“But Tom, how do I get my money back.”
“You’ve got as much chance of getting your money back as I have of riding a horse to the moon. Them men is long players, they can judge the roll of the dice better than any alive. Keep your money, lad, ‘tis too hard come by to risk it on rolling whalebones. Turn yourself to something useful, like carving or something. You used to be a carpenter of sorts, didn’t you?”
He held up a fine piece of beech wood that he was turning into a whistle. It was already a hollow tube and he was attending to the finger holes.
“Alright Tom, if you’ll teach me.”
“Teach you nothing. All you need is a sharp knife and a nice piece of close grain wood. The rest comes with experience.”
He reached into a canvas sack.
“Here’s a piece of oak, see what you can fashion from that.”
And he threw it over to land on Joe’s straw mattress. Joe picked it up and regarded it carefully, thinking creatively. Whilst he mused on the possibilities, the conviviality within the barrack room was growing. Someone had produced a fiddle, and the children, and no few of the grown ups, were dancing country reels, whilst many kept time by thumping on the table. Good cheer increased considerably when the door opened and in came a Corporal Orderly carrying two pails of dark, pungent liquid. Rum.
“Spirits up! Compliments of the Colonel.”
All fiddling and dancing ceased as the men ran to get their mugs in which to receive their half pint entitlement. Soon there was an unruly gathering around the Orderly and his containers, who was rapidly dipping the half pint measure into the rum and tipping it into the eagerly proffered mugs. Tom Miles soon reached the edge of the crowd where he could see what was going on. He soon took umbrage.
“You get the top of your thumb out of that measure, you chiselling sod! Damn your tricks to save rum for your sodding self! Give us full measure.”
Joe Pike, at his side with his own mug, looked quizzical and the Orderly returned a hurt and pleading look.
“Listen, Tom. It b’ain’t my fault. The Colonel gave the order for a rum ration and whilst there should be enough, there ain’t. ‘Tis either eke it out, like this, or water it down, as some has done. Most like their rum neat, and can tell when ‘tis watered. So, I don’t fancy my face being smashed in, so I’m doing it this way. Here, here’s a drip more. No more moaning.”
Tom received the extra tiny measure, but not in good grace, and treated the Orderly to one of his especially black looks of contempt and annoyance.
“And for the boy, here,” was his parting shot before turning away, and he left as Joe received a tiny extra. Nevertheless, it was good Navy rum, such as Miles had not tasted since leaving Ireland and survived the shipwreck. Returning to a table, Joe sat beside Tom, took a large swallow and began coughing and choking. Between gulps from his heaving chest he gasped out the question.
“What in the Lord’s Name is this, Tom?”
“Navy rum, boy, and it don’t come often, this side of a battle, anyways. Get it down you, it’ll do you the world of good.”
Joe obeyed and the chokes subsided. However, it was not long before a glazed look came over his eyes and he slumped forward over the table. Tom grinned and took up Joe’s mug, but it was not tipped into his own. Instead he went to Joe’s canteen and into it he carefully decanted the remainder.
Concurrently, another Orderly arrived in the barrack room of Davey and Sedgwicke. Davey reacted before Sedgwicke, who was deep into his Bible. He saw the commotion caused by the arrival rather than heard the Orderly’s shout; the room was full of so much noise. All the men running to the man with the buckets carried its own message.
“Come on, Parson, I think they’re standing us a drink. Get your mug.”
And with that, he took his own off its peg and joined the throng. Sedgwicke looked up. A drink! The dependence on alcohol, created during his previous life had not left him. It surfaced within him and quickly asserted itself. He seized his mug and hurried after Davey. The wait in the throng seemed interminable, especially as, being someone of more minor stature than major, he was twice shouldered to the rear, but eventually the dark, strong smelling, and mysterious liquid was dispensed into his mug.
