“It’s different sometimes, Billy, when we’re at war. Get new drafts sent out, blokes what ‘ave been sent into service by the courts instead of going to prison, or sort of get pushed out of their villages and don’t want to go. They don’t make good soldiers, mostly, not like us. Can’t trust one of them at your back, looking out for you. They’re the sort what runs and hollers – they ain’t like what we are, nipper!”
Billy knew now that he had been lucky – he was one of the few who had been permitted to become a soldier of the 70th.
They doubled the Cape of Good Hope, a Dutch possession and not available to a convoy of British troopships, though it would have been very convenient on the run to India. It was obvious that the Cape must be taken from the Dutch – they didn’t need it, the harbour was wasted on them.
“One day, Billy. Next war, maybe. There’s bound to be another war inside a few years. There always is. Needs to make up for the last one, don’t we?”
The American War had ended in defeat, and that was not tolerable. The Frogs and Dutchies and Dons all needed to be put back in their proper place, which was second to England. Everybody knew that.
Billy had no knowledge of politics and could not have found any of the countries of the world on a globe, but he knew as a certainty that England was top dog – it went without saying. They had been beaten in the last war – there had to be a reason for that – treachery, probably; they would win the next one.
He stretched out on the deck in the tropical sun, his skin already browned by the sea winds and soaking up the warmth.
“It’s alright at sea, Billy, the winds and the salt in the air protects you. But you can’t never go outside without a shirt on when you gets onshore. The sun will bloody flay you worse than the cat, if you lets it. Don’t matter how hot it gets, even if it’s cloudy – you never lets the sun get at your back and chest, or your legs for that matter. Keep a hat on, too. Boil your bloody brains inside your ‘ead, so it will.”
Smudger had seen the sun in the Sugar Islands, knew the damage it could do.
“Seen blokes go mad - stark, Bedlamite loony, Billy. All for too much bloody sun on the napper! Mind you, the booze didn’t ‘elp none, neither.”
Billy had a respect for the booze. They were issued a daily rum ration, the same as the sailors received, a quarter of a pint of proof spirit a day made up to the full pint with water, half in the morning, the remainder with the evening meal. He gave at least half of his allowance away to Smudger and to Smithy, the corporal of his platoon, having quickly discovered that he could not handle the quantity of alcohol. He had not become accustomed to it, probably because he had given it away, and he had no intention of ever trying to drink it all himself. He had seen others of the company who had weak heads for booze and who regularly got into trouble as a result; he had no wish to join that group, the self-styled ‘hard men’ who received a dozen on the back every month or two and bragged that it was nothing, they didn’t feel it.
He had watched his first flogging a week out of Bristol and had come very close to vomiting, not so much for the blood – he had been a butcher, after all - as for the vicious little ceremonies attending the business. Everything was performed in ritual fashion and was very nearly meaningless as a result. It was like the Sundays he remembered from Bishop’s Waltham where he had been taken to church and had sat and stood and knelt and sang and been silent, all according to a meaningless rote. Here, the men for punishment were brought forward, took their shirts off and were triced up to a grating, all according to routine, and the drummer boys – who were all grown men – administered the beating in a meaningless, matter of fact, commonplace fashion.
The lash hurt – it was no pretence, that was for sure. The drummer boys pulled the cat well back behind their shoulders and brought it down with their whole strength, bruising and opening the skin, spattering blood across the deck. But there was no malicious intent behind the flogging; it seemed in fact that none of those taking part or watching were moved in any way.
Smudger laughed when he spoke afterwards.
“It’s what’s got to be done, ain’t it, Billy. It don’t make no difference. The same blokes’ll be back time and again. It ain’t for them, anyways. It’s to tell you and blokes like you what ‘appens if you steps out of line, what you ain’t much like to do in any event. You saw old Mucker’s back when ‘e stripped ‘is shirt off, didn’t you?”
