by John Jarvis
CHAPTER TWENTY
During his wanderings around New York Richard had passed by an emporium that had stocked Celtic accessories and apparel as well as the usual range of working clothes, and he returned there with an idea on equipping his soon-to-be formed company. The proprietor was a red haired giant named Hamish Campbell and he had most of the Scottish items on a sale. Scottish immigrants in general were glad to be rid of the atrocious conditions in their homeland and wanted to become part of the New World, not cling to their traditions. The one thing they could not drop was their accents, which remained with them for life.
“Material for kilts, ye say? Of course we have most of the larger clans; which have you in mind?” Campbell boomed.
“It matters little for they will not be worn formally, and I require at least thirty, at a large discount of course,” answered Richard.
“Thirty!” Campbell repeated the number several times while he did the math on the once-only opportunity to rid himself of old stock. “I am intrigued, Sir, as to what use ye will put these kilts to if they are not part of a formal uniform,” asked Campbell to gain more calculation time.
“It is an idea I gained from tribes that fight in a humid jungle: they wear flax skirts and suffer none of the rashes and fungal infections that troops wearing close fitting uniforms do,” explained Richard.
“Of course they are superior wear, look at your history, Sir: Greeks, Romans all wore tunics, only the pansy Persians wore trousers, and that was only because they rode horses all the time and there is another good reason.” Campbell gave Richard a lewd look and continued, “Your testicles need to be kept cool, that is why they are outside the body, so a kilt will ensure a better performance in that department,” Campbell laughed at his own wit.
“I fancy my troops will be fully committed to staying alive, not propagating it,” suggested Richard. “If you could be good enough to name a price per unit?”
Campbell did, but when he saw Richard start to shake his head, made another offer: “My great-grandfather, may God rest his soul, imported hundreds of yards of the Royal Stewart Tartan in the mistaken belief that patriotic colonists would buy it, but with the Stewarts long gone and the Hanoverian Georges on the throne ye may have the lot for a few pounds.”
Richard inspected the dusty and in some cases rotting bolts of cloth and concluded the deal. He had his uniforms; now he needed his men.
“Can I interest ye in a set of pipes?” Campbell asked as Richard left the emporium.
The Sergeant of the Guard at the gates of The Duke of York Barracks scrutinized Richard’s letter of authority and saluted.
“I will have you escorted to Major Williams at the regimental headquarters, Sir: Colonel Bracewell is indisposed – Jones!” He screamed, Richard flinched, and a worn-out looking soldier hastened out of the guard-house, buttoning up his tunic. “Take Lieutenant Digby to Major Williams at H.Q. – and put your cap on straight!”
Major Williams looked as if he shouldered all the responsibilities problems and inadequacies of the regiment, and he did. Powder from his wig dusted the said shoulders of his red tunic. He re-read Richard’s authorities to form a light company and requisition arms and supplies before sighing and settling back in his chair.
“Damn it, Digby, we have enough problems filling our ranks with experienced troops as it is without you siphoning off our best skirmishers; this could not have come at a worst time” the Major complained.
“With respect, Sir, I do not wish to relieve you of your specialist troops but rather your misfits, your malcontents and your ill-disciplined. I intend to train an irregular force suited to fight Indians in their own element rather than deploy on a battlefield,” explained Richard.
“What? Well, that is all right then, and the best of bloody luck to you, glad to have them off my hands,” replied a much-mollified Major. “Sergeant Major,” he called, and a veteran senior non commissioned officer marched in and stamped to attention.
“Sir!”
“Lieutenant Digby will explain his needs, and make sure he gets only the worst that we have; you are both dismissed.”
Richard explained and the Sergeant Major looked unhappy. “Are you sure you know what you are getting into, Sir?” he enquired, quite concerned.
By the end of the morning Richard had thirty-eight starters. They came from the guardhouse, the military prison, the infirmary and hard duties. They came from Ireland, Scotland, England’s southern cities, Canada and the German states; all of them looked truculent and all of them looked suspicious as well. This changed to interest when Richard introduced himself and began by announcing that all those who completed training and joined Stuart’s Irregulars would be on double pay.
One of the men looked at his comrades and muttered, “More like Stuart’s Stragglers.” The name would stick.
