“Well into his fifties, Your Excellency. Not a young man in body or mind.”
“As I thought. Off you go now, sir – you are to be a busy man for a few days. Will you leave some of your people to hold your barracks, or will you send them to the fort?”
“My first thought is to hold the barracks, Your Excellency. In the six months we have been installed, there have been a number of families formed. The womenfolk have the right to protection, I believe.”
“Send them to the fort, Captain Bacon. They will be safer here. Make sure that your baggage is brought here too – it could otherwise be vulnerable to theft.”
That, Billy thought, was an act of some kindness and generosity. He made his thanks and left.
Two hours and the company marched; it would have been quicker except that the women needed time to get ready and take all of their possessions with them, sure that the unpopulated barracks would be looted. Billy had no great objection to Julie’s insistence on packing his belongings. He tucked the bulk of his gold coins into his own pockets, put twenty into her hands in case he did not come back – she had the right, he believed. She had never seen gold, but she knew what it was and was grateful. She had a very mild affection for Billy, but a considerable respect for his honesty to her; she would miss him a little when inevitably, he moved on.
“Sergeant Kwame, one of your squads ahead to the left, the other to the right of our advance. Put them out no more than two hundred yards – within easy shout. If the bush gets too thick, then they must fall back on the column. Change them every hour, so that all of the men get their turn. Sergeant Affleck will take the duty tomorrow, to be fair.”
Kwame nodded and saluted, thinking that to be a correct acknowledgement.
“March loaded, sir?”
Billy pondered that for a few seconds – there was always a chance that a man might stumble in the bush. A musket shot might give the alarm to the enemy; a random ball might kill one of the soldiers – neither eventuality desirable. Against that, if they were ambushed then the twenty seconds need to load might be too many.
“March loaded, Sergeant Kwame. The men will be safer if they are ready instantly to return fire. Tell them to be careful!”
“Sir!”
Billy realised he had given the right answer, the one Kwame had hoped to hear. He suspected that Kwame had more military experience than he possessed; one day, he would ask him whether he had been an officer in his tribal army – but not now.
“Move out.”
There was higher, poorer ground to the south of the town, perhaps twenty miles of rough terrain before the land improved to allow the sugar plantations along the flatter coastal lands. There were a few tracks leading through the bush and a number – how many was unknown - of hill farms owned by free men. Much of the town’s food came from these fields, Billy knew. Sweet potato was grown in quantities and various forms of banana where there was good water; the market in town always had quantities of beans as well as okra and various sorts of green leaf. If the slaves were organised, they would wish to secure those farms and their food supply, might already have done so. If the uprising had been purely spontaneous, then they must be kept away from the farms – the town could hardly survive if the farmers were burned out.
The sole answer was to march fast, to get as far south as possible and keep the slaves contained in the lowlands. Loss of the plantations, though apparently more important for being richer, would be less harmful than the destruction of the town’s food.
“Ten miles this morning, Sergeant Affleck, then camp up until late afternoon and march another couple of hours before dark. We need to make good speed. How’s the moon?”
“Not much use, sir. New.”
“Then we march at first light. The men to be roused and fed and ready to go as soon as we can see to put one foot in front of the other. Warn the men not to touch the farmers or to loot their fields. We need them. They can send their sons running if they see any slaves; they will if we treat them well.”
“I’ll pass the word, sir. The slaves will have looted the plantations they have burned out, sir…”
“Tell the men to pocket anything they pick up. Was I you, I would tell the corporals to arrange a fair split for their platoons. I cannot say that, obviously – I must order them to return any loot they come across – so I shall say nothing at all.”
Sergeant Affleck also said nothing – the conversation had not occurred.
The first farm they came to was unaware of any trouble – their peace was undisturbed. Billy had not seen one of the farms before, all of their training marches having taken place in the easier country to the north; it seemed small to him, used to the grain fields of England.
“More like gardens than a farm, Sergeant Affleck.”
“Market gardens, sir – you see them near the big towns in England. There’s a small stream coming off the hill, look, sir, running even in this dry weather. Easy to water their gardens. Pigsty for a single sow as well, and goats for milk and meat; dozens of chickens. They eat well here. Sweet potato mounds up the slope; rows of beans of different sorts. Bananas and papaya and some sorts of fruit I don’t know, sir. These people ain’t rich, but I’ve seen a damned sight poorer. One rebel slave with a tinderbox could destroy the lot, sir.”
The hut was thatched thickly with palm leaf and coarse grass, waterproof but vulnerable to fire. The man must be happy to see soldiers protecting him, Billy thought.
“Not that happy, sir. The tax collector probably came round with a bodyguard to collect from them. He won’t be sure exactly what we are reckoning to do, sir.”
“He should be happy when we just march away, I hope.”
Few of the farms they saw that day were any larger, but all were untouched, to Billy’s relief. If the slave-rising had been planned, then they would surely have come north quickly. If it was unplanned, then they would not have put weapons together, would not have formed themselves into organised armed bands. The business ahead was starting to look like a police action rather than military.
