‘Glory, and the path of honour! That’s what I’m offering to any lucky lad chosen to join the One Hundred and Sixth under Colonel FitzWilliam, the son of a lord and as brave and generous a gentleman as you could hope to meet.’
Williams had not yet met his new commander, who had been away during his two brief visits to the battalion since they returned from Portugal. Major MacAndrews had led the 106th after Moss fell. The Scotsman was old for his rank, and had captained the Grenadier Company when Williams first joined. MacAndrews had proved himself a superb battalion commander, but he was not a rich man. FitzWilliam purchased command of the 106th and so the major was once again a subordinate. If it was not especially fair, it was simply the way of the army. In the summer Williams had found himself leading a company at Talavera. It would no doubt be years before he became a captain and won the right to do so. Even in his brief moment of wealth he had owned nothing like the £1,500 needed to buy a captaincy.
‘If that isn’t enough, then I’ll tell you about the rewards. Each man gets a uniform as smart as it is easy to clean.’ Dobson and the other two members of the recruiting party were resplendent in new red jackets and trousers, the buttons gleaming and belts whitened with pipe-clay. The spearhead on his half-pike was polished like a mirror, and a knot of tall red feathers was tucked into the cockade on the front of his shako and towered over the normal white plume of a grenadier, chosen from the biggest men in the battalion. The resplendent martial perfection of the recruiting party was the product of special issues of equipment and many hours of labour. On campaign clothes were faded, torn and patched, if not replaced altogether.
‘And apart from good bread, meat and other vittles, every man gets his tot every day. Now isn’t that better than starving through a hard winter?’ That is what the army promised. What it delivered was a different matter.
‘And think of this. Every day – every single day – the newest young hero receives a bright silver shilling.’ Williams knew that a man was lucky to carry away one shilling a week after the deductions were made for food, equipment and laundry. That was assuming the pay was not months in arrears.
‘That’s wages, isn’t it, my lads,’ said Dobson. Williams had worked his way nearer the front of the crowd now and saw the mixture of expressions, the young men excited by the prospect, while the older ones scorned it as a pauper’s wage.
‘But best of all, when the King gives you the first shilling he adds in a great prize, a bounty no less, to show how much he values the brave fellows who serve him. Here I have a golden guinea.’ Dobson held it aloft. The coin was as highly polished as his buttons. Sadly the sun was hidden behind clouds today and the guinea failed to gleam. ‘Twenty-one shillings, no less. Look at it, lads.’ Dobson held it out on the flat of his palm to show two likely youngsters standing in front of him. Both looked like farm boys and one was barely five feet tall so would have to enlist as a boy at lower pay, but this was not the time for such detail. ‘Look at it, don’t it gleam beautifully?
‘One golden guinea, but that’s not all our King wants to give you. “Dob, old son,” he says to me, “I want the most dashing in my special Hundred and Sixth, and I’ll not have them treated a mite less well than the young heroes they are.” True as I stand before you, that’s what he said.’ Most of the audience laughed, although one of the farm lads stared in fresh awe at a man who knew the King.
A drum stood on the ground, and Dobson now flicked the coin so that it gently bounced on its skin and spun for a moment before falling. ‘So it isn’t just one golden guinea for the lucky few.’ Some recruiters liked to count the coins out one by one, but Dobson reckoned the jingle of coins was more inspiring and so took a purse and emptied it out. Even in the dull light, the gold glittered in the imagination of many who watched them tinkle down. ‘Fifteen bright golden guineas!’
Williams politely pressed through the crowd as they had arranged.
‘That’s just when you join. Clever and brave fellows will soon find themselves promoted to corporal or sergeant, and earning twice as much. Why, they may go further.’ Dobson pretended to notice Williams for the first time. ‘Look at that fine officer over there. A year ago he was my rear rank man, and stood behind me firing his musket at the French.’ That was true enough, although a gentleman volunteer was a very different thing to a private in the ranks. Only the ablest and luckiest private soldier made the leap to commissioned rank, but they were few indeed. ‘Now he’s as fine and rich a gentleman as any you could meet.’ Dobson dropped his voice to a stage whisper. ‘Won’t talk to the likes of me any more!’
