The Soldier Brat (Man of Conflict Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  In the nature of things Septimus spent more time with Mockford’s sections, came to know these men a little better. He was surprised to find that fewer than half of the men came from Hampshire, amazed that at least a quarter were not even English, asked Howton why this should be so, was it a normal thing.

  Howton, happy always to be a font of knowledge, explained in detail.

  “A good question, young man! There are, I believe, five disparate groups among the men, though all are now New Foresters first and foremost. The largest number is of local men, come to the Colours for many reasons, but of the rest, you must remember that we served in America and made up our losses from battle and sickness – and not a few desertions – there. Some Hanoverians came over to us, their own units returned to England and they wishful to stay. I suspect that no few of them ran from their own harsh discipline to our slightly more congenial ranks – we may flog our men, and some would say we do so too often, but our sergeants do not casually beat the men with fists and pace-sticks for the least infringement. I have seen a Hanoverian sergeant find a speck of dirt on a musket and take it and throw it with all his strength into its owner’s face, and he standing unmoving, daring not even to raise a hand to catch it for fear of worse! As well there were young Americans, Loyalists, who fought for the King and had no home left when the war was lost, came with us for lack of alternative; many of their families fled north into Canada, I believe. Since returning to Christchurch, and we have only been here a few months, staying as garrison in Canada for a year or two, we have taken in a number of French men – seamen, some of them, their ship master afraid to go back home to the Revolution and dumping them ashore here with no place and no money – and these will be put into the Second Battalion, I understand, when we go overseas, for fear of their loyalty. As well, of course, there are the Irish – maybe a quarter of our men – forced from their own places by hunger, some brought across to England in gangs to work the harvest, paid off with a few pounds in their pockets which they soon drink away, left with no other way to find a meal and a bed.”

  “Are we not soon to go to Ireland, sir? Will they be trustworthy in their own land?” Septimus, who had heard nothing but ill of the Irish all of his life, could not understand how it came about that renowned Papist rebels could be English soldiers.

  Howton smiled, replied in kindly fashion that they would try to recruit all of the Irish they could when in Cork. Disciplined and well led, the Irish were the best of soldiers; properly treated in their own land they would no doubt soon become wholly loyal to the Crown.

  As Septimus learned more he came to understand that for many of the men the battalion was the only home they had ever had, was truly their family, offered them clothing, a bed, a full belly. The clothing was inconvenient, the bed neither comfortable nor especially warm, the food was often desperately poor in quality, but they could live safe in the knowledge that tomorrow would be no worse than today, that they would neither starve nor freeze to death in an uncaring gutter, and they would be paid a little, enough to buy a woman occasionally, gin quite often. For those who could accept the demands of discipline it was a life that offered more than casual farm labouring or the streets of a town could provide. It was not a respected occupation, attracted more than a fair share of drunks and criminals, but the army was a safe haven for many who might otherwise have starved or been forced into habitual theft and the daily threat of the gallows.

  On most days Septimus would accompany Howton to the butts, watching and learning the men’s musket drill, the most important single element of their trade; he almost never saw other ensigns there. Musket, bayonet, pouch, powder and ball weighed together about a stone and a half, the largest single item of the sixty to eighty pounds a soldier carried on active service, and had to be carried properly and handled correctly. The New Foresters were equipped with the old Short Land Service musket, a forty-two inch barrel of more or less twelve bore, often badly misaligned by being twisted as the reinforcing bands were rough-welded on, designed for use in volley-firing at very short range. Drill with the musket concentrated upon speed of loading and obedience to command; the men were not expected to show initiative, outside of a Light Company were never to seek their own targets, must invariably fire wholly together to the word of their sergeants and corporals. Howton explained that on a formal, organised battlefield, it worked well; against backwoodsmen sniping in the forests it did not work at all.

  At least twice a week Septimus dined with local families, normally in Howton’s company. Colonel Allington insisted on his officers accepting hospitality, in part because of the social obligations of their shared status – officers were gentlemen – but also because the County was authority. The Civil Power could demand the services of the Army to create or restore public order, and the very disorderly whaling town of Poole lay only a few miles distant, while the enclosure of common land was creating unrest among the labouring classes in the countryside. Enclosure had come late to the Dorset area and, having finally arrived, was proceeding apace, a sudden flood rather than the slow encroachment that had occurred elsewhere, and many of the dispossessed labourers had responded with riot and rick burning. It was as well, therefore, Allington reasoned, for his officers to be acquainted with the men who might call upon their aid. He prayed that that aid might never be demanded in Poole – the smugglers there had stormed the Customs House and hanged its officers outside the front door in living memory, and the whalers were renowned for their drunken ferocity. Restoring order in Poole would certainly demand the use of powder and ball and might result in outright warfare between his battalion and at least their own number of well-armed seafarers. There would be a public outcry, a hostile press, and the New Foresters would rapidly be shipped overseas to an unpleasant posting - such as the forts on the West African coast, the Bight of Benin, where six out of seven soldiers died of fever in the ordinary way of things and only the unpopular were ever sent - even Goree, where a whole regiment of Carmarthen men had gone a few years back and not one had come home again.

