It might have been a joke.
Micah was introduced to his company next morning, fresh in his lieutenant’s glory and expecting little trouble from them. They inspected him and decided that he was young, and probably dangerous, to them as much as to an enemy. His reputation had gone before him – he was a fighting man and more likely to press forward than fall back. They had been embarrassed in barracks in the castle, had not liked to be called yellow bellies when the fault had lain with their officers, not themselves. They would give their new lieutenant his chance, the more willingly because the war was over and there was no fighting to be done for the while. They listened warily as Micah spoke to them.
“My name is Slater – although I am sometimes called other things. There is to be an ensign, as soon as one is allocated. Sergeant Patterson has come with me and will be senior sergeant to our half battalion, under Captain Holdby. We are a large company and may well find ourselves busy as a result. The word is that we are to march south – or east, perhaps. When is definitely tomorrow, or perhaps next week.”
They grunted a laugh at that, knowing the army and its inability to plan as much as an hour ahead.
“Keep yourselves clean. Make very sure that your matchlocks are perfect. You have short swords, I see. They will be sharp and without rust. For the rest, Sergeant Patterson will tell you what he wants. I will look after fighting men. Any man who cannot be ready for battle in five minutes will discover my other side. The word I hear is that war is more like than not within the year. Against who, and why – that’s none of our business just yet. Has any man ought he wishes to ask me, or to say to me?”
It was a far freer army than most, many of the men used to having their say in chapel and seeing no reason to remain silent in front of an officer. If they might venture their opinions in the House of God, then they might equally make their voice heard on the parade ground.
“Begging thy pardon, sir, but what of the Sabbath? Are we to march then?”
“Not if I can do otherwise. If there is an enemy who wishes to fight then, we may not refuse. If we must be in a place on Monday, then we may have no choice but shift our ground on the Lord’s day. Where it can be planned – and where the plan works – then the Sabbath Day shall not be profaned.”
“The Lord be with thee, sir.”
“Thank you.”
A second man raised a hand.
“Thou sayeth that there may yet be another war, sir? Might I beg to know who our enemy might be?”
Micah shook his head rigorously.
“No. We do not yet know that there will be war. Nor do we know what orders we may receive – or whether we will be able in our consciences to obey them. Be very clear that we are a godly army and that I shall not lead you to fight against the saints assembled. Know as well that when the day comes, each man shall have the time to look into the depths of his own soul and determine what must be his proper course. You shall not be forced to fight in a battle that you believe to be ungodly.”
“Then the Lord God of Hosts shall bless thee, Brother Slater.”
“Lieutenant on the parade ground, if you please.”
Micah gave the parade to Sergeant Patterson and stood back as he called the men to attention and then marched them off. The sergeant returned, shaking his head.
“They are to be led, carefully, sir, not driven. A guess says that more than half will be found at prayer meetings on Sunday. They are not like the soldiers you find in the Germanies, sir, carrying a musket for the sake of loot and rapine. Some will be soldiers but too many are ordinary men forced to take up a musket by the exigency of the times. Every order must be thought over first, sir. Better you to do that than me!”
Captain Holdby agreed.
“A strange mood in these men, Red Man. They have a determination to them that is unusual in my experience. These are men who would as soon die as turn back from their chosen course. Many of them are set to fight for the right – but what that ‘right’ is, who is to say? Was I the King of England, Red Man, I should be very nervous indeed of upsetting these men.”
“So say I, Captain. Is there word of our marching?”
“Tomorrow, for Stamford, the whole Regiment. We are to meet the lieutenant-colonel there and will pick up a few of ensigns, all green as grass, no doubt. There will be no more of captains and lieutenants and no new major. I am to call myself major from the morning, acting, so there will be two of us while we march. I shall cease to act when the regiment splits up, as I am told it shall. The companies have been made up to between ninety and a hundred men apiece and we shall be nearly a thousand strong when we march. That will make us as large a Regiment as is to be found in the whole of England. I believe we are to be placed at Stamford so that we may at need march east to Cambridge and Norwich while others come from London if the occasion arises that we are to pacify the Eastern Counties.”
“But, sir…”
“We may need to put down troublemakers, Lieutenant Slater. The nature of their troubling may be decided at a later date. Where there is trouble, there must be two sides. Who is to say which shall see us at our business?”
Chapter Nine
Years of Blood Series
Bold and Blooded
“Should the companies train together, sir? So that shot and pikes can learn to work with each other?”
“An excellent idea, Lieutenant Slater. Unfortunately, no two generals agree how that should be done. If we train our companies in our particular fashion, and the general appointed to us requires a different approach, then we will do no more than confuse the men. My experience tells me it is better to work the companies individually. The general will devise his scheme for their deployment – probably using a chessboard and treating them as pieces – and we shall march them to the proper place and listen for his trumpets and trot off in the direction we are pointed. Train the men to form their line or their square and forget everything else until the day comes. In the end, you will fight as you must when the circumstance prevails.”
It seemed rather haphazard to Micah.
