Bold and Blooded

by Andrew Wareham

  Micah thought they might do better on this occasion.

  “We should plant the company’s flag on the stones of the market square, Captain. We must certainly attract attention there. Additionally, we could do well to march through the villages on the warmer days. We could perhaps encourage the boys there away from the drudgery of village life. Few of them will come into town as much as once a year. They will flock to the sight of soldiers on the march for the sake of seeing anything new.”

  “Avoiding young Ned’s place, perhaps, Red Man. We might not be so kindly received there.”

  “He will be no more than one of many before a year has passed, I suspect, Captain.”

  “I am sure. We must take a pint from the bar, Red Man, and stay to talk to those who need to have words with us. Many of these are unsure of what to do. A quiet conversation over a beer might be what they need to bring them across to us. Very quiet; the voice of reason, Red Man, even if they do think thee to be a descendant of Judas!”

  “You heard that, Captain? Old sod! He said it by intent, to rile me if I was of a short temper.”

  “You will hear worse than that, Red Man. Be not offended by words, man! You have the right to be upset by those who shoot at you or try to stick a pike through your innards – but words will do ye no harm.”

  “’Sticks and stones may break my bones, but hard words will never hurt me’? An old saw, but true enough, in its way. Still annoying, even so!”

  They laughed and paid for a pint apiece, decided they would not patronise the bar again. The landlord brewed a week and watery beer.

  “If he gives this to the King’s men he will do us a favour, Red Man. No soldier would go to war on this.”

  “Neither small beer nor the true ale, Captain.”

  “All arms and legs.”

  “No body, indeed!”

  Micah grinned and turned to a gentleman seeking his attention.

  “I am Matthias Fuller, sir, the builder.”

  “Lieutenant Slater, in command of Seventh Company, sir.”

  “You are but young for command, Lieutenant.”

  “The luck of war, sir. I was the sole man to hand when the Scots made a nuisance of themselves. I progressed in short order from green recruit to ensign to lieutenant. I must thank Captain Holdby for his favour.”

  “And your own abilities, I suspect, young man. You have the local speech on your tongue, do you not?”

  “I am Collyweston born and bred, Mr Fuller.”

  “And built those muscles in the quarry, I doubt not.”

  “I did, sir. Now I am a soldier, and perhaps better suited for the profession of arms than I was for cutting slates.”

  “Ye have small respect for the King, it seems, Mr Slater.”

  “He seems to be a foolish man, sir. I know little of his doings in London but what I saw of the campaign against the Scots said he was irresolute and ill-advised. A King chooses those who are to advise him, I believe, sir.”

  “Well said, Lieutenant! An ill-advised King must blame himself. What will you do with one hundred pounds and perhaps fifty recruits, sir?”

  “Very little, Mr Fuller. The people of Stamford must do more than this – or nothing at all. A full company of shot is what I would look for from a prosperous town such as this. Eighty men – at very least. Each to have back and breast and a morion and good marching boots. A pair of breeches in between would not come amiss. Besides that, he must carry a matchlock – a flintlock would be better, but they are rare and expensive – and a sword of sorts.”

  “Not a horse, sir?”

  “Troopers are better made from country boys, Mr Fuller. A company of shot would be most valuable, for most villages and small towns will supply pikes, for not being able to pay for matchlocks.”

  “That makes good sense. What sort of cost are you talking of, sir?”

  “With rations and all of their needs, and not forgetting to pay them, you will need to put a thousand pounds together over a year. Soldiers do not come cheap, sir!”

  “By God, sir, they do not!”

  “Loyal local men will put their hands in their pockets, I do not doubt, sir. You will know the disloyal, and those you may fine, of course, in no small measure.”

  That prospect appealed to Mr Fuller.

  “Mr Perceval is not present this evening. He owns the other building firm in Stamford…”

  “Should he be taken up in his disloyalty, Mr Fuller, found to be supporting King rather than the local people as he should, then yours might be the sole firm in Stamford.”

  “So it would be, by God! And we would have a contribution to the cause besides. He is not a poor man and could be well fined.”

  Mr Fuller was much heartened by the prospect of driving his rival into poverty. He assured Micah that he would press for action the very next morning.

  “I shall denounce him as a back-stabber, one who would make report on his fellow townsmen. He shall be driven out of the town.”

  Micah said no more. He wondered just how the King’s man was to be driven out, and who would do it and how he would be prevented from returning. It was, he hoped, none of his business.

  Captain Holdby agreed – they were to know nothing of the affair.

  “Have your company ready to march out in the morning, Lieutenant Slater. If there should be an outbreak of rioting in the streets, we may be called upon to restore order. Captain Westerham will not be granted the opportunity to bolster the place of the King’s men in town; we will ensure that the right people prevail. I shall speak to Major Figgis first thing, and he will do as I tell him – if he has any sense, that is.”

  Micah had reason to doubt whether the old major possessed any ability at all.

  “He went to bed drunk before we left to come to this meeting, Captain.”

  “He leaves the table drunk most nights, Red Man. Westerham ain’t a lot better.”

  “What is the attraction, Captain? I have never been drunk and have no desire to be.”