Williams paid no attention, and tried to guess which young woman Dobson had earlier singled out. There were a couple of likely candidates, but when one turned towards him he saw the pleasant, plumpish face of a girl of no more than sixteen, ginger hair peeping out from under her bonnet, and knew that this was the one. The officer raised his hat courteously.
‘Would you excuse me, dear lady?’ he said, gesturing to show that he wished to pass. Whenever possible Dobson picked redheads, knowing that his officer was desperately in love with Major MacAndrews’ red-haired daughter. Miss MacAndrews was currently with her mother in Scotland, and Williams had neither seen nor had word from her since coming back to Britain. When he had gone with his sister and Garland north of the border it had been very hard not to keep going and seek them out in Aberdeen.
The plump girl blushed, then giggled a little as she curtsied, stepping back to permit the officer to pass. Williams kept going, raising his hat each time he needed to get past anyone. His small part in the performance was limited, and the rest could be left to Dobson, Corporal Murphy and the drummer. They would soon invite those ‘wishing to apply’ to join them at the Black Lion and there regale them with tales and drinks and convince as many as possible to join. So far Dobson was sticking to small beer, but Williams worried that the task of a recruiting sergeant risked a relapse into his old ways. At least Murphy could drink like a fish and still tell plenty of grand yarns of adventure and loot.
It was unpleasant to have to stretch the truth to convince men to join. At least Williams could be sure that his men would not follow some of the worst practices – getting a man drunk and then slipping the King’s shilling into his pocket, swearing blind the next morning that he had volunteered. There were stories of other sergeants hiding a shilling in a man’s mug, so that he took the coin that way. As he left the square he saw some other recent posters stuck to a wall. One was for the 7th Hussars – the Old Saucy Seventh, as it proclaimed – and in a matter-of-fact tone declared that since ‘… the regiment is mounted on Blood Horses, and being lately returned from SPAIN, and the Horses Young, the Men will not be allowed to HUNT during the next Season, more than once a week’. Williams supposed that the statement was true in its own absurd way, for he had never heard of private soldiers or NCOs in any cavalry regiment ever riding to hounds. He shook his head and walked on.
Before dusk Dobson and Murphy brought him eleven volunteers. Williams found a local doctor well practised in such matters and paid him to give them a cursory inspection. Two were rejected – the first because he could barely see, while the other failed to make the minimum height even with folded paper packed into his shoes. The rest were sworn in by the magistrate. The pair of farm boys were among them, and there were half a dozen who gave their occupation as mill worker. Their desperation was nothing compared to the ninth man, the father whose son had chatted to Williams so happily earlier in the day. His name was James Raynor, and when the whole party marched out of town the next morning his face was hopeless, certain of never seeing his boy again. Williams hoped that he was wrong.
‘Well done, Dob,’ Williams said to the lance sergeant as they marched off the next morning. ‘The colonel should be pleased. At this rate his battalion should be back to full establishment.’
‘Aye.’ Dobson sniffed. ‘Hunger is always the best recruiting sergeant of all.’ The veteran stated the facts, his tone free from
judgement. He seemed to think for a while, and then looked at the young lieutenant. ‘Not sure it’s quite “his” battalion yet, though.’
‘I do not follow.’ Williams had found it well worth listening to the veteran’s opinions.
‘The colonel is still a stranger. Hasn’t been with us in any of the actions.’ Dobson had seen plenty of service in other regiments, but Portugal had been the first campaign for the 106th. Since then it had seen plenty of hard knocks. ‘Reckon he’s a smart enough man to want to make us his own.’
Williams was intrigued. ‘How?’ he asked.
‘Best way would be to send off some of the characters who have been with the battalion all the way. Old Mac, of course.’ Dobson grinned. ‘Sorry, sir, I mean Major MacAndrews. Then probably Mr Pringle.’ He winked at Williams. ‘You too, Pug, begging your pardon.’
