”
“Almost summertime it be now, Corporal Meadows. Will we still be in this Scotland place come the winter?”
“The way we are dallying hereabouts, we might not get there before the snow falls!”
They marched next morning after taking a last platter of porridge in the barn. Sergeant Patterson had discovered one more recruit, no more than a schoolboy, a foolish youth who thought it would be an adventure to go soldiering.
“He will learn, poor little sod!”
Corporal Meadows had little patience for the romantic nonsense of little boys who were old enough to know better. The boy was of shaving age and that made him a man in soldiers’ eyes.
“What’s your name, youngster?”
“Edward, Corporal. Broughty, that is.”
“Be you Irish, boy?”
“Nay, Corporal. We are all honest in my family.”
Sergeant Patterson set them in their column behind the cart, in pairs. Micah stood by Edward Broughty’s side, the pair being free volunteers and able to think a little.
“How far must we walk today, Red Man?”
The boy had invented the nickname and insisted upon it, being far smaller than Micah and wanting to bring them to some equality.
“Fifteen miles, Sergeant said, Ned. That be a day’s march, so he said to me. Five hours but taking eight with breaks to eat and rest our feet.”
Ned - the nickname they now gave to Edward - could work out that demanded no more than three miles an hour, which was not too fierce a pace, he hoped.
“Will not your parents be wroth with thee, Ned, for taking to the Trained Band rather than staying in thy school?”
“They may, Red Man, but they live out of the town at Barnack and will not know yet that I am run away; that is why I chose to go this morning early. I hate the school and the beatings there, Red Man. I am of sixteen years, almost, and am not to go back, ever.”
A few minutes later it seemed that Ned was wrong in that avowal. A pot-bellied, red-eyed master in a stuff gown came forcing his way towards the marching column, demanding that they stop and release his pupil to him.
“I shall flog him, so I shall, Master Captain!”
Captain Holdby looked down from his horse and shook his head.
“You shall not, sir. The soldier has signed his name to the roll and shall serve the King’s majesty.”
“He will do no such thing! He is my pupil!”
Captain Holdby drew his sabre and smiled his kindest.
“Are you a traitor to your King, sir? I am to cut down any such that I see. Any man who thinks to subvert a soldier from his duty is my enemy, sir, and I have a short way with those who offer treason. There is too much of disloyalty in this country, sir, and we are to hear no more of it, so says His Majesty, God bless him!”
The schoolmaster had never been so close to a naked blade. He did not like the look of it.
“The boy is not of an age to serve.”
“No man is too young to serve his anointed King, sir. Will you deny the right of God’s Anointed to call men to his service? Are you of the mind of those curs who whine in Parliament?”
The fat man was, but chose to argue no more on this occasion.
“The boy must go to his fate in your company, Captain.”
The thwarted teacher stepped back, raging the more for his humiliation. He believed he should have stood firm, but much feared that the sabre might have been used against him. He turned to a safer target.
“Thee, Edward Broughty, when thou comest crawling back begging to enter your form again, I shall flog thee within an inch of your life, see if I do not!”
Ned replied as a schoolboy should, bringing his thumb to his nose and catcalling.
“Yah! Fat old Parson, ye shall not get me! Up thy great fat arse, Flogger!”
The onlookers, drawn to the argument for free entertainment, sniggered and t
he soldiers marched away.
“Best you should never come back to Stamford School, Ned.”
“I shall not, Red Man, that I promise.”
He did not, never seeing the school again.
Fifteen miles, a day’s march, does not sound very far, but it took Micah into country he had never seen before, away from the limestone hills and out to the flatlands on the edge of the Fens. He sat in the barn they had taken over for the night and rubbed his sore feet while he waited for their stew to cook.
“Two more days of this until we reach Lincoln, so Sergeant Patterson says. Then twenty more at least before we reach Scotland, but we must stay in the camp for a while, to learn the pike or shot, whichever be ours. A long time and many miles before we see the wars, I suspect, Ned.”
Ned had sore feet too, was not quite so enthusiastic about soldiering – but it was better than unending Latin in school.