Billy had, had seen a herringbone pattern of scars, some no more than a few months old, others white and faded, inflicted ten and twenty years before.
“Reckons ‘e’s taken more than a hundred dozen, so ‘e says. Been a soldier since ‘e was a boy, more than twenty years, so it’s about a dozen every three months, maybe a bit more. Says ‘e wouldn’t know ‘e was alive if ‘is back wasn’t a bit sore. It don’t make no difference to ‘im. When ‘e feels like it, e’ll put ‘is money together and go out and get fighting drunk again. Don’t need much money, the stuff that daft bugger drinks. It’s down the back-alley shebeens for ‘im – ‘ome-made gin, the worst stuff. ‘Drunk for a penny, dead-drunk for tuppence’, that’s what they says of that stuff. Boils up spud peelings and chucks in a cone of sugar and adds spirits of salts to give it a flavour and distils it through lead pipes so that the white stuff on the metal gets in and gives it a bit more taste – then they sells it at a penny a pint. They still makes money at that price, so it tells you what they puts in! If you don’t go blind straight away, it eats into your brain, so it do. Old Mucker, ‘e’s mad as a bloody hatter. You watch when we gets to fighting – soon as they says ‘bayonets’, ‘e’s off like a long dog, shouting and laughing and spiking every bugger ‘e can lay ‘is ‘ands on. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, Billy – they sees that wild bugger coming at ‘em and you watch ‘em leg it!”
Billy listened and remembered; he would not touch back-alley gin. It was a useful lesson.
“While you’re at it, nipper – keep away from the back-alley ‘ores as well. Let you ‘ave it standing up for tuppence, they will – God knows what you’ll catch from ‘em! Damned near ‘alf the blokes ‘ave caught a pox one time or another, and all for not being willing to pay a shilling!”
A shilling was a lot of money, Billy thought; if you weren’t fussy about what you ate, you could buy a day’s food for sixpence. He was not at all sure about this business with women, in any case – though he would never dream of saying so to the lads. He certainly would not be spending his tuppences in the way Smudger said.
“Different in India, of course, Billy. Everything’s cheap in the Shiny. Booze and women both don’t cost nothin’ and you got servants to look after you – honest!”
Billy Bacon and the Soldier Slaves
Chapter Two
Billy heaved the musket to his shoulder, waited for the word of command and pulled the trigger. The blank detonated with its hollow crash and he lowered the piece to the ‘attention’ position, waiting for the volleys from the second and third ranks. He mentally counted off the seconds, experienced now in the ceremony he had repeated twenty times in the past week.
Twenty seconds and he shouldered arms, almost stumbling under the weight of the Brown Bess. He swore inwardly, realising what was happening. He had hefted the musket a thousand times before, knew its weight and his strength; if it was too heavy, then he was unwell; he had caught it too.
He marched back from the colonel’s grave, fighting to keep his back straight, to show the proper respect for the old man. He hadn’t been bad, for what he was. The Regiment would miss him. Both majors had gone and the senior captain, already acting as second, must step up into command. There were no spare bodies in other regiments in Bombay, because they were suffering just as much as the 70th.
The cholera had hit hard this year, Billy’s third in India. It was always present, but most years seemed only to be mild, killing a few of the weaker men, the drunks, most commonly. But this year, it had come in its most vicious form and three men in every
four had succumbed to the disease, and one third of them had died. Interestingly, Billy thought, the officers had been hit far harder than the men, nearly half of their Mess dying in the first fortnight. It was now the fourth week, and the severity was lessening; men were going down with the first symptoms but quickly recovering for the most part. Billy did not understand it, but he knew he was weakening rapidly.
They reached the barracks and were brought to attention.
Billy raised an arm. “Beg pardon, sir. Permission to fall out, sir?”
“Grab hold of him, you two. Get him to the Surgeon.”
