Chapter 16
Winchester, England
May 1773
JAMES HOLLOWAY HAD never been so tired in his life. He barely remembered collapsing on his thin mattress last night. What seemed like seconds later, he was being woken to start a new day. It was like that every day.
He’d been with the 43rd Regiment of Foot just under three weeks, as they traveled to Winchester. Serjeant Longworth, when he had recruited them, promised they would see things they never thought they would see. The route was mainly a blur of ordinary trees, farms and villages with a few larger places.
When they had first arrived last night, a full moon illuminated the camp that would be his home, his base. It was surrounded by a high stone wall. A sentinel opened the wooden gate, the height of three men.
They marched more or less in step to a barrack, one of several. Serjeant Longworth lit a lantern so the men could see forty beds close together. All were empty. On closer inspection, James saw that the beds were folding cots with a strip of cloth for a sheet and a pillow. A footlocker was at the foot of each bed.
Inside the barrack where they slept that first night and before Corporal Carver slammed his private door, James peeked inside the room. There was a single cot where Carver must sleep and a footlocker. He guessed the room was about nine by nine.
As soon as the recruits were dressed, Carver ordered them to make their beds and stand at attention. “You’ll learn the basics: marching, loading a gun, shooting. Then you’ll be integrated into the rest of the regiment, although there will be other recruits arriving. Three corporals and two serjeants will be the people you’ll learn to obey without question.”
When Corporal Carver hollered, “Get dressed,” James realized he had never undressed but fallen asleep half-covered by his blanket, the itchy one carried from home. “And get this pigsty cleaned before breakfast.” Corporal Carver returned to his room.
On the way to the mess hall, James witnessed other soldiers who had been with the regiment for who knows how long. All wore uniforms. They marched in groups of twenty, four rows of five. None glanced at the recruits in their motley assortment of clothes.
James had no idea where Serjeant Longworth had gone. Maybe he had a wife and/or children. Maybe with his higher rank, his quarters were better. Maybe he was searching for more recruits, this time toward the Scottish border.
James was fourth in the line of the nine men as they entered the mess hall where cold porridge was slapped on their plates. Not sure when he would be able to eat again, James made sure that he left nothing.
No sooner had he swallowed his last mouthful when Corporal Carter barked, “Move it!” He marched the nine men to another building with a door so low James ducked to enter.
Stairs led to a room partially underground. Windows three quarters up the wall let in sunshine but not enough to ward off the chill that was surprising for June. Maybe it was the thick stonewalls that kept the cold in. James shivered in his shirt and leather jacket.
Another serjeant stood as the men lined up.
“I’m Serjeant Anderson. I will be with you every second of every day. I will even be in your nightmares if you don’t do everything I say, the second I say it.” He slapped a baton onto his palm. Walking up and down the line of men, he hit Thomas Miller on the shoulder. “Stand straight.”
Thomas thew his shoulders back.
A table was under the windows. Three men in uniform sat on a bench behind the table with papers, quill pens and an ink well in front of each of them.
James was third in line to approach the first man.
“Name?” the first man at the table barked. James wondered if any of the officers could speak in a normal tone. To each of the answers, the man dipped a quill pen into the ink well and wrote the answers on a piece of paper.
“James Holloway.”
“From?”
“Ely.”
“What did you do before?”
James almost asked, “Before what?” but instead said, “I was a baker.”
“I WAS A BAKER, SIR!”
“I WAS A BAKER, SIR!”
The man cocked his head as if to decide if he were being mocked or obeyed.
“Can you read?”
“I read very well. I am good with numbers. I had to be between the formulas for the bread and accounts.”
James wished he knew the markings for ranks. If the man was a scribe, he couldn’t be all that high up. He also had to be higher than himself. Looking at the paper where the scribe took notes, James could see how cramped the writing was. He was sure that all the new recruits’ information would fit on that one piece of paper. After all, paper was expensive.
Ely had known one papermaker. Before Bess, James had debated courting his daughter. She had shown him the process of converting flax into paper and how they could remove dirty spots for a quality product. The paper the serjeant was using was not high quality, but then did it matter?