‘I am only a lieutenant.’
‘You know how to fight. So do the others.’
Williams was still unsure. ‘Then won’t he want us? If he is smart.’ It was best to speak frankly to Dobson, at least in private. The man knew the army and how it worked.
‘Oh aye, he will when the time comes. Up till then he will want to take the battalion by the scruff of the neck and stamp his mark on it. Easier to do that when some of the big characters are off. So I reckon it won’t be long before there are some temporary postings. That’s if he is as smart as he looks.’
They marched on in silence for a while, Murphy and the drummer leading the recruits some distance ahead of them. Williams thought about Dobson’s idea. He did not want to go away so soon, now that there was a chance of seeing Miss MacAndrews again. Part of him wanted to dismiss the veteran’s suspicion. Unfortunately it made a good deal of sense. After a while another thought came to him.
‘How about you, Dob? If he really wants the characters out of the way.’
The grin was even bigger now. ‘Depends how smart he really is.’
Williams knew there was more than one way to take that, but decided not to press the issue. The sun came from behind the clouds and he had to squint as they marched on. It was not strong, but there was still a hint of warmth and that was good to feel on the skin.
‘I think he is smart,’ Williams said after a while, and half hoped that he was wrong.
4
‘Here’s to Christmas at home!’ said Williams, raising a glass of Hanley’s champagne. A series of wins at cards had left his friend in funds and inclined to celebrate. Williams loathed almost all alcohol, but the discovery that he quite liked champagne was fairly recent. The toast was one they had repeated often enough on their way back from Talavera, when all of them were weary and Pringle and Hanley both recovering from wounds. Now it rang rather hollow.
‘Well,’ said Hanley thoughtfully, ‘perhaps Spain is more home to me now than England.’ Orders had arrived detaching him from the battalion and sending him back to the war.
‘You were most welcome to stay with my family,’ said Williams.
‘Yes, and the invitation is most kind.’ Privately Hanley was relieved. He and Pringle had visited Bristol and met Williams’ family – as it turned out, in time for his sister to run off. Mrs Williams was severe at the best of times, and he doubted Christmas would be any too jolly. Now that the newly married Mrs Garland was there, no doubt lording it over her sisters, the idea of another visit had little appeal.
‘Do you know any more about your orders?’ asked Truscott.
‘Nothing has been said, although I am to go to London before I leave.’ Hanley mused for a moment. These were his closest friends, and the urge to tell them fought against a growing habit of secrecy. ‘Do you remember Baynes?’
Truscott thought for a moment, but Williams at once looked up sharply.
‘Oh yes, that portly civilian who was with Wellington’s staff at Talavera,’ said Truscott. ‘Some political wallah or other. Is he involved?’
Williams knew Baynes to be considerably more than that, and so guessed that there might be a certain delicacy involved in Hanley’s role. ‘Good luck, William,’ he said, and then thought it better to change the subject. ‘I wonder when the battalion will follow you?’
‘You’ve been listening to rumours again, young Bills,’ said Truscott.
‘The battalion is once again reunited, and with all the recruiting parties out, we may soon be back to something like full strength. Is it not reasonable to suppose that such a rare thing will before long be sent abroad?’ Only the absence of the three companies driven back to Portugal had prevented the 106th from being sent on the expedition to Antwerp earlier in the year, since almost every other unit that had come back from Corunna had joined the new expedition. ‘By all accounts the corps coming back from Holland are in no state to be sent abroad again.’
Truscott shook his head sadly. ‘That sounds as if it was a ghastly business, and little more than a waste for no good end. However, simply because the regiment is in prime condition does not mean that we will go back to Wellesley’s army.’
‘MacAndrews is going,’ said Hanley.
‘True,’ Truscott conceded, ‘but on detached duty of some sort.’
‘It is a training mission to aid the Spanish,’ Williams explained. He had not shared Dobson’s suspicion with the others.
