Young bloods

'Yes, sir.'

'Good day, Wesley.' Braithwaite nodded towards the door and Arthur turned and started towards it when a shout stopped him in his tracks. 'Salute!'

Arthur spun round and swept his arm up to his brow. 'Sorry, sir.'

'Don't apologise, Wesley. Just do it in future.'

'Yes, sir.'

Arthur followed Sergeant Phillips back to the room he shared with the other clerks. Once Arthur had been given his pay book, the sergeant escorted him to the officers' mess. Only two of the battalion's officers were present and one of them was sleeping on a seat in the corner, a London newspaper lying open across his face. The other officer was eating a breakfast of devilled kidneys and nodded a welcome to Arthur as he passed through the room to the mess sergeant's office in a small room at the back. Phillips entered Arthur's name in the ledger and immediately added a figure of two shillings in the credit column.

'Membership fee,' he explained. 'Payable every month, or part thereof, sir.'

'I see. Any other charges I should be aware of?'

Sergeant Phillips counted them off on his fingers. 'Funeral club. Wedding club. Do you hunt, sir?'

'Let me guess. Pack subscription?'

'Yes, sir. We've a share in the Guards' hunt. Helps keep prices down.'

'Is it compulsory to join?'

'Only if you require friends and something of a social life, sir.'

Arthur frowned. 'Anything else?'

'Only food, lodgings and kit, Otherwise, your pay is your own, sir.'

'That's a great comfort. I believe we are to meet my men.'

'Yes, sir. This way.'

Arthur was taken to the barracks, and while he waited outside, Sergeant Phillips went in and shouted orders for the men to assemble outside, in full uniform. There was a chaos of shouting and scraping of clothes chests before the first men emerged from the wide doorway and hurried into position before standing at ease. Arthur took care to examine each man carefully, noting the surly expression in most faces as they had been hauled from the warm fug of their quarters into a cold, damp late winter morning. Then he pointed to one of the corporals.

'You! Come here.'

The corporal hurried over and stood at attention in front of Arthur.

'What's your name?'

'Campbell, sir.'

'Right Campbell, you see that meal scales over there?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Right then, Campbell, here's what I want you to do.' As he explained, Sergeant Phillips leaned into the barracks and screamed at the last few men still inside. 'Come on, you beauties! Move yourselves! Or the last man out is on a charge!'

As the last of the men took up his position, Arthur puffed his chest out and strode along the front rank of the company. So these were the men of the 73rd Highland Regiment: dour-faced for the most part, roughly shaven and smelling of the damp, sweat and smoke of a crowded barrack room. Every one of them looked to be older than the fresh-faced ensign staring down his long nose at them. Arthur froze for a moment as he desperately tried to summon up the strength to address these men, the likes of which he had rarely encountered before, and never en masse.

He cleared his throat, drew himself up and began. 'Good day to you, gentlemen!'

Silence, and seventy-odd expressionless faces. Arthur felt like turning away and having Sergeant Phillips dismiss these men. Perhaps he could face them another time. Another day. NO! Arthur clenched his fists. He was committed now. Either he act the part of an officer or quit the army immediately. He cleared his throat again.

'I am the Honourable Arthur Wesley, newly appointed ensign to this company. I aim to do my duty and learn the skills of the trade… our trade, as soon as I humanly can. Therefore I ask for your forbearance in the weeks ahead while I become worthy enough to serve alongside fine men like you. It is my intention to know exactly what I can demand of the men I command. How far they can march, how well they can shoot and how hard I can expect them to fight.' He paused to see if his words had had any kind of impact, but the men stared straight ahead as before with no sign of their reaction. Arthur smiled to himself. No doubt some of them had been addressed by so many new officers during their service that they saw him as just the latest face in a chain of young gentlemen from whose lips spewed the platitudes of the first ever such address. Well, today things were going to be a little different. They were going to remember Ensign Wesley.

'It is my intention to start my learning here and now.' Arthur glanced over to where the corporal was busy attaching a large empty water butt to the feed scales.Then Arthur looked along the front rank until his eyes came to rest on a man about halfway along, a well-proportioned individual in his mid-thirties with a shock of dark hair. Arthur pointed to him.

'What's your name?'

'Stern, sir.'

'Stern, get your full marching kit, and musket.' The soldier glanced to Sergeant Phillips as if asking for confirmation. Arthur snapped at him, 'Do it! Now!'

'Yes, sir.' The man fell out and ran back into the barracks. Arthur turned to the sergeant. 'I want you to give him the standard issue of cartridges for a soldier on campaign.'

'Yes, sir.'The sergeant turned and ran off towards the barracks' arsenal. When Private Stern and the sergeant returned and the soldier had placed the cartridges in his belly belt, Arthur quickly examined him to make sure that all the kit he expected to see was there. 'Where's your blackjack?'

'Couldn't find it, sir.'

'Then we'll use another man's.' Arthur jerked his thumb back at the barracks. The soldier trotted off, accoutrements jingling as he went. He returned an instant later with a leather beaker and fastened it to his belt.

'That's better,' Arthur nodded. 'Now get in the water butt over there, the one the corporal has attached to the feed scales. Come on, Private! Quickly now.'

The private doubled across the yard and clambered over the side of the butt and squatted down inside, so that his head and shoulders and the barrel of his musket protruded above the rim.

'Corporal, you can weigh him now.'

'Yes, sir.'

Arthur had the man weighed in full kit, then without his pack so that he would be at the same weight as when he was in battle, and finally the soldier was ordered to strip down to his plain uniform and boots before the last weighing. Deducting the man's weight in uniform from the total of his marching rig gave Arthur the total weight of equipment. He turned to the assembled men. 'Seventy-six pounds. That's how much each of you carries on his back when you're on campaign.'

'Aye!' a voice called from the end of the line. 'An' doan' we ken it, laddie!'

Arthur smiled as he leaned towards the sergeant. 'Do you know that man's voice?'

'Overton, sir. I'd stake my life on it.'

'Overton!' Arthur shouted. 'Out here, now!'

There was a shuffling in the ranks as a huge man squeezed through and marched up to the new ensign. He stared over Arthur's shoulder, and his lips had tightened into a sneer. Arthur narrowed his eyes as he addressed the soldier. 'Since you are in such fine voice, Overton, I want you to go and get your full equipment. Then you will march round this yard until you have covered twelve miles. When that's done, Sergeant Phillips will come for me and then we'll see how much further you can go. Should be an interesting experiment. I hope to understand precisely what weight and distance variables can be applied to troop movement.' He smiled. 'And I thank you for your services in this experiment. Sergeant Phillips!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Dismiss the men. Except Overton here, of course.'

As the company returned to their barracks Arthur looked round the yard and made some quick calculations.'A hundred and seven times round the parade ground. Call it a hundred and ten. Make sure he sticks to the perimeter. Oh, and get that one out of the water butt.'