  “There’s a good few things you have never been, Red Man. It might be an idea to do something about that before the war comes.”

  Micah did not quite understand that reply.

  They saw that men were leaving the meeting, waited a few more minutes to be neither first nor last and made their way back to their rooms in the barracks.

  “You need a soldier-servant, Red Man. Officers should not waste their valuable time on washing their clothes and tidying their rooms. If nothing else, you could be reading more of the pamphlets that are circulating. You should improve your knowledge of the country as well. It will make sense for you to ride the land around the town – we might have to fight over these fields and through the river bottoms. A wise soldier knows the ground, Red Man. We shall talk it over in the morning. Early to breakfast, I think. We shall arrange for your company to be set to the butts for the morning, Red Man. An issue of powder and ball and match. First thing.”

  “So… if we happen to be called out to settle disorder in the town, we will be ready to march, alone of the garrison.”

  “Coincidence, Lieutenant Slater!”

  “So it will be, sir. Good night, sir. Sleep well!”

  Breakfast was eaten undisturbed and Micah found Sergeant Patterson and instructed him to draw from the Armoury for practice with the matchlocks.

  “Yes, sir. Ten rounds, sir?”

  “No. Better the men should get in the way of carrying the cartouche, Sergeant Patterson. Each man to carry his twelve apostles on his belt and a fully made-up cartouche as well.”

  The cartouche was a flat wooden tray with holes drilled to take made-up cartridges. It had a cover of oiled canvas or leather and a carrying strap. They were by way of being an innovation, the idea old enough but the practice new and not universal in the Army. Loading was as much as twenty seconds faster, especially if the men were holding a wall or trench and able to settle themselves into a comfortable position to hold the matchlock. On the march, however, the cartouc
he was awkwardly shaped and badly balanced and was a nuisance to carry, swinging from the shoulder and much disliked by the men.

  Sergeant Patterson was old in the service, more than a decade since first he had marched into battle. He knew exactly why his officer wanted the men to carry the hated cartouches.

  “Forty-eight cartridges to the cartouche, sir. Makes a full sixty with the apostles. An extra two yards of slowmatch for each man, I think, sir.”

  “That’s right, Sergeant Patterson. You never know when we might be called in aid of the civil power. We might have to suppress a riot any day. Must make sure we do our duty, Sergeant Patterson, and ensure that the right sort of people are properly protected.”

  It took nearly an hour to arrange the issue and then to make sure that the men were all carrying the awkwardly shaped tray in the proper fashion at their side.

  “There’s a constable a-running down the riverbank towards us, sir. Poor old bugger – must be twenty years since he managed more than a slow walk. His hat’s fell off, sir.”

  Sergeant Patterson silenced Alfie, reminding him that soldiers did not break silence in the ranks except to make a proper report to his officer.

  “Yes, Sergeant! A constable, sir, running towards the castle. He has entered the offices, sir.”

  “Well said, that man. Company to make ready to march, Sergeant Patterson.”

  Captain Holdby’s servant appeared, running towards them from the offices. Micah held the hilt of his sword so that it did not trip him, hurried across to meet the man.

  “Captain’s compliments, sir. Join him in the offices, if you please. Company to be ready, sir.”

  “Tell Sergeant Patterson.”

  Micah stretched out, as fast a march as he could manage. Officers did not run, or so he understood. He found the captain waiting next to the constable.

  “Rioting in town, Lieutenant Slater. In the street outside the premises of a Mr Perceval. Some heads broken so far. Restore the peace and bring the malefactors before the Bench, Lieutenant Slater. The constable will lead you through town to the proper place. Try not to cause harm to the good people of the town.”

  That, Micah realised, gave him free rein to cause any harm he wished to the bad people.

  “Come with me, Constable. Where are we to go?”

  The Constable, aged and incapable of running twice in the same day, pointed the road out and did his best to follow on behind. He named the street, shouting as he could find the wind. Five minutes of marching brought them within hearing distance of a riot.

  Chapter Eleven

  Years of Blood Series

  Bold and Blooded

  “Sergeant Patterson, two sections to load and remain to the rear. Remainder to form a double line behind me across the width of the road.”

  “Sir.”

  Micah was much of the opinion that Sergeant Patterson would know what he was doing, but the officer must give the initial orders.

  Seventh Company was strong in numbers. Micah had taken over eighty men and added his ten to them. He had three corporals. Meadows, who had come with him, apparently under his own orders, was senior of them and Micah noticed him to have taken his men to the rear to be the loaded squad. It was the most important position, in terms of needing thought and judgement; it was also likely to be furthest from the flying boots and stones.

  Sergeant Patterson placed the men in four lines, he noticed. The road was still narrow and could not take a full section shoulder to shoulder. He had placed the two groups of thirty distant by about ten paces, one behind the other. They needed a fourth corporal to make an additional squad – thirty was too many for a single corporal. That must be addressed after the riot was dealt with, not when they were busy.

  “Ready, Sergeant Patterson?”

  Patterson came forward to stand at Micah’s shoulder, positioned so that he could whisper in his ear as necessary.

  “March.”

  A bend in the street brought them within sight of the unrest.

