Raging Rajahs (Man of Conflict Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  A half battalion was a large unit; it was more normal to march single companies which could be billeted in village inns and public houses. The landlords did not like the burden but they were legally obliged to provide a meal and a bed for marching soldiers, cost eventually to be repaid to them, probably a twelvemonth in arrears. Five companies on the same road must requisition barns and cook for themselves – no village and few towns could put four hundred men into all of their inns together. The Quartermaster had set out hours ahead with his wagons and would have all waiting for them when they marched in, stewpots on the fires and straw or hay laid out as bedding. There would be a supply of water and a location marked out for a latrine pit to be dug, all according to the official, laid down pattern.

  In most places the village constable would be waiting, watching them for misconduct, for wilful damage and petty theft. Luckily, it was too early in the year for the apple trees to be bearing ripe fruit and they would be spared the unending accusations of scrumping at each orchard they passed.

  It would be easier to keep the men away from liquor if they were billeted in barns. Where they were put up in pubs or inns they would always manage to empty a barrel or steal a bottle, their drunkenness evidence of their guilt.

  They expected to be two weeks on the road, to march their fifteen miles a day unbroken unless the weather turned against them. If the skies opened then they might stay in cover for one or two days at a time, but they had little leeway granted – the half battalion was to be present on the due day unless there was a very good reason to offer.

  They were to show themselves in Newbury and Oxford, taking the main, busiest roads through the towns, and were under orders to make a bold display in Birmingham. There was word of troubles in the streets of the huge Midlands town and they were to intimidate, to let the roughs know that the muskets and bayonets were on the move.

  Most of the towns were no more than words on a map to Septimus, as foreign to him as Ireland or the Sugar Islands had been. He had never ventured into the north of England before and knew nothing of it except that it was where the ‘manufacturies’ were located, and he knew nothing of them either.

  He surveyed his command: captains at the head of each company, lieutenants and ensigns behind, all mounted when on the march; all looking as they should, distances exact, perfect to the drill-book. The baggage trailed behind, less homogeneous, a mixture of two-horse wagons and ponies and traps, of donkeys and a single mule, all with their drivers or leading grooms. It would have been preferable to have a mule train, but they were rare beasts in England, difficult and expensive to come by. They were not on campaign so he had appointed no rear-guard to hold them together, but the sergeant-major had been generous with his threats before they left and they were reasonably well closed up. Out of the sergeant-major’s control and forming a rambling, disorganised mob at the very rear, came the families, two hundred at least of women and a flock of children, howling, screeching, shouting and wandering uncontrolled where they wished.

  Nothing could be done about the camp-followers; like every other officer Septimus could only look away and pretend they were not there. He knew that Lieutenant Mockford, the Quartermaster, would have at least eight hundred meals simmering over his fires. The official ‘married’ women were allowed a half-ration, the children nothing, but all had to be fed. The extras, non-existent in the army’s eyes, were catered for to an extent by casks of salt meat written off as spoiled or spilled, the losses counter-signed by the doctor or the adjutant, all part of the nexus of corruption that was an integral part of the QM’s existence. Septimus had little doubt that every one of his companies also had a quota of ghosts, non-existent soldiers who were issued rations and paid a daily wage according to the official books – the food had to come from somewhere and the battalion could not exist without the women who kept the men in some sort of contentment.

  The orders had come from the General Officer Commanding just four days before. The New Foresters to detach five companies to assist with public order in Lancashire, under field command of the Lord Lieutenant of the County, yet to be governed by the regulations for the conduct of troops assisting the civil power. Inevitably it meant that the officer in command was on his own, had to take his own decisions knowing that he would be blamed if anything went wrong and that the Lord Lieutenant would be congratulated if all went well.

  The officers’ families were to remain behind in their own houses – there was no provision for them and they would only be in the way, probably less self-reliant than the camp-followers and needing servants and accommodation that would be a nuisance to supply. Septimus received the order to command the detachment and bade Marianne goodbye for a month or two; if the posting lasted too long then furloughs would be arranged for the officers, who could afford the cost of travelling nearly two hundred miles in each direction.

  They marched and held together well; almost none of the men fell out and those few were found to be ill with minor fevers and assorted ailments and were placed in the baggage carts to get better, or in one case to die. There was no doctor with them, the Regimental Surgeon having remained in Winchester, and the sole treatment for the sick was to arrange a tarpaulin so that they could be covered when it came on to rain. Drunkenness was no great problem, the few who obtained liquor protected by their mates in the company, and the flogging triangle remained unused for the fortnight. It was in fact a very satisfactory excursion, a useful training exercise and one from which lessons could be learned.

  Within two days Septimus had given orders for the extra packs of the cobblers to be carried in a donkey cart – the men were too much loaded to keep up the pace day after day and mend boots each night. Each company had its cobbler, a private soldier who had worked some or all of an apprenticeship before joining the ranks, and he carried his last, a pair of hammers, sharp knives, tacks, needle and twine, wax and dubbin, and pieces of leather on his back in addition to his normal sixty pounds of issue kit. It was too great a burden for a long march, but the men’s boots must be mended or they would fall out, blistered and hobbling. The cobbler was paid a few pennies for each pair of boots in the company and the men would add their own gratuities in the way of a tot of stolen rum or standing a guard duty or pipeclaying a belt, all on the quiet.

