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Hungry Harry: An Orphan in the Ranks

Page 9

by Andrew Wareham


  Sergeant Hollis marched off to the front of the column and then let all the men pass him before he doubled back to the front again. It was time for a break, the men were tired and thirsty, but he knew better than to advise the major. A word from him and the major would call for the column to double, just to show who gave the orders.

  “Rest the men at the top of the hill, Sergeant.”

  “Sir!”

  Never say ‘yes’ to an order, because that implied the possibility that you might say ‘no’. A truly stroppy officer could take a sergeant’s stripes for saying yes.

  There was a stony clearing at the top of the hill, the rock outcropping offering no lodgement for roots. They sat down with groans of relief, taking it in turns to hold their mates’ muskets while they wandered into the bush a few feet for privacy.

  “So, what’s goin’ on, Sarge?”

  “Bloody fool of a trader, that’s all, Harry. Selling the natives gin and cloth and mirrors and beads and muskets and powder and ball – all the normal, only ‘e got greedy, didn’t ‘e. Put ‘is prices up acos of some daft bugger told ‘im there was gold dust in the rivers what the local tribes was findin’. Maybe there was. But the tribesmen ain’t stupid. They knows what the prices are down at Cape Coast Castle and what they are in their local place. They’re willin’ to pay a bit more so as not to walk another day and back to trade at the Castle. They told ‘im, the trader, they didn’t like the new prices and ‘e said they was black monkeys and they’d pay what ‘e bloody told ‘em to. So one of ‘em stuck a spear in ‘is guts and they emptied out ‘is store and buggered off. They didn’t stop to make sure they’d killed ‘im, and that wouldn’t ‘ave taken a minute, so they weren’t out for blood.”

  “What are we doin’?”

  “Gettin’ the trade goods back, or makin’ em pay a price for ‘em, so I ‘eard the colonel to say. If they pay up, then everything ends there. They won’t pay, we go through their village and kill any man what argues and take everything we can lay our ‘ands on. Then we burns the place to tell ‘em they was wrong. Then we comes back through the forest and ‘opes they can’t shoot straight!”

  “I thought the Asante had a big army, Sarge.”

  “They do. These ain’t Asante, they’re just a small tribe what ain’t been taken over yet. The Asante we talks to, and polite like!”

  Another half day through the rain forest and they came to the coast at a bay that made a protected harbour. They made camp around the deserted and empty trade store. The local tribe had been very thorough in its looting. There were no bodies, but no people either, and the trader would have had labourers and servants and probably one at least of local women to serve his other needs, or so Harry thought.

  “Some of ‘em will ‘ave run, Harry. Some will ‘ave joined in with the lootin’. Some of ‘em will ‘ave new masters back in the local village.”

  Sergeant Hollis was unconcerned. Had there been a massacre, the bodies would have been on view; they would not have buried them. It fitted in with the unwillingness to kill the trader; these folk were not bloodthirsty, or not at the moment, he corrected himself.

  “Makes sense, stayin’ overnight and not doin’ anything till daylight. They’ll watch us and make their minds up tonight. Good chance they’ll talk to us in the mornin’.”

  The officers found cover for the night in the store, the major appropriating the living quarters to himself; the men each put their blankets down on the narrow strip of grasses between the sand and the bush.

  Dawn brought a deputation, local men anxious to explain that it was not their fault but that they would pay a fair and proper price for the goods they had taken.

  The major would have none of it; he demanded that they should pay two for one as a punishment for their actions and that they must surrender the spearman who had attacked the trader.

  The local men asked why and were told it was so he could be hanged, and they were lucky he was not demanding the life of every man who had been present. They refused to hand their man over and the major threatened to hang them instead.

  Negotiations broke off at that point, the village elders stalking off into the bush.

  The major watched them go and laughed. He ordered his breakfast, saying that they would be back inside the hour, ready to agree with all he had asked for.

  “Only way to treat ‘em, Captain Austin! A firm hand, sir! That’s all they understand.”

