Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.)

by Martin McDowell

  “Not too bad. That’ll do for a start. Now, the second thing that we has to teach thee is to march. Tha’s no good to any General, or whatever, if thee can’t get th’selves to where tha’s needed. This battalion marches at something like 90 paces each minute. For those of thee that knows, that’s three every two seconds. Now; each of thee, hold up tha’ left hand.”

  Most got it right. Those that did not were quickly cuffed and corrected by the Corporals.

  “Now. Put forward the foot that’s below the hand thee has up in th’air.”

  All managed this.

  “Good. Lower tha’ hands, straight down by th’side. Now, I’m goin’ to tell thee to right turn. Remember that foot thee pushed forward? Yes? Well, on the command, “right turn”, thee swings it around tha’ right foot, to tha’ right, letting tha’ right foot spin where ‘tis. Then, thee stamps in ont’ ground, next to tha’ right. So; let’s try. Ready? Right turn!”

  Many calamities. Some kicked the man in front with their rotating left foot, some toppled forward into the man in front and some overbalanced altogether. However, Gibney’s Corporals restored order and Gibney continued.

  “I’ll put that down to over enthusiasm, which is better that none at all. Now, time to march. Thee starts with that left foot again, and this little Drummer Boy here,” indicating a lone child supporting a drum almost the size of himself, “will give thee a beat, and each time he beats that drum, that left foot hits the ground. Now, hold up tha’ left hand.”

  All did.

  “Now, lift up tha’ left foot.”

  All did.

  “That’s the foot that begins thee off. Thee steps first with that one. Time to march. Ready? Company, quick march.”

  Thus all set off, not just to the furthest end of the Parade Ground, but into the life of a soldier in the Army of King George III. Once up and once back, Sedgwicke was allowed to double over to the well, clean his boots and resume his place. All morning, until the midday meal, they were marched up and down. They were halted at one of the two end walls that were their only destinations and told to about turn. Not yet according to military regulations, simply by stopping and spinning, coming to attention and then they were marched back. All saw only the man in front as he strained to keep time, therefore few saw the huge figure in ill fitting whites, being walked between four burly, yet still diminished by comparison, soldier escorts. The drumbeat and Gibney’s barked orders dinned in their ears and then once again, as it echoed back from the high barrack walls. The sound impinged into the Officer’s Mess through the open window, the messroom now arranged to serve as a Military Courtroom.

  “Close the window, Sergeant.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  The Clerk Sergeant moved at Lacey’s command. The window was closed and the Clerk Sergeant had resumed his seat when Tiley was marched in and placed physically before the Colonel’s table, the bare boards resounding to the stamping feet. The room was simple. Lacey at his desk, with O’Hare at his right side. The Clerk at a right angle to them both. 10 feet from the Colonel’s desk and facing him were placed three rows of chairs, utilised from the Mess Room. Those at the front were occupied by a variety of Battalion Officers, those at the back by NCO’s and Private soldiers who were witnesses.

  The Clerk Sergeant came and stood before the imposing figure of Tiley. Holding his head at an uncomfortable angle, he began the proceedings by addressing him.

  “State your name and rank.”

  “I be Seth Tiley.”

  “Your rank”

  A pause and a blank look; no answer. The Clerk Sergeant spoke to him in a hushed tone.

  “Your rank is Private. Say Private.”

  “Private.”

  Colonel Lacey took up the proceedings.

  “Private Tiley. This is a Field Court Martial being held to hear your case. The Clerk Sergeant will now read out the charges that exist against you. Proceed, please, Sergeant.”

  “Private Tiley, you are charged with attempted desertion and assault. That on the 27th October 1805 you attempted to desert a party of recruits and in the process, you assaulted Private William Maltby. How do you plead?”

  “It were I, right enough. I never wanted to be in the Army in the first place.”

  “Please answer guilty, or not guilty.”

  “Guilty.”

  Colonel Lacey resumed.

  “Private Tiley, you have pleaded guilty. You now have a choice. You can accept my sentence, or you can choose to accept sentence from a Military Tribunal by three higher Officers than myself. This will take some time to arrange, during which time you will be held in the Guardroom cells. Which do you choose?”