  Water was a problem as well – four hundred men; the baggage animals; an uncounted mass of women and children, all of them thirsty. Many a small village found its wells drunk dry overnight – they would fill again, but they were not happy with the army. On the chalk uplands water was not easily come by and Septimus made a note that he must procure water barrels for the baggage train; the men could get by but the animals must be watered properly.

  For the rest – some of the ensigns and younger lieutenants must take riding lessons. Even half a day in the saddle left some of them sore indeed. Most were town-bred, the sons of attorneys and doctors and merchants, much like himself; commissioned and therefore gentlemen, but not in the habit of riding, urban families rarely keeping their own horses. Not only were they uncomfortable, but they showed the regiment up – it was not good for the people to see officers slumping like a sack of potatoes in the saddle.

  They reached their rendezvous in the small town of Burnley, just outside of Manchester, one hour before time on the exact day, to the pleasure of the Sheriff’s Officer who was awaiting them.

  “Last year, sir, we begged the assistance of a battalion in barracks at Derby, less than fifty miles distant! Five days late, sir! Yet you ‘ave come more than three times as far and are to the minute. An excellent beginning to our association, sir!”

  The man was fat and commonplace, and dropped some of his aitches – but Septimus must work with him, and attempt to secure a good report from him if Horse Guards was to be satisfied.

  “I trust we will work together well, sir. I am, of course, wholly at your command.”

  “Good to ‘ear that as well, sir. Bloody man last year was nose up in the bloody air all the time, forev
er arguing he knew better!”

  “While your orders are lawful, they will be carried out, sir.”

  “Can’t ask more nor that, Major, is it?”

  “Major Pearce, sir.”

  “Playforth, that’s my handle, sir.”

  “What are the arrangements for billeting, Mr Playforth?”

  “Pair of warehouses been cleared for your men, sir. Bought trusses of hay as well, sir. For your animals, the officers’ nags to be put up at the Boar Hotel’s yard and the dray-osses and that to go Arnthwaite's place – e’s in the carrier’s trade, in a big way, and can put ‘em under a roof and ‘is men will look after them. Got ‘is own farrier, so ‘e ‘as. All within two furlongs of each other, sir.”

  “Very good, Mr Playforth. The officers themselves?”

  “To put up at the Boar, sir, and at the Red Rose Inn, being as there weren’t rooms enough for all to be under one roof. All to dine at the Boar, sir, being better suited to the gentry. One major; five captains; ten lieutenants; five ensigns, sir – that was what we was told.”

  “Short two lieutenants and a captain, Mr Playforth, their commissions not yet purchased in the few months we have been back in England.”

  “Them Derbyshires was four lieutenants and two captains short, sir, and only got one ensign.”

  “Well, not every regiment attracts the right sort of officers, Mr Playforth. Now, sir, what exactly are we to do?”

  Playforth became very serious – there was revolution in the air, he said. The men were no longer obedient to their masters, as was laid down by law and in the Good Book that they should be, and were gathering unlawfully and demanding higher wages, as were not their due for extra work.

  “Have they rioted, sir?”

  “Talked of it, they ‘ave, Major.”

  “Then, hopefully, our presence will deter them, Mr Playforth. Would it be as well for the men to march through the town, to show their presence under arms, perhaps?”

  “They do be talking up a meeting to be held on Friday next, sir, in the town square.”

  “Then we shall march through the town on Thursday, sir, if it suits you. We should follow a route set by you, as you know the best places for us to be seen. On Friday we should be present, close to the square even if not in it.”

  The New Foresters rested for two days, polishing and pipe-claying and brushing their uniforms, burnishing the hated stocks and bringing their boots up to a bright shine, buffing out the scratches of a fortnight on dirt roads.

  On Thursday morning they held a parade and were inspected and found good; they were then issued with five rounds of cartridge and ball and were reminded that they were to load under orders only. The Quartermaster would be waiting with a full sixty rounds issue if the need arose, Septimus told them.

  “The men here are misguided, but they are not enemies of the King. They are to be shot only if they show themselves traitors by attacking the King’s uniform. No man who fires on order will be in any jeopardy; any man who fires without order may be charged with murder. Be obedient to command!”

  Septimus strode out to the front of the leading company, stood tall and proud. The men looked at him, respectfully and fearfully in equal proportions; they saw that he was wearing a pistol belt. The murmurs came from the corners of closed mouths, the veterans to the new men.

  “That ‘ard bastard’s ready for blood!”

  “Stroppy Seppy!”

  “Silence in the ranks!”

  They marched.

