The first stroke gave an eerie whistle as it travelled to meet Tiley’s back and connect with a sickening slap, like a wet sheet being swung against a wall. Tiley lurched into the halberd shafts, his mouth wide open, such as would have caused the wooden length to fall out, were it not tied. All the wind had been knocked out of his body. His knees buckled, then he recovered himself, stood, and sucked in breath. The second lash made the same connection, but Tiley had tensed himself and his bulging back muscles took the blow. Each lash was delivered carefully by the Drummer Sergeant and soon blood began to flow, slowly at first, then more quickly and the lash, equally quickly, spread it further over his back. Tiley bit hard on the wood tied into his mouth, but each lash brought a deeper gasp of pain. After one dozen, the Drummer Sergeant combed out the tails of the lash. The Medical Officer looked at Tiley and nodded his head, the punishment could continue, but when seventeen was reached, the carefully choreographed performance took an unrehearsed turn. Tiley bellowed with rage, seized two of the pike shafts and lifted up the whole structure, turning around to use the pikes to ward off the next lash. The Drummer Sergeant stopped and Lacey spurred his horse forward to confront the defiant Tiley. His face contorted with anger.
“Private Tiley. You will take your punishment or you’ll hang for mutiny. Do you hear me! Mutiny. In the Army that’s a capital offence. You’ll hang!”
Tiley stood defiant before Lacey, shoulders heaving as his lungs fought for breath. For what seemed an age to those who watched, he held up the pikes, maintaining his defiance, his glaring eyes locked in fierce hatred against the Colonel. A long stare passed between them, then slowly the wooden shafts were lowered and Tiley turned his back towards his tormentor, the Drummer Sergeant. He jammed one of the shafts into the ground and leaned on it for support, the other two hanging loose at odd angles. Lacey motioned to the Drummers and the two ran forward to re-arrange the tripod. With that done they remained, holding them in place, each looking up at Tiley, but neither spoke a word. Spittle issued frothily from Tiley’s mouth.
“Drummer Sergeant. One dozen more.”
“Is that from now, Sir, or on top?”
“On top. Now do your duty.”
Thus Tiley received three dozen lashes and their delivery seemed to go on forever. Lash after lash on a back already shredded and bloody intensified the horror of what was taking place before them. Many in the Recruit Company, seeing such medieval brutality for the first time, felt their senses leaving them and began to sway. Joe Pike, next to Davey, lurched into his shoulder. Davey pushed back, returning him to upright. He whispered,
“Up straight, lad. Close your eyes. You don’t have to look, just count. That’s 31.”
Joe Pike took a firmer grip on his musket and recovered. He closed his eyes, as did many others.
“36. Punishment complete, Sir.”
“Cut him down. Off to the Surgeon.”
Tiley was hanging from the tripod, attempting to raise himself upon legs that seemed either disobedient or absent. A bucket of salt water was thrown over his riven back, turning the back of what had begun as white drill trousers into different shades of red and pink. He was cut down, then supported by his arms around the shoulders of two drummers, and then dragged off, face down towards the sickbay. However, just as they were passing through the gap between two companies, he gasped out,
“Stop, stop! Leave I be.”
His attendants released his arms, but he sagged down onto all fours, and remained there for a short while. Then, his massive strength asserted itself and he raised himself up. He stood, swayed, and then stood again with his hands on his hips. He took several deep breaths. Then, from there, he walked to where the drummers were indicating and disappeared into a narrow door at the far end of the barrack square, a trail of water and red spots on the hard packed sand marking the route of his passage.
oOo
The polished shank of the steel bayonet lazily described slow circles across the background of the swept cobbles of the billet. Joe Pike held the sharp point between his finger tips and absent mindedly allowed the bayonet to rotate, one way, then another, whilst he stared dully through the tube of the shank to the floor, focusing from one, then back to the other. He had removed none of his kit, merely unlaced the stock, and now he sat hunched over on the nearest stool, haversack still in place along with all other bags and pouches. A morose figure, head supported on his left hand, elbow resting on his left knee, his right hand rotating the bayonet.
