“My thanks, Mr Farriner, it sounds just the place for us. No one in there means we can blaze away to our hearts’ content. Thank you and good day to you.”
They marched on into the field and Carr gave the order to deploy in files of three, which saw his men in three ranks facing the wood, with thirty files from left to right. At their request Tom Miles and Joe Pike had asked to be kept in a “three” and Ellis had added John Davey. An “old soldier”, a good shot, and a young athlete seemed a good combination. Thus, Tom Miles was in the first rank, Joe Pike ten yards behind in the second, with John Davey last in the third. Each file had a seven yard gap either side between its neighbours, the requirements of “skirmish order”. Once formed up, Carr, now on foot, gave the order to advance and forward they went at a rapid trot. Using an empty barrack room, Carr had explained to all what he wanted and was pleased to see the spaces between the ranks and files being maintained. The soldier’s instinct was to group together, shoulder to shoulder.
Drake gave the order.
“Enemy Light Infantry has come out of the wood and are opposing you. Advance firing by files.”
At this order Tom Miles fired at the trees, then stopped to reload, to be overtaken by the Joe Pike who advanced further to open fire. John Davey came up and past for his turn, and thus it went on. Tom Miles couldn’t contain his impatience at what he was being asked to do and as he came up past John Davey to fire for a third time, he gave his surly opinion.
“Call this fightin’ drill. 'Tis more like a bloody barn dance than any kind of moves I’ve ever been part of.”
Davey grinned, but not so the nearest Lieutenant.
“Enough of that Miles. You follow orders and keep the advance going.”
Miles replied, but only to himself and under his breath, as he reloaded.
“Alright, alright. I can hear you, and you won’t find I falling behind.”
Soon the edge of the wood was achieved and Carr reminded his men of what was now needed.
“Well done. Firing in files as before, but this time from cover. Number one fires from cover, two advances forward to his cover, fires, and so on. Now, deploy.”
The groups of three spread out along the edge of the wood. Drake gave the order, number one opened fire and in went number two to find cover and open fire, followed by number three. For a wood never maintained, nor visited even for firewood, the undergrowth was surprisingly light and the advance continued easily through the wood to the green field beyond. Carr took them well beyond the edge of the wood, down into the field and turned his men around. They then practised retreat, filing back up the field and back through the wood, number one firing, then falling back behind number three to reload, leaving number two with a clear field of fire. This done once, they practised retreat again from the opposite direction. All was going well, they had retreated to the middle of the wood when a howling and wailing was heard out on the left, cries of dire distress, such to signify that someone’s very soul was in jeopardy. Carr looked at Drake.
“What the Hell is that?”
“Only one way to find out,” and Drake took himself off in the likely direction. What he found was Ellis, kneeling over a crevice in the ground, about a yard wide and yelling down into it.
“What’s happened Ellis? What’s down there?”
“Murray, Sir. He fell down in and now he’s yelling blue murder about ghosts and spirits, Sir. I can hear him clattering about, but I can’t get him to shut up, Sir.”
Drake decided to try. He looked in, but an overhang covered in matted ferns prevented him seeing any further.
“Murray. Keep quiet, do you hear me, keep quiet. You’re still alive, not dead, so keep quiet.”
“Oh Sir, Sir, I’ve fallen into Hell, Sir, I’m down yer with a load of bones, Sir, and I think they be human. Oh God, there’s a skull, they are Sir, they be human. And there’s a load of metal stuff, an’all, Sir.”
“Alright Murray, keep calm, you’re not in Hell because I’m not, not yet anyway. We’ll get you out. I’ll come down to you as soon as I can. Are you hurt?”
“No Sir, I be just damn scared, Sir.”
He turned to the nearest Private and told him to double back to the farm to fetch a rope. Carr arrived.
“Murray has fallen down this crevice. He’s not hurt, but there’s something down there with him that’s frightening the life out of him. I’ve sent for a rope.”