“Is there no rulebook for the army, sir? No guide to tell us what to do?”
“Oh, yes! Dozens of them! Every general has his own or follows that of his own commander of a few years previously. The thing is, Red Man, that nothing is certain. There are in effect four arms on the battlefield – artillery, horse, pikes and shot. Sometimes foot companies are mixed, pike and shot together. Each general has his own ideas for how best to use them in attack or defence, in the open field or in trenches or behind walls. There is no agreement as to which is the ideal. So, for us, being very junior, insignificant little fellows, we just teach our people to march and obey orders and smile sweetly and say ‘yes, sir’ when given an order. More than that, we cannot do.”
Micah thought this to be rather stark. It implied that they were of very little value on the field, were no more than pawns in fact.
“We foot soldiers are the least of the forces on the field, Red Man. We can hold a position, but we can do little in the attack. A general who wishes to win a battle will rely on his heavy horse to break his opponent. A column of horse using their pistols on the caracole and then charging with the sword, they can destroy an enemy’s defence and carve a way through that the foot can later consolidate. The artillery can perhaps weaken the defence first. But the foot can do little other than hold a position.”
It was true, Micah reflected. The matchlock with its one shot a minute, in dry weather, was no weapon for an attack. Charge, fire and then stop for nearly sixty seconds to perform the reload… By the time the man was ready to move again, the impetus of the charge must be lost.
“Captain Carew thought that a flintlock could fire three times in a minute, sir.”
Captain Holdby showed some enthusiasm at that.
“So it can. A well-made and strong flintlock is a very different machine to the matchlock. I have never seen a company of flintlock muskets, but they must be able to charge effec
tively. Importantly, a squadron of horse trying the caracole in front of flintlocks will be shot to pieces. Three times as many heavy musket balls about their ears would rapidly end their endeavours. But flintlock muskets are few and far between – they are heavier than pistols and demand more of both flint and spring. By God though, I would wish to lay hands on a hundred of them!”
At least four hundred pounds sterling – the cost was impossible. The King would face bankruptcy if he tried to equip his whole army with flintlocks.
They laughed and agreed it would not happen. They drank their small beer and left the mess where they had been breakfasting, Captain Holdby to his office and his gloomy perusal of the ration states, Micah to the barracks where he was to inspect his company.
The men were stood beside their pallets, facing their front and within reason smart.
Ninety-five of them in two barrack rooms, a double file by the open, unglazed windows on either side with a space down the middle just wide enough for their officer to walk, his sergeant behind him. They looked healthy – no dripping noses or fever flushes – and stood straight.
The uniform was not conducive to any great smartness but they were clean, their buff coats brushed and sponged down recently, the baggy breeches not mud-splattered and their woollen stockings without holes. Their leather shoes were a different matter – there was no cobbler and they were overdue an issue of new shoes. They had marched too far in recent months and the soles were destroyed and the uppers little better.
“We will not make fifteen miles a day on those feet, Sergeant Patterson.”
“Not a chance, sir.”
“I shall tell Captain Holdby again, but he cannot conjure shoes out of thin air. There are none in the stores.”
Micah’s own old platoon was at the very end of the second barracks room, stood straight and smiling at him. Jonathan recognised him and waved.
“Good, Sergeant Patterson. We will see a paymaster tomorrow and the men will be at liberty to go into town in the afternoons and over Saturday and the Sabbath.”
The men heard, as was the intention, and relaxed. Stamford was home to a few of them and was not unwelcoming to the rest. There were beerhouses that would take their money willingly, the town being small and extra cash very rare and desirable.
Just two companies had marched as far as Stamford, the remainder of the Regiment as far away as Grantham and Spalding and Oakham and Uppingham, spread over much of Lincolnshire and Rutland, the towns all too small to shelter more than a company or two.
“Put the men on the drill square, Sergeant Patterson. Column of route to line to square – the working manoeuvres, those that will keep them alive in the field. We are low on powder still, cannot go to the butts this week.”
There was no gain to Micah’s presence at drill. Sergeant Patterson and the corporals could do better without him being in the way and inhibiting their language. He made his way to the offices, checked with his soldier clerk that the book was ready for the paymaster.
“All up, sir. Each man’s name clear and his dues double-checked.”
“Good. They must get their proper money. A pity it could not be paid on time.”
The company had not seen the paymaster for seven weeks. Every pocket was empty, including Micah’s.
“Well Red Man, will you go home now for a few days? Being so close, no need for a furlough as such. You can take a couple of nights away easily enough. Will you want your servant selected so that he can go with you?”
Micah was tempted – the village would be so much impressed if he came with his own man behind him.
“Not for two nights, Captain. It would be difficult to find a bed for him. Better to go on my own. I am tempted to walk the short distance for not knowing where I could stable Pip.”
“No. Officers do not walk. You ride your charger to your home, even if you must stable him in the woodshed. Full uniform – breast and back and sword and pistols in their holsters. Make a full display, Red Man. A piece of advice? Look down that nose of yours and take no nonsense from any man. You are a soldier and have been blooded in more than one little battle. They are peasants and should doff their hats to an officer. Be sure that they do!”