The men had been dismissed by companies and none had dawdled whilst returning to their barrack room. Whilst nothing was different from dismissal from previous parades, the events of only minutes ago had cast a pall over the mood of the battalion, more so on the new recruits and none more among them than Joe Pike. Likewise, John Davey and Sedgwicke had arrived in their cubicle in similar mood, and both divested themselves of their kit, but from then on, their reactions had been very different. John Davey placed both hands on a high peg and leaned forward, head between his forearms, thinking revolutionary thoughts. Percival Sedgwicke had quickly sunk into a corner of his part of the cubicle and was now mumbling a barely audible prayer. Davey could hear emphasised words such as “forgiveness” and “salvation” but how, when, and for whom were beyond his hearing.
Within their cubicle Tom Miles turned angrily on Joe.
“Snap out of it, boy, and quick. There’s worse than that waiting in your future, and that’s no mistake. You think you’re the only one that doesn’t like a flogging? Get up and see to your kit. Food’ll be here soon and you’re still togged up. Now move! Do as is needed.”
Joe rose to his bidding and began the ordered removal of his equipment, each onto its peg or into its place.
“But it was all done so careful, Tom. Like it was measured out, in a play or something. Cold blooded and careful.”
Tom ceased his own arrangements and turned angrily towards him, thumbs locked into the top of his belt.
“Listen boy, you have to understand what you are to them. You’re not a man, you’re a musket. They want to make sure that you will stand and fire that musket no matter what your state of mind. You could be in a fight where the enemy is so close that the paper from their cartridges is setting your clothes on fire. You’re so close you can see if they’ve shaved, if they’ve any teeth missing, and you can hear them curse you. What will stop you from running? Not much without the terror that they make inside you. The lash or the rope. They think they have to make you fear that, more than you fear getting killed, and you just saw some of it.”
“But what about fighting for your country, and your King? What about not showing yourself a coward? Doesn’t that make you stand and fight?
The outburst had relieved Miles of much of his anger. He spoke more calmly.
“You may be right, lad. It may be in there somewhere, but that’s not for now. Right now, get yourself ready to eat. After, you change your shirt and linen. Tonight’s Saturday night, washing night. Tomorrow’s Sunday, one of the better days”
oOo
The order came for Church Parade. No weapons, nor packs, nor pouches. The parade assembled with each company in their allotted place, the recruits forming an eleventh company as part of the three sides of a square. All the family members gathered behind them, against the walls, to also partake of the Sunday devotions. The weather was dry and mild for November and most had thoughts that were less than Holy, more concerned with what followed this Sunday ritual, but it was nevertheless a welcome diversion from the endless drill and preparation. Gibney marched up to Colonel Lacey and reeled off an immaculate salute that was returned with equal quality.
“10.30, Sir. Parade assembled. I am informed that the Vicar is at the gate, arrived on his donkey. Shall I let him in, Sir?’
“Yes. Make it so.”
“Sir.”
Further salutes were exchanged and Gibney walked to the gate, nevertheless showing more military bearing than most could manage on a march down Whitehall
. He took himself through the space of the missing side of the square, passing what occupied this vacant side, seven drums piled in a pyramid to form an altar, three on four. Gibney disappeared into the darkness of the gate arch. Five silent seconds passed, terminated by a cacophony of baying and shouting. What emerged from the arch was not a Vicar, preceding Sergeant Major Gibney, but the lone donkey, saddle down on one side, baying and kicking then galloping into the centre of the Parade Ground. Feeling itself hemmed in, it galloped back to the gate, found that occupied by humans, so it turned again and ran along a wall, using the space between the paraded soldiers and their assembled relations. It reached a corner, felt safe, and so stopped. At peace, it turned its head to look at the long collection of humanity, raised its tail and defecated. However, it did now feel sufficiently tranquil to allow a nervous Orderly to gather its trailing halter.
