“Grenadier of the Sky Blues” in 1743”
The Swan on the Buglehorn is the badge of the Duke of Buckingham’s Light
Infantry, a fictional English County Regiment, known as “The Sky Blues”
from the regimental facing colour.
The history of the regiment is set out in a series of books written by
John Mackenzie. Below is the first book of the series.
A quintessential English county regiment, the Duke of Buckingham’s Light Infantry, known as the “Sky Blues”, was raised in 1685 by beat of drum, under an order issued to John Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, by His Majesty, King James II. Since then wherever British soldiers have been called upon to serve, the Sky Blues have been in the line of battle.
As Buckingham’s Foot, the regiment fought at the Duke of Marlborough’s four great victories: Blenheim, Ramilles, Oudenarde and Malplaquet.
In King George’s War between 1743 and 1745, as Villiers’ Foot, the Sky Blues served at Dettingen and Fontenoy, before returning to help save the Hanoverian dynasty from the Young Pretender’s Highlanders, at the battles of Falkirk and Culloden in 1746.
In 1755, as part of the small army sent to the American colonies, the regiment suffered grievously in Braddock’s disastrous defeat by the French and their Indian allies, before storming Quebec in 1759 with Major General James Wolfe.
1772 saw the dark days of the Revolutionary War, a titanic five year struggle in which the American colonies won independence, despite the efforts of the Sky Blues and their comrades of Britain’s marching regiments.
Called back from India in 1808 and now the Buckinghamshire Regiment, the Sky Blues were selected as one of Sir John Moore’s light infantry corps, and spent six years battling the French in Portugal and Spain, winning the battle honours of Corunna, Talavera, Busaco, Fuentes D’Onoro, Cuidad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vittoria and the Pyrenees, before the ultimate test on @ June 1815 of the Battle of Waterloo.
In 1855 the regiment, with its modern title of ‘the Duke of Buckingham’s Light Infantry’, embarked for the Crimean War. Following the mayhem of the battles of the Alma and Inkerman, the Sky Blues were sent straight into the demonic hell of the Indian Mutiny.
A spell on the North West Frontier at the end of the century, combating the Afghan tribes, prepared the regiment for the ordeal of the Second Boer War in 1899.
At the outbreak of the Great War, in 1914, the Duke of Buckingham’s Light Infantry plunged into the inferno of the great retreat from Mons to the Aisne and the desperate First Battle of Ypres. Of the regimental officers in a photograph taken at the Duke of Buckingham’s mansion, Stowe, in June 1914, many failed to survive to celebrate Christmas. Despite its losses the regiment raised fifteen battalions from the county of Buckinghamshire and boasted that at least one took part in every battle of the war.
1940 saw the First Battalion at Dunkirk while the Second Battalion fought the Italians in the Western Desert.
The regiment’s most recent battle honour was won in the Falklands in 1982.
The chained swan crest of the Dukes of Buckingham has been the regiment’s badge since it’s raising. With the transformation of the Sky Blues into light infantry, the chained swan acquired the buglehorn, the traditional emblem of that arm of the foot. The regiment’s badge has come to be known and honoured as the “Swan on the Buglehorn”.
Introduction
“They are ringing their bells now,” declared Sir Robert Walpole, the architect of the long peace. “Soon they will be wringing their hands.”
In 1742, three decades after the Treaty of Utrecht ended the War of the Spanish Succession and the Duke of Marlborough’s string of victories against the French, England and France went to war again.
The deaths in 1740 of two monarchs, the King of Prussia and the Emperor of Austria, triggered the events that dragged every major European state into twenty five years of warfare. The conflict between England and France would end in the destruction of French interests in India and the loss of her Canadian territories. Ultimately England would lose her American colonies.
Frederick William I, the “sergeant major” King of Prussia, died on 31st May 1740. On his death, the throne passed to his ruthlessly ambitious son, Frederick. Frederick inherited the most advanced army in Europe, supported by a state bureaucracy of unrivalled efficiency, institutions his father had spent a lifetime perfecting. The opportunity for Frederick, soon to be known as “The Great”, to use these implements arose the same year.
Charles VI, Emperor of Austria, died on 19th October 1740, leaving his imperial throne to his daughter, Maria Theresa. Charles feared that the powerful states of Europe would, upon his death, seize chunks of the empire, expecting that his daughter would be unable to defend her inheritance. The Emperor had devised the Pragmatic Sanction of Prague, a convention designed to guarantee Maria Theresa’s imperial dominions, and spent the last years of his life persuading the monarchs of Europe to subscribe to it.
On the death of Charles VI, Frederick tore up Prussia’s commitment to the Pragmatic Sanction and seized Silesia, marching his troops into the capital, Breslau, and annexing the rich Austrian province to Prussia.
If Frederick thought Maria Theresa would acquiesce in this coup de main, he was mistaken. She declared war on Prussia and invaded Silesia, precipitating the wars that would rage for a quarter of a century. The conflict did not finally end until the Treaty of Paris in 1764, which confirmed Prussia’s ownership of Silesia.
The first period of fighting, from 1740 to 1748, was known as the “War of the Austrian Succession”, or in North America as “King George’s War”. Austria and Prussia fought in Silesia and Bohemia, while French armies invaded Bavaria. In 1742 the French threatened Flanders, a region dominated by Austria and the Dutch Republic. A Pragmatic Army, named from Charles VI’s Sanctions, assembled to counter the French invasion, with troops from Austria and various German states, including Hanover.
George II, King of England and Elector of Hanover, resolved to send English troops to join the Pragmatic allies. Ostensibly the army was to fight for Maria Theresa, but George’s concern was that the French intended to pass through the Low Countries and invade his beloved Hanover. The force was dispatched to Flanders in mid-1742 and remained there until the end of the war in 1748, with one major interlude from late 1745 to 1746, when Prince Charles, the Young Pretender, landed in Scotland and invaded England with a highland army. This adventure, encouraged and resourced by France, brought the Hanoverian Crown to the brink of disaster, retrieved only by the Flanders regiments return to Britain and defeat of the highlanders at Culloden Moor.
In 1742, England had not fought a European war since the time of the Duke of Marlbrough, at the beginning of the century. In the intervening twenty years of peace, the army had been neglected by a government reluctant to spend money on the armed services.
The English Army in 1742 comprised six troops of household cavalry, eight regiments of horse, thirteen regiments of dragoons, three regiments of Foot Guards, forty two regiments of marching foot and a number of independent companies of foot. The artillery, a separate institution administered by the Board of Ordnance, formed companies when required for a campaign.
The Horse and Foot Guards were quartered in London, some in the Tower and the Savoy Barracks, the rest billeted in inns and hostelries across the city. The Army’s regiments of horse, dragoons and foot were spread across Britain and its colonies, with regiments of foot in North America, the Caribbean, Gibraltar and Minorca. Regiments adopted the names of their colonels. Although there was an acknowledged hierarchy, numbers were not used. A regiment was, to a great extent, the property of its colonel, who profited from his appointment, making deductions from his soldier’s pay for clothing and feeding, part of which he kept. The regiment’s administration was conducted by an agent, a civilian appointed by the colonel.
Each regiment had two field officers, a lieutenant colonel and a major, who assisted the colonel in his command. The field officers also held appointments as captains of companies. The establishment of a regiment of foot, when in England, required ten companies, each commanded by a captain and officered by a lieutenant and an ensign. To an extent the captain owned his company, which comprised three sergeants, three corporals, two drummers and seventy private soldiers. The regimental establishment provided for an adjutant, but usually one of the company officers held that appointment. There was provision for a surgeon, an assistant surgeon and a chaplain. The structure of a regiment was simple.
The foot wore red coats that reached to the knee. The coat was turned back, with broad lapels, cuffs and skirts, to reveal the lining of the regiment’s colour which made a distinctive appearance at these points, edged with the regimental lace pattern.
The senior company in each regiment of foot bore the title of the “Grenadier Company” and took the colonel as its titular captain. The grenadiers comprised the tallest, strongest and best disciplined soldiers in the regiment and were distinguished by lavishly embroidered mitre caps of the regiment’s facing colour, decorated with regimental emblems. The other nine companies wore black hats edged with white lace borders, the brim turned up to create the characteristic three cornered appearance, giving rise to the derisive label of “Hat Companies”.
Annually, on the anniversary of the King’s accession, new regimental coats were issued and the previous year’s coats cut down to form waistcoats, worn for everyday wear or as an additional layer under the new coat.
The private soldiers were armed with a musket, socket bayonet and a hanger short sword. Grenadiers had ceased to use the lethally dangerous grenades at the beginning of the century. Sergeants carried halberds, as emblems of their office. Officers were armed with half-pikes, swords and pistols.
The Army was subject to a system of administration conducted by civilians and controlled by the annual Mutiny Act. The politicians’ determination to keep the institution on a tight rein produced odd results. One was that the Army was permitted no transport of its own and had to requisition wagons from local constables to transport its baggage about the country.
The Mutiny Act governed the billeting of troops. Barracks were a rarity in all European states, other than for household regiments, leaving line regiments to be quartered on the population, living much like civilians, town by town. In England, billeting on private citizens was condemned as an objectionable infringement of liberty and the Mutiny Acts permitted the quartering of troops only on inns or premises used for selling liquor. Few towns were large enough to accommodate more than a couple of companies in this manner, so that most marching regiments lived scattered across a county.
Some colonels held general rank, in addition to the appointment of colonel of a regiment. For those general officers, the day-to-day care of their regiment and often its command in the field, fell to the lieutenant colonel or the major. By the end of the eighteenth century this reality had become fully acknowledged and infantry battalions and cavalry regiments were commanded by the lieutenant colonel, the colonel acting as a regimental figurehead.
Officers’ commissions in the Army were treated as private property and bought and sold: the more senior the rank and the more prestigious the regiment, the higher the price of the commission. There was some restriction on who could buy a commission, but the wealthy and well-connected could rise quickly through the ranks, while simple ability and dedication were usually insufficient to ensure advancement.
The commitment of many of the officers to their military obligations was questionable. Several were Members of Parliament and felt no qualms at scheming against government policies they might as soldiers be required to carry out. Many officers chose not to attend for their duty at all.
The Hanoverian Kings, George I, II and III, maintained a great interest in the Army. In many respects the Army was their private institution and royal influence and patronage was pervasive. They disliked the traffic in officers’ commissions, which they managed to regulate, but were unable to abolish.
This was not an era when military orders were unquestioningly obeyed, and social standing frequently determined an officer’s influence more than his rank. A major difficulty encountered by the Pragmatic Army, once assembled in Flanders in 1742, arose from the refusal of senior officers of different nationality to work together. Joint action only became possible with the appointment of the Duke of Cumberland as commander-in-chief in 1745. Cumberland was deferred to, not because of his military rank, but because of his authority as a royal duke and son of George II. The realities of eighteenth century social structure forced the Pragmatic Army to have a commander of little military experience.
When it came for the regiments to be dispatched to Flanders, the King, advised by the Secretary at War and his senior generals, selected fifteen regiments of marching foot, a battalion of each of the three regiments of Foot Guards, three regiments of Horse and six regiments of Dragoons.
Several of these regiments had to be brought from Ireland, going through the cumbrous procedure of moving from the Irish establishment to the English. They had to return their weapons to store in Ireland, drawing new ones on arrival in England, and be brought up to strength with drafts from the regiments not chosen, and through frenzied recruiting.
The King insisted on inspecting the Flanders regiments and one, Bragg’s, was removed from the list, presumably as not coming up to the requisite standard, and its colonel had his appointment as a general officer in the force cancelled, although that order was later rescinded.
A regiment, whose officers waited expectantly to see if they would be selected, was Major General Sir Ambrose Villiers’ Regiment of Foot, or “Villiers’ Sky Blues” as it was known from the colour of the soldiers’ coat facings.
The regiment’s colonel in 1742, Major General Villiers, was a nephew of the first colonel, the eighth Duke of Buckingham, and had served as ensign with the regiment at Malplaquet. In 1715, he had commanded a company during the First Jacobite Rebellion. Between 1715 and 1742, General Villiers held a number of appointments, the last as governor of a fortress on Minorca, a position that had not required him to stir from his Buckinghamshire estate. By 1742, the General was reconciled to the prospect that his soldiering days were behind him. Then Europe plunged into war and the English Army was to be dispatched to Flanders. General Villiers intrigued and lobbied to be given a general officer’s appointment in Flanders and for his regiment to be selected for the army.
In April 1742, the Sky Blues occupied quarters across the county of Buckinghamshire, one of the companies, Captain Prideaux’s, in the small town of Marlow.
Chapter 1
The Buckinghamshire town of Marlow lies between the River Thames and the Chiltern Hills. A highway leads down to the river from Maidenhead on the Berkshire side, crosses by a ferry and becomes the high street. At the top of the town, the road winds away into the Chilterns, a remote and dangerous route to Oxford. A second road, running along the north bank of the river, from Hatfield to Reading, crosses the Oxford road in the middle of the town. In the 1740s, the town’s artisans and traders made their living serving the river traffic and the neighbouring estates, living in a clutter of houses and shops along the two intersecting roads. There were enough inns and drinking houses in Marlow to quarter a single company of foot. The largest of these inns, the Crown, was and still is situated at the cross roads.
On a Monday in April 1742, the carrier’s wagon rumbled into the stable yard of the Crown. The entrance passage to the yard was narrow and the wagon came near to crushing a soldier lounging against the wall, one Ebenezer Snaith, a private in Captain Prideaux’s company of Villiers’ Foot.
The driver shouted down to the soldier, “Hey you,” and threw him a package. "It's for your captain.”
Seeing the last of the passengers had climbed from the wagon, the carrier gathered his reins and drove out into the road, to begin the journey back to Aylesbury. Snaith buttoned his waistcoat and followed the wagon out of the yard, to take the letter to his officer.
He found Lieutenant Desmond standing at the door of the big house where he was billetted. Snaith raised his hat and said, “This here was brought by the carrier, your honour.” The lieutenant took the letter from him, broke the seal and unfolded the stiff paper.
The letter read….
The regiment having received orders for Flanders, Captain Prideaux’s company is to hold itself ready to march to Blackheath, to be reviewed by His Majesty and then taken on board ship at Gravesend for Flanders. In the meantime the company roll is to be taken by a commissioner for musters in the forenoon two days hence. The town constable is to be warned to attend the muster and the Justice of the Peace duly notified in accordance with the Mutiny Act…" It was signed by the lieutenant colonel of the regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Tobias Marchment.
“Snaith,” said Desmond. “Find Sergeant Tucking and ask him to attend me immediately.”
Snaith touched his hat and left, while Desmond hurried to his room, hunted out paper, pen, ink, wax and seal and wrote to Captain Prideaux: "Sir, I have today on your behalf received orders from the lieutenant colonel to hold the company ready to depart for Flanders. We are required to march to Blackheath to be reviewed by the King. May I make so bold as to urge that you return to us as soon as your health permits. I remain your humble servant, Josiah Desmond, lieutenant, the company of Lieutenant General Villiers' Regiment of Foot at Marlow."
James Prideaux, the captain of the company and the son of a wealthy City of London merchant, had for many months been enjoying society life at Bath, on a pretext of ill-health. The ensign of the company, George Stowe, a boy of fourteen and a grand nephew of the colonel, was finishing his schooling. Lieutenant Josiah Desmond was the only officer with the company and, in the absence of Prideaux, he exercised command.
The son of a valet to a nobleman in the North of England, Desmond had early in life resolved on a career as a soldier. The childless nobleman had taken an interest in the boy and purchased for him an ensigncy in Villiers’ Foot. Without this assistance, Desmond would have enlisted as a private in the regiment of dragoons quartered in the nearby town. When the lieutenancy in the company came up for sale, Desmond’s father, with a considerable effort and some help from his employer, had raised the money for its purchase. The whim of the nobleman had raised Desmond to the gentry and he played the part well. Aged twenty five years and of average height and build, he was athletic, spending much of his time walking or riding. Brown bushy hair saved him the expense of a wig. He had a thin face, dark thoughtful eyes and, although his accent was northern, he had a wide vocabulary and spoke well. His eight years as an officer had given him a quiet authority of manner.
With continued peace, it had seemed unlikely that Desmond would be enabled to purchase a captaincy, carrying with it the full command of a company; but the opportunity for unpurchased promotion might arise, now that the regiment was ordered for foreign servce.
Desmond returned to the garden with the sealed letter in his hand, to find Sergeant Tucking waiting for him.
Ben Tucking, the senior sergeant of the company, was a short, heavily built man. Receding hair had given him a broad forehead, which made his head seem unnaturally large. His eyes could produce an amused twinkle, or a steely gaze, depending on the need of the moment. In conversation he spoke in a quiet voice, tinged with a West Country accent. But when his military duties required, he could produce a bellow of quite unexpected volume. It was believed in the company that his voice had secured him his promotion to sergeant.
Tucking had joined the regiment while serving an apprenticeship to a cooper in his home county of Gloucestershire. A corporal of Villiers, passing through the village with a deserter and an escort, had spent an evening buying him ale in the local tavern and yarning to him of military life. The cooper was a violent, unpleasant man and on an impulse, Tucking took the oath and joined the regiment. For the twenty years of his service, he had lived in billets across the country, broken by garrison duty in Gibraltar and Ireland. Early in his service he had gained the confidence of his officers and been made corporal. Major Ireton, when captain of the company, had promoted him sergeant. The years had gone by and he was now the senior sergeant. During that time, he had completed his coopering apprenticeship. As with most of the members of the company, while quartered in Marlow, his life had been taken up largely with his civilian calling.
Tucking had comfortable quarters in the Crown. Five other soldiers of the company lived over the stables. The other sergeants, corporals and private men were billeted in the inns and lodging houses around the town. The inn-keepers received four pence a day for each man and, for that sum, were obliged to provide them with accommodation and four pints of small beer. The soldiers bought food from their pay, which the innkeepers cooked, or the soldiers were given access to the kitchen fires to cook for themselves.
The regiment had been billeted in towns and villages across the county of Buckinghamshire for two years. During this time, the ten companies had led existences largely separate from each other. The soldiers had done little military duty. The Board of Ordnance provided bullets and powder for only two discharges a year, which was insufficient for any useful training. Captain Prideaux’s company provided a corporal's picquet to keep the Wycombe Highway safe for travelers, but little happened on that road. Even the excitement of the Spanish War in 1740 had passed the regiment by. The lieutenant colonel’s order now signaled the end of this tranquil existence.
Tucking touched his hat.
“Ben,” said Desmond. “The regiment is warned for Flanders and we march out within the week. I have written to the captain, advising him to return.” He held up the letter. “In the meantime it is our duty to make the necessary preparations.”
“Aye sir,” said Tucking, squaring his shoulders in acknowledgement.
“If you please, Ben.”
Desmond paused. “If you please, sergeant,” he corrected himself. “Assemble the company at two this afternoon, on the green by the bridge, in marching order and with firelocks.”
“Yes sir,” said Tucking.
Over the past two years the company had mustered once a month, when Lieutenant Desmond gave out such pay as had been provided by the regiment’s agent and read the Articles of War to the men. On these occasions, the soldiers wore whatever dress they chose and none troubled to bring his musket. In all its aspects the company’s peaceful routine was now being turned on its head.
Soon after midday, Tucking and the two other sergeants, Joshua Whitebeard and Robert Rathbone, stood on the green, in full uniform and carrying the halberds that were the emblems of their rank.
Whitebeard was an unusual looking man, tall, muscular and gaunt, who said little, imposing his will on the soldiers by his physical presence. Soon after joining the army he had attended a meeting addressed by the itinerant preacher, John Whitfield. Whitebeard had been enthralled and had taken to preaching each Sunday on his own account. He had spoken with hesitation, until practice and religious conviction had brought him a powerful eloquence. By this date, he was addressing his audience for hours at a time, glaring balefully, as he quoted from the testaments, old and new. For his services, Whitebeard let down his long white hair, giving himself the appearance of one of the prophets whose books he propounded. A devoted band of soldiers and townspeople came each Sabbath, to hear his utterings and tremble at his messianic stare, convinced that on that one day of the week the usually laconic sergeant was possessed.
Robert Rathbone had been coachman to a wealthy London doctor, indulging in a servant’s usual petty dishonesty of stealing feed and carriage tack. He had finally gone too far and sold a pair of matching bay horses to cover a substantial gaming debt. His flight had just preceded the arrival of the constable with a warrant for his arrest. On the night of his escape, Rathbone lodged in a wayside inn, where he found himself in the company of a corporal’s picquet from the Sky Blues and enlisted as the easiest means of escape.
Rathbone had the swagger and chameleon personality of a gentleman’s servant. He could mix with officers or chaff the soldiers and was never at a loss in either world. His style, but above all his ability to recruit, had earned him a sergeant’s halberd within a year of enlisting.
That afternoon, the soldiers converged on the green from their billets, buckling cross belts and equipment and clutching their muskets, as the drummers beat for the muster. Numbers of local people walked with them, eager to see why the company, that until then had lived such a placid existence in their midst, was suddenly in such turmoil. The three corporals, Hazelwood, Groat and Lyle waited by the roadside, scrutinising the private soldiers as they approached, stopping some of them and adjusting their equipment.
At half past two, Lieutenant Desmond closed his watch with a snap and called Tucking to him. “Sergeant. Please put the men in ranks, so that we can ensure that each has his due equipment.”
Marching regiments of the time did little drill. Soldiers could not march in step and were not often required to arrange themselves in any particular order. Discipline in the army was brutal but rudimentary.
The three sergeants tried to form the company into lines by shouted direction, but had no success. The soldiers stood in a milling clump, intermingled with the townspeople. Those that listened to the orders did not understand what was required of them. Finally the exasperated sergeants formed the ranks by placing their halberds across the soldiers’ chests and pushing them into place. It was a purple faced and perspiring Tucking who finally indicated to his officer that the inspection might begin.
Desmond could see the rough formation the sergeants had achieved had only a fragile existence, and that some of the soldiers were already moving out of line. It was nevertheless an inspiring sight to see the whole company mustered, dressed in red coats with the skirts, cuffs and lapels of the regimental sky blue, the musket barrels and brass hilts of the hangers and bayonets gleaming in the sun and almost every man wearing a black, cocked hat.
On closer inspection it was apparent that many of the soldiers were scruffily turned out. Buttons were fastened haphazardly. One man was not wearing a regimental coat, just his waistcoat. Several wore their equipment wrongly assembled and two soldiers had their cross belts back to front, with the hanger and bayonet on the right side and the cartridge pouch on the left. All the soldiers handled their heavy muskets with the awkwardness of unfamiliarity and many of the weapons were dirty and showed signs of rust.
Above all, the company was under strength. There were only forty nine men, against an establishment of seventy five soldiers, drummers, corporals and sergeants. With the regiment ordered for foreign service, there was now a pressing need to bring the company to its proper complement and, with Captain Prideaux absent, it fell on Desmond to make up the shortfall. The prospect of a campaign in the Low Countries against the French and the popular enthusiasm for the Empress of Austria might be sufficient to raise the necessary recruits.
Desmond walked over to the man in the middle of the front rank. The soldier touched his hat.
“Eli. I wish to see that you have the equipment necessary for our departure for Flanders.”
Eli Wellbeloved smirked uneasily at Tucking who stood glowering by his officer. He had deliberately pushed this large, slow witted soldier into the rear rank, but Wellbeloved had somehow drifted to the front.
“Eli, you were issued with a bayonet and hanger. I do not see either in your belt.”
Eli grinned again and stared at his musket, fingering it with enormous calloused hands. He had been a soldier for a year, after being forcibly enlisted as a vagrant, and had spent the time working as a farm hand. He had fired his musket but once and had never worn the issued equipment, other than the cartridge pouch. “I be sorry sir,” he finally mumbled. Tucking sighed.
The soldiers nearby had moved out of their ranks and were listening with concern, as most of them had items missing. It was not easy to keep track of equipment in billets and there had not been enough time to find everything. Some men had sold kit to pay for food and drink. They looked at each other uneasily.
Desmond called to Tucking. “Sergeant. Are the men aware that the regiment is mustered for service in the Low Countries, to fight for the Empress of Austria?” He spoke loudly so that the whole company would hear him.
Tucking stood rigid with his halberd against his arm. “Sir, I believe they are aware,” he bellowed.
Desmond continued, “And, Sergeant, are they aware that the colonel has ordered that any soldier of this regiment who lacks his necessary equipment shall receive two hundred lashes at the halberds, from the drummers?”
“I believe they are, sir,” bawled Tucking.
Desmond paused. “I think we will resume the examination for equipment tomorrow.”
Tucking touched his halberd in acknowledgement.
“But now we will conduct the exercise, to ensure the soldiers are able to discharge their muskets in battle, Sergeant Tucking.”
Desmond moved to the side, to watch how the men conducted themselves, and the townspeople hurried out of the way.
Tucking called for the attention of the company, “Soldiers.. Shoulder your firelocks. Come along now… Come along…. Do you heed me.. Shoulder your firelocks..”
The corporals took up the cry. “Come now… shoulder your firelocks..”
Eventually all the soldiers had their muskets on the left shoulder and stood waiting.
“Heed now what you have learnt,” called Tucking, and began to call the sequence of orders for loading.
“Ground your arms.”
Each musket butt was lowered to the ground.
“Careful now with those firelocks. You’ll not get another,” yelled Tucking. “Take our your cartridge,” ….. “Prepare your cartridge.”
The soldiers carried their ammunition in a leather pouch that hung on the cross belt over the right rear hip. Each round, comprising the powder charge and a lead ball, was contained in a greased paper cartridge. On the order, the soldier took the corner of the cartridge in his teeth, ripped open the paper, to reveal the powder charge and the lead musket ball and took the ball into his mouth. One young soldier in his excitement swallowed the ball.
“Prepare your firelock…” “Open your pan.,” “Take your primer,” “Prime your pan.” The soldiers poured a small quantity of gunpowder into the priming pans and snapped the lids shut.
“Load your cartridges.”
The soldiers poured the powder from the paper containers into the barrel, pushed some of the paper in as a wad, and spat the ball into the muzzle on top.
“Take out your ramrods and ram your charge.”
With vigorous thrusts, the soldiers shoved their ramrods down the musket barrels, pressing the ball and powder down to the end, before returning the rod to its cradle.
“Cock your locks.”
Each soldier, except those who had fallen behind in the sequence of movements, took up his musket and pulled back the hammer, producing a chorus of clicks.
“Present.”
The soldiers brought their weapons to the shoulder, aiming out across the river. Desmond peered into the wood on the far bank, but saw nobody there.
“Fire,” He shouted. There was a staccato of explosions and a belch of powder smoke that briefly hid the company, before the cloud rolled away to engulf part of the watching crowd, which was convulsed with coughing. The discharges continued over a quarter of a minute, as the slower soldiers presented and fired. Musket balls spattered among the trees on the far side of the river and splashed into the water. Several soldiers, confused in the sequence of orders, had left their ramrods in the barrels. The rods arched through the air and stuck in the ground in front of the company.
The townspeople burst into a tumult of surprise and excitement. A distant howl of alarm came from the woods across the river, accompanied by hysterical lowing and the sound of cattle crashing about in the undergrowth.
The soldiers looked at each other in dazed surprise. Few had taken part in a company volley and they had not realized what an effect such a fire could produce. Several men had put too much powder in the priming pan and suffered flash burns to their faces. There was an excited babble of conversation.
Tucking shouted, “Recover your firelocks,” and the soldiers returned their muskets to the shoulder.
Desmond called to Tucking, “Dismiss the men from muster, Sergeant Tucking, but tell them that any man lacking equipment will be left behind when the regiment marches. I have a mind this will move them more than the threat of the lash.”
“I believe you are right sir,” said Tucking.
“We have the roll muster the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, tell off the corporals to go through the exercise, until every man is fluent.”
The soldiers dispersed into the crowd, which was now buzzing with excitement, and made their way back to their billets, many of them to search for missing pieces of equipment. Desmond walked back to his quarter, raising his hat at intervals to the more prominent citizens, as the townspeople passed him compliments on the performance of his soldiers.
Later that day, the drummers beat through the town, a warning that the company was to leave and that the townspeople should wind up any business affairs they had with the soldiers. Various groups existed in the company, based on long standing friendships or just accidents of quartering. That evening these groups gathered in their haunts, to discuss the company’s departure for Flanders.
The two drummers ended their noisy tour at the Clayton Arms, where they knew they would find the most prominent of these groups, playing cards. Known as the Old Soldiers, they were Edward “Mad Ned” Broadbent, James Peabody, Shem Bottomley and Jacob Gussett. They played cards most evenings in the Clayton Arms, where they were quartered and if they had the money, drank hot gin and water or beer. The innkeeper, who was Peabody’s brother, kept a small holding at the top of the hill and the Old Soldiers helped him tend it.
Mad Ned had been a parson, until his unfrocking. He had been drunk in his pulpit once too often, the final occasion being when the bishop unexpectedly called. Ned had sunk through descending layers of society, until a recruiting party from Villiers’ Foot swept him up. Life in the army suited him. He was looked upon as the father of the company and largely left to his own devices. The only time the other soldiers actively avoided him was when he had money enough to become combatively drunk.
James Peabody was a small fiery man with a shock of graying hair and a straggling mariner’s moustache, which strictly was not permitted. Peabody had been at sea for his early years. On his final return to England, he had found it hard to secure a land job and had signed on with the Sky Blues. He was paid four shillings a week, fed and clothed at His Majesty’s expense and spent his days working on his brother’s small holding.
Shem Bottomley, a tailor’s apprentice in a Northamptonshire town, had enlisted to avoid arrest after assaulting his principal. Gussett had been clerk to an attorney, until he was caught and condemned to hard labour for defrauding his master. He had accepted with alacrity the offer from the bench to join the army, as an alternative to his sentence.
Enlistment in His Majesty’s service was for life or until discharge “services no longer required”. The exigencies of the service might throw these soldiers into battle, or draft them to some remote unhealthy colony, but for the past few years they had lived an undemanding existence in this rural country town. None of them knew what would happen to them or cared much, taking life as it came.
The drummers, Billy Stote and Nat Squirrel, were the youngest members of the company and a contrast in appearance and personality. Stote, tall and thin with blonde hair that fell over his eyes when not wearing his mitre cap, had a sharp wit. Squirrel, more heavily built with dark curly hair, was shorter and quieter. The two were a rarity in the army, having enlisted through choice, uninfluenced by misfortune and they had an unusual enthusiasm for their profession. There was rarely a moment when the two young drummers were not beating with their sticks on any available surface, or Squirrel playing his fife to Stote’s drumming accompaniment.
The drummers unhooked their instruments, bought mugs of ale, and joined the “Old Soldiers”.
“Move over there. Make way for the young’uns,” called Stote, as he pushed onto the bench next to Peabody.
Throughout the town, groups of soldiers discussed the company’s summons to war. While they had been comfortable in Marlow, most were excited by the prospect of service abroad. It was the unanimous view that, “Fighting is what we joined for and fighting is what we’ll do.”
Unexpectedly, it was the lieutenant colonel who came on the Thursday morning to inspect the company. The regular annual musters had been conducted by the deputy commissioner of musters for the area. An indolent civilian, the deputy commissioner had rarely found fault, as he checked the company’s roll against the men present and the certificates of the sick signed by the town surgeon. The town constable was required to attend and certify that all the men mustered or accounted for, were in fact soldiers enlisted in the company. A justice of the peace then examined the roll and countersigned the constable’s certificate.
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment had fought as a lieutenant against the Jacobite rebels in 1715 and since then had held the ranks of captain, major and finally lieutenant colonel in the regiment. He had lost his left eye to a blow from a highlander’s broadsword in the ’15 and wore a patch over the empty socket.
Over the previous weeks, Marchment had inspected all the companies to assess the regiment’s strength and readiness for war, riding considerable distances to each quartering town. He might have expected the assistance of the third field officer, Major Ireton, but the major was the Member of Parliament for a borough in Cheshire and his time was wholly taken up with his parliamentary duties and his estates. In due course, no doubt, he would join the regiment.
In some of the companies, Marchment found none of the officers present and the soldiers under the command of a sergeant. Some officers had been away from the regiment for months, attending to their private business. Several of the young ensigns had never been seen.
The absence of the junior officers had long irked the lieutenant colonel. He had written letters ordering them to return, but without being able to take action to back his demands, as the authorities were not prepared to discipline officers defaulting in this way. A commission was the private property of the holder, not to be withdrawn or interfered with other than in the most extreme of circumstances. Mere non-attendance had not been a sufficient reason to deprive an officer of his commission. But now, with the regiment ordered abroad and requiring its full establishment, Marchment was able to write to his absent officers, that unless they returned, they would be reported to His Majesty and risk losing their commissions without compensation.
Marchment and Desmond strode down the High Street and onto the Green, where the company was assembling, the colonel’s birdlike clerk hurrying behind them. The sergeants respectfully touched their hats to the lieutenant colonel. “Good day to you Sergeant Tucking,” he said and then, “Come now let us proceed. Where is the constable?”
“He will be along presently, sir,” said Tucking.
“Then we will begin without him. Perkins, give me the roll.” Marchment took the document from his clerk and scanned the list of names. Two soldiers came up with a table and a stool. The clerk put out a well of ink and his papers and perched on the stool, pen poised. Marchment handed the roll back and said, “Begin the muster.”
As each soldier was called forward, the lieutenant colonel questioned him briefly and his name was ticked by the clerk. At the fifth man, Marchment said to Desmond, “Tell me honestly, this is a townsman.”
Desmond looked into his single piercing eye and said, “Yes sir.”
The lieutenant colonel waved the man aside.
“This muster is to check that the company is ready for war,” he said. “Remove all the townsmen now please.”
Desmond nodded to Tucking. The roll contained several names of soldiers who had died or were simply invented. For the musters, local civilians were paid to attend in uniform coats, adopting the identities of these men. Most of the soldiers certified as sick did not exist. By these manipulations, a company of fifty soldiers was made to appear as seventy and the senior officers of the regiment pocketed the extra pay.
The deputy commissioner for musters regularly took a guinea bribe from the agent of the regiment to wink at these deceptions. The town constable received a shilling from Desmond and the various civilians and the local surgeon took a few pence for their pains. The same system was in operation for every company and troop in the army.
Desmond was aware of the penalties for false mustering, but he merely carried out the directions of his superiors, who were the ones who profited. It was apparent that the lieutenant colonel was not now prepared to nod at the system, wanting an efficient regiment, at full strength.
Marchment walked Desmond to the riverbank and back. When they returned, the company was smaller by fifteen men and Perkins had drawn a line through most of the list of sick.
“Now we can get to business,” said Marchment.
Once the muster was complete and the lieutenant colonel was about to leave, he said, “You have much work to do. The company is sadly lacking in men. I will see you at Colnbrook, where the regiment assembles next week. Good day to you.”
Marchment rode away with his clerk, leaving the young lieutenant ruefully considering his comments. After some reflection, Desmond called to Sergeant Rathbone, who was conversing with a group of town women. Rathbone doffed his hat to the women and walked over to his officer.
“Sergeant … We need to bring the company to its full complement. It is my request that you form a recruiting party and attend the Henley Fair on Saturday.”
“As you wish sir.” Rathbone was not always an amenable subordinate. Often he could not be found, particularly when there was some wearisome duty to be performed, turning up later with a plausible, but not wholly satisfactory excuse. To Desmond’s surprise, Rathbone accepted the projected recruiting party with apparent enthusiasm. The fact was that the dispatch of the regiment to Flanders was stirring the sergeant’s ambition.
Early on the Saturday morning, Rathbone, Corporal Hazelwood, Stote, Squirrel and a file of private soldiers set off for Henley, dressed in full regimentals and with bayonets fixed on their muskets. Rathbone had selected the smartest in the company for the duty. If they could not pick up a fistful of men, Rathbone considered, he was no longer the deftest recruiter in His Majesty’s marching regiments.
The recruiting picquet marched into Henley town square, drum and fife playing, and halted at an ale house, where numbers of agricultural workers were drinking. The soldiers stacked their firelocks and Stote and Squirrel played rousing tunes, while Rathbone entered the crowded taproom.
“Ale for my men, host,” he called.
“Certainly captain and where are you from?” responded the inn-keeper, an old acquaintance of Rathbone.
“We are Major General Sir Ambrose Villiers’ Regiment of Foot, landlord, renowned throughout the army as Villiers’ Sky Blues.”
Rathbone ensured that his voice carried across the noisy room.
“And whither are you bound, Captain?” enquired the inn-keeper.
“We are marching to join our regiment at Colnbrook, and then off to the Low Countries to fight for the Empress of Austria.”
Drinkers turned to look at Rathbone and those who had not caught his words, enquired of their neighbours. The sergeant held the stage.
He raised his voice still further.
“Our regiment has been selected by his Majesty to lead his army in Flanders. Selected from all his fifty regiments of foot we were, along with only one or two others, in such high esteem does the King hold his Sky Blues.”
There was a loud mutter of appreciation and much nodding of heads. This was a regiment actually going to war, not hanging around towns and villages, sponging on the civilian population, as seemed to be the army’s usual existence.
“And are you fully recruited, captain?” enquired the inn-keeper, who knew the sergeant would be good for many drinks and a six pence tip at the end of a successful day.
“Oh aye,” said Rathbone emphatically. “Our regiment is so highly esteemed, the colonel holds a list of gentlemen seeking to join us. Some wait five years or more to be taken into the Sky Blues.”
“What if any of these young men here would wish to go to the Low Countries to fight for Maria Theresa of Austria, captain?” asked the inn-keeper, gesturing at the listening drinkers.
“Ah, he will have to go with a lesser regiment, landlord. He will not be entrusted with the expeditions and engagements the “Sky Blues” will undertake and he may not even get to the Low Countries, but he will have joined a noble service just the same.”
Rathbone held his mug up to the rabble of half-drunken countrymen.
“Health sirs and confusion to the French. Think of this toast when you read of our victories, home comfortable abed, as the noble Henry the fifth says in the bard’s great play.”
Stote and Squirrel broke into the “Grenadier’s March”, as a murmur of admiration rumbled through the taproom. Several yokels gathered around Rathbone.
“I’ve thought to go for a soldier, captain,” said one young farm hand, “and see a foreign land.”
“It’s a good life,” said Rathbone. “Clothing, fair officers and sergeants. Enough to eat, good pay and little hard grind. And now glory and the beautiful women of Flanders.”
“But you’re not taking recruits, captain?” enquired another man.
Corporal Hazelwood pushed his way over to Rathbone. “Er, captain. Do you not recollect that a draft of our regiment was sent yesterday to join the King’s Horse Guards as gentlemen privates and that we wants for two soldiers to march on Monday with full strength.”
“Blame me, corporal,” said Rathbone. “You’re right. I am of a mind that our company has vacancies for two privates. They won’t last, mind you, for the colonel will feel bound to satisfy gentlemen from his list. I believe the Duke of Oxford’s youngest son is wanting to join the regiment.”
“Could I take one of them vacancies?” muttered the farm hand urgently to Rathbone.
At the end of the fair, Rathbone took twenty recruits before the magistrate to be sworn. They were only just sober enough to remain upright, three of them held by Rathbone and Hazelwood. As dark fell, the party marched out of Henley, singing loudly to the accompaniment of drum and fife and headed for their new calling.
On the Sunday, Desmond called on the town constable to request the requisition of a wagon for the company’s baggage. The Army had no transport of its own and the local constable was required by the Mutiny Act to requisition vehicles from local farmers or traders, to carry army baggage. The constable in the next town had the responsibility of requisitioning wagons for the following day, with the arrangement repeated throughout the journey.
Slurry, a local farmer, against whom the Marlow constable had a grudge, was directed to provide a vehicle. He was not unduly put out, as his wagon and horses were not required for other work. There was the statutory fee and the outing would give the boy, Jethro junior, the opportunity to practice his driving.
One week to the day after the arrival of the lieutenant colonel’s letter, the company mustered at first light to march out. The town cocks crowed with alarm, as the corporals pounded on the doors of the soldiers’ quarters and the drummers beat up and down the high street. The townspeople, roused by the racket, emerged from their houses to see the company off. Lieutenant Desmond stood outside the Crown, the point of muster, watching as the men hurried in from the side streets, to be pushed into ranks by the sergeants and ticked off on Tucking’s register. By six o’clock the company had assembled.
Desmond called Tucking to him. “Sergeant, we march to Stoke Poges today and then to Colnbrook, where we meet with the other companies of the regiment.” He gestured at the group of recruits. “Sergeant Rathbone has done a steady job. The company is at full strength, near as can be, but we must get them into regimental coats.”
“The quartermaster has a stock of clothing that will require little alteration,” said Tucking. “I have equipment for them and it will be given to them after the day’s march.”
The annual issue of uniform coats was not due until June, the anniversary of the King’s accession. Until then, the recruits would have to make do in old coats and without waistcoats.
Minutes later, Jethro junior drove his farm wagon into the High Street. Before setting off he had cursorily cleaned out the remains of the manure that had been its last load. The company’s baggage was loaded onto the wagon, together with five soldiers too ill to march, one with a broken leg and the others with fevers, and four of the soldiers’ wives who were nursing babies.
After Tucking had conducted a final roll call, Desmond raised his hat to the magistrate and his family, who were standing at the cross roads, and gave the command to march. Stote and Squirrel, playing drum and fife, broke into the “Grenadier’s March”, the townspeople cheered and clapped and the company marched down to the ferry, to cross the river and climb the hill beyond, away to war.
At the top of the hill, Desmond reined in his horse and looked back at his soldiers, straggling up behind him, and the view over the valley beyond. The river, flanked by hedges and fields, snaked through the town and into the distance. The area had been their home for two years, but it was already a receding memory and would be ousted from the company’s recollection by new experiences and the death or discharge of the soldiers who had lived there.
The march to Stoke Poges was fifteen miles. Most of the company had been working as agricultural labourers and were fit enough, but there were some for whom the distance was a trial. Desmond found it necessary to halt every hour, to enable the slower soldiers to catch up, and the muskets of the weaker men were loaded onto the wagon. The inadequacies of the issued equipment began to emerge. There were no water containers, so the soldiers could only drink when they passed a well or pump. The army shoes were badly made and did not fit. The older soldiers had oversewn the seams, but those who had not taken this precaution found their shoes began to come apart, leaving the wearer to march barefoot for the rest of the day.
As the company topped the final hill, Desmond directed Corporal Hazelwood to take his horse, ride on into the village and seek out quarters for the night. Desmond stood by the track in the evening light and watched his soldiers as they streamed past him, spirits reviving at the thought of an end to the march, a meal and a rest. He called out to them as they passed and they chaffed him back.
The company’s accommodation in Stoke Poges was a barn at the back of the village’s only inn. The inn keeper shooed out a collection of ducks and chickens, shutting them away in a shed, and stood against the door as the soldiers filed into the barn. A troop of dragoons quartered on him the week before had left with several of his fowls.
The next morning the soldiers gathered in the yard, feeling the stiffness from the previous day’s march. Tucking approached his lieutenant as he stood outside the inn, adjusting his horse’s bridle.
“Mister Desmond, sir, I regret to tell you that two of the newly recruited soldiers have deserted; Sage and Cruttwell.”
Desmond cursed. “When did they go?”
“During the night. I saw them in the inn last evening, but they were not in the barn this morning. I have had Corporal Lyle look around the village and there is no sign of them. A villager says he saw two of our soldiers going up the hill back the way we came, yesterday at around dawn.”
“Sergeant Tucking, start the company on its march. I will have to write to the magistrates at Marlow and Henley to report the desertion. No doubt they will be going home and can be detained there.”
The company mustered on the village green and set off towards Colnbrook with Tucking in charge. The baggage, wives and sick soldiers were this time accommodated in two wagons requisitioned from the village.
An hour later, having written the letters and dispatched them, Desmond mounted his horse and rode out of Stoke Poges after the company. He came to the edge of the heath land that stretches across South Eastern Buckinghamshire and into Middlesex as far as Hounslow, where the track becomes sandy instead of clay.
Some two hundred yards in front of him a coach stood in the road. As Desmond approached, he saw a mounted figure at the door of the coach leaning in through the window. The area was notorious for robbers and highwaymen, with the companies of foot at Hounslow frequently providing picquets to escort travelers across the worst part of the heath. This coach seemed to be unprotected.
Desmond spurred his horse to a canter and took one of the pistols from the holster at the front of his saddle. They were good weapons that his father’s employer had given him on receipt of his commission into the Army. Desmond cocked the pistol and holding it by his side spurred the horse on.
Desmond was fifty yards from the coach when the horseman heard the thudding hooves and looked up. Desmond raised his arm to show the pistol. There was no prospect of an effective shot from the back of his cantering horse, but the highwayman saw the firearm and the red coat and pulling his horse off the track rode straight off across country at a hard gallop.
Desmond rode up to the coach. The coachman was slumped against the side of his box holding his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers. Desmond looked in through the window of the coach and saw a plump elderly gentleman in a general officer’s uniform and a woman. Desmond raised his hat and enquired, “Are you all right sir?”
The general appeared at the window. “Yes damn me,” he exclaimed. “I was searching for my pistol to shoot the rogue when you frightened him off. If it had not been for your interference I would have dispatched him.”
“I hope I was of some service sir.”
The woman pushed the old man aside and spoke to Desmond. “Of course you have been of service. You have rescued us from certain robbery and perhaps worse. My husband is talking nonsense. Thank you sir.”
The woman rounded on her husband. “You know very well that your pistols are in the trunk on the rack. Now ask this gallant officer his name and thank him properly.”
The general appeared to consider a refusal and then came back to the window. “Damn me, the lady is quite right. You have rescued us from a tight spot. Thankee, thankee. Now what is your name?”
“Josiah Desmond, sir, lieutenant in Major General Villiers’ Regiment of Foot.”
“Good heavens. You are one of my own officers. I am General Villiers.”
The General flung open the door of the coach and jumped to the sandy track, with considerable agility, considering his age and build.
“Before we go any further let us see to Japheth. The villain fired a shot at him when stopping the coach.”