Richard noticed a short stocky man with white skin, reddened where it had been exposed to the sun. Faded patches on the arms of his tunic indicated he had once been a sergeant. This would be O’Hara, the man the Sergeant Major had recommended to be re-promoted. O’Hara had been demoted after falling foul of the Major over reduced rations to reduce expenditure and could train any band of misfits into a formidable fighting force. Richard asked him to remain behind after the men had been dismissed and struck off camp duties.
“Fighting Indians in the forests, no drills, no duties other than sentry and double pay? Leave the men to me, Sir: the main reason they are all in trouble is there is no fighting, so they fight amongst themselves.”
“Very good sergeant you may sew your stripes back on; we will begin outfitting the men tomorrow.” The Sergeant saluted and marched away, his back much straighter than when he had arrived on parade. Richard had deliberately failed to mention an Indian would train them in forest warfare, albeit indirectly – if Squanto answered the call he had made through Captain Smith.
In Nantucket Captain Smith read the letter from Richard and wondered how the young man had so quickly fallen on his feet and had been commissioned. He decided to contact Squanto; he did not want to lose his best harpooner, but the lone Indian would never forgive him if he later learned of the summons and his failure to pass it on. He would ascertain the Indian’s whereabouts that very afternoon.
Richard had to pull rank for the first time at the armory the following day
“Pistols? They are for officers only, Sir, and I cannot disfigure the standard issue musket by cutting down the barrel length, it would greatly reduce their range and as for long knives well; I do not have any,” spluttered the Sergeant-armorer.
“Nevertheless you will have all the items listed by the end of the week or face charges of failing to obey written orders from a superior officer; you may salute!” Richard left the man livid as his red tunic.
The Quartermaster was only a fraction more accommodating than the armorer when he read Richard’s clothing requirements.
“Dark clothing? All we have are dark blue ex Prussian trousers; I may be able to source some naval coats. Officers’ shoes are not made for hard wearing, and as for leather leg bindings I may be able to supply them from cavalry equipment. Snakes, you say? Wig powder but no wigs? I will do my best, Sir.”
Richard did not even try to have the kilts border-stitched; he would have them made up by a civilian tailor and introduced when they were on the trail.
“The men must be able to move very fast through the forest, Sergeant: their very lives may depend on it.” Richard and O’Hara were on the outskirts of a large track of unused land that was as near to a forest they could find within marching distance of New York. The men were nearby, recovering from the forced march and drinking too much water.
“Motivation will not be a problem, Sir, after I describe the Indians’ methods of mutilating their enemies’ bodies,” replied O’Hara.
“Mutilation?” This was news to Richard.
“Yes Sir, they mutilate the bodies so their enemies cannot enter the afterlife whole: penises and testi…”
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��Spare me the gruesome details, Sergeant; have the men sprint train over a quarter mile distance, and tell them to ration their water – some of them have emptied their flasks already.”
Richard was tempted to train with his men but had too much administrative work to complete, so he would have to train alone in the mornings. He watched his men curse and then save their breath as O’Hara drove them through underbrush that tore their clothes and bodies. Their well-made officers’ shoes were already showing signs of wear but should hold out until they could be replaced with more practical moccasins.
“Right lads, ten minute rest, then we will do it all again, this time with rocks in your packs,” ordered the sadistic Sergeant. The men were too tired to moan.
Feeling only a little guilty, Richard re-mounted his horse and rode back to the barracks. He had to explain to the paymaster why he had authority to pay eighty-two soldiers, had recruited only thirty-eight, yet was drawing the full amount.
To the north someone else was racing through the forest, but unlike Richard’s company he made no noise, moved faster and read the forest’s signs as he ran. Squanto had answered Richard’s call.
Richard met his match in the Regimental Paymaster: Patrick Lovett was a senior lieutenant who in matters of money made Subtile’s purser look generous.
”Let me make it plain to you Digby: your authority comes from the Colonial Office not the English Army, who have refused any further responsibility or funding for your irregular raiders. You may keep any weapons, stores and equipment you have accrued; these will be charged to the C.O. and must leave the barracks by noon tomorrow. You have been struck off strength!”
It was Richard’s turn to say “yes Sir” and salute.