Smiles and smirks broke out in the ranks and sideways looks were exchanged. The Sergeants felt, more than saw, the disturbance and more than one mumbled dire threats about teeth disappearing down throats. Hoots of laughter issued from amongst the civilians, quickly terminated by fierce looks from nearby NCO’s threatening a taste of the cane for anyone who couldn’t “hold their rattle.”
By this time, Gibney had returned.
“Ah’m sorry, Sir, but the Vicar has fallen off, and can’t get up. We’ve tried to make him stand, Sir, but he just falls over again. He doesn’t look ill, nor seem injured, but he does smell of drink, Sir. And his clothes are all out of good order. He hasn’t shaved. He smells of drink, Sir. Sorry Sir.”
“Nothing to do with you, Sergeant Major. Not your fault. You are excused the Parade. Order a carriage, and get the Vicar home.”
“Sir.” And Gibney hurried away
Lacey half turned towards Ensign Rushby, who was stood just behind his left shoulder.
“Rushby.”
“Sir.”
“Take yourself over to Captain Heaviside. Do try to maintain an Officerlike appearance. Present him with my compliments, and ask him to take over. A psalm, a prayer and a hymn should cover it. I’ll produce a Sermon”
“Sir.”
Rushby saluted, described a reasonable about turn and took himself off in the direction of Captain Heaviside. He did his best on the question of “Officerlike”, but few could attribute that high adjective to the marionette march that took him to the said Captain who was at attention in front of his Company.
“Colonel Lacey presents his compliments, Sir, and asks if you could take over. The Vicar is indisposed, Sir. The Colonel added that a psalm, and a hymn, plus a prayer should serve the purpose, Sir. The Colonel will do the Sermon”
Heaviside made no reply, instead he turned to face the Colonel, came to the attention and saluted. Lacey replied in kind. Heaviside marched smartly over to the drums and stood before them, not behind. He stood at ease and remained silent, not so much to gather his thoughts, more to gather his audience unto him.
“Book of Psalms; 40. I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God.”
Heaviside continued on, sonorously enunciating six of the seven verses of one of the longer Psalms, and the thoughts of many drifted away with each line. Order had been restored; all was as normal on a normal Sunday parade. This was neither orders, nor instructions, that could result in punishment if not followed. This was orders and instructions for the good of their mortal soul, such as had been dispensed in their direction for all their lives, since they could stand in Church and sing and chant. The thoughts of many drifted away, off to fix on what they may, thoughts of family, future, friends and enemies, hatred, home and hunger, but the good majority listened. Heavside’s sepulchral voice slowly and gravely intoned the weighty words of David in the 40th Psalm. Fear of God dwelt amongst the ranks of soldiers as much as the populace outside, probably more so. Any soldier, either deeply religious, such as Heaviside, or more loosely persuaded, knew that he was more likely to keep an early appointment with his Maker than most that were not of his calling.
When the time came, all joined in the Lord’s Prayer. Softly spoken by a thousand voices and more, the comforting words rose in surging waves of cadence beyond the confines of the four square parade ground, even through the windows of the Sick Bay where many, even in their beds, joined in. It was a communal act, into which each felt joined, an element of a common humanity, united by their collective recitation of the familiar words of their childhood, coupled together by a shared canon of certain belief. Equally did all join in the hymn, Love Divine, All Loves Excelling. Soldiers and their kin were no different from any other congregation and enjoyed belting out a good tune, and the rendition may not have been up to choir standard, but it could not be faulted for lack of volume nor enthusiasm.
With the advent of the last lines of the last verse, Colonel Lacy strode forward to turn and stand just before and to the left of Heaviside. As the last notes faded away over the grim walls, Lacey allowed the silence to gather and settle. All looked and waited to listen. The Colonel had something to say.