  “I’ll take the sentence that you gives me.”

  “Very well. But before I pass any sentence I need to hear the facts of your case. There are four witnesses, as I understand it, and the first is Private William Maltby. Call him, please, Sergeant.”

  Maltby marched from the back, came to attention and saluted, but was then allowed to sit, he still not being fully recovered. His position was close to Major O’Hare. Lacey began.

  “You are Private William Maltby?”

  “I am, Sir.”

  “Please describe the events of 27th October that involve Private Seth Tiley.”

  “Well, Sir. I was the escort at the back on the right. Tiley was the last in the line. He was alongside me, then he wasn’t. He dropped back. The last thing I can remember was the rope to his hands going slack, then a blow on the back of my neck. Then I woke up and I was sitting against a wall with Pat, I mean Corporal Mulcahey, looking after me.”

  “You did not see Tiley come at you?”

  “No, Sir. But there was no one else after him in the line.”

  “Thank you Maltby.

  Maltby was dismissed, and then Mulcahey, Deakin and Miles were called. All told their stories, Miles laying particular emphasis on the terror and distress caused by Tiley’s threat to the life of the child. All three were stood down as witnesses, but remained in the room. Lacey turned to Tiley, who had been stood before him throughout the whole proceedings.

  “Private Tiley. You have pleaded guilty to attempted desertion and assault. You are a bad lot, Tiley. You came here as a prisoner, and whilst the other members of your party are being trained in their duties as we speak, to turn them into soldiers, it has not been possible for you to shed the description of prisoner. I will now pass sentence upon you, but before I do that, I want to make it clear that if this were a civilian court you would hang. You would hang because added to the civil charge of assault would be kidnapping and possibly even attempted murder. Any day, this battalion could be marching off to fight the French. I’m not going to take the chance of you being left behind because a just punishment for crimes such as yours, has rendered you unfit for service. Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?”

  Tiley shuffled his feet and lifted his bound hands.

  “I want nothing to do with the Army.”

  “You will be given two dozen lashes, punishment to be carried out at 4 o’ clock tomorrow, before the paraded Battalion. Escort, march him away. This Court Martial is at an end”

  Tiley was turned around by his escort and bodily shunted towards the door. The Clerk Sergeant had already prepared the orders, which were placed before Lacey to sign. As he did so Lacey angled himself towards Major O’Hare,

  “We need to watch that one very carefully. I’ll wager he’s a devil in a fight, but he’ll run first chance he gets. Make sure his Corporals and Sergeant are well aware, will you?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  Colonel Lacy rose from his place, which was the signal for all others to rise. The Clerk Sergeant called for attention and all obeyed. Lacey left and O’Hare dismissed the assembly. Deacon’s good friend of long standing, Corporal Tobias Halfway was waiting outside the Colonel’s Office. One soon joined the other.

  “Anything on, Jed?”

  “Not till kit issue before tea.”


  “Time for a quick one in town, then.”

  “If you’re buying!”

  Both made the gate, subconsciously in perfect step, marching in quick time. The nearest Inn was just down the hill towards the town proper, The Turks Head, a drinking tavern well frequented over the years by the occupants of the barracks. As they walked, they talked, and talk came easily between them.

  “What do you think of Tiley’s sentence, Jed? I think he got off light.”

  “I’ll say! Assault and desertion! I’ve seen 100 lashes given out for just one of those two. And that Tiley is a huge man. That cuff he gave Maltby could have killed many others, and now he’d be waiting to dance on a rope’s end. Instead, just a two dozen tickle from the lash. I’d call that light!”

  “Ah, he’s lucky, and that’s the truth. You’re right, we’ve had Colonels and Majors would have given him the hundred, march or no march. And given him another 50 if he didn't parade next day. Two dozen! I’m thinkin’ this one’s soft.”