General Villiers was a short rotund man in his late sixties. He had a round expressive face which the stress of the moment had turned a bright red. Desmond had not met him before, but it seemed to him that his colonel entirely merited his reputation for excitability.
They helped the coachman from the box and put him inside with Lady Villiers. “Come let us proceed to Colnbrook,” said the general. He climbed onto the box and took the reins of the coach horses. Unused to driving, the general found it took much shouting and swearing. Desmond rode by the lead pair in an effort to assist.
During the previous five years Major General Sir Ambrose Villiers had lived on his estate, seeing little of his regiment, which he had left in the hands of the lieutenant colonel. For the last three years that had been Marchment. When in 1740 it was decided to send a fleet and an army to fight the Spanish in the Caribbean, the general had conspired to ensure that his regiment was not included, sensing that any force sent to the unhealthy Caribbean faced disaster and that better things were to be enjoyed in Europe.
The general had been proved right. Nine out of every ten soldiers and marines dispatched to the war had died of yellow fever in the harbour outside the Spanish colonial fortress of Cartagena and his regiment had now been selected as part of the Flanders army. In several instances the ordering of a regiment to Flanders had been accompanied by the appointment of its colonel as a general officer with the Army. General Villiers had not as yet secured one of these appointments, but he was still hopeful and had resolved to take personal command of his regiment to keep himself in the royal eye.
After a quarter hour of driving, red coated figures came into sight ahead. As the coach came up to the rear of the company, the soldiers moved to the side of the track to let it pass. Leading was the compact figure of Sergeant Tucking and in front of him were the two requisitioned wagons. It seemed to Desmond that the company was marching in better order than on the first day.
Then in front of the wagons Desmond saw another company of Sky Blues. General Villiers drove on up the road, shouting “Make way there”, forcing the second company to the side of the road. Two mounted officers rode at the head. General Villiers stopped the coach and climbed down from the box, as soldiers hurried forward to take the horses.
The word passed down the two companies that the portly gentlemen driving the coach was the colonel of the regiment. Few of the soldiers knew who the colonel might be. The only officers they encountered were the captains, lieutenants and ensigns of their companies and their day to day existence was directed by sergeants and corporals. Colonels and generals were part of a lofty world of privilege that the common soldier rarely encountered. There was interest and some surprise that the general should be driving his own vehicle, perhaps he was much poorer than his appearance and rank suggested.
The mounted officers, Captain Curzon, the commander of the company from Wycombe, and Major Ireton, raised their hats to General Villiers.
“Good morning sir. We had not expected to see you before Colnbrook,” said the captain.
“Good day to you Captain Curzon…..Major Ireton,” replied the general. He waved at Desmond. “This young officer has just rescued Lady Villiers from highway robbery.” Speaking volubly and excitedly the general described the incident. “…. And I was just about to discharge my pistols into the man’s head when young Desmond, here, frightened him off. Pity. They are new pistols and it would have been their first blood. Still one must think of the lady.”
With this prompt, the two officers rode over to the coach, raised their hats and bowed to the general’s wife until General Villiers interrupted them, saying, “Now get me a coachman and let’s be off. I will thank you to travel with me, Ireton, so that we may talk of the regiment. There is much to be done.”
A soldier was found with experience of driving and drafted into the general’s service. Desmond noted with satisfaction that the soldier was from the other company. He had lost two soldiers from desertion and could ill afford to lose another.
Major Ireton traveled with the general and his wife; a corporal and two soldiers on the roof of the coach as escort. They set off at a rattling pace, reaching Colnbrook a good hour before the two marching companies.
Chapter 2
The direction of the Secretary at War was that Major General Villiers’ Regiment of Foot concentrate at Colnbrook in the county of Middlesex, before marching to Blackheath, for His Majesty’s review, and then to Gravesend in the Thames estuary to take ship for Flanders. Colnbrook was a straggling county town built along the Bath Road, a highway that, in spite of its grandiose name, was no more than a muddy, rutted track. The town boasted two substantial coaching inns, the Bear and the King’s Head, both used by travelers between London and Bath for an overnight stop or just a change of horses.
Prideaux’s and Curzon’s were the first Sky Blues to arrive. The two companies marched into the town and halted at the Bear Inn. Curzon and Ireton dismounted and handed their horses to their soldier servants. They were joined by the lieutenant and ensign from Curzon’s company who had been marching on foot and the group of officers stood by the road side waiting for Prideaux’s to disperse and Desmond to dismount and join them.
“You have made a firm friend of the colonel, Desmond,” the major said.
Curzon, a tall bulky man, clapped Desmond on the shoulder.
“Come, let us dine.”
The five officers made their way into the Bear.
The soldiers of the two companies milled around in the road waiting to see what arrangements had been made for them. Tucking walked over to the senior sergeant of Curzon’s, Sergeant Threadgold, and the two sergeants shook hands.
“How do you do, Joe?” enquired Tucking.
“Fair to middling,” Threadgold replied. It was his stock answer to the formal greeting and he was known in the regiment as “Fair to middling”.
The two sergeants discussed the arrangements for quartering.
“The officers are in the Bear,” said Threadgold. “That leaves the King’s Head. The sergeants take the back taproom and live upstairs. The corporals and soldiers use the main taproom and quarter in the town.”
“You know Colnbrook then, Joe?”
“Quartered here in ’18 when the regiment came south,” said Threadgold laconically.
Rathbone joined the two senior sergeants.
“I’ll be finding the constable for the men’s quarters, eh Ben?” said Rathbone.
“Yes indeed,” said Tucking. He looked at the older man and said, “May I introduce one of my sergeants, Joe?”
Threadgold nodded.
“Robert Rathbone,” said Tucking. “Sergeant Threadgold, the senior sergeant in the regiment.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Threadgold,” said Rathbone. Threadgold nodded again and shook Rathbone’s hand, following which he turned away and walked up the road towards the King’s Head.
“Cheery soul,” said Rathbone.
“Don’t you worry about him,” said Tucking. “He’s all right. He just doesn’t say much.”
Rathbone, Tucking and one of the sergeants from Curzon’s, named Erasmus, went in search of the constable and spent the rest of the evening allocating quarters to the soldiers of the two companies. There were still twenty men unplaced when the constable said, “That’s it. There are no more liquor houses for them to go in.”
“We’ll put them in the barn at the King’s Head and place them in the morning,” said Erasmus.
“There are eight more companies to come,” said Rathbone. “Where are they going to go?”
“Eight companies? six hundred men?” exclaimed the constable. He put his hat on and walked off up the road, muttering to himself.
“The whole lot will have to camp on the heath, outside the town,” said Tucking.
Two more companies arrived the next day. The officers from these companies moved into the Bear, the sergeants into the King’s Head and a camp was set up for the corporals and men. Colnbrook was now filled with soldiers in the red coat and sky blue facings of Villiers’. The inhabitants had not seen so many soldiers in the town for a generation and most of the soldiers had not before seen so many members of their own regiment. Over the previous two years, Curzon’s company had been billeted at Wycombe, five miles from Prideaux’s at Marlow. The other two companies had been at Risborough and Thame, a good half day’s journey either from Wycombe or Marlow.
The soldiers gathered in the streets and talked either among themselves or to the men from these other companies. Slowly suspicions were shed and friendships formed. It was the beginning of a regimental esprit de corps.
The sergeants, quartered in the King’s Head, spent the evening discussing the regiment, over hot gin and water. The corporals, who felt it was they who ran their companies, did the same in the main parlour. The soldiers gathered in the taproom and the drinking houses and talked of the sergeants and corporals. Many were astounded to learn that less than half the Sky Blues were assembled at Colnbrook and that six further companies were on the march to join them.
Captain Curzon was the son of a Derbyshire gentleman farmer. While only a year or two older than Desmond, his greater wealth had enabled him to purchase a captaincy. With his size and loud laugh, he was one of the dominant personalities among the officers. His lieutenant had recently bought in from a marine regiment, raised for the expedition to the West Indies. Ill health had prevented him from sailing with the expedition in 1740. His illness had probably saved his life, as most of the force had died from yellow fever in the Caribbean. Curzon’s ensign, James Browne, a tall willowy youth aged sixteen, had come straight from school, with the intention of enjoying his new freedom in every way possible.
The third company was commanded by Captain Anstruther, the youngest son of a Lowland Scottish landowner. Anstruther had purchased his company in Villiers’ after service as a lieutenant in the Royal Regiment. Captain Prendergast, a curious looking man of undistinguished height, with a round pink face and protruding eyes, commanded the fourth.
Just as the barriers had come down between the soldiers of the different companies, their officers were beginning friendships necessary for the regiment to function at the higher level.
The next day the grenadiers marched in from their quarters in Buckingham, accompanied by the lieutenant colonel. The other soldiers turned out to see the regiment’s senior company. The grenadiers wore mitre caps, not the three cornered headgear of the “hat” companies, and were entitled to stand on the right flank of the regiment at muster and in battle. They had the colonel as their company commander, although day to day command was exercised by the captain lieutenant. There was as rigid a hierarchy among the companies of a regiment as there was between regiments. The second and third companies had the lieutenant colonel and major as their commanders and ranked accordingly. The remaining companies took their rank from the seniority of the captains who commanded them.
It quickly became clear that the soldiers of the grenadier company considered the rest of the regiment should defer to them. On the evening of their arrival, a group of grenadiers pushed into the taproom of the King’s Head, led by a burly corporal named Grimsdyke. The bar was crowded with soldiers, with a sprinkling of local civilians. Grimsdyke and his fellows made their way through the room, pushing hat company men out of the way. Grimsdyke stopped at the table where Hazelwood was playing dice and drinking gin and water with Brutus Carter and Grissell. A grin spread over the corporal’s face. “Hazelwood, you still in the regiment?” he enquired, while the other grenadiers gathered around him.
Hazelwood rolled the dice without looking up, saying, “Grimsdyke. You still out of prison?”
Corporal Grimsdyke folded his arms. “Hazelwood. The grenadier company is now with the regiment. The right of the line is our station at the muster and the table by the fire our place in the taproom.”
“Very pleased we are to hear it,” said Hazelwood keeping his eyes on the dice. “You can have the right of the line any time you like and we should be done with the table around midnight.”
Grimsdyke took the back of Hazelwood’s chair and heaved it over, throwing the Prideaux’s corporal to the floor. Hazelwood grabbed a stool and hurled it at the grenadier. Grimsdyke drew his hanger. The Prideaux’s around the bar drew their weapons, closed in on the grenadiers, and a savage brawl broke out. More grenadiers arrived and plunged into the fighting. The other hat company soldiers who joined in, sided with Prideaux’s.
Half an hour later, the grenadiers escaped from the taproom and hurried up the road, while the hat companies turned the night into an impromptu celebration, lasting until the drummers beat tattoo.
The next morning, Corporal Grimsdyke showed two severely blackened eyes at his company’s muster and had difficulty explaining to his sergeant the rents in his uniform coat. Ten soldiers in the various companies had moderately severe gashes from hanger cuts. Curiously the officers heard nothing of what had happened, while Tucking and Threadgold merely nodded to themselves.
Even in ordinary times Colnbrook was a busy place. In the spring of 1743, with the army assembling for Flanders, horse, dragoons and foot marched through the town every day, on their way to embark from the Thames ports.
The troops passing through all wore the characteristic red coats of the English Army, except the Royal Regiment of Horse, known as the “Blues”, and the Royal Artillery, who wore blue coats, and each corps was distinguished by its facing colour. The Sky Blues gathered in the streets and watched them march through, calling out comments to them. The units returned the chaff they received from the Villiers’ soldiers, speaking in accents from every part of the British Isles. In some cases the Sky Blues just shrugged, having understood nothing of what was said to them.
On one day several troops of the Royal North British Dragoons rode through the town, mounted on grey horses and wearing mitre caps. A Villiers’ grenadier commented, “I don’t know how they keep them blamed things on their heads, bouncing around on a horse. It’s difficult enough when you are on your own two feet.”
The next day Colonel Newsome Peers’ Royal Welch Fusiliers marched into Colnbrook, heading towards London. The whole regiment wore mitre caps and most of the soldiers spoke only Welsh. They stopped for an hour and mingled with the intrigued Sky Blues. Several friendships were struck, in spite of the language barrier, to be renewed and continued whenever the two regiments met.
Tucking commented, “Now that’s a good regiment. Mind you they only have two names between the lot of them. Think of it, having a company where every soldier is called either Jones or Davies. The sergeants know who’s who, but the officers have a hell of a time sorting them out.”
A half hour after the Welch Fusiliers marched out, a troop of dragoons rode up to the Bear, leading two men on foot, their arms tied. The officer sent his sergeant over to Tucking.
“You Villiers’ Sky Blues?” enquired the dragoon.
“Yes indeed, sergeant. Good day to you,” said Tucking.
“Good day.” The dragoon nodded at the pinioned men. “Two of your soldiers we’ve brought on the order of the magistrate at Henley.”
“I recognise them,” said Tucking. “I’ll fetch my officer.”
Tucking hurried over to the inn, where he found Desmond.
“Sir. The dragoons have brought in our two deserters.”
Desmond and Tucking went out into the street, where they found the dragoons had dismounted and were watering their horses from the main town trough, the younger troopers filling it with buckets from the nearby well. The captain was leaning against a garden wall, drinking from a flask, which he was sharing with his lieutenant and cornet. The two deserters sat on the ground, cowed and exhausted from their hurried march, while a dragoon stood over them, pistol in hand.
Desmond approached the troop officer and raised his hat. “Sir, I believe you have two of my men.”
The officer looked up. “Indeed. The magistrate requested that we bring them to you. I will be well pleased to be rid of them. They have slowed us down.”
“I thank you for your trouble.”
The officer nodded. “I would be obliged if you would write to the clerk to the justices, that they have been delivered to you.”
“Most certainly sir. And of what regiment are you?”
“Major General Humphrey Bland’s King’s Own Dragoons. I am Captain Radlett.”
“Thank you again, Captain.”
Tucking came up with a corporal and a file of soldiers. They grabbed the two deserters and dragged them to their feet.
“Can I invite you and your officers to dine with us in our mess here, Captain Radlett?” Desmond enquired of the dragoon captain.
“Thank you, but no. My troop is quartered at Hayes tonight and you know how there is a devil of a row if we fail to keep to our route.”
The dragoons had finished watering their horses and were forming up in the road. The captain nodded to Desmond and taking his horse’s reins from a dragoon, mounted and rode off down the highway, followed by his troop.
Desmond said to Tucking, “Take them to the guard house and put them in irons.”
Desertion was a major problem throughout the Army, particularly when regiments were on the move, and non commissioned officers who left men unsupervised, thereby giving them the opportunity to desert, were liable to punishment. When a deserter was caught, regimental authorities seized the opportunity to inflict heavy punishment, in the hope of discouraging other would be absconders.
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment, hearing that Prideaux’s deserters had been recovered, ordered an immediate trial and the most draconian of sentences.
A regimental court martial was convened for the following morning, in the main hall of the King’s Head. The officers assigned to the board, Major Ireton, Captain Curzon, Lieutenant Pennefeather, the captain lieutenant of the grenadier company, and three lieutenants took their seats behind the dining table which had been dragged to one end of the room. Perkins, the lieutenant colonel’s clerk, was present to record the proceedings and Sergeant Rathbone acted as the court orderly.
Major Ireton looked to see that all was ready and said, “Bring in the prisoners, sergeant.”
Rathbone threw open the door and Sage and Cruttwell were marched into the room escorted by a picquet under Corporal Hazelwood. The two men were dressed in regimental coats, britches, shoes and stockings. They were bare headed and wore no equipment. Sage was a thin, worried looking man, Cruttwell short and heavily built.
“Bring in Sergeant Tucking,” ordered the major.
Tucking came into the room, raised his hat to the board and walked over to the table.
“Give your evidence sergeant,” said Major Ireton.
“Sir,” said Tucking. “I am the senior sergeant of Captain Prideaux’s company of this regiment. I was present on the twelfth day of April this year, when these two men, Thomas Sage and Charles Cruttwell, were attested as soldiers before the magistrate in Marlow. Since then they have each received pay and served in Captain Prideaux’s company. On Monday last, the company marched from quarters in Marlow to Stoke Poges. That evening these two men were at their duty. The next morning they were absent from the company muster. I did not see them again until yesterday, when they were brought in arrest to Colnbrook by a troop of General Bland’s Dragoons and handed to the guard picquet under my supervision.” He paused and added, “I would say that during their short time in the company they have been dutiful soldiers.”
“Thank you Sergeant Tucking,” said the major. He turned to Perkins. “Is there any further evidence?” he enquired.
“None, sir,” said the clerk.
Ireton looked at the prisoners.
“Thomas Sage do you have anything to say about this charge?”
Sage was near to collapse from fright. His face was deathly pale, beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead. He shook his head slightly and ran his tongue round his lips.
“Charles Cruttwell?”
Cruttwell cleared his throat nervously. Earlier that morning, Hazelwood had coached him what to say, having himself been tried and flogged for desertion some years before and since then witnessed several courts martial.
Cruttwell said, “Sir, me and Sage here want to say how sorry we are for what we done. We only went to give a proper farewell to our families, before serving His Majesty over the seas. We face our just punishment with a steadfast heart, as soldiers of His Majesty and of General Villiers’ foot, and will do our duty once it is behind us. We urge our comrades to consider what a dastardly act it is to desert from His Majesty’s service and in particular from this regiment, and say that none should contemplate it.”
Hazelwood’s advice had been apt and the president nodded in acknowledgement before clearing the room so the officers could deliberate in private. After ten minutes the court reopened and the prisoners were brought in and stood before the table.
Major Ireton announced the decision of the court martial.
“Thomas Sage and Charles Cruttwell, we find the charges of desertion against you proved. In fixing your punishment we take into account the matters that have been raised and that you were apprehended before the regiment had taken ship. You will each receive three hundred lashes on your bare backs, from the drummers at the halberds.”
The regiment was surprised at the leniency of the sentence. The lieutenant colonel expressed no view, but appeared more tight lipped than usual. Deserting soldiers from the Foot guards were known to receive six hundred lashes and sometimes a thousand.
Marchment directed that the punishment be carried out the same day, on the town green. Each man under sentence would be tied to a triangle of sergeants’ halberds, fastened together and stuck in the ground, and flogged by drummers from a company other than their own. It irritated Tucking that his emblem of rank should be used in this way. After every flogging he had to clean off the mucus and blood and on one occasion the soldier had bitten the wooden shaft in his agony. Tucking’s halberd still bore the teeth marks.
The companies that had reached Colnbrook mustered to witness the punishment. The officers emerged from the Bear and walked down to the green, headed by the lieutenant colonel and the major. They were all on foot, as horses tended to take fright at the sound of whips striking bare flesh and the smell of blood. General Villiers chose to remain in his quarters, having a touch of quinsy.
Sage and Cruttwell were brought from the guardhouse by the picquet, stripped of their shirts and their wrists tied to the halberds with arms outstretched. Two drummers waited to lash each soldier, applying alternate strokes. They stood in their shirt sleeves, nervously fingering the whips. Sergeant Tucking, as the senior sergeant of the deserters’ company, supervised the punishment.
Tucking watched the lieutenant colonel for his signal. Marchment nodded and Tucking called, “Start the punishment ….. ready.”
The four drummers raised their whips, while their comrades beat a roll.
“One,” called Tucking. The first whips whistled through the air and landed on the deserter’s backs.
“Two,” called Tucking and the second drummers struck.
Tucking had reached seven, when the lieutenant colonel held up his hand and stepped forward. He gestured to the sergeant of the picquet. “Secure these men and take them to the guardhouse.”
The four drummers were seized and dragged away. Colonel Marchment turned and pointed at the remaining drummers. “You four. Remove your coats and take up the whips. Tomorrow your fellows will receive double the three hundred lashes these men are to have and if you wish to join them, you will spare your blows as they did. Begin again sergeant.”
“Start the punishment,” Tucking called. “….. One.” This time the drummers struck hard and Sage screamed in pain. The first lashes raised livid red wheals across the two prisoners’ backs. By the time the count had reached fifty, their flesh was a bloody red mush. Sage had screamed at every blow, but now hung unconscious from the triangle, while Cruttwell was taking his flogging in silence.
To keep track of the number of lashes, Tucking had thirty small pebbles in his right coat pocket. As he reached each tenth lash, he transferred a pebble to his left pocket.
With the three hundredth lash Tucking raised his hat to the lieutenant colonel, and said “Sir, the punishment is complete.”
“Dismiss the regiment from muster,” said Marchment and walked away down the street.
The soldiers made their way back to their billets. There was little sign that they were affected by the sight of the punishment, other than commending Cruttwell on his stoicism and mocking Sage for the lack of courage he had shown. The average soldier looked on flogging as a part of army life that had little to do with his own actions or choices. It could not be said it had any particular deterrent effect.
The drummers cut down the two soldiers, who fell to the ground, and a corporal soused each man’s back with a bucket of brine. Sage lay on the ground unconscious, while Cruttwell slowly got to his feet, gritting his teeth against the agony of the salt water on his injuries. A file of soldiers from Prideaux’s took the deserters to the outhouse, which served as a hospital, and Sarah Hazelwood bound up their injuries.
Before dinner in the Bear that evening, three of the captains approached the lieutenant colonel. Curzon spoke for them.
“Sir,” he said. “We are aware that the whipping of Prideaux’s deserters has had a most salutary effect on the soldiers of the regiment.”
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment looked up at the captains. “I am pleased to hear it.”
“Sir, we ask that the four drummers, who were arrested, be excused the punishment you indicated they should receive.”
“I did not indicate it, Captain Curzon. I ordered it,” said the lieutenant colonel.
“Sir, they had no experience of administering punishment and little idea of what was required of them.”
“Nonsense. Those drummers were ordered to inflict a flogging and they took it on themselves to excuse the soldiers by holding back their strokes. It follows as night follows day that they must receive punishment themselves; else where is the discipline of the regiment?”
Major Ireton who was sitting with the lieutenant colonel intervened. “I believe sir, that the captains are concerned to lose their drummers.”
“Lose their drummers?”
“Six hundred lashes is like to kill them,” said Captain Curzon.
“Six hundred lashes kill them,” exclaimed the lieutenant colonel. “What is the army come to? In the late war, soldiers received a thousand lashes and did not cry out, sir! Did not cry out! These drummers will receive their punishment and be reminded to do their duty, when directed to flog deserters. Come, let us dine and forget the matter.”
After dinner an approach to the colonel was more fruitful and the drummers were saved from the floggings Marchment had ordered.
The next morning, the Bath to London coach lurched up the rutted main street and into the yard of the Bear. A young gentleman, elegantly dressed in civilian attire, climbed from the coach and, treading carefully around the muddy puddles, made his way to the door. Two soldiers were washing clothes in the horse trough by the stables. The gentleman called to them “You two there. Help my servant with the trunks,” before making his way into the inn.
Several officers were in the hall and the lieutenant colonel was seated with the adjutant and his clerk in a window bay. The young gentleman removed his hat and said, “Er, good morning Colonel Marchment.”
“Eh? Good morning.” The lieutenant colonel was not pleased to be interrupted at his work. After a brief glance at the civilian, he resumed his writing, but then looked up again with a more searching look from his eye.
“Captain Prideaux, I do believe,” said Marchment slowly. “Well, well. May I bid you welcome to your duty. You managed to tear yourself away from the delights of Bath?”
The lieutenant colonel’s tone made Prideaux wince.
“We heard you were selling your commission,” said one of the junior officers.
“The governor insisted not,” said the newly arrived captain.
“I am pleased you are back with the regiment,” said Marchment.
“It is kind of you to say so, sir,” said Prideaux.
“.. because your arrival saves me the trouble of writing to His Majesty, on behalf of the colonel, with a recommendation that your commission be cancelled. I have, during the last year, written to you on four occasions requesting you to return to your duty. You did not deign to reply to any of my communications.”
Prideaux said nothing. When he had received the increasingly irascible letters, he had hoped never to see Colonel Marchment again.
A crash heralded the arrival of the first of Prideaux’s luggage. The two soldiers and Prideaux’s servant struggled in with trunk after trunk, under the ironic gaze of the other officers.
Captain Curzon said, “Well, your company will just have to leave its tents and kettles behind.”
Two hours later, Prideaux emerged from the inn in uniform. The soldiers in the street paused to stare. They had not before seen an officer so magnificently dressed. Prideaux’s coat, of the finest scarlet broad cloth, had been tailored in Bath and embroidered with an abundance of Brandenburgs. The other officers wore laced shirts only for the most formal of musters, or when entertaining important visitors. Prideaux’s hands and neck nestled in a profusion of lace cuff and collar. His wig was newly powdered. His shoes, adorned with silver buckles, gleamed like varnish. He held a scented handkerchief to his nose, to keep at bay the effluvia of the local sewerage and the lower orders, both military and civilian.
Prideaux’s servant approached one of the soldiers. “You there. Where is Captain Prideaux’s company to be found?”
The soldier looked at him. “Why, here.”
“What do you mean here?”
“We are Captain Prideaux’s company. Only the officer is Mister Desmond, seeing as how Captain Prideaux is mortal ill at Bath.”
“Captain Prideaux is not ill at Bath, dolt! That is Captain Prideaux.”
The soldiers stared at the officer and touched their hats in salute. Prideaux braced himself and ventured out to assume his military duties.
While the regiment toiled to prepare itself for war, under the supervision of the lieutenant colonel, Major General Villiers spent much of his time enjoying the hospitality of the local grandees. On the second Sunday morning, General Villiers entertained his two field officers to breakfast.
“Gentlemen,” the general greeted them. “We are doing an excellent job. The regiment is in fine order… fine, fine order.”
The two officers acknowledged the compliment, while wondering how the general could possibly know as he spent so little time in Colnbrook.
The general said, “But as yet we have no surgeon.”
He continued, “I have an excellent candidate. A Mister Lazenby, who comes recommended by no less a person than Mister Pringle, My Lord, Lord Stair’s own physician. Mister Pringle has sent Lazenby to see us, with a letter of introduction and recommendation. He is downstairs this very moment and we shall interview him.”
General Villiers rang the hand bell to summon the inn keeper.
“Landlord. There is a man downstairs, a Mister Lazenby. Bid him attend upon us.”
Minutes later, firm steps sounded on the stairs and the surgeon candidate appeared at the door.
“Come in, Mister Lazenby. Come in,” said the colonel. General Villiers did not deign to introduce himself or his field officers, neither did he stand up or invite the candidate to sit down.
“Thank you sir.” Lazenby was a stocky man in his late thirties with a large tanned face. He carried himself with quiet assurance and spoke with a Scottish accent.
“I understand you wish to be appointed surgeon in my regiment?” said the general.
Lazenby bowed slightly.
“And what do you consider to be your qualifications for the post?”
“I have studied medicine at Edinburgh for the past five years, sir. Before that, for three years I was second surgeon’s mate in the West Indies, on board His Majesty’s Ship Thistle; Captain Squires.”
“And why do you seek to interrupt your studies in this way, Mister Lazenby?”
“Two reasons sir. The first is that I know a surgeon’s post in time of war is an unqualified opportunity to advance one’s medical knowledge and experience…”
“And the other, Mister Lazenby?”
“The other reason, sir, is that I have no more money to continue my studies.”
“An honest answer,” said the general. “You come highly recommended by Mister Pringle. Your qualifications are certified by the Physician General?”
Lazenby bowed again. “I have the certificate.”
“Do you have experience of treating wounds inflicted in battle, Mister Lazenby?” interposed the lieutenant colonel. General Villiers looked at Marchment, put out at the interruption of his interview.
“Yes sir. Thistle had the duty of hunting down pirate vessels and was engaged in a number of sanguinary encounters. I had the care of the wounded, both from Thistle’s crew and the prisoners.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said General Villiers, giving the lieutenant colonel an irritated glance. “I cannot see that we can do better than Mister Lazenby. Eh, gentlemen?”
Marchment and Ireton nodded. If the colonel had seriously wanted their opinion, he would hardly have asked for it in the presence of the candidate.
“Excellent,” said General Villiers. “Mister Lazenby, you are appointed surgeon to my regiment of foot and my clerk will draw up your warrant in due course. Please take up your duties straight away. I hope you will be successful with us.”
“I am very much obliged to you sir,” said the new surgeon.
“Mister Lazenby,” said Lieutenant Colonel Marchment. “The regiment’s hospital is in the cowshed behind the smithy. The chest of medicines prepared by the Surgeon General for use in Flanders is held in the regiment’s guard house. Do you have surgical instruments?”
“Indeed I do sir. A full set.”
“Excellent, excellent,” said the general. “We will not detain you from your duties any longer.”
Mister Lazenby withdrew with another shallow bow. He made his way out of the inn and along the street to the smithy, where he had to avoid the puddles in the muddy lane leading to the makeshift and squalid hospital.
He pushed open the battered wooden door of the requisitioned animal shed and announced to the soldiers lounging on heaps of straw in the gloom, “I am Lazenby the new surgeon.”
The patients in the hospital comprised the two deserters, twenty soldiers who had the bloody flux and two with broken legs, one of whom had been run over by his company wagon on the march. They had been cared for until then by Sarah Hazelwood and another soldier’s wife.
Lazenby spent the morning working on the patients, aided by the two wives. He dressed the deserters’ lacerated backs, reset the broken leg of the wagon victim and administered potions of his own to the flux patients. Once he had finished, Lazenby went to the guardhouse, to collect the chest of medicines, and wrote a short letter setting out his requirement for four orderlies, which he delivered to the adjutant.
Having appointed Lazenby as surgeon, General Villiers’ party was still not permitted to begin their breakfast. The inn keeper hesitantly put his head around the door and said, “Your honour, the vicar seeks a word with you.”
General Villiers looked up. “The vicar? What vicar?”
“The vicar of Colnbrook, your honour.”
“The vicar of Colnbrook? What can he want? Show him in landlord, show him in.”
This time the general stood up and moved forward to greet the visitor, an elderly distinguished looking man. “Good morning sir. I do not believe we have met. I am General Villiers. These two gentlemen are the field officers of my regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Marchment and Major Ireton. Major Ireton is the Member for Nantwich. I do not believe I know your name, sir?”
“My name is Onslow, general. I am very grateful that you have permitted me to call on you and disturb your breakfast.”
“Onslow, eh? There is a General Onslow. I know him well. Any relation, sir?”
“Indeed. General Onslow is my nephew.”
“In which case I am particularly pleased to make your acquaintance. May I invite you to partake of breakfast with us, Mister Onslow?”
“Thank you. That is very kind. However I regret that as it is Sunday I am very much committed to my pastoral duties and it is in relation to that I have come to see you.”
The general was puzzled. “Indeed, sir. And how can I be of assistance? Do you require a file of grenadiers to ensure the attendance at church of your more indolent parishioners. Eh, sir?” The general chortled.
“General, one of your sergeants is what I believe is called an itinerant preacher. Last Sunday, I am told he spoke on the town green. He has a loud voice and he attracted a crowd. I do not deign to call it a congregation. He is speaking again today and has attracted an even more considerable gathering of the feckless and the easily led of the town’s population…..”
The general looked perplexed. “And what do you wish me to do sir? I have no jurisdiction over these feckless and easily led, as you call them. If they wish to squander their Sabbath in this way, surely it is a matter for the constable not me.”
“You misunderstand me, general. I want you to restrain your sergeant.”
“Restrain my sergeant?”
“Exactly.”
“Mister Onslow. If the good sergeant chooses to spend his Sabbath haranguing a crowd, I cannot see how that can be a matter for the colonel of the regiment. I have more considerable things to concern me. I am preparing my soldiers for war.” General Villiers had ceased to see the matter as a joke.
“General. If your sergeant continues to preach… should I say speak….. in my town and to the detriment of my congregation, declaring, as he is, that the common man is as good as his master and no doubt that the common soldier is as good as his officer, I shall have to write a letter of complaint to the Secretary at War.”
General Villiers thought for a while. At the mention of the Secretary at War, Major Ireton had cleared his throat in a pronounced manner.
“I will see to it,” muttered the general. “And now, sir. I am a busy man and I must bid you good morning.” General Villiers turned to the major. “See Mister Onslow out, Major Ireton.”
Once the vicar had left the room the general said to Lieutenant Colonel Marchment “What is this nonsense? A sergeant turned preacher? I won’t have it, sir. See that it is finished, here and now.”
The general was quite out of sorts. It was most vexing that his breakfast should have been delayed in this way. What was the purpose of being a general and the colonel of a regiment, if one could be disturbed by the antics of vicars and sergeants. The lieutenant colonel went down to the hall and beckoned a soldier to him. “Fetch Captain Prideaux to me. On second thoughts fetch Lieutenant Desmond not Captain Prideaux.”
Some minutes later Desmond hurried into the inn and sought out the lieutenant colonel.
“Sir? You sent for me.”
“You have a sergeant in your company who is preaching on the Town Green?”
“Yes sir. That will be Sergeant Whitebeard.” The sergeant’s religious activities were a cause of some perplexity to Desmond.
“The vicar has complained to the colonel. The sergeant is to stop.”
Desmond had feared something like this might happen.
“Colonel, Josiah Whitebeard is a good sergeant. He does his duty. The only untoward matter is that on Sundays he chooses to preach. He has soldiers from our company in his audience and I know, sir, that he has acquired many more from other companies since arriving in Colnbrook. I have listened to his preaching and it seems to me to be harmless. He has a good voice and I believe that many of his listeners go just to hear him speak. He does not say anything of great moment and what he does say I believe that few of them understand. He is a man of singular purpose and I do not think he will give up his preaching whoever directs him. If I am required to do so, it is likely that I will have to arrest him for failing to obey my order, for I am sure that he will disobey. It will then be necessary to try him by court martial. There will be a great detriment to the discipline of the company and perhaps the regiment as the soldiers much admire him.”
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment looked at Desmond for a while before speaking. “The vicar has complained to the colonel that he is losing congregation to your sergeant. He is threatening to write to the Secretary at War. The colonel has commanded that this sergeant cease to preach. Do what is necessary. The regiment will be away from this lamentable town within the week.”
The lieutenant colonel went upstairs to his interrupted breakfast leaving Desmond pondering his course of action. In the end he did what all good officers do and delegated the problem to the non-commission officer. Desmond called Sergeant Tucking and told him to stop Whitebeard preaching to the townspeople. Tucking thought for a while and went to see Sarah Hazelwood.
Joshua Whitebeard was taking a short break from his address when he received a message from the corporal’s wife that the soldiers in the regimental hospital had asked that he preach to them, as they were unable to leave their beds to attend divine service. Sarah Hazelwood suggested that one of the deserters might be succumbing to his injuries. Whitebeard was loath to abandon the congregation he had assembled, but he laboured under a strong sense of spiritual obligation. He addressed the crowd on the green for a further half hour and went to the hospital. The patients there were, to their surprise, subjected to a two hour address by the good sergeant. It has to be said that he left them uplifted and inspired. They also resolved, if at all possible, to be out of the hospital by the following Sunday.
At the end of the week, the tenth and last company marched into Colnbrook and encamped on the outlying farm land. The lieutenant colonel reported to General Villiers that, for the first time in two years, the regiment was fully assembled.
“My dear Marchment,” said the general beaming. “Pull up a chair and take a glass of Madeira. This calls for a celebration. We must have a Troop, tomorrow.”
“Of course,” said Marchment. “Many of the men will not have seen the colours.”
“And who is to carry them?” said the general. “Who will be our ‘rag bearers’? Eh? I suggest that my nephew, young Stowe, carries my colour. How about young Browne to carry His Majesty’s, eh, Marchment?”
The colonel was in high good humour. “Call the quartermaster and have him give the word to the companies there will be a regimental muster at midday tomorrow, on the green. Damned if I’m not proud, very proud, eh? Marchment?”
The quartermaster was sent across to the King’s Head, to warn off the sergeants of the companies. After several glasses of Madeira with the colonel, Lieutenant Colonel Marchment went down to the taproom, where the captains and some of the older lieutenants were dining with the newly arrived officers.
“Regimental muster tomorrow at midday, gentlemen. Colours to be trooped. Captains to be mounted,” he told them.
The officers broke up the evening and dispersed to make sure the companies were made ready and their uniforms suitably prepared.
Marchment called over a mess servant. “Go and find me Mister Browne and Mister Stowe.”
The servant disappeared out into the darkness and some minutes later, the two young ensigns came into the taproom, in answer to the summons. They had been at a party held by a Mistress Sawyer, the doyenne of Colnbrook society and had drunk a great deal of punch. The summons to see the acerbic lieutenant colonel brought them some way back to sobriety.
“Gentlemen,” said Marchment. “There is to be a regimental muster tomorrow. There will be a troop and the colonel has directed that you carry the colours. Have you performed a troop?”
The two ensigns looked blank. “No sir.”
“Have you seen a troop?”
“Er no sir.”
“Do you know what a troop is?”
“No.”
The lieutenant colonel gave them a piercing look with his single eye. “Go find the senior grenadier sergeant and ask him what a troop is and how you are to perform it.”
“We will do that first thing tomorrow, sir.”
“You will do it now.”
“Tonight sir?”
“Yes.”
That night the companies set to, cleaning shoes and leather equipment and brushing coats and hats. Muskets were oiled and polished. The soldiers’ long spats were washed down and dried, as best they could be in the time available. Soldiers with long hair, greased it and tied it back in a queue.
At eleven the next morning, the sergeants, with newly polished halberds, bid the drummers beat for the muster. The companies gathered in the street, the spring sun gleaming on rows of newly polished brass hangers, musket barrels and steel bayonets.
By midday, the companies were being drawn up for the troop, with Prideaux’s in position as sixth senior company and the four junior companies standing to its left. Sergeants and corporals pushed the excited soldiers into line. Few of the men had seen so many members of the regiment assembled in one place. They were astounded at the sight of seven hundred men in the uniform of scarlet and sky blue. The townspeople gathered around the green to watch the ceremony.
The grenadier company stood on the right of the line, wearing their distinctive sky blue mitre caps, backed with scarlet. The front of the mitres carried the “Chained Swan” crest of the Villiers family.
The grenadier company was expected to comprise the largest and most imposing soldiers, but even in their tall headgear, they did not seem much different from the rest of the regiment. Living in a quartering town over the previous two years, the grenadier company had been forced to recruit whoever it could get, regardless of size or fitness. This was about to be rectified.
An inspecting party of the captain lieutenant and two grenadier sergeants made its way down the line. As they passed each ‘hat’ company, the captain lieutenant pointed out the tallest soldiers and the sergeants pulled them out of the ranks. Once the inspection was complete, the sergeants hustled the selected soldiers over to the grenadier company, where the captain lieutenant indicated the smallest of the grenadiers. The sergeants removed these men from the ranks, took their mitre caps from them, and handed them the tricornes of their replacements. The rejected grenadiers were sent off to the plundered hat companies.
The rest of the regiment watched this exercise with concern. Most of the soldiers felt at home with their comrades and the thought of being uprooted and moved to another company, even the grenadier, was not a welcome prospect.
Daniel Lyle, standing a head above the rest of Prideaux’s, was one of the new grenadiers. He gingerly put on his strange head gear.
“Into the ranks lad,” said the sergeant.
“I’m a corporal,” said Lyle.
“Not any more you ain’t. We’ve got three corporals in the company already.”
A small soldier, discarded from the grenadiers, stood at the back of Prideaux’s, fingering Lyle’s tricorne hat. It was too big for him and came down over his ears. Prideaux’s looked at the newcomer.
“So I lose a corporal and I gets a minnow like you,” said Tucking.
“Don’t you worry boy,” said Eli Wellbeloved, putting his arm around the young soldier and pulling him into the ranks. “You’re joining the best company. Nothing but good lads here; and Sergeant Tucking, he’ll look after you.” The other soldiers laughed.
“What’s your name lad?” said Tucking.
“Beamish sir. Ned Beamish.”
“And how old are you, Ned Beamish?”
“Seventeen summers, sir, nigh on.”
“You’ll be all right here,” said Mad Ned. “This is a good company for Neds.”
The drummers from all ten companies were grouped together on the right of the regiment. The paintwork on the drums, emblazoned with the regiment’s chained swan crest, against a background of sky blue, had been newly washed and polished and the drum cords scrubbed and whitened. The senior drummer, a corporal in the grenadier company, and a soldier of many years, had taken them in hand during the stay in Colnbrook and they could now play and beat several tunes together with some proficiency.
At the corporal’s signal, the drummers and fifers struck up “the Prince of Denmark’s March”. The two Ensigns, carrying the colours and accompanied by an escort of grenadiers, marched round to the front of the line and halted. The companies stood waiting for the arrival of the senior officers.
A burst of applause from the watching townspeople warned of the approach of the colonel’s party. The regiment was in a state of high excitement and, as General Villiers and his two field officers rounded the end of the line, the soldiers surged forward, cheering and waving their hats and muskets. A tussle developed, as the sergeants and corporals attempted to keep the lines. Marchment glowered around him, but nobody noticed, as all eyes were on the colonel. General Villiers, his horse capering about in alarm at the uproar, had his hat raised, a gratified smile on his plump rubicund face. Once order had been sufficiently restored, he rode down the ranks inspecting the regiment, followed by his field officers.
When the colonel recognised a soldier, he called out a greeting, which the man would acknowledge by raising his hat. At the sight of Threadgold, the grizzled senior sergeant of Curzon’s company, General Villiers shouted out in some excitement, “That sergeant. He was with me at Killiecrankie in ’15.”
Threadgold touched his hat.
“You’re too old still to be with the colours,” called the colonel.
“Not as old as your honour,” said the laconic sergeant.
The colonel rode on, shaking his head. “We have one man at the least who knows how to soldier,” he commented.
Once he had ridden the length of the line, General Villiers returned to the centre, to address the regiment. Perkins, the clerk, had written him a lengthy speech, full of noble sentiment, which the colonel extracted from his pistol holster. At the sight of the papers fluttering in the corner of his eye, the general’s horse reared. Villiers kept his seat, but he dropped the speech and it was trampled into the mud, leaving him to extemporise.
“Soldiers of Villiers’ Foot,” he said. “This muster is more than a symbolic occasion. The regiment’s colours are to be trooped down your ranks, so that you may see them and commit them to memory. In battle you must rally on these colours. Remember them. Sustain them and defend them.” The soldiers could see that something noble, if largely inaudible, had been said and redoubled their cheering.
“Troop,” the lieutenant colonel ordered. The drums and fifes struck up the “Grenadier’s March” and the two ensigns, escorted by the file of grenadiers, began to march slowly along the ranks of the regiment. The ensigns held the staffs parallel to the ground, so that the colours hung down and could be fully seen. Ensign Stow carried the regimental colour of sky blue embroidered with the Chained Swan of the Villiers family and Ensign Browne carried the Union.
It was no longer permitted, as Lieutenant Colonel Marchment had pointed out to his colonel, for any accoutrement of a regiment to carry the personal insignia of its colonel, without the specific permission of His Majesty, a permission he never gave. There would be serious royal displeasure, if the King saw the regimental colour with its present decoration.
The officers raised their hats in salute and the soldiers gazed, as the ensigns’ party passed them, the eye of the Villiers Swan fixing each man with a sardonic glare. Many of the soldiers had not seen the colours before and some did not know what they were. The party reached the left flank of the regiment and, turning, marched back along the ranks. On each occasion that the colours passed them, the colonel and the two field officers raised their hats and brought them down to the knee, in a wide sweeping salute that caused their horses to prance about.
The atmosphere was one of near-religious fervour. The soldiers might have been peasants, worshipping icons carried by their priests. The deserter, Charlie Cruttwell, standing in the crowd of townspeople and still too sore to wear a cross belt, resolved to be a loyal member of the regiment when he was fit. Sage still languished in the hospital.
Once the colour party had returned to the front of the grenadiers, the drums and fifes ceased to play and the colonel rode off the muster with the lieutenant colonel and the major. The company officers gathered and left for their mess, where dinner awaited them. The soldiers marched to their quarters to find a pint of beer for each man, by courtesy of the colonel.
Chapter 3
The day after the Troop, General Villiers and his wife packed into their coach and left Colnbrook for Blackheath. There they would attend upon His Majesty, while he reviewed the regiments marching to the Thames ports for transport to the Continent, and press the general’s case for an appointment in the Flanders Army. Captain Prideaux, the most socially accomplished of the younger officers, accompanied his colonel as aide de camp. Their journey would be broken at the house of Prideaux senior in the City of London, where the general could expect to be lavishly entertained.
The regiment followed its colonel to Blackheath, moving, as in the march to Colnbrook, by divisions. A company or pair of companies marched out each day along the Bath Road to London, to assemble at Greenwich on the far side of the city, for the final march to Blackheath.
With the renewed absence of Prideaux, Desmond led his company, with the ensign, George Stowe. The days at Colnbrook had worked a change in the soldiers. They now felt part of the regiment and carried themselves with a new spirit. The company crossed the rest of the heathland to the town of Hounslow, before marching through the Middlesex villages along the road to London; Chiswick, Turnham Green, Hammersmith and Kensington. On the outskirts of London they marched down Whitehall, passing the entrance to the Royal Palace of St James, where pickets of Horse Grenadier Guards and Foot Guards eyed the unfamiliar Sky Blues’ uniforms.
The soldiers were in high spirits, excited at the prospect of the review by the King. The deserter Sage travelled in the wagon with the rest of the sick and the baggage, but Charlie Cruttwell, although not fully recovered from the flogging, marched in the ranks, carrying his equipment and musket. Blood from the wounds on his back soaked through his coat, showing the criss cross pattern of the lashes. The company, including Cruttwell, thought this a great joke.
On the journey, Desmond discussed with Tucking who should take the vacant corporal’s position. When the matter had been raised with Prideaux, he had shrugged saying he knew none of the suitable candidates and Desmond should make the selection. They decided on a soldier named Noah Reedbasket.
The company passed through the village of Charing and began the final approach to the city, glimpsing the looming dome of St Paul’s Cathedral at the end of the road. Progress was slower here as they pushed through the crowds of travelers.
As they marched along the Strand, Desmond said to Tucking, “The company is quartered tonight in the Savoy Barrack. I understand it to be by the prison between here and the river.”