“What is the worst sin that can be committed by a soldier? Theft and rapine are most often associated with soldiers and we all know the punishment for these crimes. “Thou shalt not kill” sits more loosely upon ourselves, for it is our trade, to kill our country’s enemies, those that would march through our streets, depose our King, and overthrow our way of life. These are sins and crimes within our law, both army and civil law, but what is the greatest moral sin that a soldier can commit? I say desertion. The soldier that deserts his comrades commits both a crime and a sin, a moral sin, to leave his comrades in the lurch, alone to face the lot of a soldier, whatever that may be. Whether it be to run from a firing line at a time of mortal danger or to run from his post in time of peace, both are moral sins, the worst a soldier can commit. To run from the ranks in time of battle means one less musket, one less foe that the enemy faces, and this gives him succour against us. No less, in my view, to run in time of little danger, whilst home and safe in barracks such as this. They desert our side as we prepare to face our country’s enemies, and with their sinful absence we know that we are one fewer. They run from a future that we are prepared to face. We prepare to meet what the future brings, binding ourselves together as comrades. The deserter sins against God and his country, and he sins against us, soldiers who will one day endure the danger and shock of battle, standing together shoulder to shoulder.”
A silence and stillness filled the square with the ending of his last words. Lacey made no move, nor any other sound, allowing the message to sink in. Finally, he addressed the Officers opposite him across the parade. Gibney was absent.
“Major O’Hare. Please dismiss the parade.”
“Sir.”
The orders rang out and the companies disassembled. Lacey turned to Heaviside.
“Wesleyan hymn that, Heaviside, unless I’m mistaken.”
“Yes Sir. It’s my opinion that a good tune carries the Holy Message that much better, no matter the composer.”
“Just so. You’ll get no argument from me.”
“Sir.”
oOo
The return to barracks found all in better heart. The connection between Lacey’s sermon and the flogging of Tiley had not been lost, but there was more coming in the next hour or so to raise the spirits further; Sunday dinner. Not long after they had removed their tunics and stocks, it arrived, hot from the kitchens, roast pork, peas, and potatoes. The drink was the common small beer. The meat was the lowest cut from the animal, rolled belly and flank, but it was well cooked and looked tasty. The room Sergeant cut the meat into slices and two “matrons’ dealt out the vegetables, sternly dealing with any complaints of short measure. Soon all were at table, and the communal mood was one of good cheer. With the meal completed, pipes were filled and the small beer fin
ished off, whilst the women dealt with the serving dishes and wives with their husband’s plates; single men took care of their own. Conversation ran up and down the tables and cards and dice were produced. The barracks was enjoying its leisure time.
Davey and Sedgwicke did not remain at the tables, but returned to their cubicles, each taking a stool into their space to add to their comfort. Davey attended to some loose stitching on one of his boots, whilst Sedgwicke read from his Bible.
“Must have done you heart good to see all that going on, on the Parade Ground just now, eh Parson, a thousand souls or more?”
“Yes. I’ll not argue with the event itself, but I would have much preferred the service were it conducted by an Ordained Man of God.”
“I don’t doubt that, Parson, but, if I read it right, all we got from the due Man of God was his donkey. Why that was, I can only guess, we aren’t made privy to the doings of our betters, now are we? But I thought that there was strength in what we got. Devotions brought forth from amongst our own, as it were. Sort of wove us together, like. You know, so far, this army doesn’t strike me as being so bad, but perhaps I’m saying that because I’m warm and dry, and with a full belly.”
He opened his clasp knife and sliced off the cotton to complete the stitching. Sedgwicke lifted himself from his Bible and regarded Davey.
“Brought forth from amongst our own” That does have strength in it, yes. You know, Davey, I do think that you may have the potential to serve as a Lay Preacher.”
Davey chuckled and shook his head.
“Not me, Parson. No kind of God Botherer am I. I’m content to sing your hymns and chant your prayers, but I know where the pew is that I sit on.”
There was equal conviviality in the barracks of Joe Pike and Tom Miles. Dice and cards, the common leisure of all soldiers, were also indulged in, and Joe joined in the dice. He soon began to lose what little money he had, but Tom pulled him away from further punishment by taking his purse and stowing it safely in the pocket of Joe’s tunic, hanging on its peg.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 12