The camp outside Lincoln seemed exciting, at first. There were two battalions there, making ready to go to war, or so they said. There was a lot of noise and runners scampering with messages and orders being yelled, but the great bulk of the men were sat down next to their knapsacks, looking bored.
“What’s happening, Sergeant Patterson?”
“Sod all, my son. You see them four half-companies over on the right? That’s this side, boy! You see ‘em?”
Micah stared obediently, saw four rough blocks of forty men apiece standing in double ranks.
“What they carrying, Red Man?”
The nickname had taken in the recruiting party.
“Nothing, Sergeant Patterson.”
“Just so, my son. They ain’t carrying nothing, because they ain’t got nothing to carry. They are the shot, the soldiers with the guns, but they ain’t got nothing to shoot with!”
That seemed a little short-sighted to Micah.
“Why?”
“Because the Quartermaster-General ‘as pocketed the money that was to buy two ‘undred of matchlocks, most likely, Red Man. We ain’t got ‘em because of some bugger ‘as stole them.”
That was a surprising revelation to Micah. He asked what the King would do about it.
“Nothing, the Quartermaster-General being a really good friend of ‘is. That ain’t all. Over on the left – what is the other side to the right, boy – over there, you see the other four half-companies, the pikes, that is.”
Micah could see that the pikemen all had their long wooden staves in the vertical position.
“What they got on top of they, Red Man?”
“Wood, Sergeant Patterson.”
“Just that, Red Man. So where be they worked metal pikeheads, what there ought to be?”
“Ah! The Quartermaster-General pinched ‘em, Sergeant?”
“Got it right that time, Red Man. Can’t march to war except we got blade or shot to march with. The pikemen can pretend at least, but the shot can’t do bugger all without their matchlocks.”
They waited a month, eating up their marching rations because they were not intended to remain in Lincoln and so camp rations were not to hand. When the matchlocks and pikeheads finally arrived, they could not leave the camping ground for having nothing to eat on the road. Three weeks later wagons turned up, much to the relief of local farms and villages who had been forced to sell food cheap to the soldiers.
“Looking on the bright side, Red Man, you ‘ad three weeks of learning what to do with that matchlock on thy shoulder. You need a year to be proper trained, but you know where to put the powder at least.”
For some unexplained reason, London had sent a half of the pikeheads they needed but an excess of new-forged matchlocks. Micah had joined the shot, despite his size and strength that made him a natural pikeman.
“Do me, Sergeant Patterson. Better than a clumsy girt great big pike. With this thing, I can point it myself, if I has to. With a pike, if the man next to me runs, I’m left on me own. Pikes are for donkeys, all together and none of them to do owt for themselves. I’ve got me own tinder box and powder and ball in the knapsack and match on me shoulder as well as the apostles on me belts. Best way to go soldiering, if you asks me.”
Sergeant Patterson was inclined to agree, bearing in mind the quality of the soldiers in the company.
“Three out of four are gaol delivery, Red Man. When they smell powder, most of they are goin’ to shit themselves. They’ll run. Watch your back and keep an eye out for the ones who don’t run. Keep together and watch out for each other. If it comes to a fight, I shall be close to hand, and Corporal Meadows. Look out for us and close on us, whatever we’re doing. Don’t run the same place as the yellow bastards do – the chase will be after them, for being the largest number.”
“What about the boy, Sergeant? He’s too small to carry a matchlock.”
“Ned? He’s going to the captain as runner when we get into the field. Keep an eye to him on the march, Red Man. Carry his matchlock for him – if you can.”
Micah was sure he could, although it would be awkward, the piece being cumbersome rather than heavy.
“Carried more nor this in the old quarry, Sergeant Patterson.”
He patted the matchlock, almost with affection.
The musket was nearly six feet from the base of its stock to the tip of the five feet long barrel. It was three-quarters of an inch in bore and weighed about nine pounds. There was a rest to carry across the back, the barrel being unbalanced and difficult to hold in the aim without a support. It was a simple machine, fired by bringing lit slowmatch down to ignite powder in a flashpan to send a jet of flame to the main charge in the barrel. The new models, which Micah’s company carried, used a trigger and spring to bring the serpentine holding the match quickly down and forwards to fire, rather than the slower lever mechanism which pulled the match back towards the firer’s face. The problem was that the springs were weak and liable to snap and not too quick to replace.