By now, all had gathered at the scene, some looking most uncomfortable at what had befallen and what was being talked about. The rope arrived and Drake secured a loop under his arms. With the rope bent around a tree he was lowered down. There was little light, but enough to see Murray hunched at one end of the crevice, cowering as far as possible away from what was clearly the remains of a skeleton, complete, as far as Drake could see, but scattered. There were other dull, flat objects that looked very much like pieces of armour.
“All right, Murray, get this rope around you and we’ll get you out.”
“Oh Sir, thank you, Sir,” and Murray obeyed and was quickly, and gratefully, hauled to the top, to be quickly surrounded by his mates to tell of blackened bones and spirits of the dead.
Carr shouted down.
“What’s there?”
“I think it’s one of King Arthur’s Knights. There’s a whole skeleton, just about, and lots of bits of armour, and the biggest sword I’ve ever seen.”
This time Carr ordered an errand.
“Back to the farm. Get a sack, two, big as you can.”
Then he resumed shouting at Drake.
“Some sort of Knight? Can’t be.”
“No, it’s not. There’s not enough armour. Some kind of soldier, though.”
The sacks arrived and they began the job of hauling all up to the top, bones first, all laid out as best they knew, then the armour. Drake and Carr stood regarding the bones, then the collection of armour. Drake spoke first,
“What do you think?”
“My best guess is a Trooper in the New Model Army.”
“New what Army?”
“Model. Cromwell’s army. Surely you’ve heard of him? Had King Charles’ head cut off. The helmet’s the giveaway, a lobster tail down the back, and a single piece coming down from the peak to protect the face. There’s your ghosts, Nat. There was a lot of fighting in these parts during the Civil War and my guess is that this wood saw some and he was killed or wounded and tumbled down there, not to be found by his mates. As it was the scene of killing and bloodshed, and burial, the locals shunned it and have ever since, since 1644 or thereabouts. The overhang kept the metal from rusting too much and there it is.”
“What should we do?’
“Well, I think we should bury him. They were strict Puritans, were the New Model, and it’s very likely that no local church will accept him into their churchyard, them being Anglican and all that and him being fanatically Puritan. Besides, I suspect that the other casualties were buried here, so I say bury him where they are.”
Drake’s silence spoke of no argument and so two more were despatched on the same journey, this time for shovels. Awaiting their return all crowded up, fear of ghosts now gone, to examine what such a soldier wore and carried. Most attention was focused on the remains of a huge horse pistol, the wood rotten, but the barrel and flintlock clearly identifiable. The shovels arrived and many helped to dig the grave, not easy to dig in the shaley soil, but the men were eager to help with such a task and all took turns. Drake’s curiosity was aroused.
“Religious Army, were they?”
“Yes, all strict Puritan. A weird bunch, absolutely Religious, every man. They sang psalms before a battle, thanking God for delivering the enemy into their hands, but don’t be deceived. No one could best them, ever, not Royalists, Scots, Irish, nor even the Spanish. They had the nickname “Ironsides”, and they were just about the closest this country’s ever come to having an invincible army.”
“Is that a fact? Well, we could do with them right
now.”
“I wouldn’t argue, and Lady Constance could teach us the psalms!”
By now the grave had been dug and the men, without orders, had begun arranging the bones at the bottom. Ellis looked up to Carr.
“Say a few words, Sir?”
Carr was surprised and looked it, but quickly recovered.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
He cleared his throat.
“Heavenly Father, we send to you this soldier. We think him to be a Puritan soldier of a long time before now, but he was part of an Army that carried your Word with them. They fought in your Name. They feared your wrath and obeyed your commandments, as much as was possible during war. They always believed that they were doing Thy Will. Please take him to you, and look kindly upon him. Amen.”
All repeated the final word and the grave was filled. This left the armour.
“What should we do with this?”
Carr thought for a moment.
“Well, it must be of some interest for some antiquarian. As far as I can tell, it’s just about complete. We should bag it up and take it back to town. I’m sure the Council can find it a home. I can’t think of anything better.”
