Supper was convivial, enlivened by the London papers the diners had just read, and Surgeon Woodbury and Lieutenant Greenleaf were as entertaining as usual. Midshipman Langdon, a man in his mid-twenties who had yet to become a Passed Midshipman, knew enough to follow his superior’s leads, stay somewhat sobre, make innocent contributions, and laugh in the right places. Lieutenant Rutland was, of course, his usual taciturn and gloomy self, but then, he was married with two children, and lived on his Navy pay, which was an un-ending trial, and a cause for gloom and worry about his family.
“Now, sirs,” Lewrie announced once the Port bottle, some soft cheese, and a bowl of table grapes had been set out, “Captain Whitehead, you and your officers must tell us of your day ashore, and what you were doing. I must own that, though I did not watch, I was told it looked novel.”
“Oh, sir, we learned a lot from the Ninety-Fourth today, all about skirmishing,” Whitehead said with enthusiasm. “The Captain of their Light Company put us through our paces.”
“Indeed, sir,” Lt. Venables chimed in. “Skirmishing pairs, scouting pairs, chains, firing from cover, re-loading on the move? All of it sound Army doctrine for Light Infantry, these days.”
Neither Marine officer needed much prompting to expound upon what they had practiced. Skirmishing and scouting was done in twos, each man covering the other, ready to fire once the first man had fired and was re-loading. They didn’t have whistles or bugles like the 94th, to signal the presence of the enemy, but a shako or hat raised on a musket’s barrel held aloft signified a small force, and two hats in the air meant a large force was sighted.
Skirmishing was done in two expanded ranks, with the front rank kneeling to fire and re-load, whilst the rear rank advanced several paces forward of the first rank to kneel and fire in turn, and that could be performed in retreat as well.
Several grapes were deployed in enthusiastic demonstration on the table top.
“A Light Infantry company is broken down into sections of twelve men,” Capt. Whitehead explained, laying out more grapes, “and further divided into groups of four. When they call for ‘chain order,’ most of a company will advance about an hundred yards in front, with four men in each ‘link’ of the chain, about ten yards between each link, sirs. The rest remain in close order, ready to advance to re-enforce or cover a withdrawal. The right hand man in each link steps out three paces, fires, then retires to the left end to re-load, whilst the second man steps forward to fire, and et cetera, so that a continuous fire is maintained.”
“We were raw and ragged, at first, sirs,” Lt. Venables admitted, “but our men caught on quickly, and seemed to enjoy it after a bit. It inspires, ehm … dare I say, personal initiative, and a sense of responsibility, to be out in the open instead of shoulder-to-shoulder in ranks. And each link of four men has to have a leader, whether he’s a Sergeant or Corporal, or not, someone level-headed that the others naturally come to follow.”
“Just what the late Lieutenant General Sir John Moore and his contemporaries intended,” Lt. Rutland spoke up, a bit of surprise to all at the table, “He wanted to instill just those qualities in a British Army, and its soldiers. He had no need for mindless cattle.”
“When we landed at Locri and Siderno, that last big raid, we only put out about twenty Marines to skirmish,” Whitehead admitted, “and kept most of our men in tight ranks, ready for massed volleys. Lord, we didn’t even know to kneel before firing.”
“But,” Lt. Venables insisted, “we’ll make a much better show, the next time we set foot ashore.”
“Count on it!” Whitehead boasted. “Though I will insist that you allow us ashore to practice, sir,” he said to Lewrie. “It’s good exercise, more than we get aboard ship. If you listen close, you can hear our Marines groaning over sore muscles tonight, hah hah!”
“Did you see them when they came back aboard, sirs?” Venables chortled. “Foot-dragging, and their faces as black as so many Sambos, from firing so many rounds, much more than we fire at towed kegs and such. We went through sixty rounds each today.”
“Aimed fire, sirs!” Whitehead added, with a thump of his fist on the table top. “They discovered that our Short India Pattern Tower muskets can actually be pointed, not just levelled in the general direction. If only we had something like the Baker rifles that the ‘Green Jacket’ regiments are issued, with real sights.”
“In any case, a great many melons were shattered on the range, today!” Venables said with a bright laugh. “Bang! Headshots!”
“The Baker’s too slow to load, though,” Whitehead said with a sigh. “Leather patches, hammers to start the balls down the bore?”
“Too bad the Army did not adopt the Ferguson,” Lewrie stuck in. “Breech loading, rifled. But, Major Patrick Ferguson only had about one thousand made, and he had only his when he was killed at King’s Mountain. His troops were equipped with old Brown Bess. Had he and his men all had them, it might have been a different outcome.”
“Do you have a Ferguson, sir?” Venables asked. “I’m told that you do.”
“I do, aye,” Lewrie said. “Care to see it?” he offered, and of course they all did. He could not remember if he had un-loaded it after going ashore at Siderno, so he gingerly screwed open the breech with the brass lever which formed the trigger guard, and, sure enough, there was a paper cartridge rammed into the breech, which he carefully extracted, gave it a shake to loosen the lead ball, then handed the rifled musket around.
“My Lord, sir!” Whitehead exclaimed after working the lever a couple of times. “Why, one could get off five or six shots a minute with this! A pity, indeed, that his weapon died with him.”
“I was told that at some battle during the American Revolution, I forget which,” Midshipman Langdon spoke up, “that Major Ferguson took aim at a mounted American officer out in front of his lines, and almost fired at him, but didn’t. He later said that he did not have the heart to shoot a man, an officer especially, so intently involved with what he was doing … and that officer was George Washington. If he had, we might have defeated the rebels.”
“Do you ever have the time to come ashore to witness our practice, sir,” Whitehead said, “you must bring this weapon along, for I dearly wish to fire it a few times. I hear it is accurate.”
“I once potted a bastard of a Frenchman at over one hundred fifty yards,” Lewrie told them, “back when the French routed the Austrians outside Genoa and ran ’em twenty miles in total panic.”
Oh, that was sweet! Lewrie gladly recalled that moment; Shot Guillaume Choundas off his horse, and they took off his damned arm! And good riddance t’bad rubbish!
“But, it’s been an age since I fired it,” Lewrie amended, to avoid sounding boastful. “I may need time on the firing range.”
“Then you must come ashore with us, the next time we’re allowed, sir,” Captain Whitehead insisted. “Try your eye, what?”
Two Bells of the Evening Watch chimed from the belfry far up forward, marking 9 P.M. and the time when the Master at Arms, Mr. Stabler, and his Ship’s Corporals, Geary, Kirby, and Tunstall, made the rounds of all decks to see that all below-deck lanthorns and glim candles were doused for the night.
“Well, before the Master at Arms comes pounding on my door, let us charge glasses and take a final drink to close the evening, gentlemen,” Lewrie instructed. The Port bottle made a quick larboard passage as they stood round the table. “I give you, sirs, our gallant Marines, and a good night’s rest for the weary.”
“The Marines! The weary!” they chorused before draining their glasses to the last drop. All said their adieus and departed, leaving Lewrie alone.
“Brandy or whisky before you retire, sir?” Deavers asked.
“Whisky, my good man, a full bumper!” Lewrie demanded.