  A lot of noise; men and boys – gutter urchins, a dozen and more of them giving high-pitched yells and throwing stones – all milling about the gates of a small yard.

  A few seconds of watching rather than reacting to the apparent chaos showed very little actually happening. The gates were six feet high solid boards and well closed, probably barred on the inside. The stones were rattling off the timbers, doing no harm at all. The shrieking was not being answered. There were no bodies in the street.

  Micah looked hard, trying to find a leader, an organiser of the riot.

  He saw his acquaintance of the night before, Mr Fuller, coming across the road accompanied by three others unknown to him.

  “Lieutenant Slater. In good hour, sir! I came with Mr Pulbright and Mr Sleaford and Mr Moor – all three magistrates of this town – to serve a writ upon Mr Perceval, accusing him of various malfeasances, and he closed his gates and refused us entry, setting his labouring men upon us. They assaulted a number of men in the street – no more than passers-by – who are now expressing their anger against him.”

  That sounded thoroughly unlikely to Micah, but he knew whose side he was on.

  “What must I do, Mr Fuller?”

  “Open the gates and allow the magistrates to perform their duty, if you would be so good, Lieutenant Slater.”

  “I must have the order officially confirmed, Mr Fuller, by the Bench.”

  The three magistrates formally ordered him to have the gate opened.

  “Sergeant Patterson, demand entry in the King’s name.”

  “But…”

  “I am still a loyal officer, performing my proper function of lending aid to the civil power, Mr Fuller. As such, and holding the King’s commission as I do, I must act in His Majesty’s name, however little he might approve of my doing so!”

  Fuller could see the amusing side.

  Sergeant Patterson banged on the gate, first informing the vagabond boys that any of them who threw a stone at him would be shot. The rioters suddenly became calm.

  “Open the gates!”

  A voice shouted back, the words indistinct.

  “In the King’s name!”

  There was a longer reply.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but they refuse to open up.”

  Micah turned to Fuller.

  “Men with crowbars and heavy hammers, if you please, sir. My soldiers will protect them as they break the gates.”

  “It will be easier to rip a hole in the fence next to them, Lieutenant.”

  “Do so.”

  Men appeared with tools in less than ten minutes, Fuller’s builder’s yard being very close.

  “Sergeant Patterson. Corporal Meadow’s section to stand close guard on the workmen. Match lit and powder in the flashpan.”

  The fence was designed more for privacy than for protection. It fell within a very few minutes.

  “Corporal Meadows. You and your people to enter the yard and stand while the gates are opened. Sergeant Patterson, close the company about these four gentlemen and bring them inside through the gates.”

  Five minutes saw all inside and a rearguard using boot and butt to chivvy the street boys out again.

  There were stacks of bricks and tiles in the yard and open-walled sheds protecting timber from the rain. At the far side was a stables block and two wagons and next to that a pair of offices sat adjacent to the owner’s house. Every door was bolted shut and the yard was empty of people.

  The magistrates walked slowly across the yard and stood outside the big front door, banging on the knocker.

  A front window opened; a cautious head poked out a few inches.

  “What do you want of me, gentlemen?”

  “Michael Perceval, you are charged that you have purchased muskets and powder with the purpose of breaking the peace and setting the lives of the people of the town at risk. You must come with us and present yourself before the court.”

  “I have obeyed the instructions of the Lord Lieutenant
of the County of Lincolnshire who has ordered all loyal men to gather arms to protect themselves and His Majesty’s interests in the county.”

  “Parliament has not sanctioned such an order. It is unlawful and you must surrender the weapons and yourself.”

  The odds were too great. Perceval was prepared to ignore the screams and stones of gutter riffraff; standing against soldiers in arms was another matter.

  “I shall open the door.”

  An hour saw Perceval arraigned in the courtroom, watching as six matchlocks were displayed to the hastily assembled Bench. His house was under the guard of Corporal Meadows’ section while the remainder of the company stood outside the courthouse to prevent any King’s supporters from gathering there.

  The Chairman gave the verdict in quick time.

  “Guilty on all charges. A fine of one hundred pounds to be paid immediately. A bond of good behaviour to be placed with the clerk to the court in the sum of fifty pounds in coin. All weapons and goods of war to be forfeited. Your house and premises to be searched by Lieutenant Slater’s Company.”

  By morning’s end both of Perceval’s wagons were loaded with warlike stores and his dray horses were hitched to them while his pair of riding horses were on a loose rein behind.

  “Rations; powder and ball; leather jerkins and breeches and boots such as horsemen might wear; military saddles; a pair of flintlock muskets and eight pistols; four swords and a pair of long knives; a cash box containing the pay for a company.”

  Micah handed a copy of the written inventory to Michael Perceval.

  “The original will be placed in the hands of the Bench, sir. You might be sensible to take yourself and your family elsewhere, sir. There is sufficient here to hang a man.”

  “Fowling pieces for rough shooting, Lieutenant. Swords that were carried by my grandfather in his day. My riding and working horses!”

  “Cavalry chargers, sir, and commissary wagons.”

  Perceval objected again and was told he was wasting the Army’s time.