A Call To Arms

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey knew that his serjeant-major was not wholly convinced of the corrective qualities of soldiering. Despite his rough and ready ways, his quick temper and his fondness for a drink, Armstrong held strongly to the notion that character would out as soon as the guns began to play. In the infantry this did not matter so much, for the bad characters were held in line by the NCOs close by them, and all the line had to do was wheel and form and deliver volley-fire on command. In the cavalry it was not so easy. A dragoon was much more upon his honour as regards his horse, doing outpost duty and going to it with the sword. A rough could be redeemed by military discipline, but a bad hat – never. And the trick was always to know which was the one and not the other.

  Hervey observed closely as his serjeant-major took up the acquittance roll again and began examining the names. Armstrong’s new uniform fitted handsomely, showing off the barrel chest and powerful arms that had made him so formidable a fighter in a mêlée. The regiment would not have been the same without him. And how good did that fourth chevron look – at last.

  ‘Do you want to see those as came in yesterday, sir?’

  Hervey did, so they walked to the pump in the yard outside E Troop’s empty stables, where dragoons were throwing buckets of water over half a dozen brought men. It would have been the same in the depths of winter, and the dragoons went at it with a will, since they had no wish to share the lice and other vermin which recruits brought with them.

  ‘Why ay,’ exclaimed Armstrong suddenly. ‘Corporal Mossop, fetch that red-’eaded man over here.’

  Mossop half dragged the man in front of the serjeant-major; trying to march him over would have taken all day. ‘Sir!’

  ‘Turn ’im about, Corporal!’

  Corporal Mossop knew the order would be pointless. He jerked him round to face rear.

  Armstrong pulled the man’s long red hair roughly to one side. ‘I thought as much!’ he snarled.

  Hervey, too, saw the ‘BC’ brand on his shoulder.

  ‘Why can’t them bringers look properly? About turn!’ he barked.

  The man spun right-about like a top, ending up with his hands at attention by his side and his eyes set distant, exactly as if on parade.

  ‘And what might your former service be, my bonny lad?’

  The man’s voice faltered. ‘Six years, sir. Thirty-fourth Foot.’

  ‘And why did the Thirty-fourth discharge you?’

  ‘Rather not say, sir.’

  ‘ “Rather not say.” I bet you wouldn’t.’ He turned to Hervey. ‘Sir?’

  Hervey knew his serjeant-major wanted him to say ‘Throw him out of the gates’, for that was what the army intended when it branded a man ‘bad character’. But he recoiled more from the notion of branding than from the letters themselves. ‘Can we not see how he goes to his work while we try to find out why he was discharged?’

  Armstrong suppressed a sigh. ‘I wouldn’t want him messing with the others to begin with, sir.’

  ‘He can sleep in the guardroom, can he not?’

  ‘He can, sir. Corporal Mossop, double this man away. I want an eye on him at all times.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Not a good beginning,’ said Hervey. ‘How did you know to look for a brand? There were no lash marks.’

  ‘Just an instinct, that’s all, but I only thought there might be a “D”.’

  ‘Trying it on for the bounty?’

  ‘Ay. There was a man ’anged not six months back for it. Deserted and then ’listed again eighteen times before he was discovered.’

  ‘Well, five pounds and four shillings is an attractive bounty. But I wonder that someone on the take doesn’t go to the infantry for the other guinea.’

  ‘Maybe we’ve a soft name, sir.’

  Hervey frowned. ‘Yes, we’ve both of us seen men who thought they were enlisting to an easier life because they rode to battle rather than walked.’

  Armstrong screwed up his face. ‘But I’ll ’ave that bastard if ’e does prove a bad character. And I’ll ’ave that Mary-Anne – Mossop – for not being sharper. I’ll stop his bringing-money, that’s for certain.’

  Hervey was beginning to wonder if one more recruit was worth the trouble. ‘The others look clean-limbed. You can’t fault Corporal Mossop for that.’

  ‘Ay. They do right enough. Yon dragoon!’ he shouted.

  A smart-looking private man doubled over to them and saluted. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Who are you, lad?’