Billy found himself slowly collapsing, was gripped firmly, but at arm’s length by the two men nearest to him. They kept him as far away as possible from their uniforms, waiting for the vomiting or uncontrollable diarrhoea to start, the almost invariable concomitants of the cholera.
He made it to the Sick Bay, collapsed onto a spare, dry pallet. The servants scrubbed and dried the pallets as soon as they came available; there was always an empty waiting its next occupant.
The Surgeon paced slowly across; he lacked the energy to walk faster, not having slept for two consecutive hours in the month.
“Cholera, man?”
They all knew the symptoms.
“Don’t think so, sir. I think it’s recurrent fever, sir. Don’t feel like cholera in me guts. Had recurrent two years back, sir.”
“Lucky man, if it’s so. Let’s look at your eyes – no, you’re trying to fool yourself, man! That’s the cholera, but not in its worst form, you’re not delirious, yet. Nine out of ten in your case will survive – you’ve taken a mild dose, I think, and will probably be salted against it for the rest of your life. Drink all the water you can. Keep drinking. While you don’t dry out, you will live!”
Billy drifted into delirium, which had the advantage that he did not feel and smell his worst symptoms as his body turned itself inside-out. Three days later he came round with a clear head, weak, but far less unwell. Another week and he reported on morning parade.
“You’re a tough one, Private Bacon! Less than two weeks on your back. We need another corporal. Put the stripes up. Take the correct place, Corporal Bacon.”
“Sir.”
Billy placed himself at the end of his rank, glanced out of the corner of his eyes at the company parade.
There were fewer than thirty men, in two lines. One other corporal and a new sergeant. One lieutenant, no captain. The Grenadier Company had been more than halved.
‘Lieutenant Morrison, what was ensign to F Company. Sergeant Schultz made up from corporal of ours. Jacky Murphy what was corporal already, and me. Hope we don’t go to war next week!’
The company could not function in its current state. The men would have to drill and get used to their new places in the line. They were Grenadiers and must lead any charge, shoulder to shoulder. A month before they could hope to do their work efficiently.
Lieutenant Morrison evidently felt the same, called his three NCOs to him after the parade.
“The cholera has left us, for this year at least. It has been the worst in living memory, so I am told. The native town has been hit at least as badly as ourselves; the countryside, too. There may be starvation next year for lack of men to work the fields and produce a crop. We have fewer than three hundred fit men in the battalion. We have lost our field officers, and six captains and fourteen of lieutenants and ensigns. We are to amalgamate the companies to form just six, for the while. The Grenadiers will remain much as we are, for wanting the best men of the battalion and having taken them up already.”
The Grenadier Company needed men who were self-reliant to an extent, and fit and strong as well. They regarded themselves as an elite, and were to a great extent.
“We may have a new major transferred to us, but I suspect not. I think that urgent messages will be sent to England, and possibly a large draft sent out to us. For the while, we must be fit to take the field inside one month. There is a possibility that the garrison will be seen as much weakened and will attract attackers, Pindaris and such. We must therefore be active and ready. The first raiders must receive such a reception that others will not wish to repeat the experience. We will march in four weeks, ready or not. The other battalions in the garrison will receive the same message.”
It was impossible, Billy thought. It would have to be done. He started to think his way through the problem.
‘Get the men back into the routines. Tell them their numbers and put them into their places. Half a dozen of short marches over the next week. Then put them up to ten miles, second week. Then fifteen miles every other day for two weeks – that would get them back into shape. Musketry practice as well – though that was less important because they would not have forgotten that. Drill would be needed, because the men would be in new places and would have to get used to them. Keep them busy as well, and that must be a good thing. For today, inspection first.’
As Billy had suspected, the men had neglected their muskets during the month of sickness. Almost all showed specks of rust on barrels and locks, and verdigris on the brass plates. He examined each piece in turn, pointing quietly and coldly to the spots of colour.
