The King's Bounty

by Sara Fraser

  ‘No doubt but that the poor devils have been bullied and badgered into rebellion,’ he thought.

  Other men did not share his opinions. From all along the ranks men came out to form a line three paces forward of the company.

  ‘They are certainly eager to fight, Captain Ward,’ Flaherty observed, and Ward smiled in gratification.

  David let his gaze roam idly along the lines of those men who had not chosen to come forward. A smile of reminiscence quirked his lips. He had seen this sort of happening so many times, and had always been struck by the contradictions between men’s outward appearance and their inner qualities. Some of the hardest-seeming and toughest-featured men always hung back from danger, while some soft-looking, timid-faced fellows hurried towards it. His gentle grey eyes suddenly locked upon the dark eyes of a tall well-built corporal in the front rank. His smile broadened.

  ‘Now there is a classic illustration of my thinking,’ he told himself. ‘One would imagine by seeing that man’s face that he would be a most daring and reckless fellow. While the older one next to him looks the very epitome of brutal courage. Yet they both stand and let others push forward to fight in their stead.’

  Jethro returned the stare of the lieutenant. He saw the smile on the well-shaped lips broaden and realized with a sense of shocked surprise, ‘Goddam me! That officer thinks me to be afraid to volunteer. He thinks I’m a coward!’

  Reacting instinctively, Jethro marched smartly forward and stamped to a halt alongside the line of volunteers. A second later, and Turpin Wright joined him. The older man hissed from the corner of his mouth,

  ‘Be you gone out o’ your yed, cully? I’se told you a thousand times, ne’er offer yourself for nothin’.’

  ‘Be silent in the ranks! Goddam your loose mouths!’ Ward roared in quick anger. ‘You are soldiers of the militia, not chattering women . . . Try and behave as such, God rot you!’ Jethro inwardly cursed himself for volunteering. ‘You see you stupid fool! No matter what a man does, they still treat him worse than they would treat a dog . . .’

  It was decided to form two assault groups and attack the two centre casemates simultaneously. Two more groups would be held in reserve ready to come in when required. The remainder of the volunteers would then, if necessary, provide fresh groups to storm the rest of the casemates. David Warburton was to lead one of the initial assaults and Captain Cresswell the other. Picard and Moorehead would command the reserve groups and Flaherty would take overall charge. The one-armed rifleman, Picard, had come hurrying back from Major Caldwell’s house in time for the planning.

  ‘The major’s being cared for by the surgeon’s mate,’ he told his friends in reply to their questions, then grumbled jokingly, ‘Dammee, Flaherty. It’s no use letting Cresswell lead a storm, he’s not had the experience for it. You’d do better to let me take his place.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ the swarthy, one-eyed captain chuckled. ‘Judging by the looks o’ you, Picard, your experience of storming parties ain’t been very successful. God rot me! It ain’t likely to give your men much confidence to know they’re being led by a fellow who was fool enough to leave an arm in Badajoz breach.’

  ‘At least I’m able to see the way to where I want to go,’ the rifleman jeered good-naturedly. ‘If one of those villains so much as spits in your good eye, it’ll become a case of the blind leading the blind.’

  Jethro listened to the rough badinage and felt a reluctant admiration. If these veterans felt any timidity, then no man could have known it from their manner. He himself felt the familiar flutterings in his Stomach that always assailed him at the prospect of physical violence. But he knew that when the action began, his nervousness would leave him.

  ‘Corporal, what’s your name?’

  Jethro realized with a start that the young lieutenant’s question was for him.

  ‘It’s Stanton, sir,’ he snapped to attention and replied.

  ‘Very well, Corporal Stanton. Select twenty men, you and they will form my assault party,’ David Warburton told him.

  Quickly the preparations were made. The storm parties stripped off their tunics and accoutrements and armed themselves only with cudgels. Two long brass-headed, multi-handled battering rams were brought up from the stores.

  Inside the casemates the convicts also made ready to fight. Some bunks were pushed up against the doors to strengthen the barricades. Other bunks were smashed up and the heavy billets of broken wood distributed for clubs. There were no more taunts and challenges hurled, only the grim silence of determination.