  The major took his breakfast - equal parts of ration beef coated in biscuit crumb and fried in palm oil and of trade gin – and declared himself fit to face the world.

  The men had eaten oatmeal boiled in water and were unwilling to face anything.

  Nothing happened; the elders did not return. In mid-morning the major decided they must march.

  The major arranged the column – the Light Company first; himself in the middle of the Grenadiers next; the remaining fifty men in fours bringing up the rear. The major was a short man and the Grenadiers were the tallest in the battalion; Harry was sure that was no coincidence.

  They marched out, no scouts ahead for there was no need to treat a few black villagers as if they could fight.

  Thirty firelocks flamed as they entered the bush. The villagers had traded for firearms for half a century and had a collection of weapons – a few of ancient blunderbusses; some more modern fowling pieces; Dutch, French and English muskets of differing bore. Metal was precious to them and they were unwilling to waste it, so they had loaded with stones more or less of musket-ball size or gravel or broken glass from dropped gin bottles. They were untrained and had little idea of a correct powder charge or of how to aim precisely and so their volley was less effective than it might have been, but they knocked down the front ranks of the column.

  The major shouted his orders and the column reformed into companies in three ranks, the Light Company very thin.

  The major gave his firing orders and the men obeyed, for there was no choice in the matter, but they had no target. The villagers remained hidden in the bush, a thick, low growth of cane and yard-high grasses and some sort of broad-leaved thorn.

  It was obvious that they would not be able to push through the bush; they were forced to remain on the narrow track where they might just be able to march in their fours. Every bend in the winding track could hold another ambush.

  They counted up their losses, a few men sent running forward to bring in the wounded; the villagers remained, they supposed, silent and invisible but watching.

  “Four dead, sir. Seventeen wounded – mostly face and chest and bellies, sir – they must have aimed high. Two are blinded, sir, and I think most of the others must be mortal. They must be carried away.”

  Nearly one quarter of the men out of action, and at least as many again to carry stretchers.

  “Officers?”

  “Three, sir, all wounded. Captain Austin may live, sir – he was peppered across the shoulder and may not take the wound fever.”

  “Fall back to the trade store. We shall send a pair of runners to the Castle to call for boats to pick up the wounded before we march back.”

  It was a sensible decision, but ten minutes after the two men from the Light Company had trotted off down the track to Cape Coast Castle they heard musketry, a dozen shots at least. It seemed probable that the runners had not survived.

  There was a canoe on the narrow strip of beach, with a pair of paddles. The major ordered that it should be put into use.

  “Find two men to take it down to the Castle.”

  Bedford is well inland and none of the soldiers had any knowledge of the sea; two of them admitted to having worked on the barges on occasion and were given a paddle apiece. They set off, slowly and clumsily and staying close to the shore.

  “Don’t want to be them when they reaches to the swamp and the crocodiles gets a look at ‘em!”

  Sergeant Hollis shook his head and got on with the business of establishing a perimeter, trying to find cover for sentries and barrica
des to act as firing points.

  There was a freshwater stream coming down to the bay, presumably the reason for locating the trade store there, and Hollis ensured that all of his company drank freely and then filled their canteens while they could.

  Then they waited.

  The villagers gained in boldness through the day as it became obvious that the soldiers were hiding away from them. The bush was cleared back for barely thirty yards from the beach and provided any amount of cover, which the local men were in the habit of using. They hid up and fired and moved away, keeping up a steady nuisance throughout the day. Not one shot in twenty actually hit a soldier, and mostly those few rounds caused no more than flesh wounds, but they pinned the men down under the hot sun and the flies got into the broken skin and brought about infections before dusk finally fell.

  They ate hardtack and drank their water, thankful for the stream that allowed them to survive. The wounded became increasingly unwell and the bulk of those injured early died in the night, the men able to do nothing for them. The sergeants woke them all well before dawn and clustered them in their platoons, loaded and ready against attack at first light.

  The local people saw no reason to risk their own lives and stayed in the bush, shouting and keeping up a desultory fire.

  “What they saying, Sarge?”