“Bloody slack, all of you! You ain’t all been so sick so long that you couldn’t ‘ave kept the rust off your bloody muskets! Idle, that’s what it is, bloody idle! I’ll inspect them all tomorrow, and Sergeant Schultz the day after, and God help any man who ain’t up to the mark when ‘e comes round! It will be back-scratching time then!”
Billy thought it best to get off on a hard disciplinary note from the very beginning. The men all knew him, most had been on terms of friendship, in fact. Now, he was Corporal Bacon, not Billy-boy. He spotted Smudger Smith, who had a perfectly shiny musket, nodding approval in the background; no half-measures in the Battlers, he implied.
Hours of work, and the men still convalescent in the strictest of terms, but it was necessary, Billy thought, and he made the decisions now, to a greater extent for the lack of officers to accept responsibility.
On the last day of the fourth week, the whole battalion paraded, very thinly, but smart and ready for action. The General Commanding, acting in fact, having been Brigadier before the cholera had promoted him, inspected their ranks and nodded his approval.
“Very good, Major Mandeville. You have worked well to bring your battalion up to such a standard. You will march in the morning, south towards Poona, and then elsewhere as orders are sent to you. Other regiments will be held in garrison for not reaching your standards. All of your promotions are confirmed without purchase, I must add, by the Governor’s hand.”
It would have taken a year at least to make purchases in London and have the confirmation sent out to Bombay; the governor had authority therefore to take such action as was necessary to maintain efficiency in his regiments. The old toast of ‘a bloody war or a sickly season’ was given meaning again. The Governor had not chosen to make any sergeants into gentlemen, yet, but the battalion could survive with its present numbers of officers and men.
The battalion gathered on the maidan, the flat, open area outside the camp where the horses could be exercised and a column could form up. They set themselves into order and started off, very formal while under the sight of the General. Immediately behind trailed more than twice their number of camp-followers – the baggage train of bullock carts and a few mules and the great mob of servants and hangers-on who joined every march and carried the men’s packs and performed all sorts of odd services en route. Importantly, they cooked the men’s meals, often turning rations into food, a service much appreciated and paid for.
Sergeant Schultz chose to march beside Billy on their first day.
“Got your platoon up well, Corporal Bacon. Good job of work. Thought it would be. How are you feeling, in yourself? Fit and strong?”
“I will be, Sergeant Schultz. Guts are still a bit upset, but they’re coming round. They reckon it takes months to get over the cholera, even a pas
sing touch like what I got.”
“So it do. Will you be right in the field, if it comes to it?”
“Better than any of these buggers, sarge! Don’t you worry about me.”
“I worry about the Company, Billy. That’s my job. Tell me if you can’t do it, and I’ll put you across to the Quartermaster instead.”
“I’m a soldier, Sergeant Schultz, not a bloody shopkeeper!”
Schultz laughed, having achieved all he wanted, sure now that Billy would keep to the pace.
It was a hard pace, even for fit men, fifteen miles a day and then pulling together a rough abatis of dead timber to protect the camp. The villages all had firewood cut and that was used most nights, but it still required an hour of work.
On top of that came the need for sentries.
“Two hours on, six off. Marching at three o’clock in the morning, so it’s not much more than half a night to cover. Every second night, you sleep through. Afternoons, as soon as the camp is made up, sentries can get their heads down. Piece of piss! And if I find a man asleep, then I shall see him dance! You understand me? You get it?”
Billy’s platoon grunted. They understood. They approved, as well. A sleeping sentry could get his throat quietly cut, letting the dacoits and thugs into the camp; exactly what either sort was, they did not really know, but they were certain that they existed and wanted nothing more than to kill redcoats. The men were sure that bands of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of merciless killers roamed the Indian night, seeking muskets and powder and ball to arm themselves, probably eventually to create a great army that would drive the British into the sea. The officers and sergeants did nothing to dispel that belief, knowing that there would be fewer deserters and slackers for it.
Billy Bacon and the Soldier Slaves (Colonial Warrior Series, Book 1) Page 3