“I can. Our esteemed Regional General Perry. He’s a fanatic about this sort of stuff. Put it in a box, and send it to him, with our compliments. Maybe next time we see him we’ll get a glad look instead of being ignored, like last time. At least we know that he’ll take care of it, instead of dumping it down some cellar.”
“Right. Yes. That’s the move. You three, get all that into the sacks. As much as will fit; the rest we’ll have to carry loose. And by the way, all of you, what I saw was well done, clean and professional. Good Light Infantry. Well done.
oOo
Davey returned to his barrack room to find Sedgwicke packing his belongings in such bags as he possessed.
“What’s happening Parson? Found a better billet?’
“In a way, yes, but don’t think I mean that in any bad way. I’m grateful that I had you to share with, John, but I’ve been made a storeman and they sleep, well, in the stores. Seems my education has made a difference, finally.”
He looked at Davey, hoping for a look that spoke a kindly goodbye and he was not disappointed.
“Well, we’ll still see you about the place then, Parson.”
Davey paused.
“For the best, really, don’t you think? You’ll make a good storeman.”
“Yes, better than a ranker in a firing line.”
Davey smiled and nodded agreement. Molly had come over, having noticed that Sedgwicke was packing. She looked at Davey enquiringly.
“Parson’s off for a storeman. He’s just packed and ready to go. I’ll give him a hand to take his things over.”
Molly went over to Sedgwicke and kissed the side of his face and he grinned with surprise, not expecting anything as such.
“We’ll, goodbye, Percy. Thank you for starting ‘Tilly with her letters. I’m grateful.”
“Oh, not in the slightest. She’s really quite bright. I’ll try to come back as often as I can. To maintain progress, as it were.”
Davey picked up the heaviest bag.
“Come on then, Parson, let’s get you to your new lodgings.”
As they left, greatly to Sedgwicke’s surprise, almost all wished him well and raised a hand in goodbye. The Father of the child who had died took the trouble to come over and shake his hand. Sedgwicke was moved, but also confused and could but mumble clumsy appreciation.
They reached the stores and Davey placed the bag on the counter. He could go no further, only storemen were allowed in the inner sanctum.
“Well, goodbye Parson, although we’ll still see each other, won’t we?”
He looked around and nodded his head, then looked again at Sedgwicke.
“Yes. I’m sure it’s for the best.”
He smiled, clapped his hand on Sdedgwicke’s shoulder, and left.
Sedgwicke needed two journeys to carry all his effects back to the dark, dusty, but silent reaches of the stores, beyond the shelves and fixtures that carried the full needs of a battalion at war. He would sleep and eat by his desk; pens and ledgers already neatly arranged and labelled. Sedgwicke’s head and shoulders slumped down with a huge sigh of relief, then rose, as he straightened up. He felt renewed, as if returned to his more natural, even rightful, element. Here, at last, was a world more familiar, more in keeping with the character of a Priest, de-frocked or otherwise. He unpacked and sat at the ledger desk. Some dockets needed entering so he opened the required ledger, inked a pen and began.
He was not long into his task when Sleightman arrived, oily grin matching his oily, slicked down hair.
“Ah, Percy! Settled in and started, I see. Good, good. I likes a man as is diligent about his work, and mark my words, Percy, you mark my words, ‘tis diligence as does it. When the Colonel of Commissariat comes to call, the first place he goes to is; the books! Yes. Good and careful ledgers. So you go on as you mean to stay, Percy.”
He stopped and thought, that didn’t seem quite right, but by now Sedgwicke could smell the rum on his breath, even though it was only early afternoon. What came next confirmed it. Sleightman approached closer, mouth almost touching Sedgwicke’s ear.
“Now, Percy. This is how things be. You see, being a storeman has its advantages. The odd perk can come your way, in all kinds of forms. Here’s your first,” and he placed a full bottle of rum on the desk before Sedgwicke.