It was said to be possible to fire three shots in a minute, but Micah was pleased to manage one. The loading process could only be performed standing and demanded that the butt be dropped to the ground and then powder be poured into the barrel from a wooden apostle containing the correct amount necessary. The soldier carried twelve of them on his belts, hence the name. The powder was rammed and the ball was dropped in afterwards and rammed hard against the charge. If they were issued, then cloth patches were used as well to tamp the charge and prevent the ball rolling out if they had to run carrying a loaded piece.
The length of the barrel slowed the whole process, but the barrel needed be sufficient to allow all of the slow-burning corned powder to turn to the gases that forced the ball out hard and fast.
Micah did not know how accurate the musket might be. It was smoothbore and the ball was nearly one tenth of an inch less than the diameter of the barrel, to allow loading when the barrel was clogged with powder residue after half a dozen firings. It was thought that it might be possible to aim at a target no more than fifty yards distant, but they fired in volleys, concerned only to keep the barrel horizontal. Many of the balls from each volley might hit home at close range, but who fired which could not be told.
At Corporal Meadows’ advice, Micah had managed to lay his hands on an extra flask of the finer grain priming powder used for the flash pan and had helped himself to additional apostles to put in his knapsack.
“Keep your eyes open on the march, Red Man. Always a chance that a dray-horse will break a leg or a wagon lose a wheel. If it do, I shall set thee and another to act as sentries to it until it gets going again. Pick up what you can if that happens. A bag of powder in your knapsack will always come in handy, or a bottle of gin if you spots one, or even a pack of hard biscuits extra-like. Never know what might save your neck when it comes to a pinch.”
Micah could not see why things might become difficult.
“Plenty of men, Corp, and the army’s ahead of us, ain’t it.”
“Most of the men are bloody useless, Red Man. For every one lik
e you, there’s ten who are no good at all. Old and feeble; sick and spitting blood; children like Ned; thieves and vagabonds from the gaols. Let them to smell powder and see what happens then, Red Man. This ain’t an army, it’s a bloody great bunch of dead men walking!”
They halted to reorganise and take stock in York. The ranks were already thinned by the first march, many of the weaker men unable to keep the pace and any number of villains having chosen to run.
“Pity the poor sods in the villages betwixt ‘ere and Lincoln, Red Man. Bloody deserters breaking into their places to steal food and do whatever else strikes their fancy. Rip the countryside to shreds, so they will.”
Even to Micah’s inexperienced eyes, the army was poorly organised and liable to be ineffective when it came to actually fighting. He wondered if the king knew.
Sergeant Patterson had an answer.
“The King, God bless him, knows what he be told, Red Man. He don’t come riding down the ranks and looking for himself. Captain Holdby tells the colonel that the company ain’t fit to do nothing. The colonel tells my lord that he is sure all will be right when the day comes, but he might just prefer not to go to war just yet. My lord tells his commander, whoever that might be, that the army will fight when the need arises and that fine gentleman tells the His Majesty what he’s got an army as will drive the Scots from the field. And that’s what the King thinks, Red Man. With luck, and a lot of it, the Scots will see ten thousand men on the march with pikes and firelocks on their shoulders and look no further and sit down to talk.”
“Without luck, what then, Sergeant?”
“Then you stands behind my shoulder, Red Man. Don’t run with the bloody mob. Corporal Meadows will join us, and whoever else we can find what ain’t pissing themselves, and we shall make our slow and sensible way out of trouble. When the mob runs down the hill, we shall go up and sit down quietlike out of sight and then to come back south, all the way to York, so I reckon. Then we forms up in our ranks and marches in, having stood as rearguard all the way, like the brave souls we are. We might have to go as far as Nottingham or even Newark before we finds the army, but there we shall be, all alive-oh, which is more than most of they what runs will say for themselves.”