  ‘Ashbolt, sir. C Troop.’

  The keen eyes said it all. Hervey sighed to himself. He wished he had twenty like him.

  ‘Well, when you’ve finished dusting them with that evil-smelling powder, line them up for inspection.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ashbolt saluted and doubled away.

  In as straight a line as the keen eyes could manage with them, the six recruits stood as upright as they could.

  ‘Name!’ barked Armstrong at the first, a well-made lad.

  ‘Harkness, sir.’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Cooper, sir. Then there was insufficient so I was laid off.’ Broad shoulders told that he must have been useful when work there was.

  ‘Read or write?’

  ‘I can read a little, if you please.’

  ‘No “if you please”, lad: just plain “sir”.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And that “sir” is addressed not to me but to the officer on parade.’

  Harkness looked confused.

  ‘You’ll learn soon enough,’ said Armstrong, moving to the next. ‘Name?’

  ‘French, sir.’

  ‘I’d change that quickly if I were you, lad.’

  ‘Please, sir?’

  ‘Never mind. Work?’

  ‘Counting-house clerk, sir.’

  ‘Lost your character, did you?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The boy – for that was all he looked – sounded indignant. His black curls bobbed as he shook his head. ‘I didn’t like the city, sir.’

  ‘Country, are you? Do you know horses?’

  ‘I’ve driven a pair, sir.’ His voice was not of the common stamp. Armstrong eyed him suspiciously and moved to the third. ‘Name?’

  ‘Smith, sir.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was a boiler with the Oakley. I have a testimony from Lord Tavistock, sir.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘I wanted to ’list in the horse guards, sir. But they said I was too short, sir.’

  ‘Read and write?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Armstrong turned to the next. ‘Your name, lad.’

  ‘Sisken, sir.’ The words were barely audible.

  Armstrong looked down at the spreading pool by the man’s left foot. ‘Good,’ he said simply, and moved on.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘McCarthy, sor.’

  Hervey looked closer. Armstrong continued: ‘Employ?’

  ‘Private man, Hundred and fourth Foot, sor.’

  Armstrong’s suspicions rose like storm cones.

  ‘I had my honourable discharge, sor,’ the man insisted, the gentle Cork lilt now plain.

  ‘The Hundred and fourth were disbanded two years ago, Sar’nt-Major,’ explained Hervey, stepping forward a pace. ‘We have met before, have we not, McCarthy?’

  ‘We have, sor.’

  Armstrong looked at Hervey for enlightenment.

  ‘In Le Havre – a little affair of rebellious Frenchmen. Private McCarthy has a cool head under fire.’

  ‘Thank you, sor.’

  Armstrong eyed him up and down, taking his own measure, and moved to the last man. ‘Name!’

  ‘Mole, sir.’

  ‘Occupation.’

  ‘ ’Ireling, sir.’

  Mole looked to Armstrong to be little more promising than Sisken, a harelip giving his face a permanent expression of alarm and rendering his speech awkward. ‘Read or write?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Armstrong
turned to Hervey and saluted. ‘Carry on, sir, please?’

  ‘A word with them first, Sar’nt-Major.’ He looked left and right at the six recruits. Somehow by the miracle of military training and discipline they would become handy dragoons in his new troop. But at this stage he could be excused for doubting the existence of miracles. ‘I want no men who will not put their heart into their work,’ he began. ‘For there is little time before we sail for India. I will grant any of you a free discharge – on repayment of the bounty only, no smart money – up to tomorrow midday. Thereafter I will expect you to bend your backs to it without complaint. That is all. Carry on, please, Sar’nt-Major.’

  Corporal Mossop had by this time returned to the yard. ‘Corporal Mossop, carry on!’ barked Armstrong.

  Mossop saluted as they turned away.

  ‘I doubt they’d be able to raise one man’s bounty between ’em,’ Armstrong opined. ‘They’ll have pissed it against a wall by now. That Sisken, or whatever his name is, is pissing it still. You know what he’ll do the first time he gets a real fright! Who’s this Irishman, by the way, sir?’

  ‘McCarthy? A Cork man, I think. You ought to recognize the accent better than I.’

