I've been writing quite a few short stories over the last few months, though the earlier ones aren't very good!
You can probably tell that I'm slowly improving! And yes, if my fortress in DF get's over-run I shall be writing a story based on Closteredwood!
Pierre was a butcher. He knew how to cut almost every animal; pigs, cows, game. In 1810 that changed. In 1810, he became a soldier of the Empire. The French Empire to be exact, lead by Napoleon Bonaparte who spread the French ideals of science, liberty, and equality to the rest of the world. Now it must be spread to Portugal.
The French Army of Portugal was huge, and Pierre was one of the thousands of men who had been conscripted into it. He'd received basically no training, just how to load and fire his musket, and how to march. Now, they marched south, chasing a small British army lead by Sir Arthur Wellesley - the Sepoy General as the French called him, because he had learnt the trade of war fighting the Mahrattas in India. They believed that he would not be able to fight a battle against a well organised European force, the French had marched across Europe, had destroyed armies ten times as big as the Sepoy General's . Being conscripts, the French fought in huge columns, thrown like battering rams at the enemy's line, designed to simply soak up the fire and destroy the enemy. Pierre was now in such a column.
He was deep inside it, and felt safe as he marched to the sound of the Kettle drums, towards Bussaco ridge. Every so often the drums would stop, and as one the French conscripts would shout "Vive L' Emperor!" before the drums began to hammer again. Pierre marched past a small village, where a few British green jackets - elite riflemen - and Portuguese Cazadores where being hunted down by French soldiers. There was a small chain of British light infantry on the ridge. He could hear nothing except for the relentless drumming, cannons, and the scatter of Musket fire, as Voltiguers - the French skirmishers - attempted to sweep the British Light Infantry from the ridge, with mixed success, not that it mattered, the Columns were unstoppable. Looking over the heads of the men in front of him, Pierre saw the ridge, just 60 or so yards away. Completely empty. The drums were still urging the Column forwards, and forwards it went. The drums stopped, allowing the men to cheer; but instead English words rang out, loud and clear.
"Light Division! STAND UP!"
A thin line of Red coats appeared so suddenly at the top of the ridge that the unstoppable columns stopped. They were shocked by the small force of one thousand eight hundred men who now occupied the once empty ridge, the division that now barred the French victory. Pierre still thought that the column seemed unstoppable, so pushed the man in front of him with his musket. The Veterans knew better. The red coats always beat the French. Another British voice boomed out.
"52nd! Avenge Moore!" an officer in the French column shouted
"Vive L' Emperor!" feebly. The British Replied.
"'Talion! Platoon! FIRE!"
The Red Coat's rolling volleys began. Half companies of roughly 40 or 50 men fired at a time, and as one fired the platoon next to it fired, so a constant stream of lead hit the head of the column, turning it into a mess of the dead, dying, wounded, and cowardly. Pierre had felt himself safe - but realised that he was not. He saw the man two ranks in front of him go down, a man who would have thought himself safe, as the leading ranks were slaughtered. A musket ball snatched off Pierre's bayonet from the muzzle of his Musket. Another hit the shako of the man in front of him, who stopped marching. Pierre didn't have time to wonder why. Another musket ball smashed into the butt of his musket, which he had covering his groin. He didn't have time to think how lucky he was to have covered himself. A shot hit him in the head, glancing his eye which was spilled out of it's socket. Another two hit him in his chest, one breaking a rib which drove itself into his lung. As he fell yet another ball ripped out his throat, and another mercifully ended his pain.
These conscript Columns had never been defeated. But these columns had never met the Professional Soldiers of the British Army, they had never met the thin red line which would be their downfall, had not heeded the lessons taught to the French before - lessons taught in blood at battles such as Talavera, and Vimiero. These columns; were slaughtered.
Steven was a butcher. He knew how to cut almost every animal; pigs, cows, game. In 1810 that changed. In 1810, he became a soldier of the Empire. The British Empire to be exact. The British Empire, which dominated the world. The most powerful empire the world had ever seen. Now the might and power of France had risen to break it, in a mad attempt to cover the world in Napoleon's tyranny. Britain, among others, rallied to defend it's old world. Starting, in Portugal.