  “How the… I do not know, Harry. I do not speak the lingo!”

  The interpreter told them that the village men were being very rude and said that they were hiding away because they were not real men for lacking certain things that men had.

  “What?”

  “They’re saying we ain’t got no balls, Harry!”

  “Oh. That’s rude!”

  The major broke at midday; he had been supping gin all morning, becoming increasingly obviously drunk. When the sun was at its highest he came suddenly running out of the shade, shouting for the men to form up in a single line in front of him. He stood to one side and ordered the men to dress forward, still holding their line, and brought them to within ten yards of the bush. Then he ordered three rounds, directly to their front.

  The two surviving sergeants called the sequence of orders and the men fired, reloaded, fired and loaded again, fired their third ball into the inoffensive bush and charged their pieces for a final time.

  “That will teach ‘em!”

  The major, discretion lost, heaved out his bottle and took a swig from the neck. He staggered and then took a few paces towards the bush, silent and for all that could be seen, empty. He waved his bottle in the air, started to shout and then fell as four shots rang out, more or less together. The villagers evidently had a problem with aiming high; they had very nearly blown his head off. They broke his bottle as well, as at least half of the men noticed bitterly.

  Captain Austin, his shoulder wounds swollen and bright red, took the command. He had no idea what to do and he was the sole surviving officer.

  “We got food for another day, sir, acos of the dead men ain’t eatin’ their share. So we can stay put for that long. If the canoe ‘as got down to the Castle, then they got to send a couple of boats up for us.”

  “And if it has not, Sergeant Hollis?”

  “Then we’re buggered, sir. No chance of walkin’ it. Not a ‘ope. If they don’t come then we can try talkin’ again, but they ain’t goin’ to say much to us, are they. They’re winnin’!”

  Two coastal boats, small European-style sloops, anchored in the bay next morning. They had a pair of rowing boats apiece and their crews came ashore and helped bury the wounded who had died slowly and those who had been killed outright. Then they quickly took the fifty survivors aboard. The villagers remained silent all of the while; possibly they thought the boats carried cannon.

  Captain Austin was in high fever, shouting meaningless orders and demanding revenge. They ignored him and tried to get him aboard a sloop without knocking his shoulder; he screamed if they so much as brushed against his coat. They laid him down in the shade and were relieved when he went silent after a few minutes.

  “Is he gone, Sarge?”

  “Poor sod, ‘e’s ‘ad it!”

  “But he wasn’t hardly scratched, was he.”

  “Don’t need no more than a pinprick, boy, not out in these parts. Summat in the air, there got to be, what gives the wound rot unless you’re bloody lucky. Cover anything over, don’t matter if it’s just a graze, keep the bad air off it. Surgeon we ‘ad out in the Sugar Islands used to soak ‘is bandages in brandy and lay ‘em on wet. Stung a bit, but ‘e didn’t get so many die as some did. Reckoned being wet, the air couldn’t get through the cloth.”

  “Worth remembering, that.”

  “So it is, so long as you can pay for a bottle of brandy, and so long as one of these buggers don’t drink it be’ind your back.”

  The wind, always fitful in the Dry Season, failed completely before they could sail. The crew seemed unconcerned.

  “Oy, mate! We goin’ to be stuck ‘ere all day?”

  “No, boss.” The sailing master was a half-caste, as were most of the Company’s local people. Three hundred years of contact with Portuguese, French, Dutch, English and, very recently, American traders had produced a substantial mixed population, many of whom had been educated by their parents and were useful employees.

  “Wind drops in the middle of the day. She’ll pick up again before dark. You see the cloud inland, over the mountain, boss, and you know there’s goin’ to be wind later on.”

  The mountain was far inland, barely visible, but they were not to argue with his knowledge of local conditions.

  “So, we got four hours, you reckon.”

  “More or less, boss, could be two, might be five, but I reckon four works most times.”

  “Right. Let me ‘ave a boat. Harry, you and three of the lads in the boat with me.”

  They returned to the shore, rowing along the beach to a clump of coconut palms. The beach was littered with dry fronds, brown and dusty.