  ‘Ay, I’d place him as a Cork man right enough.’

  ‘There was a riot of French prisoners in Le Havre when I was en route to India. They broke free from the guard – McCarthy’s regiment. The officer was killed and the serjeant was a funk. There was only McCarthy with any presence of mind. I seem to recall he said he’d been a corporal. Yes, I remember, because there were stitch holes on his coat where the stripe had been.’

  ‘That’s all we need – a busted chosen-Paddy! I dare wager a day’s pay the charge was fighting aggravated by drink.’

  Hervey smiled ruefully. ‘Serjeant-major, have you become a Methodist?’

  Armstrong frowned determinedly. ‘I never said as I wanted a troop of Armstrongs.’

  ‘Well, I for one would settle for half a troop as things stand.’

  ‘And I don’t like would-be gentlemen in the ranks either. If that French has driven a pair then why isn’t he an officer?’

  Hervey sighed. Some things were better not enquired into. ‘We’ve barely two dozen men, for all the weeks the recruiting parties have been out. Why is it, d’you think? Have they been going to the wrong place? Isn’t the bounty enough?’

  ‘Well,’ began Armstrong, sighing also. ‘There are too many parties fishing in the same bit of water, for a start. Mossop said there were bringers from the Second Dragoons and three foot regiments in the same alehouse last night.’

  ‘Has India anything to do with it?’

  Armstrong shrugged. ‘Who knows? What’s it matter how far from home a man is if he’s not there? Half these jackheads won’t have the first clue where India is.’

  Hervey supposed it must be true. ‘Look, we’re wasting our time here. Collins will find another half a dozen, and choice men we hope, but we’re going to have to do more ourselves. I’ve a mind to take a party down to Wiltshire. The recruiters are not nearly so active there.’

  ‘Well, anything’s better than sitting and waiting.’

  ‘The thing is, there are always hirelings in Warminster each week at the market, and there’s not much work to be had. The price of wool’s dropped like a stone. If we took the band we could make quite a go.’

  Armstrong looked impressed.

  ‘I’d better go and speak with the major.’

  *

  Major Eustace Joynson was a much happier man these days. He rarely had a sick headache, and when he did he could alleviate it with the new morphium from Leipzig, though it cost him a pretty penny. All the mess knew that the cause of the headaches was no more, for in the new commanding officer Joynson found an able and considerate man who knew how to use his second in command’s strengths, all-be-they limited to painstaking administration. And some of the mess suspected, too, that the death of the major’s wife had come as a merciful relief, for so addicted to laudanum had she become of recent years that she was to all intents and purposes an invalid. So now Major Joynson could happily immerse himself in the regiment’s administrative detail, to the gain of both parties. And in the evenings he had the consolation and support of a daughter not yet one and twenty.

  ‘The band is a very good idea, Hervey,’ the major agreed, ‘but I’m not clear how we might pay for it. They couldn’t post down to Wiltshire, that’s for sure. Are there any stages?’ He knew well enough that the band had been to Wiltshire before, but then it had been at Lord Bath’s expense to play at Hervey’s wedding. Joynson was not going to be the first to mention that, however.

  ‘I thought we might ride there, sir.’

  ‘I’m not sure that all the bandsmen ride. And that would cost dearly, too. Why not take three or four trumpeters? They’d make a goodish noise.’

  ‘They would, but I thought some pretty tunes would draw people in.’

  ‘I don’t deny it. And how many recruits would you expect to get?’

  ‘I’d be disappointed with fewer than thirty.’

  ‘Thirty!’

  ‘I don’t see why not, sir. My part of Wiltshire is much distressed. There are many men paid outdoor relief. My intention would be to get their names from the parishes and offer them the bounty.’

  Major Joynson looked thoughtful. ‘How will you get them all back here?’

  ‘That, I’m not sure of yet. They might have to walk.’

  ‘I’ll see what is to be done with the band, Hervey.’ He got up and opened a cupboard. ‘Would you care for sherry?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  Joynson handed him a glass of very pale Montilla and indicated a chair. ‘You find the regiment to your liking, then, Hervey.’