It was April. It was raining. It was Oxfordshire, England. The trap door of the gallows opened. The 11 year old boy who had been caught poaching fell. The hemp rope tightened about his small neck, snapping it instantly. The boy’s dead body twitched uncontrollably as his nerves sent desperate messages to his muscles. Then he was still. The boy was Andrew, the butcher’s son. He had been trying to catch some animals for his father to sell in the shop. He’d been caught by the games keeper, beaten, and sentenced to death. A silent crowd had watched his death in the village square. The crowd was made up of almost everyone in the village. Hangings were a form of entertainment. A small platoon of Red Coated Fencibles – British Militia, there to enforce the law, surrounded the platform with it’s tall noose. Another small group of red coats were watching. They were a recruiting team, four corporals from the training centre, and a sergeant who’s leg had been blown clean off at La Coruna. It was at La Coruna that all five of the men had fought – and where their beloved general, Sir John Moore, had died. Now they were back in England, looking for new recruits to replace those men who had been killed. They wore the uniforms of the 52nd Regiment of Foot, part of the Elite Light Division.
Steven had also watched his son’s death. Tears ran down his cheeks. He had raised the boy by himself – his wife died giving birth. Now that which he held most dear was taken from him. He decided to spend what money he had on drink, to drown his sorrows. To that end, he stumbled into the nearest tavern. It was dark, small, hot, and smoke-filled, yet the Butcher did not care. He finished his first drink in seconds, then immediately ordered his second. He finished that just as quick as the first. He continued to assault his brain cells, and his liver, in this way for hour after hour. He barely noticed the recruiting party when they came in. They, however, noticed him. The sergeant hobbled over to the bar, where he asked the pretty bar maid who the man was. She told him, and he smiled to himself, then ordered 6 tankards of the tavern’s best ale.
A tankard was placed in front of Steven’s face. He looked at the man who had given it, in his drunken state it took him a while to realise who it was. He grunted, and drank the beer.
“You don’t have this sort of trouble with us.” The sergeant said. Steven just grunted again. “It’s true, join the Army, you’ll see the world, you’ll never go hungry, and you get ale every day. We ain’t ever refused to give any persons a drink, no sir!” the Sergeant lied. In truth, the Sergeant knew, hunger was a major problem – especially in the retreat to Corunna, and Red Coats would only get Alcohol if they could steal it. But his battalion needed recruits – and if he had to lie to get them then so be it.
The lies were working. Steven was trying to concentrate all the parts of his brain that could still think straight around the problem. Maybe he should join the Army. He had nothing left here. No family, no friends. The immense sadness at the thought of his dead son and wife welled up in him once more, like water surging through a pipe, so come bursting out as a half-disguised sob. So why not? And if he died, then who cares? He’ll be with his son and his wife then, and that thought made him smile. Which made the Sergeant smile.
“I-I’ll do it.”
When Steven woke up he was in a barn. He couldn’t remember much about the previous night. Just endless walking, until his feet were bloody. He looked bleary eyed around him, and could see the shapes of several other men in the dark. He turned over and tried to forget the dreams, the nightmares of the night. The barn doors were kicked open. Two men in Red uniforms, with black shakos, and muskets slung on their shoulders were outlined against the rising sun.
“Get up you lazy bastards! UP! NOW!” one of them shouted, splitting Steven’s head apart, the other kicked a man awake. Steven sat up, massaged his feet, then stood up and limped to the door. He was pushed towards the sergeant, who was leaning against his cart, being warmed by a fire, over which a pot of tea was brewing. He spoke to Steven, saying that Tea was the Soldier’s best friend, and that Steven should never forget that, before handing him a mug. It tasted strange – because the soldiers kept their tea leaves in their ammunition pouches, so the drink had gun powder in it. But Steven was glad of the warm liquid anyway, and drained it. He ate a breakfast of cold bread and horse meat, and then they carried on marching.
They marched for day after day, twenty men who had joined because they were drunks or criminals, but were soon to be soldiers. They marched for 3 days, during which the Sergeant managed to snare ten more recruits. Then, in an early, grey, April morning, the recruits marched through the drizzle, into the training camp. They were paraded in three ranks, facing a brace of flag poles, from which two flags flew, one the union flag - which was actually upside down, not that Steven knew that – the other a replica of the 52nd Foot’s own banner. An officer, with an expensive water-proof leather cape about his shoulders, trotted his horse along the front of the recruits’ formation. He stared intently at the men, who stood coughing and shivering, for a whole minute, before he called down to the one-legged sergeant,
“A good haul Sergeant Pick, a good haul.” He said, before turning his attention to the recruits once more, “My name is Major Bramley. I am responsible for turning you men from the rouges you are, to the disciplined rouges you will become. We will teach you to fire your weapons quicker than any other rouge on god’s sweet earth. Once you are past this point however, there is no turning back. When you are dismissed from here, if you run, you will be shot. However, if you change your mind now, you are free to go.” Major Bramley paused, yet no man made any attempt to leave. Most did not really have a choice, they faced the gallows if they left the army’s protection. Others didn’t have anything waiting for them, some would just starve if they left. So they all stayed. “Good.” Major Bramley muttered, “Get them kitted up Sergeant.”