  “Chop off the thick bits at the bottom.”

  They were left with fans three or four feet long, finger wide leaves on either side of the central spine.

  “Right, plait ‘em together. Knot ‘em so that they’re pulled tight round the stem. Four each.”

  Half an hour and they had their tight wands. Sergeant Hollis took out his tinder box and struck a light, blowing on the dried rag to produce a small flame. He touched the end of one of the palm fronds to the fire; it caught instantly and he used it to light four more.

  “Right, swing ‘em round your ‘eads, get ‘em flaming hard. Now chuck them into the bush, into the dry cane if you can.”

  They threw all of their torches, a couple of yards away from each other and then ran back to the boat. The dry bush flamed within minutes, clouds of smoke rising and the fire spreading as fast as a man could walk.

  “That’ll make the buggers run! Bit of luck it’ll get to their village. Burn their food gardens maybe. Pay the sods back a bit.”

  They rowed back to the sloop more than a little pleased with themselves. They had not liked to be beaten; more than that, they had been humiliated, losing men and unable to hit back. It might not do any great harm, but they had shown some fight at least.

  The wind when it finally came was from the wrong direction, blowing from inland and pushing the fire back towards the beach. It was a pity that the fire had not been stoked up to burn for miles, but at least they had shown defiant.

  They sailed out to sea for the night, well offshore for safety’s sake, made Cape Coast Castle mid-way through the next morning.

  The colonel watched them in, called them to form a double rank on the wharf.

  “Senior man step forward.”

  Hollis took two paces and came to attention.

  “No officers, Sergeant?”

  “All dead, sir. Captain Austin lasted longest, sir, and he died a few minutes after we got him aboard the boat.”

  “How many men left, Sergeant?”

&
nbsp; “Forty-three, sir.”

  “Out of ninety.”

  “Ninety-two, sir.”

  “The major, two captains and three lieutenants all dead. How many sergeants?”

  “Three dead, sir. And four corporals, sir.”

  “A disaster, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir. They native blokes ‘ad all got muskets, sir. We was lucky they ain’t been taught ‘ow to load proper or take an aim, sir. Mostly they missed, sir.”

  “Dismiss the men, Sergeant, then write your report. A quarter of the fit men thrown away! We shall be in dire trouble if we are attacked, if we should be at war again.”

  The colonel made his report to the Acting-Governor. They could be heard shouting at each other for an hour.

  Harry was made corporal next morning; it was explained to him that it would add about one halfpenny a day to his pay, but it would give him the chance to become a sergeant eventually. For the while he would be given a room of his own to sleep in, to separate him from the men he now commanded, and he would mess with the other corporals and sergeants. They had a cook of their own, a man almost the equal of Smudger, so he was not losing out on the promotion.

  The colonel announced as well that they were to be reorganised into four companies; there were too few officers to keep the original eight.

  “No Light Company; no Grenadiers. There ain’t enough men for either. Just four companies of the line. Two captains and three lieutenants, and two of them just made up from ensign. That’s all who’s left, Harry! You’re with me and we got Lieutenant Dabney, what was one of the ensigns and so ‘e’s been given two good NCOs, so the colonel said. Smithy’s been made up to sergeant and put with Lieutenant Suckling, the fat old bugger who ain’t sober one day out of the seven, and that not Sunday, either. God ‘elp us when the Wet Season comes, Harry, acos of there ain’t enough men now to stand to the walls if there’s trouble. We lose another thirty or forty men to the fevers, we’re in for it, boy!”

  “Why?”

  “The tribesmen from the village what just kicked the shit out of us, they ain’t goin’ to leave it at that, are they. They’ll be braggin’ to every other village up and down the coast about ‘ow they beat us and made us run and didn’t get a man shot. Add to that, they took everything from the trade store and paid not a penny, not a brass farthing! Give ‘em a few months to talk and swagger in front of the rest and they’ll be outside the walls and out for our blood. Soon as the Dry comes in, they’ll be ‘ere.”

 

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