“Age?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Married?”
“Widower.”
“Move on.”
The second man sitting at the table had a box. He reached in and handed James several pound notes. “This is your sign-up fee. Use it to buy uniforms and pay for your meals until you’re paid at the end of the month. Then they will take your expenses from your pay before you even see it. Move on.”
The third seat was empty. James wasn’t sure what to do. Someone had been there. He looked at the second man at the table who was handing money to his friend Thomas.
Before he could ask, the third man appeared. He had a tape measure around his neck. He smiled and took James and Thomas into a small room. One wall had shelves covered with bolts of cloth, mostly red and white. There was one shelf with black and another with green cloth. Button boxes with different size buttons, large spools of thread and leather strips dwarfed other shelves.
“I will measure both of you and make the minimum uniforms: you’ll need one for dress and one for every day. I can also provide you with everything else you might need, but the uniforms are mandatory. And that includes the stockings. Wool is good for winter, but hell in summer. You’ll be better with silk. Bit more expensive. No one cares what you wear underneath.”
James noticed the man was in uniform. “You’re not a civilian.”
The man nodded. “Name is Taylor. For generations, my whole family has been tailors. Probably where the name came from. When I joined up, the brass decided I could best serve in my old profession.”
“My family were bakers, but my name’s not Baker,” James said.
“What about the hats?” Thomas asked.
“You’re in luck. Several soldiers mustered out leaving their hats that you can buy at a fraction of the cost of having one made. You’ll be in luck if your head fits one. Fit is important. They can be bloody uncomfortable on a long march if they aren’t.”
Taylor opened a door of an armoire that neither Thomas nor James had noticed. Shelf after shelf were filled with tall, black fur hats. “Try them on. See if any fits.”
James guessed that the hats were about a foot and a half. He lifted one. “It’s heavy.”
“Somewhere between a pound and two. Bearskin, black bearskin from Canada. The female bear’s fur is thicker. Makes the hat heavier.”
The first one James tried slipped down to almost cover his eyes.
“Won’t do,” Taylor laughed. It was the first laughter James had heard since arrival.
The second hat was much too small. The third fit perfectly.
Thomas had better luck. The first one he tried fit. “Did they, the soldiers who left, I mean, did they sell their hats back. How about their uniforms.”
Taylor frowned. “If you can find some old uniforms that are in good condition you can buy those too.” He pointed to a rack, almost solid red with the coats being crammed together. Another rack had what was considered their everyday uniforms.
Thomas and James exchanged looks. In tandem, they went to the racks and started holding different pants, vests, coats and shirts up to test the size.
“Here’s what you need if you can read.” Going through the list they found everything they needed except for the dress uniform coat. The tailor measured them. “It will take a couple of weeks. There’s nine new men to outfit this time.” He glanced at their boots.
Serjeant Anderson burst in. “Hurry up. You’ve five more soldiers to outfit.”
“I’m working as fast as I can. They still need proper boots.” James noticed there was no “sir” in his comments. “You men can find the boot maker to the left of the commissary. Don’t skimp. Your feet will take a lot of damage on marches. Right, Serjeant Anderson?”
“He’s right. We don’t slow down for blisters,” Anderson said.
Taylor held out his hand for payment which was just under half of the sign-up bonus.
They left by a different door than they had entered.
“If we had ordered everything new, our money would be all gone,” Thomas said.
James wondered if he’d done the right
thing to join, but then again it certainly was more interesting than being a
baker.
Chapter 17
Winchester, England
June 1773
“MOVE!” SERJEANT ANDERSON pointed at James Holloway and Thomas Miller.
Although they were only halfway through their porridge, they rose in perfect synchronization.
Probably, James thought all that marching in formation day after day made their bodies function as one. Army life was getting as boring as his daily chores at the bakery. No, make that more so.
They followed the serjeant to a one-story wooden building at the north end of the camp. They had been by it several times but had no idea what was in it. With a hand-sized key hanging from his belt, Anderson unlocked a door crisscrossed with iron bars.