  So Septimus dressed in full fig and dined elegantly and attended Balls and the Assemblies and, less formally, partnered local misses at impromptu hops after dinner and polished his social skills. He did not become a great favourite with the misses – he was not sought after for his wit, for he had very little; his conversation was stilted and mundane; his address was adequate but not highly polished; he showed no desire to flirt or make dashing advances – but he was increasingly insisted upon by staid parents who valued the quiet, good-humoured courtesy and assurance he began to display as he was pushed into manhood.

  Man of Conflict Series

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter Three

  They sailed from Poole four months after Septimus joined, the battalion seven hundred strong and wives of greater or lesser legality bringing children along to much the same number. Had it been a foreign posting the bulk of the women would have been left behind to fend for themselves, but Ireland was Home Establishment so the regiment was able to provide transport for them, although it would do nothing to provide the great majority with quarters or rations. A few wives were permitted on the establishment, primarily to act as washerwomen and unofficial cooks, but they shared the men’s barracks with no more privacy for them and their families than a blanket hung around their man’s cot.

  The transports themselves were old, wet, miserable, superannuated small third or fourth rates of the navy - called ‘flutes’ because their guns had been taken out, leaving a row of holes in the sides - or East Indiamen no longer deemed safe to carry valuable cargo but perfectly adequate to shift soldiers about the globe. Four of them lay at anchor in the bay, twice as big as whalers and unable to tie up at the quayside, hardly welcome in any case, lawless Poole having little love for the government in any of its manifestations. Local fishing boats had been hired, at considerable expense, the army having to pay well over the odds, to take the mass of men and followers and stores out to the ships.
/>   Septimus stood at Howton’s side, running errands for him as necessary, mostly observing as the sergeants did the bulk of the work.

  “Never give your sergeants unnecessary orders, Septimus,” Howton advised. “Tell them what is to be done and how you think it done best and then leave them to deal with the fiddly bits. That’s their job, and they are far better at it than us. Our function is to be seen, to lead in battle and occasionally to die prettily to encourage them.”

  Septimus noted the instruction unqueryingly – if that was it, then so be it – stood tall and straight, as visible as could be. When most of the men were aboard, Howton sent him off and Cooper met him on Lady Jane Grey, an ex-Indiaman and well off for cabins, took him to the quarters he had claimed for him, his name chalked on the door. As he approved Cooper’s choice – he could not imagine any circumstances in which he would have disapproved – it occurred to Septimus that, provided one’s batman and sergeants were well-disposed, the army was an excellent place to be. He saw Price and Bennett on deck, at a loss for anywhere to go – neither was liked by the Company and their servants had so far forgotten to attend to their comfort; he disappeared in search of Howton before either lieutenant could fasten on him with orders.

  They sailed into the prevailing westerly, making a southing almost to Finisterre and then across the outer edges of Biscay before attempting to tack northwest to the Cove of Cork. In weatherly ships the voyage could take as little as five days but the transport’s master said he hoped to get away with a fortnight. Stronger than normal winds, less than a gale but with a lot of north in them, extended their passage into a third week.

  Most of the officers spent the voyage in a haze of alcohol, their only protection against the tedium, but Howton pushed Septimus into daily activity, fencing, pistol shooting, musketry, walking the deck, even on a couple of occasions climbing the rigging. They inspected the men’s quarters and tasted their food daily, and were appalled by both; they could do nothing to improve either, had to content themselves with an extra, illicit rum ration whenever they could organise it.

  “The company will know, Septimus, that we can do no more, and they will have seen that others have not bothered to do as much. Sergeant Stratton and Sergeant Mockford have both told me that they are pleased to see you care – both think you will make a very good officer, Septimus. I am inclined to agree.”

  Septimus blushed, muttered incoherently – he had never been told he was good at, or for, anything before.

  “Come now, my boy, a mile around the deck, I think – an active body will lead to an alert mind, you know!”

  Howton often tended to the sententious but Septimus took his word as Gospel, put his best foot forward.

  Cards were played every afternoon and evening in the great cabin that served as Mess, whist by a few, wilder gambling games by the most. Septimus had hardly ever played whist but he knew cassino and piquet and faro and vingt-et-un, was about to join in when Howton, in need of a fourth, pulled him into the sobriety and discipline of the whist table. When the inevitable quarrel occurred in the third week Septimus was rather glad to be out of it, wholly uninvolved. The game was piquet, Bennett playing Price at a shilling a point and five pounds on the rubber, sums neither could afford, drink having talked the stakes up from the initial pennies. Bennett held the deal, discarded first, chose to take three and, as was his right, glanced at the two cards he had refused, knocking the stack of five carelessly. Price swore he had taken the opportunity to look at others of the stack, demanded a redeal. Bennett, sat on a quatorze of aces and a probable repique, swore equally vehemently that Price knew he had a hand of rubbish and was trying to escape the consequences of it. There was a sudden flare-up, the word ‘liar’ was heard, blows were exchanged, none connecting with any force. A challenge had been made before any of the more senior officers present could intervene.