“Yessir!”.
The recruits filed into a room, where two more corporals were standing behind a counter. They went through the recruits’ new kit, naming each and every piece, from their Red Coat to their Black boots. After that the recruits queued up to have their packaged uniforms thrust at them. After-wards they went to the armoury and got their brown bess muskets, their seventeen inch long bayonets – specially designed to split ribs apart – and their ammunition pouches. After that they were sent to their barrack rooms. The rooms were cramped, with ten floor mats in a room fifteen foot square, the men having to sleep shoulder to shoulder, with their packs as pillows. It was horrible, and Steven couldn’t see how anyone could sleep in it. After a lunch of stew and stale bread they were herded back onto the parade square, where they were to be taught their first lesson – how to march in 3 ranks. British infantry units usually fought in 2 ranks, but it is hard to keep cohesion in 2 ranks, so the recruits started off learning how to come to attention, turn at the halt, march, halt, and wheel, in three ranks. A burly Sergeant, called Sergeant Flint, taught them.
“Alright, you useless bastards! Watch Corporal Steven’s now! When I give the command ‘Platoon!’ You brace up, thus. PLATOON!” the Corporal’s hands, which were behind his back in the easy position, were thrust down as low as they could go, while still clenched. His shoulders went back and his head lifted. “Then when I give the command ‘Platoon, ‘Tion!’ your left leg is raised level to the ground and then placed beside your right foot in the shape of a flock of geese! Thus, PLATOON! ‘TION!” The Corporal came to attention perfectly, his arms by his side, his back straight, his chest out, standing tall and proud. “Alright! Now you filth try!” The lesson went on for the whole day. Again and again, for a whole week, they perfected every single aspect of drill. After the first week, they started being taught their most important skill – how to load and fire the Brown bess musket.
The Red Coats could fire quicker than anyone else in the world. When French battalions would be struggling to fire 3 shots a minute, the Red Coats would be firing four or five. The Red Coats also fought in a thin red line of 2 ranks, so that every single musket could fire, whereas the French fought in 3 ranks, or in huge columns, where only a handful of men could fire. These two factors are the main reasons that the British could defeat the French. The reason the British could fire so quickly, and could operate in 2 ranks, was all because of their training.
The training Sergeant was called Sergeant Milberry. He was the kindest of all the Sergeants Steven had met. He was also the Sergeant who was going to teach the recruits their most vital skill.
“Alright lads, what you do is, take one cartridge from your ammo box, bite the bullet off the end.” Two Corporals went through the motions as the Sergeant explained. “Keeping hold of a pinch of powder at the bottom of the cartridge, pour the powder, down the barrel. Spit the bullet into your gun. Still keeping hold of the cartridge, draw your ram-rod. Push down on the ball and powder once, all the way down. Just the once mind – once you’ve done it once you don’t need to do it again, you save a good few seconds doing that. Bring the ramrod back out, and put it back in the loops. Lift the musket up, and pull the doghead half the way back. Then pour the remaining powder into the priming pan. Pull the doghead all the way back, aim, wait for the order, and fire.” The two gunshots were so loud Steven and the rest of the recruits jumped with fright. The balls flattened themselves harmlessly against a stone wall. A smell of rotten eggs assaulted Steven’s nostrils, almost making him retch. One of the Corporals smiled at him,
“Stinks don’t it?” He said. Steven already knew better than to reply, he knew that if he did the Corporal would probably hit him with the musket to keep him quiet. Such was the life of the red coated soldier.
For week after week this training continued, the men growing to know each other better than they knew themselves. It was a bond forged by hour after hour of meaningless hard work, forged by the shared pain of endurance marches, the shared embarrassment of punishment drill. Steven was part of a small circle of intimate friends. They knew everything about one another, and stuck together through thick and thin. There was Martin, the thief, caught stealing a gentleman’s wallet. He was 19, and came from East London. There was also Dick, from Yorkshire, a poacher who had been caught when he stumbled into a small ditch and twisted his ankle. Both men had joined rather than face the hangman’s noose. Then there was James. James was strange. He had not been forced to join by a magistrate, nor by a girl, or even by sheer despair at life itself. No – James had joined out of love for king and country. The idea that someone would be prepared to risk their life for a man who didn’t know, care for, or see them was alien to Steven and the rest of the Red Coats. Yet it was still the only motive for joining the Army that the soldiers could extract from James. Yet he was a good soldier. They were all good soldiers. They were Red Coats.