A picquet of Foot Guards stood in the main road, at the entrance to the street in which the Savoy lay. The Sky Blues encountered again the speculative, unfriendly gaze with which the Guards examined soldiers of the marching regiments. The company turned into the narrow gloomy alley, houses clustered on each side and evil smelling slops flowing down the gutters. In the gap between the buildings at the end of the road, the River Thames appeared, a mass of racing grey water. Fifty yards down the street on the right, they came to the entrance to the barrack and Tucking hammered on the massive wooden gate. There was a rattling of chains and bolts and it creaked open, to reveal a cobbled courtyard. On three sides of the yard stood high buildings, each with floor upon floor of small square windows. In contrast to the public roads outside, there was an ominous quiet. Another picquet of Foot Guards stood at the entrance.
“Is this the Savoy Barracks?” Desmond asked.
“Ay sir,” said the corporal who had opened the gate.
“My company is quartered here tonight.”
The corporal pointed to the gatehouse. “You needs speak to the warden in there, sir.”
Desmond was struck by the difference in appearance and manner of the Foot Guards from his soldiers. All the Guards regiments wore dark blue britches and facings which gave them a somber look, while Villiers’ wore the red britches of a marching regiment with their light blue facings. The Foot Guards had a pallor about them, presumably from living in the city, in strong contrast to the weather beaten appearance of the Sky Blues. The characteristic of the Guards seemed to Desmond to be a knowing urban guile, while that of his soldiers, rural vigour. The only one of his men who seemed to straddle the two disparate worlds was Sergeant Rathbone.
The Villiers’ soldiers filed in through the door and stood around the yard, looking up at the forbidding buildings, one of the few military barracks in England.
Hazelwood said to the Foot Guards corporal. “How often do you have to come to this place?”
The corporal laughed. “We live here, matey.”
“I thought it was a prison.”
“It is and a barrack for the Guards. Ten companies of Foot Guards and two troops of Horse Grenadiers live here.”
Desmond approached the gatehouse and beat the heavy knocker. After a long pause a man in an antiquated uniform opened the door. “Yes?” he said.
“I am Lieutenant Desmond of Major General Villiers’ Regiment. My company is ordered to quarter here tonight.”
“Yes?”
“Could you tell me where my men company are to sleep?” Desmond enquired.
There was not the slightest inclination in this man to assist. He seemed unimpressed by Desmond’s officer’s uniform.
“In there,” said the warder pointing at the buildings surrounding the courtyard.
“Yes, but where?”
“What do you want me to do? Tuck them up in bed?”
“No, just tell me where the men are to quarter?”
“Ask the guard,” said the warder and slammed the door.
The corporal had been listening to the exchange, while the rest of the Foot Guards picquet had gone back to the bench by the gate, where most were sitting, staring at the new comers.
“Sir, your men can find somewhere to sleep in there.” The corporal pointed to a recessed archway on the far side of the courtyard. “They had best sup in one of the eating houses in the alleyway.”
“Where do your officers quarter?”
The corporal looked surprised. “We don’t see any officers down here. When marching regiments come in, their officers lodge in the King’s Head in the Strand.”
Desmond felt he could not wait to get out of the oppressive barrack. He said to Tucking, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have the men ready to march an hour after dawn. Come on Stowe.”
“Yes sir” said Tucking. “Move smartly now.” The soldiers picked up their sacks and firelocks and made their way over to the archway, while Desmond, Stowe and their servants went out through the gate, into the alley and up to the Strand. The officers found it a relief to be in the crowded street, after the dank oppressive courtyard.
The King’s Head was opposite the alley leading to the Savoy, a tall half-timbered structure. As with all the buildings in London, people were leaning out of the windows, shouting to passers by in the street and to each other. The inn seethed with custom. Desmond and Stowe pushed their way through the doors. Common people in country inns stood back respectfully to make way for officers, but in London nobody seemed to make way for anyone, they just pushed and shouted. The taproom was full of people of all stations in life, servers in aprons squeezing through the crush, carrying jugs and plates of food. Desmond’s servant grabbed a potboy by the arm and demanded to see the landlord. The boy paused long enough to call to a rotund man sitting at a table with a group of drinkers. The innkeeper slowly stood up and came over to Desmond. “You in need of lodgings?”
“Yes, innkeeper. The two of us and places for our servants.”
“We are very full tonight. You will be sharing with another officer.”
“Very well,” said Desmond.
The innkeeper led Desmond and Stowe up a winding staircase, to a room at the top of the building. A garret window looked out over a forest of roofs. A bed occupied one side of the room and a pile of straw in the corner provided a sleeping area for the soldiers. The servant of the incumbent officer was stretched out on the bed, but looked up as they came in.
“Your master will needs share his room with these two officers,” said the innkeeper.
“By share his room, you mean share his bed I see,” said Desmond. The innkeeper did not answer.
Desmond looked round the uninviting chamber. “I think we will have something to eat now, landlord.”
Desmond and Stowe made their way down the precarious staircase to the ground floor, where the innkeeper led them into a back parlour and indicated a young officer sitting by the fire. “Your fellow guest.”
“Please send some wine for the three of us”, Desmond said and went over to the fireplace. “May we sit with you?”
The young man looked up and, seeing he was addressed by a colleague, said
“By all means. It is gratifying to see a brother officer in this hell hole.”
Desmond smiled wanly and sat down. “I am afraid you may see more of us than you bargained for. We are sharing your bed.”
The officer looked non-plussed for a moment and then said, “It might have been worse. You could have been navy officers. I take it from your facings you are of General Villiers’ regiment.”
“..And you are of Howard’s Old Buffs?”
“General Howard, if you please” said the officer with a laugh. “Our colonel is very particular on that score, especially as there is confusion between our regiment and the regiment of Colonel Howard.”
Many regiments were referred to by the colour of their facings, as were Villiers’ Sky Blues. General Howard’s regiment wore buff facings, while Colonel Howard’s regiment wore green, hence the nicknames, “Howard’s Buffs” and “Howard’s Greens”. There was further confusion, as another regiment wore buff facings. General Howard’s Foot was one of the “old corps”, and consequently was known as “Howard’s Old Buffs”, so that both causes of confusion were dealt with in the one name.
“So much so,” continued the Buffs officer, “that it was feared that Colonel Howard’s regiment had been ordered for Flanders in mistake for us.”
“And has it?”
“If there was such a mistake, it has been resolved, as you can see. I and my company are on our way for shipment to Flanders.”
“I am Lieutenant Josiah Desmond. This is the ensign of my company, George Stowe. As you have surmised already we are of Major General Villiers’ Foot.”
“Forgive me,” said the Lieutenant of the Buffs. “I am always so quick to gossip, I forget I am not introduced. I am Lieutenant Nicholas Westwood. I very much look forward to your company both at dinner and, perforce, in bed.”
“And tomorrow, where are you headed? Blackheath for review by His Majesty?”
“No. We were reviewed at Hounslow. I take my company to Gravesend for transport to Flanders.”
“Your company is quartered in the Savoy?”
“Yes indeed,” said Westwood with a shudder.
The three young officers made a good dinner of lamb chops and several bottles of claret. Westwood drank substantially more than Desmond and Stowe and he had been far from sober when the two joined him. As the meal progressed, his voice became increasingly loud and indistinct. Diners from the other tables looked round as Westwood’s tones dominated the room.
Late in the evening, the Buffs’ officer began to squint at the other two. He was now very drunk and appeared to have difficulty recognizing his companions.
“Which regiment did you say is disgraced by your presence?” Westwood suddenly said to Desmond, lurching forward against the table.
The Sky Blue looked at him in surprise. “We are officers in General Villiers’ foot.”
“Villiers,” exclaimed Westwood in a near shout, liberally sprinkled with spittle. “A coxcomb if ever there was one and his regiment. Pah. I hear they are posted into garrison in Minorca.”
“No. We are ordered for Flanders, as you are.”
“Do not claim to compare your regiment with mine. General Howard’s Buffs is the oldest regiment of foot. We served the King of Sweden through the Thirty Years War, before coming into His Majesty’s service. The rest of the foot are coxcombs. You are a coxcomb sir.”
Westwood staggered to his feet and stood staring glassily at Desmond. Suddenly he drew his sword and with a blundering sweep, he cut at Desmond. “Have at you, coxcomb.”
Desmond pushed himself back to avoid the cut and his chair fell over, throwing him onto the floor. Westwood lunged at him, but Desmond picked up a stool and held it in front of his body. Stowe scrambled to his feet and stood against the wall.
“Put up your sword, sir,” Desmond shouted at Westwood. “Think where you are. This is a public inn. You cannot brawl here, like one of your soldiers.”
“Indeed? Can’t I?” said Westwood, again cutting clumsily at Desmond’s head.
The dining room had been crowded. When the Buff drew his sword, most of the diners rushed for the door. Summoned by the uproar, the innkeeper came into the room holding a pistol. He aimed it at Westwood and shouted, “Sheath your sword, or so help me, I will shoot you.”
“For god’s sake, Westwood,” said Desmond. “Put up your sword or he will kill you.”
Westwood dropped the weapon and collapsed on the floor unconscious.
The three servants manhandled the drunken officer up to the garret and pushed him into bed. Uneasily Desmond and Stowe climbed in beside him, Desmond taking the middle position next to the unconscious Buff. He had taken the precaution of concealing Westwood’s sword under the straw on which the servants slept, but the Villiers’ officers passed a fitful night. Desmond woke every half hour and looked over at the Buff, who was lying on his back, snoring noisily. Once Desmond woke to see Westwood stumbling round the room in the dark. He felt for the pistol he had put under his pillow, but the Buffs’ officer was not looking for his sword. He vomited heavily over the servants lying in the straw and staggered back to bed.
* * *
After the officers had left the company at the Savoy, Tucking led his soldiers into the barrack block. The entrance opened into a cavernous corridor that stretched in both directions, with low doors along the walls. Tucking opened one and found himself in a long, low ceilinged room, with one of the small square windows opening onto the yard. Cots stood along the walls but all appeared to be taken. It was the same in every one of the rooms they looked into.
The three sergeants stood together in the corridor.
Tucking said, “We had better try the upper floors.”
Soldiers from the Foot Guards were wandering by and women appeared from some of the rooms, carrying washing or cooking pots. A tall man, in the uniform of a Foot Guards grenadier sergeant, strode past, saying to the Villiers’ sergeants, “Good day, gentlemen.”
Rathbone called after him, “Silas…. Silas Fairchild.”
The grenadier swung round and walked back, looking hard at Rathbone. “Well I’m damned. Robert Rathbone.”
The two men shook hands.
“Silas. We are quartered here for the night on our march to Blackheath and Gravesend. Where can we find sleeping space for our soldiers?”
“Are you ordered for Flanders?”
“Indeed we are.”
The grenadier sergeant thought for a moment. “The Savoy is pretty much full with Foot Guards. When marching regiments lodge here, they usually sleep in one of the corridors. I believe there is a company of Howard’s Old Buffs in the other block. However there is a storeroom in the garret where your men can go. You sergeants, I cordially invite to our long room.”
Fairchild stopped a passing soldier and ordered him to go for the key at the gatehouse, to unlock the storeroom at the top of the block for the Villiers’ soldiers. The Foot Guard wandered off down the corridor, Corporal Hazelwood following him to make sure he carried out the sergeant’s order.
Fairchild said to the sergeants, “Come along with me, sirs.”
Tucking was not sure it was right to leave his soldiers to make shift for themselves, in this strange place. Yet they had the corporals to look after them, so he followed the grenadier sergeant.
Fairchild led the three Sky Blues to the end of the corridor and up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top, the stairs opened onto a stone landing and another long corridor. The first door opened into a large room, with several of the square windows at the far end. A number of serving women were standing by a wooden counter. In the middle of the hall stood a long table, around which were gathered some twenty non commission officers from the Foot Guards and the Horse Grenadier Guards. At the end of the table sat three sergeants from Howard’s Old Buffs.
A portly serving man came over from the counter. “Good evening, Sergeant Fairchild,” he said with some deference.
“’Evening Mister Tompkins. Wine for my guests and myself, if you please.”
“Take a seat,” said Fairchild, gesturing at the table. The sergeants from the other marching regiment looked up with interest at the newcomers.
Fairchild said, “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen,” and walked over to a group of Foot Guards at the far end of the table, leaving the three Sky Blues to sit with the Buffs’ sergeants.
“Are you for Blackheath?” asked Tucking.
The Buffs shook their heads. “No,” said one. “We’ve marched down from Northamptonshire. His Majesty reviewed our regiment at Hounslow and we’re for Gravesend and Flanders.”
They talked for a while, until Fairchild came back and sat with them. He looked at Rathbone and said, “Robert, how are you? When you left the good doctor, I thought you might enlist. I looked for you to join the Second Foot Guards, but you were nowhere to be found and here you are in a regiment of foot. Pity. You could have reached corporal in the Second Guards by now.”
“Oh I think not, Silas. We have standards in Villiers’. I should have reached at least ensign in the Guards.”
Fairchild laughed, but without much humour. The group of Foot Guards sergeants Fairchild had been speaking to, came over with their mugs and glasses and Fairchild said, “How about a game of cards, gentlemen?”
Rathbone raised his eyebrows to Tucking, as Fairchild produced a pack from his coat pocket, but Tucking failed to notice the gesture and soon the Villiers’ and Buffs’ non commission officers were engrossed in a game with the Foot Guards.
Two hours later, guttering candles had been lit and the sergeants from the marching regiments were the losers by substantial sums. Rathbone had been watching the fall of the cards. He leant back on the bench and said, “Silas Fairchild. You were a cheat in those days in Clerkenwell. I see that you still are.”
The grenadier sergeant froze in mid-deal and looked hard at Rathbone. “Robert. I do not think you remember who you are talking to.”
“I think I do, Silas. I remember well how you used to cheat in those days in the Nag’s Head. I see you use the same methods now as you used then.”
Fairchild stood up and drew his hanger, while Rathbone leapt back from the table, unsheathing his sword. Fairchild hacked at his arm, but Rathbone parried the blow and cut back at the guardsman, who dropped his hanger and clutched his upper arm, blood welling through his fingers.
Several other Foot Guards drew their hangers, as did Whitebeard and the Buff sergeants and a free for all broke out. The table was overturned and chairs broken. Tucking and two or three of the older men at the table grabbed at the combatants and the struggle was finally quelled with the assistance of the other sergeants in the room.
The next morning, an hour after dawn, the companies of Buffs and Sky Blues mustered in the courtyard, the soldiers coughing and rubbing their hands against the cold. A troop of Horse Grenadier Guards was assembling to ride out and mount guard at St James’s Palace, the horses’ breath steaming in the chill air and the animals stamping and pawing at the cobbled yard. A few Foot Guards and their wives leant out of the windows, watching the bustle.
Corporal Hazelwood sought out Rathbone. “I hear you had trouble with these Tower watchmen last night, sergeant.”
“Nothing to speak of,” said Rathbone.
“It came near to a fight with our boys in the eating room. They don’t seem to like anyone, these London sewer rats. I am not sure they even like each other. When we left, we helped ourselves to some stores, to remind them they’ve had mangel worzels in the barrack.”
Tucking finished calling the roll and the soldiers stood waiting, until Lieutenant Desmond came in through the gate with Ensign Stowe.
Rathbone called over, “Good Morning, Mister Desmond, sir. I trust you slept well.”
“Tolerably, thank you,” said the officer tersely.
Desmond ordered the march and the company filed out through the barrack gate. Even at this early hour, the London streets seethed with traffic. Columns of wagons, loaded with produce, lumbered towards the city markets and herds of cattle, sheep and pigs mingled with the passers by, on their way to the butchers in Smithfield. Cooks and housewives called from the windows to passing tradesmen and bargained shrilly, making their purchases. Carriages lurched across the rutted streets and chairmen carried exhausted revelers back to their beds.
Prideaux’s entered the narrow Temple Bar at the boundary of the City of London proper. As they passed through, the soldiers looked up at the felons’ heads, impaled on the top of the gateway, some turned green through long exposure, eyes pecked out by the birds and teeth displayed in hideous grins.
The company marched along Fleet Street and up Ludgate Hill. Being almost all from rural areas or small towns, the soldiers were amazed at the noise and the crowds of people. Everywhere there was the overpowering smell of dung, horse and human. The road passed by St Paul’s, the side of the cathedral cluttered with market stalls. The stallholders, who promoted their wares in a constant shouted patter, called out ribald comments at the soldiers. Hazelwood and others replied with interest, sending the crowds into cackles of mirth.
There were numbers of youths hanging around the market and Desmond called Sergeant Tucking to him, saying, “We might pick up a recruit or two here, Ben. Tell the drummers to play.”
Tucking sent Stote and Squirrel to the front. “drum and fife, lads,” he ordered, and they struck up the “Grenadier’s March”, playing the company along Change Street and into Cheapside. The crowds paused and watched as they passed, and there was even some cheering. Everyone in London knew that the regiments marching through were bound for the fighting in Europe and the Empress of Austria was a popular figure.
At the corner of Poultry, a group of burly men in dark coats, hats pulled down over their brows, carrying cudgels, stepped into the middle of the street. The leader held up his hand to stop the company.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you the captain of these soldiers?” He said to Desmond. The man was ill shaven and threatening.
“I am the lieutenant in command.” He said, “The captain is with our colonel up ahead.”
“This is the City of London,” said the man.
“I had guessed as much,” said Desmond.
“No King’s Regiment is permitted to march through the City of London with drums beating and bayonets fixed, other than the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers and His Majesty’s Foot Guards. Direct your drummers to cease beating.”
The rest of the company had come up and were standing close behind. Desmond saw that several of the men had fixed their bayonets. He ordered them to unfix and sheath them. “Sling your drum, Stote,” he said. “No more beating while in London.”
He turned to face the man. “Satisfied?”
“And now sir,” said the man. “I am to arrest you and take you before the Lord Mayor’s court at the Mansion House.”
“Arrest me? I am an officer in His Majesty’s service. I am marching my company on the specific instructions of the Secretary at War to Blackheath to be reviewed by his Majesty. Who do you think you are?”
“I am a City constable, sir. I advise you not to resist me and to order your men not to interfere with me in the execution of my duty. Otherwise you may find the charge infinitely more serious.”
The soldiers were standing behind their officer. Several held their muskets ready and with a menacing aspect. They crowded forward and there was some truculent murmuring. It was apparent to Desmond that he only had to give the word and there would be little chance of his being arrested. Tucking hovered by his lieutenant. “Sir. I suggest you do as the good constable says.” Desmond had paused, not because he intended to resist, but because he had been struck by the spirit his soldiers were showing. This will be a fighting company, he thought to himself.
“Good advice from your sergeant sir,” said the constable. “There have been many troops marching through London and the City Fathers are particular that regiments of the Crown may only march through with drums beating when authorised so to do. Your regiment is not one of the regiments with that indulgence. And now sir, I must insist that you come with us.”
Rathbone was standing next to Tucking. “Mister Desmond, I suggest you leave your sword with us. I think you will find that otherwise the gaoler at the court will take it from you and you may not see it again.”
Desmond unbuckled his sword and handed it to Rathbone and the company settled down to wait while Desmond was taken into the Mansion House to appear before the magistrates. A city constable received Desmond into the cells to await his appearance. “Got any weapons?” he asked. “You have to leave them with me before you go into court.”
“No,” said Desmond.
“Pity,” said the warder.
Desmond was pushed up into the dock and ordered to remove his hat in deference to the three Aldermen who sat on the bench, huddled in fur trimmed gowns. The constable informed the magistrates that the prisoner had been arrested while marching his company through the City of London with drums beating and bayonets fixed, not being from a corps that had the honour so to do. The magistrates glowered at Desmond and he was invited to explain himself. “Disgraceful” and “An affront” were muttered on the bench as Desmond stammered out that he had no idea he had committed any offence. After the magistrates had conferred the chairman said, “Lieutenant Desmond of Major General Villiers’ regiment of foot, we do not accept that you were unaware of the importance the City of London attaches to ensuring that Royal troops do not abuse the right we grant them to move through our City. We consider that you knew very well, or ought to have known, that you were not permitted to beat your drums, to the discomfort and fear of the citizens of London. You will be fined five shilliugs and bound over to keep the peace for a year in the sum of one pound. You may go once the fine is paid and you have acknowledged your recognizance.”
Desmond was forced to pay the fine from the regimental funds he carried. He rejoined his men and they resumed their march, making their way down to the Thames and crossing by London Bridge to the South bank. The bridge did not just serve as a river crossing. Houses were built the length of the structure and the roadway, which combined the roles of highway and market, was even more crowded than the ordinary streets. Wagons and carriages on their way into the city from Kent forced their way through the crowds. The smell of packed humanity and the rotting waste thrown into the river was indescribable and the company lost all order as the men struggled in the seething turmoil, pieces of cloth clutched to their noses.
The soldiers escaped from the bridge and gathered in Southwark High Street, shaking their heads at the experience. Several found their canvas sacks had been slit open and the contents rifled in the jostling crowd. Others found their pockets had been picked and money and items taken.
“Well, we have marched through London,” said Hazelwood bitterly. “After that, fighting the French should be no great ordeal.”
At Desmond’s direction, Sergeant Tucking called the roll. Three men failed to answer to their names, Carter, Cruttwell and Stoveys. Within minutes, the missing soldiers appeared from the bridge, dragging a seedy looking individual with them. Their prisoner was struggling fiercely, although Cruttwell had his bayonet pressed against his throat.
“Caught him with his hand in my haversack,” said Carter, as the soldiers crowded round the group.
“Put him on the ground and turn out his pockets,” Rathbone ordered.
The soldiers threw the pickpocket on the ground and Carter stood on him with his hanger point thrust into the back of his neck, while the others searched him. They found Desmond’s and Tucking’s watches and belongings from the pockets and sacks of several others.
“The rogue,” said Desmond outraged. “He must be given up for trial.”
“Yes indeed, sir,” said Rathbone. “I saw a constable walk round that corner a moment ago. Carry on with the march, sir, and we will hand him over and join you on the High Road.”
Rathbone, Carter and the two others soon caught up the rear of the marching company.
“What did you do with him?” asked Hazelwood.
“Threw him in the river,” said Rathbone. “If he doesn’t drown, it’ll poison him.”
The road took them out through Southwark and New Cross, onto the highroad to Blackheath, and an hour later the company marched into the town of Greenwich. Standing outside the Queen Charlotte Inn, at the side of the road, was a group of uniformed figures in the familiar red coats and Sky Blue facings. At the front stood a gaunt figure with an eye patch.
“Good day to you, Mister Desmond,” called the lieutenant colonel.
“Good day, sir,” said Desmond raising his hat.
The last companies marched into Greenwich the next day, and that afternoon the regiment mustered for the final journey to Blackheath. The drummers and fifers assembled at the head of the grenadier company, with the nine ‘hat’ companies forming the rest of the column. The lieutenant colonel ordered the march and the regiment set off.
The camp on Blackheath had been in existence for some weeks and had become a focus of great interest to Londoners and the inhabitants of the villages and towns of North Kent and Surrey. Sightseers crossed the Thames from Essex and others journeyed down the river from Middlesex and Berkshire, to see the succession of military reviews. The road between Greenwich and Blackheath was constantly filled with carriages, the passengers making their way to see the regiments of horse and foot and the exalted personages inspecting them.
The Sky Blues marched through this throng and up the hill. As the companies topped the ridge, the heath opened out before them, stretching away to the fringes of Blackheath town. The area was packed with onlookers, watching a review of the three Foot Guards battalions ordered for Flanders. The Guards were drawn up in a slash of scarlet, the evening sun twinkling on bayonets and musket barrels. The Foot Guards’ hautbois and drummers, in a block of gold and red at the end of the line, were playing military airs by Mister Handel, as a cortege of mounted officers rode along the ranks. The muttered comment went down the Villiers’ files that the figure at the front must be the King. Only a few weeks before, the regiment had been living a mundane existence, spread among sleepy Buckinghamshire hamlets, and now they were surrounded by a crowd of thousands and within hailing distance of their sovereign.
The fifers and drummers broke into a vigorous Buckinghamshire tune and the crowd turned to watch, as Villiers’ came across the heath. The onlookers were used to the red and dark blue of the Foot Guards and found this new regiment an intriguing contrast, with its weatherbeaten soldiers and sky blue facings. There was a burst of applause. Major General Villiers, riding in the King’s party, saw the bobbing mitres and “beetle” hats of his soldiers and noted the interest they provoked with satisfaction.
The King looked back at the colonel and said, “Villiers, I see your regiment comes. They cause a to-do. What? What?”
The Sky Blues followed the review marshals to their allotted site, while the soldiers from the other regiments in the camp turned out to watch them, calling greetings to the men they recognized. Dismissed from muster they spent the rest of the day erecting the company tents and cooking a meal.
That evening, the officers of Villiers’ were called to dine with their colonel in the hotel where he had rooms. It was a time of festivity for all ranks, the soldiers roaming the villages along the heath, drinking in the ale houses or buying gin and beer from the peddlers hanging around the camp.
The Sky Blues’ immediate neighbours were Colonel Newsome Peers’ Royal Welch Fusiliers. When the Fusiliers marched through Colnbrook, they had given Villiers’ the impression of a self-confident and well conducted corps and now with leisure on their hands, the soldiers of the two regiments wandered through each other’s encampments and made friendships that would be renewed whenever the two regiments met; in Flanders, Germany and even for a few of them in America many years later.
The Foot Guards, whose tents were on the south side of the heath by the town, kept aloof from the marching regiments.
Gussett, Newbiggin and Grissel from Prideaux’s company went drinking with a group of Welch Fusiliers. A fusilier corporal commented, “Them stuck up Foot Guards bastards, taking the best camp. Just a bunch of Tower watchmen, they don’t know what soldiering is.”
“Get paid more than us and all” said Grissel.
“That can’t be,” said a fusilier. “Surely we all get paid the same.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said the Welsh non commission officer. ”The pay of a corporal of foot is four shillings and sixpence a week. If I’m lucky and the captain don’t pinch too much, I get two shillings of that.”
“.. and after the colonel has deducted the off-reckonings for your clothing.”
“ Aye and after the off-reckoning. A corporal in the Foot Guards told me he gets six shillings and tuppence a week.”
“What about the privates?” asked Newbiggin.
“They get four shillings a week in the Foot Guards,” a fusilier said.
There was outrage among the soldiers. “We get three shillings and our clothing and subsistence token off that.”
“Well boys,” said the fusilier corporal. “If you were a donkey walloper, you’d get fourteen shillings a week.”
“Fourteen shillings a week!” exclaimed the private soldiers.
“Aye and I’d get seventeen and six.”
The unfairness of the army pay system brought a pause in the conversation. Then a soldier spoke out. “But you’d have to ride a horse… and clean it.”
“Aye, that you would.”
“And them bastards bite and kick.”
“Who wants another ale?” said Gussett and the conversation moved on.
Hazelwood, Groat, Wellbeloved and Brutus Carter decided that the attractions of the camp could not compare with those of Blackheath. After sunset they made their way across to the town. Grimsdyke, Gutteridge and several grenadiers had the same idea.
As the Prideaux’s approached the edge of the heath, a party of Foot Guards appeared out of the darkness and a hefty corporal shouted out drunkenly, “You mangel wurzels stay over the other side of the Heath. Blackheath is for the Guards. Off with you.”
Hazelwood said, “Mangel wurzels? The only root I see is a turnip and it’s inside your hat.”
With a curse, the Foot Guard slashed at Hazelwood with his bayonet. Hazelwood drew his hanger, cutting back at the man and the soldiers of both groups drew their weapons and set on each other. For some minutes a fierce struggle raged, until a strong picquet of Foot Guards loomed out of the darkness and joined in the combat, outnumbering the Villiers’. That is until Grimsdyke’s party came up. Any animosity the grenadiers felt for Hazelwood and his cronies disappeared at the sight of Sky Blues being attacked by Foot Guards and Grimsdyke and his companions drew their hangers and pitched into the brawl. It was only when a dismounted picquet of Horse Grenadiers arrived, that the Villiers’ corporals called, “Break away” and their group rushed off into the darkness, leaving a half dozen Foot Guards bleeding heavily. Three Sky Blues had serious wounds. The rest helped them back to the camp, pausing to buy a measure of gin, which was poured on the gashes. They had missed out on the pleasures of Blackheath, but had enjoyed an exhilarating fight.
The next morning, to beat of drum, the regiments assembled for His Majesty’s review. There were four marching regiments of foot; Major General Villiers’, Colonel Newsome Peers’ Royal Welch Fusiliers, Colonel Johnson’s, Colonel Duroure’s and two cavalry regiments; Lieutenant General Honeywood’s King’s Regiment of Horse and Major General Bland’s King’s Dragoons, the regiment that had brought in Prideaux’s deserters on their way to Blackheath.
Many of the Sky Blues watched the dragoons as they prepared for the review, intrigued to see the routine of a mounted regiment. The horses, tethered in rows by the troop tents, had been stamping and squealing throughout the night, and seemed ill at ease. At first light, the dragoons took their mounts to water at a pond on the heath and on their return began grooming and preparing them. It was apparent to the interested foot soldiers that the mood of the horses was making it difficult to tack them up with the embroidered regimental horse cloths and heavy military saddles.
Desmond’s ambition was to purchase the captaincy of a troop of dragoons and this was his first opportunity to watch such a regiment at close quarters. He had seen the reaction of his own company, after two years in quarters, at meeting the rest of their regiment. The soldiers had been excited and not a little apprehensive. There had been a short period of bewilderment, mingled with hostility, before an esprit de corps had taken root and begun to flourish. But the individual soldiers still looked on the company as their community and the rest of the regiment remained objects of suspicion, until they proved worthy of confidence. It was that much more difficult for mounted soldiers. The dragoon regiments lived in quarters, in the same way as the foot regiments of the line, by troops of around thirty men and horses, and it was rare for more than a couple of troops of the regiment’s six to muster together. The troop horses were exercised during the winter, depending on the energy of the officers, but during the summer months they went wholly unridden. In the interests of economy, the horses’ shoes were struck off and they were put at grass, often in fields some miles from the troopers’ quarters, supervised only by a ‘grass guard’. As an experienced horseman, Desmond knew that competence in riding required regular practice, ideally every day, and Desmond had noticed that few of the troopers of the regiments that passed through Colnbrook rode with any facility.
At Blackheath, the dragoons were for the first time, mustering as regiments of two hundred men and mounts, and the horses were reacting badly. As yet they had no experience of the discharge of firearms.
The captain of the nearest troop rode a smart bay mare, clearly his own property, watching his dragoons attempt to coax their mounts into some sort of order. Several of the troop horses were particularly troublesome, ears back, biting and kicking at their neighbours. The troopers cursed their mounts, reining in hard and spurring them, making the horses wilder. Finally the captain ordered the most uncontrolled animals to be taken back to the lines, enabling the rest of the troop to settle into a restless, surging, but manageable group. The captain turned his horse and led his men to where the rest of the regiment’s troops, all suffering similar problems, were attempting to take up a formation.
Major Ireton, who had the duty of preparing Villiers’ for the review, called out, “Captain Prideaux please muster your company.”
Prideaux raised his hat in acknowledgement and called over to Tucking, “Sergeant Tucking, form the men for the review.”
Having given the order, he rode over to where Desmond and the ensign were standing, produced a flask and engaged the two young officers in conversation, punctuated by quaffs of brandy. Tucking raised his hat and shouted to the company, “Right lads, let’s have you in lines.”
Tucking stood at the right of the company’s position and Rathbone on the left, both holding their halberds out, pointing at each other. “First rank here,” called Tucking. Most of the soldiers, wishing to be in the front, crammed into the space between the two sergeants. Joshua Whitebeard walked down the embryonic line and pushed two out of every three soldiers back, leaving a front rank comprising the well presented men of the company. Eli Wellbeloved was one of the men removed in this way.
Tucking and Rathbone called two corporals over to where they stood and directed the soldiers to stand still between them. The three sergeants repeated the operation in the second line and then for the third, ending up with five or six men unplaced. Tucking thought of adding them to the other ranks, but the lines were precarious enough and the stress of introducing these supernumeries might cause them to dissolve. He formed them into a small fourth rank.
Tucking looked around to see that Prideaux’s was the first company formed. He looked over to the officers for their approval, but Prideaux was talking to Desmond and Ensign Stowe, who were standing at his stirrups. None of them had watched the shaking out of the company into ordered ranks. Tucking shrugged and turned back to ensure the soldiers kept to their positions.
Major Ireton saw that the company was formed and called over, “Well done,” to Captain Prideaux, who raised his hat and bowed in the saddle, before resuming his conversation with Desmond and Stowe.
Honeywood’s and Bland’s were to take position on the right of the other regiments. When all were in place, His Majesty would ride down the ranks of horse, dragoons and foot. Once the inspection was complete, the King would return to the far side of the Heath and the regiments would march past giving him the salute.
The two mounted regiments began to move past the foot to take up their positions. The dragoons had mounted drummers and Honeywood’s had trumpeters, but none of these men were playing their instruments. No one was taking the risk of making unnecessary noise with the horses in their present mood.
But in any case, order in the two mounted regiments was deteriorating. The horses were snorting and pulling hard at the bit. While the officers tried to keep the pace to a walk, many of the troop horses were trotting or cantering and there were no real lines, just clusters of horsemen. Several of the troopers were bare headed, their hats knocked off in the turmoil. There were shouts of irritation and concern and the foot soldiers assisted by calling out ribald comments at the passing dragoons and horse.
The first of the troopers were nearly in position when catastrophe struck. On the far side of the heath, the Foot Guards discharged a volley and at the exploding crackle of shots, the horses of the two mounted regiments bolted.
A London newspaper described the event: “His Majesty this day at Blackheath reviewed several of the regiments for Flanders. After a feu de joie from the battalions of Foot Guards, Lieutenant General Honeywood’s Regiment of Horse and Major General Bland’s Dragoons passed the Royal Party in review at the gallop. They made a brave sight. His Majesty, riding a horse so spirited he had difficulty restraining it from joining the cavalcade, expressed himself well satisfied with the appearance of these two regiments. They made two circuits of the heath at speed before retiring down the hill towards Woolwich, taking no further part in the review.”
The foot soldiers watched spell-bound as the horsemen tore round the heath, leaving numbers of troopers flung to the ground. The mounts of several field officers of the Foot Guards and staff officers accompanying the King also bolted, taking their riders off the field with the rest of the cavalry. It was an hour or so before order was sufficiently restored for His Majesty to continue the review.
The four regiments of foot were formed with Villiers’ as the senior regiment on the right, Colonel Newsome Peers’ Royal Welch Fusiliers in the centre and Colonel Johnson’s on the left. Colonel Duroure’s had taken position to the rear.
General Villiers, Lieutenant Colonel Marchment and Major Ireton stood before the Sky Blues’ front rank. The regiment’s colours, carried as at Colnbrook by Ensigns Stowe and Brown, stood behind the field officers, escorted by a file of grenadiers. The drummers and fifers stood in a block playing the Grenadiers’ March.
As the royal cortege rode across the heath, the colonel moved to the flank to meet His Majesty and accompany him in his inspection of the regiment. The excitement among the soldiers rose to fever pitch, as the King came close enough to make out his features. He was a distinguished looking man with a high forehead, curved nose and prominent staring eyes. Mounted on a well-built chestnut horse, His Majesty rode down the line, conversing with the colonel in his much parodied German accent.
“You a fine regiment have, Villiers,” he said. “A fine regiment.”
His Majesty examined the soldiers through a quizzing glass, as he passed down the ranks, and they returned his stare, whilst the officers swept off their hats and bowed in salute.
At the front of the royal cortege rode the young Duke of Cumberland, the King and Queen’s second and favourite son. Already corpulent, the duke was mounted on a heavy muscular horse that strained against the bit and shook its head from side to side. The Duke rode well in spite of his bulk. Only twenty years of age, he was already a major general and his voluminous scarlet coat was encrusted with orders. Under a magnificent laced beaver hat, the Duke’s pink, jowelly face showed the permanent half grin that would, over the following years, become familiar to the soldiers he was passing.
His Majesty came to the Sky Blues’ colours and reined in his horse.
“What is this, Villiers? That is your family crest, the Swan in Chains, on the regimental colour. Is that not so? It is my most specific command that regimental embellishments shall have only royal emblems, and then only those I myself authorise. Why have you maintained a colour with your family arms embroidered upon it, Villiers?”
“Sir,” said the general. “I had understood it to be His Majesty, your father’s direction that regiments might display “ancient badges”. The Chained Swan has been the emblem of this regiment since it was raised by my great uncle.”
The King said, “I am greatly displeased. Let me never see it again.”
The colonel bowed in the saddle and His Majesty glared at him. But his displeasure was quickly dissipated. He was too relieved that the marching regiments had appeared from the remotest corners of the country and were giving such a convincingly martial display. He had feared that the Guards were his only competent regiments of infantry.
The King reached the left flank of Villiers’, where Colonel Newsome Peers was waiting to escort him in the inspection of his fusiliers. He paused long enough to say, “You have a fine regiment indeed, eh Villiers?” before moving on to the ranks of Welshmen.
After the inspection, the four regiments of foot formed column and marched past the Royal Party. His Majesty raised his hat, in acknowledgement of the officers’ salutes, and the crowds cheered and clapped as the rows of foot soldiers passed by. Few of the watching Londoners had seen troops other than the Guards, and they assumed that all English regiments wore red coats with dark blue distinctions. The facings of these regiments, yellow, green and the sky blue of Villiers, were unfamiliar to them. In particular, the grenadier companies, wearing their mitre caps of the regimental colour, caused a stir, many of the onlookers enquiring what nationality these troops might be.
After the march past, the soldiers dismissed to their camps and gathered round the company kettles for the midday meal, talking about the review and seeing His Majesty and the “nobs” at such close quarters. As intended, the royal attention gave them a new pride in their corps, and it had intrigued them to see that even the colonel could be in trouble.
Desmond stood on the edge of the company area and watched the dragoons making their way back up the hill, many of them leading their mounts. The young lieutenant resolved to remain in a regiment of foot.
Chapter 4
Soon after dawn the next morning, the drummers beat through the camp, rousing the regiment for the march to Gravesend. A cold wind was cutting across the heath, causing the shivering soldiers to huddle around the kettles for warmth. The cooks were stirring the morning broth, but the order was to strike the tents and load them onto the wagons, before the meal was eaten. As the soldiers dismantled the camp, the officers rode off to General Villiers’ hotel, to take a farewell breakfast with their colonel. On the way they passed parties of dragoons exercising their recalcitrant horses on the heath.
General Villiers was dismounting from his morning ride, as his officers arrived. He was in high spirits. “Good morning, gentlemen, good morning, good morning,” he called. “Pray come in to breakfast.”
He shepherded his guests into the dining room and directed them to a table set in the wide bay window. In an alcove nearby sat two general officers, whom Villiers addressed with deference. “General Campbell, General Clayton, sirs. May I introduce to you the officers of my regiment?”
The generals held the positions respectively of Lieutenant General of the Horse and Lieutenant General of the Foot, in the Flanders Army. General Campbell, colonel of the Scots Greys, owed his senior rank and appointment to the influence of his cousin, the powerful Duke of Argyll. Clayton, a tall thin man with a hooked nose, was a wealthy Buckinghamshire landowner. Both generals would give their lives in the coming campaign, the first at Dettingen, the second at Fontenoy.
The Sky Blue officers came forward to be introduced.
“Sirs, my lieutenant colonel, Colonel Marchment,” announced Villiers. “And my major, Major Ireton. Ireton is the member for Nantwich. My captains, sir: Mister Prideaux. His father is to be Lord Mayor next year, Mister Curzon, Mister Prendergast.” He presented the remaining captains who shook hands with the two generals. “And sir, Mister Pennefeather, my captain-lieutenant.” Villiers did not trouble the generals with his subaltern officers. “Please excuse us,” he said.
Villiers ushered his officers to the table and bid them help themselves from the sideboard. The hot aromatic dishes compared favourably with the chilled congealed gruel, the soldiers were scraping from wooden bowls a mile away.
Once the party was seated, Villiers addressed his officers in some excitement. “Gentlemen, I have to tell you that His Majesty has seen fit to appoint me a major general of foot with the army in Flanders. I shall be coming with you.”
A ripple of congratulations went round the table. General Villiers was a popular colonel. Although peppery at times, he had a generous spirit. He was also a wealthy man and now that he was accompanying the army, he would want his regiment to be a credit to him. He could be expected to fund the social activities of his officers and might now accede to a suggestion of Marchment’s, to hire a band of oboe and horn players for the regiment. It would make promotion easier, having their colonel in a position of influence in the army.
Major Ireton rose and raised his glass. “General Villiers. May we take the opportunity to congratulate you? It is a matter of particular gratification to us, your officers, that you have been so honoured by His Majesty. It will also be a reassurance for us to be led on the field of battle by an officer of your experience and proven ability, sir. Gentlemen, our colonel.”
The officers pushed their chairs out, as they stood and gave the toast, “Our colonel.”
The meal, intended to be a brief farewell, unexpectedly turned into a celebration. The soldiers had been standing in the piercing wind for two hours, before their officers came cantering back across the heath and the order was given to march. The drums beat, the fifes whistled, and the Sky Blues moved off down the hill to Woolwich.
It took most of the day to reach Gravesend and it was an expectant regiment that marched over the brow of the hill above the Kentish port, to find the Thames estuary stretching out before them. Coming from inland counties, few of the Sky Blues had seen the sea before and the sight of water reaching to the horizon amazed them. Three ships were at anchor a half mile out, appearing like toys. The word came down the column that these were the vessels they were to be transported in.
“There aren’t enough of them to take us all,” commented Ned Stote.
“Don’t you believe it,” said Peabody, the ex-mariner. “The regiment’ll go in one of those ships.”
The other soldiers muttered in disbelief. “They’re too small,” said Beamish.
Since joining the army, Jim Peabody had told many sea-going yarns, and the longer he spent on land the further his anecdotes drifted from reality. Thanks to these stories, Prideaux’s had an almost infernal view of life at sea.
The Sky Blues marched down the hill and through the town, largely disregarded by the inhabitants. Over the past weeks, a stream of regiments had passed through Gravesend, but the locals had not benefited. The authorities, concerned to prevent the soldiers from deserting when confronted with the immediacy of the voyage, permitted none of the regiments to spend even a few hours in the town before embarking. The ships were often wind bound outside the port, sometimes for days, but the troops were hurried on board and remained there until they sailed.
The Sky Blues marched out onto the jetty, assailed by the shrieks of seagulls and the penetrating smell of fish carcasses, and were doused with rain and spray. Moored to the jetty were the ship’s boats, waiting to take them to the transport, and when they saw the crews, it seemed to Prideaux’s that Peabody had hardly exaggerated his descriptions of seafarers. The sailors were barefoot, in spite of the cold, and wore an assemblage of tattered clothing, handkerchiefs knotted around their heads and rings in their ears. Unholy tattoos decorated their sinewy arms and they bellowed at each in jargon, while thug like petty officers stood by, fingering lengths of knotted rope. The soldiers looked doubtfully at the boats pitching and surging around the jetty.
“We going in them?” enquired a soldier.
“Yep,” said a sailor. He pointed at one of the transports. “Out to her, matey, Diomede. Taking you to Flanders.”
“What all of us?” asked another man.
“Yep. You’ll all pack in her.”
“Into the boats,” shouted the petty officers. The sergeants and corporals took up the cry and the soldiers began to clamber down the ladders nailed to the jetty walls. Each boat took around twenty men and once full, the sailors pushed off and began the run out to the ship.
After half an hour of rowing, the soldiers wet through from the spray, the boats reached the transport which was anchored in heavy swell, pitching and rolling. The sailors clutched at the ship with boot hooks, as its encrusted side slid in and out of the sea. Small, when seen from the hill above Gravesend, the ship now appeared alarmingly large, its masts weaving a wide circle above the soldiers’ heads. Rope netting dangled from above and heads craned out from the deck, shouting instructions. The soldiers were seasick, wet through, and tired from the march. Encumbered with their belongings and muskets, it was a struggle to catch hold of the netting and climb up from the plunging boats. Several men fell back, suffering broken arms and legs. Some went into the sea and had to be retrieved by the boat crews, while two were lost completely.
As they reached the rail, the soldiers were seized and hauled inboard, where they stood staring around at the maze of rigging and equipment, taking in the unfamiliar sights and smells of the ship. Above them towered the masts and spars, hung with ropes and festoons of sail. There was an incessant shouting and blowing of whistles, as the crew hurried around them preparing for sea.
A petty officer, hat pulled down over his weather beaten face, shouted at the bemused soldiers, “This way you lobsters.”
He walked over to a companionway and lifted the hatch. “Down there.” Like his colleagues on the jetty he carried a rope starter, which he used to belabour the soldiers as they climbed clumsily through the hatch. The sailors took up the cry of “Soldiers down below,” and jostled the Sky Blues across the deck. Suddenly there was a bellow from the quarterdeck and the petty officer leant forward, stopping the flow of men with his arm.
“Pay attention to the captain,” he ordered.
A short, heavily built officer, in a laced hat, held up a speaking trumpet and called, “You soldiers, once you are below, my order is that you stay there. You do not come up on deck for any reason, until we reach Ostend. Carry on.”
“Get moving now,” shouted the petty officer, lashing at the nearest Villiers’.
The soldiers resumed the climb down the ladder, slipping on the wet rungs. As they descended into the darkness, they were met by an overpowering smell of vomit, urine and excrement. Many other passengers had suffered in this transport before them.
As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, the soldiers saw they were on a deck that stretched the length of the ship. The planking above their heads was so low, that even the smallest men had to bend down. Hammocks hung from the bulkheads in pairs, one above the other. The soldiers crouched and looked around, despondent and nauseous. The motion of the ship threw them against each other, the groaning and screeching of the timbers reverberating around the enclosed space.
Peabody nudged Broadbent and said, “She’s a slaver.”