  At a signal from Flaherty the storm parties picked up the battering rams. Joseph Ward and his officers looked on with avid interest, and along the facing parapets, the white plumes of the artillerymen’s shakos and the red cockades of the veterans’ wall sentries crowded to watch the drama.

  ‘Make ready, men!’ Flaherty shouted. ‘Advance!’

  ‘HURRAH!’ The attackers gave a short barking cheer and the battering rams surged forward and smashed into the doors with a hollow crashing of metal against wood.

  ‘And again!’ David Warburton shouted. The ram pounded once more and the door cracked and sagged a little.

  ‘And again!’ Brass crashed on wood, and the door buckled inwards against the makeshift barriers inside. The convicts now began to scream their defiance and hatred but the attackers stayed silent except for the panting grunts of the ram-handlers’ effort, as they drew back, then ran forward yet again. CRASH . . . The door smashed in completely, but still the barrier of bunks remained. The top of the barrier had fallen and when David, waving his rattan cane and shouting for his men to follow, attempted to straddle the fallen bunks he was beaten back by the flailing clubs of the convicts.

  Jethro shouted at the ram-crew who were still close to the doorway, ‘Push that ram forward and keep a grip on it.’

  They did as he ordered and the front part of the ram partly bridged the barricade of bunks . . . Jethro jumped up on to the thick pole and, running along its length with catlike surefootedness, hurled himself over the barrier and into the mass of howling convicts. Billets and clubs flailed the air and for a brief moment Jethro was alone, pitting his strength and cudgel against a dozen assailants.

  David Warburton had watched the corporal’s daring attack with amazement, then swore aloud.

  ‘Goddammit, he shall not shame me with his bravery.’ He followed Jethro’s path, running along the ram bridge to launch himself into the casemate. His example was repeated instantly by Turpin Wright and others and in only seconds the casemate became a jammed mass of swearing, shrieking, struggling men.

  Jethro found himself face to face with a big, gap-toothed convict who spat curses and saliva in a continual stream, and grabbed Jethro’s throat in his spatulate hands. A sudden shift in the pattern of bodies trapped Jethro’s arms at his sides and in spite of his frantic heavings he was unable to free them. The thick, black-grimed thumbs dug deep into his windpipe cutting off the air from his lungs. His sight darkened, he felt a red-hot pain knife across his chest and his tortured lungs seemed about to burst.

  David Warburton was fighting two opponents, both of whom were battering wildly at his ever-shifting litheness in an animal lust to kill. As always in conflict, Warburton’s mind was working with as much agility as his body. He used his rattan cane like a rapier deftly to parry the heavy blows, and then, seeing his opening, thrust the spiked metal tip of the cane neatly into one man’s eye. The convict’s eyeball burst like an overripe grape and the blood-streaked slime ran on to his cheek. The man dropped his cudgel and reeled vomiting in agony.

  A surge of the fighting masses swung David away from the two assailants and battered him against Jethro Stanton. The young officer saw the blackening face of the corporal and the brutal hands crushing the life from him. Jethro’s arms were still trapped and suddenly David felt his own hands pinned. In his concern for the corporal, Warburton became for an instant a raging savage. Ducking his head forward he sank h
is teeth into the convict’s biceps, tearing and worrying the flesh as would a mad dog. The convict bellowed in shock and pain and let fall his grip from Jethro’s throat. For a second or two Jethro felt no relief then his straining lungs dragged in a huge gulp of the dusty, stench-filled air and his senses cleared.

  The big convict drove his fist into the lieutenant’s face and the weight of the blow tore the clenched teeth from the bloody, ragged-edged wound they had made. The man drew back his fist to hammer the half-stunned officer into senselessness, but before he could let it fly, Jethro’s ironshod boot smashed down upon his bare foot, breaking the delicate bones as if they were dry twigs. The convict shrieked and would have fallen, but the press of bodies was too tight to allow him to. Again and again, so rapidly as to seem almost one continuous impact, the boot smashed down on the foot, splintering the already broken bones into fragments. A sheet of crimson torment veiled the man’s sight and he fainted. Once more the jammed crowd shifted and heaved and Jethro and David came chest to chest as if in a lover’s embrace. To Jethro’s surprise the lieutenant grinned happily as though he were enjoying the nightmarish tumult they were trapped in.