The wooden shutters over the windows had the same iron bars in the same pattern as the door. Enough light filtered in after Serjeant Anderson opened them to see walls covered with shelves. Every shelf had wooden boxes with labels. The writing was too small to read.
Four long, narrow tables were in the middle of the room.
“We need nine of those boxes.” Sergeant Anderson pointed to a shelf.
Thomas lifted five, James four. From lifting bags of flour James guessed his four boxes together weighed about fifty or sixty pounds.
“Take them to the Center. MOVE IT! I’ll meet you there.”
The Center contained the kitchen and dining area where they had just almost finished their porridge and a big room that would hold maybe 100 soldiers—more depending if they were on benches, standing, or sitting on the floor.
Thomas and James arrived and kicked at the door.
“The bloody door is unlocked,” a voice said from the other side.
“Our arms are full,” James said.
“Well put the stuff down then open it and pick them up again.”
“Serjeant Anderson said not to.” Thomas smirked at James as shuffling on the other side was followed by the door being opened. It was one of the cooks who usually growled as he dropped food onto their outstretched plates.
“Can you get that other door?” James tilted his head toward the meeting room.
“Alright, alright.” The man slouched over to it. His attitude was that of a civilian who didn’t give a damn about army discipline, James guessed.
Inside the room, benches were stored against the wall except for four toward the front where there was a platform not high enough to be called a stage.
“Where should we put them?” Thomas asked.
“Here.” James put his on the elevation. “I’m sure we’ll find out more any minute.”
Before Thomas could add anything, Anderson and the rest of the recruits walked in.
“Each of you take one box and open it. Don’t damage it. Save the nails.”
Before James could ask if they had to use their bare hands, Anderson went to a trunk and pulled out a claw hammer. “When you’re done, nail the box back up. That’s why you idiots are saving the nails.”
The sounds of wood ripping were followed by Anderson yelling every few minutes, “Don’t damage the boxes.”
When James was handed the hammer, he removed the nails one by one until the top came off. He thought the wood was pine-based because of its softness and knot holes. Inside was a musket which he guessed was almost but not quite five feet long. When he set it on the floor, the muzzle came to his arm pit. It would have been almost as tall as his wife.
The wood and metal on the weapon shone.
“That will be your best friend from now on, a Brown Bess,” Anderson said.
James had heard of Brown Bess muskets. It still made him a bit uncomfortable that the musket that would be a part of his daily life had the same name as his late wife.
“Holloway, are you paying attention?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Get your muskets and sit on the benches. Far enough away that you can move around without hitting each other.”
When they were seated with the muskets across their lap, Serjeant Anderson stood on the platform, with another Brown Bess in his hand. He rattled off the names of each part.
Muzzle
Bayonet Lug
Rammer
Stock Tip or Nose part
Forward pipe
Sling Swivel
Second Pipe
Barrel
Tail Pipe
Swell
Stock
Lock
Sling Swivel
Trigger
Guard Bow
Escutcheon Plate
Trigger Guard Plate
Comb
Butt Flange
Butt
Tang
Toe
Heel
Butt Plate
“Hell, I thought a gun was a gun. It has more parts than a woman in heat,” Thomas whispered.
Anderson put his Brown Bess on the table and walked over to Thomas, his legs apart and his hands on his hips. “You have something to say, Recruit Miller?”
“No Sir.”
“Good.” He walked back to the gun and repeated the parts with everyone repeating after him. He changed the order from the bottom up and then from the middle down and the middle up. He then mixed up the order and had them call out the name of the part he touched.
“Lunch. When we come back, I have two old guns. You will take them apart and put them back together. We won’t risk you messing up one of these new beauties.”
James looked at his newly assigned musket: it was a beauty. If he’d had one like that previously, he probably would have been a more successful hunter. “When do we begin target practice?”
“You don’t. Bullets are far too precious to waste except in the body of the enemy. You practice loading. The faster you load, the faster you can shoot.”
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