He pointed to a row of heavy metal rings screwed into the deck. “See. They manacle the Africans to them. No hammocks for slaves. They just lie on the deck. We’re privileged.”
“Privileged are we?” said Mad Ned.
“Remember the old navy saw,” said Peabody. “A messmate before a shipmate; a shipmate before a landsman; a landsman before a dog and a dog before a soldier.”
A continual stream of men clambered down the companionway and as their eyes became adjusted to the gloom, they moved around examining their new quarters. The deck was slimy to the touch and the only illumination was the daylight that seeped through the cracks in the planking and around the edges of the cannon ports in the ship’s sides. Three soldiers opened one of the ports revealing a brilliant square of daylight, immediately followed by a cascade of water, soaking the men who had opened the port and all the nearby hammocks, before swilling away across the deck. The port was quickly closed and bolted.
A twinkling light appeared at the far end of the deck and a sailor came up the gangway between the hammocks, his shoulders hunched, carrying a lantern. “Make yourselves comfortable, lads,” he called to the soldiers, playing the light around the deck.
“How long we going to be in this?” Tucking asked.
“Dunno,” said the sailor. “If the wind’s fair, two days. If it ain’t, three weeks. If it’s contrary, thee months.”
“And can we go on the roof?” asked a corporal.
“If you want a few dozen you can. Particular about keeping you soldiers below decks, the captain is,” said the sailor. He hung the lantern on a hook, where it remained the soldiers’ sole source of light, apart from the shifting cracks in the timbers, and climbed nimbly up the companionway.
“Get sorted,” Tucking said grimly to the men around him. It would have been best if the accommodation had been allocated, keeping the companies together, but it was now too late. The soldiers had scattered themselves along the deck, the first arrivals taking what they hoped would be the least uncomfortable areas.
It was apparent to the men that they faced a long period of inactivity and most of them climbed into their hammocks straightaway. The rows were so crowded that the hammock sides touched. The noses of the soldiers in the lower tiers were a half inch from the behinds of those above and their bottoms brushed the deck. The upper soldiers’ faces were an inch or two from the planking above them. Every five rows there was a narrow corridor, but even so, once in a hammock and with the neighbouring rows occupied, it was nigh on impossible to get out.
Tucking looked around, using the lantern. There were several large, evil-smelling tubs placed near the companionway. He shouted at the nearest soldiers. “Hey you. Look,” and shone the lantern on the tubs. “You piss and shit in there.” Even with their availability, many of the soldiers were liable to urinate on the floor, overcome as they were by seasickness.
Up on deck, the Villiers’ officers stood by the main mast, holding onto the rigging and watching the soldiers stream across to the companionway. A sailor approached the group and touched his hat. “The ship is about to get under way and the captain’s orders are that you go to your quarters….”
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment said, “Tell your captain we will go to our quarters when we choose.” Marchment felt far from well. He, like the rest of the regiment, was wet through from the journey in the boats. No ship’s officer had greeted him on his arrival and the accommodation for the officers was abysmal. It was not as bad as for the soldiers below decks, but he neither knew nor cared about that. The hostility of the officers and crew of the ship to the soldiers they had to transport was only too apparent.
The sailor touched his hat and made his way back to the quarterdeck, to report the colonel’s response to the captain. The army officers laughed queasily. It was the last time they laughed for the five days it took the ship to plunge through the North Sea to the Flemish coast.
Within a quarter hour of the last soldiers coming on board, the bosun’s whistles sent the crew stamping across the deck and up the masts to make sail. The rumbling capstan hauled up the anchor and the ship began to gather way. Out in the Thames Estuary, she caught the full force of the North Sea gale and heeled over sharply. Men, who were still standing, were knocked over and below decks the hammocks swung wildly together. Almost all the landsmen were violently sick, with few able to make their way to the sanitary tubs.
On the second day of the voyage, some of the soldiers felt sufficiently recovered to leave their hammocks and gather in a group at the bottom of the companionway, enquiring when they would be fed. Hazelwood came in search of Tucking.
“Sergeant, the men are asking when they are to eat.”
Tucking turned and looked at him. “Eat? In this?”
Hazelwood grinned. “Yes. Some of the boys seem to have an appetite.”
With an effort, Tucking scrambled clumsily out of his hammock and shuffled along the line of swinging bodies to the companionway. “All right lads. I’ll see what is being done.”
Tucking assumed that his rank exempted him from the captain’s ban on going on deck. He climbed the ladder and pushed at the hatch. It was bolted on the outside. Tucking shouted, but nothing happened. He called again, then took out his hanger and hammered on the combing with the hilt, ranting and blaspheming. The soldiers listened to the racket with wry amusement. Eventually the hatch opened and a sailor’s head appeared in silhouette against the sky. “What you want?” he asked.
Tucking scrambled out.
“No soldiers allowed on deck,” said the sailor.
Tucking said, “I am a sergeant. Out of my way.” The sailor, seeing the hanger in his hand, moved to one side.
The ship was pitching heavily, with rain and showers of spray cascading across the deck. Tucking looked around to get his bearings and made his way towards the officers’ quarters, hurrying from one handhold to another, clutching his hat to his head with his spare hand and stumbling over the ropes that seemed to lie everywhere.
A petty officer shouted at him and brandished his starter. Tucking yelled, “I am about my duty. Interfere with me at your peril.”
The petty officer shrugged and watched as Tucking staggered along the deck.
Now that he was out of the rank atmosphere, the sergeant felt revived and hungry. He found his company commander hunched against the ship’s rail.
“Captain Prideaux, sir,” Tucking called. Prideaux slowly looked round.
“Sir, the men are enquiring about rations.”
“You mean there is someone on this filthy tub who wants to eat? You amaze me.” Prideaux felt very bad. He was wondering why he had not sold his commission and stayed in Bath, with or without his allowance. The Army seemed able to trump each hideous and uncomfortable experience with something worse.
“Yes sir. A few.”
“Including you, Sergeant?”
“Well, sir. I find myself somewhat peckish.”
“And there are no rations?”
“None have been made available to us, sir.”
“Sergeant Tucking, my belief is that the crew are responsible for feeding the troops on board. Could I impose on you to speak to one of the ship’s officers. I find myself indisposed.”
Tucking touched his hat and turned away to find that Corporal Hazelwood had followed him across the deck. “Come with me, Hazel,” he said. “We are going to speak to the captain.”
The two non commission officers made their way over to the ladder, that led up to the quarterdeck. At the top of the companionway, they found themselves facing the short choleric man who had addressed the soldiers through the speaking trumpet. He did not now speak directly to Tucking and Hazelwood, but aimed his fury at his subordinates.
“Who has permitted these villains to come on my quarterdeck, when I have given specific instructions that the soldiers are to remain below?” shouted the captain.
Tucking raised his hat. “I beg your pardon sir. I am Sergeant Tucking of Captain Prideaux’s company. I apologise for breaking your instructions, but I am in search of rations for my men and the rest of the regiment.”
“What?” shouted the captain. “The impertinence. I am the captain of this ship and burdened with the transport of… of…. “ He clearly found it difficult to admit to the humiliating duty imposed upon him. “of these soldiers.” He spat out the derided word. “To Flanders. I have no further obligation.”
“Sir,” said Tucking. “I have understood from my captain that your orders are both to transport the regiment and also to feed us.”
The captain’s eyes bulged with rage. “How dare you tell me what my orders are?” He was nearly beside himself. “I am not your maid. I am not your wet nurse. I am not your cook. Feed the men yourself. Do not come troubling me. And now remove yourselves from my quarterdeck or, God help me, I will have you flogged here and now.” He turned to a group of the crew standing nearby. “Remove these… these turnips.”
A sailor hurried forward and shepherded Tucking and Hazelwood down the ladder. As he did so he muttered, “Very particular who comes on his quarterdeck is the captain, very particular.”
“But not particular about feeding his passengers,” commented Corporal Hazelwood. The sailor grinned fleetingly.
As Tucking and Hazelwood climbed down the ladder to the troop deck, the sailors slammed the hatch shut and shot the bolts.
Tucking found several of the sergeants and corporals, waiting with a crowd of soldiers. Tucking shook his head. “The ship’s captain says he isn’t responsible for feeding us.”
“And our officers?” called a soldier.
Tucking pushed through the crowd and grabbed the man by the lapels. “We may be at sea my lad. That doesn’t mean you are not still in the Army and I am not still your sergeant. If you want an itchy back for a few weeks, just say that again. My advice to you is to keep a civil tongue in your head and get back to your hammock before I lose my temper. Understand?” Tucking looked round at the soldiers. “Understand?” He bellowed again. They began to move away, so that only the non commission officers remained with Tucking.
“God save His Majesty’s navy,” said Sergeant Threadgold. “We best start trawling through the baggage we got here and see what there is to eat. While you were upstairs one of them seagoing monkeys come down and showed us where there’s water to drink. It’s in them barrels, stored down the end of the hall. I’ve put a guard on them to make sure the soldiers don’t take too much too quick.”
“It’s just as well most of the men won’t be up to eating for a while,” said Tucking.
“Yeah but what if we’re at sea for a couple of weeks?” said one of the corporals.
Tucking and Threadgold looked at him without speaking.
“Come on then,” said Threadgold. “You corporals go round your companies and take off the soldiers anything they may have to eat.”
A surprisingly large amount of food came to light in this way, to be stored by the ladder under guard. As it was, the voyage was a short one, the strong winds backing to take the ship straight to the Flanders coast and the store of food was just enough for the journey.
On the fifth day, a sailor threw open the hatch and yelled down the companionway, “Land in sight. Disembark in one half hour. Soldiers on deck.”
The Sky Blues climbed up the ladder and stood blinking in the weak sunlight, greatly relieved to be in the open.
The petty officer who had herded them across the deck on the first day, caught Tucking by the sleeve. “Sergeant,” he said. “Your men are to clean the deck they have occupied before they disembark. Captain’s orders.”
Tucking pulled his arm from the petty officer’s grasp and said, “I can only perform such a duty at the specific request of the captain of the ship. Those are my orders.”
The petty officer seemed surprised. He turned and made his way to the quarterdeck. Tucking watched him raise his hat to the captain and speak to him. It was a considerable advantage to the ship, if the soldiers could be persuaded to clean up the filth left below. After a moment of rage, the captain came down from the quarterdeck with the petty officer and strutted over to where Tucking and a number of Sky Blues stood by the hatch. All the companies were now on deck and moving over to the rail.
“You will clear up the mess you have left on my ship, before you go ashore,” the Captain stormed at Tucking. After five days with seven hundred men confined below, the smell from the unventilated deck was appalling. The Captain was standing at the top of the ladder and leant forward to sniff the stench coming up the companionway. As he did so, Corporal Hazelwood gave him a powerful shove with his shoulder, propelling him through the hatch. The captain fell headlong down the ladder and landed with a crash on the deck below.
“Sorry there,” said Hazelwood. “I still cannot accustom myself to the rolling of the ship.”
Tucking said to the petty officer, “I think the captain needs your help. When you’ve seen to him, you can clear up the deck and tell him our corporal here is sorry for what happened, but we soldiers are not readily able to stand on board ship without barging into each other, particularly when weak with hunger.”
The petty officer hurried down the ladder, while the grinning soldiers moved to the rail and mingled with the rest of the regiment.
The ship was hove to a quarter of a mile from land, the sea between the ship and the shore, choppy and uninviting.
“How we going to get there, matey?” a soldier called to one of the sailors.
“You swim from here,” was the answer.
The rope netting, used to board at Gravesend, had been unrolled and was slapping against the side, as the ship rolled in the heavy sea. The boats were lowered, each with a crew of sailors, and the soldiers ordered to get down into them.
Looking over the rail at the turbulent grey water below, few of the men could bring themselves to clamber out into the netting, until the ship’s petty officers began to belabour them with their rope starters. Climbing down, the soldiers found the netting ended well above the sea, forcing them to jump the last five feet into the pitching boats. The weaker soldiers found it hard to maintain a footing on the wet netting, weighed down as they were with weapons and possessions. Gussett slipped off and fell twenty feet into the sea, disappearing underwater. When he surfaced, he was grabbed by Sergeant Whitebeard and several Sky Blues, who hauled him out.
As each boat filled with soldiers, it set off for the shore. Fifty yards out, the boats grounded and the soldiers were forced into the surf, to wade the rest of the way. The Sky Blues arrived in Flanders, wet, exhausted, filthy and hungry.
Tucking gathered Prideaux’s company and led them up the beach to await the officers. The “Old Soldiers” sat behind a dune and brought out a pack of cards. They had not played for five days. It had been dark below decks and they had all felt too ill, even Peabody the old sailor.
A half mile along the coast, a transport ship was disembarking a regiment of dragoons. The horses were swung out of the ship, with canvas cradles around their bellies, and lowered into the sea. The boats carrying the troopers rowed to shore, each leading five or six horses, swimming desperately behind. Once the horses found their footing in the shallows, most broke away from the lead ropes and cantered up the beach, pursued by dragoons, struggling through the sand in their knee length boots. The foot soldiers were greatly entertained. Soldiers spend much time noting reasons for being in their own arm, rather than another. The horse despise the foot for having to walk. The foot pity the horse for having animals and so much tack to care for and clean. All are aghast at the prospect of being an artilleryman. The Sky Blues were gratified to see that even disembarking from a ship was more difficult for mounted troops.
A boat containing the Villiers’ officers neared the shore. They had been lowered from the ship by bosun’s chair. When they reached the surf, it was the sailors who jumped into the sea and dragged the boat up onto the shingle, so the officers could disembark with only minor inconvenience. The grooms and soldier servants brought the officers’ horses, swimming to shore in the same way as the dragoons. Once the horses had been caught, the officers mounted and set off to join their companies.
Tucking mustered Prideaux’s at the top of the beach and the three officers rode up, heading straight along the path, although it was not clear in which direction Ostend lay.
Rathbone caught sight of a group of fishermen, mending nets by a boat hauled up on the dunes. He made his over to them and raised his hat. The men were speaking among themselves in a guttural language, that Rathbone took to be Flemish.
“Er Ostend?” said Rathbone.
“Oostende?” the fishermen queried.
Rathbone nodded.
One of the men took his pipe from his mouth and pointed with the stem along the coast. Rathbone raised his hat again and made his way back to the company.
“It’s along there,” he said pointing away from the officers’ distant backs.
Tucking looked round for one of the drummers. “Stote. Get after Captain Prideaux and tell him they’re going the wrong way.”
It was late afternoon when Prideaux’s reached the town of Ostend. The approach was over a flat area of sand, flooding under the incoming tide with the wind whipping up the spray, so the soldiers remained soaked. They marched through a gate in the fortifications, into a maze of cobbled alleyways, crowded with twisted wooden houses. As with any town, the predominant smells were cooking and excrement, horse and human. The excrement smelled much the same as in England, but the cooking smells were different and pungent. As the soldiers tramped past tanneries and chandlers, vicious local odours dominated the general smell. The narrow streets, lined with market booths, were filled with the townspeople dressed in the distinctive Flemish costume and speaking their guttural language. They eyed the English soldiers with an unwelcoming gaze. Ostend had seen soldiers of many nationalities over the centuries. It was rare that the presence of foreign armies did other than lead to trouble for them, although there was sometimes a short-term profit to be made.
The companies gathered in the central market place and the adjutant distributed information on quarters. The officers would lodge in a house allocated to them. The adjutant indicated a squat dark man, standing behind him and said, “This is Monsieur Gaston. He will take the men to their quarters.”
The Flemish official gestured that Prideaux’s should follow him and led them away from the market place up a mean looking side street. Gaston stopped at what appeared to be a farm built against the town wall and knocked on the door. The soldiers stood listening to confused sounds from the building. Gaston hammered on the door again and there was a shout inside the house. Gaston shouted back and there was what sounded like an outburst of swearing, but nobody came to the door.
Tucking said, “What is happening?”
Gaston shrugged. “No soldiers,” he said.
They were all wet, tired and hungry. “We’ll soon see,” said Tucking.
He turned to Lieutenant Desmond. “Sir how many of the company are quartered in this farm?”
“Everyone, soldiers in the barn and sergeants and corporals in the house.”
“Right boys. Get this open.” There was a surge of soldiers, eager to smash down the door that was keeping them from warmth, a meal and sleep.
Gaston tapped Tucking on the shoulder and leaning forward shouted more urgently. There was a pause, a scurrying of feet, and the door opened. The soldiers poured inside and made their way through the house and out to the barn at the back. Prideaux, Desmond and Stowe rode off down the lane to the officers’ quarters.
The next morning the Sky Blues mustered in the main square and marched out on the two-day journey to Ghent. Now that the regiment was out of England, there was no legal objection to the purchase of wagons. Two were bought for each company and the captains were rid of the tiresome business of negotiating each day for transport. The regiment marched as a single division, the drummers beating to keep the pace, the grenadier company at the head.
The lieutenant colonel rode alongside the column observing how the soldiers coped with the march. He formed the practice of accosting individual men, ordering them to march by his horse and questioning them about their background and the state of their companies. Half way through the afternoon, Ned Beamish became aware of horse’s hooves and the lieutenant colonel looking at him. “Come here you,” he called, pointing a long bony finger.
Beamish dodged out of the ranks and hurried over to Colonel Marchment’s horse. He was was carrying his musket on his shoulder and touched the butt in salute.
“What’s your name boy?” said the lieutenant colonel.
“Ned Beamish, sir.”
“I recollect seeing you in the grenadier company at Colnbrook.”
“Yes sir. They reckoned I was too small, so I’m in Sergeant Tucking’s company now.”
“And what do you think of his company, Ned Beamish?”
“It’s the best company in the regiment, sir.”
The lieutenant colonel waved him back into the ranks with a ghost of a smile and trotted on up the road.
The Sky Blues marched into Ghent by the Bruges gate, passing a young English captain in the archway. The officer approached the lieutenant colonel, raised his hat and said, “Sir, I have been directed to meet you by General Bland, the adjutant general.”
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment reined his horse into the side of the road. “Yes?” he said.
“Sir, the States General, the Dutch authorities, have made no preparations for quartering English troops in Ghent. General Bland ordered me tell you, that you are consequently to make your own arrangements.”
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment frowned. “And how are we to do that, seeing that none of my officers speak the local language?”
“General Bland bade me remind you, sir, that many of the local population speak French. General Bland thought you would have officers who speak French.”
“Yes?”
“Sir, General Bland directs that you are to make whatever arrangement you see fit, to arrange for the accommodation of your soldiers.”
“I see. And have you any suggestions?”
“Yes sir, if you would follow me.” The officer led the regiment to a street of large run down houses. “Any of these should do.”
The lieutenant colonel called Captain Curzon over and said, “I would be obliged if you would quarter a suitable number of soldiers in each of these houses and continue until you have arranged satisfactory billets for the whole regiment. I understand the householders may speak French. Address them in that language.”
“And if they do not speak French?”
“Just speak to them in French and then quarter the soldiers on them.”
Captain Curzon went to the first house with the grenadier company and hammered on the door, shouting “Ouvrez la porte. Faites des quartiers pour les soldats anglais.”
There were sounds of movement in the house, but the door remained shut. “Ouvrez la porte cet instant ou nous le battirons.” There was still no response.
Curzon turned to the sergeant, accompanying him. “Have your men knock down the door.”
Corporal Grimsdyke and a party of grenadiers brought up a stout wooden bench and used it to batter the door off its hinges. As the door fell in, they trooped into the house followed by Curzon, pistol in hand. The soldiers found themselves in a long dark hallway. There was screaming from one of the back rooms and a large bald man appeared from a side room.
“He has a blunderbuss,” yelled a grenadier and threw himself against the wall. Captain Curzon raised his pistol and fired. Shot in the chest, the man discharged his blunderbuss into the ceiling, filling the hall with smoke and causing the screaming to redouble. Plunging past the stricken householder, several grenadiers burst through the end door, to find a number of men and women gathered in a large run down kitchen. Grimsdyke grabbed the wounded man and dragged him over to the captain.
“Shall we hang him, sir?” asked the corporal.
“No,” said Curzon. He strode into the kitchen and announced in French that he was billeting ten of his men in the house and that if anyone caused further obstruction he would arrest them and hand them to the authorities. He neither knew nor cared whether he was understood, but it seemed unlikely that there would be further trouble.
Everyone in the street had heard the shots in the first house and the rest of the regiment was billeted without difficulty. To the inhabitants who did speak French, Captain Curzon explained that the English army paid a quartering fee.
On the first evening, the regiment explored the city. Corporal Hazelwood, Corporal Reedbasket, Grissell and Brutus Carter entered an alehouse, near the main square. There was already a group of soldiers drinking in the dingy taproom, but they wore white uniform coats with mauve facings and fur fronted mitre caps, embellished with brass grenades. Each man had a long drooping moustache.
The white coated soldiers looked round at the Sky Blues and one of them made a derisive comment, at which the others laughed. Their speech was guttural but they were not speaking Dutch.
“They’re Austrian grenadiers,” said Reedbasket. “I saw some of them at Ostend.” Hazel beckoned to the taproom boy who came over to serve them.
An Austrian stood up, pushed through the group of English soldiers and thrust several mugs at the boy. The grenadier then cuffed him, so that the boy staggered away, nearly falling.
“Oy,” said Hazelwood, pushing the Austrian who lost his balance and fell against a table.
The other grenadiers leapt to their feet and rushed the Sky Blues. A savage fight ensued, each side using hangers, belts and any other weapons they could lay their hands on. After some fifteen minutes, both sides were exhausted and bleeding, Carter and an Austrian had been gashed and several others had cuts to the head and body. The civilian drinkers had fled and the premises were wrecked. It had been an exhilarating encounter, but the soldiers felt bound to hurry away to their quarters, before the provost marshal arrived.
The next morning, the owner of the alehouse appeared at the quarters of the adjutant general, General Bland, and complained of the damage inflicted by the English soldiers. He was unable to describe the perpetrators or, at that early stage in the Army’s stay in Ghent, to say which regiment they were from. He received a cold and reluctant apology and a reasonably generous sum of money. He then made his way to the Austrian Kommandantur, where he received a vigorously hostile reception, no apology and was thrown into the street.
The following day, Corporal Grimsdyke and three Villiers’ grenadiers, Stone, Lambe and Gabriel Robjohn were in the city market. Robjohn picked up a strip of meat from a butcher’s stall and held it to his nose.
“It’s off,” he commented.
The others laughed and Robjohn threw the meat to a dog. The stall owner, who was cutting joints at the back of the counter, rushed out and struck Robjohn with his cleaver, inflicting a deep gash in the grenadier’s cheek. With a scream, Robjohn fell to the ground clutching his face.
The enraged Sky Blues drew their hangers and stabbed the butcher repeatedly in the stomach and sides. A fierce combat broke out, as the owners of neighbouring stalls joined in, attacking the soldiers with cleavers and butcher’s knives. The four grenadiers were heavily outnumbered, until more Villiers’ came to their assistance. English soldiers from other regiments rushed up and a party of Austrians, seeing their English colleagues in trouble with the despised Flemish civilians, attacked the traders.
The riot lasted twenty minutes and involved nearly a hundred men. The picquets and town watch arrived in the market place and the fighting soldiers and stall holders were forced to disperse. That evening English and Austrian soldiers gathered in the taproom they had ransacked two days before, and drank each other’s health far into the night. The magistrates issued an order that any burger caught assaulting soldiers, would be whipped and expelled from the city.
Soon after the regiment’s arrival in Ghent, Marchment appointed Desmond adjutant, a role, in view of the indifference of Captain Prideaux to his duties, he had to combine with de facto command of the company. Desmond’s military career had become both interesting and demanding.
He had arranged rooms for himself in the house of an elderly Dutch general, as the nearest suitable accommodation to the company’s quarters. The general, whose active service had been under Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough, had two sons in the Imperial Army in Bohemia, and Desmond assumed the mantle of surrogate offspring to the elderly officer and his wife. The couple’s housekeeper took the lieutenant under her wing and spent much of her time cleaning and repairing his somewhat threadbare uniforms.
The Villiers’ officers set up their communal mess in the home of a local merchant, the burger giving up his saloon for their dining room. The lieutenant colonel and the major occupied rooms in the house, while the other officers copied Desmond in taking quarters near their companies.
Once the English force had completed the move from Ostend, there were six regiments of dragoons and foot in Ghent, together with the two Austrian regiments of foot already there in garrison. The officers of each of the English regiments established a mess and entertained with varying degrees of lavishness. General Villiers, in his appointment as major general, had command of the foot in Ghent and, while he had taken for himself a large house in the centre of the city, where he held soirées from time to time, he based much of his entertaining on the regiment’s mess.
The general was a cousin of the Duke of Buckingham and a wealthy man and was intent on making his mark in the campaign both militarily and socially. To this end he could have wished that his officers were of higher social standing, but this was the regiment his father had commanded and he was proud of it. Equally his officers were, in the main, better soldiers than those of the socially more elevated regiments. He began to underwrite a lavish social lifestyle for the Sky Blues in the expectation that the regiment would foster his reputation.
Soon after their arrival, Villiers’ held a levée to which they invited the officers of the other regiments and the most eligible of local society. The function was a disappointment. The Austrian officers, while friendly to their English colleagues, were contemptuous of the Ghent bourgeoisie and stood around in groups, talking among themselves. The locals spoke no English and the English spoke no Dutch, so the only social interchange between the groups had to be in French, of which only a few of each nationality had a knowledge.
In mid-summer, the battalions of English Foot Guards arrived in the city and the Sky Blues’ attempts at a social impact were put firmly in the shade. The Guards contained three times as many officers as Villiers’ single battalion and they were all either wealthy men or experienced in the pretence of wealth. Within a month of their arrival, the Foot Guards held a ball in the Hotel de Ville, to which they invited guests from London and Brussels. It was a glittering occasion, with dancing and gaming throughout the night and into the next morning. After a late breakfast, many of the guests took to their horses and followed a pack of hounds, especially imported for the occasion, in a foxhunt across the neighbouring countryside. Ghent was agog. Following the ball, General Villiers largely abandoned his social pretensions and resolved to concentrate on the military.
The soldiers of the regiment, after their eventful arrival in the city, had set about settling into their new quarters. The Flemish had long experience of providing billets, but principally for Spanish and Austrian troops, and against a history of enmity, which neither host nor guest made much effort to mitigate. The imperial soldiers behaved as occupiers and the locals resented them accordingly. By contrast, quartering in England had a tradition of cordiality, which the English soldiers missed, and most of them set about making themselves, if not actually welcome, at least tolerated by their Flemish hosts.
Tucking returned one evening to his quarter with a ham and a pipkin of beer he had scrounged from a commissary and which he presented to the family. After two weeks, Tucking moved the other five soldiers quartered in the house to a fresh billet, remaining only with Ned Beamish, who lived over the stables and was little trouble. The family appreciated Tucking’s consideration and looked after him in return.
Some soldiers in the regiment managed to establish themselves in quarters of their own choosing. While the company had been in Marlow, Rathbone had decided, after his promotion to sergeant, that he needed somewhere more comfortable than a common drinking house. He had looked around Marlow’s population and selected a widow in comfortable circumstances, as a more suitable host than the curmudgeonly inn-keeper on whom the constable had quartered him. The widow’s husband, until his demise, had kept a prosperous drapery. She continued to run the business and lived in comfort, but some solitude, in a large house on the northern side of the town, looking out over the Chiltern Hills. She enjoyed the prestige of the location, but was intimidated by its remoteness. Local rumour, which the widow accepted without question and which in part was justified, peopled the winding hill road to Oxford with foot pads and highwaymen.
One evening, Rathbone knocked at the widow’s door and informed the good lady that he had been directed by his colonel to provide her with protection, it being reported that a particularly infamous highwaymen was in the area. Rathbone had intended this first visit to be a reconnaissance, leading to a campaign in which he would worm his way into the widow’s confidence and hospitality. But in her panic, the widow insisted that Rathbone move in immediately and remain until the villain had been caught. Rathbone was still living in the house months later, when the company marched out for Flanders. The widow had hinted that she would buy Rathbone out of the regiment and that he could take up residence with her on a more permanent and intimate basis, but Rathbone had pleaded his duty to his sovereign, although saying that once hostilities were resolved, he might take up her offer. During his stay the widow had disposed of Rathbone’s issue coat, britches and small clothes and fitted him out with a bespoke uniform at her own expense. The sergeant had become far and away the smartest member of the company, after only the captain himself.
The regiment settled in Ghent and would not move until the spring of the following year. Rathbone had no intention of spending those months sharing a garret with the taciturn Josh Whitebeard, in accordance with the quartering arrangements. He researched the local community and found a Scottish widow, who had been married to a local merchant. The merchant had succumbed to the malignant fevers prevalent in this low-lying country some years before. One afternoon, the widow, while shopping in the market, was jostled by English soldiers. A sergeant appeared and pushed the soldiers aside. He escorted the widow to her front door, conversing with charm and wit, and she invited him in to take a dish of tea. Rathbone had found his comfortable billet and Brutus Carter and Hazelwood earned a tip and the goodwill of their sergeant.
During the rest of 1742 and the beginning of 1743, rumour was rife throughout the English regiments, as to the army command’s plans for the campaign in the coming summer. The reports seemed to change from day to day, the only common feature being the irreconcilable dissent between the generals of different nationality as to what the army should do. It was reported that the Earl of Stair was urging that the allied force of English, Germans and Austrians should move into France, take the fortified town of Dunkirk and march on Paris. This scheme did not meet with the approval of the Austrian commanders, Prince Koniggseck and the Duke D’Ahrembourg. In addition, the King and his advisers in London felt such a course to be risky in the extreme and they did not, in any case, wish to provoke outright war with France. One particularly wild rumour suggested that the regiments were to march to Italy and engage the French there.
The army was suffering from a particular handicap, which made planning problematic. In early 1742, the French had moved into Westphalia and threatened Hanover. In panic, King George II, as Elector of Hanover, had undertaken that his troops would observe a truce against France for a year. As a consequence, Hanoverian regiments would not be available until well into 1743. The Pragmatic Army would have to wait in its quarters in Ghent and Bruges for the Hanoverians to rejoin, before embarking on any campaign.
At the beginning of the winter of 1742/3, many of the officers left their regiments for England, driven away by boredom or lured by the social round and other interests at home. Major Ireton, as a member of parliament, returned to London, followed by most of the Villiers’ captains and subalterns. Lieutenant Colonel Marchment deplored the exodus, but the officers obtained their leave directly from the Commander in Chief, Lord Stair. Stair could not prevent the several Members of Parliament serving in the army, from returning to England for the parliamentary session and felt bound to give similar leave of absence to others, so that only the poorest and most dedicated officers spent the winter with their regiments. Prideaux was the first Villiers’ captain to depart, leaving Desmond to command the company. Marchment continued Desmond’s appointment as adjutant and, as he was one of the few Villiers’ officers left in Ghent, Desmond found himself responsible for several other companies in addition to his own.
The winter was cold and there was little scope for military activity. Once a week Tucking roused the other sergeants and they marched the company to the butts outside the city and put the soldiers through their loading exercises. Otherwise, the men were left to their own devices. Rathbone and Hazelwood whiled away the winter days in the inn at the corner of the street, where Rathbone’s quarter lay, drinking and playing cards.
One evening in early January, they were approached in the taproom by a man wearing a long brown coat, the collar turned up against the cold, who greeted them in English. The locals had learned some elementary phrases from the soldiers, but few of them spoke the language fluently. The man offered to buy the two soldiers mugs of ale.
“Much obliged to you sir. That would be most welcome,” said Rathbone.
Hazelwood grunted and nodded in agreement.
The man in the brown coat waved to the tap boy and pulled over a chair. Buying them drinks bought him a place at their table, but they did not think to interrupt their game and the man did not seem to expect that they should. He must be short of friends to have to drink with English soldiers, Rathbone and Hazelwood thought. That is unless he was a foreigner himself.
“This is a pestilential town,” said the man.
Rathbone looked at him. “You are not Dutch?” While his English was good, there was something in his accent that Rathbone could not place.
“I am here on business. I trade in leather,” said the man. “I speak the local language. What do you think of the ale? God knows what they brew it from.”
The soldiers gossiped with him through the evening.
Over the following months, the man in the brown coat was often to be seen in the inns frequented by English soldiers. If it seemed to him that he would be tolerated, he joined them. On occasions he drank and talked with Hazelwood and Rathbone. They were soldiers campaigning in a foreign country and the talk was often on military topics.
Chapter 5
In February 1743, rumour had it that, after a winter of wrangling, the generals had reached agreement on the plan for the year’s campaign and at the end of March orders were issued. The army was to march south, down the east bank of the Rhine, to Frankfurt. No one could make sense of this, as the prime concern was the security of Flanders and the planned advance would take the troops hundreds of miles from the province. But there was an additional startling piece of news; the King himself was to join the Army and take command. The soldiers found this too fantastic to believe.
Tucking was busy administering the company without officers and took little notice of the gossip. Desmond was absorbed in his regimental duties as adjutant and Rathbone was too much of a cynic to give much credence to the reports. Hazelwood, on the other hand, wholeheartedly adopted every new rumour. Most of the soldiers in the regiment were of the same mind as the corporal and were filled with excitement at the prospect of the King taking command. They had all assumed that the review at Blackheath was the limit of his interest in the Flanders troops.
The day set by the Commander in Chief, Lord Stair, for the march south to Germany approached. The army was to move in divisions, each of two regiments. Campsites would be established by the first division and used in turn by the following regiments.
Sergeant Threadgold commented to Tucking, “That is what the Duke of Marlborough did before Blenheim. Only that time they marched all the way to the Danube. They’re using his plan. It worked a treat in ’04. It might work again.”
Tucking said, “I reckon that’s why we’re going south. They can’t think what else to do; so they dusts down the Duke’s scheme and off we go. It doesn’t worry them there’ll be nothing for us to do when we get there.”
“You might be right,” said Threadgold.
The Sky Blues and Howard’s Old Buffs formed the first division and to these two regiments fell the duty of setting up each camp on the army’s line of march. News of the impending move reached London and the officers began to return to Ghent.
The week before the army’s departure, Sergeant Tucking inspected the company’s equipment closely. He was particularly careful in his examination of the soldiers’ ammunition pouches and muskets. Well-kept and water resistant pouches were essential to keep the cartridges dry and Tucking found that a number of them had to be resewn and proofed. There was no staff of armourers to maintain the firearms, but Sergeant Whitebeard’s skill as a blacksmith was sufficient to carry out most of the repairs required.
Tucking examined the soldiers’ shoes, always a problem on a lengthy march, as the Ordnance purchased the cheapest footwear available, notoriously liable to fall apart after only a few miles. Tucking set the company cobblers to over-sew the seams. The shoes remained a bad fit, but ordinary soldiers were used to ill-fitting footwear, and the shoes would at least remain in one piece.
On the morning of the division’s departure from Ghent, Sergeant Tucking marched the company to the regimental muster. There were no company officers, as Lieutenant Desmond had been sent ahead to the first camp site and neither Captain Prideaux nor the ensign, George Stowe, had yet returned from England.
The local inhabitants had seen too many foreign armies march in and out of their city, to show much interest, and it was altogether a more muted and professional occasion than the march out from Marlow just a year before.
Lazenby, the surgeon, appeared at the muster with his orderlies and nurse tenders, his medical equipment carried on several bat horses. He had been busy during the winter caring for the regiment’s sick. Various fevers were endemic in the low-lying areas of Flanders and a central hospital had been established in Ghent for the care of the English Regiments. This was administratively convenient, but it was the opinion of Dr Pringle, the Commander in Chief’s physician, that the sick benefited from care in regimental hospitals, rather than in an overcrowded central facility. He had sought to prove his point by having Lazenby care for the Villiers’ sick in his regimental hospital. Dr Pringle was shown to be right. The Villiers’ men recovered in greater numbers and more quickly than the patients in the central facility, but the burden on Lazenby and his small staff during the winter had been considerable. In spite of his exhaustion, Lazenby had made great efforts to ensure that his regiment would be as well cared for in the field. He suspected that the march to Southern Germany would in itself improve the soldiers’ condition, through the healthier existence on the march and in camp, and by avoiding infection from the civilian community.
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment sat his horse by the Brussels Gate and watched the soldiers march out of the city, the company officers raising their hats as they passed him. The regiment had been living in town for too long and was not in good shape. The winter and the absence of the officers had been deleterious to the soldiers’ discipline and training, as few of the sergeants could be relied upon when unsupervised. It was time for him to crack the whip.
Captain Prideaux’s company, headed by Sergeant Tucking, was at the back of the regiment. Behind them marched Howard’s Old Buffs. Marchment nodded to Tucking, as he touched his halberd in salute, and turning his horse rode up the side of the column at a trot.
The first day, as could be expected, was wearisome. The soldiers had lost the ability to march and the fifteen miles left them exhausted. When they arrived at the camping field in the early evening, they had to erect the tentage heaped by the gate, before they could eat their evening gruel and recover from their exertions. The soldiers found the tents were old and tattered, with holes in the fabric. It was still winter and a chilly evening was leading to a cold night. It was a shock after the comfort of city quarters.
When at last the camp was erected, the soldiers prepared to relax, but Marchment had other plans. Tucking came through the camp calling, “Muster to practice the exercise, on the lieutenant colonel’s order.”
For two hours, Villiers’ went through the exercise in loading and firing and it was nine o’clock before Marchment dismissed the regiment and ordered the men to bed.
The next morning, the drummers beat ‘the general’ at six o’clock. The soldiers came stumbling out of their tents, stiff from the previous day’s exertions. They ate breakfast and put on their equipment, before mustering on the road to set off on the march. It was some small relief to be able to leave the camp standing for the next division. During the second day their stiffness fell away and by the third day, the regiment was marching well, with the old spirit reasserting itself. The heavy muskets ceased to be awkward inconveniences to the soldiers and again became unnoticed extensions of themselves.
These days marching were the first of many. The men had little idea where they were going, but they were far from discontented with the journey and they quickly became used to the routine. In the morning they looked eagerly at the countryside and towns they were passing through. As afternoon progressed, they looked forward to reaching camp, and in the early evening they arrived in the field with the piles of canvas, ropes and pegs awaiting their attention. The countrymen of the area would hurry in to sell them local produce and drink.
Villiers’ and Howard’s Old Buffs left Ghent on a Monday. They marched for the first three days and on the Thursday rested at the camp, where they had spent the night. They marched on the Friday and Saturday and rested again on the Sunday. The daily journeys were around fifteen miles and the weekly pattern was repeated until the end of April 1743, when the two regiments arrived at the South German town of Aschaffenburg in the Arch-Bishopric of Mainz, south east of Frankfurt. The division had marched two hundred and fifty miles in a month.
On the rest days, the soldiers formed groups and wandered into the nearby villages, except for one of the Old Buff companies, whose senior sergeant insisted on finding work for his men around the camp. The Nutbeam brothers, Ned Beamish and two young Buffs’ teamed up and, when they could, went fishing.
The old soldiers adopted two veteran Buffs, called Sabine and Toop, and the six soldiers at each stop found the most congenial drinking shop for the evening. On the rest days they did little but play cards.
Spring seemed to rush upon the division as it moved south, and by the final part of the march, it was early summer. The two regiments marched down to the banks of the River Main, east of Frankfurt, through an area with trees in full leaf. There was a light-hearted air over the column, the soldiers aware that they were reaching the end of their journey. Then a darker note intruded.
Nutbeam, marching in the right hand file, called out to the soldiers by him and pointed. On the far side of the river, a party of some twenty men in dark clothing, carrying muskets, was following a path along the bank. They were moving parallel to the Sky Blues and only two hundred yards away. The group turned off into the far woods and went out of sight, one by one.
“Those will be French soldiers,” said Tucking. “Irregular Grassins, doubtless.”
The word flew down the column. The Sky Blues were at last in the presence of the enemy.
The apprehensive German population appeared to welcome the two regiments, gathering by the roadside, smiling and waving. Given the choice, they would have preferred no foreign troops in the area, but the Grassins had already established a reputation as ruthless marauders and the German peasants hoped the English troops would keep them on the far side of the river.
The division marched along the north bank of the Main to Klein Ostheim, a village a mile short of the town of Aschaffenburg. Desmond, who had been moving ahead of the division during the march and had rarely been seen, was at the final campsite to meet them. This time, the Sky Blues erected their own tents and settled down to await the arrival of the rest of the Pragmatic Army. There was an air of excitement and expectation at the thought that there was a large French army on the far side of the river.
As one of the first arrivals, the regiment had the choice of campsites, but Marchment restrained his captains from pitching their tents in too good an area.
“It will be no good taking the best position,” he told them. “There are many senior officers coming after us and they will order us out, and take the place for themselves. We will then have to look around for another, at a time when all the acceptable sites will have gone. Choose one that is good enough, but not so good that someone else will want it.”
With this restrained ambition, the company commanders, using Desmond’s brief local knowledge, found a site near to running water and away from the road. The site was against the edge of the forest, so there was little risk of a thoroughfare developing through it, to other parts of the camp.
Prideaux’s unpacked the company tents from the wagon and erected them, under the supervision of the sergeants. There were eight tents for the soldiers, each housing up to ten men. The sergeants and corporals shared the ninth tent and there was a large bell tent for the armoury, with wooden racks to hold the stands of arms.
The soldiers divided between the tents as they felt inclined. The Old Soldiers teamed up with their particular cronies, while Beamish, Foxglove and the Nutbeams shared with Ned Stote and Squirrel and some of the younger soldiers. The two drummers had tried to move in with Mad Ned and his friends, but had been repelled. The Old Soldiers knew the drummers were turned out of bed half an hour before everyone else to beat reveille, disturbing the whole tent. Each of the three officers of the company had his own tent, which he shared with his servant.
The townspeople of Aschaffenburg, hearing that the first regiments of the Pragmatic Army had arrived, brought merchandise and produce to sell to the soldiers, setting up a market that became a regular part of the camp during the following weeks.
The Villiers’ officers celebrated the end of the march by entertaining their colleagues of Howard’s Old Buffs at dinner. Desmond had seen Westwood on occasions in Ghent, but had avoided him. On the evening of the dinner, Westwood arrived at the Sky Blues’ mess tent with his fellow officers and approached Desmond, holding out his hand. “Have we not met?” he asked, to Desmond’s surprise.
“Indeed. You are Lieutenant Westwood. My name is Desmond. We shared a bed at the King’s Head in the Strand.”
Westwood laughed. “Of course we did. There is nothing like sharing a bed to make fellows the best of friends. You must dine with me when I have settled into my new regiment.”
“You are leaving?” queried Desmond.
“I am selling out of the Buffs and taking a lieutenant’s commission in the Coldstream,” said Westwood.
He clearly had the resources to finance a worthwhile career in the Army, something that was beyond Desmond’s means. Commissions in the Foot Guards were far from cheap, carrying considerable social cachế and bearing substantive rank one above the duty rank, so that Westwood, as a lieutenant in the regiment, would be a captain in the Army.
While the officers of the two regiments dined, the soldiers, other than those on guard, set off to make the acquaintance of the town of Aschaffenburg and celebrate the end of the journey in their manner.
Nutbeam, Beamish and the two Foxgloves had taken to calling themselves the “Young Soldiers”, in mockery of their elders in Broadbent’s group. For this eveningthey had the company of the two Prideaux’s drummers. The party of six soldiers sought out an ale house in the main street of the town, pushing their way in through the throng of German locals. A hush fell over the taproom and the drinkers all looked round at the English newcomers.
A serving man wearing a long white apron approached them and said something. Beamish said “Beer” and waved his hand at the group. The man rubbed his fingers together. The soldiers conferred and laid some Dutch money on the bar. The serving man looked at it and seemed satisfied.
The Archbishopric of Mainz was an imperial dominion and currency from one area of the Empire was accepted in another. The server gathered up the coins and gestured to a table. The six Prideaux’s sat down and began drinking and talking, light hearted at having completed the long march and intrigued by their new surroundings. Whereas in Flanders, the English soldiers had been largely ignored, here they were objects of great interest to the local population and the other drinkers fell silent, listening to the young soldiers chatter.
They had been there for only a few minutes, when the door opened and Corporal Grimsdyke, accompanied by a group of grenadiers, strode into the taproom. The corporal looked around and seeing the young hat company soldiers, pointed to them and spoke to Lambe who was at his elbow. Lambe pushed over to the Prideaux’s table.
“Grimsdyke says this is now the grenadier’s taproom and you beetles are to hop it.”
“You tell Grimsdyke we have been sent here by Corporal Hazelwood,” said Nutbeam. “He’s joining us as soon as he’s found some tobacco for his pipe.”
Lambe shrugged and went back to the grenadier corporal to give him Nutbeam’s rejoinder. Grimsdyke looked hard at the young soldiers and led his party out of the bar.
The Prideaux’s did not have the place to themselves for long. Within the half hour it was filled with groups of soldiers from both regiments. Even Grimsdyke’s grenadiers returned, having found nowhere better. It proved to be a good natured evening and ended with the soldiers and the German locals singing a bawdy drinking song, that had been popular in the ale houses of Ghent. It had no title but the refrain went “I met a milk maid in the milking shed, but she was no maiden by the milking’s end”. Each nationality had its own words to the song. Even the Welsh regiments had a version in Welsh. It was the one song everyone in the taproom knew and they sang it over and over again. At ten o’clock drummers from the regiments beat through the town and the soldiers returned to their encampment.
The following afternoon, the next division, comprising the Royal Welch Fusiliers and Colonel Duroure’s regiment, marched in and over the next three weeks divisions arrived each day from Flanders until by the end of the month most of the army had arrived. The Austrian troops encamped nearest to Aschaffenburg, the English on the western side of the camp and the Hanoverians, marching in from the Electorate after the other contingents, were left to pitch their tents by the river. Each national area was broken down by regiments, which in turn was subdivided into companies or troops.
Numbers of civilian sutlers arrived with their wagons and spent the first few days bargaining at the various headquarters for licences to sell their wares within the confines of the camp. A Mister Jackman had brought two wagons down from Ghent with his wife and set up his pitch between the Sky Blues and Howard’s Old Buffs, selling gin and beer to the soldiers. His wife cooked what she described as English food and sold it to those soldiers with money to spare, after they had bought her husband’s distillations.