“Now then, you get that into your canteen. It don’t make no sense to have a full bottle of rum out in plain sight, now do it? What the eye don’t see, the heart don’t grieve over. That’s my motto, and ‘t’ave seen me well so far. If you needs a second canteen, just get one. The numbers haven’t matched for months. So, ha ha, welcome to the stores Percy,” and he left.
Left alone, Sedgwicke sat staring at the bottle. The temptation was huge, so much so that perspiration broke out on his forehead. He stood down from his desk, went to his possessions and found his Bible. With it clasped tight between both hands and tighter still against his chest he prayed for strength and help. It came, and he took the bottle and decanted it into his canteen, which he hid, then he wondered what to do with the bottle. Finding no answer, he hid that too, then resumed his work.
Days passed, then weeks, and Sedgwicke learned his duties, counting, storing, booking and recording. On campaign, so Sleightman told him, their place was in the rear, with the supply train. The only danger came when the battalion needed to be re-supplied, then someone had to load a string of mules, or a cart, and go up to the fighting, but, “You’re always in the rear,” Sleightman emphasised, “Always in the rear.” Sedgwicke kept his word to continue teaching 'Tilly and he returned each evening. So good an act as this justified in his mind using the rum that came copiously to him from Sleightman, and most evenings saw him slump down on his mattress, fully clothed, sleep irresistible after a day at the ledgers and an evening with the equally irresistible bottle, drawn from its hiding place. If Sleightman found that the previous bottle was not empty when he brought another, then he reproached Sedgwicke for not taking advantage of the generosity that he, the munificent Sleightman, was bestowing upon him.
Sleightman began spending more time with him, being social and personable, but mostly ingratiating with extra food and small comforts like decent shaving soap. On his return from 'Tilly late evening, they began drinking together and, with both drunk, in small doses Sleightman drew out the story of Sedgwicke’s fall from grace.
“A couple of bloody knives and forks! If ‘twern’t for this national emergency, they could’ve shipped you off to Australia. A couple of bloody knives and forks. It b’aint just, Percy, you owes them nuthin’. Truth of the matter is, they owes you!”
Sedgwicke, well in his cups, nodded in firm agreement.
“I likes you, Percy! You’re a man after my own. Tomorrow, we’ll talk some more. There’s something I think you can help me with
.”
Sure enough, the following day Sleightman found Sedgwicke at his ledgers.
“Right Percy. Break off and come into the office.”
Sedgwicke did as obeyed and entered the small cubby-hole that served as stores office and Sleightman’s billet. Once inside, and he had started talking, the ingratiating and wheedling tone Sleightman used disappeared entirely, to be replaced by a hard, businesslike demeanour that came as a shock to Sedgwicke.
“Right, Percy. I knows you likes your bottle. Right?”
Sedgwicke nodded, now fearful.
“And you doesn’t have to pay. Right?”
Again, Sedgwicke nodded. The oily grin returned
“Now, I likes you Percy, and I wants to see you right, but time’s come for you to do something for me. Do this, and things stays as they are, if you takes my meaning.”
He paused and Sedgwicke waited, expecting something terrible.
“As a storeman you is able to leave barracks and get into town to see merchants, and shopkeepers, and such.”
Sedgwicke nodded.
“Right. From time to time, I needs a letter delivered to the Innkeeper at the Five Feathers, that’s the Inn that you came out of when we first met; and bring a letter back. That’s all I wants you to do, Percy. Deliver that letter and all stays as before. Let me down, and there’ll be changes, and I don’t just mean the end of the bottles, if you takes my meaning.”
Sedgwicke saw nothing that could be made an issue of. To deliver and collect a letter as part of his duties in town could present no problem, as far as he could see.
“Yes. Of course. I’ll do that gladly.”
“Right Percy. Knew you’d be sensible. Start now.”
He produced an envelope from a drawer in his desk, sealed with bright red wax, but no name.
“See that this goes into the hand, and I mean into the hand, of Wilberforce Johnson. He’s the Landlord. If he’s not there, wait. Go.”
Sedgwicke went.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 22