  “You might be right, but I don’t know. He’s seen some service, and come out the other side; he strikes me as different, somehow. He’s certainly not a parade ground stickler who’d flog you for a tarnished button; and I think the Army’s changing. We’re seeing a new kind of Officer, they approach it all sort of different. He could be one. The old style hasn’t worked, has it? It used to but it doesn’t any more. Apart from Egypt, and that was down to the lads pulling that one out of the fire, it’s been defeat after defeat. The old ways didn’t work in The Colonies, did they? The lash doesn’t seem to come out of the bag as much as it used to, and I’m for that. It changes nothing, flogging a man’s back off. Just makes the men more fearful and hating of their Officers. I don’t see how that can be good.”

  Silence fell between them, but Halfway soon ended that.

  “I reckon a damn rum billet, though, this one, Jed. Detachments in the middle of no-where, at the back-of-beyond.”

  Deakin chuckled.

  “I’ll not argue, but it’s better than the bottom of the sea, or a French prison, where a lot of the lads are.”

  “That’s true, but I can’t see us getting back to the 9th. This looks too set, more so by the day.”

  They entered the Inn; inside both took off their shakoes, tucked the chinstrap up inside and placed them on the bar. The Inn was a drinking place, little more, but it was homely enough, with its oak tables and chairs and a good fire beneath a Hamstone fireplace. Deakin tapped the Regimental Plate on the shako’s front, showing the Britannia of the 9th East Norfolk.

  “That’ll have to change. To common GR, I suppose, and some number.”

  “A shame that’ll be. Not many Regiments has got special headgear, outside of The Guards, that is.”

  They ordered their drinks, two quarts of ale, and resumed talking.

  “I reckon we’ve been lucky, Jed. With what we’ve been through, we should be dead. Or missing something! In ’99, we came out of that North Holland mess in one piece, and that shambles of a battle, what was it called? Castrica? Sounds Spanish.”

  Deakin lowered his tankard, even though in mid swallow.

  “Castricum.”

  “Castricum, aye. And I’ll say this, I can’t see this lot that we’ve got now fighting their way out of a mess like that, like the old 9th. Can you, Jed?”

  “Not as they are now, that’s for certain sure.”

  “On top of that, we had the shipwreck coming back from Ireland. I never thought we was going to get off that ship, Jed, I never did. I was sure we was goners, but we was lucky, that boat was there and we got into it and got back here. But this b’aint lucky. Here is the very bottom, Detachments!”

  “It don’t look top drawer, I’ll grant you, but I'll settle for it. To me things don’t look too bad. We’ve still got some good Officers from the 9th. Drake for one, and I’ve got a lot of time for Lacey and O’Hare, like I said, they’ve seen service. O’Hare was at Alexandria, did you know that? Heaviside’s the worst bloody Biblepuncher I’ve ever come across. No wonder the Good Lord held him up off that ship, but he’s a good Officer. I’d trust him in a fight. I s’pose if you look on religion the way he does you’re not too worried about an early trip to the Pearly Gates, but for a Holy Joe, he knows his stuff. His Company was rearguard at Castricum and he got ‘em away, with French cavalry ranging about.”

  “I’ve heard French cavalry is the best there is, Jed.”

  “Ah, I’ve heard that too, and I don’t want to be around when it’s put to the test. Anyway, Carr and Carravoy, a rum pair both. I don’t know, we’ll see. Carravoy; bit of a fop, likes giving orders. Carr, too early to tell, but seems a cold fish. I heard he was part of that Irish Jig back in ’98. Anyway, don’t forget; we’ve good Corporals and Sergeants, like I and thee, and Gibney, that Yorkshire bugger. He didn’t sink.”

  “Pulling this lot together is going to take some doing Jed, all the same, I saw them “hard bargains” you brought in, and the Army don’t look good in the eyes of civilians outside. The Navy’s the people’s darling right now.”

  Both nodded and silence fell between them and both drank. Deakin broke the silence.

  “But this I do know. I’m not wantin’ that much to get back to campaigning. We’re in the middle of nowhere, but it’s a soft billet, and like I said, that I’ll settle for. Training what’s back there in the barracks suits me just fine as of now. What after? Who knows, but sometime we’ll be sent to fight the French; later, I hope, not sooner, but I’d put my money on us staying as a Battalion of Detachments. If we’re trained and ready, they won’t split us up. Makes no sense. ‘Sides, I’m not sorry to be spending some time home. I’ve been away a long time.”