  ‘My thanks for your timely assistance, corporal,’ Warburton gasped. ‘By God, it’s hot work, is it not!’

  Jethro’s own lips curved and parted in a grin and a wave of admiration for this slender, gentle-faced young man welled up in his mind.

  Warburton shouted at him, ‘It’s time for the second part of the plan. Order the men out, corporal . . . And order loud, for I fear they’ll find it hard to hear us in this din.’

  The pair of them started to bellow at the tops of their voices.

  ‘All out! All out! All out! All out! All out!’

  Those militiamen not locked in desperate conflict heard and obeyed, and pushed through the door dragging their injured and unconscious comrades with them. Left so suddenly in possession of the casemate, the convicts hardly had time to draw breath, let alone reorganize and clear their fallen from under foot, before the reserve assault group under the command of Captain Picard burst through the shattered doorway. The savage impact of these fresh and eager men was too much for the sorely tired and battered convicts, and in less than a minute the fight was over. The convicts threw down their weapons and cowered against the walls crying their surrender, until one by one they were driven under a rain of kicks and blows outside on to the parade ground.

  Much the same thing occurred in the second casemate. The sudden withdrawal of the initial stormers, followed immediately by the onset of a second group, proved too much for the convicts to deal with and there also resistance collapsed. The remaining convicts seeing the bloody heads and broken bodies of their comrades, and the brutal completeness of their overthrow, gave in without a fight.

  Joseph Ward hurried to the bloodstained officers who had led the attack.

  ‘Well done, gentlemen, well done indeed!’ he congratulated them heartily. ‘Tell me, are you satisfied with the spirit of my men?’

  David Warburton, tenderly exploring the fast-swelling bruises on his face, nodded and smiled. ‘I think they may have some potential as fighting soldiers, sir,’ he teased. ‘What say you, Cresswell?’

  The swarthy captain had just succeeded in staunching his bleeding nose. ‘I would not object to leading them in battle,’ he chuckled. Then cursed softly. ‘Damn you for making me speak, Warburton. It’s brought my nose on to bleed again.’

  David looked about him and saw Jethro helping to tend his injured comrades. The lieutenant pointed out the corporal to Joseph Ward.

  ‘That is a good man in a tight spot, sir.’ He was forced to smile. ‘And I mean that quite literally.’

  Jethro, who with Turpin Wright was busily engaged in splinting a groaning man’s broken arm, was not aware of his superiors’ interest in him. His thoughts were mixed as he found himself revising some of his previous held opinions concerning officers.

  ‘Goddam me! But I must admit there are some brave men among them . . . That lieutenant who led our party, for instance,’ he told himself with some reluctance. ‘I begin to fear that perhaps my bias has made me blind to all but the faults of the bad ones . . . Can it be possible that there are as many officers who are good at their profession and treat their men fairly, as there are those who are useless, stupid fools and petty tyrants?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The following morning, Jethro had cause to modify his opinion of his officers still further. The warning drum beat for the seven o’clock parade and from their casemate barrackrooms, the Grenadier Company poured out to form up for the company officer’s inspection, which took place half an hour before the main parade. The roll was called by a sergeant and when Jethro answered to his name, the only officer present, Ensign Spooner, stopped the sergeant from continuing.

  ‘Corporal Stanton.’ The ensign’s boyish face was solemn. ‘You will fall out of the ranks and report to the company office.’

  Jethro did as he was ordered. Puzzled and a little anxious, he rapped on the door of the office.

  ‘Enter, blast you!’ a gruff shout came from within.

  Inside the long arched casemate Joseph Ward and David Warburton stood, together with the stocking-capped Major Caldwell, by the smoking fire set into the centre of one side wall.