The camp was full of soldiers moving about on foot and horse. During the day there was a constant hubbub, from the shooting by regiments conducting their exercises, the firing of soldiers hunting game in the woods, the practice discharge of artillery by the river, to the rumble of wagons along the roadways, the cries of the waggoners and the crack of their whips, the shouting of orders in the various languages of the army and the playing of bands.
Hundreds of cooking fires smoldered constantly, marking the camp with a heavy pall of smoke by day and a myriad of twinkling flames at night.
The horse and dragoons were the last regiments to reach Aschaffenburg and the authorities moved a number of regiments of foot to provide space for a composite cavalry camp. It seemed to the foot soldiers that the army’s routine became entirely subordinated to the needs of the mounted regiments. Every day, parties of horse or dragoons rode out into the countryside to forage, leaving to the foot the burden of providing the many camp guards. The only duty that fell to the cavalry was the Grand Guard, a squadron kept with horses saddled, ready to deal with any surprise attack.
Twice a day, in the early morning and the afternoon, the cavalry took their horses to the river to water, using the points where the bank sloped, giving easy access. Several regiments of foot were encamped on the route to the watering points, and they suffered constant disruption as horses blundered through their lines, breaking tent ropes and kicking over equipment and cooking pots. Escaped horses, that had broken loose from their picket ropes, were a frequent sight in the camp, cantering about pursued by groups of exasperated troopers.
The wealthy officers of the horse hosted a round of rowdy and extravagant dinner parties. Only the English Foot Guards entertained on the same scale. These occasions often ended in some extraordinary drunken outrage. At the conclusion of one evening, the Blues and their guests marked their faces with exaggerated moustaches, in caricature of the Austrian troops, and attempted to take over the guard on the Duke D’Ahrembourg’s headquarters. There was a brawl with the outraged Austrian soldiers, only brought to an end by the intervention of the Duke himself, who pretended to be amused by his allies’ antics.
The lieutenants and cornets of the King’s Regiment of Horse reached the pinnacle of excess, by holding an al fresco dinner on the southern bank of the Main. After dark, the officers’ servants rowed across the river and set up the dinner table. These menials considered the escapade foolhardy in the extreme and were as quiet as could be, for fear of attracting the attention of the enemy. Their masters, extremely drunk by the time they made their way to the river, made a far from discreet crossing and a lively party ensued, with increasing numbers of Grassins sniping at the diners and the wretched soldiers attempting to serve them. The officers had pistols and any Grassin identified in the gloom, attracted a fusillade of shots. Items of mess silver took bullet holes and several servers received flesh wounds, from one side or the other. In the early hours of the morning, the revelers were rescued by a regiment of Austrian Hussars, who forded the river upstream and drove off the French marauders. They found the diners had been forced to take refuge behind the overturned tables, having run out of ammunition. The sound of shooting kept the Pragmatic camp in uproar throughout the night, as soldiers and officers gathered on the north bank to watch. It was left to the colonel of the King’s Horse, Sir Philip Honeywood, to discipline his young officers, which he did by ordering the regiment on an extended forage. It was felt that it would be difficult to cap the riverside dinner without actual loss of life, and there were no further escapades of this sort.
In late May 1743, the Pragmatic Army was reinforced by a further contingent of Austrian and Hungarian troops that marched in from Bavaria. There were now several regiments of Hungarian Hussars in the Army and to these troops fell the duty of scouting the wooded Spessart Hills to the North and the banks of the Main, towards Hanau in the West and to the East beyond Aschaffenburg. Gangs of these menacing horsemen rode out of the camp, to return days later hung round with the loot they had pillaged from the countryside. In their tall fur hats, long drooping moustaches and slung jackets, armed with curved scimitars and carbines, and riding tough little ponies hung round with tassels and embroidered saddle clothes, the hussars were a constant source of fascination to the English troops. They had the look of men for whom warfare was a life long activity. The hussars were never seen to bring in prisoners and the rumour was that no French soldier survived long in their hands. Even more sinister were the Austrian dismounted irregulars, the Pandours from Bosnia, who provided the Austrian Army with its equivalent of the Grassins. Many of the Grassins were Bosniacs who had deserted the Austrian Imperial Crown, to serve the French. It was believed in the army, that the Pandours were not particular whether they took their booty from their own side or the enemy.
At the end of April 1743, the rumour that had surprised the soldiers in Ghent proved to be true. His Majesty King George was on his way to command the army.
The protocol for receiving the King in a city was elaborate and clearly defined. Reception of the monarch in an operational military camp was not so well understood. The general officers discussed the problem at length and with some anxiety. The presence of a powerful French army on the other side of the river was a cause for great concern and it took some careful thought to make the necessary arrangements for the King’s reception and safety.
On the day of His Majesty’s arrival, all the guards would be found by the English and Hanoverian Foot Guards. His Majesty and the Foot Guards would expect no less. There were no Horse Guards or Horse Grenadier Guards with the army, although three troops were in His Majesty’s escort, so the Royal Regiment of Horse, commanded by the Earl of Hertford, would ride out on the day of His Majesty’s arrival, with the senior regiment of Austrian Horse, and escort the King the last mile of his journey to the camp.
The Hungarian Hussars were ordered to patrol the north bank of the Main and ensure that no French marauders crossed the river to threaten the royal cortege. On the arrival of His Majesty, the Army would muster along the riverbank and a salute would be fired by the foot and artillery. All the bands would play at various places throughout the camp, and in the evening there would be a firework display and more salutes. Everyone in the area, including the enemy, must know that a powerful and prestigious monarch had arrived to take command.
On 7th June 1743, dispatches arrived warning that His Majesty was two day’s travel from the camp. The regiment finding the main camp guards for that week was Villiers’ Foot. But it was inconceivable that a marching regiment should find the guard when His Majesty arrived, or so the officers of the Foot Guards maintained, and it was ordered that the First Guards would take over the duty before the King’s arrival and perform them for the rest of that day. The Foot Guards, through their exalted status, had done no duty in the camp until then and there was considerable irritation among the officers of foot that they should be required to surrender the guard duties on the one day that they would be an honour rather than a burden.
For the time that His Majesty was with the Army the Guards, both Foot and Horse, would find His Majesty’s personal escort, while the marching regiments would be left to resume the drudgery of the camp guards.
The Grenadier Company of the Sky Blues took over at the main entrance to the camp on the eighth of June, the day before His Majesty’s expected arrival. Sergeant Muffling, the senior sergeant, rose early in the morning and carried out his rounds. As he arrived at the Grand Guard Post, he saw one of his grenadiers standing outside the tent holding an officer’s horse, a thorough bred mount in yellow saddle clothes, worked with quantities of gold braid. Muffling entered the tent, where he found an officer of the Horse Guards. He touched his cap in salute.
“Ah sergeant” said the officer. “Please take me to his lordship, the Earl of Stair.”
On his return from this duty, Sergeant Muffling hurried to find the captain lieutenant. “Sir, His Majesty will arrive within the hour. He chose to travel through the night. An equerry has just arrived with the news and is with the Commander-in-Chief.”
The captain lieutenant, as irritated as all the officers of the marching regiments at being displaced by the Foot Guards, chortled to hear that the King had ridden roughshod over the carefully prepared plans for his reception. He leapt from his camp cot and hastened to rouse the lieutenant colonel.
Villiers’ Foot was quickly mustered at the entrance to the camp. The Commander in Chief, Lord Stair, and the English generals with the Austrian commanders, Prince Konigseck, the Duke D’Ahrembourg and Marshal Neipperg and their staffs, formed the reception party. When they eventually heard the news, the Foot Guards mustered as swiftly as they could, but it was too late to take over the guard. An Austrian band of oboes and horns and Villiers’ drummers and fifers, stood waiting to play His Majesty into the camp. The artillery assembled to fire the royal salute across the River Main. The camp seethed with soldiers hurrying about and mounted messengers galloped down the criss cross of lanes.
At half past seven, a winding column of carriages came into sight, along the road from Hanau. The King certainly surprised and impressed the army with the scale of his entourage. The column comprised one hundred carriages and wagons, drawn and accompanied by six hundred horses, and occupying several miles of road. It was headed by the Second Troop of Horse Grenadier Guards, commanded by Lord Tyrawley, and led by its mounted band of oboes, clarinets, horns and kettle drums. The troop’s trumpeters rode behind the band, intervening in the music with flourishes. Between the carriages rode picquets of the Third and Fourth Troops of Horse Guards, commanded respectively by the Earl of Albemarle and Lord Crawford.
The soldiers of the Horse Guards were gentlemen privates, holding the rank of cornet, who performed the most personal guard duties for the King and the Royal Family. They wore scarlet coats, cut as for officers, with royal blue facings and three cornered black beaver hats, edged with lace. The horses’ saddle cloths were white or yellow, decorated with gold braid and the royal cipher. The more mundane guard duties of the household cavalry were carried out by the troops of Horse Grenadier Guards. These troops were formed of ordinary soldiers, dressed in scarlet coats and royal blue facings, but with grenadier mitres as headgear. One of the officers of the Second Troop of Horse Grenadier Guards was Lieutenant George Augustus Elliot, who in the Bourbon War of 1773, also known as the American Revolutionary War, would defend the Rock of Gibraltar during its seven year siege by French and Spanish forces. Elliot’s father rode at the head of the troop as its lieutenant colonel.
His Majesty rode on horseback for the last miles of the journey, accompanied by the Duke of Cumberland. Other members of the royal household and the staff, including Lord Carteret, the Secretary of State, continued by coach. Clouds of dust billowed into the air as the two miles of riders, carriages and wagons completed the final approach. The royal entourage entered the camp, passing the Sky Blues drawn up at the entrance. The officers swept off their hats in deep bows, the ensigns lowered the colours in salute and the soldiers cheered. They were genuinely moved that the old gentleman they had taken a liking to at Blackheath had troubled to join them in this remote spot. They waved their hats and muskets and His Majesty beamed at “his regiment of foot commanded by his trusty and beloved Ambrose, a major general of the foot”. Marchment glowered about him, infuriated by this public breach of discipline.
The King stopped to exchange salutations with the generals of various nationalities, gathered to greet him. The column of royal vehicles came to a halt and formed a blockage on the road that took the rest of the day to disentangle.
The King and his household, escorted by the commander in chief and the Austrian general officers, rode to the army’s headquarters to be entertained at breakfast. As His Majesty sat down to eat, in high excitement at being in the midst of his army, the foot discharged a number of “feus de joie” in the open ground by the river and the artillery fired the royal salute. Every band in the army had mustered and was playing its most rousing repertoire. The sound of firing and the clouds of gunpowder smoke reduced many of the cavalry horses to a state of panic. Clusters of them broke from their picket lines and careered wildly around the camp, pursued by their riders. The hullabaloo was clearly audible to the army on the far side of the Main and parties of French troops gathered on the bank of the river to watch.
The King’s arrival triggered days of celebration and formal entertainment, during which His Majesty attended church services in the surrounding cities of Frankfurt, Hanau and in particular Mainz. The Archbishop of Mainz, ruler of this small principality, had died and King George was keen to influence the selection of his successor, in the interests of the security of Hanover. It was now the army’s view that this concern lay behind their dispatch to this remote corner of the German Empire. The English establishment was constantly suspicious that England’s interests were subordinated to Hanover’s in the King’s plans, and the English officers muttered against their German colleagues accordingly.
The senior commanders of the army had largely lost sight of the military aims of the campaign, if there had been any, while on the other side of the river the French commander, the Duc de Noailles, was plotting their downfall and the capture of the King of England.
The situation of the Pragmatic Army was far from happy. It was two hundred miles from its base in Flanders. The area was a poor one and much of the food and all the munitions had to be brought by barge up the Rhine and along its Main tributary to Aschaffenburg. The first aggressive move on the part of the Duc De Noailles was to cut this route, stopping the flow of supplies.
After a week of increasing privation, the English and Austrian senior officers persuaded the King that the Army must move north and re-establish its links with the Flemish bases, before it starved. The King finally acquiesced, even though the Mainz election had not yet taken place, and on 8th June 1743 the army broke camp, to begin the march west through Hanau to Frankfurt.
The road to Hanau followed the north bank of the Main River and the first place on the Army’s route would be the village of Dettingen, where two streams, the Forchback and the Haggraben, joined the river.
It took all day to dismantle the extensive camp and load the tents and equipment into wagons, the French Grassins watching the activity from the far side of the Main. That night the troops, exhausted after the long day’s work, slept in the open, ready to begin the march the next morning, the foot covered by blankets, if they had them, and the horse and dragoons wrapped in their picquet capes.
Chapter 6
At 5am the drummers beat the ‘general’, rousing the army for the march to Hanau. The hazy dawn warned of a hot day. Across the fields, where for the previous weeks the camp had stood, soldiers got to their feet, collected their firelocks from the wooden stands and assembled by companies, fastening their coats, buckling cross and waist belts and buttoning their thigh length gaiters. The men’s coats were damp from the night spent in the open, and, as their bodies heated up, the moisture evaporated, shrouding them in a light mist and giving them the appearance of groups of specters.
Gruel was served to the soldiers from the company kettles. There had been no bread for a week.
The officers stood drinking coffee, eating fruit and cake, and talking of the march and the change of quarters to the city of Frankfurt. All ranks expected the march to be an uneventful drudgery.
By seven o’clock the regiments were mustering on the Hanau road and soon the van of the column, comprising Austrian Dragoons and Hussars, moved off to the West. Aschaffenburg and Klein Ostheim reverberated to the beat of drum and the rumble of wagons, the dust churned up by the troops and vehicles choking the air.
It was soon apparent that the French were also on the move, but on the far side of the river, and in the opposite direction. Columns could be seen on the south bank of the Main, marching towards Aschaffenburg. The soldiers speculated as to what the French might be up to and the consensus was that Noailles must be planning to re-invade Germany further to the East, once the Pragmatic Army had gone.
The progress of the column was slow and by 9am the Sky Blues had moved only a few hundred yards. Grimsdyke and his cronies were marching in the rear files of the grenadier company and the corporal repeatedly turned to talk to Hazelwood and Rathbone, who were at the front of Prideaux’s immediately behind the grenadiers. Grimsdyke and Hazelwood seemed to have buried their antipathy. The grenadiers laughed at Grimsdyke’s sallies and grinned sheepishly at Hazelwood’s ripostes. They were all in good spirits, pleased to be marching to Hanau, where they might expect a proper supply to be established.
In spite of their relief, the soldiers felt a sense of anticlimax. They had marched a long way to Southern Germany and come into the presence of a powerful French army, with which they had expected to do battle. Instead the two sides had postured across the Main for three months, threatening dire consequences if they should meet, but each remaining on its own side of the river. There had been nothing more than skirmishes between Grassins, Pandours and Hussars engaged in looting. Even when foraging, each army had been careful not to trespass on the territory of the other.
Desmond had passed on his duties as regimental adjutant and was marching with the company. Prideaux and Ensign Stowe had returned from London just before the King’s arrival, enabling the company to boast a full complement of officers for the first time in seven months. Tucking was pleased to have given up his burden of responsibility, although for the soldiers the senior sergeant remained the significant authority in their lives.
After the short move, the column halted and waited for an hour. It was not clear why. But the soldiers were well used to unexplained delays and stood patiently, gossiping among themselves. Suddenly the regiment in front of the Sky Blues moved off the road in a wave. The sergeants and officers, amid much shouting and jostling, hustled Villiers’ into the fields, as back down the road, heading to the rear of the Army, came the three battalions of Foot Guards. Why these regiments should be marching in the opposite direction to the rest of the army was a matter for rude conjecture.
The Sky Blues broke into ironic cheers, which the Foot Guards returned. Hazelwood’s group spotted the Foot Guards they had scrapped with at Blackheath and the corporal called, “Hey, you Tower watchmen. You’re going the wrong way. Hanau is thataway.”
Desmond caught sight of Westwood in the Coldstream and the ex-Buff waved to him.
Once the Guards were past, the foot started back onto the road, only to be jostled to the side again by a regiment of Hungarian Hussars trotting towards the front of the army, followed by Austrian dragoons.
Ned Beamish commented, “This is worse than Tyburn on a hanging day.”
The road cleared of the cavalry and the Sky Blues moved back into column. Beamish looked pointedly each way and announced, “Does anyone mind if we use the road now?”
The march resumed, but only for a half mile, after which the pace slowed again. The Villiers’ soldiers sensed that something was up. Ahead they could see regiments of foot turning off the track and marching down to the river. Several soldiers pointed excitedly towards the country to the right. Regiments from the column were there as well. The army was forming a line from the river to the woods astride the road.
Minutes later Howard’s Old Buffs, the regiment immediately in front of the Sky Blues, wheeled off the road to the left and headed towards the river. Once the Buffs were into the field, Lieutenant Colonel Marchment, riding at the head of the Villiers’ grenadier company, found himself confronted by a group of senior officers. In the middle stood the tall hook nosed figure of General Clayton, the lieutenant general of the foot and commander of the first line in battle. Clayton was gesturing towards the distant town of Dettingen, but he looked round and watched as a major from his staff approached Marchment.
“Sir,” the major said. “The Army is forming from the Main to the Spessart Hills. Your regiment is to march to the riverbank and take position on the left of the first line.”
“And may I ask why?” said the lieutenant colonel. “I had thought we were marching to Hanau.”
Clayton called over, “Colonel Marchment. The French have crossed the Main. They are holding Dettingen and the marshes between the village and the hills. The army will have to fight its way through to Hanau.”
A wave of excitement swept through the Sky Blues as the news was passed back.
Prideaux commented to Desmond, “…and the French must also be attacking the army’s rear by crossing the Main to the East of Aschaffenburg. Hence the return of the Foot Guards to the town.”
It was clear to the officers that the Pragmatic Army was in a trap, with French troops behind and in front of it.
Marchment raised his hat to General Clayton and led Villiers’ into the heath land bordering the river. The English regiments that had been ahead in the column were already in line; Johnson’s, Duroure’s, Newsome Peers’ Royal Welch Fusiliers and Campbell’s Scottish Fusiliers. Two of the ensigns in Duroure’s Foot were Edward Wolfe and his older brother James, who would die as a major general storming Quebec in 1759.
The regiments of foot formed clumps of scarlet across the meadows, the sergeants jostling the soldiers into ranks, the colours waving over the grenadier companies, where they were positioned for the greatest protection. The officers stood in groups, discussing the situation and looking around to see what might be about to happen.
Villiers’ marched along the back of the line. As they passed, the soldiers in the rear ranks turned and called to them, some to particular Sky Blues they knew, others shouting general encouragement and jests. The men in these regiments knew they would be the principle casualties once the firing started.
As they reached the end of the line, Marchment directed each company to halt. Villiers’ was on the extreme flank with only the river on its left. On its right were the Royal Scots Fusiliers and beyond them the Royal Welch Fusiliers. Howard’s Old Buffs stood behind the Sky Blues in the second line. Brigades of English Horse and Dragoons were coming up the river bank from the rear of the army, into the gap on the left of the two lines of foot.
The Villiers’ sergeants moved through the companies ensuring that the soldiers were properly formed up. Tucking, Rathbone and Whitebeard pushed the front rank of Prideaux’s into a straight line with their halberds. They carried out the same operation with the second and third ranks.
During the weeks in the camp, the soldiers had paid many visits to Dettingen, particularly once Aschaffenburg had become the haunt of officers. They had often walked the two miles to the old fifteenth century gasthaus, Die Krone, and some of the younger soldiers had struck up relationships with girls from the village. It had become a familiar place.
The foot stood facing Dettingen, but it was no longer the friendly village of their acquaintance. They could see standards and infantry colours fluttering above the swarming black hats of French troops thronging the streets. French guns and foot were positioned along the Haggraben and Forchbach streams between Dettingen and the wooded hills to the North, with cavalry formations behind them.
The men talked among themselves, discussing the enemy and the impending battle that had come upon them so unexpectedly. It was a matter of some amazement to the English soldiers that such a large force could have crossed the Main and taken up these positions, apparently without anyone in the Pragmatic Army observing them.
The soldiers also watched the French columns on the other side of the river, marching back towards Aschaffenburg. Whilst not as aware as the officers of the precise danger, they felt considerable anxiety at the sight. The French seemed to be all round them.
The Sky Blues’ attention was still taken up with the movements on the far side of the river when Major Ireton rode down the line, calling out to the company commanders, “The soldiers are to load their firelocks and fix their bayonets.”
Captain Prideaux looked over to Tucking. Tucking nodded and bellowed, “Take care,” and the talking subsided a little.
Prideaux called out, “Load and fix bayonets.”
Following the order Tucking moved along the lines, watching the men. To his mind Prideaux should have given the two directions separately and called out the detailed orders for loading. Many of the soldiers had not fired their muskets for some time and were not particularly confident in the sequence of actions. On the other hand Captain Prideaux probably did not know them himself and he would have had to direct Desmond or Tucking to give them.
Major Ireton rode up again. “Your soldiers are not to fire until the lieutenant colonel gives the word. Captain Prideaux, impress this order on your company please.”
Prideaux raised his hat and he and Lieutenant Desmond made their way down the ranks, saying, “You are not to fire until the lieutenant colonel gives the word.” Tucking doubted that the soldiers were taking in what was being said. Many were still intent on loading, whilst others were gazing at the distant French troops. There was an air of excitement and confusion. There was too much going on for the men to absorb and understand the directions given by the officers.
Tucking repeated the instruction in his own way. He went down the ranks, pushing the soldiers until he had their attention and shouted, “Did you hear the captain? You may not present your firelocks until I tell you. Do you understand me? Until I tell you.” Few of the soldiers in the company knew who the lieutenant colonel was, but all knew Tucking. Even then the sergeant doubted that more than a few had taken in what was required of them. It was too late to issue directions like this to the excited soldiers.
Suddenly there was an ear splitting crack and a boom. It was the first cannon shot of the battle, fired by a French battery on the far side of the river. The English foot flinched in surprise. The cannon ball hurtled across the river and flew past the English horse and dragoons at whom it had been aimed.
It was now clear what had happened. During the previous day a strong French contingent of horse, foot and guns, commanded by Count Grammont, had crossed the Main to the West of Dettingen, using three hastily assembled bridges of boats, and occupied the village and marshes so as to block the Pragmatic Army’s route to Hanau. It was the intention of the Duc De Noailles, the French commander, to throw a second force across the river into Aschaffenburg, once the army had marched out of that town. The English, Austrians and Hanoverians would then be trapped between that force and the French troops straddling the Hanau road at Dettingen. As the Pragmatic Army moved West, French columns had been marching along the southern riverbank to the East. The route of this second force took it in front of the French batteries positioned on the edge of the woods to the South of the Main. As the rear of the eastbound column cleared the battery fronts, the guns were enabled to shoot across the river into the Pragmatic Army.
As the first gun was unmasked it opened fire. It was this gun that had startled the English soldiers and it was joined by the rest of the batteries as the columns passed them, until there were some fifty guns firing across the river into the rear and flank of the force of English cavalry riding forward along the river bank. Although none of the cannon shots at this stage came in the direction of the foot, the atmosphere of anxiety in those regiments increased markedly. It was not clear that the Pragmatic generals had any plan beyond forming line and waiting.
The Sky Blues, in their exposed position on the flank, watched the brigades of horse and dragoons as they moved up to the left of the foot. They could see that many of the troopers were having great difficulty controlling their mounts under the unexpected cannon fire.
The first brigade comprised the Third and Fourth Troops of Horse Guards and the Second Troop of Horse Grenadier Guards; the second brigade, the Blues, Honeywood’s King’s Regiment of Horse and General Ligonier’s Black Horse. Ligonier’s bore the nickname, “The Virgin Mary’s Bodyguard”, a reference to the Empress of Austria for whom the Pragmatic Army was ostensibly fighting. A young lieutenant in Ligonier’s was Jeffrey Amherst, who would command in North America in the Seven Years War from 1758 onwards.
The remaining two brigades were of dragoons. In the first: Hawley’s Royals, Campbell’s Royal North British Dragoons, known as the Scots Greys from their distinctive white horses, and Bland’s King’s Own Dragoons. Major General Humphrey Bland was the adjutant general of the English force and the author of the “Treatise on Military Discipline”, a standard work on tactics and military organisation that would run to ten editions between 1720 and 1765. In the second brigade of dragoons were Sir Robert Rich’s, the Earl of Stair’s and Cope’s regiments. General Cope was commanding in Scotland where he would face the cataclysm of the Jabobite rebellion and heavy defeat at Prestonpans.
Once the cannonade started, much of the English cavalry began to dissolve in confusion. The Blackheath review had been a foretaste of the chaos into which battle would throw these ill-trained regiments. The troopers were not good riders and the horses were unused to manoeuvring in numbers, but in particular, as the review had shown, they were wholly unprepared for the noise and smoke of battle. Many of the mounts took fright at the first cannon shots, throwing their riders and galloping off.
At the onset of the firing, the King’s horse bolted, carrying him across the battlefield and finally throwing him. He was rescued by soldiers from a regiment of the second line and spent much of the rest of the battle in the shade of a tree, shaken and bruised, muttering to himself in German and mopping his brow.
Later in the battle the Blues and the King’s Regiment of Horse would career in a mass into the Scots Fusiliers breaking their line, a feat the French were unable to achieve.
Major Ireton rode along Villiers’ ranks at a canter.
“Captain Prideaux,” he called. “The French are advancing out of Dettingen. We are soon to be attacked.” With the rest of the company, Prideaux had been watching the horse and dragoons on the river bank. He looked to the regiment’s front to see columns of troops issuing from the distant village. Desmond pointed further north, to the marshy area around the brooks. French troops were advancing there as well and within a quarter of an hour, the ground to the East of the marshes was taken up by foot and horse.
Between the French regiments, artillery was coming into action, the discharges marked by flashes and puffs of smoke. Several batteries directed their fire at the left flank of English Foot. A cannon ball howled over Villiers’ and ploughed into the ground behind the second line. Few of the Sky Blues had time to note that this was the first shot fired directly at them. The next ball ploughed straight through Curzon’s company. One man was cut in half and another lost an arm. This seemed to be an unlucky shot. The battery increased its rate of shooting but few of the balls were pitched correctly and they either hit the ground short, or flew over the regiment.
The cannon fire had a significant effect on the Sky Blues’ morale. The guns made an appalling noise. When a cannon fired directly at them, the soldiers saw a spout of flame and a moment later heard the explosion of the shot, an earsplitting crack followed by a deep boom. The cannon balls that passed overhead made a terrible, moaning whistle, which made many of the men flinch. When a ball hit the ground, there was a thump and a tearing impact that threw up a shower of earth and stones. A number of shots fell short, propelling this debris at the regiment and inflicting terrible injuries. Several Sky Blues were struck in this way, few of whom could be expected to survive. There was no system for removing the wounded from the line and the injured were left where they fell, shrieking and writhing until unconscious from pain and loss of blood.
The soldiers found the cannon fire entirely unnerving. Some wanted to rush forward and get to grips with the enemy, whilst others looked to escape altogether. Tucking placed sergeants and corporals along the back of the company to steady the rear ranks, while the officers stood at the front to restrain the soldiers from advancing.
After an hour of this ordeal, a company of Royal Artillery came creaking and rumbling into the gap between Villiers’ and the Scottish Fusiliers. The guns were unhitched and wheeled round to face the French. The artillery horses had been hired with their drivers from Flemish contractors and these civilians, deeply worried at being in the firing line, hurried the horses away as soon as they had been released, leaving the guns incapable of further movement.
Soldiers took the buckets hanging under the gun carriages and went off to the river to collect water, essential for cleaning out the guns after each shot so that gunpowder was not packed onto burning embers. The gunners brought up the charges from the wagons and loaded the guns. Each round comprised a cartridge of powder, followed by the cannonball, all rammed to the bottom of the barrel. The bombardier of the crew pushed the picker, that hung from his cross belt, down the touch hole to break into the cartridge and then primed the hole with powder from the priming horn he carried at his waist. He gestured to the gunner holding the linstock and yelled, “Stand clear of the gun…Fire.” The gunner thrust the glowing match on the linstock into the touch hole and the first gun fired, followed in quick succession by its fellows. Immediately the crews rushed forward to sponge out the barrels and load the next salvo.
The effect of the return artillery fire on the regiments of foot was instant and dramatic. The soldiers cheered and waved their hats, the urge to run, either forward or back, forgotten. Even when French cannonballs continued to strike the battalions the men stoically closed up around the casualties.
In Prideaux’s company a further unlucky shot struck down a file. Josh Foxglove’s brother fell to the ground, his leg mangled by the passage of the ball. Standing beside him in the ranks, Josh threw down his musket and knelt by the stricken soldier. A corporal struck him hard in the back and said, “Stand up, boy.” Slowly he got to his feet. “Take up your firelock.” Josh obeyed and stood watching his brother lying beside him.
The English battery had been firing for some time, when Prideaux yelled, “Have a care.”
The archaic command, taken up by the sergeants and corporals, caused the soldiers to peer through the clouds of acrid powder smoke generated by the artillery discharges. The smoke was hard to see through and unpleasant to breath and many of the men were holding pieces of cloth over their faces. Few could make out what Prideaux was warning of, until they felt a shaking of the ground and heard a deep rumbling sound.
The gunners paused in their firing to change from ball to grape shot and as the gunpowder smoke drifted away, the soldiers saw the cause of the vibration; a mass of French cavalry spread across the ground to their front, charging towards them. The Count de Grammont had launched his horse against the English line. In front of the Sky Blues’ was the grey uniformed household regiment, the Gens D’Armes Du Roi.
None of the soldiers had experienced a cavalry charge, except the few old sergeants who had been in the Duke of Marlborough’s army at the beginning of the century. The experience was a shock; a wall of horsemen appearing out of the smoke, bearing down on them too quickly for the foot soldiers to do anything but react by instinct. Even the officers were dumbfounded. The drumming hoofs shook the ground and the French troopers yelled and brandished their swords, which glinted in the sun.
The officers’ concern had been that the regiment would fire too soon and before the order was given. But when the Sky Blues saw the French horse, they were already threateningly close and, without any command, the soldiers brought their muskets to the present and fired. The discharge brought the cavalry to an abrupt halt, many of the front rank shot out of their saddles, their horses hit. Only a few of the Gens D’Armes, mostly officers, continued the charge, while the rest of the troopers turned their mounts away, discharging their pistols ineffectually at the English line. The officers rode on to engage the foot soldiers hand to hand and were immediately surrounded by groups of Sky Blues, who attacked them with bayonets and musket butts. The main body of the Gens D’Armes surged about at a distance, looking on, as their officers fought for their lives.
Mad Ned had viewed the onset of battle with mixed feelings. He had been a man of peace, until his unfrocking had taken him into the Army, the arch-proponent of violence. One of the causes of his downfall had been that, in drink, he showed extreme aggression. Ironically, Ned was now in the most violent episode of his life and entirely sober. He had suffered the same feelings of uncertainty and panic as his fellows during the cannonade. When the other soldiers fired into the French horse, Ned found himself clutching his musket, unable to move. As the individual Gens D'Armes rode into the line and were surrounded by enraged foot soldiers, Ned came to himself and joined the attack on a portly French captain. Bravado had taken this officer into the Sky Blues’ ranks and now he was desperately fending off the foot soldiers as they lunged and struck at him. Standing at the back of the group, Ned raised his undischarged musket and shot the officer through the head. The Frenchman froze in a downward sword cut and cart wheeled over the back of his horse, leaving the panic stricken animal to gallop off.
Once they had disposed of the horsemen in their ranks, the Sky Blues turned their fire on the groups of Gens D’Armes hovering at pistol range. Unwilling to follow the officers in charging home and now leaderless, the French regiment fell back and, in the impetus of its retreat, broke up and scattered. All along the line of foot the French cavalry attack was repelled in much the same way.
The English foot were ecstatic at their success. They had experienced all the wildly fluctuating emotions of the battlefield; terror at being cannonaded, then relief at the counter battery fire that seemed to bring respite, then again fear at the sight of the attacking cavalry and finally jubilation at repulsing them so decisively. As with the rest of the first line regiments, the Sky Blues had largely lost order. Major Ireton and Lieutenant Colonel Marchment, using the overview that being mounted gave them, rode through the companies finding the officers and sergeants and directing them to restore the line. Tucking and the other sergeants pushed and cursed the soldiers back into ranks, while Prideaux and Desmond watched, glancing anxiously in the direction of the French.
This time it was the lieutenant colonel who gave the warning. He rode through the regiment shouting, “To your front, take care, to your front.”
The French infantry were advancing to the attack, their drummers producing a frenzied beat that roared across the field. They cheered and waved their hats as they moved towards the English line.
Desmond hurried along the front of the company. The soldiers were staring fixedly at the advancing French, many holding their muskets in both hands, cocking the firing mechanism.
“Do not fire until the word is given,” Desmond shouted waving his sword at his men. “Do you understand me. You may not fire until the word is given.”
The exhilaration at repelling the cavalry had evaporated in a moment. The soldiers paid no heed to Desmond’s exhortations, transfixed as they were by the sight of the mass of advancing Frenchmen. Suddenly the first shot was fired by a Sky Blue, followed by much of the rest of the battalion. No order had been given and the range was too great. When the smoke cleared it was apparent that the ragged volley, if it could be called that, had caused little damage.
The pace of the advance had been inhibited by the French soldiers’ anticipation of the English fire and many of the French soldiers threw themselves to the ground at the moment of discharge. Now the Gardes Francaises, the regiment advancing on the Sky Blues, rushed forward to the attack, all constraint abandoned.
The Scots Fusiliers, next in the line to Villiers’, were under tighter control and reserved their discharge until the range was less than fifty yards. The French regiments advancing on the Scotsmen were reluctant to face their fire at close quarters and held back. The Fusilier’s volley when it came was sufficient to cause the French to halt completely. A fierce fire fight developed but there was no mass attack upon them.
For Villiers’ it was a hand to hand struggle as the Gardes Francaises broke into the regiment’s line. It was the first time the foot of the two sides had met at close quarters. The Sky Blues were goaded by fear and hatred of the French. Everything about them seemed alien and threatening; the looming mass of blue coated soldiers, yelling hoarse expletives in an incomprehensible tongue through battered discoloured teeth; a wave of sickening smells from unwashed bodies and clothing, strange cooking and foreign alcohol and tobacco. The Sky Blues struck back with musket butts, hangers and bayonets. Clothing and limbs were hacked away and bloody hats struck from smashed skulls. Hatred fuelled the desperate fighting.
Together with the rest of the line, Mad Ned had given way to panic and fired too soon at the distant French. In the ensuing struggle two screaming soldiers made for Ned, lunging at him with their bayonets. One missed and the other embedded his weapon in the Sky Blue’s ammunition pouch. Ned, in a frenzy of fear, struck out with his hanger, cutting the man across the face, so that he fell to his knees clutching his severed cheek. The second Frenchmen aimed at Ned, but before he could fire, Eli Wellbeloved, who was next to Ned in the line, shot him. He fired the round at such short range that the flaming wad set fire to the Frenchman’s coat as the ball smashed his ribs. The man was thrown back onto the ground, his chest erupting smoke and blood. A group of French soldiers rushed over the body at the two Sky Blues. Wellbeloved seized the muzzle of his firelock and in wide scythe-like sweeps brought several down, enabling him and Ned to scramble back into the body of the regiment.
Major Ireton rode past calling, “Sergeants, have your men load and re-form.” Acting on this order Whitebeard pushed through the mass of soldiers shouting, “Charge your firelocks, boys. Load and fire…. Load and fire.” The Sky Blues were giving ground, but as they fell back the soldiers paused and discharged their muskets at the French.
One part of Prideaux’s company did not retreat. Corporal Hazelwood and the files immediately around him had held their fire. Hazelwood swore that any soldier who presented before receiving the order, would get the point of his bayonet in the stomach. The French files opposite this determined group hung back and when they eventually closed, Hazelwood growled, “Shoot that officer.”
The captain of the Gardes Francaises Hazelwood indicated was standing well in front of the French line. He was smartly dressed in a full blue coat, heavily decorated with lace, and wore a wig, freshly powdered for the battle. The officer held an elegant sword in one hand and with the other he pressed an embroidered handkerchief to his nose. He appeared to find his soldiers as malodorous as did the English foot.
Several of the shots fired by Hazelwood’s party struck the officer, who threw up the sword and handkerchief and fell on his hands and knees before slumping to the ground. A number of French soldiers rushed forward and started stripping the body. The English soldiers charged them and there was a savage clash over the officer’s corpse. Hazelwood’s assault began a rally that spread along the line.
Again the pendulum of battlefield morale swung back to excessive confidence. The front ranks of Sky Blues, reinforced by the soldiers from the rear, counter attacked. Those French soldiers who had penetrated the Villiers’ line were surrounded and, if they survived, driven out. The regiment surged forward and forced back the main body of the Gardes Francaise. Many of the soldiers in the French rear ranks, losing heart, turned and hurried away from the fighting. Finding themselves unsupported, the front ranks followed their comrades, the retreat becoming a rout as the French infantry melted away in disorder back towards Dettingen.
There was however no pursuit. The confusion of the battle, the casualties and the noise and smoke had brought about a complete dissolution of the tenuous control exercised by the officers and sergeants. The English foot advanced to the line of French wounded and dead and began to strip the bodies of clothing, shoes and possessions. Soldiers left their companies seeking booty or searching for missing comrades.
Hazelwood seized a watch from the French captain they had shot. Brutus Carter took his purse and Newbiggin his sword and scabbard. The rest of the group dragged off the officer’s sumptuous clothes, all of which they sold to the army sutlers after the battle. Overall the booty was disappointing, only those English soldiers who were fortunate enough to pillage the bodies of officers acquiring anything of value. Most were less fortunate. They found the French foot soldiers to be scrawny undernourished men and it was apparent from their pitiful belongings that they lived in penury. Their clothes and shoes proved to be far inferior to those the English soldiers already wore.
The battle ended in the late afternoon. A line of sprawled Sky Blues, dead and wounded, marked where the regiment had stood during the two attacks. Major Ireton had been shot in the arm and was being cared for by his servant. Several other Villiers’ officers had been wounded and were being treated at the back of the line. The remainder, urged on by Lieutenant Colonel Marchment, searched out their sergeants and corporals and set them to sorting the confused mass of soldiers. Those who could find drummers directed them to beat, but given the lack of a denominator of order, the drumming merely added to the confusion.
The retreating French troops streamed back to the bridges of boats beyond Dettingen and crossed to the south bank. One bridge collapsed under the crush and spilled hundreds of soldiers into the Main, where many drowned. The Gardes Francaises was particularly quick to escape across the river and the rest of the French Army dubbed them “Les Canards du Main”, or the “Main ducks”. The name stuck and duels were fought over the insulting label, the nickname giving birth to the French expression “un canard” or an insult.
Before the battle, the sick of the English regiments had been in the flying hospital in Aschaffenburg. Lazenby had been attached to the hospital with Sarah Hazelwood and the other nurse tenders and orderlies from Villiers’. During the early part of the battle they watched the columns marching west from the town and then listened to the cannonade and small arms fire that started at around midday. They could see the heavy pall of smoke building up over the distant battlefield. Throughout the day wagons rumbled past the hospital windows as the army’s baggage left for Hanau. Across the Main they could see the French columns moving along the riverbank, looking for a point to cross and seize the town. The weeks of busy routine had suddenly evaporated in confusion and apprehension.
Late in the afternoon, an officer came into the hospital and informed the medical staff that the battle had been won and the army was continuing its march. He told them that the commander-in-chief, Lord Stair, had negotiated with the Duc de Noailles that the sick and wounded would be left in Aschaffenburg in the care of the French. The surgeons and their assistants were to leave with the army baggage for Hanau at once.
“You say we are to leave the sick and injured of our regiment here, in case the French feel like looking after them?” said Lazenby.
“Those are the orders,” said the officer, before hurrying out of the building.
Lazenby snorted and went over to his trunk, taking out a brace of pistols and a hanger. He loaded the pistols and gave one to Sarah Hazelwood. “Come,” he ordered. The surgeon and the nurse tenders went out into the street, where the column of wagons was moving down the road in a haze of dust. Lazenby halted one, grabbing the horses’ bridles. Leaving one of the women holding the team, Lazenby went round to the driver.
“I have a job for your wagon,” he said, showing his pistol to the civilian driver.
“Sarah, watch this man for me,” Lazenby directed.
The corporal’s wife pulled herself onto the box, and sat with a pistol in her lap. The orderlies unloaded some of the foodstuffs from the back of the wagon, while Lazenby and the nurse tenders brought the Villiers’ patients out and helped them onto the vehicle. Seeing that another wagon had stopped immediately behind, Lazenby put two of the nurse tenders on the box with the driver, giving one his second pistol. He climbed onto the lead wagon and ordered the driver to pull into the column.
The road out of Aschaffenburg was crowded with troops and vehicles, ensuring that it took Lazenby and his party a good hour to reach the battlefield. A half mile short of Dettingen, they reached the line of foot stretching from the woods to the river bank. Further down the road a pall of smoke hung over the village and crowds of French stragglers could be seen hurrying to cross the bridge.
Lazenby called to a mounted English officer. “Sir, where will we find General Villiers’ regiment?” The officer pointed towards the Main and said, “They are at the end of the first line of foot.” Lazenby waved his acknowledgement.
The officer turned his horse and rode over to the wagon. Reining in by the driver’s box, he said to Lazenby, “Are you an English surgeon?”
“I am a Scottish surgeon,” said Lazenby.
“In which case I have need of your services,” said the officer. “I am ordered to bring medical assistance with all speed. I must ask you to accompany me.”
Lazenby was nonplussed. “Sir, I am the surgeon of General Villiers’ Foot. I have my duty to my regiment.”
“I think the obligation I have for you outweighs any regimental duty. Please come with me without further argument.”
The officer called an order to a group of Horse Grenadier troopers waiting by the road and one of the troopers led his mount forward.
“Take this horse,” the officer said to Lazenby.
The surgeon climbed down from the box and called to the nurse tenders on the second wagon, “Go on to the regiment and collect the wounded.” He said to his assistant, “Sarah, wait here for me.”
Lazenby mounted the horse held by the grenadier and the officer spurred into a canter, leading the way across the field to a clump of trees. Lazenby caught up with him and asked, “Sir, what duty is it that I am required to perform, that causes you to take me from my regiment in such a peremptory manner?”
“His Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland has been wounded,” said the officer. “The royal surgeons are still in Aschaffenburg. You are to treat him.” The officer smiled wryly at Lazenby. “Your chance of fame and fortune perhaps? Mister er…?”
“My name is Lazenby,” said the surgeon. “Yes, fame and fortune, or perhaps the Tower.”
They dismounted and handed their horses to two Horse Grenadier Guards. Behind these troopers stood a group of officers, the lavishness of their dress marking them out as members of the royal retinue. The officer with Lazenby pushed through the group and said, “Your Royal Highness, I have brought a surgeon, Mister Lazenby of General Villiers’ regiment.”
The Duke, a corpulent young man richly dressed in a scarlet coat covered with decorations, sat sprawled in a field chair, his leg pushed out in front of him. One boot had been removed, revealing a bloody wound in his calf. The Duke’s large pink head was covered in sweat and his bulbous eyes were bloodshot and restless.
“Mister Lazenby I am shot in the leg. I would be most obliged if you would assist me.”
“Most certainly sir,” said the surgeon. It was going to be difficult, pitched into treating a royal patient before a group of senior officers, who were watching his every move. But then all soldiers wounded in battle are much the same, in pain, worried, confused. It matters not how exalted they are in such circumstances.
Lazenby placed his box of instruments on the ground and knelt down. He took out a knife and cut away the duke’s britches, exposing the wound, and felt around for an exit point.
“Sir,” said Lazenby. “The ball would appear still to be in your leg. I propose to extract it.”
“By all means,” said the duke faintly. It was apparent that he had been liberally dosed with brandy.
The bullet had lodged in the duke’s calf, against the muscle. It was the work of a few minutes for Lazenby to cut into the wound and extract the bullet with tweezers. He dropped the lead ball into his brass bleeding dish, where it landed with a clang and rolled back and forth watched by the staff officers.
Lazenby dosed the wound with medicinal brandy and was about to bind the leg when a hand fell on his shoulder.
“And what do you think you are about, sir?” said a high querulous voice. Lazenby looked round. Three elderly civilians, two portly and short, one tall and cadaverous, stood behind him. The first spoke again, “Sir, we are His Royal Highness’s medical advisers. It is an outrage that a mere regimental surgeon should have the presumption to lay his hands on a member of the Royal Family. We should have you arrested.”
The man was spluttering with fury. “What have you done?”
“I have removed the ball …” began Lazenby.
“You have removed the ball?” The doctor became near apoplectic with rage as he turned to his colleagues. “Do you hear that gentlemen? This scoundrel has had the effrontery to cut into His Royal Highness. He should be hanged.”
Lazenby stood up and grabbed the man by the coat. “Sir, may I suggest that we complete the patient’s treatment. Once that is done I will show you whether I am a scoundrel with my hanger.”
“I.. I… I…” blustered the doctor.
The officer who had brought Lazenby over, took him by the arm and led him out of the group. As he did so, he said to the royal physicians. “Sirs, we asked Mister Lazenby to assist, merely because you could not be here immediately. Now you are, may we ask you to continue to see to His Royal Highness. Thank you, sirs. Come Lazenby.”
As they walked away, the officer spoke soothingly to the enraged surgeon. “Mister Lazenby, please do not take to heart the outburst you have just been subjected to. You will know how jealous courtiers are of their position, even medical ones. May I thank you for your assistance and ask you to return to your duties with your regiment?”
Lazenby bowed briefly and hurried back to the wagon, waiting by the road with Sarah Hazelwood on the box.
It took a quarter of an hour of pushing through the milling throng of soldiers before they recognized the sky blue facings of Villiers’.
“Hazel,” yelled the surgeon’s assistant. A grimy faced soldier looked over and forced his way to the wagon.