  ‘Yes. Very much. Times change, but I think the best of the old spirit is probably returned.’ Hervey took a good sip of his wine.

  Major Joynson took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. He hoped profoundly that the best of Hervey’s old spirit, as well as the regiment’s, had returned. From the day Hervey had joined, he had never shirked his duty, regardless of what others said. But although he had never been a ‘yes-man’, there had perhaps been a willing compliance with him that would serve admirably in field rank, but take him no further. Joynson thought now that he detected a sterner core, however.

  He replaced his spectacles and looked directly at him. ‘Hervey, I’ve said this to you before, but I’m more than a little conscious that had I acted more … resolutely, then things might not have happened as they did.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘And I think I replied that if I myself had so acted then things very assuredly would have been different.’

  Silence followed for a while. ‘You are content, then, to go alone to India?’

  ‘Content’ was not the word Hervey would have chosen. ‘I am in two minds still about my daughter, but I cannot see that to inflict a sea journey of six months and more, and then the vagaries of that climate, would be right.’

  ‘No, I am sure that must be so. Frances is to come with me, though.’

  ‘That will be pleasant, sir.’

  ‘I hope so. For Frances I mean. Do you believe India a proper place for her?’

  Hervey hardly knew Frances Joynson. She seemed a sensible enough girl. ‘I only know Madras, sir, not Hindoostan. But I saw Englishwomen there who were very content – and altogether freer, I should say, than here. One who is the sister of a Company official who was at Shrewsbury a little before me went about the country as she chose, and with only a maid.’

  ‘Mm … I do not say I could imagine allowing Frances such licence, but perhaps I shall become used to it once I have been there a while.’

  *

  A week later the recruiting party left its lodgings at The Bell in Warminster high street and took post outside St Laurence’s chantry, the intention being to draw onlookers from the livestock market further up the street, and taverners from the breweries and alehouses down the hill to their
left. Although there were only four trumpeters (for despite Major Joynson’s best efforts no money could be found to send the band to Wiltshire), they were an imposing sight. Serjeant Collins had had the five dragoons from C Troop up half the night bringing their uniforms to a high order, and the trumpet-major had not spared himself or his three trumpets either. They wore buff breeches and hessians instead of overalls (Collins would not have them taken for infantry), silvered buttons, epaulettes and sabres which glinted in the sunshine, and pipeclayed crossbelts and sword straps that looked as white as the finest flour. Shakos topped with plume, white over red, sealed the impression of especial smartness and regularity. Hervey could not have been prouder as he rounded the corner on Gilbert and returned the salute. And Gilbert could not have done them greater service in appearance than with the black sheepskin and shabraque, and hooves which Private Johnson had brought to a high gloss with his fish oil.

  Private Ashbolt stepped forward to hold Hervey’s charger by the bridle as he dismounted. ‘Thank you, Ashbolt. Good morning, Sar’nt Collins. I see we have attracted a fair crowd already.’

  ‘Yes, sir. If we could put women in uniform we should have a troop by mid-morning.’

  There was no denying it. The onlookers were for the most part women and girls. Not that the dragoons minded; there would be time stood-down this evening, they supposed. ‘Shall we see what answers to the trumpets, then?’

  ‘Very good, sir. Trumpet-major, would you oblige us?’

  The four unhitched their trumpets. The trumpet-major had checked the pitch before leaving The Bell; it was a warm day and he was confident the instruments would not have flattened. They raised them as one and blew a short fanfare in unison, followed by another in four parts. A very pretty sound it was, thought Hervey – not a note cracked or overblown. The effect on the onlookers was favourable but momentary: they thrilled, but then shrieked and scattered as half a dozen oxen stampeded past them, followed by the teamsters cursing the trumpeters for their ‘caterwauling’.

  The indignity might have been fatal to Hervey’s purpose had he not taken action at once. ‘Again please, Trumpet-Major.’

  Another fanfare, with the same precision, announced that the military meant business. The evening before, Hervey had had bills posted up and down the town announcing his purpose, and he would trumpet it now until he got results.