  ‘Corporal Stanton, sir. Reporting as ordered,’ Jethro presented himself.

  The three men stared at him keenly, then Major Caldwell spoke. ‘Stand at ease, lad. Thee’st not in any bother so diven’t fret thysen. Thee con tell him, Ward. He’s one of thine, after all.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ Joseph Ward replied, and smiled kindly at the young corporal. ‘Major Caldwell has been told of your conduct yesterday, Stanton. It is his wish, and also Lieutenant Warburton’s, that you should receive some reward for your actions. They want to give you this . . . Here.’ He held out his hand, and a coin glinted in his fingers. ‘Come on, man. Take it.’

  Jethro took the golden guinea from the captain. ‘My thanks, sir,’ he said quietly, his surprise at the reward showing in his face.

  Major Caldwell waved Jethro’s words away. ‘Thee had best get on, lad, iffen thee’s to ha’ time to spend that this day.’

  Ward saw the puzzlement deepen in the young man’s eyes and explained, ‘You are being allowed a two-day furlough, corporal.’ He went to the desk at the far end of the room and returned with a leave pass. He handed it to Jethro and then took another guinea from his waistcoat pocket and gave the young man that also. ‘You may spend the time in Portsmouth town, or remain here in the barracks, if you prefer. This other guinea is from the company funds. I feel that you have well earned it by bringing such credit to us yesterday.’

  Jethro again thanked him.

  ‘Go on wi’ thee now, lad. Or thy furlough will be finished afore thee leaves this damned room.’ Caldwell dismissed him, and Jethro went from the casemate.

  ‘He’s a mannerly, well-spoken fellow,’ David observed. ‘He could almost pass for a gentleman.’

  Ward nodded. ‘Yes, so he could. Yet he was ’listed from the town lock-up in Kidderminster, together with a man called Turpin Wright . . . who is a double dyed-in-the-wool rogue, if I ever saw one.’

  Major Caldwell laughed gruffly. ‘’Pon my soul, Ward! How many of our soldiers and sailors are recruited from the gaols. I wish I had a penny-piece for every man that comes to the colours wi’ the gaol stink on him, I’ll take me oath I do.’

  ‘I have to agree with you, sir,’ David smiled. ‘A good half of my men in the Peninsula were old acquaintances of the turnkeys. But they made good fighting soldiers, for all that. Though it took a deal of flogging to keep them under control, especially when there was drink to be had.’

  ‘I don’t doubt the truth of your words, my boy,’ Ward said seriously. ‘But there are times when I wish the army’s recruits could be found from a better class of men . . . Then perhaps we could treat them a little more humanely than we do.’

  ‘Amen to that,
Ward,’ Caldwell agreed fervently. ‘For I grow sick o’ spending so much o’ my time on flogging parades. I could put that time to better use. But then, think of the scum we have to deal with. A good lashing’s the only way to discipline the buggers . . .’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ David said, ‘I feel that there are other ways.’

  ‘What ways would they be?’ the major came back at him.

  ‘We could try and give them back their self-respect,’ the lieutenant said firmly. ‘And begin by treating them humanely and justly. I know that there are many rogues who come to the army, and this is one thing I fail to see the sense in. Why permit the known bad lots to enlist to start with?’

  The major threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  ‘That’s easy answered, young ’un,’ he said, when he had recovered sufficiently to speak, ‘there’s no other buggers will come forward to do so . . .’

  To this statement David could find no short answer, so he let the subject drop.

  *

  Jethro, dressed in his full regimentals, but without accoutrements other than his bayonet, and wearing a porkpie forage cap, walked out of the Land Gate, his spirits lightening with every step. All around the ditches and outer earthworks of the fort, civilian convicts and squads of prisoners-of-war were forming up to begin their day’s toil, under the watchful eyes of fully armed veterans and militiamen. To overawe the newly arrived and potentially rebellious foreign prisoners still further, cannons had been dragged to various points and placed so that the canisters of grape-shot they were loaded with could sweep the whole length of the ditches where the majority of prisoners would be working.