Having indulged himself in the past on fine wine, his first sip told him that this was liquor, ferocious and strong, but the warming feeling now growing in his stomach was far from unpleasant. His half pint was soon consumed and the effects of such a measure, of such a libation, soon grew also. For the first time in weeks, he actually felt cheerful, such that he took himself over, to the astonishment of John Davey, to the rowdy group that were singing to the accompaniment of two penny whistles. He didn’t know the words, but they made room for him and he clapped his hands in time, the social level of the company, at least for a time, forgotten.
oOo
Chapter Four
A Soldier’s Trade
“Well, this is peculiar. Most odd. What’s he got in mind, do you think? Was the “Old Man” a Headmaster, or something, before he joined the Army?”
Lieutenant D’Villiers shrill and nasal tones drifted down the Mess Table to the other Officers, a dozen of them, each having a small pile of plain foolscap, with pen and ink before them. Lieutenant The Honourable Nathaniel Drake leaned forward and gave his opinion.
“I think he wants to test you on your Latin grammar, D’Villiers. Get you to decline the odd Latin noun, perhaps. Dominus, domine, dominum, domini, domino, dominorum.”
Carravoy joined the banter, but his tone was acid and more like to kill it.
“I think you’ll find, Lieutenant Drake, that the declension of a common masculine noun ends in “o”, not “orum”.
Drake raised his eyebrows in surprise and screwed his face in feigned shock that his attempt at humour should fall on such stony ground, but at that moment, Colonel Lacey and Major O’Hare entered the room. There was instant silence and all stood. Lacey and O’Hare strode to the head of the table.
“Gentlemen, please be seated.”
Ensign Rushby had not caught on and had sat himself at a place that had no writing materials and, nonplussed and confused, he looked down the table at the Colonel. He had failed to notice the vacant place with the paper, pen, and ink.
“Ensign Rushby, please to bring yourself down to this place here,” this said whilst indicating the vacant space, which Lacey assumed Rushby would have had the common sense to choose in the first place. Rushby bustled and clattered down to the correct place and the Colonel began.
“Soon, Gentlemen, I will be allocating you to your Companies. I’m going to set you a military problem that I want you to answer using the paper before you. Your answers will aid both Major O’Hare and myself in that decision which we will soon have to take. Answer in words or diagrams, or both, as you choose.”
He paused.
“The problem is this; you are in command of the battalion, which could happen to you Captains, especially those senior. Lieutenants; that is unlikely, but the next hour, I feel sure, will teach you something of a soldier’s trade and do you no harm. The problem’s as follows. As Commander, you have been ordered to advance at the enemy’s extreme left flank. The end of his line is anchored on a large copse, whilst yours will be “in the air” as you advance. You are in open country, and there are enemy cavalry clear and present, but not in contact with you. What do you do?”
Many took their gaze away from the Colonel to look at each other and exchanged puzzled, even worried, glances. Carr and Carravoy, as so often in the Mess, found themselves opposite each other. Carr, demonstrating his usual languid style, picked up the pen but leaned as far back in the chair as it would allow. He began twirling the pen in his fingers whilst giving the problem his consideration, his mouth adopting the insolent half smile that many who felt he should better know his place found so annoying. Carravoy, in contrast, leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlocked, with his upper lip touching the index finger of his right hand. He s
pent some moments studying Carr, who soon began drawing. Carr felt, more than saw, Caravoy studying him and looked up, and met the look with his own challenging, expressionless stare, countering Carravoy’s own examining look.
Carravoy took his questioning gaze onto Drake, sat next to Carr. Drake also noticed himself being studied, and when it was clear that Carravoy was taking more time to study him than to attempt the question, Drake being ever ready for any opportunity for humour, he knotted his eyebrows quizzically, adopted an amused expression and placed his left arm over the top of his paper. The gesture conveyed the jest - heinous cheating! Carravoy was trying to look at his paper! Drake raised his head further and grinned, adding to this attempt at amusement between them, but Carravoy’s face remained expressionless and showed no sign of seeing anything funny. Drake’s smile faded and he returned to his answer. Carr noted Carravoy’s chilly rebuff of his friend and stared coldly at Carravoy for a long moment, before addressing himself to his own answer.
