Read All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) Online
Authors: Adrian Goldsworthy
All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4)
| All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) |
| Number IV of Napoleonic War |
| Adrian Goldsworthy |
| Orion Publishing Group (2013) |
The year is 1809, and the recruiting sergeants are hard at work, as the British army gathers strength for the next phase of the campaign against Bonaparte on the Spanish Peninsula. Captain Billy Pringle of the 106th Foot, however, has a somewhat more urgent reason to leave the country: having become embroiled in an ill-advised duel with a lieutenant in the 14th Light Dragoons, a posting to Spain would avoid any awkwardness for the regiment.
With thanks to Gareth Glover, whose labours in the archives keep providing so much great material for these stories
A bold fusilier came marching back through Rochester
Off for the wars in a far country
,
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
Who’ll be a soldier? Who’ll be a soldier?
Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
The King he has ordered new troops onto the continent,
To strike a last blow at the enemy.
And if you would be a soldier,
All in scarlet uniform
,
Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.
Take the King’s shilling! Take the King’s shilling!
Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester
,
‘Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.’
‘Not I,’ said the butcher, ‘Nor I,’ said the baker
Most of the rest with them did agree
To be paid with the powder and
The rattle of the cannonball
Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me.
Wages for soldiers! Wages for soldiers!
Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me
To be paid with the powder and
The rattle of the cannonball
Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me.
‘Now I,’ said the young man, ‘have oft endured the parish queue
There is no wages or employment for me
Salvation or danger
That’ll be my destiny
To be a soldier for Wellington and me!’
To be a soldier! To be a soldier!
To be a soldier for Wellington and me!
Salvation or danger
That’ll be my destiny
To be a soldier for Wellington and me!
Now twenty recruits came marching back through Rochester
Off to the wars in a far country
And they sang as they marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
Who’ll be a soldier? Who’ll be a soldier?
Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
…
This is one version of a song dating back at least to the beginning of the eighteenth century, when the words were ‘Malboro and me’. It was sung to a traditional Scottish tune called ‘Oh Bonnie Wood O’ Craigielee’ and is now better known as ‘Waltzing Matilda’.
P
ringle clasped his hands tightly behind his back and tried hard not to shiver. He did not want to die on this bleak October morning, but he was a captain in His Britannic Majesty King George’s 106th Regiment of Foot, and as an officer he must never show agitation or the faintest hint of fear. Often the show of courage was more important than any order he could give, for confidence was almost as rapidly contagious as fear, and it did not matter if it was an act.
Over a year ago Billy Pringle had helped throw the French out of Portugal, then been chased through the mountains on that grim march to Corunna. This summer he had come through the carnage at Talavera when they had fought the French to a standstill. There always seemed to be more French, and they never gave in easily. He took a musket ball at Talavera, which slashed a cut across his belly, but in spite of a bout of fever he had pulled through and all that was left was a pale scar. So many had fallen or been forever maimed on those two days in July that he counted himself lucky to have got away with little more than a scratch. The slightest shift in the Frenchman’s aim and he would not be standing in this field beside the river and wondering whether he would live to see the sun set. The thought was chilling, and it felt as if his very flesh was shrinking in a desperate effort to make him small and safe.
It was damned cold, while the persistent drizzle speckled the lenses of his glasses and made his shirt cling tightly to his body. With an effort, Billy Pringle stood up straight and kept from shivering, maintaining the act. He knew it mattered. Now that he had seen war in all its confusion, horror and brutal simplicity he understood that the pretence was important. Men watched each other, and most of all the men watched their officers. The veterans knew that it was all a sham. Officers and men alike pretended unconcern and somehow became brave, so that otherwise sane men did what seemed insane and battles were won. It also meant that ‘sane’ men would choose to face death, acting a part to impress others or themselves. It was almost a shame that the death and mutilation were so dreadfully real.
‘Major Tilney is concerned about the weather,’ said Captain Truscott, who had returned from consulting with a Light Dragoon officer, and now jerked Pringle from the thoughts that kept his mind away from the grim reality of this place. ‘His principal does not wish an unfair advantage, and is willing to postpone the affair.’