“Are you hurt, husband?” enquired Sarah Hazelwood.
“No, indeed,” said Corporal Hazelwood with a grin.
“We’ve come to collect the regiment’s wounded,” said his wife, immensely relieved at finding her husband alive and unhurt.
“Help yourself,” said the corporal. “There are plenty of them.”
Lazenby climbed down, stopped a number of uninjured soldiers and set them to collecting the casualties onto the two wagons. Three soldiers in the mitre caps of the Scots Fusiliers brought an injured comrade to Lazenby. “Put him in,” said the surgeon.
The nurse tenders pulled the Scottish soldier onto the wagon and settled him down.
At the end of an hour, all the wounded Sky Blues that could be found had been loaded onto Lazenby’s wagons with several Scots Fusiliers. As Lazenby and his staff were arranging them more comfortably for the journey, Lieutenant Colonel Marchment rode up. He nodded to the sugeon, before looking into the back of the wagons.
“Lazenby,” he called. “Remove those Fusiliers. It is for their regiment to see to them,” and rode off to where the companies were assembling.
“Sarah,” said Lazenby. “Cover those Scotsmen with the tarpaulins.”
It was not until the early evening that the regiments were in sufficient order to move. The Scots Fusiliers marched off to beat of drum and Villiers’ followed, resuming the interrupted journey to Hanau. In the absence of any formal arrangements for removing the wounded, the casualties of most of the regiments were left on the battlefield for the French to care for, if they felt so inclined.
The army crossed the bridge into Dettingen and camped in the fields beyond the village. As the regiments waited for their camp necessaries to be brought from the rear, the word came up that the English baggage train had been ransacked, rumour having it that the perpetrators were Austrian Pandours. Incensed at this aspersion, the Austrians attempted to blame the French, but no one was convinced. The Pandours seemed to relish their reputation for lawlessness and it was widely known that the French had been unable to cross the river at Aschaffenburg.
Due to the pillage, His Majesty had no plate or provisions for the victory banquet he planned, and the celebration had to be held in Die Krone Inn in Dettingen, using wooden plates and horn handled knives and forks. The colonels and lieutenant colonels of the regiments were commanded to attend and consume peasant fare in the fifteenth century inn.
As soon as the battle ended, a royal aide de camp and an escort of Horse Grenadier Guards left for England with the news of the King’s success. Heralds announced the glorious victory from the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral to fanfares of trumpets and Mister Handel set about composing a Te Deum. Celebratory banquets were held throughout the country, while the victorious troops made do with ration biscuit and a night spent in the open fields.
A sutler, whose wagon had survived the ransack, set up stall near the bivouac and sold beer and brandy to those with the money to pay for it. In spite of their physical discomfort, the foot soldiers were exhilarated by the victory and men from the various regiments gathered at the wagon, to exchange anecdotes about the battle.
A Scots Fusilier recounted that the lieutenant colonel of his regiment had menaced his men with dire punishment, if they fired before his order.
“Sir Andrew, ye ken…. Agnew of Lochaw, our lieutenant colonel… He was threatening us with his sword and ranting and raving. He was screaming, “Dinnae fire till you see the whites o’ their e’en.”
“And did you heed him?” asked an English soldier.
“Aye.. to be sure we did,” said the Scotsman. “We were more a’fright of Lochaw than of the Frenchies. He was right there with his sword and his temper. They were a mile away.”
Some soldiers had been near the tree under which His Majesty had taken shelter. “The King, he gave us a sprig of oak leaves when he rode off. He says we were to wear them as a memorial of the battle and for guarding him from the French. The major says all the regiment is to find sprigs of oak and put them in their hats as a badge. We look after him through the battle and he gives us a twig!” The soldier’s disgust was apparent.
Another soldier spoke up. “Did you hear the trumpeters of the Horse Guards?”
“Ahh, the Horse Guards. They are the only ones of them pestilential donkey wallopers that are any use. What of the trumpeters?”
“It is said they played “Britons strike home,” in the charge.”
“Our drummers played the “Grenadier’s March”.”
““Grenadier’s March” is all your drummers know.”
The Scots Fusilier spoke up again, “The Blue Guards and King’s Horse galloped through our regiment as if we were the Frenchies.”
“Next battle they’d do well to keep them horse and dragoons in billets, ten miles off, and leave the fighting to us foot.”
There was a chorus of agreement.
“They say the King knighted the generals and some of the horse.”
There was a growl of disapproval.
“Aye. I heard that,” said a Howard’s Old Buff. “Our officers were talking. They say a cornet of the Black Horse was knighted for rescuing their standard.”
“Aye and a dragoon for taking back a guidon captured off them by the French.”
“A dragoon? Which dragoons?”
“I heard he was from the Irish Dragoons.”
“No. He was a Bland’s Dragoon.”
“I heard it was an officer of Bland’s.”
There was a pause as the disgusted foot soldiers digested this outrage. One spoke for them all. “None of us marching regiments needed to rescue our colours. And they get knighted …”
“And them Tower Watchmen, marched to the rear, when the fighting was all at the front. What’s the use of that?”
The soldiers gossiped into the night, until they finally dispersed to find a place to sleep. Most had no tents or bedding and the best they could expect was a pile of straw in the fields.
The officers also conversed about the day.
“His Majesty was watching the battle and called out, “Well done the Buffs,” said a staff officer. “I believe he thought he was observing Howard’s Old Buffs. In truth the regiment was Brigadier General Handasyd’s. It was pointed out to His Majesty and he called out, “Well done the Young Buffs then.”
Lazenby’s staff drove their two commandeered wagons to the next hamlet, where he searched out an empty barn for an overnight hospital. The owner attempted to stop him, but Lazenby was in no mood to be crossed, drawing his hanger and holding the point at the man’s chest. Sarah Hazelwood, sitting in the driving seat of the wagon, cocked her pistol with a menacing click and the German peasant headed back into his cottage. The orderlies took the seriously wounded into the barn and Lazenby began work on them, while the nurse tenders saw to the less badly injured and the sick from the Aschaffenburg hospital. Finally the orderlies buried a Scots Fusilier who had died during the short journey from the battlefield.
Foxglove had the worst injury, his leg, struck by the cannon ball, a bloody mess of flesh and shattered bone. The boy was unconscious. Sarah Hazelwood brought over Lazenby’s case of instruments and, selecting a scalpel and saw, the surgeon prepared to amputate the remains of the leg. He cut away the shreds of clothing and pulled out the debris of grass and earth. The orderlies took a firm grip of Foxglove’s shoulders and limbs, as Lazenby cut away the strands of flesh covering the shattered limb and started to saw through the bone. The other soldiers lay listening to the rhythmic grating, as the saw worked its way through the boy’s leg. Foxglove recovered consciousness and struggled, screaming, against the restraining hands until he fainted again. Once he had finished, Lazenby sewed up the tattered flesh left by the amputation and poured surgical brandy over the wound.
The unconscious Foxglove was laid in a corner of the barn and Lazenby and Sarah Hazelwood started work on the other soldiers, removing musket balls, extracting mud and gravel from wounds and cleaning and suturing sword cuts. At around midnight, it began to rain hard but they were too preoccupied to notice. They worked through the night by lantern light, finishing the treatment of the last wounded soldier as dawn broke. Straightening up with an effort, Lazenby walked out through the barn door and stood smoking his pipe, as the last of the rain died away. Sarah brought him a mug of hot gruel, which he sipped between puffs. After a few minutes, Lazenby called to the orderlies and nurse tenders, now slumped asleep among the patients, “Time to move. The men must be on the wagons by the time the regiment comes up.”
In the fields outside Dettingen, Sergeant Tucking got to his feet and looked around at the mass of sleeping soldiers. A few were already wandering across to the road. Tucking put on his hat, causing the water that had gathered in the brim to run down his neck and under his coat. He flinched and swore to himself. Stote and Squirrel lay sleeping nearby, heads resting on their drums. Tucking walked over and stirred them with his foot.
“Time for the general,” he croaked. They got to their feet and looked about them. The two young drummers had the capacity to be fast asleep, in postures of complete abandonment, one moment and awake and alert the next.
“Where are we then?” said Stote. “Scotland? Look at this bleeding weather. I thought we won a battle. Don’t we get no sunshine after that?”
“No,” said Tucking irritably. “And you’ll get twenty lashes, unless you button your lip and get this company mustered.” He squelched away across the field to find the other sergeants.
The drums began to beat and across the makeshift camp, bedraggled soldiers stood up and made their way to the road. The Villiers’ officers emerged from a farm house, the captains mounting and riding over to their companies followed by the junior officers on foot. Lieutenant Colonel Marchment stood casting a baleful eye over the muddy soldiers as they picked their way out of the fields and mustered for the day’s march. There was no breakfast for anyone, not even the officers, due to the sack of the baggage.
The Scots Fusiliers moved off and Marchment waved the grenadier company and the Sky Blues’ hat companies to follow on. Lazenby’s two wagons, loaded with the sick and wounded, pulled onto the road immediately behind the last company as it passed his makeshift hospital.
It took two days marching for the army to reach Hanau and find its first shelter since leaving the camp at Aschaffenburg. Throughout the regiments, soldiers were in the throws of dysentery, brought on by the insanitary camps, poor rations, and the wet weather. The companies went into quarters and the sick were laid up.
Lazenby found an empty warehouse in the town, that he requisitioned for his regimental hospital. He had been forced to surrender the two wagons, after an acrimonious confrontation in a street in Hanau with the sutler who claimed to own them. The sutler had threatened Lazenby with legal proceedings for the loss of his supplies, which had been fed to the patients during the journey or thrown away. Hampered by lack of transport, Lazenby left his assistants to settle into the new building and went in search of the lieutenant colonel. Marchment gave him two files of soldiers to search the billets for the sick and remove them to the hospital.
A central hospital had been set up for the English regiments at Feckenheim outside Hanau but, as in Ghent, Dr Pringle directed Lazenby to keep the Villiers’ patients in his own regimental facility. During the two days it took the surgeon to visit all the Sky Blues’ quarters, he found that one hundred and fifty soldiers from the regiment had been struck down by the epidemic. It took several commandeered German wagons to move them to his requisitioned warehouse and he was forced to keep the files of soldiers who had helped him, as extra medical orderlies.
In the army’s main hospital, the epidemic of dysentery was compounded by an outbreak of typhoid. There were some fifteen hundred soldiers packed into the building and within two weeks seven hundred had died together with many of the hospital staff. The two deadly diseases spread to the German civilian population, killing hundreds more.
In the Villiers’ facility, Lazenby coped with the dysentery and there was no typhus, so that only thirty Sky Blues died during the course of the epidemic. Even so this was more than had been killed at Dettingen.
The army lingered at Hanau for a month and then set off on a leisurely march north to Flanders, bringing the 1743 campaigning season to a close. The sick were left until they could be brought down the Rhine by barge. The end of the year saw the English regiments back in the billets they had left the previous winter, the Sky Blues resuming their old Ghent quarters.
Chapter 7
In the late spring of 1745 a Sky Blue came wandering up to the Scottish widow’s house and left a message that Sergeant Rathbone was required to attend upon the lieutenant colonel. Receiving the message on his return from guard duty, Rathbone took pains to smarten himself and made his way to the senior officers’ quarters. He appeared before Lieutenant Colonel Marchment and touched his hat in salute. The lieutenant colonel looked at him with a brief nod.
“Sergeant Rathbone, I have the direction of the colonel of the regiment to send a recruiting picquet to England to make up the losses the regiment has suffered through battle and disease. I understand from Lieutenant Desmond that you have a particular skill in that respect.”
Rathbone touched his hat again.
Marchment looked more closely at the sergeant. As his officer had described, Rathbone seemed to be self-possessed to a fault, even in the presence of his lieutenant colonel.
“I have in mind to send you with the recruiting picquet.”
“I am grateful for your confidence, sir.”
“The picquet will be commanded by Ensign Brown.”
“I do not know the gentleman, sir.”
“He is in Captain Curzon’s company. As he is lacking in age and experience, responsibility for the recruiting will lie with you. I will expect you to return within a month. You are to take three corporals of reliability and seven soldiers, one of them a drummer. As you recruit ten men, you will send them back with one of the corporals and two of the soldiers to the regiment here.”
“Very good sir.”
“I am depending upon you to find me fifty recruits. Report to Mister Brown and select your picquet as he directs. I want you away tomorrow. Here are your written instructions.” The lieutenant colonel handed Rathbone an unsealed letter that stated: “The bearer of this warrant, Sergeant Robert Rathbone of Major General Villiers’ Regiment of Foot, is conducting a picquet of soldiers upon the duty of raising recruits for his regiment upon the orders of General Villiers. All constables, justices of the peace and officers and soldiers of His Majesty’s service are enjoined to give Sergeant Rathbone such assistance as he may seek and have need of. Signed: Tobias Marchment, Lieutenant Colonel, Major General Villiers’ Regiment of Foot at Ghent, 18th April 1745.”
Rathbone left the lieutenant colonel’s quarters to seek out the young ensign. He found him playing the French game of boule with a group of subalterns outside the inn that served as the quarters for most of the ensigns. Brown was a tall eighteen year old who had joined the regiment straight from school. Rathbone stood nearby, waiting for one of the officers to acknowledge his presence. He raised his hand to his hat but was ignored. Eventually he called out, “Mister Brown, sir.”
The officers stopped playing and looked over at the sergeant. Brown beckoned to Rathbone and turned to toss the boule he was holding, but Rathbone did not move. Brown sauntered over to him. “What is it, Sergeant?”
“I am reporting to you concerning the recruiting picquet.”
“What picquet is that?”
“I am instructed by the lieutenant colonel that you are to lead a recruiting picquet to England and I am to be the sergeant. We are ordered to leave tomorrow morning.”
“I had not heard.”
Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “Well, sir. Perhaps the lieutenant colonel intended to inform you once the arrangements had been made.”
The ensign looked at Rathbone sharply. “And who is in the picquet?”
“I had expected to receive your directions in that respect, sir.”
“No. You organise it, sergeant.”
Rathbone touched his hat as Brown returned to his game and stood thinking for a moment, before walking away to look for Hazelwood. He found him lounging outside the regimental hospital waiting for his wife to finish her day’s work.
“Hazel. I am ordered for a recruiting picquet to England. Do you wish to come?”
Hazelwood straightened up and grinned. “Yes. But make sure the good wife believes I am ordered for it.”
“She will, Hazel. I hereby order you for this burdensome duty.”
The next morning Sergeant Rathbone assembled the picquet, comprising Hazelwood, the two other corporals, six private soldiers and a drummer, and marched them to the officers’ quarters. Other than Hazelwood he had selected only Eli Wellbeloved from his own company. The drummer was a youth named Len Spry from Curzon’s company. The corporals and soldiers came from across the regiment. As the army would not be moving from its present billets for another month or more and the regiment was sorely in need of recruits, the captains had released the men without demur.
Ensign Brown spent the night celebrating his departure for England and was still in bed when the picquet arrived to collect him. On his enquiry for the young officer, the mess servant told Rathbone Mr Brown had given directions he was not to be disturbed before noon. Rathbone pushed past him and bellowed up the stairs for the ensign. Other officers’ servants gathered on the landing demanding to know what the noise was about.
Rathbone shouted up, “Mister Brown is required for the lieutenant colonel’s business, gentlemen.”
Brown was forced out of bed and after some minutes came out, dressed but pale and disheveled. His horse was brought to the front door and the recruiting picquet set off for the coast.
At Ostend they took the Thames Estuary packet, a civilian vessel in which the soldiers travelled in comfort inconceivable in one of His Majesty’s transport ships. Landing at Gravesend the picquet marched to London and lodged in the Tower, one of the main barracks in London. Late on the evening of their arrival, Rathbone sought out Ensign Brown in the officers’ quarters. Ensign Brown had dined well with the Foot Guards officers and held a glass of claret at such an angle that he spilt much of the contents.
“Well, sergeant? What is your reason for interrupting me at dinner?”
“I am come to enquire as to your plans.”
“How do you mean?” said Brown trying to focus his reddened eyes on the sergeant.
“Where are we to seek recruits and when do we start?” asked Rathbone.
Brown waved his glass. “I have to tell you, Sergeant Rathbone, I have no intention of spending the next month grubbing around for vagrants half witted enough to join His Majesty’s service. That is why you are here. You go find them. Look where you will and start when you wish. Just do not trouble me.”
The ensign turned and weaved his way back into the officers’ house.
Three weeks later, Rathbone and his picquet were at Barnet, a village to the North of the City. Rathbone had not expected London to be a fruitful recruiting ground for a marching regiment. He had assumed that the three regiments of Foot Guards, each with some twenty companies to sustain, and the two troops of Horse Grenadier Guards would ensnare all possible recruits, particularly as those regiments offered higher rates of pay than the foot. In fact the picquet’s recruiting had been hectic. London was full of people who had drifted in from the country hoping to forge a new life, but for whom the reality of existence in the capital was a cruel disappointment. It was hard to find acceptable work and many Londoners were eager to take advantage of the gullible and strip them of their possessions.
The trick in recruiting was to watch for the countryman with no employment and few friends. If a man was sufficiently desperate, a friendly interest, a few free drinks and a skillfully delivered account of the comradely life in His Majesty’s service was often enough to persuade him to enlist. Nothing was said of the oppressive officers and sergeants, the punishments, the meager pay, the privations in peace and war and the risk of death or mutilation in battle. In the first week the picquet encountered young and old rendered destitute by the infernal city. Rathbone’s ready misdescription of life in the regiment was sufficient to persuade twenty five of them to enlist as “Sky Blues”.
These men were sworn in before justices of the peace and at the end of the week they left for Flanders with one of the corporals and an escort of old soldiers.
The third week saw another party of recruits leave with the second corporal. Rathbone, Hazelwood and the remaining soldiers felt it time to rest on their laurels and moved to Barnet where they took up quarters in the King’s Head. The inn keeper was far from happy at their presence. The Mutiny Act exempted recruiting parties from paying the daily subsistence, so the inn keeper was obliged to accommodate them free, providing each man with four pints of small beer a day, only meals being paid for.
There was to be a horse fair at Barnet at which Rathbone hoped to complete the quota given him by the lieutenant colonel, even though the competition would be recruiters from the horse and dragoons, regiments with higher rates of pay than the foot. After the fair, Rathbone intended to collect the officer and return with his picquet to Flanders. Rathbone already had a party of recruits in one of the inns and was reluctant to wait longer in case they lost patience and deserted.
Rathbone and Hazelwood were breakfasting on the third day at Barnet when Hazelwood pointed with his knife and said, “Robert. Did you see who went by?”
Rathbone looked at Hazelwood. “No. My back is to the window.”
“It was the man in the brown coat.”
Rathbone looked round but the street was empty. “You must be mistaken, Hazel. He was trading in Flanders. Why should he be here?”
“You remember what the boys said of him. He would put queer questions to them, asking if they were content in His Majesty’s service. They said he sounded like a Jacobite agent.”
The two non commission officers carried on eating. In the ordinary way, after breakfast, Rathbone and the corporal made a tour of the town looking for recruiting material and making their initial approaches, but the pot boy came to clear the table and said, “You heard the news sergeant?”
“No Sam. What news?”
“The Scottish Highland Regiment is camped in the woods, Finchley Common way.”
“They must be bound for Flanders,” said Rathbone.
“No,” said the pot boy. “The word is they go to the American colonies. They are to be reviewed by old Marshal Wade this morning.”
Rathbone and Hazelwood heard the news with interest. It had been reported in the newspapers that the Highland Regiment was marching south, that two private soldiers had been sent on to St James’s Palace to be inspected by His Majesty and that the arrival of the rest of the regiment was expected. London was agog at the thought of a whole regiment in the Highlanders’ wild garb, with their frightening weaponry and alien language.
“When did they arrive, Sam?”
“I heard it from the carter. He says they pitched camp yesterday afternoon. He says they be a frightening sight. None of them speaks English. He says they do strange rituals. He told me the vicar ought to convert them to Christianity. He says they eat odd food and sing weird songs. They have these bagpipes that make loud screaming music. He says…, he says..”
A cry of “Sam” from the kitchen brought the excited boy up short. Before he left the table he leant forward and said, “I got this morning off. I’m going see these Scottish people and this here review. But I'm afraid to go alone.”
“Come with us, Sam,” said Hazelwood.
“Aye,” said Rathbone. “We’ll go and see them.”
Sam grinned and hurried off to the kitchen.
Corporal Hazelwood collected the soldiers from the loft over the stables at the back of the inn where they were quartered. The innkeeper put their muskets under lock and key and the picquet set off to walk the five miles to Finchley Common. They wore uniform, less cross belts, ammunition wallets and bayonets, each soldier carrying his hanger on his waist belt.
The expedition to Finchley Common became something of a day out for the picquet. As they walked, one of the soldiers from Captain Anstruther’s company described an incident at Dettingen. An ensign had been standing behind the line when a French cannon ball, fired from over the river, struck a file of soldiers and spattered the young officer with brains and flesh.
“The ensign, he looks horrified,” said the man, “and starts wiping the stuff off his face with his kerchief. We all look at him and the ensign, he says, “I didn’t know private soldiers had brains.” We had to laugh. To this day we don’t know if he meant it as a joke or whether he just said it, him being such a serious young gentleman.”
The road to Finchley Common, increasingly filled with people hurrying to the review, finally opened onto the common, where a large crowd had gathered in carriages and wagons, on horseback and on foot, to see the highlanders. Many of the spectators relished their fear that these tribesmen, whilst ostensibly loyal servants of the Crown, might one day turn on them all. The occasion provoked much the same feelings as a visit to a menagerie of wild animals.
The Highland Regiment was drawn up in a long double line across the end of the common. None of the Sky Blues had seen Scottish highlanders before. In Flanders they had encountered the Bosniac irregular troops of the Austrian contingent, the men suspected of pillaging the Army’s baggage at Dettingen. The Bosniacs had a reputation for murder and banditry and the English were deeply wary of them. The Villiers’ soldiers experienced a similar feeling of disquiet at seeing the highlanders. It was hard to believe they were members of the same army. Each highlander wore a length of multicoloured material wrapped around his waist in a skirt with the end section thrown over his shoulder. On his upper body he wore a short red jacket. The headgear was a shapeless beret-like hat that most had pulled down over the eyes.
They carried an arsenal of weapons. Each highlander had a musket on his shoulder, a heavy broadsword at his belt and an array of dirks and pistols. Some of the highlanders carried target shields, with menacing spikes in the centre, strapped to their backs. There appeared to be no difference in dress and weapons between the various ranks.
The Sky Blues had been through several reviews and seen other regiments at formal muster. The mood of soldiers on such occasions varied from simple resignation to excitement; but Rathbone and his party sensed a restless and resentful air about these wild hill men that was unusual and disturbing.
There was a commotion at the entrance to the common and a party of mounted English officers rode out onto the open grass. At a shouted command the highlanders drew their swords, making a strange rasping sound with the motion, and held them at an arms length salute. They gave a shout and the bagpipe players standing behind the line struck up their instruments. The watching crowd of English civilians muttered nervously. On a further command the highlanders returned their swords to the scabbards and one of the mounted English officers, an elderly distinguished looking officer, urged his horse to the middle of the common and removed his hat in a wide sweeping salute.
“Granny Wade,” Hazelwood said to Rathbone.
“Aye,” said the sergeant.
The marshal spurred his horse forward and, accompanied by several of the regiment’s officers rode down the line, his hat in his hand. At the end he bowed to the officers, returned his hat to his head and rode back to his staff.
At a shout from an officer the highlanders brought their muskets to the present. There was a pause and the regiment fired a volley in salute. The explosion of shots and cloud of smoke billowing across the common set the horses in the crowd plunging in fright and the civilian onlookers coughing and choking.
Once the smoke had cleared, the officer gave a further command. The highlanders flung their muskets to the ground and drew their broadswords, holding them aloft. The sun glinted on the rows of blades. Then at a shout from the officer, the highlanders set off in a mock charge down the common. As they ran, they yelled war cries and the pipers played battle music.
It was a terrifying sight. Most of the crowd at the point where the highlanders were heading took to their heels and disappeared off down the road. The highlanders ran the full length of the common and stopped. They sheathed their swords and walked back to their original positions.
“I thank God I shall never receive a charge like that,” said Hazelwood.
“And what makes you think you won’t be?” said Rathbone. He meant his comment as a joke and the other soldiers grinned, uneasily.
The review was over. The English officers raised their hats in a final salute and rode off the common, back to London. The highlanders gathered in groups and marched away to their camp, followed by many of the onlookers, too fascinated by these strange soldiers to leave them.
Rathbone and his recruiting picquet followed the crowd until they came in sight of the encampment. The civilians were in awe of the highlanders and only ventured within two hundred yards or so, but Rathbone and Hazelwood walked right up to the tents. As they approached, the highlanders looked at them and called to each other. The language was incomprehensible to the English soldiers, but it was apparent that they viewed the “red soldiers” with suspicion.
A highlander approached Rathbone and spoke to him in accented English.
“Sergeant. Good day to you. What is your business with us?”
Rathbone said, “Good day to you. I and my soldiers have come to visit your encampment.”
“I must tell you. You are not welcome.”
“I never thought to hear that English soldiers would not be welcome in an English camp.”
The highlander said, “This is not an English camp. I have to warn you that these men are not cordial to the German King’s servants. You will not come to any harm. It is just that you are not welcome.”
Rathbone shrugged. “Very well, we will proceed no further.”
The Sky Blues returned to the crowd and examined the highlanders from a distance. There was an armed guard posted on the edge of the camp and an air of watchfulness and suspicion.
Rathbone rounded on his soldiers. “Enough gawping. There must be a good round dozen recruits for the Sky Blues here. Let’s get working.”
“I thought this was a day off,” said Eli Wellbeloved.
“It was,” said Rathbone. “But these geezers give me the creeps. Let’s see what we can drum up and then head for home.”
Rathbone knew that any sort of military spectacle produced recruits. After some two hours of accosting likely looking men, he and his picquet had accumulated four unemployed and destitute civilians.
“Pity you didn’t think to bring your drum, young Len,” said Rathbone. “We’d ‘ave had a round dozen crows.”
“You told me not, sergeant,” said Len in indignation.
“Don’t you cheek me, or I’ll beat the daylights out of you with your own drumsticks,” said Rathbone.
As the picquet turned to leave the common, Hazelwood called Rathbone over. He pointed down at the encampment. “You’ll never guess who I just saw over there.”
Rathbone followed the line of Hazelwood’s arm. “Highlanders?”
“Yes, highlanders. And a civilian in a brown coat.”
“You mean our drinking friend from Ghent. You’re seeing things. Let’s get these men on the road.”
The picquet marched back to Barnet, where Rathbone spent the afternoon taking the recruits to be sworn in by a justice of the peace and finding quarters for them.
Once done, Rathbone and Hazelwood sat over mugs of ale planning their return to the regiment in Ghent. They would have to march to Gravesend for the packet and collect Ensign Brown on the way, if they could find him. They had heard nothing from the young officer since leaving him at the Tower three weeks before.
As they spoke, the door of the taproom opened and a highlander came in. He was armed as they had seen the rest of his regiment that day, a shield slung over his back, broadsword at his waist and an array of dirks and pistols hanging from his belt. But the man carried no musket and was more elegantly dressed than the mass of highland soldiers. The two Englishmen felt for the handles of their hangers as he came over to them.
“Sergeant, I need your assistance.” The man spoke in fluent educated English. “I am Captain Munro of the Highland Regiment.”
Rathbone and Hazelwood stood up. “I am Sergeant Rathbone, sir. This is Corporal Hazelwood. We are both of Major General Villiers’ Foot. Our regiment is in Flanders and we are here recruiting.”
“My company was encamped in the woods outside this town,” said the officer. “I have not been with them as I have been in London on the regiment’s affairs. I returned to find that the company has marched out, heading north.”
“That is strange, sir. We attended the review of the Highland Regiment this very morning and afterwards visited one of the camps. The men were there and showed no signs of an intended move.”
“Well sergeant, I was met on the road by my man who gave me this news. I fear that it must have happened since the review. How many soldiers do you have in your recruiting picquet?”
“three, sir.”
“Do you have arms?”
“Of course.”
“Muster them and meet me outside the inn. In the meantime I must write to the authorities and give them warning of what has happened.”
Rathbone and Hazelwood fetched their equipment and went in search of the rest of the picquet. They found the soldiers in a drinking house down the street cadging free ale. Hazelwood jerked his thumb towards the door and said, “We’ve an emergency. Full marching order. Now.”
Captain Munro was waiting for the Villiers’ soldiers outside the inn, accompanied by a highland private. The contrast in dress, arms and bearing of officer and private was apparent with the two men standing together, the officer some inches taller than his fellow. The Sky Blues felt the same surprise as Rathbone when Munro spoke to them in perfect English.
“This is my man, Colin McCullough. It was he who gave me the news of the mutiny.” It was the first time anything had been said about mutiny and Rathbone and Hazelwood exchanged glances.
“Come,” said the officer. He led the way at a fast walk with the English soldiers hurrying behind. Once outside the town the officer and the highland private broke into a lope, so that Rathbone called out, “Are we in a hurry, sir?”
Munro did not answer. They left the town behind and entered a rough rutted road bordered by banks and hedging. After a half hour of rushing along this track the officer turned through a gateway into a meadow. At the far end were the remains of several smoldering fires, marking what had evidently been a camp. Two highland soldiers sat nearby in attitudes of dejection. Munro hurried down the field towards them followed by McCullough, his musket cocked and at the ready, so that he could defend his officer if need be. Rathbone halted his Sky Blues at the gate and ordered them to load. As he stood waiting he noticed a number of footprints in the wet mud leading onto the track and away from the town.
Munro spoke to the two highlanders and walked back up the meadow to the Villiers’ picquet. The English soldiers looked at him enquiringly.
“These men are corporals who refused to join the mutiny,” he said.
“Where have the rest gone?” asked Rathbone.
“They’ve headed north. They intend to return to Scotland.”
“Why?”
“The corporals say the men believed the regiment was to be sent to the American colonies,” said the officer.
“Who told them that?” Rathbone asked.
“They say there was a man in the camp last night. He spoke the Gaelic. He told them the English government would say the Highland Regiment was to be sent to Flanders. In fact, he told them, they were to be loaded onto ships and sent to the Americas. He told them they would never see Scotland again and all die of yellow fever.” Munro paused and looked up the track. “The regiment was ordered for Flanders,” he continued. “The colonel told them so. I cannot understand why they should not have believed him.”
“What happens now?”
“We follow them north. I must persuade them they have been deceived.”
“What about those corporals?” asked Rathbone indicating the two dejected figures.
The officer shouted to them in their language. The men stood up and walked up the meadow to the gateway. They were, like McCullough, smaller than the officer, both dressed in the highland style with the multicoloured cloth wrapped around their waists and thrown over the shoulder, short red jackets and flat shapeless hats. Each had on his back a target shield and carried musket, sword, dirks and pistols. They looked with suspicion at the Sky Blues and spoke to each other.
“Do they speak English, sir?” asked Hazelwood.
“Probably not” said the officer. He said something to them and each shook his head.
“But don’t assume they understand nothing if you talk about them,” Munro said. “Otherwise you may find a dirk in your ribs.” He laughed. It was the first time he had done so in the presence of the Villiers’ picquet.
The Sky Blues eyed the two corporals with suspicion and Hazelwood fingered his hanger to make sure it was easy in its scabbard. Then with a change of heart he held out his hand. “Hazelwood,” he said. The first corporal looked at him, then took his hand and shook it. “Ruairdh” he said. The second corporal also took Hazelwood’s hand and said “Iain. Iain Ban McChoinnich.”
The officer laughed again. “Come. We have no time to lose.”
The party slung their muskets on their shoulders and set off up the track.
The English soldiers were no laggards, having marched considerable distances on the continent, yet they had no experience of the speed at which the highlanders moved. The captain set the pace with his easy lope and the Sky Blues had to run to keep up. Eventually, seeing that the English soldiers could not maintain such a speed, Munro reduced the pace to a fast walk. They kept going for mile after mile.
The party had traveled a great distance when Captain Munro finally halted. The English soldiers slumped to the ground in exhaustion while the three highlanders listened and watched. Munro issued an order in Gaelic and one of the corporals and the private, McCullough, made off up an incline to the left of the track. After a half hour the two highlanders reappeared, running down the slope. They spoke hurriedly to the officer, gesturing and pointing. When they had finished, Munro said to Rathbone, “The company is encamped just over this hill.”
“How did you know to stop here?” asked Rathbone.
“We smelt the camp fires,” said the officer. “Come.”
The party carried on along the track skirting round the base of the hill. On the far side a river valley opened out and in the field leading down to the riverbank was the highland encampment. Men were cooking over fires and cleaning their weapons.
“They have put out no pickets,” said Rathbone.
“Why should they?” said Captain Munro. “There have no reason to fear an attack and I imagine they do not intend a lengthy stay. Wait here while I speak with them.”
Munro made his way down to the camp. As he approached, the highland soldiers gathered in groups, picking up their weapons.
“Look there,” said Hazelwood pulling at Rathbone’s arm, “Over there, by those trees.”
Rathbone looked. “What is it?”
“I saw a man slink off towards the woods. He was not in highland costume like the rest. He’s gone now.”
Captain Munro spoke to the soldiers in Gaelic, but was interrupted by several of the men who shouted and gestured at him. A tall highlander seemed to be addressing the others against what the officer was saying. Ruairdh muttered to his fellow corporal and Rathbone caught the name McPherson.
The man referred to as McPherson drew his broadsword, as did several other mutineers. The three highlanders with the English soldiers pulled back the hammers on their muskets. It was apparent the captain had ventured onto dangerous ground.
Munro made a final comment, turned and walked purposefully back to the party of English soldiers. McPherson and two of the armed highlanders followed him for a distance, shouting and waving their swords.
Munro walked through the group of Sky Blues saying only, “Come.”
A mile up the road he stopped and talked with the highland corporals. He then spoke to Rathbone and Hazelwood. “McCulloch was right. Someone has convinced them that the regiment has been ordered for the plantations. They have been told that most will die of tropical disease and none will live to return to Scotland. They do not believe that the regiment is to join the army in Flanders, although many are uncertain. Few of them are as adamant in mutiny as the two McPherson brothers and their group. I have told them to remain in camp and I will obtain a letter confirming that the regiment is ordered for Flanders. I think they will do that, although Corporal McPherson wants to continue the march to the Highlands immediately. We will have to go to the nearest town and obtain a written confirmation from someone in authority.”
The party made its way to the road and hurried the short distance to the Northamptonshire market town of Oundle. The Highland Regiment had marched through Oundle on the way south and rumours of their return had reached the town, causing consternation. The local magistrate had sent to the Secretary at War informing him of the mutineers’ arrival and troops were converging on Oundle to intercept them.
Captain Munro and the party of Sky Blues took up quarters in the main coaching inn, Hazelwood and the private soldiers moving into the barn. That evening Munro and Rathbone ate together in the taproom. Munro was distressed by the events of the day and felt the need to unburden himself to the Englishman, even though he was a sergeant.
“The government formed the independent companies of the Black Watch after the Jacobite rising in ’15, as a way of policing the highlands and putting the clansmen under control by enlisting them. The officers are taken from the Whig clans, the Campbells, the Rosses and us Munros, but the private soldiers come from all over the Highlands. Few of the clansmen see themselves as loyal subjects of King George and enlist solely to carry arms and stay in their own country. Last year the government directed that the independent companies be mustered as a single corps and given the name of The Highland Regiment. This month the regiment was ordered to the South of England, a move the men did not like at all, as they had been promised they would serve only in the North of Scotland. To try and overcome their reluctance to come south, we officers were told to tell the men the regiment was to be reviewed by His Majesty. We believed that was to happen, but when we got to the camp at Finchley we found it was Marshal Wade who was conducting the review. The men were affronted and suspicious. Yesterday, a stranger came into the camp and told them they were to be transported to the American Colonies. I believe he was a Jacobite agent who had haunted the regiment for much of the journey south. After the ’15, many of the clansmen taken in arms against the Crown were transported to the Americas and sold as slaves on the plantations. Most of them died. The men were greatly alarmed when they heard the agent’s warning. They had been lied to about the review and they believed the agent’s story. Now they intend to return to their homes.”
The next day Marshal Wade arrived at Oundle with regiments of horse and dragoons. The small market town was filled with troops and the local accommodation overwhelmed. The Villiers’ picquet was forced out of the inn and took up quarters in a barn on the outskirts. Captain Munro reported to the marshal and spent an hour explaining to him what had happened, coming immediately afterwards in search of Rathbone.
“Sergeant, I have the solemn undertaking of Marshal Wade that the Highland Regiment is ordered for Flanders. I am to take a letter with this information to my soldiers who are required to surrender their weapons and give themselves up.”
“Will they do that, sir?”
“Let us go and see.”
Captain Munro, his servant McCullough, the two highland corporals and Rathbone’s picquet set off along the route they had taken the day before. They reached the hillside, short of the encampment, and climbed to the brow to find the meadow empty. Munro swore. “They have taken fright. They must have received word of the arrival of Marshal Wade’s troops.”
Munro spoke in Gaelic with the three highland soldiers and then said to Rathbone and the other Sky Blues, “We will go after them. They cannot have been long gone. Corporal McChoinnich was watching the camp during the night and saw no sign of movement. Someone must have warned them today or they were persuaded by McPherson.”
Again the group moved off at the highlander’s lope, following the trail left by the mutineers. It took them straight through a wood, across a series of meadows and into another wood. The highlanders were avoiding tracks and roads. After two hours of hurried march, the highland corporal in the lead called a warning. The group slowed its pace and within minutes the mutineers came into sight. They had halted at the end of a long sloping meadow on the edge of a coppice and seemed to be expecting their pursuers, showing no signs of surprise at the appearance of Munro’s party. However they were still cautious. Several held their muskets across their chests with the hammers cocked, while others stood with drawn broadswords.
Some of the highlanders moved forward to speak to Captain Munro. There was an air of uncertainty about this group and they seemed anxious to talk to their officer out of the hearing of the rest of the mutineers. The man, Corporal McPherson, pushed ahead of them and spoke roughly to Munro in Gaelic. Looking past the corporal, Munro held up the letter from Marshal Wade and spoke loudly to the waverers. McPherson whipped out a pistol and held it at Munro’s chest, but a highlander pushed him to one side, remonstrating loudly. A third man, McPherson’s brother and also a corporal, came up to Munro and spoke to him in fierce tones, waving his arm in a dismissive gesture. It was clear that the McPhersons were requiring Munro to leave.
Captain Munro turned and walked back to the party waiting at the top of the meadow. As he did so several of the mutineers raised their firelocks to the shoulder. Rathbone called “present”. The Villiers’ picquet brought their muskets up and prepared for a volley. Munro reached them and said, “Lower your muskets sergeant. We had better go. They refuse to treat in any way unless they are allowed to keep their weapons and return to Scotland. I have had to tell them they have until midday tomorrow and that they will then be attacked by the horse and dragoons.”
As the party made its way back to Oundle, one of the corporals at the rear called out. They stopped and looked round to see two of the mutineers hurrying after them. Munro and the corporals walked back to meet the two highlanders. Munro spoke to them and then put his arm round the shoulders of the men and led them up to the picquet saying, “These two men have given themselves up. They have told us there are more coming.”
Munro was greatly relieved. “The mutiny is collapsing. We will be spared the shedding of our comrades’ blood. ”
“Should we not disarm them, sir?” Rathbone asked.
“No. I have given them my word they may keep their arms until they deliver them to the marshal,” said Munro.
The party continued to Oundle, Captain Munro leading the highlanders who had surrendered. He appeared to make a point of trusting the two men, walking in front with his back to them. The more suspicious McCullough followed, fingering his musket and muttering to himself. The highland corporals, Rathbone and the English soldiers brought up the rear. They too kept their firelocks cocked, ready to fire if the need arose.
The party reached the town and halted outside the inn, while Munro went in. The highlanders stood in a group, the Sky Blues forming a half circle behind them. Rathbone and Hazelwood stood together talking in low voices. Hazelwood kept shaking his head and muttering to Rathbone, “Come on a recruiting picquet, he says. Some recruiting picquet.”
There was a commotion in the hall of the inn and a number of officers came out onto the road, carrying swords and pistols. A dismounted troop of dragoons tramped round from the stable yard and surrounded the party. Finally Marshal Wade walked out of the inn door, accompanied by Munro. The highland officer called the mutineers forward in Gaelic. There was a general cocking of pistols and firelocks. The two highlanders stopped well short of the general and piled their weapons in a heap on the road. There was a surprising number of them. Each man had a musket, a sword, two pistols and dirks and knives. Marshal Wade said to the troop officer of the dragoons, “Captain Daubeny, put these men in irons and commit them to the town gaol. Please ensure there is an officer’s picquet to guard them.”
Marshal Wade spoke to Munro, “I take it that the main body of the mutineers does not intend to surrender.”
“Sir, I believe that most of the highlanders in disobedience wish to give themselves up. There are no more than five or six who are obdurate. I suspect, sir, that the approach of troops in overwhelming numbers would cause them to surrender.”
“Very well. Major Handasyde please prepare four troops of each of the regiments to march immediately. We will take these mutineers today and by force if necessary.”
The horse and dragoons mustered in the road at the inn and marched within the hour, commanded by the son of the Colonel Handasyde whose regiment of foot had fought at Dettingen. Captain Munro and the Villiers’ picquet marched ahead of the column to show the way and guard against surprise. About two miles outside Oundle, the force met a party of seventeen highlanders coming into the town to surrender. They were disarmed and sent back with one of the troops of dragoons.
While the weapons were being gathered, Munro’s party hurried on to the meadow, leaving McCullough to guide the rest of the force. They found the mutineers gathered on the edge of the copse, the dispute between them audible for some distance. At the appearance of Munro’s party a silence fell and the highlanders watched as the officer walked down the meadow towards them. As before, the Sky Blues and the two corporals waited by the gate. They were ready for trouble, but a change in the mood of the mutineers was evident. The McPherson brothers, with two or three other men, stood to one side, sullen and defiant, while the highlanders crowded around Munro. They were now looking to him for guidance. As Munro spoke, the horse and dragoons filed into the meadow and formed up by troops ready to attack. The appearance of the mounted soldiers was decisive. Munro waved to Major Handasyde as he led his men up the incline to the waiting English troops. The mutiny was over.
The highlanders were formed into a column, interspersed by parties of dragoons and horse and escorted back to Oundle. They were herded into the courtyard of the inn where they piled their weapons, watched by the marshal and his staff and surrounded by dismounted troopers. The townspeople, out in the streets watching their arrival, had been considerably alarmed to see the mutineers still armed. Now, unambiguously prisoners, the mutineers were taken to the overcrowded town lockup and put in irons.
The next day two battalions of Foot Guards marched into Oundle from London and numbers of carriages rumbled and swayed up the rutted high street conveying military officials. The little market town had not seen such activity since the Civil Wars in the middle of the previous century. Troops were quartered in every public building, the officers occupying all the inns and gentleman’s residences in the area. The Villiers recruiting picquet was squeezed into a corner of its barn, sharing with a company of the Coldstream Regiment of Foot Guards. Silas Fairchild turned up as one of the sergeants in this company. He and Rathbone carefully ignored each other, but Hazel was restive and it was clear there would be trouble between the Sky Blues and the Foot Guards. Rathbone felt it time he took the picquet back to Barnet, collected as many of the recruits as had not deserted in their absence, and returned to the regiment in Flanders.
As it had been Captain Munro who had brought them to Oundle, Rathbone felt obliged to seek his permission before leaving and went to find him. The coaching inn seethed with activity. Rathbone pushed into the taproom and saw Munro seated at a table talking to a civilian. He approached the officer and touched his hat.
“Ah Sergeant Rathbone,” said Munro. “I was just talking about you to this gentleman, Mister Hughes.”
Hughes was a pallid bulky man with protruding eyes, much like the King, Rathbone thought, and a sharply receding chin.
“Good day to you sergeant,” said Hughes, speaking in precise tones with a hint of a Welsh accent. “I am the judge advocate. I have the responsibility for preparing and presenting the prosecution case against the highland mutineers at court martial.” As he spoke, the judge advocate plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a pinch of snuff that he sniffed noisily into each of his nostrils.
“I will be requiring you to give evidence.”
The judge advocate wore a purple coat, the lapels stained with the snuff that fell from his nose. He had on an old-fashioned full-bottomed wig pushed to the top of a large pockmarked forehead. He gave Rathbone a brief glance through half spectacles as he spoke.
“When will this be, sir?” asked Rathbone. “I have the care of ten recruits and the rest of my picquet. My colonel expects us back in Flanders.”
“How can that be of the slightest concern to me?” said the judge advocate. “The court martial will be in London, in the Tower, just as soon as a convening order can be signed. It will be necessary for you to remain in England until the trial is complete.”
“If that is your order sir, we will report to the Tower.”
“No. You will return to London with the rest of the troops.”
The judge advocate indicated with a wave of his hand that the interview was over.
On the following morning the two battalions of Foot Guards and the regiments of horse and dragoons mustered in the main street. Woken by the noise, the inhabitants emerged into the streets to find hundreds of red coated soldiers assembling in the market place and the prisoners being brought out for the journey to London. The lockup had only been large enough for a dozen of them and the rest of the highlanders had been lodged in the church, to the indignation of the vicar and churchwardens. In his enthusiasm, the town constable had shackled the first captives hand and foot and the foot shackles had to be removed. A group of constables were working in the street removing the leg irons using hammers and chisels.
For the march, the highlanders were placed into groups of five men, each escorted by a file of Foot Guards and a half troop of horse or dragoons. Twenty Requisitioned farm wagons carried the surrendered weapons and the baggage of the escorting troops. It was past midday before the column set off for London with Rathbone and his party of Sky Blues marching at the rear, in accordance with the system of precedence between Foot Guards and marching foot.