“Is there any artillery support, Sir?”
“A good question, Mr Rushby. Yes there is, from the left.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Any from our own cavalry? Sir,” from a voice at the top end of the table.
“No. None.”
For ten minutes silence reigned around the mess table, save for the scratch of pen on parchment. Lacey broke the silence.
“Enough. That is about the time you would have in battle. Gentlemen, name your work and pass it up to Major O’Hare. Now take yourselves off and re-assemble in 30 minutes. Dismiss.”
Chairs scraped back and all left for an anteroom where an Orderly had prepared coffee. Many formed small knots, which anxiously discussed the merits of various answers, but Carr and Drake took their coffee and themselves out of the building for some fresh air and a rare smoke. Drake turned to Carr.
“What did you make of that?’
“New in my experience.”
Drake nodded, but further conversation was unnecessary. There was enough to divert them already on the parade ground. Sergeant Major Gibney was teaching his recruits how to load a musket, using Deakin as his visual aid. Deakin was holding his musket before him, both hands either side of the flintlock, making clear what the recruits were to focus on. Gibney began by pointing at the flintlock, giving instructions that Deakin obeyed as required.
“Now listen and listen good. This is the flintlock part that makes tha’ musket fire. Point to these parts, please, Corporal. Pan. Frizzen. Hammer, with a flint, at half cock. The Corporal’s frizzen is down to cover the pan, it has a spring to hold it closed, which it has to be after thee’s primed it with gunpowder. Frizzen down puts the striking plate up. The Corporal here, will now fully cock the hammer and pull the trigger. Ah wants thee to watch carefully.”
Deakin pulled back the hammer and pulled the trigger. The hammer hit the striking plate and the frizzen slammed forward.
“Didst tha’ see that? The spark it made. That sets off the powder in the pan, which sets off the main charge inside the barrel. How does it do that? All of thee, look inside the pan.”
All raised their muskets, pushed the frizzen forward and studied. Gibney chose a recruit in the centre, the least likely looking, and pointed.
“Thee. What can th’see?”
“A small hole, Sergeant Major.”
“A small hole, that’s right. Smart lad. That small hole is called the touch hole and the fire in the pan goes through it to the main charge. Now, after a number of firings the pan gets fouled and the hole clogged.”
He pointed to another recruit, this time, John Davey.
“What did we get thee to tie to tha’ knapsack strap, thee?”
“A small spike and a small brush, Sergeant Major.”
“That’s right. It’s called a brush and pricker, and what does thee think it’s for? Thee,” pointing to another.
“Cleaning the pan with the brush and cleaning out the touch hole with the pricker, Sergeant Major.”
“Didst tha’ hear that. He called them by their right names. What gradely recruits ah has here now, right before me now.”
He took from his pocket a paper cylinder, about four inches long and held it aloft.
“Tha’ sees this. This is a cartridge. It contains just enough powder to prime and charge tha’ musket, and at one end is a musket ball, at the end that’s not folded. Right, Deakin, load tha’ musket and fire, salute angle. Now.”
Deakin swung the musket to his hip, pulled the hammer back to half cock which fully exposed the pan. He took a paper cartridge from the box just behind his right hip and bit open the folded end. Some gunpowder grains adhered to the side of his mouth. He ignored them. A small measure was tipped into the pan and the frizzen closed. He then grounded his musket before him and tipped the rest of the gunpowder into the barrel, whilst still holding the ball through the paper. Once empty, the paper containing the ball was then stuffed into the top of the barrel. He extracted the ramrod beneath the barrel, rammed all down tight and then returned the ramrod. He lifted the weapon up, fully cocked the hammer, set the butt against his shoulder, raised the barrel high and pulled the trigger. There had been not a wasted movement throughout. The priming in the pan flashed into white smoke and the musket went off with a sharp bark. Deakin returned to order arms. The whole had taken just under 20 seconds. As the smoke cleared and the report echoed away, Gibney resumed his lecture.