  Out of the warehouse and through the streets, boots crashing in cadence on the cobblestones. They had no band; Septimus noted that for future reference – fifes and drums at least, preferably a full set of brass. No need for a Turkish band, such as the flash regiments of foot were turning to, but some good, loud horns would tell all of their presence. It was a dry day, much to be recommended when marching on cobbles. It would not impress the onlookers if the men slipped and skidded at every second pace.

  Crowds were gathering to the front, children first, inevitably, lining the sides of the street, but women and old folk coming as well. They stood silently; not a cheer, not even a screech from the little ones. The soldiers were not welcome, but they were not actually turning their backs, running away; they were not throwing things either.

  There was any amount of mud – and worse – in pools to the side of the roadway; the missiles were to hand if they wanted.

  A left turn into the square, along two sides to move out onto the highway leading north; follow that for a mile and there was a crossroads that would lead them eastwards and then south past many of the mills and back into the town centre, by way of a great mass of residential terraces. They would not penetrate the rookery, keeping to the high road that skirted its edge, but Playforth had warned that if there was any threat it would centre there.

  A few shouts, a single cry of 'bloody butchers', nothing worse greeted them and they marched still in perfect order back into the square.

  Septimus brought them to a quick parade in the square itself, then gave them ten minutes of stand-easy. He called the officers to him, briefly instructed them to look about and put the square into their memory – this was where there might be trouble on the morrow. They returned to their companies and passed the word to their sergeants – if there was to be a first outbreak of violence, it would be hereabouts.

  The sergeants peered about them, locating each lane and alley leading into the open space, trying to spot possible ambush points where rioters could congregate to throw cobblestones and then run. They saw that the square was large enough for them to form up in the centre, just out of stone-throw of the buildings; any rioters would have to come out into the open.

  They formed up and marched out, returning to their temporary barracks where the men were permitted to stand down for the remainder of the day. They were still tired from the long march, needed rest time. The sergeants were warned that the town was possibly dangerous; the men should not roam free, should definitely not make their way to the beerhouses.

  “Have a whip round and buy some bottles in, if you must, but don’t let the men split up and wander singly or in pairs.”

  The sergeants acknowledged and saluted; they had been billeted in taken French towns in the Sugar Islands and knew all about the dangers of a hostile population.

  Mockford organised an early meal next day, at Septimus’ orders. A meeting starting mid-afternoon could easily degenerate into a night of disorder and he wanted the men to have full bellies before starting twelve or more hours on duty.

  They left a platoon of the less fit, with a full allocation of powder and ball, in each warehouse and sent another to Arnthwaite's yard, just in case the animals and baggage carts needed protection. The officers’ billets were under the care of their batmen, should need no more. Slightly over three hundred men marched out to wait just out of sight of the square.

  Their presence was known, they made no attempt to hide and Septimus hoped that no more would be needed. He had no objection on grounds of principle to shooting the disaffected, if that became necessary, but preferred to reserve his endeavours for declared enemies of the Crown. He walked the ranks, reminding the officers that he alone would give orders to load or fire; senior captain if he fell, of course.

  He noticed Edwards stood in front of his platoons, a look almost of eagerness on his dissolute face, as if he was hoping for action.

  “What of bayonets, sir?”

  “At my command, Mr Edwards, except that you find yourself separated and needing to take independent action. Should that unfortunate event occur, then you must take all necessary measures to first protect the lives of your men and then restore order.”

  The expression on Edward’s face said that he quite hoped he might be separated. Septimus stopped at his side, hoping to calm him a little.

  “Have you ever travelled to this part of the country before, Mr Edwards? It is new to me, I will confess.”

  “To Manchester itself, sir, not infreq
uently. My father owns coal pits in Derbyshire, and lives not thirty miles from here.”

  Septimus knew which side Edwards would be upon, reminded him again that they were present to keep the peace, not to protect the employers’ interests.

  “It amounts to the same thing, sir. Them or us. They cannot be persuaded, it seems, so they must be coerced to do what is best for themselves and the whole country. I saw a little of their ways, sir, when I was younger, and I assure you that appeals to reason and sense mean nothing to them. The lash, the blade and the bullet – that is all they understand!”

  “Only at my command, Mr Edwards! Did you travel elsewhere in the country, sir?”

  “I lived in London for a short while, sir, when I left my school, but my esteemed father decided that I should espouse an occupation and so I was bought my ensigncy in the New Foresters.”

  Septimus smiled – it was as he had suspected. The young gentleman had been a wastrel, had no doubt got into debt and had been dumped in the army as the price of his rescue. He could recognise similarities – perhaps Edwards could make good as he had done himself. He carried on round the other companies.

  Men drifted past on their way into the square. They were uniformly ragged and thin, many of them barefoot. All of them looked away or down at the ground as they passed the soldiers; none would stare them in the eye.

  “Broken men, Mr Brookes,” Septimus commented to the captain of D Company.

  “They seem harmless enough, sir,” Brookes replied.

  “The dregs of the town, sir. Jobless, hungry, hopeless, probably without homes as well. Mr Playforth told me at dinner last night that there are dozens who congregate in derelict buildings – burned out warehouses and old barns on the outskirts – with no other place to sleep.”