It took the column four days to reach London. Led by Munro, the Villiers’ picquet had covered two thirds of the distance in a few hours. Each day’s march ended in the mid-afternoon so the highlanders could be fed and found secure accommodation for the night and the Foot Guards, horse and dragoons allotted quarters. The wagons had to be released to return to their homes and the local constable required to provide further transport for the next day. Marshal Wade and his staff withdrew to the house of a local grandee, leaving the organisation of the night’s accommodation and the next day’s march to a number of harassed adjutants.
On the fourth day, the column marched into London and the population turned out in crowds to see the prisoners pass by. The Highlanders had been distant symbols of violence and ferocity for the inhabitants of the South of England for centuries. The Jacobite rebellion of 1715 had shown them to be a direct if still distant threat to the political stability of the whole country. The mutiny of the Highland Regiment on the City’s doorstep had given this threat a frightening immediacy. Even unarmed and manacled these wild looking men caused considerable unease. How many more were there and what might they be planning in their distant mountainous homes?
The column marched the length of London and into the Tower, where the highlanders had their legs manacled and were put into dungeons, five to a cell. The escorting troops dispersed to their quarters, the Sky Blues picquet billeted in a seedy Billingsgate drinking house. The noise of the City and the smell of the fish market in which the house was situated made for an uncomfortable stay.
The court martial of the highlanders was convened for two days later, in the great hall of the Tower of London. The firing of a gun from the battlements signaled the start of the proceedings. A long table had been set up on a dais at one end of the hall for the board of officers trying the mutineers. The clerk of the court sat at a smaller table on the dais. At the opposite end of the great hall, rows of benches were arranged to accommodate the one hundred and seventeen prisoners. In the rest of the hall stood a jumble of chairs, benches and desks for the persons concerned with the proceedings and the spectators.
The gun was fired at eight in the morning and the hall was already thronged with court officials, officers and soldiers. Hughes, the judge advocate, stood at his desk by the dais, one thumb hooked in his waistcoat. With the other hand he alternately leafed the pages of his dossier and conveyed quantities of snuff to his nose. At times he glanced around, with his bulging eyes, examining the people in the hall. Rathbone and Captain Munro sat in the area reserved for witnesses. The rest of the benches were occupied by civilian and military spectators. The hall reverberated with the hubbub of their conversation.
The court orderly, a sergeant from the Foot Guards, strode about the courtroom giving orders to the dozen corporals acting as ushers and junior orderlies.
On the sounding of the gun, a company of Foot Guards grenadiers filed into the hall, carrying muskets with fixed bayonets, and lined the wall. A low door creaked open and the highland prisoners began to shuffle through into the hall. All were manacled and walked with difficulty, chains clanking. An escort of Yeomen Warders ushered them to the benches and stood at the ends of the rows.
The court orderly suddenly pounded on the floor with his halberd. There was a lull in the noise and the officers of the board started to come through a side door in a file and make their way onto the dais. There were twenty in all. They placed their hats and gloves on the table and sat down with much scraping of chair legs and arranging of coat skirts and swords. The babble of conversation around the hall resumed its previous level.
A young judge advocate, an assistant of Hughes, stood up with a sheaf of papers in his hand and began to address the members of the court martial. The level of noise made it difficult for him to be heard so that the president, Major General Folliot, impatiently cut him short. “The court will be sworn,” he announced.
The board of officers and the judge advocates stood up. The move was followed throughout the hall with the scraping of chairs and benches and clattering of swords and hangers. The Yeoman Warders pushed and gesticulated at the highland prisoners who stood up, clanking their manacles.
The president held up a testament and announced, “I swear by almighty God that I will faithfully try these defendants according to the Articles of War.”
The first member of the court, Brigadier Handasyde, a tall gaunt man, pronounced the same oath in a toneless voice, followed by the second member, Colonel Wolfe, and the board of lieutenant colonels and majors.
The court and the judge advocates resumed their seats, followed by the rest of the hall. The prisoners had difficulty settling on their benches and the rattling of chains continued for some time.
Judge Advocate Hughes had remained standing and began to address the court in a slow sonorous voice.
“Sir, I regret that you are here to try a most heinous and reprehensible case of mutiny and desertion.”
He paused at the sight of Colonel Wolfe leaning over to the president, General Foliott, speaking urgently to him. The general showed his irritation at the interruption and attempted to wave the colonel into silence.
Wolfe looked round at the judge advocate and said, “Mister Hughes. I have been in His Majesty’s service, the service of His Late Majesty and of Her Majesty the Queen before that. I have some considerable experience of the inhabitants of the Highlands of Scotland and can say that few understand the English language with any fluency. I cannot see there is anyone on the prisoners’ benches interpreting to them what is being said. It is essential that this is done.”
The judge advocates conferred and Hughes bustled up to the dais to speak to the president. The judge advocate seemed flustered and the general gruff and impatient.
The president announced to the hall, “There are among the prisoners persons who speak English well enough to explain the proceedings to those who may not. Let them do so and let it be understood that this is an English court and the proceedings must be in English. Any soldier of His Majesty’s army who behaves in such a way as to make himself subject to court martial does so at his peril and must be taken as accepting that he will be tried in English. Proceed, Mister Hughes.”
The highlanders who spoke English had perked up at this apparent concern for their welfare, the first they had experienced since their surrender. These men explained to their neighbours what had happened and for the rest of the trial there was a constant low chatter of talk among the prisoners as the English speakers interpreted the proceedings to the others and were questioned by them.
Hughes began his opening address to the court martial and described how, following the review on Finchley Common, Captain Munro’s company and one other company of the Highland Regiment had left their encampment and, instead of heading south to Gravesend and disembarking for Flanders, had marched north with the intention of returning to Scotland and dispersing to their homes. This was desertion and punishable by death. Captain Munro had followed the mutineers and, with a picquet from Major General Villiers’ Regiment of Foot and three loyal Highlanders from his company, had approached their camp and urged them to return to their duty. Captain Munro had been threatened with violence by the deserters who were armed with firelocks, pistols, swords and dirks. This was mutiny and punishable by death.
The judge advocate announced to the hall in ringing tones, “I call my first witness to give evidence to this court martial, Captain Hugh Munro.”
Munro walked to the desk at the end of the dais. The junior officer of the board stood to meet him and handed him a testament on which he took the oath. Hughes had taken sworn depositions from each of his witnesses which he intended to read as their evidence in chief. He had not explained this to them in case they attempted to water down what they said against the prisoners. Munro had not been taken in. Although he was a member of a Whig clan and his own sympathies were firmly anti-Jacobite, it was his soldiers in trouble and he had been determined not to aggravate the case against them. Looking at the deposition, which contained a minimum of information, the judge advocate decided on impulse to question the witness directly.
“Captain Munro is it correct that members of your company deserted the encampment with the intention of returning to Scotland and that when you came up to them you were manhandled and threatened with weapons?”
“I do not believe that is quite what happened, sir,” said Munro.
The president stirred in his seat and looked questioningly at him. “Well, what is your evidence?”
“Sir, I returned to the encampment from London to find that my company had been thrown into turmoil by an information that the regiment was to be transported to the West Indies.”
“But they had the assertion of Marshal Wade that the Highland Regiment was to join the Army in Flanders,” said the president.
“Yes, sir. That is so. You have to understand that, since the end of the last uprising in the Highlands, when numbers of clansmen were sent to the plantations in the West Indies and in Virginia, it is a matter of some fear for my countrymen that a similar fate might befall them.”
“They had the word of Marshal Wade, Captain Munro.”
“Yes, sir.” Munro could hardly tell the president that the highlanders did not trust any Englishman. “I understand that there was a French agent in the camp encouraging their fears.”
“And how can that exculpate a soldier from betraying his oath, that he listened to an enemy agent?” said the president banging the table.
Hughes suffered a fit of coughing. He hurried over and whispered urgently to the president.
“I am reminded by the learned judge advocate,” the president said, “That we are not at war with France.” The officers, both on the board and throughout the hall, whispered and laughed to each other. It was one of the absurdities of the War of the Austrian Succession that in the first years there was no formal state of war between England and France.
“Carry on with your evidence, sir,” said the president.
“By the time I returned to the camp the company had left for the North. I followed them. In due course, accompanied by Sergeant Rathbone and his men, I encountered the company and persuaded them with little difficulty to surrender to Marshal Wade. That is my evidence, sir.”
“You may leave the witness box,” said the president with an ill grace.
Hughes said. “I call Sergeant Robert Rathbone.”
Although he was expecting it, the announcement of his name took Rathbone by surprise. He leapt up and made his way to the dais. The junior officer handed him the testament and read out the oath, Rathbone repeating the words. The president gestured that he should proceed with his evidence and Rathbone walked over to the witness stand.
“Sergeant Rathbone,” said the judge advocate, “you were, I believe, with your men at Barnet recruiting for your regiment?”
“Yes sir.”
“Please recount to the court martial how you came to be involved with the highland mutineers.”
Rathbone described the meeting with Captain Munro, the hurried march to Oundle and the trips the Villiers’ picket made to the highland camp leading to the surrender of the mutineers.
When he had finished the judge advocate said, “Is that your evidence in this case?”
“Yes sir.”
The judge advocate turned to the president. “Are there further questions from the court?”
“Yes,” said the president. “Sergeant, how did this Corporal McPherson behave to Captain Munro?”
“He threatened him, sir. He seemed to fear that Captain Munro might influence the mutineers. He wished him to go as quick as he may, sir.”
“Did anyone help him in these actions, sergeant?”
“Yes sir. There seemed to be two parties. The first was uncertain as to what action they should take. They listened to Captain Munro. And the others, minded to desert, wanted Captain Munro to go before he could persuade their er…” Rathbone cast around for an appropriate word. “Their comrades to give up the venture.”
“Which was the larger party, sergeant?”
“Those who were uncertain were in the majority, sir. By the end the other party was just Corporal McPherson, his brother, who I believe is also a corporal, and one or two others.”
“Was one of them the man called Farquhar Shaw, sergeant?” asked the judge advocate.
“So I understood, sir,” said Rathbone.
“Was Captain Munro in any danger, sergeant?” asked the president.
“Yes sir. Very much so. We feared for our safety and we were a hundred yards away. Captain Munro was standing with the mutineers. The two highland corporals and the highland man McCullough, who were with us, suddenly made ready their firelocks. They could understand what was being said between Captain Munro and the mutineers, so we made ready also. We saw Corporal McPherson take Captain Munro by the arm and threaten him with his sword. Captain Munro would not leave and I could see the group was becoming agitated with him. I feared that Captain Munro was to be attacked.”
The conversation in the hall had fallen away until there was almost complete silence, other than the witness and his questioners. There was a pause as the president and the judge advocate wrote notes, the only sounds the scratching of pens and the rattle of the prisoners’ manacles.
“Thank you, sergeant,” the president said. “You may leave the witness box.” Rathbone walked back to his bench.
None of the highlanders was permitted to give evidence. In a capital trial a defendant was not permitted to risk perjuring himself in the light of his imminent confrontation with his Maker. At the end of the evidence the judge advocate addressed the officers on the board. He drew the court’s attention to the evidence of Captain Munro and Sergeant Rathbone. He pointed out that the prisoners’ names had been recorded when they reached the Tower and that the evidence showed the mutineers had been manacled at Oundle, supervised by the escort at all times during the journey, and were still manacled on arrival in London. It was the same group, the judge advocate declared, as had deserted and threatened their officer with violence. It was these prisoners who had committed the appalling crimes of desertion and mutiny. When he had finished his address Judge Advocate Hughes bowed to the court and, reaching into his pocket for a handful of snuff, sat down at his desk.
The president called to the prisoners at the far end of the hall, “Is there anything any of you wish to say before we retire to consider our verdict?”
The highland soldiers talked among themselves as the question was translated. A man stood and, beckoning to one of the interpreters, started to speak in Gaelic. The interpreter said, “I am John Stewart of Captain Campbells’ company….. I did not desert… I only wanted to go back to my own country, because they abused me and said I was to be transported….. I had no leader or commander.. we had not one man over the rest…We were all determined not to be tricked.. We will fight the French and Spaniards but will not go like rogues to the plantations….” The highlander bowed and sat down.
A second man rose to his feet.
The president called, “What is your name, soldier?”
“His name is George Grant, sir,” said the interpreter.
“What do you wish to say, Grant?”
“Sir…” he says.. “I am neither Whig nor Papist, but I will serve the king for all that…. I am not afraid… I never saw the man I was afraid of…. I will not be cheated, nor do anything by trick… I will not be transported to the plantations like a thief and rogue…. They told me I was to be sent out to work with slaves… that was not my bargain.. and I won’t be cheated..”
When Grant had finished, he sat down. Several other highlanders stood and spoke in a similar vein. None pleaded or asked for mercy. Neither of the McPherson brothers sought to address the court nor did Farquhar Shaw.
General Foliott put his hat on and, taking up his gloves, looked down the line of officers sitting on each side of him. They picked up their hats and gloves and rose to their feet with him. The court orderly pounded the floor with his halberd and the officers and soldiers in the hall stood, as the board of officers made their way to the retiring room door and disappeared. Judge Advocate Hughes slowly collected his papers and followed the board, crossing the hall with a heavy, measured tread. Once the court and the judge advocate had left, conversation in the hall broke out in speculation as to the likely outcome.
After a half hour the sergeant again pounded on the floor, announcing the return of the court martial. The door to the retiring room opened and the procession of officers walked to the table and sat down. This time they kept their hats on as a signal that the final stage of the trial had been reached. The president shuffled his papers and, looking up at the prisoners, announced, “This court-martial, convened by order of His Majesty to try the prisoners from Lord Sempill’s Highland Regiment charged with mutiny and desertion, finds all the prisoners whose names are set out on the list attached to the convening order guilty, in that they did lately assemble in a mutinous manner with their arms, did refuse to obey the lawful orders of their officers and did, soon after the said mutiny, desert His Majesty’s service with their arms regimental clothes and their accoutrements and that they did thereafter offer violence to their lawful officer, Captain Munro, when he sought to persuade them to return to their duty. Being mindful that desertion and mutiny are the most heinous and loathsome of offences that can be committed by a soldier in His Majesty’s service, we sentence all the prisoners to be taken to the Green at His Majesty’s Tower of London and there to be executed by shooting.”
There was a hush in the hall. Then a murmur arose as the English speaking Highlanders explained to the others what had been said, punctuated by the rattle of manacles as the prisoners leant over to hear.
“This verdict and sentence,” continued the President, “is subject to confirmation by His Majesty the King.”
The president of the board stood up, bowed briefly to the judge advocate and strode out of the hall, followed by the other officers.
Rathbone stood and looked at the Highland prisoners, many of whom appeared stunned by the sentence. The McPherson brothers and Shaw lounged against the wall, talking. They showed no surprise at the outcome of the proceedings for themselves. Captain Munro pushed his way through the crowd to speak to his soldiers, while the Yeoman Warders ushered them to the door leading to the cells. Rathbone left the hall and returned to his quarter in the inn.
The next day at dawn the muster took place for the confirmation of sentence and the carrying out of the executions. The troops marched out across the drawbridge in a misty twilight. The division of the Highland Regiment that had not mutinied was drawn up across the Green, their backs to the Tower walls. They had their arms, but no powder or shot. Twelve companies of Foot Guards were assembled opposite them carrying loaded muskets, their drummers in a group to the front. A troop of Horse Grenadier Guards trotted down Tower Hill from the Savoy barracks, and formed up on the Foot Guards’ flank. The mitre caps of grenadiers could be seen along the ramparts of the fortress. Behind the Foot Guards, crowds of Londoners were gathering to watch the spectacle, in spite of the early hour. Rathbone and Hazelwood stood at the front of the crowd.
Three posts had been driven into the ground in the middle of the parade, ten yards apart.
The Tower gates opened and the convicted highlanders with their escort of Yeoman Warders came across the drawbridge in a long shuffling column, shackles chinking. They were halted in the centre of the Green and turned to face the three posts. The two Macphersons and Shaw must have sensed the reason for the number.
A mounted officer rode into the centre of the muster and held up a document from which he read: “His Majesty King George the Second has graciously declared that… Whereas a court martial sitting in my Tower of London has convicted one hundred and seven private soldiers and non commission officers of the regiment of Lord Sempill, late Loudon’s, of the heinous offences of desertion and mutiny and sentenced those soldiers to death by shooting, it is my pleasure that the sentences of all those soldiers be commuted to one of posting to one of our colonies in the Americas, save only for the following soldiers upon whom the sentence of death by shooting shall be inflicted, namely Corporal Samuel McPherson of Captain Munro’s company and Corporal Malcolm McPherson and Private Farquhar Shaw both of Lord Sempill’s company.”
The two McPhersons and Shaw were standing at the end of the group of prisoners. A picket of Foot Guards moved towards them, but there was no need for compulsion. The three condemned men on hearing their names had started towards the posts, the other prisoners calling out encouragement to them in Gaelic. The Foot Guards tied them to the posts and blindfolded them.
At a sign from the mounted officer the drummers beat a roll and files of Foot Guards moved forward from the ranks of the companies to face each post.
The officer called, “Present,” and the firing parties cocked their muskets and brought them to the shoulder. The officer shouted, “Fire.”
There was a crackle of shots. When the smoke had cleared, the three highlanders could be seen slumped in their ropes, heads lolling forward.
The parade was over. The Foot Guards stood with firelocks at the recover as the main body of the Highland Regiment marched away. They would cross the river by London Bridge and head for the estuary ports and the transports to take them to Flanders, followed by the Troop of Horse Grenadier Guards to ensure they left the city without trouble. The reprieved men shuffled back into the Tower to await shipment to the American colonies, the fate they had mutinied to avoid. What they had been told by the agent had been right in one sense. None would return home. They would all leave their bones on one or other of the fever ridden islands of the Caribbean. The corpses of the two MacPhersons and Shaw were left tied to the stakes for the day and then removed to the Tower cemetery for a perfunctory ceremony and burial.
Chapter 8
Rathbone and Hazelwood spent their last evening in the Billingsgate Inn. On many nights the taproom was visited by Foot Guard recruiters or the navy press looking for fishermen and market porters to entice or compel into their respective services. That evening a sergeant was standing drinks for a group of sailors and Rathbone and Hazelwood watched as the fishermen led the recruiter into buying them round after round of grog. One of the drinkers pushed past the sergeant and approached the Sky Blues. He was a small wiry man, heavily tattooed over the neck and arms, with the characteristic swaying gait of a sailor, made more pronounced by bandy legs. Altogether he was of a strange appearance. The sailor lent on the table and said, “I have a mind to join the army. But I’m not joining them lot.” He jerked a thumb at the Foot Guards sergeant. “I’ll join your lot.”
Rathbone looked at Hazelwood. “I even recruit them when I don’t need any more. I just can’t help it.” He said to the sailor. “Sit down friend. Are you sure you want to join the Army?”
“What! Ain’t I good enough for you?”
“No. We’ll take you along,” said Hazelwood. “What’s your name?”
“Tom Abraham,” said the tattooed sailor. “Late gunner’s mate in His Majesty’s ship Orion, Captain Simcock. Before that, thirty years at sea, man and boy.”
The Foot Guards sergeant had been watching the exchange. He came over and said, “Well I’ll just take my crow off the hands of you gentlemen from the marching foot.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Rathbone. “You heard what he said. He’s not joining you, he’s joining us.”
A party of Foot Guards privates and corporals were drinking in the corner of the taproom. They left their pots and crowded behind the sergeant.
With a grin and a meaningful look at the soldiers standing behind him, the Foot Guards sergeant stuck his thumbs in his belt and said, “Mine, I think. I’m sure he’ll thank you for it. One and six a day instead of a shilling. No competition really.”
The sergeant took Abraham by the arm to lead him away, but the sailor gave him a hard shove which sent him crashing over a table. The other Foot Guards started forward but stopped when they saw that Abraham had a large sea knife in his right hand. Abraham beckoned with his left. “Anyone feel like a fight? I feel like a fight. The knife feels like a fight. I calls it Henry Morgan, after the pirate, see! Henry has killed more men than you lobsters have had hot dinners. Now Henry ain’t tasted blood for nigh on two months and that’s hard for a knife like Henry.”
Abraham shook his head from side to side as he spoke, moving slowly towards the Foot Guards, who edged away from him. The sergeant climbed off the table and stumbled out of the taproom followed in a rush by the rest of the guardsmen. Abraham thrust the knife into his waistband and took a mug of rum offered him by one of the other sailors.
Rathbone and Hazelwood carried on drinking, shaking their heads at the incident they had witnessed. At the end of the evening as they rose to climb the stairs to their room in the attic, Rathbone found his arm grasped by Tom Abraham. “Don’t you remember? He said. “I am joining your lot.”
*****
In early 1745, William, Duke of Cumberland, was appointed the commander in chief in Flanders. The favourite son of George II, His Royal Highness the Duke, as he was known to the Army, had fought at Dettingen and suffered the leg wound that Lazenby had treated. His appointment began a period of several years in which the Army felt an unusually strong hand in the running of its affairs.
The previous campaigning season of 1744 had been spent by the Pragmatic Allies in inactivity. The Earl of Stair had been replaced by old Marshal Wade, but the Army still lacked a commander of sufficient rank and standing to compel the different nationalities to act together. The Dutch joined the allies but kept their army in garrisons scattered throughout its border cities. The Austrians also kept much of their strength in garrisons. The aged marshal was still in England when the French took the field under Marshal Saxe for the 1744 campaign and began their invasion of Flanders by taking Ypres and Fort Knock. The English, Austrian and Dutch armies did not take the field at all that year, leaving the French to make significant gains, largely unopposed.
In 1745 the Duke of Cumberland brought brashness combined with royal status to the command and with his energy and authority compelled the allies to a single course of action. He had need to, for again Marshal Saxe took the field early, laying siege to the important border city of Tournay in the South West of Flanders. His Royal Highness the Duke assembled the Pragmatic Army in Brussels and prepared to march to the relief of Tournai.
As in previous years the Sky Blues had spent the winter in Ghent. The day before the regiment marched out, Lieutenant Colonel Marchment directed that the officers attend his quarters to receive the orders the Duke had issued for the conduct of the army. He also intended to instruct them on the administration of the regiment during the summer’s campaign. Lazenby was present. Once he had finished his address Marchment said that the officers might leave and prepare themselves and their companies for the departure.
The surgeon half rose and Marchment looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Yes Mister Lazenby?”
While Marchment had bidden the surgeon to attend, he did not expect him to address the officers. Lazenby pressed on. “Sir. I have something to say that is of great importance for the soldiers’ health.”
“Are you sure this is the right occasion to raise such matters?” said Marchment.
“I think so, sir.”
“Very well” said the lieutenant colonel coldly.
“Sir” said Lazenby. “I have been in consultation with Mister Pringle, His Royal Highness’s physician and it is our view that certain steps should be taken in the field.”
“And what are they, Mister Lazenby?” asked the lieutenant colonel.
“Sir, it is our view that the malignant fevers are very much encouraged by ill prepared sanitary arrangements.”
The younger officers gave snorts of mirth.
“Sir, it is necessary for the companies, when they reach camp each evening, to have sanitation pits dug for them and that the soldiers be directed on pain of punishment to use those sanitary pits and no other place. When the companies are to leave, the pits must be covered over.”
There was a stunned silence and Lieutenant Colonel Marchment’s face relaxed into a sardonic smile. “You are asking that the captains of companies arrange the digging of shitting pits for the soldiers under their command?”
The officers all gave a shout of laughter.
“Yes sir,” said Lazenby. He reddened and sat down. The officers next to him slapped him on the back. It was the best joke they had heard that year and, when it was repeated to officers in other regiments, the raconteurs said, “….. and Lazenby did not crack a smile the whole way through….. not a whisker. The old dog.”
But Marchment was no fool. He directed the surgeon to stay behind and questioned him closely. The result was an order that on each day of the march each company was to send forward a sergeant and two men to dig the pits, so they would be ready when the regiment arrived at the night’s camp site.
The next morning the regiment marched to Brussels, where Prideaux’s company quartered in a large inn on the main Ghent road. The two sergeants, Tucking and Whitebeard, had a room to themselves in the eves of the building. The corporals slept in the hallway and the soldiers were scattered in the public rooms and the barns and stables. The old soldiers, “Mad Ned” Broadbent, Jim Peabody, Shem Bottomley and Jacob Gussett, moved into a small drinking house across the road. Several of the companies quartered nearby and used the inn for their meals.
Two days after the regiment reached Brussels, Rathbone and the last of his recruiting picquet caught them up. The tattooed sailor, Tom Abraham, arrived dressed in a regimental coat, tricorne hat at a rakish angle and thigh length spats on his widely bowed legs. He carried his musket jauntily across his shoulder, apparently unaware of its fifteen pound weight. Abraham walked into the dark scummy dining room and sat down at a table. He was immediately challenged by the grenadier Robjohn, “Hey you, crow. That’s my place. Shift your miserable scrawny butt.”
The tattooed recruit looked at him and raised his hand to the potboy calling for a platter of food. Robjohn lumbered over and went to grasp the recruit by the lapels, but Abraham struck the grenadier’s arms aside and, lunging through his grasp, seized his throat in a vice like hold. Robjohn saw the glinting sea knife Abraham was pressing against his throat. The grenadier felt the horribly sharp blade sink into the flesh in his neck.
“See her, matey,” hissed the tattooed recruit. “Do you want Henry Morgan here to carve out your throat or do you humbly ask for Henry’s forgiveness and the chance to find another bench to plant your soiled posteriors?”
Robjohn grunted an apology and was thrown across the room, blood seeping from the weal on his throat. The recruit wiped the knife on his britches and resumed his seat as the boy hurried over with a plate of dumplings and cabbage.
He was still eating when the old soldiers came in for their supper. At the sight of him, Peabody stopped dead. “Tom Abraham,” he exclaimed. “You villain. We’d have hanged you in ’34, if you hadn’t jumped ship at Port Royal. What you doing here? What you in the army for, when you ain’t got blood in you, you got salt water?”
The tattooed recruit spat on the floor and continued eating.
Peabody threw his hat on a table and drew his hanger. “Abraham, you’re a murdering scum and I’m going to split your skull in two as I should have done in Jamaica.”
Abraham rose to his feet and moved clear of the bench. Then with extraordinary alacrity he drew his small sword and, with his sea knife in the other hand, closed on Peabody.
None of the Sky Blues had seen Peabody use a hanger as a weapon and it had not occurred to them that he had any particular skill. Seconds into the fight with the tattooed recruit it was clear that his years at sea had made Peabody a skilled and ruthless cutlass fighter. Abraham moved with speed and aggression but Peabody was his equal. The two men lunged and slashed from one end of the pot room to the other until both were lacerated and bleeding. Tables were overturned and chairs smashed, the other soldiers scattering to the edges of the room. The two combatants might have been in a desert for the notice they took of their stunned audience.
At the end of ten minutes of turmoil, Lieutenant Desmond and Sergeant Tucking entered the room, followed by the regiment’s picquet. They stood in the doorway mesmerized by the combat. Then Desmond said to the sergeant. “Stop this. Shoot them, if necessary.”
Tucking brought out the loaded pistol he carried under his coat and fired into the middle of the fight. The sound of the shot in the low ceilinged room was stunning. The bullet struck a hanger blade and ricocheted off into the wall. The two ex-sailors stopped their combat and stood breathing heavily, both badly gashed.
“Take them into arrest,” Desmond said to Tucking. “A court martial will give them a thousand hundred lashes apiece for this.” He turned and walked out.
Peabody and Abraham were seized, manacled by the picquet and thrown into the cellar used as a guardroom.
Later that evening Desmond was eating his supper upstairs in the inn when Sergeant Tucking sought him out. “What is to be done with our two pirates, sir?” he enquired.
Desmond thought for a moment and said, “We march out tomorrow morning. There is no time for the lieutenant colonel to convene a court martial. Have them kept in manacles for the first two days. One of the sergeants is to go ahead to the camp site. Our two duelers can accompany him and dig Mister Lazenby’s shitting pits. If at the end of the week they are not fast friends we can strip the skin off their backs. I suspect these old sailors are well used to the cat and a thousand lashes by army drummers will be but a gnat’s bite to them. A week of digging latrines may be more efficacious.” He laughed.
Tucking smiled. “Aye, sir,” he said.
To his disgust Rathbone was selected as sergeant for the shitting pit duty and had to rise at four the next morning. Peabody and Abraham were brought out to him from the cellar.
“You’ve made a good start in the company, Tom,” Rathbone commented to the tattooed recruit and Abraham smiled fleetingly. The manacles were struck from the two prisoners’ ankles but their wrists left pinioned. Their equipment and muskets were left for the company to bring and Rathbone set off, the two ex-mariners clanking down the road behind him.
The drummers beat for the company muster at 6am, bringing the soldiers out of the barns and stables. They gathered in the yard, adjusting their equipment and preparing themselves for the first day’s march, watched by a crowd of locals who had nothing better to do.
Tucking checked the tentage and cooking kettles onto the company bat horses. There was a shortage of wagons in the army and none were available for the foot’s camp necessaries. Desmond’s servant brought the mare the lieutenant had purchased in Ghent to the door of the inn. The horse was excited by the atmosphere of bustle and pranced about attempting to break free, to the irritation of the servant. Desmond had not yet ridden her and it would be a day or two before she settled down to the arduous duty of plodding over fifteen miles of countryside each day.
Ned Beamish was the last soldier onto the muster. He had spent the night with the innkeeper’s daughter. Woken by the drums he crept from her room in the attic and climbed down the steep stairs, carrying his clothes, shoes, spats and musket. He had given the girl a small locket he had stolen from the market, for which she was tearfully grateful. Emerging into the yard under the baleful glance of the corporals and sergeants, Ned hung his equipment on the horse trough while he speedily dressed himself.
Hazelwood walked among the soldiers calling, “Come along now, come along. Slap it about a bit,” as they made ready. The two drummers played a beat on the wooden rims of their drums and talked. Beamish, finally dressed, was the last into the muster and received a push from the corporal.
Desmond mounted his horse and, led by Stote and Squirrel, the company set off to the regimental muster a quarter mile up the road. There was an air of anticipation among the soldiers, tinged with anxiety as they all knew there would be a battle within a few days. Tournai was an important Flemish city; the French had to be forced to abandon the siege but it was unlikely they would give up without a fight. The Pragmatic Army would have to attack them and drive them off. The battle of Dettingen had given the English foot a high opinion of its fighting abilities. 1744 had been a disappointingly inactive year, but the arrival of the Duke had instilled a new sense of purpose in the army. His Royal Highness would lead them to Tournai and they would thrash the French again. Nevertheless only a fool was unconcerned at the prospect of battle.
The Duke of Cumberland had firm ideas on how his army should conduct itself and although he lacked experience, he was determined that the English regiments should become disciplined and well drilled soldiers. Already his intentions were being made known at every level of the Army with the issuing of standing orders and instructions.
Prideaux and Ensign Stowe were still in England on the day the Army marched. One of the Duke’s directions was that any officer not back with his regiment by the end of the week would be placed on half pay and lose the value of his commission. This was the last time the absence of officers in such numbers over the winter period would be tolerated.
As in previous years, Desmond had stayed with the company and, sensing the mood of professionalism the Duke was seeking to instill in the Army, had thrown himself into teaching the company the new drills. At Dettingen the standard of battle drill had been so elementary that the foot had been able to form rough lines and discharge an uncontrolled fire at the attacking French and little else. It had been their good fortune that the French foot were even less well trained and disciplined. At the end of the six week wait in Brussels the English foot was capable of rudimentary battle drill and could at least be moved about on the field. It remained to be seen whether this would be sufficient for the coming campaign.
The soldiers viewed the increased demands on them with mixed feelings. They had seen foreign regiments adept at drill in 1743, in particular the Hessian regiments that had joined the Army after Dettingen. It was interesting to be taught similar movements. The new drills, it was hoped, would ensure the English beat the French again. Nevertheless the additional work was not entirely welcome.
The English regiments assembled from across Brussels and marched out of the city on the road to Tournay. For the infantry, the first day of marching brought sore feet and the re-establishment of the discipline that had largely dissolved over the winter. The recruits were excited to be taking the field for the first time, the older soldiers rueful at leaving their comfortable city quarters. But most were exhilarated at the prospect of camp life and campaigning in new countryside and towns. There would be irksome duties, providing guards and pickets, but there might well be the high drama of battle.
After three days marching the army reached Ath, the base for the attack on the French forces besieging Tournay. The regiments jostled for quarters in the town, although many of those settling into comfortable billets found themselves displaced by general officers and their staffs. Villiers’ and three other battalions of foot were directed further down the Tournai road to act as the advance guard and were established themselves in outlying villages where there was less competition for quarters. It was here that the officers who had spent the winter in England caught up, among them Captain Prideaux and Ensign George Stowe.
Whitebeard had the shitting pit duty for the next day’s march. He strode off into the early morning twilight holding his testament and followed by the two seamen, now unmanacled and carrying their firelocks and equipment. Peabody and Abraham hoped that the darkness would prevent Whitebeard from reading the scriptures to them, but they found that Joshua Whitebeard had no need of the text. He passed the day’s march quoting extensively from his limitless recollection of the testaments, his bible unopened. At the evening’s campsite the two sailors set to digging.
The army was now within ten miles of the French. At the morning muster the standard twenty four rounds of ball ammunition was issued to every soldier from the magazine wagons. The final approach march took the army into the area of rolling hills beyond which lay the River Scheldt and, on the far bank, the ancient city of Tournai. The imminence of the enemy caused the regiments to close up so that the road was packed with red coated foot. The rumour was that the French Army had taken up positions on the near side of the river and would give battle. Grassins, not encountered by the English troops since Dettingen two years before, could be glimpsed on the hilltops and the houses along the road had been looted and burnt, the hallmark of these ruthless marauders.
Late in the afternoon, the leading regiments came in sight of the group of villages that lay at the base of the wide incline leading up to the hamlets of Fontenoy and St Anthoine. French troops had fired these villages and dense clouds of smoke and flames were billowing into the sky.
Major Ireton rode down the regiment, stopping to address Captain Prideaux. “We are nearly at the Scheldt. The Austrian Hussars have reported the French army positioned on this side of the river, on the heights around St Anthoine.”
Ireton pointed at the burning mass in front of them. “That is Vezin. It lies at the base of the slope leading to the French position. His Royal Highness is insistent that the enemy will offer battle and that we will give it to them. We are to go through this place and form up for the attack on the hillside beyond.”
But the fierce conflagration made it impossible to approach the village. Clouds of smoke and sparks were billowing up the valley forcing the leading regiments to cover their faces. It was not until late evening that the fires had burned down sufficiently for the columns of foot and horse to move through Vezin. The attack had to be postponed to the next morning.
The regiments halted on the hillside beyond the ruined village and the order was given to the companies to camp where they stood. Only officers’ mess tents were to be erected. The soldiers would sleep in the meadow, wrapped in whatever covering they carried, their muskets stacked to keep them dry. It was not going to be a comfortable night. Clouds of smoke from the smouldering villages were drifting across the site and the only food and water was what the soldiers had in their shoulder sacks and canteens, little enough in most cases. They lit fires to do some cooking, using the wood that was immediately to hand. There was no question of collecting firewood elsewhere, as the sergeants and corporals were ordered to prevent the men from straying from the company areas.
The daylight failed and the soldiers fell asleep, leaving awake only the sentries and the groups of inveterate talkers gathered around the camp fires. On each flank of the army a guard of dragoons kept their horses saddled against any surprise night attack.
Captain Anstruther, Captain Prideaux and the lieutenants and ensigns from their companies dined in one of the mess tents. The food was meager but the officers had bought bottles of Moselle from an Austrian sutler to enliven the meal. As dinner began, there was a commotion outside the tent with voices asking for Lewis Anstruther. The Scottish captain went out to investigate and the other officers heard an exclamation of surprise. Anstruther re-entered the tent laughing and accompanied by two young men.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “May I introduce to you my cousins, Captain Rory Anstruther and Lieutenant Angus Crawford.”
The Sky Blues stood up and bowed. Desmond looked in some surprise at the dress worn by the two officers. “Excuse me. But your uniforms?”
“Aye. The Royal Scots.”
“But. The Royal Scots?”
Anstruther said, “My cousins are in the French King’s service, the French Royal Scots.”
There was a stunned silence.
“They have come to dine with me before we meet in battle.”
“Well we had better proceed to eat before the battle comes upon us,” said Prideaux. He raised his glass, “May we wish you a resounding defeat.”
The tent reverberated with merriment until midnight when Anstruther’s cousins stole out of the camp and made their way back to their own lines.
At four o’clock the non commission officers went through the lines, shaking the men awake. There was no drummers’ reveille, the Duke’s orders being that the army assemble for the assault as quietly as possible, although there was no real prospect of the French being unaware of the impending attack.
Desmond had slept in a corner of the mess tent, fully dressed, and woke as the troops began to stir. He stood in the tent doorway watching the sergeants and corporals shake and prod the sleeping figures into consciousness.
It was a cold fresh night and the smoke had cleared, leaving only an occasional tang of burning. There was a low buzz of conversation from the waking soldiers. One had a wracking cough that echoed across the field.
The company always had a distinctive odour, but it was particularly pronounced after a night lying on damp open ground. The smell was essentially of unwashed bodies and clothing, but also of the tobacco the soldiers smoked and the alcohol they drank. The soldiers’ tramplings had crushed herbs growing in the meadow, raising additional aromas, sharp and evocative.
The man with the cough was Snaith, the soldier who had brought Desmond the letter in Marlow.
“You have a bad chest there, Ebenezer,” Desmond said. “When we have finished with the French today you must see Mister Lazenby.”
A shadowy figure muttered, “If he’s only a sore chest this evening, he’ll be a lucky man.”
The company began to muster, the sergeants pushing the soldiers into ranks. The Old Soldiers stood in the rear, Jim Peabody next to the new man Abraham, the differences between them apparently forgotten. Ned Nutbeam, Foxglove and the other youngsters were in the front rank. They considered themselves veterans and claimed to be looking forward to the battle, Foxglove eager to revenge the injuries suffered by his brother at Dettingen. The corporals walked among the men examining their equipment and pulling the younger ones about, as corporals do. Watching his soldiers, Desmond sensed in them an eerie blend of menace and vulnerability.
Sergeant Tucking walked to the front of the company and stood with Rathbone, ticking the names on his register. Whitebeard waited slightly away from the other two sergeants, his head bowed, apparently in prayer.
Billy Stote came up the incline with his drum. He was humming a Buckinghamshire ditty the company often sang, beating the time on the drum rim. Once he had reached the company he began to sing in a low snuffling tenor. Nat Squirrel took up the tune softly on his fife and a number of the soldiers began whistling the melody. It was muted, but the company was whistling. They were ready for battle.
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment mounted his horse and rode along the lines, watching the muster. The regiment had come a long way since Dettingen, two years before. There was an atmosphere of anticipation and excitement tinged with apprehension, but there was also an air of confidence and determination that had been missing at the earlier battle. The soldiers considered themselves an experienced fighting regiment. They had defeated the French at Dettingen when still beginners. How much more resoundingly would they beat them now they were veterans.
As the regiments of marching foot and the Foot Guards formed lines across the track, they were re-assured to hear that their commander for the day was Lieutenant General Sir John Ligonier. Ligonier had been one of the general officers knighted on the field of Dettingen by the King. He had been born into a family of French Huguenots that had fled to England, and was now in his sixty third year. He had two younger brothers serving in the British Army and another brother reputed to have embraced the Catholic faith and to be an officer in the French Army. Sir John had served in the army of the Duke of Marlborough at each of his four great victories; Blenheim, Ramilles, Oudenarde and Malplaquet. At Malplaquet it was said that Ligonier had received twenty three bullet holes in his uniform while remaining unwounded. He had been one of the first men through the breach at the siege of Liege. Ligonier had led the assault on the counterscarp at Menin and during the assault on the city of Vigo in 1718, he had led a hundred grenadiers in the capture of one of the outlying forts. He had been appointed colonel of the Seventh Horse in 1720. His regiment, known as the Black Horse, was one of the few mounted regiments the Foot considered worthy of their confidence.
As the sun rose, the English troops looked up the empty sloping meadow to their front. Their view reached to the brow of the incline half a mile away. On the Sky Blues’ right other battalions were forming up, the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, Howard’s Old Buffs, Campbell’s Royal Scots Fusiliers and the rest of the foot. Beyond these regiments were the three battalions of Foot Guards; the First, the Coldstream and the Third Foot Guards. To the right of the English line, at the head of the incline, was the canopy of a wood stretching away along the ridge out of sight.
To Villiers’ left were two Hanover battalions and beyond them the slope that reached up to the village of Fontenoy on the spur. The French had fortified Fontenoy and held it with a strong garrison. French colours floated over the houses and the dark muzzles of guns protruded from earthworks thrown up around the village. At the top of the incline, between Fontenoy on the extreme left and the wood to the right, lay a half mile of empty sky line.
It was not apparent where the rest of the French army was. The soldiers discussed what they could see and their expectations for the forthcoming action. Whatever else was intended, it was clear that the task of the main body of foot was to march up the rising incline and attack whatever lay beyond the ridge. To the more thoughtful it seemed foolhardy. To many, particularly the younger soldiers, it seemed an exciting adventure, entirely appropriate for veterans like themselves.
With full daylight the first gun fired. Unexpectedly, it was discharged from the wood to the army’s right. The cannon ball came bounding down the slope and screamed over the heads of the Foot Guards. English officers examined the source of the shot through their telescopes and saw there was a low earthwork on the corner of the wood from which the gun had been fired. The gunners altered their aim and the rest of the French battery opened fire on the Foot Guards, inflicting numbers of casualties and quickly building up a heavy pall of smoke over the earthwork.
With a single crash the guns in Fontenoy opened fire into the left flank of the English and Hanover line. Cannon rounds ploughed through the battalions, killing and maiming files of soldiers, while others passed overhead with a terrifying whistling moan.
The English foot were savagely reminded of the horror and uncertainty of being under cannon fire, but this time, instead of suffering the urge to rush forwards or flee, the Sky Blues, with the other regiments of foot, stood it out. They could well consider themselves veterans.
After a quarter of an hour of the bombardment, the cry went up to break ranks and allow guns through. Soldiers came up through the line pushing a half dozen light three pounder pieces and pulling handcarts laden with ball and cartridges. The guns were manned by foot soldiers, with one or two mattrosses from the Royal Regiment of Artillery to each piece. The crews positioned the guns in front of the line and began to fire at the Fontenoy redoubt. The 3 pounders were too light to have much impact, but the discharges generated quantities of powder smoke that masked the foot from the French gunners.
General Ligonier and his staff were positioned to the rear of the second line. The soldiers in the battalions nearby could see the flurry of activity as mounted staff officers rode away to the rear. It was apparent that the general was greatly concerned about the two French redoubts and particularly the earthwork on the edge of the wood that was bombarding the Foot Guards to such effect.
Brigadier Onslow’s brigade major approached Lieutenant Colonel Marchment and said, “His Royal Highness has instructed Brigadier Ingoldby with Pulteney’s, Duroure’s and the Highland Regiment to take the redoubt on the right. General Ligonier constantly expects the attack to take place so that we may begin the advance. For some reason that he is unable to ascertain, the good brigadier has not done so. There is some talk of his having required artillery.”
“Are we to spend the rest of the day waiting for Brigadier Ingoldby, while the battalions are cannonaded out of existence?” enquired Marchment.
“That is exactly General Ligonier’s concern. But I believe that His Royal Highness will be with us directly to order the attack.”
“I very much hope so.”
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment rode to the left of the battalion where Major Ireton was supervising the companies most exposed to the artillery fire. The two officers watched the regiment’s flank company closing up round its casualties.
Then the word came, “The foot will advance,” and the mood of the soldiers changed from forbearance to exhilaration. At last they could stop being targets for the French guns and attack.
The battalions were in line and few armies of the time had the technical ability to move forward in that formation. Movement of foot at any reasonable speed could only be achieved in column, a formation that tended to be little more than an ill-ordered mass.
To begin the advance, the English and Hanover battalions formed into two columns, the right headed by the English Foot Guards and the left, by accident of its position, by Villiers’. Behind the Sky Blues were the rest of Onslow’s brigade and then the Hanover battalions. Prideaux’s was the first Villiers company into the column and found itself leading. A number of the older men viewed their position with apprehension, but Ned Beamish and the younger soldiers seethed with excitement at being in such a prominent place.
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment rode to the front of the column and, wheeling his horse, stood looking back, waiting for the order to move. On the brigade commander’s wave of the hand the lieutenant colonel called “March.”
The drums began to beat and the column moved slowly forward up the incline. The Foot Guards’ to the right moved off at the same time and the heads of the two columns remained aligned. The soldiers serving the 3 pounders ceased firing and pushed their pieces up the hill in front of the foot.
The columns marched up the slope for some eight hundred yards until they approached the edge of the plateau. During this advance, other than the garrisons in Fontenoy and the reboubt, there was no sign of the French army. As the soldiers wheeling the guns in front of the columns passed the crest of the incline they suddenly stopped and hauled their pieces round into the firing position. The leading files of foot, coming up behind the guns, crossed the sky line and stared in stunned amazement at the scene before them. At a distance of no more than fifty yards stood the main French infantry line. Behind these troops and stretching away in each direction, was the rest of the French Army. The regiment immediately opposite the Sky Blues was their old adversary from Dettingen, the blue coated Gardes Francaises. To the right were clumps of soldiers in the white coats of the French line regiments, Courten, Aubeterre, Du Roy and the red coats of the Gardes Suisses. Beyond these regiments the French line stretched behind the wood, with more white coated foot and the red of the Swiss and the Irish, sets of colours waving in the light breeze over each clump of men. Batteries of guns interspersed the battalions and behind the French infantry stood two long ranks of cavalry regiments, each one a shadowy block on the field. Mounted staff officers cantered along the lines and the plateau reverberated with the rumble of kettle drums and the squeal of fifes and military oboes.
The sudden appearance of the English foot caused pandemonium in the French ranks. The movement of their hats, as the soldiers craned round to catch a glimpse of the two columns, gave the French regiments the appearance of swarms of black beetles. The French ranks buzzed with excited speculation.