In many ways their new status had advantages: They would no longer be subjected to jibes at the barracks, being ignored in the messes and be accountable to everyone. Camping on the training site would avoid the route march to and from the barracks and they would be away from prying eyes. Richard informed O’Hara as soon as he returned with his men, and the Sergeant promptly had the men pack up and march out of the barracks. There were no complaints from the men.
For the two following days Richard, now wearing his kilt and subject to snide remarks behind his back, had his men cross rivers and streams, force-march through the humid forests and re-cross the rivers. He suffered the harsh conditions with them. When a cart arrived loaded with supplies, orders for Richard, part wages for the men and a local half-breed guide. Richard nodded to O’Hara.
“Right lads, drop your trousers,” the Sergeant ordered. There was a stunned silence from the men. “It is a legal order, men, for a short arms parade.” The driver of the cart laughed; he was enjoying this. “If you do not obey you can return to barracks and receive no pay.”
That did it: the men, grumbling about indecency, loosened their belts and pulled their trousers down to their knees. The sight was appalling: every man had a crimson red rash around his genitals; in some cases the rash had been chaffed into sores, and one man was bleeding.
“In two more days none of you will be fit for duty and our mission compromised,” Richard lectured them. “Pull your trousers back up and see how this kilt you all sniggered at prevents such inflictions.” Richard lifted his kilt, revealing a lack of any rash or sores. “After you have all changed into kilts and applied wig powder to your rashes you may fall out and receive pay.” The cart driver and the guide began unloading the supplies powder and kilts first. Richard took his orders from Sir Thomas to his bed-roll and began to read them.
They were simple enough: Proceed to the area west of the St Lawrence River where dissident French traders are inciting the Indian tribes to reclaim tribal lands and using the resulting conflicts as a cover to seize all saleable goods and chattels to sell prior to migrating to a French Territory. Any French or colonial citizen acting in this matter is to be considered an outlaw and either arrested or killed. The guide will accompany you to the St. Lawrence where you should hire another more knowledgeable of local conditions. Monies for same, including the soldiers, will receive double pay on completion of the mission. Letters of authority to requisition and seize also included. God Save The King.
The guide’s name was Tom; nothing else, just Tom, and he existed in the vacuum between the white men’s world and the Indians by acting as an army guide. His Mohawk mother had died of measles when he was three and his father had disappeared, leaving him to be brought up in an orphanage. If he thought Richard’s company was a strange one he made no mention of it and quickly adapted his movements on the trail to their best speed. After a week on the move he did suggest no more fires if they intended to conceal their presence. After twenty-one days he became anxious and often scouted behind the party as well as the areas ahead. On the twenty-third day he disappeared, leaving no sign he had ever existed. That night, while Richard tossed and turned on the ground and worried about how to reach the great river, he felt a hand close over his right hand, preventing him from drawing his pistol.
“Your sentries are not forest smart, Dick Sir.”
Squanto had found them.
If the men thought that Richard’s day-long talk with Squanto would avail them a rest, they were mistaken. Sergeant O’Hara, on advice from Squanto via Richard made the men practice again and again the skills on how to read forest signs and move quietly.
“The men try hard enough Sir, but they are still useless: it will take months, even years, to acquire such skills,” lamented O’Hara.
“We, however, only have days but keep at it, Sergeant; at least it keeps them busy,” replied Richard and returned to his talk with Squanto.
“The raiding parties use the river and some of the Mohawk tribes to strike at the Kahinawakes and steal their stockpiled beaver furs that cannot be traded at Albany because of British regulations?” asked Richard, trying to get his head around the problem.
“Also to settle old score among tribes that helped French and those who sided with British,” added Squanto.
“So it is impossible to know when and where they will land off the river and which tribe they will attack next. Just like the Vikings,” said an increasingly exasperated Richard.
“What tribe are they?” Squanto asked.
“They cannot pack the goods back to Canada, they would be intercepted at the border – so where could they go?” Richard poured over his map while Squanto switched off. “There! It must be Louisville,” Richard pointed to the old French fortress.
“Louisville destroyed by English,” said Squanto, waking up.
“Yes, but it still has a harbor and good access to the sea,” pointed out Richard. “It has to be Louisville.”