  “I didn’t know you was from these parts, Jed? How’d you end up in the East Norfolks?”

  “I joined up in ’89, with the 13th Somersets. I was driving sheep off the Mendips to Bridgwater, and there was a Recruiting Sergeant there. It just seemed a better life, is all. We was sent to the West Indies in ’90, a whole Battalion, and the first action I saw was against rebel slaves. In ’95 we was sent home, just 60 strong. Disease practically wiped us out, swamp fever they called it. Me and others spent some months in the hospital. The Doctor reckoned my early life on the marshes saved my life, gave me some “resistance”, was his words. After, when I got better, the 13th was away, and so we was scattered around, including me. I ended up with the 9th.”

  “Disease! Ah. ’Tis a common thing, right enough, Jed. Disease kills more than any enemy. I reckons you got to be unlucky to be killed in a battle, but lucky to come out of a campaign without some ailment that could kill you just the same.”

  “From you, that’s wisdom! Come on, drink up, we’ve just got time for another.”

  oOo

  “Greatcoat, one. Shako, one. Foraging cap, one. Stock, one. Haversack, one. Canteen, one. Knapsack, one. Pouch, one. Musket, with sling, one. Bayonet and scabbard, one. All were either piled onto proffered arms, or jammed on heads, or slung around shoulders and necks, and all delivered with an authoritarian bellow by Quartermaster Sergeant Sleightman. Each recruit then manoeuvred themselves out through the narrow door of the Quartermaster’s Stores, hoping that nothing would be dropped before the disapproving gaze of Sergeant Major Gibney. Once through the door, they joined the growing parade of the “kitted out”, whilst the line of those waiting for their issue slowly diminished. Eventually all had received what was required. Gibney placed himself before them.

  “Thee now has full kit, apart from tha’ red jacket and grey trousers; they come later. Right now, tha’s raw recruits, and not yet worthy. There will be full inspection of all kit, morning parade, tomorrow. We expects it to be clean and shining. Parade, diss miss!”

  The recruits faced right and then shuffled off to barracks, peering to find their way over and around the pile of new possessions held in their arms. Joe Pike returned to his cubicle, where Tom Miles was waiting for him.

  “Hang up what you can. Then come back h
ere with your jacket, musket and bayonet.”

  Joe did as he was bid and laid all on the table with a clatter.

  “Right, here’s the rule. If it’s metal, you polish it with brick dust. That’s yer musket, bayonet and buttons, crossbelt badge and shako badge.”

  He examined the badge and plume.

  “13th! Somersets, I think, with a beige plume. They’re a local Regiment. It must be some stuff from local stores. Anyhow, here’s some of what you need.”

  He placed a small canvas bag before Joe containing a red powder.

  “If it’s white, you rubs it with damp pipe clay. We calls that “blancoeing”. Here’s a dish. But start with what’s metal, and you may as well learn now what some old sweats calls those two,” indicating the musket and bayonet.

  “Some calls yer musket, yer “bundook”. I’ve not heard it much, but I’m hearing it more. That comes from service in India. Some of the natives out there calls guns that, or similar. Most Regiments, though, calls it a “Brown Bess”, don’t ask me where that comes from. Yer bayonet is yer “brummagem”, that’s because it was made in Birmingham. Right, if that’s clear, get to polishing.”

  Joe obeyed, his actions being duplicated all over the barracks; all recruits now knew what awaited transgressors of a kit inspection. Only the others of his kind didn’t have the female audience that Joe soon gathered, nor the two elder daughters of Nelly Nichols, who, unbidden, had sat and begun on the second task of whitening his cross belts.

  Similarly, John Davey and Percival Sedgwicke sat at the same table together, burnishing and cleaning their new equipment and clothing, Dan Smith having given both the benefit of his experience. There had not been one companionable conversation between them since they were placed together, but each was growing used to the other, not as friends, but at least as a familiar face. Sedgwicke felt able to begin a conversation, but not so much as to use the over-familiar, as he felt, Christian name of his fellow soldier.

  “Are you a church-goer, Davey?”

  “Yes, Parson. I am, or was, and I believe in Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour, but regarding church goin’, the likes of me didn’t have too much choice.