Marshall Saxe, the French commander in chief, had been accompanied onto the field by his sovereign, King Louis XV, in the expectation that the position behind the redoubts was one of complete safety. In the light of this sudden and unexpected threat, the Marshall attempted to persuade the King to return to the far side of the Scheldt, but Louis refused, saying simply, “I will go when you go.”
The soldiers at the front of the two English columns could now fully see the two fortified redoubts that had bombarded them during the morning, on the edge of the wood to their right the extensive field work called the Redoute D’Eu, and on their left the fortified village of Fontenoy. In the presence of the entire French Army and positioned between these two powerful redoubts, the thought in the minds of many of the English soldiers was, “What in hell are we doing here?”
Brigadier Ingoldby had been given the task of capturing the Redoute D’Eu and the Dutch infantry directed to storm Fontenoy. The plan was that once these two strong points had been taken, the English and Hanover infantry would make the attack in the centre and could do so without suffering a devastating fire from each flank. Neither redoubt had been carried and yet the foot had been dispatched through the gap to attack the main French army.
Marshal Saxe, in constructing the defensive system, had not considered it necessary to build a redoubt at the point midway between Fontenoy and the Redoute D’Eu. As he later wrote of the battle, “I did not think any troops would be foolhardy enough to mount an assault between the cannon fire of the two fortified positions”. But that was exactly what the two English and Hanoverian columns were undertaking.
The French troops, in their lines across the plateau, had assumed they would be spectators as the Pragmatic allies battered unsuccessfully at the strong points at each end of their line. When the English light cannon were wheeled over the brow of the incline there was consternation.
“What were these few guns doing in the middle of their position? Had “les sals Anglais” done the unthinkable and attacked where it could not be done?” The word went out to run forward and capture these foolhardy villains. Then the two masses of English foot came into sight marching up behind the guns.
The cannon were wheeled to the side, clear of the front of the columns. At the sight of the French army Marchment halted the leading files of his regiment. But it was not possible to stop the rest of the column. The soldiers further back could not see what was happening over the brow of the hill and it took time for word to be passed back that they were to halt. The succeeding companies pressed on, spilling to the side of Prideaux’s. The French saw the front of the columns pause and then spread along in front of them in a continuing torrent of soldiers, fed by the regiments coming over the ridge. “In God’s name how many are there of these red coated fiends?” The question flew along the French ranks.
Marshal Saxe had placed his army behind carefully prepared strong points because he doubted the ability of the majority of French troops to stand against English foot. The sight of this increasing mass of soldiers, appearing apparently from nowhere and evading the redoubts, unnerved Saxe’s waiting regiments.
The English columns were now some thirty yards from the French line. The cannon from Fontenoy and the Redoute D’Eu briefly stopped firing for fear of hitting their own troops and there was an eerie silence as each side eyed the other.
Captain Curzon walked forward, ten yards ahead of his men, and, sweeping his hat from his head, bowed to a group of French officers at the front of the Gardes Francaises.
Curzon called to them, “Messieurs. We are the regiment of General Villiers. We recognise you from Dettingen. We very much look forward to making you swim the Scheldt as you swam the Main.”
The French officers coldly returned Curzon’s bow and the French foot began to shoot, many of them at Curzon, whose riddled body fell face forward in the mud. Without a command the English foot struck back with a devastating fire. The French line had been drawn up with regiments spaced in the usual way, men standing a foot or so apart. The English, pressed together in the columns, produced a dense mass of muskets far more concentrated than the regiments opposing them. Because of the accident that the two sides had not seen each other until the columns came over the lip of the plateau, the range for the exchange of fire was frighteningly short. The front rank of French foot disappeared in an instant, shot to pieces by the devastating volley. The fire then became general with the English columns slowly advancing as they reloaded and discharged.
In Prideaux’s, the leading soldiers found themselves pushed forward by the files coming up behind, the company increasingly packed together. Under Marchment’s direction the next company moved alongside, the sergeants pushing their soldiers away to the flank. The battle discipline within the regiment was better than it had been at Dettingen. The soldiers had marched up the incline with their muskets at the shoulder, although there was little room in the column to do otherwise and there had been no enemy in sight to shoot at. The field officers had watched the ranks carefully. Whenever Marchment saw a soldier take his musket in both hands, he had shouted to the nearest non commission officer to correct the man and in instances where the soldier was near at hand, he lashed at him with his cane shouting “firelock at the shoulder you villain. Do you hear me?”
The old soldiers formed a small group in the middle of the company. While prepared to carry out their duty, they had no urge to be too far to the front in what appeared to them a fearsomely rash undertaking. Ned Beamish and Foxglove on the other hand, both in the front rank, were wild with excitement at the sight of the French foot and laughed out loud at Curzon’s challenge. Foxglove was one of the first casualties of the French fire. He slumped against his friend, blood seeping down the front of his coat, slipped to the ground and disappeared from Ned’s view as the column moved forward. Ned tried desperately to get back to him but was carried relentlessly forward by the crush.
The rolling fire of the English foot, as each soldier presented, fired and reloaded, quickly decimated the French line. The Gardes Francaises and the other regiments facing the two columns fell back in confusion and began to melt away to the rear.
The two English columns continued their advance, converging as they instinctively edged away from the cannon fire of the flanking redoubts. Formation was being lost and the edges of the columns merged, until the regiments were moving forward in one dense mass. There was no formal direction, just an urge to get to grips with the retreating French and escape from the bombardment of the two redoubts.
As the columns moved into the French line, the regiments on their flanks attacked. But again the concentration of English foot produced a fire that overwhelmed their assailants. Behind the lines of foot stood the French horse and dragoons. Frantic orders directed these regiments against the English foot to stop them forcing their way into the heart of the French position.
The regiments of Berry, Noailles, Ponthevres, Pons, Brionne, Chabrilliant and Royal Etrangère charged the columns, but were brought to a halt by the dense musketry, none of the squadrons coming closer than pistol range. Some French officers and troopers urged their maddened mounts to the edge of the column, but almost to a man it was the last thing they did. The surviving rump of horsemen turned and galloped away leaving a carpet of stricken men and animals.
The regiments of horse were followed into the charge by the Carabiniers and the French Household Cavalry; the Gens D’Armes of the Guard, the Chevau-Legers, the Mousquetairs, the Garde du Roy and the Grenadiers á Cheval. Reserves of foot came up from the left flank of the Army to join the attack. The French command stripped battalions out of the redoubts in a desperate attempt to stop the English foot.
The two columns had been subjected to cannon fire from both flanks and musketry from forty battalions of French foot. They had been charged by a dozen regiments of horse and the attacks were being redoubled. The English soldiers, increasingly exhausted and confused, were finding it hard to move through the mounds of bodies. It was difficult for the officers and non commission officers to exert control in the chaos and few of the senior officers were still unwounded and on their horses. The columns had reached a crisis as the rate of the English fire fell away.
Sensing the change of spirit, Sergeant Joshua Whitebeard of Villiers’ threw down his halberd and seized an abandoned musket. Pulling a cross belt and ammunition cartouche from a casualty, he pushed through the ranks to the front of the company, where a row of dead and wounded formed a low, bloody wall. The soldiers still on their feet were dazed and confused. They were stunned by the noise and concussion of the cannon and musket fire. Their faces were blackened by powder smoke, their eyes swollen and sore from the discharges of their firing pans. The French ranks were visible through the haze of powder smoke blasting volleys into the English line.
“Come boys,” shouted Whitebeard. “Remember the Word of the Lord”. He cocked his musket and fired. “Come; fire, load and fire”.
The soldiers around him began to fire again. “Cheer lads, cheer. The sword of the Lord and of Gideon,” bawled Whitebeard in his deep booming voice. He seemed a prophetic figure, his white hair flowing and his muscular frame infused with a hypnotic vigour. He loaded his musket brought it to the shoulder and fired. With sweeping movements he thrust in a new charge and rammed it home.
“The sword of the Lord and of Gideon,” he bellowed. Time and again he loaded and fired. The soldiers around him caught his inspiration. They loaded and fired, taking up his battle yell, “The sword of the Lord and of Gideon.”
Desmond stood to the side of the company, the sweat pouring from his brow, his hat shot away. He had felt his men’s enthusiasm for the battle drain as they were slowly overwhelmed by the French volleys. Then Whitebeard’s shout spread along the ranks and the firing from the company, the companies on each side, and finally from the whole regiment resumed at its original intensity. The French troops edged away as more of them were struck down. Their officers had mostly been shot. The attack perceptibly ebbed and then the movement become a run as the French foot turned and made off, disappearing into the smoke.
Desmond walked down the front rank of the company calling on the soldiers to stop firing and await the next attack. He reached Whitebeard. The sergeant was holding his musket outstretched in one hand, bawling “The Lord has numbered his elect and the day of tribulation is at hand. Kill and spare not. … Unworthy that I am, I smote the Philistine; in the name of the Lord of hosts….” The soldiers around him were collecting ammunition from the pouches of the dead and wounded soldiers. Eli Wellbeloved was standing by the sergeant, waving his musket in the air. “Yeah, Yeah”, he yelled “in the name of the Lord of Hosts”.
Desmond pushed through the ranks to where Tucking stood. “Sergeant, we must have more ammunition. Send a file back to the wagons.”
It was hardly a viable proposition. The wagons were at the bottom of the hill on the far side of Vezin, probably a mile away. Any party sent back would have to struggle through the rest of the column both going and returning. Nevertheless there was little else that could be done. The routine battle issue was twenty four rounds and many soldiers had shot their ammunition away in the intense firing. The company could only fight on if there was a further supply.
Tucking touched his battered hat and went to put the order into effect. Desmond looked around for the other officers. Prideaux was standing at the front of the company staring after the French. He was hatless, his begrimed face covered in sweat. His coat was ripped across the back, one sleeve hacked away to reveal a bloody arm. It was hard to recognize the dandy of Bath.
Major Ireton was dead. He lay at the back of the regiment by his shattered horse, both struck down by a canon ball that had ploughed through a file of the regiment and slammed into them.
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment, unscathed, was edging his horse through the ranks. “Have a care,” he shouted. “The French are advancing. See them off again Villiers.”
At his warning soldiers crowded forward to reinforce the front rank. Still they could hear the hoarse booming shout of Whitebeard, “The sword of the Lord and of Gideon.”
“Mad bastard,” Hazelwood muttered. He looked round at his soldiers. “Are you all loaded? Well load, you sons of bitches.”
The infantry advancing towards them wore red coats, not the white of regular French line regiments. It was the Wild Geese; Irish soldiers in the service of France; the regiments of Lally, Bulkeley, Dillon, Berwick, Ruth and Clare; fresh troops, well paid and for French foot regiments, well fed. They would present the exhausted English foot with a difficult fight.
Curiously several of these Irish regiments still fought under the Union colours they had taken into exile with King James II.
“Papist idolators,” roared Whitebeard.
“Make ready…. Present,” Marchment called. The line of muskets leveled at the Irish who came at them with a roar, two full regiments advancing on the Sky Blues.
“Steady,” shouted Lieutenant Colonel Marchment, “Fire”. The volley crashed out. The Irish attack stopped dead, a good half of their front rank shot down.
“The Sword of the Lord,” bawled Whitebeard. He rushed forward with his bayoneted musket thrust out. Eli Wellbeloved and a cluster of yelling soldiers followed him. A company of the Irish poured a volley into them and Whitebeard dropped his firelock and spun round, blood pouring from his wounds. Only Wellbeloved reached the Irish. He clubbed several soldiers to the ground and, waving his musket, danced back to the Villiers’ ranks. Many shots were fired at him, but Eli proved an elusive target and he got through unscathed. Whitebeard and the rest of the group lay between the two lines.
The Irish resumed the attack, the English soldiers loading and firing into them as they closed. A savage struggle ensued with musket butt and bayonet. Beyond the Irish foot further regiments of French horse were forming up to attack. The odds against the Sky Blues were becoming irresistible.
Peabody and Abraham had spent the early part of the battle in the rear ranks of Prideaux’s. The movement of the fighting pushed them forward. Now finding themselves in the front line, the two ex-sailors discharged their muskets at the advancing Irish foot.
“Just like old times,” Peabody yelled at his companion.
“Too much like old times,” Abraham shouted back.
“I’ll wager you a shilling from my next pay I can put a ball through that fat Irishman with the yellow teeth and the hat on the back of his head.”
“Done,” said Abraham. “I’ll give you two shots and then I take him and you pay me the money.”
The Tower muskets they were firing were unlikely weapons for target shooting. The bullets were only an approximate fit and rattled about in the barrel during discharge, which made for a highly inaccurate shot. There was a foresight on the muzzle but no back sight. Peabody, who was a better shot than most private soldiers, had added a chalk mark on the top of his barrel, to aid sighting the weapon. He aimed at the Irish soldier and fired. When the smoke cleared they saw the Irishman was loading his weapon, apparently uninjured. Peabody fired his second shot. Again he missed, although the man next to the target crumpled and fell to the ground.
“You’ve shot the wrong one,” said Abraham.
Peabody swore. Abraham brought his musket up and fired. The large Irish soldier convulsively brought his hands to his face. His hat had gone. Blood oozed round his fingers and he fell back onto the soldiers behind him and disappeared.
“Not surprising,” said Peabody. “The line is nearer than when I shot.”
Peabody said this to justify his failure. But the two men suddenly realised that this was indeed the case. The Villiers’ line had fallen back leaving them isolated, just as there was a rush of Irish foot. They fired into their attackers and as the wave of soldiers came at them, Peabody drew his hanger and Abraham his sea knife. Peabody cut down a corporal, the two of them tumbling to the ground, knocked over by the impetus of the dying man’s charge. Abraham slipped his knife into the ribs of the next soldier and hauled Peabody to his feet. An Irishman struck at Abraham with the butt of his musket. The Sky Blue cut back with his knife, thrusting it into his assailant’s throat. He jerked out the knife, as the dying Irishman spat out a spray of blood, and the two ex-sailors stumbled back into the Sky Blues’ ranks, the musket fire blasting past them.
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment, one of the few field offices of the column still mounted, intently observed the battle over the heads of his soldiers, calling directions to the officers and non commission officers and waving his sword by way of emphasis. He was grimly satisfied that Villiers’ was holding its own.
Marchment’s sleeve was vigorously plucked. A mounted officer at his side was leaning over and tugging his arm. Marchment looked at him for a moment before recognizing Sir John Ligonier’s aide de camp. The officer had been calling to him for some time, without Marchment having heard.
“Colonel. The foot is falling back. Your regiment must retire.”
Marchment looked round. As with all the soldiers of Villiers’ he had become so engaged in the regiment’s fight as to be oblivious to the rest of the battle. He saw that the English foot were indeed withdrawing and already some way down the incline. The whole length of the route the columns had taken was dotted with slumped red coated figures and a trail of wounded soldiers crawled and limped in its wake.
“Very well,” Marchment said. He looked around for a drummer and spurred over to Stote. “You. Beat the retire.”
Billy Stote began to beat and the other drummers of the regiment took up the solemn rhythm. It was a fortunate moment for Villiers. The regiments attacking them, Lally’s and Clare’s, had been beaten back. The Irish outnumbered them too heavily for the respite to last long, but the pause was sufficient to enable the Sky Blues to withdraw some fifty yards. Urged by the officers and sergeants, the troops halted and faced about to await the next onslaught.
The French cannon in Fontenoy took the opportunity of the gap between the opposing lines to resume firing. This may have saved Villiers’ from annihilation. The canon fire, which was ill-directed and indiscriminate, landing rounds on the French line as much as on the English, prevented the two Irish regiments from closing with the exhausted English troops, who had all but shot away their ammunition.
Villiers’ faced about again and marched off the field, following the regiments of Newsome Peers and Onslow and the three battalions of Foot Guards, down the incline and through the ruins of Vezin.
One hundred and fifty Sky Blues had been killed in the battle. A further two hundred were wounded, most left lying on the field, although some had been helped away by unwounded comrades. Half the regiment had fallen. The “Old Soldiers” found Ebenezer Snaith lying on the ground, attempting to staunch the bleeding from a bullet wound in his leg. Broadbent used his stock to bandage the injury and they dragged him along until they reached the area of the overnight encampment. Shem Bottomley took one of the wooden musket stands and gave it to Snaith to use as a crutch.
Tucking came up and said, “Make your way to the Chateau of Bruffoel, Ebenezer. The wounded will be collected there. We have to move on.”
Snaith nodded. He hobbled to the side of the track as the regiment passed him, many of the men calling out to wish him luck. Once they had gone, he looked back across the battlefield. The French regiments seemed frozen on the crest of the incline where the last fighting had taken place, their soldiers taken up with robbing the English casualties, assisting their own wounded and looking for food and drink.
More wounded Sky Blues stumbled and dragged themselves across the ground to where Snaith leant on his crutch. Together they joined the flow of injured men from the other regiments, many covered in blood from appalling wounds, all struggling down the hill in the wake of the retiring regiments.
The French Grassins were emerging from the woods by the Redoute D’Eu and as they caught up with lone English soldiers, shot them or beat them to death with their musket butts. Their progress was slow as their main concern was to rob the dead and wounded lying across the field, French and English, but fear of them was an additional anguished spur.
A sergeant from the Royal Welsh Fusiliers called out, “Come on men, we must get to the Chateau Bruffoel.”
The wounded soldiers moved slowly down the incline, a ghastly parody of the columns that had marched up the same route earlier in the day and with such high expectations. The men attempted to help each other, but a constant stream of soldiers made their way to the side of the track and fell to the ground, too exhausted and injured to move further.
There was a group of some fifty Sky Blues among the wounded; officers, sergeants, corporals and private soldiers, all reduced to the same level of anxiety and agony. It took those that made the journey the rest of the day and the following night to reach the chateau and medical care.
The main body of Villiers’ followed the rest of the Foot through the ruins of Vezin and onto the road to Bruffoel, where it was soon apparent that the French were not mounting any form of pursuit. After a march of five miles, Lieutenant Colonel Marchment directed the regiment into a meadow and gave instructions that they would spend the night there. The other regiments were in fields along the road. Even though it was only early evening most of the soldiers collapsed and were soon asleep. Ned Beamish, relieved beyond words to be beyond the reach and sound of cannon and musket shot, crawled under a hedge and, thinking of his lost friend, fell asleep. Tucking passed the boy’s prone form and ticked his name on the company register.
Ned woke some hours later to find it was dark. Shadowy figures were moving around the field. He sat up and looked round, revived by his deep sleep, but disorientated and light headed. He smelt stew cooking. A group of soldiers had lit a fire and had the company kettle steaming. Ned felt a surge of gratitude and admiration for the men who applied themselves to such a routine task, when the rest of the company could only fall into an exhausted coma. The cooks were chatting over the kettle, apparently unconcerned with their recent experience. A soldier stood talking with them, hands in his pockets and his pipe in his mouth. Occasionally he took the pipe out and pointed with it, apparently to emphasise some point he was making. So far as Ned could hear they were discussing the demerits of cooking a stew without onions. He stood up and wandered over to the kettle.
“Ho there, young Ned,” said one of the cooks.
Over the next half hour the rest of the company gathered around the fire, discussing the events of the day and waiting for the stew to be ready. While the soldiers were disappointed that the battle had been lost, there was a strong feeling that the Sky Blues and the rest of the English foot had done everything that could be expected of them, advancing into the heart of the French army and repelling every attack. They had finally been ordered to retire and had done so, but why? The soldiers argued among themselves as to what had happened.
“I had no ammunition. I fired the lot,” said Hazelwood.
“I had five rounds left, corporal,” said Tickett.
“Aye and the soldiers in the other battalions must have had more than us,” said Mad Ned.
“Why did the horse and dragoons not support us?” asked another man. “One charge and they would have done for them Frenchies.”
The consensus was that they had been let down by their mounted colleagues.
Sergeant Tucking came over with his completed roll. “We have lost nigh on forty men,” he said.
There was a silence. Half the company were dead or wounded, most of them men and boys they had known for years. Tucking read out the names of the missing and noted any information the soldiers could give him.
“Josh Foxglove was shot next to me,” said Ned Beamish with a catch in his voice.
“Aye,” said Brutus Carter. “I saw him on the ground. He was a gonner.”
“What happened to Sergeant Whitebeard?” asked Tucking.
At the mention of Whitebeard the soldiers became animated. They all spoke of his battle cry and several described Whitebeard’s charge against the Irish Regiments.
“And Ebenezer Snaith?” enquired Tucking.
A number of soldiers spoke up. “We saw him. Wounded in the leg, he was, limping along with the rest of the wounded.”
“Ah yes,” said Tucking. “I remember.”
He worked his way through the column of names, noting what was said by the men present. When he had finished he put the register back in his coat pocket. Of the seventy men who had marched out of Marlow on the April morning, two years before, twenty-five were standing around him.
Tucking said quietly, “We move on in the morning.”
“Where to sergeant?” someone asked.
“Back to the Chateau of Bruffoel, I believe.” Tucking turned and walked off to report the casualty state to Captain Prideaux. Much of his family had been snatched from him.
During the rest of the night the soldiers moved around the other companies enquiring after friends. Then they went to look for comrades in other regiments, particularly the Welch Fusiliers and Howard’s Old Buffs. During the course of these visits they reached a consensus on the roles played by the various corps. It was universally acknowledged that the Foot in Major General Ligonier’s two columns were heroes and nigh on invincible. Brigadier Ingoldby was heavily criticised for his failure to attack the Redoute D’Eu, as he had been ordered. Equally the Dutch were blamed for failing to press their assaults on Fontenoy and St Anthoine.
The Highland Regiment won as much acclaim as the rest of the foot for its attacks on the village of Fontenoy, carried out unsupported and at considerable loss.
For the Sky Blues and the other regiments of Foot, the English cavalry were objects of derision. Several regiments of horse and dragoons had advanced over part of the route the columns had taken, but earlier in the day and with little loss. General Campbell, the lieutenant general of the horse, had been mortally wounded by a cannon shot and the horse and dragoons had tamely withdrawn and taken no further part in the battle. In the eyes of the infantry, the mounted regiments had proved themselves a liability at Dettingen. They had now compounded this by the failure to come to their assistance at Fontenoy. The resentment of the foot soldiers against the horse and dragoons at times became unmanageable and a number of near riots took place over the following weeks.
The army resumed its retreat the next day and marched into the village of Bruffoel.
Over the two days following the battle, the English wounded dragged themselves to the hospital at the Chateau de Bruffoel. On the third day the order was given that the Army was to fall back on Ath, causing Lazenby to demand an interview with Lieutenant Colonel Marchment.
“Sir,” the surgeon to the brigadier. “There are some eight hundred casualties in the Chateau, many of whom cannot be moved when the army retires. Surgeons must remain to look after them. As there are a considerable number of Villiers’ men I propose to stay with them and, sir, I seek your permission to do so.”
The lieutenant colonel was taken aback. “Who will look after the regiment, tell me, pray?”
“Sir. The French will bring surgeons to look after our wounded and they will, in due course, be removed to France as prisoners. There is no doubt of that. By the convention that Lord Stair negotiated with the Duc De Noailles in 1742, surgeons are permitted to come and go and be immune from capture. Once the French have established care for the wounded, I propose to return. I would expect to be away for a week at the most.
“Sir, without treatment at this critical period after the battle,” Lazenby continued, “many of the wounded, who might otherwise survive, will die. In addition, it is necessary for there to be persons of authority at the hospital after the Army has retired.”
Marchment saw the force of the argument and Lazenby was given leave to stay with those wounded who could not be moved from the chateau, with a small group of other regimental surgeons.
As the army retreated to Ath and then pulled further back, the affects of the defeat at Fontenoy began to show. All the regiments of foot that had been heavily involved in the battle suffered a near collapse in discipline. Bands of deserters pillaged the countryside, robbing and murdering the inhabitants. Officers were set on and army stores broken into and looted.
One of the causes of the disorder was that many soldiers had become separated from their regiments during the battle and the retreat. While intending to return to the ranks, they sought to take advantage of their freedom from military discipline before they did so.
Marchment took the view that, whatever might be tolerated in the rest of the army, it was the duty of every Villiers’ soldier to ensure that he remained with the regiment at all times. In his eyes the obligation was redoubled in battle, not reduced, whatever the circumstances. He ordered that any unwounded Sky Blue who returned or was taken by the picquets was to be treated as a deserter.
Twenty five soldiers, two corporals and a sergeant came back to the regiment over the weeks following Fontenoy. All claimed they had become lost during the battle for reasons beyond their control and in most cases this was the truth. In the confusion of the columns many soldiers had found themselves forced away from their regiments. Without exception all these Sky Blues were tried by regimental court martial and convicted of desertion. The non commission officers were reduced to the ranks and given six hundred lashes. The soldiers who returned voluntarily were awarded four hundred lashes. The soldiers taken by the picquets received a thousand lashes.
At the Chateau de Bruffoel, many of the soldiers wounded at Fontenoy were at the point of crisis from their injuries, as Lazenby had predicted. Men appearing to have only superficial wounds were succumbing to sepsis and the complications of infection. Spotted fever, the bane of the overcrowded mid-eighteenth century military hospital, set in, stretching the surgeons to the limit. Then the French arrived.
As was feared, the first troops into the chateau were Grassins and Pandours, Balkan irregulars recruited into the French army as light troops and scouts. These men enlisted to loot, murder and rob and held no real allegiance to any state. They worked their way through the chateau doing what they did best.
Lazenby was amputating a soldier’s leg when the Grassins burst into the room, a ferocious, ragged bunch, armed with every form of weapon that could be looted from either army. A Grassin cut the throat of the soldier on the operating table and the party of looters pushed Lazenby to the ground, stripping him of his clothing, down to his britches and under vest. They took his coat, waistcoat, shoes and socks. They took his operating instruments and every moveable item in the room.
Once they had left, Lazenby struggled to his feet and went down to the wards. The Grassins were working their way through the wounded, stripping every man of his clothes and belongings. Lazenby made his way out into the chateau courtyard. Passing Grassins saw that he had already been plundered and let him go. Lazenby approached a group of mounted French officers standing together in the yard, examining a map.
“Parlez-vous Anglais?” he asked, his voice shaking with indignation. The officers looked at him briefly and continued their discussion without answering. Lazenby repeated his question in a louder voice. One of the group pointed to an officer standing at the chateau gate with a file of soldiers, in the red uniforms of a regiment of foreign foot. Lazenby hurried over and asked him, “Are you Irish?”
“Yes,” said the officer.
“Sir. I am a surgeon in the English service. I have been left to supervise the wounded from the battle at Fontenoy. Your soldiers are at this moment plundering my patients. I have been stripped of my clothes and, what is more important, my surgical instruments.”
“By my soldiers?” said the officer.
“By Grassins.”
“I see. But why do you complain to me?”
“Sir. You are an officer in the French service. I ask you to intercede and prevent this outrage.”
The Irish officer pointed to the group of French officers Lazenby had spoken to. “They are the officers of the Legion De Grassin. Indeed, sir, I believe that is the Marquis de Grassin himself. I am an ensign in the Regiment of Lally. There is nothing I can do.”
“Will you speak to the marquis and ask him to restrain his men in the name of common humanity and in compliance with the Convention.”
The Irishman looked at Lazenby for a while, clearly reluctant to be involved. Then he shrugged and walked over to the mounted officers, Lazenby hobbling after him in his bare feet.
The Irish officer raised his hat in salute and spoke to the senior officer in French. He indicated Lazenby and described him as “monsieur le surgeon anglais”. The marquis listened and nodded his head, but he did not look at Lazenby. Eventually De Grassin gave his answer. When he had finished, he turned his horse and rode out of the arched entrance to the chateau, followed by his staff.
The Irish officer said to Lazenby. “I am afraid the marquis is not interested in your complaints. So far as he is concerned you are a captured enemy officer. If his men looted your belongings and those of the other English soldiers, that is just the fortune of war. He has directed me to escort you back into the chateau where all the English prisoners are being held. It is my belief that you surgeons are to be released, if that is any consolation.”
The Irish officer was right and the surgeons were permitted to return to the Allied Army the next day. They had to walk fifteen miles into the Allied lines, near naked and barefoot, Lazenby seething with rage. He led the group of surgeons into the presence of the Duke of Cumberland.
“This is an outrage,” said the Duke. “They have a damned cheek these French. I shall write to Marshal Saxe. In the meantime gentlemen I hope you have spare clothes?”
“Nowhere at hand, Your Royal Highness.”
“Well you will have to do the best you can until the French can be persuaded to return the ones they have taken.”
“And they have our instruments, Your Royal Highness.”
“Yes. I will have my adjutant write to the Board of Ordinance and draw your loss to their attention. But you know what these skinflint civilians are like. If we manage to obtain recompense for you it is bound to take a devil of a long time.”
“We can hardly carry out our duties without instruments, Your Royal Highness.”
“Indeed. It may be that your colonels will have to appoint new surgeons who do have instruments. Anyway we will write and see what happens. Good day, gentlemen.”
After the disconsolate surgeons had left, the Duke said to his adjutant, “I am resolved to court martial Ingoldby. I have thought the matter through and it is a damnable cheek for him to claim that my orders were confusing. I ordered him to attack that redoubt. If he had done so, the foot would have fought their way right through the French army. He lost the battle for me. Issue the necessary orders. I want Ligonier to be the president of the court. He knows very well what should have been done. He was there in the middle of it. And tell Ligonier I want Ingoldby broken.”
Lazenby rejoined the Sky Blues on the road to Brussels. Due to the casualties it had sustained at Fontenoy, the regiment had been taken out of the field army, and was on its way to join the garrison in the Flemish capital. Lazenby arrived wearing a mixture of civilian and military apparel, scrounged from various sources.
Once in Brussels, Lazenby called on the lieutenant colonel. Marchment heard his account and said, “Mister Lazenby, the Board of Ordinance, as you know, takes the view that the belongings of officers and soldiers are taken on campaign at their hazard, not the Board’s. There is no prospect of the Ordinance replacing your losses. A surgeon with no instruments is of no use to a marching regiment. Unless you are able to replace them, I regret you will have to resign your warrant.”
Lazenby walked back to his quarter, considering his predicament. He might be able to buy at auction the instruments of one of the surgeons killed at Fontenoy. That is if the instruments had been brought back to Brussels and not looted by the French. He would have to borrow the purchase price. His pay as an army surgeon did not make for good security and any loan would be at a high rate of interest. Perhaps one of the wealthier officers might help him if they valued his services sufficiently. Unusually for him, Lazenby felt downcast. As he reached the entrance to his quarter a civilian accosted him; a small bowed man, shabbily dressed.
“Mister Lazenby?”
“Yes?” said the surgeon.
“I am to give you this.” The civilian handed him a letter.
“What is it?”
“It is a summons in the Court of Exchequer issued by Messrs Throwback and Startle, agents at Sergeant’s Inn, on behalf of a Mister Jackman.”
“A summons? Who is Mister Jackman?”
“I believe sir, and you will understand that I am here solely to serve the process and know little of the case. I believe that Mister Jackman is a sutler with the Army and that you stole his vehicles and purloined the contents in the summer of 1743.”
Lazenby stopped a passing foot soldier and took the hanger from his belt. He then pursued the process server down the street with the weapon. But incidents of this sort were part of the hazards of the small man’s profession and he disappeared into the crowd before Lazenby could inflict injury on him.
Following Fontenoy, the French took Tournai and began an inexorable invasion of Flanders. Meanwhile the Sky Blues settled in as part of the Brussels garrison, the soldiers quartered in inns and houses and the officers in merchant homes, much as they had lived in Ghent the winter before. Drafts of soldiers arrived from regiments in England and Ireland to make up the casualties of the battle.
Lieutenant Colonel Marchment intended that the regiment should be fit to rejoin the field army as soon as possible. Each morning the companies, filling up with the new drafts, marched to the fields outside the city and practiced the exercise in loading and firing. After the muster the companies dispersed to other duties for the rest of the day.
At noon Marchment took a seat in the Auberge de la Poste and saw those soldiers and officers who had his ear and wished to speak to him. Between these interviews he worked on the regiment’s paperwork with his clerk, Perkins, and the adjutant.
One afternoon a gentleman came to Marchment’s table, raised his hat and said, “Good afternoon, colonel,” in a strong German accent. It was a matter of interest that he knew Marchment to be a colonel, for officers wore no specific emblems of rank at that time. The lieutenant colonel looked up and said “Good afternoon, sir.”
The gentleman was of middle age and wearing a faded blue coat. He was powerfully built, of a weather beaten appearance and leant on a stick, apparently due to a damaged leg.
“May I sit down?” he asked.
Marchment could see that he was addressed by an ex-officer of some German army, retired presumably by reason of his injury. He indicated the empty chair at his table, into which the gentleman lowered himself and Perkins poured him a cup of tea. The gentleman peered briefly at the unfamiliar beverage and began to speak.
“Thank you sir. May I come immediately to the point. My name is Mynhardis… Hauptman Mynhardis, late of His Prussian Majesty’s service. I am now retired. My leg, shot at Mollwitz.”
Mynhardis continued, “I have a proposal for you, colonel. I am traveling from Hanover where I now live. I am in Brussels some months now. Your soldiers are quartered all over the city. As an old army officer I am intrigued to see other armies and I have yet to see one to compare with the Prussian service.”
Before Marchment could say anything Mynhardis held up his hand. “I have watched all the English regiments in Brussels at exercise. I am surprised they have dealt so roughly with the French. I have not seen the French infantry, but I find it hard to believe they are worse trained and disciplined than your English foot.”
With an icy voice Marchment said, “I regret that I have my duties to attend to and there is a great deal to be done….”
“Colonel,” said Mynhardis, “please do not misunderstand me. I believe that properly trained your foot would be formidable. They have a spirit I have not seen in any army in Europe, with the exception of some Swedish and Prussian regiments. I have spent twenty years in the service of the present King of Prussia and his late royal father. A Prussian regiment must fire, load, fire, four perhaps five times every minute. I have timed your soldiers. They fire once every minute perhaps twice. They do not understand the exercise for loading and firing. Even your sergeants and corporals do not fully understand the exercise and they do not practice it enough or in the right way.”
Marchment looked at the ex-Prussian officer. He knew that what he said was correct. It had concerned him, but he had not been able to devise a solution.
“Colonel, engage me to train your companies. Give me one month. I have your soldiers loading and firing like the Prussians. If you beat the French at Dettingen, next time you destroy them.”
Marchment thought for a while. “What would your fee be, Captain Mynhardis?”
“An English guinea a month. If I do not do what I say, I get nothing. It is not a great sum but I will enjoy the challenge.”
“Very well. When would you start?”
“Tomorrow morning. Only one condition; the Prussian method of instruction relies upon punishment for those who do not succeed. There must be such punishment.”
The following morning Captain Prideaux’s company marched out to the exercise ground, as it had every day for the past month. Lieutenant Desmond marched at the head. The captain claimed to have a cold and had stayed in his lodgings, leaving his lieutenant to command the muster. Sergeant Tucking, bringing up the rear, saw Marchment and the man in the faded blue officer’s coat riding behind them. This was not unexpected. The lieutenant colonel attended the company’s muster every two weeks or so.
The company halted and the soldiers watched as the lieutenant colonel and the man in blue dismounted and walked over to them. Lieutenant Desmond raised his hat in salute.
Marchment said, “Mister Desmond. This is Captain Mynhardis, late of the King of Prussia’s service. He is to take the exercise this morning.” There was a stir of interest through the company. Desmond touched his hat in acknowledgement.
Mynhardis said, “First, they do the exercise and I watch.”
Marchment nodded to Desmond as Mynhardis walked to the back of the company.
Desmond shouted, “Have a care.” The soldiers began to fidget with their muskets and cartridge pouches. Mynhardis shook his head. “You must stand still,” he said, causing several of the men to look round at him.
Desmond gave the order, “Load your firelocks,” and called out the sequence of movements. Marchment had not before troubled to watch a company closely as it loaded and it did not need Mynhardis to point out the inadequacies of the soldiers’ performance.
Desmond brought the company to the present and shouted, “Fire”. There was a ragged volley. One musket exploded in its firer’s face. The soldier had somehow managed to load two cartridges and the firelock had blown up. The drafting had brought into the regiment numbers of soldiers with no military training or experience.
Mynhardis limped over to the lieutenant colonel, shaking his head. “We have much work to do,” he said.
Mynhardis beckoned the two drummers, Stote and Squirrel, to him and said, “When I begin the exercise, you beat the drum as I wave.”
“Like this,” he said, waving his arm slowly up and down. “Boom, boom, boom.” Mynhardis turned to the company.
“Now, soldiers. I am a Prussian officer. Your lieutenant colonel has engaged me to teach you to load and fire…. quick, like the Prussian army. I teach you this morning and every morning. The slowest soldier each day, he is flogged.”
There was a stunned silence.
“Only ten lashes, but it make you try hard and not forget, like you are forgetting just now. Any soldier who comes for ten lashes second time, has twenty lashes…….Ten more lashes each time. Either he learns or it kills him. Your officer, when he calls out the directions, waits until you finish. This is not correct. I will call out the directions and….” here Mynhardis’ voice took on a note of menace. “You follow without delay. If you are slow, I beat you. Understand? You drummer,” Mynhardis said to Billy Stote. “Next time we parade you bring the whip.”
Billy Stote touched his hat.
“Now, this time I do it slowly. I say the commands in German. It is a different language, but you will follow.” Every man understood the threat in his words.
Mynhardis looked down the ranks of soldiers. “Achtung.”
Mynhardis began to call the sequence of directions for loading. As he called each one, he brought his arm down and the drummers gave a single beat. At the end Mynhardis moved to the side of the company and shouted, “Feuer.”
The volley, although far from unanimous, was a marked improvement on Desmond’s. Mynhardis beckoned to the young officer. “You see how it is done. In future you call the orders. They understand what you say. I stand here and time the drums. You give the orders with the drums. Understand?”
“Yes captain,” said Desmond. Mynhardis looked hard at him. “Good. For the rest of the parade we use no powder.”
By the end of the morning the company was firing and loading twice within the minute. Most of the soldiers had acquired the ability to carry out the movements to the steady beat of the drum. Only one or two lacked the co-ordination to keep up.
“Lieutenant Desmond,” called Mynhardis. “That is the end of the parade.” Mynhardis limped over to a soldier called Heatherleap. “This man is the slowest. You give him ten lashes.”
Heatherleap had joined the company a few days before with a draft from Bragg’s Foot in Ireland. The regiments forced to draft out, sent their least promising soldiers and Braggs had the reputation for being the worst disciplined of the regiments of marching foot. It had been dropped from the force selected for Flanders in 1742. Until he had joined Villiers’, Heatherleap had not fired a musket at any time. He paled and began to whimper, dropping his weapon on the ground and falling to his knees with his face in his hands.
The rest of the company looked round at him in disgust. No one liked to be flogged, but it was an unavoidable part of military life and most soldiers attempted to bear the ordeal with courage. At the very least they did not cry out before the first blow had been struck. It was shaming for them all that one of their number should behave in this way, particularly in front of a foreign officer.
Brutus Carter stood two files from Heatherleap. He pushed his way to the front of the company pulling off his coat. As he passed Heathleap he shoved him and snarled, “Stop sniveling, you.”
Carter reached the group of officers, threw his coat on the ground and said, “Beat me. All you need is someone to put the wind up the rest of the company.”
Mynhardis nodded in approval. “Flog him colonel. They will all try harder next time, whoever it is. As I told you, they have a good spirit.”
“Give him ten lashes,” Marchment said to Desmond.
The lieutenant colonel pointed at Heatherleap. “And send that soldier to Lazenby as an orderly. He’s no use in your company. But give him fifty lashes first.”
Marchment and Mynhardis mounted their horses and rode back into the city. When they reached the inn, the lieutenant colonel said to the Prussian, “I am much obliged to you. May I see you at the same time tomorrow for the next company?”
“Yes, colonel. Very good.” The Prussian raised his hat and rode off up the street.
Marchment ordered the other captains to attend upon him during the afternoon and informed them of the arrangements for carrying out the exercise under the directions of Mynhardis. Few were happy at the prospect and one was positively obstructive.
“I am not having my men ordered around by some damned German civilian.”
“It matters not what you are having, Captain Wyldbore. I direct that your company carry out the exercise under the supervision and direction of Hauptman Mynhardis and very much the better they will be for it.”
“I do not believe you can direct such a thing. It is my company and I do not consent to this arrangement.”
“I am your colonel and you will do as I order,” said Marchment.
“I beg your pardon, sir. You are not my colonel. General Villiers is my colonel. You are the lieutenant colonel. It is not your regiment. It is General Villiers’, and it is not your company. It is my company. You have your own company. You can have them directed in the exercise by the King of Spain’s marmoset for all I care. You will not have my company so directed. Good day, sir.”
He raised his hat and walked out of the inn.
In spite of his fury, Marchment knew he could do nothing to overcome Wyldbore’s intransigence. Although Marchment was a field officer, he did not have the power to compel a captain to take orders from a civilian, particularly if those orders concerned the administration of his company.
Wyldbore had earlier that month purchased the captaincy in Villiers’ through the influence of the Duke of Cumberland, having previously held a lieutenant’s commission in the First Foot Guards. He was no fool and, although he continued to refuse to allow Mynhardis near his soldiers, he watched the other companies at exercise and adopted the same methods, even down to flogging Private Sam Grubb repeatedly for being the slowest soldier at the exercise.
During the following weeks Marchment and Mynhardis became friends. Indeed Mynhardis was probably Marchment’s only friend. They dined several times a week and discussed military matters. When doing duty as adjutant, Desmond was invited to join them. One of the topics they frequently discussed was drill and whether, as Marchment intended, the regiment should adopt the Prussian system.
“You will see, my dear colonel,” said Mynhardis, “that already the companies are moving smartly and in unison. I even see signs that some of the soldiers try to march in step. This is good. But if you introduce more formal methods you will have difficulty. Drill is not a matter for one regiment. Good drill manoeuvres the whole army. The enemy is thereby confounded and beaten. It is not sufficient for one regiment only to have a good drill. It creates problems for the regiment because it moves in a different way from the rest of the army. No, no. I fear you must wait until the Duke of Cumberland introduces the drill for all the foot.”
“I hear that His Royal Highness wishes to introduce the Prussian system, but the officers won’t hear of it,” said Desmond.
“Yes,” said Marchment. “That is true.”
“Now firing quickly is different,” said Mynhardis. “When your regiment next is in battle, it will be firing three or four shots to the minute and all the men will be firing. The regiment on your right and the regiment on your left will be firing one or perhaps two shots a minute and many of the men will not be firing at all, because they have never learnt to load and fire in the proper way. Your regiment will beat its enemy. The other two regiments will not.”
Marchment looked pensively into his bowl as he slowly stirred the broth. “Yes,” he said. “Yes we will.”
In the late summer of 1745, news arrived like a thunderclap. The grandson of James II, Charles Stewart, the Young Pretender, had invaded Britain. Over the following week more details became available as the London newspapers arrived in Brussels. The Pretender had landed in a remote part of the North of Scotland. He had no troops to support him, but the highland clans had gathered to his standard. It seemed inconceivable to the troops in Flanders that he could achieve much or even remain at large for long.
Then in late September it was announced that the Pretender and his highlanders had defeated Sir John Cope and the royal troops at the battle of Prestonpans, near Edinburgh, and had marched into England.
The newspapers and travelers’ gossip conveyed to the soldiers the panic that was gripping England as the Pretender’s army moved south. The word was that the war in Flanders would be suspended and the English regiments brought back to deal with the rebellion. Emotions were mixed in the Sky Blues at this news, as they were in the other regiments. Many of the soldiers relished the idea of returning home, but all were incensed that traitors could stab the army in the back while it was fighting France, the traditional enemy of England. Some, like Rathbone, who had experience of the highlanders and their way of fighting, were disturbed at the prospect of facing them in battle.
The effect of the news of the rebellion on the Highland Regiment was devastating and a substantial number of private soldiers and non-commission officers deserted to the French. The belief was that they intended to join the Pretender’s army, but in fact most absconded through fear of having to fight their fellow clansmen.
In October 1745, the order arrived for Villiers’ and the rest of the Brussels garrison to march to the coast and embark for England. Ostend had been taken by the French and the English regiments had to take ship from Zeebrugge, a small and ill-equipped port further up the coast. There was considerable delay in providing the shipping and Villiers’ and several other regiments had to spend two weeks camped by the roadside outside the overcrowded town. The autumn weather was wet and bleak and the order had been to leave the tents in Brussels to travel light. By the time the regiments marched into the meager little port there had been many deaths from illness and most of the soldiers were suffering from the diseases endemic to the area, exacerbated by exposure to the weather.
Chapter 9
The Sky Blues filed onto the ramshackle wooden jetty at Zeebrugge, where boats were waiting to convey them out to the transport. The wind was blowing hard and rain lashed the soldiers’ faces.
“Every time we go to sea the weather is foul,” commented Rathbone.
He looked out at the transport anchored in the harbour. “Do you recognize that ship?” he said to Tucking.
“They all look the same to me,” said the senior sergeant. “I just wish I could finish my service without going in any of them.”
“It’s the one that brought us across,” Rathbone said.
“Seems unlikely to me,” said Tucking.
The journey in the boats out to the transport, against the stong wind, reduced the soldiers to extremes of sea sickness. The ship was wallowing and plunging and it was with considerable difficulty that they scrambled into the rope netting flapping against the side. As on the voyage out, several soldiers, encumbered with their equipment and weapons, lost their hold and fell into the sea, although his time the sailors retrieved them all and none were drowned.
Tucking climbed over the rail and found the rest of the company on the deck. The sailors were hustling them towards the companionway shouting, “Down below.”
It was the same ship, but it had transported many soldiers over the past four years and one regiment looked much like another to the crew. There was no sign of the captain Hazelwood had pushed down the ladder. However the gaunt, sour petty officer Tucking had dealt with was there. He came over to the soldiers as they crowded around the companionway. “Come on get below, unless you want to spend the rest of your service on the North Sea. There’s a tide to catch.”
“That sounds familiar,” said |