“Alright! Get fell in on the parade square, the Major has an announcement! Move yourselves!” Sergeant Flint shouted, and the good soldiers ran to the parade square, where they formed up, two hundred men, ready for war.
“Sir John Colborne needs men. The Regiment needs men. Men to fight the French in Portugal, and then in Spain. You shall be those men. We will march to Plymouth, and then sail to Portugal, where we will fight. You will remember your training. You will be part of the First Battalion, the 52nd Regiment. You will meet the enemy, and you will kill them. Say good bye to your wives and your whores – we will not be returning any time soon. Issue them their badges Sergeant.”
“Yessir!” The Sergeant Saluted, and then gestured for the two corporals to start distributing the light infantry cap badge, along with the 52nd’s own Green Plume, to the men. The next morning, the brightly dressed new recruits, marched for Plymouth.
They marched through the towns and villages they had left, through the places they had grown up in. Mothers, Wives, Children, and girls called to their sons, fathers, and men. The men did not call back. Some smiled cheerfully, others hoped not to be noticed. All were proud. Proud of the colours that flew at the column’s head, the flag of Great Britain, and of the Regiment. The dust kicked up by the marching boots, from the badly-made roads, choked the men, who broke into song from time to time. Halfway through the first day, they decided, without a word being said, that their favourite was “Over The Hills and Far Away”.
No one had ever decided on the lyrics of the song – so the men made up verses as they went, along with a few they knew already.
“We all shall lead more happy lives, By getting rid of brats and wives, That scold and bawl both night and day - Over the Hills and far away.”
The song made Steven think of Andrew, poor Andrew, and his long-dead wife. He often thought of them, where they were right now, what they were doing, whether they’d approve of him joining the Army. He thought they probably would. It was for the best. At least, Steven hoped it was for the best. Thinking about his Son and wife made the sorrow raise it’s ugly head once more. This time, however, it had Steven’s pride to deal with. He would not – must not – show to his Comrades, his corporals, sergeants, officers, that all he wanted to do, right now, was break down crying. So, he lifted his head, and kept marching.
There was precious little to do on the march except choke, think, and sing. Men were too tired to talk. They even stopped winking at the pretty girls who came to point and giggle at them. After a week of Marching, they came to Plymouth, and saw the sea for the first time. The endless blue-green rolling ocean, stretching as far as the eye could see. There were hundreds of small ships in the harbour, but five huge warships stood out.
There was a battered Frigate, the HMS Conqueror, which lay tilted, with carpenters crawling all over it, like ants or maggots on a corpse. Only one mast was still intact on it, the others were either destroyed or being replaced, Steven and his comrades did not know which. There were two other Frigates, floating tall and proud over the port, a majestic symbol of Britain’s naval power. They were the HMS Mars, and the HMS Achille. Between them were two great hulking ships – troop transports. The ships that would carry the raw recruits for the 52nd to war.
“Jesus, but those boats are huge.” Dick could not help but bring his awe into words,
“Aye, but you get bigger. There’s Huge ships, with three decks, and more guns than an army on one side alone. I’ve seem ‘em on the Thames.” Martin, the London pick-pocket, replied.
“Three decks? They’d sink mate, you’re makin’ it up.”
“Honest! Cross me ‘art ‘n ‘ope to die!”
“Would you bloody idiots stop gawping! Get back into the ranks! MOVE!” One of the corporals dragged Steven into the ranks,
“Bloody corporals, no good for man nor bloody beast bloody corporals ain’t.” James grumbled.
“Yeah well, we’re soldiers now. Bullets ‘n corporals all we’re good for now.” Steven replied.
“Shut your face Private, and face your bloody front!” The Corporal twisted round and shouted.
“See what I mean?” James muttered under his breath. The red coats marched down the path to the docks, where they boarded the transport ships. Steven climbed into the rowing boat, and almost lost his footing as the small vessel lurched to the side. Once in, he sat down, and tried not to be sick as he was pulled towards the troop transports. After five minutes of being tossed around on the relatively small waves of the harbour, Steven's platoon scrambled up the side of the ship, which was to be their home for the next fortnight.
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Topic: Short Stories :) (Read 4018 times)