‘Well, God knows they need all the help they can get in that regard,’ said Truscott, remembering the night before Talavera when thousands of raw Spanish conscripts panicked and fled at the sound of their own volley. ‘Good luck to him, though, as I doubt it will be an easy task.’ In the last year British and Spanish armies had not cooperated well, leaving considerable bitterness on both sides. ‘Still, I have not heard the details of his orders.’
‘He is to take a number of officers and good sergeants,’ said Williams. ‘A third will come from the battalion and the rest from other corps. The colonel asked if I wanted to volunteer for the duty.’ Lieutenant Colonel FitzWilliam had arrived that morning and seen Williams in the afternoon. He was friendly, full of praise for the lieutenant’s record and the fine conduct of Williams and the other men from the 106th who had fought at Talavera.
‘I presume from your talk of Christmas at home that you did not accept?’ Hanley grinned. ‘That’s a shame. It would have been nice to have company on the voyage.’
‘Sorry. The colonel gave me the day to consider it, but I would prefer to wait and go back with the whole battalion.’
‘You surprise me,’ said Hanley.
‘Ah, I believe I may have an explanation,’ said Truscott. ‘Am I correct in assuming that the major’s family is remaining here?’
Williams nodded. His friends knew of his feelings for Miss MacAndrews, but even so it was difficult to speak of them. ‘It has been a long time,’ he said. ‘Perhaps too long, and it may be that my hopes are in vain.’ The lieutenant seemed ready to plunge into gloom. They had all heard the stories of other suitors for Miss MacAndrews. It was even said that the new colonel was much taken with the major’s daughter.
‘Another glass, gentlemen?’ suggested Hanley, wondering whether FitzWilliam wanted to send a rival off to Spain to clear the field. As he rose to fetch the bottle he patted Williams on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, Bills.’
‘Well, I fear that we have strayed from the point in hand,’ Truscott continued. ‘The battalion will no doubt be sent off some time next year, but there is no assurance that it will go back to Wellington’s army. Have you not heard the stories of this planned expedition to the East Indies?’
‘Yes, and when I came through the depot a month ago, the mess was full of talk of us training to be light infantry,’ said Williams.
Truscott shrugged. ‘It has happened to other corps. And in the main they have chosen battalions with good numbers of active young recruits, much like us.’
‘Perhaps, but here we are a month later, and it seems that no one is speaking of it any longer even as a possibility.’
‘True enough.’ Truscott accepted his refilled glass from
Hanley and took a generous sip. ‘I did hear tell that they could not provide sufficient muskets of the light infantry pattern.’
Williams drank more carefully, eager to make the champagne last, as his friends were always quick to refill an empty glass and he rarely cared for more than two. ‘Portugal or Spain still appear most likely.’
‘If the new ministry still wants to fight there,’ said Truscott cynically. Yet another government had fallen after the debacle of the expedition to Antwerp, this time in such acrimony that two former ministers had fought a duel.
‘They must fight there,’ said Hanley quickly. He had lived in Madrid for several years before the French came and had seen what their soldiers had done to protesting crowds. He loved Spain, and in spite of a still lingering admiration for France’s revolution and for Bonaparte, he wanted the country to throw out the invader.
‘They certainly should,’ Williams added with less passion, but considerable assurance.
Truscott carefully wiped up some spilled champagne with his one hand. His friends knew he liked to be left to do such things himself rather than be helped. ‘You may both be right, but that does not mean that they will. Napoleon is free again to lead all his armies into Spain. If he does that, then I do not see that there is the strength to resist him. Only a year ago Moore declared that Portugal could not be defended. Spain is crumbling, if it has not already crumbled. Much as I admire Major MacAndrews, it is hard to see his efforts making any difference.’
They finished the bottle in gloomy silence.
Pringle arrived that evening, leading in more new recruits. The battalion paraded the next morning, and then was busy with drills and inspections until lunchtime. That afternoon Lieutenant Colonel FitzWilliam invited him to his rooms for a private chat.
All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) Page 4