  They had to face each other – neither could apologise unless the other would guarantee to meet him halfway, accepting equal culpability; neither was inclined to back down, and, indeed, neither could have remained in the regiment if they had done so after such provocation, the yellow flag would certainly have been seen to fly. Unable to keep out of each other’s company they spent three frigid days of courteously ignoring the other until they reached Cork.

  They docked, disembarked very rapidly, everything in readiness since they had first sighted land, and marched through uninterested streets to a barracks hidden behind a very high stone block wall, passing through a gate manned by a corporal’s guard of a dozen men; there were walkways on the wall and sentries at intervals along it, looking outwards.

  “Unrest in Ireland, Septimus – the authorities must believe that a rising is possible.”

  A battalion of Devons, equally ready to march, held a quick parade while its senior officers met the New Foresters in a very brief handover-takeover; they were en route to the docks before darkness fell and the new battalion was settled into still-warm quarters. The Devons were old friends of the New Foresters, the regiments with a tradition of serving and working well together, and they had not plundered the quartermaster to any exceptional degree so that settling in was a reasonably pain-free process.

  On that first evening Septimus was button-holed by Bennett’s second, another lieutenant, an undistinguished Smith by name, a raffish twenty-five year old who had transferred from the Green Howards. Smith had an adequate private income and had been educated at Eton, was not the sort normally to be expected in an unfashionable line battalion posted to Ireland; none of his fellow officers had cared to be so tactless as to ask him why he had chosen to transfer, but it was generally accepted that there was some explanation, probably of a slightly unsavoury nature, involving, for example, the colonel’s wife or something similar.

  “I say, Pearce, you have a pair of duelling pistols, do you not? I am sure I have seen you with a cased pair.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Would you care to bring them to the field, at dawn tomorrow?”

  “Not swords?”

  A duel with the smallsword would normally be halted at first blood, was far less likely to be fatal.

  “Pistols! Price insists – he has no skill with the smallsword, knows he would be run through in the minute.”

  “He is skilled with a pistol, then? I have not seen him at the butts,” Septimus commented in all innocence.

  “Not that I am aware of, no – but neither is my man, I believe. You will lend us your pistols?”

  Howton, apparently nowhere in hearing range at the beginning of the brief conversation, caught Septimus’ eye and nodded. Perforce, he agreed and volunteered to act as loader, both to ensure that all was fair and to look after his barrels, much too fine to be battered about by careless hands.

  “Well done, young man! They are fools to go out, bigger fools to have quarrelled in the first instance, but they will be fairly matched now. Hopefully, both will miss and be too scared to demand a second shot,” Howton speculated.

  There was an expanse of turf at the edge of the town, used mostly as a gallops by the richer inhabitants but also the traditional meeting place of the genteel and pugnacious. There was a clear sky and little wind – Septimus had hoped for an Irish rain to postpone the whole affair, flintlocks too likely to misfire to duel in the wet - but the sun was rising over an empty horizon. The two lieutenants were brought to the field by their seconds, each accompanied by a group of friends; every one of the younger ensigns was there, most of them in a state of obvious excitement. Howton, present at the colonel’s instruction, swore briefly – there was a possibility of further discord in the Mess now, the initial quarrel spreading as sides were drawn, parties were formed.

  Septimus stood at the front of the crowd with the surgeon, a square of cloth at his feet, the pistol case placed neatly on it. When Smith and Kincaid, acting for Price, presented themselves he knelt and swiftly loaded the two pistols, in sight of both, carefully laid the hammers flat in the pans, offered them to the se
conds.

  “Best our principals should take them,” Kincaid suggested, his voice harsh, as if he were about to choke; Smith coughed and waved, his own unease plain. Septimus nodded scornfully, having discovered that he was wholly unmoved by the event, and walked out onto the grass where the two men had been placed, standing north-south so that the rising sun was equal to both. He held the pistols butt forward over his crossed arms, let the men take them. Both had shaking hands he saw and retired rapidly before either could accidentally trigger his piece; they looked very young, white-faced and twitchy.

  Howton took charge, ordered the two to make ten good paces in the expectation that at twenty yards the curlews digging worms in the distance would be at greater risk than either officer.

  “When I call, gentlemen, you may turn and fire at will,” Howton shouted, backing away at speed.

  “Turn!”

  They spun on their heels, pointed and fired almost instantly, too nervous to attempt to aim and inadvertently gaining much greater accuracy than if they had. The duelling pistols were built for snap-shooting, for firing with both eyes open. Price’s ball ruffled Bennett’s hair while a fraction of a second later Bennett’s half-inch sphere of soft lead penetrated above Price’s right hip and ploughed into his belly. Price fell forwards onto his knees, heaved a great, rattling breath and started to scream, less from the first pain than from the knowledge that he was dead, could not hope to survive. When the gut was opened by ball or blade every soldier knew that death took ninety-nine out of the hundred; a low-velocity pistol ball, remaining in the wound with its scraps of clothing, offered even less of a chance.