“Front and left, sir. Chosen Man calling he can see people, sir.”
“Tell him to hold where he is, Sergeant Affleck. We will close on him. What can he see?”
“I’ll send a runner, sir, rather than have a lot of shouting.”
A delay of ten minutes and then the runner reporting back.
“Maybe twenty men, sir. Carrying cane knives, sir, and axes. No muskets. Wandering along, not in a proper platoon, sir. They stopped and are trying to hide in the cane-brakes, sir.”
The company had reached the edge of the flatlands, dry and uncultivated just here and covered in rattan and coarse grasses and clumps of thorn with less fertile areas almost bare. It would be difficult for troops to keep a line here, and yet not easy for fugitives to hide from them; neither side really wanted to be caught in this land.
Billy glanced at the cane – eight to ten feet tall in places, tangled, difficult to see through, the ground clogged with fallen dead leaves and stems. He did not want to play chase in there, he thought. There was no easy way of surrounding the area – the cane straggled for miles. He could not let the escaped slaves stray into the farming hills to set up as bandits there.
The wind was blowing inland, towards him; if he tried to set a fire then the smoke would choke and blind the company.
The only thing he could think of was to fire volleys into the cane where they were hiding and try to frighten them out. The slaves would know that all would be flogged and many hanged for their insurrection, particularly if they had killed their masters and their families; they would not frighten easily. Perhaps he could try for armistice instead.
“Shout to them to surrender. If they come out, we will promise not to hang them, whatever they have done.”
“What if they have butchered the whites on their plantations, sir?”
“Then, Sergeant Affleck, we will make them wish we had hanged them.”
“Right, sir. I’
ll pass the word to the men, sir – just so they know we ain’t letting them off the hook, sir.”
The soldiers were free, and like all such, had nothing other than contempt for slaves. Billy could not understand the thought behind this, but it was a fact and he accepted it. His men would have not the least desire to offer leniency to mere slaves.
“Get them to call out in their own languages as well, Sergeant Affleck. The slaves might think they were to be rescued by their own folk.”
“They’re in for a shock then, sir.”
The company split into platoons and pressed forward to the edge of the area where the slaves had been seen to hide. The Chosen Men started to shout while their squads watched the thick bush, muskets ready in case of ambush.
For minutes there was no response, then a voice called back.
Freeman listened, shook his head – it was not his language.
“Speaking Twi, maybe, sir. Some words I know. Not much. Not to understand.”
A runner came to Billy, a man who did speak the language.
“He says they broke off from the rest for not being the ones who kill the masters, sir. He say they don’t want to die for them, sir. They don’t do it and they trying to run, sir. He think they are more want to get away. The masters are cruel, sir, but the island small and they don’t got no boats to go home in. They don’t want no killing.”
“Tell them to come out and put their weapons down. They will not be hurt.”
There was more shouting, argument, persuasion, bad temper; eventually the men came out, in twos and threes, reluctantly, dropping their makeshift weapons and standing in a sulky line.
“Check them for bloodstains, Sergeant Affleck. If they hit people with those cane knives, they would be splashed.”
Sergeant Affleck was impressed – he would not have thought of that, but he had not been apprentice to a butcher.
“All clean, sir.”
“Make them turn out their pockets and any bags or knapsacks they may have.”
A little of food – not much at all – and nothing else other than a few twists of tobacco and some other leaf.
“Ganja, sir,” Freeman explained. “Smoke that, you less hungry and feel better in you head. Poor man’s friend, sir.”
Billy had not heard of that leaf before, was inclined to approve of its effects, but he did not like the smell of tobacco and apparently the two had to go together.
“Take their names and origins, Sergeant Affleck. Tell them they have the option of signing up as soldiers or of being sent back to their plantations. Explain that if they sign on as soldiers and then run away they will get a thousand with the cat – it is their choice, but if they put on King George’s coat, then they ain’t going to take it off again until the war is over.”
Half an hour later and all of the runaways had agreed to serve the King.
“No bloody choice, sir. If they were sent back they would be flogged half to death and then worked the rest of the way.”
“Very true, Sergeant Affleck – and bad luck on them. Thinking on it, they have had nothing other than bad luck since first they were made a prisoner in Africa. Perhaps they can do better as soldiers.”
“Yes, sir. March them back, sir?”
“No. They can remain with us for the while. If there are wounded, they can look after them, and take their red coats for their own, and carry their muskets. Risky, but we must show them trust – and shoot them out of hand if they look unreliable.”
“I’ll put one of my corporals over them, sir. One of the bright blokes what will make sergeant soon.”
“Do that. We need more men yet – I would like to make us up to double company size.”
Sergeant Affleck knew why that was. If they were to go out on any further expeditions, which was always possible, then they would be right at the front. Any general sent out from England would prefer to kill black soldiers rather than lose his own. Billy, who would be foremost, wanted a stronger battalion, with a greater chance of survival for him.
They marched after the greatest heat of the day was gone, made another five miles to the south and into the cultivated lands. They saw and heard nothing.