“Practice my swagger, you say, Captain? Why not?”
Living in the mess as a respected officer had changed Micah, as he realised. He was no longer the diffident country boy. He could talk easily with the other young officers and they accepted him, the newest ensigns especially seeing only the man who carried sword and pistols taken from his dead enemies.
He breakfasted next morning and called for his horse, happy that it would be saddled for him. No more than half an hour’s ride over the long bridge and up the hill on the highway out to Leicester, crossing the Great North Road within sight of Burghley House and walking quietly up to Easton-on-the-Hill, touching his hat in response to the salutations from a pair of farmhands in the fields by the road.
The village wives working their gardens looked up warily as he rode past. They did not like soldiers who might be coming to haul their sons away to march behind their flag.
He kept to the walk along the crest of the hill, glancing about him to see what had changed and discovering almost nothing different. A few minutes brought him in sight of the Slater house and the yard with the rows of drying slates in their upright lines. There was a figure trimming them, he could hear the hammer tapping. He drew a deep breath and stared forward, expecting to see his father and ready to outface him. The hammer paused as the worker heard the horse coming. He stood up, a hand to his aching back, having been bent over unbroken since starting work soon after dawn.
“Can I help thee, sir?” He stopped, peering up incredulously. “Is that thou, our Micah? On a horse? Be those lieutenant’s marks I see on thee, brother?”
Micah dismounted, clasped his brother in his arms.
“Aye. It is me, brother. How do you come to know an officer when you see one?”
“We are all part of the Trained Band now, Micah. Force-put, for two hours after morning service. Squire has come and made us to serve. Pastor Doddington hath ordered us to learn the use of pike and pistol, saying that…”
It occurred to Jacob that his brother was a King’s officer. It might not be tactful to suggest that they were learning the ways of war in case they must rise in rebellion.
“I can imagine, brother. If war comes to this country of ours, I shall fight for my people, not for the King’s bully boys.”
Jacob sighed in relief.
“So say we all, Micah. We shall perform the Lord’s work, at his command. How do you come to be an officer, brother? Come into the house. I am wed now, to Rebecca. Her brothers are working for us in the quarry.”
“And our father, Jacob? I cannot think he would have permitted such change.”
“He fell into the quarry and broke his neck within the hour of thee leaving, brother. His loss is not felt in this house, that I shall tell thee.”
Micah wondered just how the old brute had fallen. He decided he must not ask. If Jacob had killed him, then he had done the whole world a favour.
“I cannot mourn his loss, Jacob. He was a cruel man and will not have gone to a good place. First things, my brother, I am in debt to thee for having taken every penny of thy hard-earned savings. That money was of great value to me, brother, and I should have been hard-pressed without it.”
It was not quite a true statement, but close enough and he did feel great gratitude for his brother’s unquestioning aid.
“Here now, brother, with my thanks.”
Jacob felt unfamiliar coins in his hand, cried out in amaze.
“Those are silver crowns, Micah, four of them!”
“My debt and my wedding gift to thee, brother. I am paid good money now and bear no costs for my living in Colonel Knighton’s Regiment of Foot. He has equipped me, as you see, and has bought mine charger for me. All I carry comes with no cost to myself, even pistols and sword taken from the Scots who tried to
kill me with them. It is only right that my family shall share in my good fortune. I have a crown apiece for the girls and for my mother. Are all well, brother?”
They were, Jacob assured him, no doubt hiding away in the house, out of sight of the licentious soldiery as any good woman should be.
“Come now, brother. Tie up thine charger to the post of the washing line, for the nonce. Are you to stay for any time?”
“Two nights, if I may, brother. I am in barracks at the castle in Stamford, close indeed to thee. The house is thine and I must beg thy permission to stay in it.”
Jacob was left confused – he was head of the family, and proud of the fact, but his wild brother had climbed in the world, was almost a gentleman now. Micah was, in the eyes of the world at least, far the senior of the two.
“You must come inside, Micah. My sisters will clear a room for thee for the two nights, and whenever you may wish to stay again.”
They came to the back door and Micah stepped aside to allow the master of the house entry, as was only proper. Jacob was much embarrassed, standing in front of a King’s officer.
“Mother! Do you come down and see who has come to us.”
The five womenfolk came downstairs in a huddle, nervous of any change, of novelty in any form. Widow Slater took the lead of her son’s wife on this occasion, as he had commanded. She recognised her son and saw the uniform he was wearing and was placed in an immediate quandary. Should she greet the reprobate who had struck his father and run away, or should she extend a welcome to the son who had risen so far in the world?
She took her cue from her eldest, who was obviously pleased to see his brother.
“My son, my son, thou hast returned to me! Praise the Lord that thou art well and prosperous.”
She flung herself into Micah’s arms, discovering that the iron breast and back were uncomfortable in a close embrace.
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