“That is what we wants from thee. A good soldier can manage three reloads a minute. The best can get close to four, but over four is rare. Has thee ever heard of a man getting over four, Corporal?”
“No, Sar’ Major.”
“Just so. Now, tha’ turn. Step by step. Take out a cartridge from tha’ box. Feel the ball in the end not folded.”
He paused whilst all obeyed.
“Tha’ cartridge is full of dried sand. We doesn’t want thee blowing someone’s head off, now do we? At least not yet awhile. And sand doesn’t pack down like gunpowder, so ‘tis easy to tip out, but only if thee doesn’t stuff in the paper. Let the ball fall out, and let the paper drop. So, half cock the hammer and open the frizzen.”
The worthy Gilbey now took his charges move-by-move, step-by-step, through the procedure to load and fire their heavy muskets. Deakin moved up and down the line, giving help and advice where he could. When the time came to ground the butt to enter the main charge down the muzzle, much sand was added to the parade ground; several had forgotten to close the frizzen. Eventually all had a “loaded” musket.
“Now then, my men. When tha’s loaded and ready, tha’ has to give th’Officer some sign. Tha’ points thee musket straight up into th’air. We calls it “make ready”. Show this to our fine lads, please, Corporal,” and Deakin obeyed.
“Now, all of you, make ready.”
All obeyed. 52 muskets pointed skyward.
“Present, which means aim tha’ musket.”
All came to the “present”, and Gibney strode forward and walked along the line. Eventually he found what he knew he would. He seized the end of a ramrod protruding from a muzzle and worked it in and out of the barrel, like a plunger.
“Percy, my boy.”
It was Sedgwicke.
“Hast thee been given some special kind of ammunition?”
Sedgwicke’s face took on an agonized expression. Yet again a focus of critical attention.
“No, Sergeant Major.”
“So, what’s this still doing down tha’ barrel? Can thee imagine, Percy, what a mess thee’ll be in, if thee fires this away?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major. I won’t be able to reload.”
“Just so, Percy. Don’t do it again.”
He watched as Sedgwicke returned his ramrod to the guides below the barrel, then he left the line and resumed his teaching post.
“Now look along the barrel. Nothing in the way, is there? Muskets have no sights. Thee just points it at what thee wants to hit. It’s that simple. Now, let’s try for speed.”
Time and again the sand and the ball were tipped out onto the ground and the priming pan emptied. Discarded cartridge papers, balls and sand soon littered the ground at their feet. Some were achieving beyond two reloads a minute, as observed by Drake and Carr, when they heard an Orderly calling the Officers back into the Dining Room. They entered silently behind the others who were also making no conversation and took their places. Tension was high. When the last had taken their place, the silence was total, each with an anxious expression that conveyed their anxiety over the Colonel’s judgment on their answers.
“We are both pleased. All of you, but one, has produced a solution that at least has some merit, but some, as you can imagine, are better than others. However, it is clear that I am in the good company of professional and knowledgeable Officers. Ensign Rushby.”
“S,sir.”
Rushby sat up like a startled rabbit. Was he “the one”?
“How do infantry defend against an attack by cavalry?”
“That’ll be a defensive square, Sir.”
“Just so Mr Rushby. Now, Captain Carravoy.”
“Sir.”
“You have protected your exposed flank with a closed column of three companies, Light, First and Second. What are the merits of that?”
Carrovoy stood to address his superior. He looked anxious but also annoyed, the normal confidence and poise of the aristocracy were not bearing him up. His voice was testy, as though addressing an ignorant estate worker. He greatly resented being asked to justify himself.
“Well, Sir. Three companies closed up would form a block of men similar to a square, to give the protection needed, and, when we reached the copse, the column could launch forward with enough men to capture it and secure our own flank. Sir.”
“A good solution, Captain, I like what you say. A good compromise between defence and attack. What are the disadvantages?”
Again, the impatience was audible in his voice, almost sarcastic.
“It would shorten our line for the main attack.”
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 13