“Where are they, Sergeant Affleck? They can’t have left the island, so where are they hiding? Why can’t we hear anything from Mr Smyke’s camp? That should be inside hearing distance.”
Not surprisingly, Sergeant Affleck had no answer.
“Do we know how many there were of them?”
“I’ll ask the new men, sir.”
The reply came that they had taken no head count, which was reasonable in itself, but that they thought the figure was somewhere close to six hundred between the three plantations, two of them having been the biggest on the island.
Billy drew a deep, considering breath on hearing that figure.
“That could be difficult, Sergeant Affleck. We can’t wait. They must be broken, and quickly. They might have been able to swarm Mr Smyke under, even without muskets. Desperate men, knowing that they will die if they are taken, or be put to labour in chains after being flogged almost to death, might prefer to die fighting and simply attack bare-handed.”
Sergeant Affleck agreed, commenting as well that Mr Smyke might well be sleeping soundly and unable to lead his own defence.
Billy could translate that into ‘drunk and useless’ without any great need for thought.
“What, I wonder is the chance that his men will have turned their coats?”
“Not much, sir, not from what I’ve seen. The soldiers have got no time for slaves, sir. They are dead, perhaps, but most likely holed up in a corner of their camp or in some sort of position on a hill. Or so I reckon, sir.”
Billy thought and then called his sergeants and corporals together for a brief meeting.
“We are on the main track leading down to the fishing village – or so I think. An hour before first light, we are going to march quickly down to the shore. Any slaves we see get the choice to surrender or die – and make their minds up quickly. You must call out to them and give them the chance to surrender – because we need more soldiers. When we get to the sea, we look for Mr Smyke’s camp. His soldiers will see us and call us in, I expect. If possible, we will break the slaves then and there. If they have a camp of their own, then attack it, firing volleys, the way we have trained. Don’t wait for my orders – attack. March towards the sound of firing and join in. Firing volleys, keeping your lines, marching to orders – doing the things you have learned. If they attack you, then form your double lines, firing to command, and wait for help to come. It will come – you will not be left to be killed. Don’t forget to check the bodies – we need a count of the dead, among other reasons.”
They grinned, deciding they liked the easy-going existence of campaigning.
Sergeant Affleck called them to attention and saluted before he dismissed them to their platoons.
“They’ll do their duty in the morning, sir. They know that we will all fight together – and they’re looking forward to it. Most of them have grown up to be warriors, sir, so they’ve told me – they want to show that they are men, sir. There might be a few ears cut off, sir, to be dried and kept as trophies, you might say, but we don’t see that. Besides that, sir, they think that if they show well here then they’ll get the chance to take part in the next expedition, sir, with loot for the winners.”
“They might at that, Sergeant Affleck. If not, they will be garrison, with the chance to take wives and set up for themselves on the island. They will do a lot better than they would have as slaves.”
Billy knew that there were ears within a few yards, listening in the nature of things and gossiping thereafter. No harm in making it very clear that winning in the morning would be worthwhile.
They were no more than a mile from the sea, they discovered.
There was a small fishing village, a dozen huts, all of them in ruins, burned to the ground, empty of people. Lieutenant Smyke’s camp – rough barrack huts be
hind a low fence - was just on the far side of the village and was full of sleeping slaves, most of them unarmed and smelling of rum. The first platoon to discover them shouted for their surrender and then fell into the routine of volley fire as the slaves panicked and ran, some appearing to charge them.
“Sergeant Affleck! Hold the right, don’t let them get past to the track! Sergeant Kwame, with me! Form two lines.”
Billy doubled forward, the platoons falling in on either side of him. He ran them close to the camp, called them to load.
“Front line, present! Aim!” He delayed long enough for the corporals to bring all of the muskets to the horizontal. “Fire!”
He heard the corporals calling the loading orders, the voices calm and unhurried.
“Second line, present! Aim! Fire!”
It was still too dark to see exactly what was happening. All he could do was to continue to fire almost blind.
There was an outburst of firing along the beach, good, steady volleys, sufficient to say that many of Lieutenant Smyke’s men were there and under command.
“Keep together men – front line, advance ten paces at my command… Advance! One… two…” Billy shouted the pace, kept them in an orderly line. “Halt. Rear line, advance ten paces… Advance!”
“Company will fix bayonets! Fix… bayonets!”
The corporals shouted the time, all well together, the disciplined noise helping to cow the slaves.
The sun rose, long shadows across the shingle, bodies sprawled bloody to their front, a mass of men a hundred yards distant, crowded back against the banks of a salt-water creek, unwilling to go into the water, perhaps for fear of sharks or barracuda. To the side there was a barricade of palm trunks, redcoats behind it and preventing their escape inland.
Billy stepped forward, shouted.
“Surrender. Hands up. Now!” He turned to Sergeant Kwame. “Call out in your language, Sergeant. Give them one minute.”
“They don’t look like my people, sir. Maybe they don’t know my talk.”
Billy Bacon and the Soldier Slaves (Colonial Warrior Series, Book 1) Page 25